My life as I see it

I want you back

2012-02-02T14:08:54Z

my nephew decided that he was going to try out for the talent show at school. This is him working on the song he wants to sing. Let me know what you think so far.

Little League Dreams

2012-01-30T14:46:26Z

When I was a kid I used to throw like a girl. I blame that fact on the lack of a solid father figure while I was growing up. My dad was in the military, so he was away for most of my younger years. It seemed that he volunteered for the assignments that took him places where he couldn’t take his family. At times I used to think that maybe it was easier for him to deal with the military than to be a father, but that’s just speculation on my part because I really never knew what he was thinking.

The closet person I had to a father figure was my uncle who would tell me that he loved me every time that he got drunk. It’s good to be loved and to be told that you’re loved, but when you really thought about it, it wasn’t so great because he used to tell everyone that he loved them when he got drunk including the dog, as far as I know he still does that to this date. I’d like to think that I outgrew that throwing like a girl thing, - yeah I’m sure I have. Put it in the record - I don’t’ throw like a girl anymore! Throwing like a girl was not my only problem, I couldn’t catch anything either. When you’re a male child you want to be able to throw and catch otherwise you might as well spend your entire recess on the corner of the blacktop playing tea party with the girls. For a kid who can’t catch or throw the only fate worse than death itself is to be forced to play little league baseball - and the only thing worse than playing little league baseball when you can’t throw or catch is being on the same team as your older superstar cousin who can throw and catch.

I don’t even remember how I ended up on the little league team. All I know is that my cousin was going to sign up for baseball and somehow he convinced me to go with him and before I knew it … parental forms were signed and I was a member of the White Sox little league baseball team. From the beginning I had a feeling that the coaches were disappointed that I was on the team, but at least they had my superstar cousin so if I stayed on the bench everyone would be happy, including me.

I think the only person who in their heart really didn’t believe I sucked at baseball was my mom. She was at every single one of my games, cheering the team on, cheering me on. Once I figured out where right field was I would stand there and watch her cheer. On those rare occasions when I was allowed to bat everyone else moaned or yelled things at me, but not my mom. She would cheer me on just as loud as she would cheer my superstar cousin, maybe even louder. Now, that’s unconditional love.

If I have to be honest, I didn’t really take little league baseball too seriously. I was content to sit on the bench and pull boogers out my nose, then stick them under the bench, adding to a collection of dried nerd boogers from past little league games. As the year progressed I got better at the game. We found out that I had bad astigmatism so with the addition of thick plastic glasses I was able to actually see the ball when it came my way so I was better prepared to catch it - and for the record, I did catch it a few times.

I remember how excited and scared I was when I found out that my father was going to be coming in from overseas in a couple of weeks and would be at one of my games. I was excited because I wanted him to see me play, but at the same time I was scared because I didn’t want him to see how bad I actually was at America’s pastime. I asked my superstar cousin for help in doing all the things a good little leaguer should know how to do, and he agreed to help me. Every day after school we would go to the park and practice - queue “Rocky” music here – my cousin and my uncle set out to help me become a better little leaguer. They would pitch the ball to me, slowly at first, and help me to correct my swing so that eventually I was able to hit the ball. I wasn’t going to hit it out of the park, but at least I was going to hit it. They spent countless hours throwing or hitting the ball to me, giving me encouraging words when I missed it and cheering loudly when I caught it. That’s when I realized that my uncle really did love me, even when he wasn’t drinking. In the end I wasn’t a great player like my cousin, but I was better than when I started and that was good enough for me.

On the day of the big game I was ready; ready to hit the ball, ready to catch the ball, and ready to win the game for my father. He was going to be so proud of me. I looked out into the crowd expecting to see my father in his military uniform sitting with my mom and little brother, his chest puffed out with pride. I saw my mom, and I saw my brother, but my dad wasn’t there. His plane must be running late, I wasn’t worried because in my heart I knew that no matter what he would be there. He had promised me he would and he never went back on his promise. I was still scared and nervous, but I had worked so hard every day after school so no matter what was to happen I was ready.

“Please coach,” I begged. “Can I bat?”

The coach was not one of those coaches you see in little league baseball movies who believes that every kid should play no matter how bad they were. He was the coach who wanted to win even if it meant keeping me and all the other bad players on the bench.

I think that on that day the coach was caught off guard by the fact that I wanted to try and hit the ball because he knew I was happy to just sit on the bench and add to the booger collection. He told me that I might be able to bat later depending on the score. I knew then that the only way I would bat would be if we were winning by so many points that the other team had no chance of catching up.

I didn’t care. I just wanted to go out and hit the ball so my dad could see me. I didn’t care if I were the last kid to bat in the game, all I cared was that I had a chance to make him proud of me.

Finally, toward the end of the game the coach called my name and told me to get ready. I would be batting next. My heart was racing and I wanted to run to the restroom. I hated myself for not going to pee before the game because now I felt the urge and it was bad.

The batter before me, his name was Morris, hit the ball out toward left field and made it to second base. I walked out to the plate and was too nervous to look over to where my mom and dad were sitting. I tried to focus on the ball and remember everything that my cousin and uncle had told me during those hours after school. It didn’t even bother me when the whole outfield took three giant steps forward when I stepped to the plate. I was going to show them.

The pitcher went through his windup and whoosh before I could even think of hitting the ball the umpire was yelling “Strike!”

I tapped the end of the bat on my shoe. I don’t know why I did it, but I’d seen a professional player do it in a game once, so I figured it could only help me. I can’t be for certain, but at that moment I thought I saw the umpire roll his eyes.

I thought about using The Force, so I tried to clear my thoughts and tune everything out except the ball.

“Strike two!” I didn’t even see the ball fly over the plate.

Apparently, The Force wasn’t strong with me.

I wanted to do something really cool, but I didn’t know what to do. The only thing I could think of doing was spitting. I don’t know why but as a kid spitting seemed really cool to me, almost as cool as covering one nostril and blowing a booger out the other. I didn’t spit because I knew that if I did all I would do was get a big, slimy loogie all over my shoes, and that would not be cool at all.

I squinted against the sunlight. This was all I needed, the sun. How was I supposed to see the ball if I was looking into the sun? it was bad enough when I could see, and so much worse when I was blinded by the sunlight. I knew then and there that God liked messing with me, how else could that be explained? I closed my eyes for just a second, just to shut out the sun, the other team’s chants of “batter can’t hit”, and the ballpark smell of hot dogs, popcorn and car exhaust, which was making my stomach feel funny. I wanted to throw up and I probably would have if it weren’t for the fact that my father was there watching me. I didn’t want him to see me throw up all over home plate.

In that second that I closed my eyes the pitcher threw the ball. I didn’t know what to do so I did the only thing that registered in my mind…I swung the bat. I didn’t see the ball, but I did hear as the ball hit against the bat and then I heard the voice of Coach Rodriquez yelling, “run! Run!"

I threw the bat and ran to first base as the other team members just stood there transfixed by the ball as it bounced twice then rolled out into left field. Morris ran to third base and I ran to second. I’d like to say that I ran all the way home, but things don’t always turn out perfect in real life like they do in the movies. I never made it home. We were struck out and all I got to was second base, even so, it didn’t matter because I had hit the ball and in the end we won the game. As we left the dugout all the other team members ran to the concession stand where the coach bought us each a snow cone. I ran the other way toward the spectator stands to find my mom and dad.

Coach Rodriquez stopped me before I got too far. “You did a good job out there,” he put his hand on my shoulder. “Here I want you to have this” He handed me a dirty, old baseball. I turned it around in my hand looking at it, not knowing what to do or say. No one had ever given me an old dirty, baseball before. Coach Rodriquez smiled and said. “It’s your ball, the ball you hit out to left field.”

I smiled a big cheesy smile. I know that if I could have seen the smile on my face at that time I would have smiled even harder because when I see someone with a big smile on their face it makes me happy. I don’t know why it does. I think it’s because I get the feeling that they’re happy and their happiness makes me happy. One time I saw an old man walking out of the Mexican bakery with a white bag full of sweet bread. He had this big ol’ cheesy smile on his face and watching him made me smile. He was happy with his sweet bread and I was happy for him. I ran past the other kids who were running the other way toward the snow-cone stand. I ran, with the ball in my hand, and the big cheesy smile on my face toward my mom and dad. I held the ball up in the air, a trophy of all that I worked for, all that I was proud of, all that my father had come to see.

“Daddy,” I yelled. “I got this for you. Are you proud of me? I hit the ball”

My mom went to her knees and hugged me. I remember that as she hugged me, my baseball cap fell off my head and the wind blew through my hair. “I’m so proud of you.” She had the same cheesy smile on her face as I did. “You were so good.” I hugged my mom, but quickly pulled away from her. I wanted to show my dad the baseball and share with him everything that it represented to me.

I looked around for my dad, but didn’t see him. When I looked at my mom something in her eyes confirmed what I was trying so hard to hide. “I’m sorry.” She began. “Your father couldn’t make it for your game.”

I know she said more, but I didn’t hear anything else she said after that. I let the ball drop to the ground then turned around and slowly walked away, dragging my feet and kicking up dirt as I walked to the car. I turned and watched my cousin as he ate his snow-cone and excitedly told his dad about the homerun he hit during the game. I watched as my uncle put his arm around my cousin’s shoulders and started to walk to their car. I know that if I had run up to him he would have put his other arm around me and told me how proud he was about my accomplishments, but somehow, I knew that just wouldn’t be the same.

The Case of The Missing Cheese and Crackers

2012-01-02T08:26:56Z

Recently we moved to a brand new, built from the ground up, clinic. It’s a state of the art building, and has almost everything you could ever want in a clinic. The only thing that is not new is that fact that people are still going into the refrigerator and eating other people’s lunch. It was soon after we moved into the new building that someone went in and ate my leftover pizza that I had brought in for lunch.

The stealing of the lunches doesn't end there. The other day I walked in the break room and I saw the following note:

As I read the note I wondered if someone had actually thrown away the cheese and crackers or had they been eaten by the same scoundrel that had eatten my pizza. I wasn’t the only one who suspected foul play in the disappearance of the cheese and crackers. My friend Charlene made a list of suspects and is narrowing it down as we speak – this is a short note to the thief “We will find out who you are and you will pay. Damn you, you will pay for eating my pizza!”

It seems that this case of missing crackers and cheese has become the talk of the clinic. One of my co-workers, George, even sent me this message:

The Case of The Missing Cheese and Crackers:
Records 1 to 1

Record ID 15986

Incident Date: December 29, 2011   Time: 9:44:00 PM Division: SE Shift III

Title: Theft                                                             Location: Boulder Highway

Summary:

On 12/29/11 at approximately 9:44 PM officers were dispatched to the break room at the South Boulder Highway location... The suspect obtained an undisclosed amount of Cheese and Crackers before fleeing to a vehicle in the north parking lot.

The suspect's vehicle was described driving a silver Honda, possibly a hatchback, older model.

The suspect was described as a male in his twenties wearing a gray or white sweatshirt. He had a mustache, and a thin build.

Adults Arrested:

None ; Will consider this a “Cold Case “if not solved- Assigned special agent Puente to further assist

Media Contact Name and Phone Number:      Lt. Baez     555-7270

_________________

Well, it seems that George has a bit of a sense of humor when it comes to another person's missing crackers and chesse. He's actually a pretty funny guy and you can find him posting all kinds of stuff on his facebook page.

I don't think we'll ever find out who actually ate the cheese and crackers - I don't think we'll ever find out whose cheese and crackers they were either. I guess that's just life - sometimes you eat the cheese and crackers; sometimes you get your chesse and crackers eaten.

Story on the radio - what would I do? What would you do?

2011-12-29T19:58:22Z

As I was driving to work the other day there was a news story about a man who found two envelopes with $5,000.00 in each one at the airport. They said that the man took the envelopes, which were marked with the Caesar’s Palace logo, to security and they were able to trace them back to a gambler from Texas who had dropped them while running to catch a flight back home. The man who found them said he turned them in because he wanted to set an example for his kids by showing them “the right” thing to do.

Now, there have been many times when I’ve found things like wallets, cell phones, and little purses and I’ve turned them in, without giving it a second thought. I believe in Karma, so I fear that if I keep whatever I find I may end up losing more as the universe’s way of making things right. The thing is that $10,000.00 is a lot of money, especially during this time of year. If I were a multi-millionaire sports figure, singer, or actor then yes, I would give it back, but I’m not a multi-millionaire. I’m a low level government employee that makes a lot less than most people. I'm the employee that wakes up every morning at 5:00 am, travels 45 miles to work on a busy highway with 50, 200 crazy drivers trying to get to their job; I sit at a desk for eight hours while doctor's complain or patients yell at me because their doctor called in sick and now their appointment is cancelled. I sit through boring meeting after meeting about how important the dress code is while little is mentioned about patient care. I scarf down an unhealthy lunch because out lunch times are being monitored and then at the end of the day, I drive the freeway back home, go to sleep and do it all over again the next day. When I think of that, I have to wonder and I ask myself; If I found $10,000.00 in two envelopes would I give it back?

I’d like to think that I would do “the right thing” but even as I type this I have my doubts that I would do the right thing and give it back. I’ve never been in that situation where I’m faced with keeping that much money. I would think about the person who lost it, but I’m sure it would be a fleeting thought. That much money could buy a lot of stuff, stuff that I need and stuff that I don’t need, but really want. The first thing I would do with that money is buy tickets for my nephew and myself to go see the Cirque Du Soleil show Love. It would be the ultimate birthday gift for both him and myself and since my birthday is Jan 8th and his is Jan 12th it would work out great. The fact that we’re both huge Beatles fan adds to the greatness of this gift.

The only thing is that I’m sure as I sat there watching the Cirque acrobats perform to the Beatles music I would wonder what sort of pay-back does the universe have in store for me now?

I'm pretty sure what I would do if I found $10,000.00
... what would you do?

Neighborhood Wars pt 3

2011-12-09T09:19:00Z

We ran as dirt clogs fell from the sky, exploding on the ground around us, some of them finding their target causing red welts to appear as if by magic on each of us. We were running over each other when my cousin who we simply called “Boy” fell over a big bag of onions that one of my uncles had brought from a farmer on one of his trips through the back roads of Texas. It was a huge bag of onions, more onions than any person or family for that matter could ever eat in a lifetime, but we weren’t going to eat them. We had found a new weapon and once we modified them we would have a super-weapon

My cousin, “Boy” didn’t hurt himself when he fell over the bag of onions, but the red, mesh bag they were in split, spilling huge yellow onions across the carport. It was then that my cousin, Dorothy, who was the pretty one in our little group of misfits picked up an onion and threw it at JC. She may have been the pretty, girly one but boy could Dorothy throw. She could throw a ball like a boy and she could fight like one too. The onion splattered all over the floor in front of JC spraying him with onion juice and little pieces of onion some of which may have landed in his eyes because it looked like he had begun to cry. In all the years I had known him, I never saw JC cry until that day, so I imagine it was the onion juice that made him cry, but even so we still laughed. He rubbed his eyes and he cried harder - we laughed harder. I don’t know who actually came up with the idea for what we did next. I’d like to think that it was me because I like to think that I was and still am the misunderstood genius of the group, but I’m pretty sure that it was one of my other cousins who came up with the idea.

“You boys find the bottles and then do what you got to do.” Sara ordered as she pulled out a huge switch blade knife from her pocket. Now that I think back on it, it may not actually have been a huge switch blade knife but more like the little file thing that comes with a fingernail clipper. She picked up an onion and cut out a cap much like she was carving a pumpkin for Halloween.

We didn’t have to be told what to do, we knew what had to be done and we did it. We each took a bottle from my grandfather’s recycling can and went behind the big tree. We were bad but we still had our dignity. We weren’t going to show our penises to the girls, we were still too young for that. We pulled them out and began to piss into the bottles, each of us trying to fill them up. That was our little machismo way of determining who the Alpha male would be in the group since we were all pretty close in age.

“Have a Coke and a smile,” I said holding up my Coke bottle that was a little more than halfway filled with the warm yellow liquid. I smiled a little smile and I could feel the evil glint in my eye because I knew what we were going to do next was bad and deep down I liked being bad. Hey, I’m the grandson of southern Baptist preacher – there is a bad streak in me.

We all laughed when “boy” filled his bottle and still had to pee. He peed into my grandmother’s rose bushes, that would be the thing that would later get us into more trouble than actually throwing piss filled onions at the enemy would.

“He’s full of piss.” My cousin Ruben said.

“That’s not all he’s filled with,” my cousin Patricia said. “He’s full of shit most of the time.”

We all laughed because at that point of our lives it was funny whenever anyone said the word “shit.”

The younger kids were tasked with the chore of filling the onions with the warm urine and putting the caps back on them to make sure nothing spilled until they found their target.

It was our turn to sacrifice one of our own. My little cousin Eddie walked out into my grandma’s yard and started prancing around on the ground singing at the top of his lungs:

“JC is gay
He throws like a girl
He fights like one too
And he cries like one, boo, hoo, hoo.”

When that didn’t work we sent out my cousin Velinda who had what called a “white girl” voice. We never told her she had a “white girl” voice and she probably never knew it either, until she reads this. What it means is that her voice would change when she talked to grown-ups or people in authority, so that to us she sounded more sarcastic, but the grown-ups thought it was cute. She pointed her butt toward JC’s house and taunted them in her White Girl voice:

“JC and Mark sitting in a tree
First comes love,
Then comes marriage
Then comes Japo in a baby carriage”

That worked. JC and Mark both came running out, their judgment clouded by anger. They didn’t even get close to my cousin Eddie or Dorothy because Sarah was waiting in the shadows for them. She stepped out and let loose with two piss filled onions. Mark got hit on the chest and JC got hit on the side of his face. If I live to be a hundred years old I will never forget the look of shock, anger, and humiliation on JC’s face. I have to admit that when I saw the look on JC’s face I felt bad. We had done something bad, something terribly bad, but it was war and people did terribly bad things in war.

We weren’t the first and we wouldn’t be the last.

Neighborhood wars pt 2

2011-12-07T09:09:00Z

Most of our battles consisted of each of us throwing dirt clogs at each other, but as with every other rivalries in history there came a day when our weapons were escalated and things would never be the same again

This particular war started like most of our other wars before. We were outside playing when we saw Japo walk onto the driveway of his house. He saw us and did the worst thing he could have done. He threw the middle finger at us, laughed, and then ran back under the carport. We were kids and for us throwing the middle finger was the worst thing you could do, it was even worse than saying that your mama was a female dog. Throwing the middle finger was something that adults did to each other, not something elementary school kids did to other elementary school kids. It made us mad, but none of us were as mad as my oldest cousin Sara. I think that even as a kid she had anger issues because she was always beating up someone whether they were enemies, friends, or just family. I know she gave me my share of bloody noses growing up and that sucked big time. You could almost see the steam coming out of Sara’s ears when Japo ran back out and started making faces at us. It was a bad move on his part and I think he realized that when he saw my cousin Sara pick up the dirt clog, but by then it was too late. She threw it as hard as she could. A cloud of dirt exploded as it smashed into Japo’s right thigh. He wasn’t laughing anymore.

Japo fell to the ground and began to cry. We ran out to watch him cry because that’s what we did when we saw the enemy fall and start to cry, that’s when we realized that they had sacrificed one of their own…it was a trap. JC and his rag-tag team came out yelling as they threw dirt clogs at us. The sky became brown as dirt clogs rained down on us and for a second it looked like JC and his team were winning. We ran as dirt clogs fell from the sky, exploding on the ground around us, some of them finding their target causing red welts to appear as if by magic on each of us. We were running over each other when my cousin who we simply called “Boy” fell over a big bag of onions that one of my uncles had brought from a farmer on one of his trips through the back roads of Texas. It was a huge bag of onions, more onions than any person or family for that matter could ever eat in a lifetime, but we weren’t going to eat them. We had found a new weapon and once we modified them we would have a super-weapon

Neighborhood Wars pt 1

2011-12-05T09:02:50Z

When I was a kid, my arch enemy was a tall, skinny boy who lived two houses away from my grandma’s house. His name was JC. I never knew what the initials “JC” stood for and I really didn’t care, all I cared about was destroying JC. I don’t know when or even how we became enemies. We just were. I don’t think he even knew what my real name. He only knew me as Peewee, but that was ok because arch enemies don’t need to know your real name, especially when you’re both only eight years old.

It wasn’t that we were two boys that hated each other. We were each a part of a larger group that hated each other. I had my group that consisted of my cousins and myself and he had his group that consisted of his best friend, Mark who also happened to be my friend. When we weren’t having wars Mark and I would hang out on account of our mothers were good friends. I have to admit that when we threw dirt clogs at each other I would intentionly try to get as close to hitting Mark as I could without actually hitting him and I suspected that he did the same when he threw dirt clogs at me. Aside from Mark and his other friends, JC’s team also consisted of his freaky little brother.

We were kids, so we weren’t politically correct at that time. I don’t think most people were. It was a time when people said what was on their mind and didn’t care about the repercussions or about hurting anyone’s feelings. Things were the way they were, and that was that. We didn’t even know what political correctness was. All we knew was that according to our grandfather the Japanese were the enemy because they bombed him and his friends in a far-off land called Pearl Harbor many years before any of us were born, and since JC’s brother had little, slanted eyes and looked Japanese we called him “Japo” and he was the enemy.

Butt-Chugging and Vodka Tampons

2011-11-28T09:04:54Z

As most of you who follow me on facebook know, Tuesday was wing night – every Tuesday is wing night. Most times the conversation starts with catching up on what went on during the week and then the talk can turn to anything at all. Last wing night the conversation took a sudden turn when my friend David asked, “have you guys ever heard of ‘butt chugging and vodka tampons’?”

I looked at him as my brain tried to process what he had just said, after thinking about it and coming to the only conclusion that I could come up with, I asked, “Is that when you lay on your stomach and someone puts a bottle of vodka in your butt?”

“No,” He said not even surprised at my answer. David has known me for so long that I don’t think anything I say or do surprises him anymore. “A vodka tampon It’s when you take a tampon and soak it in liquor and then you shove up your butt.”

The first thing that went through my mind was what the hell are kids thinking these days? Sticking a tampon up you butt to get drunk? I don’t know which visual was worse; laying on a table with a bottle of vodka sticking out from between your butt cheeks or shoving a liquor soaked tampon up your ass. I shook my head lightly like an etch-a-sketch trying to rid my brain of both visuals.

“You’re kidding,” Tamika, a former co-worker and friend, who had joined us for this particular wing night took a sip of her drink and said. “You’re making that up.”

At that point her high school age daughter and the foreign exchange student she is hosting excused themselves and went to the rest room.

“You can youtube it” David said as he chugged on his beer. For the record, he wasn’t butt-chugging his beer, he was just chugging like any regular person would – through his mouth, not through his butt. Although at one point during the night he said he was having his last drink and acted like he was going to pour it in his butt.

“Hey, the girls took off suddenly” Tamika said a little concerned, “You don’t think they’re doing it. Do you?”

I sucked the meat off a chicken wing, took a drink from my iced tea, wiped my mouth, turned to her and said the first thing that came to mind, “if she farts and it smells like vodka, then that means she’s butt chugging.” We all laughed.

"Why would anyone do that?" She asked, trying to see if she could see her daughter and the foreign exchange student through the door that lead to the restroom.

“It's supposed to make you feel intoxicated quicker,” David explained. “The alcohol doesn’t go through your stomach, so it doesn’t go through the acid. It goes straight into your system, so you get drunk right away. If you’re at work you wouldn’t be able to smell the alcohol on your breath.”

“but, wouldn’t they be able to smell it coming out your butt? Plus you'd be squirting vodka everytime you took a step."

“Whose going to smell someone else’s ass?” David looked at me, maybe I could surprise him afterall, because he had the surprised, disqusted look that people tend to get when they talk to me for any long period of time.

“Who would even think to do that?” Tamika asked. "I mean who was the first person to take a tampon and decided to soak it in liquor and then shove it up their butt?"

David looked at me, “You should make a Youtube tutorial on butt-chugging and vodka tampons.”

“Yeah,” I said pretending I was holding up a glass of spiced rum with a tampon in it. ‘I have a super absorbent tampon that has been soaking in Captain Morgan for the past 12 hours. You take the tampon and shove it up your anus so you have the captain in your ass.”

“Do you even know what a tampon is?” David asked. “You don’t need to soak it for 12 hours. You just put it in the glass and it soaks up the liquid.” he made a soaking sound with his mouth that I wouldn't even know how to type here.

Tamika asked, “How do you know that?’

“Once, when I was younger,” he began. “My buddies and I put tampons in our mouths to see who could keep it in the longest.”

I turned to Tamika, “that was before we were friends, I never put a tampon in my mouth.” Looking at David I asked, “Did you win?”

“No, but it soaks up all your saliva and you get…”

Tamika cut him off, “cotton-mouth.” She laughed. At that point her youngest daughter and the German Exchange Student came back to the table. Tamika looked at her daughter suspiciously, “You’re not doing it, are you?”

“Doing what?” Her daughter asked.

“Butt-chugging a vodka tampon.”

“Eeewwww,” she made a face like she had just stepped in dog poo in her bare feet. “No I haven’t even heard of that but it sounds disgusting.” Apparently neither of them were paying attention to the conversation before they went to the rest room.

“It’s when you soak a tampon in liquor and then shove it up your butt.”

“Eeewww.” Both the youngest daughter and the foreign exchange student said at the same time.

I looked at Tamika and asked, “can you imagine her letter back home? ‘Dear mother and father, you would not believe what the Americans do with their tampons.'”

Conversations with Jesse at the In-N-Out

2011-09-27T13:45:43Z

I have a friend named Jesse who seems to notice the strangest things and has the strangest ideas. The other day we went to eat at In-N-Out when he began to tell me about the crew.

“Did you notice how at every In-N-Out there are a bunch of white people working?” He said as he took a sip of his root-beer.

“Huh?” I asked. “You’re strange.” I hated to get pulled into these kind of ‘Jesse conversations’ but I knew that I was about to be sucked into this one. “What are you talking about?”

He began his explanation “Every time I go into an In-N-Out hamburger place I always see a whole crew of tall, young, white people working there with the exception of one black person.”

I looked at the employees and he was right. The crew consisted of one black guy and a bunch of white kids. I started to laugh. “You just made that up.” I said.

He looked at me and his face was serious, “No, I’m not making it up. It’s always the same, no matter which one I go to or when I go. The thing about these kids working there is not the fact that they’re Caucasian, it’s the fact that they’re “white” I’m talking about pale, gothic white except that instead of the dark gothic hair, they have blond hair. It’s like these kids are some sort of tall, white, blond haired breed of In-N-Out crewmembers that are intent on taking over the world - or at least the west coast with deciduous double cheeseburgers with their own “special sauce.” I’m serious, look around.”

“dude, there is something wrong with you,” I looked at him and smiled. “Seriously, there is something wrong with you.”

“At first,” he continued as he chewed on a double double, “I thought the one black employee was there as a way to avoid any scrutiny of the pasty colored crew, but the thing I’ve noticed is that not only is one employee black, but he or she is always really dark black. I’m not talking about a mocha color, beige, or even a brown color - the employee is always really dark. Look, look at the dark employee.”

“I’m not going to turn around and look at anything.” I shook my head.

Jesse continued, “Well, if you look, you’ll see that he’s the one in charge. He’s controlling the whole thing. It’s like he’s pulling the strings of the white crew, telling them what do and when to do it”

“He’s probably the boss and that’s what bosses do.”

As we ate Jesse suddenly got this strange look on his face. He had an epiphany. “I just figured it out.” He said all excited. “the dark employee is so dark because he is some sort of skin-pigment vampire and he’s feeding off the skin pigment of the other employees. That would explain why everyone else is so ghostly white.”

“Dude, you really do need some help.”

I dream of puppies

2011-09-23T03:12:11Z

For as long as I can remember I've had really vivid dreams. Sometimes it's good, but a lot of times it's not so good because with vivid dreams come vivid nightmares. Sometimes my dreams are just strange. The other night I had this really strange dream. In my dream we were on some sort of road trip probably through the backroads of Texas. I say that because everything was flat - you could see for miles. There weren't any mountains or any bright casino lights. My mother was driving a van, my sister was sitting on the passenger side and I was in back wth my nephew and my niece. We stopped at this little store in a little country town that had a little dinner next to it. I don’t think we even got gas, just some snacks. My niece got some sort of hard candy that she almost chocked on - that was all I remember of the snacks. As we were getting back in the car when we saw a stray cat playing in front of the store. Somehow I knew that my sister had decided that she was going to take it home with us. She was looking for a bag to put it in when we all saw two small gray and white puppies come around the corner and start playing with the cat.

“oh look at the puppies” my sister says and then looks at my mom and my niece. “we should take them.”

“No” I say. “don’t take the puppies. No one will take care of them.”

At that point my niece starts to choke on the hard candy again and I put my hand out for her to spit the candy out. I look at the slobber covered candy in my hand and think about putting it in my mouth and eating it, but then think better of it and throw it out the window.

“what do you say, mom?” My sister asks putting on he own puppy dog face that she has perfected throughout the years to get anything she wants from my mom and dad. "I promise we'll take care of them."

“I guess we’re getting new dogs.” My mom says.

"I ain't taking care of anything." I say.

My little eight year old nephew looks at me says, "You know 'ain't' ain't a word"

Even in my dreams someone has to be a smart-ass.

My sister gets off the car but for some reason can’t bring herself to capture the puppies. “there’s too many people, how about we park next to the dinner and I’ll get them when it gets a little darker.”

We park next to the dinner. A really big, dark woman leans out of the dinner window and asks us what she can get for us. I try to tell her that we don’t want anything because we had gotten some burritois from the dinner earlier, but she can’t hear me so my sister gets off and goes to the window.

“I’ll tell her and I’ll ask her about the puppies.”

As my sister gets in line these two big black girls get in line behind her and start talking about some dance at the high school the following week. As my sister is about to ask the lady at the window about the puppies when a Chinese woman walks up and blurts out, “do you have change?” she's holding up a twenty dollar bill. The lady at the window tells her that she doesn’t have any change. My sister holds up some five dollar bills. The Chinese lady pulls out another twenty and my sister looks over to where my mom and I are, then pulls out more five dollar bills. We nod at her as if giving her permission to exchange the money.

I walk into the dinner and buy a can of Coke and start to drink it. As I look outside I see a lot of people suddenly pulling up and I wonder if they are here for the dogs. I know it’s a strange thing to think but that’s what the dream Tony was thinking. I sat my can of Coke down on the counter and walk outside to see what’s going on.

I see the puppies playing in front of the store and notice that everyone else is just sort of making their way into the dinner talking about the economy and how bad it was. I walk by a huge guy with long black hair and a beard and goatee. He’s looking at me with evil eyes in a mean face, as if I had just insulted his mother or something. I was still looking at him when I caught the sight of the high school kid who was a big football player wearing a football letterman jacket. He looked down at me when we ran into each other and he almost knocked me down to the ground.

“I’m sorry sir.” He says and he reaches out his big hands to help steady me and keep me from falling.

I looked up at him. He’s a good head and shoulders taller than me and simply said, “thanks kid.” I walked on and can't help thinking "he called me sir. I'm not old enough to be a Sir"

Through the corner of my eye I see my sister grab the puppies and go back to the van, so I head back into the dinner for my can of Coke because even in dreams a cold Coke is a cold Coke. I notice that my Coke is now hot so I grab a new one and walk out the dinner leaving my hot can of soda there. As I’m walking out the big lady at the window yells out, “I left you a new can of Ice cold Coke as a thank you for waiting around gift.”

I looked back and saw the new, unopened can of Coke next to my hot one “She left me a new coke, but I took one anyway” I said to my mom as we walked back to the van. “Should I go back and get it?”

“No,” my mom says. “You already got one. Don’t be greedy.”

“yeah, you’re right.” I say getting back into the van where my niece and nephew are both playing happily with their new puppies. “besides I’m ready to go.” I look around at all the people filling the dinner. “something about this palce gives me the creeps.”

We drive off in the van and I notice a big white sign with black letters by road that reads, “Pray every day”

The next thing I know I’m standing in the dinner again, but this time it’s full of people. I look around but something is not right. I can see everyone but no one can see me. It’s one of those dream things. I see the big man with the long dark hair and beard and for some reason I can’t take my eyes off him. He looks over to where I am, and for a second I feel as if he can see me, but I know he can’t. I watch as everything suddenly goes into slow motion. The man pulls out a shotgun and aims it at the guy to his left, the guy standing next to me. He fires and blows the man’s chest away. People start to yell and try to run out the door, but they can’t. They are all pushing against the door but the door opens inward and no one wants to move back to open it so they're stuck pushing against each other. The man starts shooting over and over again. He shoots the Chinese lady that is holding the five dollar bills my sister just gave her right in the middle of her head. One second she’s standing there about to scream, the next her head is blown across the wall of the dinner. The football player tries to run to the window, but the guy turns and fires the shotgun blowing a hole in his back big enough that I could see through it. I see the girl who moments ago was talking about the school dance. She’s screaming, crying, begging for some sort of mercy. There’s a flash of light and the girl is gone. I try to look away but I can’t. I watch as the man kills everyone in the dinner, then sits at the counter where my hot Coke was still sitting. The man begins to eat his final meal which consists of an onion omlet, hash browns and a cup of coffee. He then blew his own head away.

I don't know how I know this but somehow I know that he had come back to the store looking for his beloved puppies and when he couldn’t find them, something inside him snapped and his mind went crazy with rage.

Then…I woke up

The 911 Call

2011-08-29T14:46:36Z

We got a call from a patient who wanted his methadone and he claimed that if he didn’t get it then he was going to kill himself. The clerk that received the call did what we are told to do and kept the patient on the phone while getting someone else’s attention, that someone else just happened to be me. I went and found a doctor and nurse to talk to the patient, then I called the suicide prevention section where I work and I got a voicemail. I couldn’t believe it. It had to be a mistake so I called again. I got the voicemail again. I then tried to call the mental health section to see if they could give me some help. I told her that I tried to contact the suicide prevention section but I was put on hold. She put me on hold so she could go see what was going on with the suicide prevention team. She finally came back on the line and told me that the person was not at their desk and she didn’t know where he was, so she tried to help me. The lady on the other end of the phone line asked me if the patient was at our clinic. I told her that the patient was on the phone threatening to kill himself.

She told me, “You need to detain the patient and don’t let him go anywhere until help arrives.”

I told her again that the patient was not at our clinic, he was calling from his apartment and he was going to kill himself if he didn’t get his methadone.

The lady from mental health then said,” Well, in that case you can have him call us here.”

I was a bit surprised by that answer. “You want us to hang up with the patient and have him call you?” That was totally against protocol. According to what we’ve been told countless of times – we are not supposed to hang up with the patient until help arrives.

“Yes,” the mental health lady said. “You can hang up and have him call here or he can call after you finish with him.”

I was ready to hang up on the mental health lady because I felt that the patient needed someone with a little more brains than the person I was talking to. “I’m calling 911 and letting them know so they can do a check on him.”

“You can do that too” the lady said.

I hung up on her and immediately called 911.

At this time the doctor was talking to the patient, keeping him on the phone. I called 911 and gave the dispatcher all the information I had on the patient. He asked me for an address and I gave him the one in the system which the doctor confirmed with the patient. The doctor was smooth asking the patient where he was because he had to put the address in the system to order his medications.

“Does he have any weapons?” The 911 dispatcher asked me.

I asked the doctor, who then asked the patient. The patient said he did not have any weapons, but he said he would still find a way to kill himself if he did not get his medication.

The dispatcher asked me once again for the patient’s address. I gave it to him again and he told me that they were having another suicide incident in the same apartment building, so he wanted to make sure it wasn’t the same person. I couldn’t help thinking that I was glad I didn’t live in that apartment complex.

The doctor was amazing in the way he talked to the patient. He kept calm and answered all the questions I passed on from the dispatcher.

The whole thing seemed like something from a movie. I felt like things were going so fast, but at the same time I felt that we were working like team; the doctor, the nurse who was pulling up information from the computer so I could give to the dispatcher, and myself. We were a team that was trying to save this man and any wrong word or bad decision by either of us could cost him his life.

I don’t know that the patient would have actually killed himself or not, but when you’re faced with a situation like that you really don’t want to take any chances. You never know what someone else is thinking or what they are capable of doing.

Later I was told that we handled the situation very well and that we worked well together in relaying information back and forth.

The dispatcher finally told me that a police unit had arrived at the complex and were making their way to the patient’s apartment.

At this point the doctor looked at me and said, “He hung up on me.” I could see the surprise and fear in his face. I felt my heart race as I thought of how we had failed the patient we were trying to help

“The police have arrived and are with the gentleman.” The dispatcher said as I felt a wave of relief go over my body.

I told the doctor and I could tell that he was feeling the same way too. We were both relieved. If nothing else we had potentially saved someone’s life.

The dispatcher thanked me and gave me a number that I could use in case we wanted to find out more about the outcome.

As I hung up the phone I felt good. I felt good because I felt that in some way I had made a difference in someone’s life. Again, I don’t know if the patient would have actually killed himself or not, but it’s good to know that I won’t have to ask myself “What if…”

Booger-face Margret

2011-08-24T12:00:00Z

When I was in elementary school I used to sit next to a girl named Margret. Margret had a problem with her nose, it wasn’t that it was a huge forty year old nose on a ten year old face. The problem with Margret’s nose was that it produced too much mucus, way too much mucus for one person to make. Sometimes she would run the back of her hand across her nostrils to wipe it clean, but most times she would simply use her finger to clean it. She was a nose picker, picking her nose all day long. Once, I picked my nose in class and the teacher made me go wash my hands immediately, but she never said anything to Margret about her nose picking. I guess it was either because she knew that if Margret didn’t pick her nose then her nose would fill with mucus and she would drown on her own boogers. How does a teacher explain to a parent that their kid drowned on their own mucus? I think that the real reason she never said anything to Margret was the fact that Margret was a giant girl who was so mean and tough that the teacher was afraid to tell her anything for fear that she would get beat up by a booger spewing ten year old.

Margret would push her finger so far up her nose that I think at times she would actually touch her brain. I would try to avoid looking at her, but every once In a while I would look over at her and she would be in her little booger world with her finger up his nose, when she saw me looking at her she would slowly pull her finger out. On the end of her finger would be a long slimly booger that would go on forever. I’m sure that if someone were to measure it, it would be some sort of world record. If she saw me looking at her she would one of three things. One thing she would do was swing his finger and the booger would wrap around her finger like tetherball would wrap around the pole when we were on recess. The other thing she would do was stick it under her chair. I would hate to look under her chair because I knew that if I did I would see stalactites of dried boogers under there. The third and most gross of all was that she would eat them.

No one really liked to play with Margret, mostly because she was so mean, but also because her hands were always boogery (I made that word up). The only time anyone really played with her was when we had to, like during PE. I remember one day in PE we had to play baseball and since she was the biggest, meanest kid in the class she was the pitcher and boy could she pitch. She could throw that ball by you and make you look like a little girl trying to hit a fastball.

Although Margret and I sat next to each other we really didn’t like each other. I didn’t like the fact that she was a booger-face and she didn’t like the fact that I called her a “booger-face,” so when she threw the baseball and hit me right on my eye I had a feeling that it was not quite the accident she claimed it was.

I remember standing at home plate waiting for her to pitch the ball and thinking that I wasn’t going to let her strike me out. The first ball came hard and fast. I swung at it with all the strength that was in my ten year old body.

“Strike!” yelled the coach from behind me.

“what do you mean strike?” I asked as I gave him my are you blind look.

“It came over the plate and you swung at it. It’s a strike.” The coach gave me the ‘I’m the authority figure and if I say it’s a strike then it’s a strike’ look.

I tapped the end of the bat on my shoe, something I’d seen one of the professional baseball players do in a game once. I’m sure it didn’t look as cool when I did it as when the pro player did it, but I was a kid – what did I know about being cool?

I got ready for the next pitch and while I still thinking about getting ready the ball flew by me.

“Strike two!” the coach yelled.

“What?” I turned to him. “I didn’t even swing at the ball. How could it be a strike?”

“The ball came right down the center over home plate. It was a good ball and you didn’t swing so it’s a strike. Keep your eye on the ball next time”

I looked at Margret and I was determined not to let her strike me out. I stood there concentrating like I had never concentrated in my life. I wasn’t going to let that booger-face strike me out in front of the whole class. I watched as she pulled her arm back and then threw the ball. I could see the ball coming right at me, getting bigger as it got closer, then I heard the sound of the bat hitting the ball and then something strange happened. Everything went dark and all I could see was a lot of colored sparks shooting in all directions like a firework show on the Fourth of July. It was as the pain ran through me and I fell to the ground that I realized the sound I heard earlier was not the sound of the bat hitting the ball, but it was the sound of my face hitting the ball.

Everyone ran toward me and I thought I heard the coach say, “that’s not what I meant when I said keep your eye on the ball.” I think he laughed a little bit, but I’m not sure that he did or if it was just my imagination.

They took me to the nurses office and put some sort of bag with cold, blue gel on my eye. The nurse asked me to name some of the letters on the eye chart. I laid in the nurses office for most of the day. I don’t know if I was lucky or if I just had a hard head because I didn’t get a huge black eye or anything that would make me look cool. I just had a small bruise over my eye that hurt every time I poked it.

“Hey,” The creepy voice made my blood run cold. I looked toward the doorway and standing there larger than life was booger-face Margret. At first I thought she had come to finish the job and kill me. My mom was going to be so mad because she asked me to take the trash to the curb that morning and I'd forgotten - now I'd never take the trash out because I'd been killed by a booger-face girl - oh man, was my mom going to be mad. ”Mrs. Bostwick told me to come and say I was sorry.” She ran the back of her hand across her nose wiping away a stream of mucus. She than added, "even if I'm not" and she stuck her tongue out at me.

“I’m okay.” I said. “I hardly even felt it.” I rolled my eyes back in my head and instantly regreted it because it hurt. "Besides," I said,"you throw like a girl."

“Yeah,” she said. “whatever.” I didn’t like the way she said that, but I didn’t say anything else to her, because I wasn't ready to die yet - I still had to take the trash out at home. “Well, I’ll see ya later shortstuff.”

“I’m not short!” I yelled after her. She would pay for this…I began to plot my revenge

…but, that’s another story.

The Exposure

2011-08-22T07:02:00Z

“Hello, I’m calling from employee health. You did get the message about the exposure? Didn’t you?” I listened to what sounded like the beginning of a Zombie Apocalypse movie. “A message was sent out last week requesting you to fill out the exposure form and return it to us. We have not received it yet and need it to continue the investigation”

“The exposure? The investigation” I asked. “What are you talking about?” I thought about an email I had received a week before about Tuberculosis, but didn’t think much about it because we have to get tested for Tuberculosis each year. It’s all sort of routine.

“Yes, we are investigating the case of a patient who died of Tuberculosis. We are testing all the people that he came in contact with on his last visit to the clinic and your name came up on our list.”

“What?” I asked, still feeling that creepy feeling in my spine like I was suddenly thrust into a bad zombie movie. I looked over to my co-worker and she was still the old woman I worked with and not Michelle Rodriquez so I knew I wasn’t dreaming. “You’re saying that I’ve been exposed to Tuberculosis?”

“Well, I’m saying that we’re testing everyone who may have come in contact with the patient.”

I was feeling the anger starting to rise in me as I thought about the fact that I could be carrying a virus and spreading it to everyone, especially to the people that I care about. “What about all the people that have come in contact with me? What if I have it then what?”

“Well, we will treat you for it.”

“What about the people that have been in contact with me? What’s going to happen with them”

“if you are positive then they will have to be tested as well.” It wasn’t a great answer, but I’ve worked with the government long enough to know that there weren’t any great answers.

“When was I exposed?” I had all these questions in my head but could only fully form one at a time. I felt angry and scared at the same time. I remembered that one of the symptoms was a persistent cough. I didn’t remember having a cough, but I could imagine myself coughing up blood at some point if I tested positive.

“The patient came into your clinic in March and he died in May. We didn’t know that he had the live virus until after his death”

“This happened in March and I’m just now finding out about it?” I was getting angrier as the conversation progressed.

“Can you come in tomorrow to be tested? You may have to get permission from your supervisor. I can talk to her if you want me to.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow morning. I’ll talk to my supervisor and I’ll make sure she knows what’s going on.”

I talked to my supervisor and told her about the phone call. She seemed a little concerned because if I had come in contact with the virus then there was a strong possibility that she may have come in contact with it as well and when you think you’ve been in contact with a virus that can kill you – you tend to worry a little bit.

As I thought about it I was a little relived that I had already taken my yearly TB test and it was after the exposure, so the chances of me actually having Tuberculosis was pretty slim, but even so, I wasn’t about to take any chances.

The next day I showed up at employee health before they even opened their doors. The nurse was very kind and tried to answer my questions, but she didn’t seem to know what to do. This must have been her first investigation because she called the doctor in to find out what to do.

The doctor came in and started asking me all sorts of questions. She told me the name of the patient and even showed me a picture of him while asking me if I remembered talking to him. I told her that I didn’t even remember the patients I talked to yesterday much less someone who I had talked to months ago. I don’t tend to remember patients unless something out of the ordinary happens – they can be either really mean and nasty to me, or really nice and I’ll remember them, but otherwise I don’t tend to remember people.

The doctor told me that it was unlikely that I had the virus, but they had to follow protocol and test everyone who may have come in contact with the patient at his last visit. I told her that I didn’t think I had it because I had been tested in the time between the exposure and the time I was notified because my yearly TB test had fallen in that time and I had been negative. She then told me how the patient would have had to have stood within six feet from me and talked directly to me so that the virus could spread from him to me.

She asked me a few more questions, which I answered as best I could. I filled out the exposure form and then she left the nurse to do the test. The nurse injected my arm and all we could do then was wait the two days to see if I had a reaction.

The next two days were really quite normal because I was sure that I did not have the virus. I did joke with everyone at work that if I had it I was going to cough on everyone and everything because if I was going down I was taking them all with me. I joked but at the same time I don’t know how much of it was really a joke. Don’t start a pandemic with me because I will spread it

This story is pretty anti-climate as most of my stories tend to be (at least that’s what my friend David says) – the test came back negative and I was ok. The thing that worries me about this whole thing is that every day we come in contact with people who are sick with who knows what – it’s just a matter of time before someone’s test comes back positive…and then what?

********
During meetings at work I tend to doodle, I added my little zombie doodle for effect

Gone Fishing...

2011-07-04T22:07:59Z

My Uncle Emilio just had his 68^th birthday party. It’s hard for me to believe that he’s actually that age. I remember when I was a kid he took us on a fishing trip. It wasn’t just any fishing trip, it was my first fishing trip. I hate to admit this but I’ve never been a great fisherman. It’s not that I get grossed out putting the worms on the hooks or anything like – it’s just that some people are fisherman and some aren’t – I’m not a fisherman. I guess a part of it is that for some reason or another my parents let me watch horror movies as a kid and I hated to go near the water for fear of some million year old, boy eating creature would rise from the murky waters and drag me under where other million year old creatures would suck my guts out of my body much like the dogs in Disney’s Lady and the Tramp suck the spaghetti noodle from the plate until they almost kiss. I could imagine the creatures sucking my entrails until they almost kissed just like the cartoon – except without the Italian background music.

I remember all my cousins getting close to the water’s edge as they threw their fishing lines into the murky water. I figured that either all my cousins were either very brave or not very smart. I wasn’t sure which one. I do know that I was always the one who approached things with caution and I probably still do. Maybe I was too cautious for a kid. I don’t know why that was, maybe because I had just gotten back to the states from living on an Army base in Germany where we would constantly have bomb threat drills or be told to be on the look-out for anything or anyone that looked suspicious – so I may not have had too much trust in anything or anyone other than other military people in uniform. I also remember that I hesitated and took my time pushing the hook into the fat little worm body. I kind of felt a little sorry for the worm that I had drawn from the Styrofoam cup of worms we had bought at the bait shop down the road.

“Eww…ewww…ewww…” I said as worm blood and guts squirted on my fingers. I didn’t feel sorry for the worm anymore, just grossed out by it. My cousins all turned to look at me and I looked at them. I didn’t want to seem like a dweeb, so I looked at them and corrected myself, “Oh, oh, oh look at that,” I held my fingers up for them to see. “Worm guts, how cool.” My older cousin Sara shook her head and looked at me as if I were stupid, then she turned her attention back to her fishing line. I wiped the blood and guts on my pants trying hard not to throw up.

I threw my line and it landed with a plopping sound at the water’s edge.

“Mijo, you have to move closer to the water.” My Uncle Emilio said as he guided me closer to the million year-old, boy-eating sea creature’s reach. “Eddie, get away from the edge, you’re going to fall in.” My uncle didn’t even look at my cousin Eddie. It was as if he had some sort of Daddy power that told him Eddie was too close to the edge.

“I’m not going to fall in.” Eddie laughed. He moved closer to the edge.

I liked my cousin Eddie, but if he wanted to get eaten by the million year-old sea creature there was no way I was going to save him or even try to save him. I didn’t even want to be standing too close to him just in case the sea creature smelled him on the bank and decided to pull him in, so I moved over next to my other cousin, Emilio Jr. My cousin Emilio Jr was a big boy so if the sea creature didn’t choke on him, he would be taking a long time trying to chew him and I would have time to make my escape. It was survival of the fittest. I silently applauded my genius reasoning.

I threw my fishing line into the water and it landed with a plopping sound near the water’s edge. I had just gotten back from living in Germany and had never been fishing in my life, so throwing a fishing line was not one of my best skills.

“You’ve got to flick your wrist.” My cousin Emilio Jr. said as he made a flicking motion with his hand.

“Ok,” I said as I jerked my fishing rod back so hard that the float and the hook flew out of the water and over our heads. I heard a stifled yell that sounded more like a little dog yelping else. We all turned around to see my Uncle Emilio standing behind us with my fishing hook caught near his right ankle. “I’m sorry.” I said. My uncle didn’t say anything he just gave me a quick look and then pulled the hook from his ankle. I watched as blood started to ooze out.

Almost at that exact moment there is a loud splash as my cousin Eddie fell into the water. He started thrashing around and I knew that the million year-old sea creature was already sucking out his guts. I had never before seen my uncle move so fast as he did at that moment – as a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him move that fast since that moment. It was like he had become a superhero: Super Daddy to the rescue. He ran past us and jumped into the water ready to fight the million year-old sea creature. I saw him grab my cousin Eddie by the hair and pull him out of the water and throw him on the bank of the shore like he was a little kid’s doll.

My uncle climbed back on shore and lay on his back breathing hard. I was afraid he was going to pass out. He looked at my cousin Eddie and said, “I told you not to get too close to the water or you would fall in.”

My cousin Eddie simply said, “but did you see the size of the fish that pulled me in.”

I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to scare him, but I thought to myself, “that wasn’t a fish, that was a million year-old sea creature and you almost got your guts sucked out.”

Sometimes you just can't hold it in...

2011-06-30T02:08:34Z

When I was a kid we used to live in Germany. At the time the thing I wanted most was to come back to the states, back to my grandmother’s house. I didn’t realize until much later just how much my time in Germany would mean to me. I remember snow, lot’s of snow – which we don’t get much here in Vegas. We used to ride the bus all over the place and even that was fun. I remember many times waiting out in the snow with our fur lined coats for the bus to come. One time this old German guy came up to my brother and myself as we were waiting and he started pointing at us while saying something in German. It didn’t seem like something bad because he started laughing and then walked away. Maybe he was saying that we were funny looking Americans – I really don’t know because I didn’t know any German at the time. “I think he’s talking about you.” My brother said as he watched the man walk away.

The reason I’m thinking back to my time in Germany is because something happened today that made me think about that very moment that I just shared. I walked into an elevator and I tried to hit the button before anyone else could get on – mostly because I like riding in the elevator by myself or with people I know. I hate to ride in an elevator full of people that I don’t know. Well, I hit the close door button but as luck would have it the door didn’t close, it stayed open. I pushed it again and again the door stayed open. It was open long enough for a group of German tourists to walk in.

They all crowded into the elevator and I was sort of forced to move to the back and to the right side of the elevator. They were all talking in German, so I didn’t know what they were saying except for the occasional word of English that I could make out. I was standing behind this group of people minding my own business, posting some update on facebook through my phone when I suddenly felt a strange wave like feeling in my stomach. I immediately thought about the spicy squid I had for lunch at the Korean restaurant in Chinatown earlier that day. I could feel sweat start to bead all across my hair line and behind my neck. I don’t know if it was hot or not, but I knew I was sweating and my stomach was rumbling.

I looked up at the lighted numbers using my mind powers to make them move faster so I could get off the elevator and run to the restroom. I’m kind of funny about farts. I’m not the kind of person that can just let one rip. I feel like the only three places I can really fart is in the restroom because that’s what they’re made for, my room because that’s my fortress of solitude and if I want to fart in there all day long I can – but no one else can, and I can fart when I’m outside because the air carries it off and no one has to know that the gas has been passed. The thing I can’t do is fart in an elevator, especially one that is full of German tourists.

I can imagine it now: they all go back to Germany and talk about the American guy at the back of the elevator that farted. Some of them may even have blogs are writing a post much like this one. I squeezed my butt cheeks together as hard as I could – all you P90X’ers out there would have been proud of my ass cheek muscles – they were “bringing it.”

I looked up at the numbers again, still trying to use my mind powers to make them speed up, but then I remembered I didn’t have mind power or if I did they were working in reverse because the numbers were not moving any faster – as a matter of fact, they seemed to moving slower. As I concentrated on making the numbers move faster I lost concentration on squeezing my butt cheeks and all of a sudden – it even surprised me there was a small Pfffft sound.

I held my breath and stood very still as my eyes darted one way then the next to see if anyone acknowledged the sound, but no one did. The German tourists just kept talking in German as if nothing had happened. Maybe I was going to get out of this with my dignity intact. I started to breath again and that’s when I smelled it. I can’t even describe the smell other than to say that Spicy Squid from the Korean restaurant in Chinatown does not leave your body smelling like roses.

It was soon after I smelled it that I believe the tourists began to smell it too because all of a sudden, one by one they became quiet and looked around until their eyes focused on me.

“what’s up?” I asked trying to sound casual and hoping that nothing else would escape my body.

They didn’t say anything to me. A couple of them laughed and then they all turned around and started talking quickly in German to each other.

I decided that as soon as the doors opened I was going to rush out of the elevator, but that didn’t really happen. As soon as the doors opened the German tourists all ran out of the elevator and were falling all over each other laughing.

I walked out of the elevator as a young couple walked in.

I could tell by the look on their faces that they could smell it.

“Damn tourists,” I said. “Farting in the elevator is not funny.”

I turned and walked toward the restroom. I passed the tourist who started laughing when I walked by and for some reason I could hear my brother's voice in my head saying, "I think they're talking about you."

The Cup

2011-04-11T07:01:00Z

I have two nephews and I have two nieces who range from age four to eight. They recently competed in their first ATA Tournament. I was a little worried about my oldest nephew, Chris because two weeks before the tournament he was moved up to a higher level class, so I knew that in the tournament he was going to be up against higher level kids. That worried me because you don’t want to see your nephew get beat in his very first tournament by a higher level kid. I worried that he would not receive a medal or some sort of award and that would discourage him from participating again. In my mind I could see him sitting there as they called each kid’s name to come up and get their award, waiting and hoping that they would call his name – much like I used to wait during my ROTC years in school. His instructor told me there wasn’t anything to worry about because my nephew was ready for the tournament and he was ready to compete in the higher level. When he told me that I felt better so more than worry I was excited for the tournament to begin – this was my nephew’s first ATA competition after all.

Not only was this his first ATA competition but it was also the first time that he has had to wear a protective cup. He hated it. He complained about having to wear it, he complained about putting it on, and he complained about it for the entire ride to the tournament site.

“This cup hurts.” Chris wined as he squirmed in the backseat. “Why do I have to wear it?”

My five year old niece stopped singing along with Lady Gaga long enough to answer, “Because you could get kicked in your nuts.” I tried to keep from laughing because to me is just seemed so funny that she would answer that way. “Remember in class when that big kid got kicked in his nuts and he started crying? The teacher said he needed to wear his cup.”

“What cup?” My five year old nephew Jay asked. “I don’t see a cup.”

“I’m wearing a cup and it hurts.” Chris said totally ignoring his little sister.

Jay’s interest was piqued. “Where is it? I don’t see it.”

“I’m wearing it on my penis.”

Jay busted out laughing, “you’re so silly. You don’t put cups on your penis. You drink out of them.”

winner

2011-04-10T02:37:00Z

I was having trouble with my internet so I was not able to post the winner when I wanted to on here. I did post a facebook status update with the winner - so go check out my facebook page and while you're at it - hit the like button - that would make me very happy.

Life with Tony Facebook page

A Super Give-a-way

2011-03-23T07:05:00Z

I know that I’ve been a little off on my blogging and I’m not going to lie – there are a couple of reasons for this and as bad as it sounds one is because recently it seems that most of the feedback I get is from websites offering IT services, Korean cruise lines, or I get the same comment saying if I think it’s crazy what the woman does with the banana in the Japanese Banana Show I should see what happens when she does the same thing with toads. I know, or at least I’d like to think that there are actual people reading my blog, at least a couple more than the four who post any comments at all so for that reason I decided to try another contest and the entry would be a comment from a person who is not trying to promote drug sales, penis enlargement gadgets, cruise lines, etc. Oh and I don’t want to hear how walking on Ugg Boots is like walking on little pillows of clouds – I just want a real person to comment and if you have a blog then post it, but please just be a real person.

Now, for the prize – I didn’t really know what to offer. I originally thought of doing some sort of Star Wars give-a-way, but at the last minute decided against it. Hey people, I’m more than just a Star Wars fan. I wanted to do a give-a-way that was somehow related to Vegas but at the same time something that I like. When I moved here I would visit the casinos and get a dollar chip from each one that I went to. I now have a pretty good collection of them, but when you’re in vegas you find all sorts of chips that people have made for different occasions – Someone recently gave me the chips you see below and when they did the first thing I thought was I’m going to give them away on my blog.

(Front of Chips)

(back of chips)

As I said before, to win these four chips all you have to do is comment on this post – it’s that simple. I’ll use Random.org to choose the winner. I’ll announce the winner on Friday April 01, and I promise this is not an April Fool’s Joke – and if this goes over well, the same person who gave me the Superman chips also gave me two Marilyn Monroe chips.

so comment on the page and good luck

More Notes from Work

2011-03-04T14:15:00Z

Well, it’s Friday again and I thought I would post more of my “notes” from meetings I had to attend at work. I want to stress that I’m not an artist, so don’t judge these too harshly. I’m just a guy, sitting in a meeting bored out of his mind, making little doodles on a pad of paper – I guess if I’m anything, I’m a doodler.

Only a fool would draw a picture of his new supervisor, post it on the internet, and say it was his new supervisor. I’m not a fool, so I’m not saying this is a drawing of my new supervisor.

We, the front-end staff, are the first people that the patients see when they come in, that’s not always a good thing for us. There are times when a doctor calls in unexpectedly and we’re scrambling trying to call patients before they come in. We don’t always get a hold of everyone and a patient may come in whose appointment has been cancelled. A lot of the times the patient is okay with rescheduling the appointment, however, if their wife is with them then eight times out of ten she will be the one is angry and she will be the one that goes off on the front end staff. This is a doodle of what all those angry wives seem to look like to me. They all somehow blend into this one character.

These are just a little doodle of my current supervisor’s sunglasses. If I had drawn my supervisor I'd probably have drawn her with the sunglasses on, so the person above couldn't possibly be my supervisor - hahaha

Well, it’s getting late and I have to get ready for work – as I write this, I still have not taken a shower, so I’ll leave you with these doodles. Let me know what you think of them and if you think I should continue to post them on here. I still post them on my Facebook page first, so you can check out the newest ones there. While you’re there go to my blog Facebook page and click the “like” button.

Take care and good luck with everything.

I know, I'm a crude person - this is all about farting and taking a dump at work

2011-03-02T14:18:00Z

As I walked down the hallway the first thing I noticed was how hot it was. The second thing I noticed was the smell. I have to admit that it’s not unusual to walk into work in the morning and smell the stench of someone taking their morning dump in the restroom which is just way to close to my desk. Many mornings, as I walked quickly through the hall trying to hold my breath so I wouldn’t get that smell in my nostrils or my mouth, I would wonder who was so bold as to just walk into the restroom and blow ass like that.

I know that sometimes when you have to go, you have to go and it doesn’t matter where you are. You’re going to drop trousers and blow ass and there’s not anything or anyone that’s going to stop you. I’ve been there (when I ate Indian food with my brother), but the thing is that if I really have to go I’m not going to do it in the area where I work. I don’t want to sit there and smell it all day long, not even if it’s my own crap.

I know it’s bad enough when someone takes a dump in your work area, but there are also people who still stink up your work area by farting all over the place. There are all kinds of farting people in this world, some are just farters that will fart no matter where they are or what they’re doing – those are the ones that go in the public restrooms and destroy the toilets. There are those that think farting is fun so they make it into a game and either try to fart something like the ABC’s or they ask their friends and family members to pull their thumbs and then fart when they do and they will laugh about it. There are the accidental farters who will be laughing or coughing and a fart slips out. This happened to a lady at work one time and I just could not stop laughing – I know, I’m evil. There are the ones who will stink up a room and claim it wasn’t them because they never fart.

I’ll admit that I’ve farted a few times in my life, but I usually try to keep it confined to the bathroom or to my own bedroom. Those are like my “safe fart places” I mean everyone farts in the bathroom and my bedroom is my “Fortress of Solitude” so I can fart in it if I want. I bet even Superman farts in his Fortress of Solitude. I won’t fart in my car though because I don ‘t want to drive around in it and I won’t fart inside my work place – I will fart outside (why you think I take so many breaks?)

I’m not like the person who was in the restroom at work getting rid of some serious gas when I walked into the building. As walked down the hall I couldn’t believe how bad it smelled. No human could have made that smell. The thing that really got me was that I was down the hall and there was a door between it and me, yet it still burned my eyes and made my stomach turn. As I got closer to the restroom door the smell got stronger. I almost called security to make sure someone hadn’t fallen in there and died because it was so bad. As I got to the door, it suddenly swung open and I heard a voice say, “Hi Tony.”

I was surprised because I was standing looking at one of our young, petite, female audiologist. She was not who I expected to walk out of the restroom. I responded with a “Hi” and kept walking because now the door was open and the smell was escaping and I didn’t want to stand there and smell it if I didn’t have to. As I walked away I thought to myself, “Whoo, hoo, she should get some kind of trophy for that or something.”