BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Yeah, I’m a YES fan… Pretty hard to be my age and NOT at least be familiar with YES. And, yes, I’m “sorta” kyping the title of this blog entry from YES. Although the actual title of the song wasn’t quite right, so I had to dig a little deeper into the lyrics.

And now, I probably need to stop saying yes so much…

The truth is, my heart isn’t actually broken. To be perfectly honest, it isn’t even mortally wounded, nor is it shattered, cracked, dinged, chipped, or otherwise severely damaged. I will say, however, that my feelings are just a bit hurt. Not irreparably, but definitely a little dab. But, I have to admit, I saw it coming. In fact, I’ve seen it coming for better than a decade now. Screaming headlong in my direction, on its way to bowl me over without apology.

But, for any of it to make sense, as usual, I need to start at the beginning…

Christmas season last – that being 2009 – it was time to set about doing the limited shopping. I say limited because E K and I only trade small gifts – after all, I shower her with gems and such all year round. But all seriousness aside for a moment… Really and for true… We only buy small gifts for one another, and the rest of the budget goes to the O-spring and the nieces & nephews under the age of 18. It’s an overall family decision and it works well.

Now, in recent years, the O-spring has decided that perhaps she should purchase gifts for us as well. This is pretty neat in and of itself because it’s one of those hallmarks of growing up. Of course, we didn’t make her go out and get a job. She just saves up her allowance for a couple of weeks and then we supplement it a bit if necessary. Normal parenting stuff.

So… Christmas 2009 the O-spring kept joking around and telling me that she was going to buy me some BBQ’d ribs as a gift. Along came “national present opening day” and sure enough, there was a box under the tree with my name on it. When I dug into it I found that my daughter had definitely inherited my sense of humor, for while there were no actual BBQ’d ribs in the box, there were in fact two very important items which hinted at such:

A high-heat resistant silicone basting brush and a bottle of Carolina style BBQ sauce.

And, as I said, the munchkin’ inherited my sense of humor. She had executed this joke of her own accord, with only the absolute necessary help from E K – i.e. driving her to the store, etc…

So, we had a good laugh. Then, we decided that as soon as the weather was nice and I had some free time, we would do the Dad and Daughter BBQ thing. We would get ourselves a slab of ribs and have at it.

This past weekend just happened to be the one.

I was on schedule with my manuscript, the predicted weather was to be absolutely lovely, and the supermarket had ribs on sale. O-spring and I planned it and for the entire week I looked forward to it. After all, I’ve been trying to get the kid interested in cooking forever and she hasn’t really taken a shine to the idea. She finally seemed like this was something that just might hold promise where such was concerned. Plus, I would get to spend quality time with the kid, doing something fun…

The Q’ing day came round, and her friends starting calling. I didn’t think anything of it at first. After all, we had plans… Then, I found myself standing at the grill with a rack of ribs, a pair of tongs, a silicone brush, and a bottle of Carolina style sauce.

And, a beer. By the time all was said and done, several actually.

Because you see, there was no O-spring to join me in the Q’ing of the ribs. Her friends and social life took precedence over the plans of the day. Eventually, she came back. But, she was still hanging with her friends. E K convinced all of them to play Boccie Ball in the back yard where I was “manning the grill”, which at least put her in the general vicinity. However, as far as the ribs went, I was on my own – until time to eat them, of course.

I was just a little bit devastated, hence the multiple beers…

I’ll get over it. I’m a big boy, and I am well aware that this is just the beginning of a long string of dented feelings. Like I said, I’ve known it was coming since the day she was born. Hell, I was a kid once myself, so I know what it’s like, and I’m certain I hurt my parents feelings in similar ways as well.

But, she’s arrived at that age where her developing social life is all important, and E K and I, as her parents, are sort of like ATM’s that talk back but don’t say anything important – at least, as far as she’s concerned. That’s just how it goes and something I have to accept. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, of course, but there’s little I can do to change it.

Now, I just have to sit back and bide my time… After another decade passes by – or maybe just a little more –  she’ll come back around and realize Dad is an okay guy to hang out with. And, when she does, I’ll find a sale on ribs, Carolina style BBQ sauce, and a bag of charcoal.

With a little luck, maybe I’ll still have that silicone brush she gave me for Christmas in 2009.

More to come…

Murv

Have you ever noticed that food modifies our social interaction in ways you don’t normally imagine?

I’m not talking about parties, or dinners with family and friends. Nothing fancy. No linen tablecloths, penguined up waitstaff, or $200 bottles of champagne that taste like crap. I’m just talking about average, everyday noms. The basic sustenance one tosses down their neck in order to fuel the body.

Am I making sense here? Yeah, I figured not. Let me see if I can explain my thoughts on this. You see, contrary to what you might think, I’m not actually a very social individual. I know, I know – I blog twice each week, have pages on all of the popular social networking sites, and I do a lot of book signings. And, if you follow any of my silliness you also know that I  have friends. Yeah, big shocker, I know, but I really do. Some of them even like me. Others, like say Rhonda and Dave are really worshipers of The Evil Redhead, although they don’t mind if I cook for them while they prostrate themselves before E K. (Note that I said prostrate, not prostate.)

Now, I also want to make something clear so there aren’t any misconceptions – I’m not a total misanthrope. Just a partial. What I mean to say is, I enjoy social interaction with my friends (Yes, Rhonda and Dave too), and I have a blast meeting new folks at book signings. However, I also like my quiet time. If you look at my Meyers-Briggs it will tell you I’m an introvert. So, while I really enjoy myself when I am “on” – which is what we tend to call it when I am being that M. R. Sellars guy as opposed to just plain old Murv – I find it equally enjoyable to switch “off”. I’m one of those folks who can become overwhelmed and needs to hit the reset button – you can ask my friends. Even when we have gatherings with all of the folks I dearly love, you will sometimes find me sneaking out on the back deck, beer in hand, just to get away from it all for 5 minutes. I’m even known to bum a cigarette now and then –  and other than some brief topples off the wagon due to extreme stress in my life, I haven’t smoked for 15 years. (except cigars, but that’s a different story.)

So, I think you can see what I’m talking about here. Or, maybe I’ve just muddied the waters. I’m good for that at times. But, either way, let’s get back to the pizza…

The other night, after a marathon writing session during the day, I was not in a mood to shuffle pots and pans in the kitchen. Nor was I in any frame of mind to socialize. This isn’t unusual when I have an intense writing day. After spending a nail-biting, totally immersed span of time in my imaginary world, I need to decompress. And so, I submitted the necessary paperwork in triplicate, prostrated myself, turned on my obsequious lackey charm, and obtained approval from the Evil Redhead to run out and grab pizza for supper.

Down the street from our home we have a chain pizza joint. It’s named after a Roman emperor. Not sure if it’s Julius or Augustus, but either way I’m sure you know which one I am talking about. The dude with the toga adorns their box. Well, as I am sure you are probably aware, they have a special deal on pizzas ready to go. Just drop in and if you are satisfied with plain old sausage, pepperoni, or cheese you are all good. 5 bucks and you are out the door in under 60 seconds – unless they are really busy. And, on this particular occasion they were…

I jumped into line and a minute or two later I was asking the guy behind the counter, “What do you have ready to walk?”

He looked and replied, “Cheese.”

Well, that would cover the O-spring, but E K likes pepperoni and I am a sausage guy. So, I elected to pay for my trio of pies and wait. So had several other folks.

Now remember, at this point I was in no mood to socialize with anyone.  My fictional characters had used up every ounce of my energy earlier in the day. My brain matter was fried. However, this is where the “food modified social interaction” suddenly comes in. There I stood next to the “Group W Wall” with a whole gaggle of folks I had never met and was never likely to meet again.

Less than a minute into my wait the guy next to me looks over and says, “What’d’ja order?”

Instead of giving him a who the hell are you look, I smiled and said, “All three.”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “I’ve been waitin’ on sausage.”

“We ordered supremes,” a couple two windows down along the wall offered.

“Special order, eh?” I grunted.

“Yeah, we aren’t in a hurry,” the male half of the duo replied.

A lady who was two or three back from me in line plopped herself into a seat next to where I was standing and said, “You know what I hate? When someone who comes in after me gets their food first.”

“Uh huh,” I said. “Kinda makes you rethink your menu choices doesn’t it?”

She nodded and said yes. The couple laughed. The guy next to me chuckled and said, “That’s a fact.”

The guy behind the counter called out one of the orders and the person who had been waiting jumped forward. Heretofore he had been completely silent, not joining into the impromptu “Group W” conversation, but once he had his pies he waved at all of us on the way out the door and said, “You guys have a good night.”

“You too,” we all returned.

Nice guy. Not very talkative, and he probably kicks his dog and steals cable when the rest of us aren’t around, but there at the pizza place he was a hell of a guy.

A minute or so later the lady who had voiced her loathing of people who were behind her in line getting their food first was called up for her order. In case you forgot, she had been behind me by 2 or 3 customers, yet I was still waiting. But, there was no animosity there. I was happy for her that she now had her pie in hand. Still, the guy next to me and I made a joke about it anyway – all in fun, of course. The couple down the wall thought it was funny. So did several other folks in the crowd. We aren’t sure if the lady thought it was funny because she was out of there so quickly that the displaced air from the door didn’t even get anywhere near her ass. I suppose that for her the magic of the social interaction was gone. She wasn’t like us any longer. She was with pizza, and we were without. She was better than the rest of us now… She had her food and it was time to “move on up”.

I really don’t blame her though. A few minutes later the guy next to me had his and was waving on the way out the door. Soon after that I had mine and was making a beeline for the exit. The couple who had ordered the supremes was still waiting. I smiled and said, “Hope yours are ready soon!”

They smiled back and said, “Us too. Have a great night!”

I returned the pleasantry and headed for my truck, secure in the knowledge that my new found friends would soon be with pizza, just as I was.

I don’t think we’ll be exchanging Christmas Cards or anything like that. In fact, if by some odd chance any of us run into one another at the grocery store or gas station in the future, we probably won’t even blink because we’ll be in ignore the world mode.

But, for a few minutes that foggy night in January through the social magic of food we were a tight knit group of friends, standing around waiting for our 5 dollar pies… Unwittingly, we had each become beneficiaries of The Pizza Effect. Of course, since everyone went their separate ways, I can’t say what each of them learned from this flash of intimate social experience. But, I definitely know what I took home.

Three pizzas. 1  cheese, 1 pepperoni, and 1 sausage.

More to come…

Murv