My Birthday And Other Calendar Flaws

A substantial amount of time has passed since I last contributed a writing to the fine folks at Pontchartrain Press. 

I've been doing important things over the previous few months, such as devaluing the journalistic integrity of a New Orleans magazine via a few of my articles. 

Actually, I blew off all writing deadlines and pretty much everything else upon learning that the Mayans had, somehow, developed a calendar with an expiration date- thus bringing about the end of the world.

Upon receiving this alarming news, I immediately did what any logical person would do...I finally proposed a sexual encounter with my next door neighbor and robbed a grocery store.

Now that I think about it, the Mayans were a relatively advanced civilization whose people demonstrated brilliant innovations in applied math and writing techniques; they created topless beaches in Cancun AND the bottomless margarita. 

Constructing an incomplete calendar will forever cast a dark shadow over these impressive accomplishments as far as I'm concerned.

This lax work ethic should also serve as a stark reminder for those who consider hiring Hispanic "Day-workers" in front of the neighborhood Home Depot.

Example: The Mayans constructed pyramids (and my neighbor's house) which are referred to as "Ruins", while Egypt's pyramids proudly live on!**

**Note: Minor codes exceptions as it relates to Egyptian pyramids include isolated scorpion infestation and acts of deadly homeland terrorism in and around the neighborhood in which they are situated.

I squarely place blame for the Mayans architecture failure on the likelihood that they outsourced construction to illegal aliens...those lazy Americans constantly infiltrated their borders. Dick Cheney is also a likely culprit.

Before anyone hastily judges me as a xenophobe, or a Dick Cheney hater...I am NOT.

I absolutely love Hispanics...especially Salma Hayek.

I also fully appreciate and admire the rich legacy and history documented within Hispanic culture. They've blazed amazing and important trails across the board in society, while setting immeasurable standards in the art of landscaping, the Dirty Sanchez technique, car stereo equipment, drywall hanging, Rave parties, hotel linen service, the tasty breakfast burrito and flashy gold jewelry.

Since I really have nothing of measurable importance to contribute upon my return to Pontchartrain Press, I figured it to be acceptable that I simply offer the annual birthday rambling.  The piece documents a 364-day journey of self-awareness and is titled:

                                           "Things That I've Learned"

Also known as:

                 "I'm Glad That My Parents Aren't Alive To Witness This Shit-Show."


1. Gossip still amuses me, in that one can only WISH that half of it were true. Unfortunately, my "gossip" life is much more exciting. To clear the air, here is a typical day in my world, regardless of what one might hear through the grapevine:

Wake up
Have some coffee and a smoke
Go back to sleep
Watch Judge Judy
Flip between Judge Nasty and whatever baseball game is being televised
Drift off to sleep
Wake up to find that the neighbor's cat has entered my house and is laying on top of me.
Order food
Think about writing
Go back to sleep
Wake up to learn that the Red Sox lost the game
Scrap plans for writing
Watch Jeopardy

2. As evidenced by an aggressive fly which has been dive bombing me in the house this week, stinging caterpillars on the sidewalk and a city-wide infestation of knife wielding mosquitoes, I've learned that even the insects are thugs in New Orleans!

3. I came to know three angry gentlemen this year who are age 74, 76 and 79 respectively. If I made it that far, I would be happy to still be ALIVE. If I were able to attain an erection at that age I'd consider it an added bonus.

4. I accept the fact that I'm far from perfect, as are we all...except for Ryan Seacrest.

Through the years in my life there have been missteps, mistakes, errors in judgement, approximately 4-minutes passed out (face down) in the snow, attending a Loverboy concert and downright stupidity. 

The saving grace which illuminates the road before me is to work toward reconcile, to help others when I can and to recognize every experience (good or bad) as a learning curve.

5. My friend, Doug, has apparently mastered a gardening feat in that he has grown peppers in his back yard which are so hot that they could be weaponized and sold on the black market to North Korea.

6. My neighbors are clinically insane...and usually drunk.

7. From an astute observation by my friend, John, I've learned that ANYONE can host a diner/dive show on The Food Network by dying their hair, driving a convertible and authoritatively asserting:

"That's the bomb! Tastes great! Mmmmm! The perfect mixture of crunchy, sweet and savory! You rocked it!"

8. The aftermath of hurricanes trigger incredible sale prices.

While waiting in line at the ONLY operating convenience store, thanks to generators, this is an actual transcript between me and a store customer.  It's important to note that she is a known neighborhood prostitute:

Me: Hey how ya' doin'?

Hooker: Good...it's been slow since the Hurricane passed last night.

Me: I'm sure.

(Insert awkward silence)

Hooker: So...you want a quick Bl*wjob for $20

(Insert awkward silence)

9. Me and my friend, Cornell, can indeed solve the world's problems from his front porch...until his pint of Gin runs dry and/or his wife comes out to yell at us around 3:00am.

10. The most stupid name an automaker could ever give to a car is "Yaris."

11. In the aftermath of the Boston Marathon attacks, many people, from first responders to everyday citizens, displayed remarkable acts of dedication, courage, tenacity and kindness. And...the New York Yankees are a class act for their tribute to an age-old rival.  Even though I absolutely HATE the song "Sweet Caroline," it was a kind salute.

12. My friend, Todd, is still somehow married, which teaches me that...well, it actually teaches me nothing.  Other than the fact that he's often quite intoxicated, is regularly forced to attend functions which include in-laws who are also regularly intoxicated as nephews and nieces run around in circles screaming as though they are running from the scene of an Al Qaeda attack. 

13. Words are more powerful than many people realize. I learned that I need to measure mine more often.

14. The Hot Tamale candy machine at an establishment in New Orleans is broken and dispenses candy with no money required. I will NOT be naming this establishment in the interest of greed.

15. Mike, the editor, recently paid me a compliment!  Which confirms that, no matter what YOUR doctor says, Adderall IS indeed right for him.

16. I learned nothing again this year about the rules of professional soccer...or HOW a tie can be claimed by a team as a win?  Also, why is it that the wall surrounding a soccer field looks like the Las Vegas Strip with $7-million dollars worth of advertising scrolls yet the scoreboard is being held up by some random guy on the sideline?

17. No matter what you might think, there is absolutely NO way to look cool while driving a mini-van.

18. The easiest way to make a 13-year old kid stay out of your way is to purchase an X-Box.  Of course, they also will never, EVER bathe, brush their teeth, do their homework, take out the trash, remember anything that you've told them for longer than 7-seconds, wash the dishes, witness the spectacle of grass, trees, sunlight or any semblance of human interaction...with the exception of a headset while playing against another kid 5-thousand miles away.  I've never understood how a kid can forget why he/she went to the kitchen but they can tell you how to negotiate 900 levels of Halo as though they wrote the game program.

19. Creative appreciation is in the eye of the beholder.  For instance, I recently suggested that a friend, who's trying to come up with a name for his band, call themselves: 

"Tom Selleck's Moustache" 

Against protest, my suggestion was flatly rejected.

20. All cell phones are different, so make sure to do your research before making the purchase.  For instance, mine sends out random, idiotic texts after about 4 Irish whiskeys.

21. I learned that, sometimes, it can be an impossible mission to cheer up a friend or loved one and that it's best to leave well enough alone so that they might handle it in their own way, as painful as it might be.

Another year has come and gone and I meet the new year with renewed hope and tremendous optimism by focusing on memories from birthdays past...

Such as the time that I sat on Santa's lap on the front porch of my neighbor's house and felt that I was sitting on something funny.  The fact that my birthday is in April should have been the first warning sign.

Then there's the time when I received a motorized 3-wheeler on my birthday, which my cousin crashed into a tree; he's paralyzed from the neck down to this day.

Or the feeling that I get since age 10 every time I get into a van that smells like cotton candy and cigars.

It wasn't easy being a kid...and not much easier as an adult, but growing older DOES bring one perk: discounts.  I understand that the neighborhood "working girl" is running a birthday special.

copyright Pontchartrain Press, 2013

Running With Scissors

Laughter gives us distance. It allows us to step back from an event, deal with it and then move on. ~Bob Newhart

My day pretty much begins the same as most every other day. 

The hustle and bustle of the busy city street which runs past my house slowly comes to life as children playfully jump about on the corner (I.e. make fun of the smallest kid while pummeling him with rocks) as they wait for the school bus. 

It’s a nice little slice of Americana…with the exception of screams and bangs from, what sounds like, violent sexual activity, involving machinery, emanating from the house occupied by a 25-year old woman who lives next door to me.  Meanwhile the dogs, belonging to the neighbor on my left, bark uncontrollably.

It’s sort of reminiscent of the movie, Groundhog Day; only instead of the Sonny and Cher song blaring from the alarm clock, it sounds as though I’m sitting in the middle of a hardcore porno production…which is being filmed inside an animal shelter…or Michael Vick’s backyard.

In retrospect, today was supposed to be a pretty simple day:

                    Give Michelle a lift to work

                    Take a nap

                    Finish editing two pages of a writing project for a friend

                    Watch TV

                    A short conference call with a director of national sales/promotion

                    Watch TV

                    Take a nap

                    Think about writing a book chapter

                    Go watch Jack (Michelle’s 12-year old) at football practice

                    Scrap plans for writing a book chapter

                    Give Michelle a lift home from work

 

Michelle is like many people…slow to wake.  So, she sets her alarm slightly earlier than she actually needs to be up and at it so as not to be late.  By slightly earlier, I mean that she sets her alarm to go off on the previous Tuesday at 3am so that she might wake up at 6:15am on Wednesday of the following week. (After hitting the snooze button approximately 75 times.)

It was a quiet drive this morning, with the exception of a Lil’ Wayne song roaring at the volume level as that of a military aircraft engine. 

When we finally arrived to Michelle’s place of employment, I was reminded, and slightly envious, of pleasantries that are typically exchanged between average couples at the end of the car pooling experience:

Man: “Love you” (quick kiss)

Woman: “Okay, see ya’ later today”

Man: “Have a nice day sweetie…you think we can have sex later?”

Woman: (Blank stare)

Man: Can I borrow 20-bucks?

Not me and Michelle.  Instead, she exited the car and dropped the following bomb:

“Oh, the kids are outta school today and the sitter can’t make it…can you watch them?”

Fully aware that if she’d asked this question three minutes earlier, while I was driving, I would likely have veered the vehicle into oncoming traffic, killing us both instantly.  So, she appropriately waited until she was completely and safely four feet from the vehicle.

Watching the 6 and 12-year old can be slightly challenging in that they have more energy than your average kids**

**Pronounced AD/HD and an apparent crack cocaine addiction

In order to watch Jackson and Lucien, one must possess certain basic skills:

• Cooking healthy, balanced meals (9 times per day)
• The ability to do laundry as though one works for housekeeping at the Hilton hotel
• Washing dishes 30 times per day
• Calmly answering no fewer than 725-thousand questions
• A direct and personal contact hot line to the national poison control center
• Strong organizational skills
• Haz-Mat first responder certification
• Emergency field surgical training
• District attorney cross-examination skills in order to fully and accurately complete an investigation into actions which result in moderate destruction to the entire back quadrant of the house.

Upon pulling into the driveway back at the house, I took a deep breath and prioritized a day which would now include looking after two kids, 3 cats and a dog.  Realizing that this would likely be more than one person could juggle alone, I formulated a solid game plan; I decided to bring our neighbor, Glen, into action.

Aside from a few minor glitches when Glen and I watched the kids on Mardi Gras Day (See archives at the following link):

http://pontchartrainpress.blogspot.com/2012/02/greatest-show-on-earth.html


Glen and I work well together in watching the children.  The word “child endangerment” only came up once during that episode and Michelle finally began talking to me again a week later.  So, I feel that our field trip went fairly well. 

Glen is an animated and energetic individual who works as a fashion industry makeup artist.*

**Translation: He drinks champagne and wine with 79-pound models all day at work, eats very little and says “fabulous” a lot.

I lightly tapped on Glen’s door to enlist his assistance for the day.

Me: Hey, I need your help for a little while today with the kids so I can do a conference call and some writing.

Glen: I thought we weren’t allowed to watch the kids anymore; plus we lost the kids for 30-minutes that day.

Me: No one got hurt and we eventually found the kids…so I think we’re still allowed to watch them.

Glen: I ended up in a first aid tent on Canal Street with a panic attack during Mardi Gras.

Me: Yes, but the fact that the KIDS didn’t end up in the first aid tent means we’re in the clear.  Can you help?

Before opening the front door to my house, I stared Glen down with my best poker face and assured that this should be a piece of cake.

That is, until I actually opened the door, revealing, Scrappy, the dog, tied to a skateboard and the kitchen table by his front and rear leg.  He was also covered, as was the 6-year old, with Michelle's body glitter. 

Pook, the 200-year old cat, lay under the table, all four paws completely tied with brilliantly colored Mardi Gras beads.  It was at this moment where I felt that I was trapped inside of a nightmare from which I could not awake...or a bizarre Lady Gaga music video.

Standing before us was the 6-year old, wearing a wig, his mother’s dress and high heels proudly announcing:

                                        

                                                “I’m a GIRL!!”

Glen:I KNEW IT!
Me: Shut up.

In the background, I spotted the 12-year old, Jack, who lay, passed out asleep, on the couch with the television blaring an “R-rated” movie and a trail of potato chips scattered across the floor.

I quickly and forcibly grabbed Glen by the shirt as he tried to leave.

First order of business…provide trauma counselling to the animals, then feed the kids and administer AD/HD medication to the youngest child.

As I scrambled to gather my notes for the conference call, Glen prepared a bowl of cereal for Lucien.

I’ve since learned a valuable lesson…communication is key when tending to a 6-year old with AD/HD.  Example:

• Glen dishes a couple of teaspoons of sugar into the cereal
• The oldest kid stumbles into the kitchen and also shovels a couple of teaspoons of sugar   onto the cereal
• Finally, I breeze through and sift sugar into the cereal bowl before serving it.

Behold… the net result…

A child with super-human abilities as that of the Incredible Hulk…only he doesn’t tirelessly right injustices within the confines of a tired and predictable television plot line. 

Instead, he tosses his mother’s entire jewelry collection, a bag of cat food, a bottle of body wash, a package of crackers, all of the bathroom towels and the cat into the kiddie pool in the front yard just before beating his older brother senseless with a plastic sword. 

Keep in mind; he’s still wearing the dress, wig and high heels while my neighbors stare in horror from their front porch.

After grabbing Glen again by the shirt to keep him from leaving, I administered minor first aid to the oldest kid, Jack, as Glen exhausted his best efforts to occupy Lucien by inserting a Sponge Bob DVD into the player. 

As I nervously awaited my conference call, I noticed that the house had fallen eerily quiet.  This is approximately the moment when I spotted Lucien, fully engrossed in the Sponge Bob DVD, sipping from a cup that Glen had left on the end table.

Me: Glen...The kid is drinking your orange juice.

Glen: (Heart stopping gasp) That’s NOT orange juice!

I’m no legal expert, but I feel strongly that accidentally serving a screwdriver to a young child might, in fact, constitute child endangerment in the state of Louisiana.

Needless to say, I was quite upset with Glen’s reckless behavior and I let him know about it…primarily because he was stashing vodka and didn’t make a screwdriver for me.

My favorite time of day while watching the kids is lunchtime.  It’s a period of time where both kids typically settle down, shoving their faces with food while saying “I hate you” a dozen or so times to one another.

I’ve heard stories of sibling rivalries in my lifetime; however, Jack and Lucien take it to a level that even Hollywood screenwriters can’t possibly imagine.  Examples: (And, I’m NOT making this up)

“Stop breathing my air Jackson!

“You’re ugly just like my butt hole.”

“How do you know what your butt hole looks like?  Gross!”

“Stop talking about my butt hole Jackson!”.

"When I get rich, I’m gonna buy an entire country and I’m gonna let everyone
 in the world in it…except for you.

 “Stop laughing at the TV Jackson!”

"Shut up and eat your food punk!"

"Stop looking at my food Jackson or I’m gonna throw it away.”

"Then you won't get to eat punk"

"Don't tell me when to eat JACKson!"

Sadly, the list goes on and on and on and on and on.  To the point where I find myself wishing to fall victim to a drive-by drug related shooting.

After Scrappy the dog devoured the briefly unattended lunch plate, it was finally time for my conference call.  I felt pretty good about the household conference call ambiance, as the kids had finally settled down.  I pleaded with Glen to exert extra precautions in keeping everyone quiet so that I might get through this call without embarrassment. 

Mr. Bentley: As you all know, we’ve stepped up extra promotion and sales efforts in the Mid-south and in the Pacific Northwest.  I’d also like to welcome Jim to our weekly call.  He will be working closely with our promotions office to cover the Deep South.  Welcome Jim…

Me: Thank you.  I’m happy to be a part of…

Lucien: I FARTED!!!

(Awkward silence on the conference call)

Mr. Bentley:  Uh…who was that?

Me: We have a pet McCaw…he sometimes blurts out weird stuff.

Mr. Bentley: (nervous laugh)  Oh, okay.  Anyway, as I was saying…

Lucien: I just saw Mr. Glen’s pee pee.  Mr. Glen has a long pee pee!! (Giggles)

Me: (rapidly disconnecting from the conference call; glaring at Glen as he appeared from upstairs)  WHAT THE HELL GLEN?

Glen: I had to go to the bathroom…he picked the lock and came in while I was finishing!

After dispatching a quick explanation email to the director of national sales, explaining that the house suddenly exploded, resulting in my conference call disconnection, I figured that a quick nap might calm my nerves.

I asked Glen to keep a close eye on the 6-year old and informed him to wake me if anything happened or if he needed assistance.  Translation: "I planned to murder Glen if he even THOUGHT about waking me."

I must admit, I’ve never seen a child completely reconstruct his bedroom…outside on the front lawn.  But, upon waking, there it was, complete with the mattress, lamp, dresser drawers and Scrappy the dog, tied to the flat panel television base.

On the front porch sat Glen, head tilted all the way back, snoring, with Lucien nowhere in sight…that is, until I quickly made my way down the sidewalk around the corner of the house. 

A pizza delivery guy strolled toward me with a stack of pies when I spotted Lucien hanging out of the side door to his SUV.

Delivery Guy: Anyone order a pizza?

I can fully appreciate that someone who has never had children might not convey a sense of concern or urgency where these matters are concerned, but I feel strongly that MY first question would have been:

Hey…do you know WHO the 6-year old hanging out of my car window belongs to??

After smacking Glen in the head with a stuffed animal, I woke him and we began to reconstruct Lucien’s bedroom…safely within the confines of the house.

It was finally time for football practice…the home stretch of the day before I was scheduled to retrieve Michelle from work.

Taking Lucien out later in the day can be hit or miss as his energy level becomes slightly elevated like many small children. 

Nothing out of the ordinary, he simply becomes excited around people and does things which might be a little more than your average adult can effectively manage. 

He runs, jumps, hides things, sprays an entire bottle of expensive perfume onto the cat, rakes a 7-foot shelf into the floor with his arms at the grocery store, destroys the floral department, attempts to jump from a balcony, performs factory unauthorized tests as it pertains to the buoyancy of cell phones in mud puddles and challenges the durability of the neighborhood electric and water department grid by activating every single outdoor faucet and indoor light.

Before heading to Jack's football game, Glen and I grabbed a shoulder bag so that we might visit the convenience store near the park to purchase a few refreshments for our outing...Gatorade, snack crackers, peanuts, bubble gum, vodka, orange juice, cigarettes, Valium and bottled water.

At the checkout, Glen and I placed our items on the counter while we waited for Jackson...who, as usual, dumped a basket onto the checkout totaling the approximate down payment amount for a new BMW.

As we watched the game, Lucien played with the other 6-year olds on the playground within the field fence line as Glen and I chatted with a few parents who sat nearby.

Lady: I think it's awesome for you both to come out and be a part of sports with the kids

Glen: Thanks.  We usually get nervous taking them out together...they have a lot of energy and don't get along very well..

Lady: Well, I think it's fantastic. 

Glen: It's not that big of a deal...we just both need eyes in the back of our heads to watch him.

Lady: Jackson is a good kid not to be worried about what his friends and coaches think.

Glen: What do you mean??

It was at this point when I realized that this lady assumed that Glen and I were a same sex couple.

Football practice went well and Jack, being the newly selected first-string quarterback, loitered on the field, chatting with fellow team mates and the head coach.

We wandered onto the field where we stopped and exchanged pleasantries with the coach and his staff.  Midway through our conversation, the coach suggested that I enroll Lucien in the 6-year old league which was set to begin in a week...that is, until a young woman approached with the following question:

Woman: Is THAT your child over there (pointing to the playground)

Me: Yes...why?

After carefully focusing toward the playground, I noticed Scrappy, the dog, firmly tied to the base of the slide with Mardi Gras beads; bubble gum was plastered through both Lucien's hair and Scrappy's fur.  I nervously laughed and politely excused myself from further football contract negotiations with the head coach.

As an added visual, Lucien was also wearing his mother's hair extensions which he'd smuggled in his pants.

As I scanned a little further to the left, I noticed Glen surreptitiously mixing a screwdriver.  It was decidedly time to leave football practice and go pick up Michelle, capping a day that no one that I know would ever believe.

Upon retrieving Michelle, we caught up on the news of the day, exchanging pleasantries:

Michelle: Ugh...what a day!  I'm soooo glad to be off work.  How was your day?

Me: Nothin' to write home about.  Pretty quiet.

Michelle:  Is that bubble gum in your hair???

A simple day indeed.

copyright, Pontchartrain Press 2012

Author's Note: I like to joke around a lot in order to put a more acceptable face on serious topics...I tend to do so in a manner, unlike my father, who served salmon on the evening that he informed me that my gold fish died when I was age seven. 

Or, for that matter, when the first girlfriend with whom I had sexual relations microwaved a bag of popcorn in 2-minutes at our friend's house and coyly asked if it reminded me of anything.

The truth of the matter is, it's been quite difficult to watch a young child struggle with a psychological situation that a team of therapists can't seem to identify...but they continue to diligently work hard to lead Lucien to a happier and normal place.

I would also be remiss by not admitting that there have been good days and bad days for all who have been involved on this journey.

Lucien is not mentally challenged, quite the opposite actually.  I believe that he's too smart for the physical and mental faculties for a six-year old to handle...much less two unlikely babysitters.   

Words can not begin to describe what it feels like to have a front row seat to witnessing the toll that his situation has taken on the person who gave birth to a beautiful child, only to be told by many specialists (and casual bystanders) that they KNOW something is wrong with her precious boy, but they just can't figure it out. 

It's even more painful to witness the tears after no fewer than ten people give her the dreaded "run-down" on a daily basis as to her child's antics; be it the school bus driver, the teacher, the principal, me, Glen, Jackson, the neighbor or the team of therapists.

Then, I realize that I DON'T have a front row seat...SHE does.  I can't possibly imagine how that must feel for a proud, hard working and loving mother...all of which she is.

At present, Lucien is undergoing competent and careful therapy and I'm optimistic for great success. 

In the meantime, this piece is dedicated to Lu...and to the fact that I do, in fact, last longer in the sexual department than a bag of microwave popcorn!

Please cut me some slack...I was 17 for God's sake!




Lucien and Pook...the ancient cat...just before Hurricane Isaac

Where The Buffalo Roam

For the first time in years, I did something that has been long absent from my life; since high school actually. 

For the previous two months, I engaged in an age old tradition; a rite of passage, equally anticipated by school age children and adults alike.  Summer vacation!

Modern society adopted the notion of a summer vacation from the ancient Romans.  After engaging in the daily grind for nine months out of the year, the Romans decided that a break was in order; a well earned physical and mental rejuvenation period so that they might relax after doing stressful things such as taking over the world, constructing tourist attractions,  drinking wine, incest, crucifying the son of God and murdering elected leaders.**

**Note: The Romans do not recognize Spring break for obvious reasons.  (See Ides of March)

The tradition of summer vacation can be traced even farther back…to the ancient Mayans. 

Each year, the Mayans would gather up a few dozen live chickens a rolling taco stand and Corona before piling into converted school busses, Honda Preludes and Chevy Impalas and head to Cancun for an uninhibited, alcohol laden beach bash…With the exception of Pedro Sheckman.  Pedro was the rarely seen Jewish-Mayan. 

The Mayans are well known for their incredible predictive powers such as lunar cycles, tidal activity, knowing when the world will end, etc.   So, Pedro predicted Jewish persecution ominously looming in the future…even though it was the year 1413!

Of course, with all of their fortune telling abilities, the Mayans, oddly, did NOT foresee their ultimate eradication by European explorers, which is why I do not place a tremendous amount of stock in their end of the world summations for 12-21-12.**

**Politically Correct Clarification:  For the record, the ancient Mayan’s income tax returns were always perfect…right down to the Peso.  Pedro Sheckman?  Perhaps, but that’s for history to judge.

I began my first day of vacation by sleeping in; which is to say that I slept until the sound of a screaming cat awakened me.  It turns out that Michelle’s 5-year old wondered if the cat might be more comfortable in a zipped suitcase. 

I lay in bed for a few more moments before finally being roused by the sounds of a screaming 5-year old who wore claw marks on his forearm and on the side of his face.  I suppose that he learned first hand that cats do not, in fact, enjoy luggage as much as Paris Hilton.

So far, my first day of vacation was off to a less than desirable start.

Desperately searching for something to pass time, I spent several subsequent days editing a fiction book that I wrote a few years ago, which may be found at:

Ifailedenglishlit.blogspot.com

 
Feeling a bit incomplete about spending a summer break writing and editing, I decided to completely shelve the computer for the remainder of vacation time to do vacation things.  I did what any adventurous person would do… I decided to donate plasma after seeing an advertisement on the back page of a local newspaper.

Did you know that they pay $40.00 for plasma??  This especially caught my attention.   I’m amazed that I can help to save a life WHILE I earn the exact amount for a bottle of fine Irish whiskey with enough left over to purchase a pack of cigarettes!  Actually, I’m amazed that they accepted my plasma now that I think about it.

When I checked in with the receptionist, I asked if I might be allowed to donate ALL of my plasma for a flat, negotiated fee.  Apparently, that's not how it works.

I was asked to answer a bunch of invasive questions, such as:

“Have you ever had sex for money?"

"Does this photo of Ewan McGregor do anything for you?"

"Have you ever had sex with a man?"

"Have you ever seen the movie Less Than Zero?”

"Have you ever traveled to The Congo, Zambia or Atlanta, Georgia?"

"Have you ever seen a pornographic film featuring sex with a man …which takes place in Zambia?"

"Have you ever thought about having sex with anyone?"

As an important note, I passed the screening with flying colors and was well on my way to earning the “blood money.”

Afterward, the helpful LPN instructed that I should drink plenty of water and have a quick meal.  She also advised that I avoid alcohol for the day.

For the record, it is perfectly okay to consume Taco Bell and alcohol so long as you wait for 20 minutes after donating plasma.  It’s apparently the same rule that applies to swimming

Since the plasma excursion only ate up two hours of my vacation, I accepted an invitation from my friend, who is a landscaper.  He was short on workers and asked if I might assist him with a gardening project for a client.  Subsequently, I caused approximately $2-thousand dollars in damage…long story.

At this point in my, so far failed, vacation itinerary, I figured that summer break might be a good time to catch up on cleaning and maintenance projects around the house.

As a matter of important note, cleaning up after a working mother with a 5 and 12-year old holds the equivalency as that of being trapped inside of an impossible video game.  One of those games where the aggressor pummels the player from every side imaginable until they eventually cry uncontrollably before meeting their demise in a fiery death.

Spending extended amounts of time around the house also provided subtle reminders of certain nuances that I’ve often overlooked throughout the other nine months out of the year.  For instance, I live in a house full of “fast talkers.”  I don’t mean slick, cunning, fast talk…I mean another language which is unknown to man;  My girlfriend,Michelle, and her oldest child being the worst perpetrators.

Example:

Michelle: “Adkeojgfkdknfsjkjd  lksjdlksaknfans and then kdsafsandfk…what do you think Jim?”

Me: “Um…”

Jack: “Yeah, that’s dsmfjdfnbcxvbcxnjbj,xzm…you know?”

Me: “um…okay.”

Michelle & Jack: "Hahahahahahaha!!!!!

Me: "um..."

The 5-year old, on the other hand, speaks quite slowly and explicitly…especially when he decides to share his poop activities in minute detail.

Actually, I also have interesting conversations with Jack...when he speaks English.

I completely forgot what it was like to be a 12-year old boy, in that they have the attention span of a death row inmate who is minutes away from being executed.

Me: Don’t forget to take out the trash and clean your room as your mom asked.

Jack: Can we go to the Nike outlet store?

Me: Later.  Did you clean the litter box?

Jack: Check out that Camaro!!

Me: Yeah, it’s cool.  How bout the litter box?

Jack: Is the Nike store open until 7? 

Jack, along with his peers, have been raised in what I like to call the “protective mom” society, in that their parents force them dress appropriately for outdoors time:

Helmet

Fire-proof race car skull rag

Knee pads

Elbow pads

An English suit of armor

Kevlar vest

Finger pads

Shin guard

A police attack dog

Goggles

And, a tee-shirt (for cool comfort in the summer heat)

This explains Jack’s visible discomfort when I recently tended to a knee scrape which he’d incurred in a rollerblade mishap.  I administered age old, tried and true field emergency care to ensure that he would make a full and successful recovery.  I poured a half bottle of rubbing alcohol on his knee.

After he came to, I assured him that he did not need crutches. 

Jackson often pries about my childhood, specifically as to how we knew that cuts and scrapes wouldn’t become infected and that we would be alright.  I authoritatively answered: “Because we didn’t die.”**

Note: Except for Jeff Miles.  He had a shellfish allergy that none of us were aware of.

Jack’s mother, on the other hand, tended to the scrape in her own, special motherly way when she returned from work later in the day.  When Jack emerged from the bathroom, he looked like a Mummy…with surfer dude hair.

As a kid, summer vacation represented a time of exploring.  We rode bikes, got hurt and played baseball for 8 hours.  We also shot one another with pellet guns, bottle rockets and slingshots, pushed the fat kid off the creek cliff when he wasn’t looking…and experienced an interesting moment in time which involved Tyler Heflin and Tonya Knott.

While us guys took a break from baseball, Tonya had prepared some lemonade and brownies in her “Easy Bake Oven.”

Tyler, somehow, coerced Tonya into showing us her…um…private spot.

As I was recently informed, Tanya’s private spot is also referred to as the “Easy Bake Oven” these days.

 As an adult, my previous summer vacations meant that I would arrive to the beach bar at 9am, watching sports as my ex-wife spent all of my money on key chains which were etched with every single family member and friend’s name translated to Hawaiian

When I was a kid, summer break meant being shipped off to the country to my grandparent’s house so that my mom and dad could do important things such as work, host parties, have sex without locking the bedroom door, allow the grass to grow to approximately 5-feet in length so that I could mow it upon my return and save about 10-thousand dollars on groceries.

As I recall, my uncle, cousin and grandpa availed themselves to my services** when I visited the country each summer (**Pronounced: Slave Labor.)

They would put me to work doing, what they referred to as, character building exercises…such as, splitting logs for 9-hours, feeding livestock, being bitten by snakes, falling from horses, digging potatoes, rebuilding tractor engines and slaughtering a cow. 

My lawyer friend suggests that the above activities constitute child abuse but, since they’re all dead, I can’t bring formal charges against them.

My other uncle was much more fun to hang out with as he’d take me to concerts at the state fair.  At least I thought it was fun, until I reached my senior year in High school.

As a 17-year old sitting around the mall parking lot talking with the guys about first cool concerts there’s something decidedly NOT cool about informing them that one’s first concert memories are those of Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton.

As I slowly emerge from summer break, I fondly reminisce about summer breaks of long ago, one of which is located in a tiny spot just past the middle of nowhere.  A beautiful, pristine and unspoiled countryside with rolling fields as far as the eye can see.  It’s a blip on the map in Tennessee where my mother was raised.

I often wonder how exciting it would be to grow up in an environment which is surrounded by scenery that one can only imagine or view in a movie.  An environment where families raise their own food, sit on the front porch and visit with family and friends at the end of the day-- never seeing an automobile for days. 

Her's was a setting where bald eagles soar high above, water was drawn from a spring house, mountain lions routinely snatched the occasional runt puppy or small child while an area prison chain gang dug holes in a nearby field.  It must have been heaven on earth.

I fondly shared my childhood memories with young Jack about the land where my mom and her family before her settled and that it’s now a federally protected wildlife sanctuary.

Down a winding gravel road, there’s even a national buffalo sanctuary where adventurous tourists might come and briefly understand how things used to be before the age of skyscrapers, smog, traffic jams, Charlie Sheen, urban blight and American Idol.

After a few moments of awkward silence, I sensed that Jack found himself less than engaged in my stroll down memory lane.  So, I fumbled over my words, trying to enhance the story for a modern-day young man. 

I explained that the buffalo range no longer exists due to the fact that a young woman sneezed in close proximity to the fence line, causing a massive stampede which resulted in her and three other tourist’s tragic death.

 Jack: “Cool!!!  Hey, do you think Academy Sports might have a better selection than the Nike Outlet store??"

Sigh.

Copyright, Pontchartrain Press 2012

Two children with thousands of questions.  They'll make excellent lawyers one day.  Meet Lucien and Jack