Big Mexican Dinner

Isn’t it strange how memory works? Certain sights, sounds, and smells (so, I’ve been told) can bring to mind things that never would have crossed someone’s mind in the course of a normal day.

One of my memory triggers is seeing orange lilies growing along the side of a road.

Orange Lilies Along the Side of a Road

Every time I pass orange lilies growing along the side of a road, I am instantly transported to the summer of my 20th birthday. The lilies bloom in late June (you may see them now if you pay attention). They’ve been in bloom for a couple of weeks now, and every morning on my drive to work I see them. Every morning, I’m immediately reminded of a June day in 1995.

The day was probably a weekend, but I really have no way to be sure. What I do remember is that it was sometime around the middle of the afternoon. My friends Angela and Greg met me for lunch at a place called Teddy’s Chop Suey in Clarksville. It was a little restaurant that had a decent buffet of mediocre Chinese food. We liked it because it was cheap, it was greasy, and it was horribly unholy (for you kosher types) and unhealthy.

As the three of us exited from the restaurant, Angela commented on a group of orange lilies growing in a patch of brush and undergrowth. The area was covered in poison ivy and was prime real estate for snakes, ticks, and any number of other vermin and vectors. Being a 19-year-old boy (my birthday wasn’t for another month), I decided that I was going to impress the girl with a pretty flower.

I trudged through the bushes and snagged a couple of the bright orange flowers. I handed them to Angela with a grin. She smiled, thanked me, and we all parted ways. The event was really no big deal. It wasn’t the beginning of a romance, it wasn’t the last time I ever saw them, I was not bitten by any critters, nor did I get poison ivy. It was a wholly insignificant occurrence on a random June day.

A few weeks later I was sitting in Angela’s living room and saw those flowers (long since dead) in a vase on top of her family’s entertainment system. The fact the she had kept them made me grin. Seeing those dead flowers reminded me of that afternoon. I remembered that insignificant event, and it brought to mind the great friendship that I shared with Greg and Angela.

Angela and Greg are still two of my dearest friends. Though, I do not see them as often as I would like. The reason is simple. They both still live in Tennessee. I speak to Greg very infrequently, but I try to see him at least a couple of times every time I am in Tennessee. I still speak to Angela about once a month or so, and visit her when I am back home too. So, while we are still best of friends, we are not as close as we once were.

Whenever I see orange lilies I think of them. I think of my amazing friends, and I remember how close we were. It makes me miss them, and wish that I had never let any distance develop between us. Though, it seems that it may be the natural way of things. Friends come and go. The relationships evolve and change. Sometimes they go away for good.

Some friends, though, are like the orange lilies. In the same way that the orange lilies return every June, my friends come back into my life, if only occasionally, and when they do, it’s as if they had never left.

Isn't It Strange How Memory Works?

I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome Owen Alaister Dickens to planet Earth. He was born this morning at 32 minutes after midnight. He was 8 lbs. 8 oz. and 21 inches long.

Owen Alaister Dickens

Congratulations to my good friends Mike and Holly Dickens on the birth of their second child and first son! I love you guys!

I was watching the television while sitting on my makeshift couch. It consisted of a large denim pillow (about four feet by three feet) that I had purchased at Wal-Mart. It was very simple, but it was comfortable. Looking back, I can see that it was an early indication that I would eventually develop an affinity for the infamous Lovesac. Suddenly, I felt a rumbling in my stomach. Something told me that this was more than gas. I stood up and felt my bowels complain. I clenched my cheeks and stood motionless for a moment wondering what I should do.

The barracks on Fort Myer didn’t have individual restrooms, and it was a 50-yard dash to the nearest one down the hall. I began taking slow steps towards the door, trying to prevent myself from upsetting my angry colon any further. However, it was too late. I tried to bolt to the door, but the floodgates began to open, and I couldn’t help but shit all over myself.

I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than 30 or 40 seconds. I wondered if I would be able to make it down the hallway without anyone seeing me. It wasn’t uncommon for me to go hours or days without seeing any of my neighbors. Most of the soldiers who lived on my floor worked nights or mid-shifts in the Pentagon.  However, I wasn’t willing to take that chance. I could feel the pile of hot steaming diarrhea soaking into my shorts, and I knew I had to take them off.

I tried to sneak my way out of my drawers without spilling anything. I was unsuccessful. A large glob of brown gunk fell onto the light blue “carpet” that had been in my room when I moved in. It wasn’t a full carpet; it was more like a six by six rug that would have been more suited for an outdoor patio. I immediately cringed, not because I was worried about the carpet – it had a large number of dubious stains before I ever owned it – but because I had inadvertently stained my socks in the process. I hate it when my socks aren’t white.

The logistics of the cleanup are unimportant. Needless to say, I cleaned myself up immediately, with the aid of a quick shower and a trashcan for my drawers and socks.

I then began trying to remove the stain from the carpet. My attempts were futile. I tried for days. I used as much water, elbow grease, and RESOLVE as any one man can muster, but alas, I was never able to get the stain to fully go away. The best I ever got it down to was a six-inch diameter yellow-green circle.

Anyone who entered the room may have thought nothing of it. After all, it was just one of many strange stains on the carpet. However, I couldn’t stand to look at it. Every time that I saw it, the memories of that incident came flooding back into my mind. I could remember how and when it happened, and I could remember exactly how I was feeling at the moment. I covered that stain with a large wooden chest that I own, so that I would never have to see it or be reminded that it was there.

Sometimes, people have the same effect on me as that stain on the carpet did. They make an impression…NO…they make a STAIN on the carpet of my soul that just will not go away. No amount of RESOLVE can ever make the thoughts of them fade, and whenever I see them or think of them, I can remember when and where “they happened.”

(To Be Continued)

My loyal readers (both of you) may have noticed that I haven’t been writing. Believe me when I tell you that it bothers me more than anyone else. However, I have decided that I will begin writing again, even though I don’t really feel like it. The easiest way for me to accomplish this goal is to start by editing and revising some things that I have written in the past. Today’s entry is a revised and updated version of something that I wrote about three years ago. I find that it’s still relevant today, and the timing is perfect. So, without any further delay, here is some practical advice for the summer…

Here in the Nation’s Capital, we were blessed with a very mild spring. In fact, up until recently our weather has been unseasonably mild. However, Sunday marks the first official day of summer, and the weather here is beginning to take on its typical hot and humid status (except with more rain this year than is normal). Now, this is important…because it is during this time of year that a very common problem occurs. That problem is “Swamp Ass” (also known as Cranky Ass). It is one of the largest causes of that “not so fresh feeling” at the end of the day.

What is “Swamp/Cranky Ass” you ask? It’s basically nothing more than an overly sweaty, stinky, dirty poop hole. It is often made worse when someone does not do a “good enough” job of wiping when they have finished…well, you know. Now, Swamp Ass should not be mistaken for Wet Ass which occurs when someone mistakenly sits on something wet, such as wet grass, a park bench covered in dew (particularly in the early mornings), or when someone gets wet by some other means, such as getting caught in the rain, sprayed  by a sprinkler, falling in a puddle…or whatever. Wet Ass is uncomfortable, that’s for sure, but it is not on the same level as Swamp Ass.

The easiest way to prevent Swamp Ass is to remember the Golden Rule.

The Golden Rule: A Dirty Ass is a Cranky Ass.

That’s right, kiddos; hygiene is the most important part of avoiding Cranky Corn Holes. This means it is imperative that we avoid fudge stripes, poop stains, dingle berries, or any other related phenomena. I recommend Scott’s Toilet Tissue combined with a Cottonelle Wet Wipe. Now, I know you guys are fond of the “Soft Stuff”, but don’t be fooled. It may be good for the cartoon bears on TV, but Charmin just doesn’t get the job done like the sandpaper tissues. The rougher the stuff the better it is at wiping the shit away.

Now, for the particularly hard to clean ass, let’s just face it, you might have to shower afterwards. This is nothing to be ashamed of! Which would you rather do, take an extra shower or suffer from incredible Swamp Ass all day? It’s a no brainer and believe me, your friends, co-workers and significant others will thank you for it.

The secondary cause of Swamp Ass is simple…body heat. Just like your armpits sweat, so does your butt canal. For those of you who have a little extra junk in your trunk (and you know who you are), you may notice that your butt sweats excessively. While this cannot be totally avoided, there are things that can help. First, wear clean, dry, comfortably fitting drawers. No thongs or whitey tighties, please! Boxer briefs (or better yet Boxers) and Granny Panties are popular for a reason. Now, before you start making Granny panty jokes, let me ask you, which is less sexy, Swamp Ass or Big Underpants? That’s what I thought! Next, you should make sure that any excess moisture is thoroughly dried after showers, and Cottonelle treatments. You might also try removing some of the excess hair (if you’re one of those people). Finally, in extreme cases, I recommend Gold Bond. Try it in the blue bottle…YEOW!

A special note for the men: Now, most of you have experienced the above condition, and most of you will automatically know what I mean when I saw that the boys next door have a similar problem. Some of the same techniques can be used to prevent Swamp Crotch. Just remember, as you’re pulling out the mustache trimmers and Gold Bond, you’re performing a public service. In this day and age of Swine Flu and Global Warming we all have to do our part to eradicate any epidemics that are within our power. Let’s all start with Swamp Ass! Who’s with me?

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When I was about 11 years old, I used to hang out with a bunch of kids at a decrepit playground close to where we all lived on Fort Eustis, Virginia. The park was secluded in a grove of old trees, so there was always a dense layer of leaves and fallen branches on the ground. There was also a dingy creek that ran along the edge of the park. The shaded area, natural debris, and water source made it a haven for several species of fauna, especially venomous snakes (specifically copperheads and cottonmouths). So, we kids knew the the park as “Snake Park.”

Anyway, I was at Snake Park one day with a large group of kids. As is apt to happen with children, an argument erupted, and one group of kids began throwing rocks and sticks at the other group of kids. Being in “the other group of kids,” I was obligated to join the fray and picked up the closest stick I could find. It was a medium-sized branch that crumbled in mid-flight due to the fact that it had been rotting on the ground for obviously some length of time.

Undaunted, I immediately began looking for another missile to throw towards our foes. I spied a menacing piece of splintered lumber (also known as a 2X4). I grabbed it, cocked back my arm, and hurled the piece of solid wood into the opposing crowd of kids. The 2X4 did not crumble in mid-flight as the branch had done. Instead, it spun majestically through the air in a nice, tight, twirling pattern and landed harmlessly on the ground about 20 feet from the intended target. The reason it had flown off course was not due to my aim. The reason was due to the rusty nail (that I had failed to notice) ripping a nice hole in the fleshy part of my hand right between my thumb and index finger. In that brief fray, I was the only kid to either inflict injury or have an injury inflicted upon them. The only blood drawn that day was drawn from and by my own hand.

The painful and embarrassing lesson that I learned from that small piece of wood has had a broad influence over the way that I throw many things until this very day. As a grown man, I cannot throw a baseball very far or with any real amount of force or velocity. I CAN throw a football in a nice spiral, but like the baseball, the speed and distance are laughable. Frisbees inevitably fly off course, and if it’s a stick of any sort, you might as well just forget it. I wasn’t even allowed to throw a live hand grenade during Army Basic Combat Training. The drill sergeants made us throw practice grenades first, but because of the odd way that I threw those; I was pulled from the range in shame. For the rest of the day, I was forced to sit with the group of regular “Shit Bags” who were used to doing things wrong (it was a new experience for me).

Now, it’s important that I clarify something. The reason that I have trouble throwing things is not because of the injury. It healed with no physical scars. However, I developed a mental scar that always makes me wary whenever I throw most PHYSICAL objects of any substance. I’m just not good at throwing some things. There are things that I AM good at throwing, but we’ll get into that a little bit later.

Unfortunately, learning to throw like a girl (sorry ladies) and always making sure you know what you’re holding in your hands were the only lessons I learned from that fateful day at Snake Park. I wish I could say that it was the first or last time that I had thrown anything in anger. It was not.

The first time that I recall ever throwing any PHYSICAL object in anger was when I was a little bit younger. I was maybe seven or eight years old. My older brother, Jace, and I were playing with our G.I. Joes and we had an elaborate battle set up in his bedroom. For some reason, I became angry because I was not getting my way. I am not sure what it was that he had done, but my brother always had a more even and fair temperament than I did when we were growing up, so I’m sure he was in the right.

Out of frustration, I grabbed a shoe and looked for some way to punish him. I threw the shoe at one of his favorite toy vehicles, the G.I. Joe version of the Cobra Gunship Helicopter (known as the Dragonfly to us kids). I only intended to disrupt our game, and I succeeded. However, I also succeeded in shattering the toy helicopter into a dozen pieces. In a moment of selfish spite, I took something away from someone that I love very much. Due to my anger, my very best childhood friend, who had done nothing wrong, was robbed of something he loved.

My Dad, who we thought could fix anything, assured us he was going to repair the helicopter. In fact, he was going to make it “BIONIC”. It was going to be even better. With a lot of patience, some super glue, model paint, a miniature electrical motor, a few wire leads, and a nine-volt battery, he did just that. It had a rotor that would turn when the battery was connected, it had a cool painted on logo, and it even had a little flashing red light on the tail boom…just like a real helicopter. It was SUPER COOL. Unfortunately, it was also very fragile, and was no longer suitable as a toy.

My brother had to wait for quite some time before my parents were able to get him a new one. In the meantime, I continued to happily play with MY helicopter, and suffered very few consequences…or so I thought. The truth is, playing G.I. Joes with my brother was different after that. In retrospect, I can see that the “Dragonfly Incident” was the beginning of the end of our elaborate G.I. Joe battles. Jace’s interests began to shift to other things. I can’t say that I blame him much; I wouldn’t have wanted to play with me either.

You may recall that earlier I wrote, “I wish I could say that it was the first or LAST time that I had thrown anything in anger.” That shoe was the first PHYSICAL object that I ever remember throwing in anger. I wish that I could tell you that I learned a valuable life lesson from that shoe, but I did not.

The next PHYSICAL object that I recall throwing out of anger was an empty beer mug that, coincidentally, had a picture of a Cobra Gunship Helicopter on it. It was several years past the Snake Park incident, and I was well into my angry teenage years. My brother and several of our friends were in the front yard of our house in Tennessee after school one day. We were wrestling and horsing around the way that teenage boys do when one of my brother’s friends accidentally knocked my glasses off of my face. As a teenager, I had a hair-trigger temper that was legendary. I became enraged that my glasses had been knocked off of my face, and turned our friendly wrestling into a full-blown fight. My brother’s friend was a little older, taller, and stronger than me, but did not want to fight. He tried to calm me down, but I kept going after him.

Jace intervened to break up the fight. This only succeeded in distracting my attention away from his friend, and I was soon focusing my anger on him. He quickly got the better of me, and backed away and told me to calm down. Just like the “Dragonfly Incident”, Jace was in the right, and just like the “Dragonfly Incident,” I looked for a way to punish him for it. He had been drinking iced tea from the Cobra Helicopter Beer Mug (we always drank our tea in them), and had left it sitting on the steps of the porch.

I walked over to it…

I picked it up…

I turned around…

…and blinded by my rage, I launched it directly at his face.

I wish I could tell you that the beer mug “spun majestically through the air in a nice, tight, twirling pattern and landed harmlessly on the ground about 20 feet from the intended target” like the 2X4 at Snake Park had done. It did not.

My brother was quick enough to lower his head, which saved his face and perhaps his life. However, the beer mug shattered against the top of his skull. It was the second time in my life that throwing something had drawn blood from someone, and this time it wasn’t me.

I was so enraged, that I yelled, “SEE? LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!” I knew immediately that it was wrong to blame him for my actions, but I tried anyway. The rage quickly gave way to panic, remorse, and a genuine self-loathing that I still carry to this day.

I rushed into the house and called my mother at work. “Mom, I think I killed Jace,” I said into the phone. My mother skipped RAGE and immediately went into PANIC. She told me to call a family friend, who rushed him to the hospital. My mother left work and met them there. My brother suffered through quite a few stitches, a heck of a lot of pain, and the embarrassment of shaved spots on his head. Other than that, there were no long-term physical effects, except for a scar hidden under his hair. Also, I am not sure if he’s had a haircut since that day…I don’t think he has.

I was a teenager, just a few short years from adulthood, but nowhere close to possessing the wisdom and self-control that is required to call oneself a Man. My brother suffered no long-term effects, but I cannot say the same thing. That incident is not the only thing in my life that I regret. However, it is the only regret that I have not learned to accept. If my brother has not forgiven me, he’s never shown it outwardly, though I wouldn’t blame him if he hasn’t. I know that I haven’t forgiven me for it. I’m not sure that I ever will. Every time I think of that day, I cannot remember what the rage felt like, but the panic, remorse, and genuine self-loathing are as real and strong in my mind as if I was still standing in front of him watching him bleed.

Unlike the shoe, I did learn several lessons from the beer mug. The first lesson I learned is that you should never throw objects out of anger. I would like to say that I haven’t thrown anything in anger since, but it would be a flat out lie. However, since that day I have never thrown an object at another human being in anger, and I NEVER will. The second lesson I learned is probably the most valuable lesson that anyone can ever learn. That lesson is: “No matter how bad it hurts when someone you love hurts you, it never hurts as bad as it does when you hurt someone that you love.”

You may have noticed that earlier I had underlined the word “physical” when talking about throwing things. I have learned not to throw physical objects. However, I still struggle with throwing things in anger. Often times when I am angry, I find myself throwing tantrums, fits, pity parties, stones within my glass house, and the baby out with the bath water. Over the years, I have grown to realize that these things can be just as destructive as shoes or beer mugs. I hope some day that I will possess the wisdom and self-control that is required to avoid doing these things. ONLY THEN will I be able to call myself a Man.

Now, I have covered a lot of serious ground in this post, and I do not want to detract from the severity and sincerity of what I have written. However, at the beginning, I promised to tell you of some things that I AM good at throwing (other than tantrums, fits, etc.). So, here you go…

The list of things that the 2×4 at Snake Park did not prevent me from throwing well:

• Darts (I’m a pretty good dart thrower)
• My hat (I’ve got really good aim with it)
• My car keys (Maybe some day I’ll tell you the story about the squirrel)
• Napkins into trash cans (My friends at O’s might disagree, but I hit about 75% of the time)
• Caution into the Wind (Sometimes this is just liberating and necessary and can be really good for me)
• My back out (Throwing my back out isn’t GOOD, but I’m apparently GOOD at it)

What kind of things do you throw in anger?

When I was a teenager I attended a church youth group led by a man named Roy. Roy was a good mentor to me. He taught me a lot about relationships with other people. One vital lesson that he taught me was that if I was going to invest my time in anything, I should invest it in people. This post isn’t about that lesson. This post is about another lesson that he taught me. That lesson was when someone dies, it’s too late to apologize for any sins that you’ve committed against them.

He told me a story about two of his family members who were not speaking to each other for years. One of their other family members (a female as I recall it) had died and they were both there at the viewing, but still not speaking to one another. Roy pulled both of them over to the open coffin and said, “Look at her, one of these days, one of you is going to be looking over the other one’s coffin just like you’re looking over this one now. Then, it will be too late!” If I remember the story correctly, the family members came to their senses and reconciled their differences.

I have always remembered this lesson, especially when hearing about fueding family and friends. However, I haven’t thought of that story in a long time. This past weekI remembered it again because of a similar, but more interesting, story that my uncle told me. My uncle (he’s married to my father’s sister), aunt, cousin, my parents and I were all sitting at the dinner table, and he began telling me the story about how he’s waiting for winning lottery numbers from his dead cousin.

My uncle started by telling me about his mother’s funeral. He explained that he had a cousin that he hadn’t spoken to for many years because of some disagreement that the two had about a decade prior to his mother’s death. At the viewing, the day before the funeral, my uncle’s cousin approached him and apologized for the wrongs he had committed. My uncle graciously forgave him. “We grew up like brothers, after all,” my uncle explained to me.

For some reason, my aunt and uncle were sleeping in their truck in the church parking lot that night. Some of you may be familiar with the custom of “sitting up with the dead.” If not, it’s basically a Southern custom where we stay up all night with the casket before the burial. Apparently, this is also practiced in some Mexican families (or at least my uncle’s family practiced it). Anyway, due to some odd logisitcs (the details of which I wasn’t entirely clear) related to this “custom”, they had to sleep in the truck. That night my uncle had a very unusal dream. He saw his cousin standing in the church doorway wearing an all black suit.

As my uncle’s cousin approached the truck, my uncle asked him, “Why are you wearing those clothes?”

“There’s still one left to die,” his cousin responded.

The next week his cousin was dead.

Luckily, the two had made their peace before it was two late. If my uncle had refused to forgive his cousin, he would never have had another chance. Likewise, if his cousin had not have had the humility to ask for forgiveness, he would have died with the feud still intact.

The story doesn’t end there. Shortly after his death, my uncle’s cousin appeared in another dream. In that dream he explained to my uncle that he was going to make him a very wealthy man. He was going to give him six numbers to use in the lottery. The only stipulations were that my uncle had to promise to take care of his cousin’s family, and that my aunt had to forgive those same family members. In good faith, the apparition gave my uncle the first three numbers. Until this day, my uncle is still waiting for the other three.

Now, the reason that my aunt is angry with my uncle’s family is unimportant (and quite frankly no one else’s business). The point is, she has yet to extend the olive branch of peace and forgiveness, and had a very compelling argument for not doing so. “The way I see it, there’s nothing to forgive. I just don’t want to have any dealings with them,” she told me, as my uncle and cousin made light-hearted jabs about not winning the lottery because of her “fortitude.”

This story was amusing, but made me think very hard. Would forgiveness based solely on the promise of wealth be worth anything at all? Would I want the people in my life whom I’ve wronged to forgive me only if they were promised some sort of tangible reward beyond the mending of a broken relationship? Would I truly be able to forgive someone under these circumstances?

Most of my friends know that I can be a real asshole. I have the tendency to be rude, stubborn, self-righteous, selfish, and spiteful. However, over the past couple of years (and since September, in particular), I’ve been trying to be a better person. My conscious is plagued anytime I feel like I’ve wronged someone, especially someone that I love. Even if I THINK I’ve hurt someone (regardless of whether or not it’s ture), I feel terrible. So, I’ve found myself apologizing for a lot of things that I’ve done recently. This is true even when the person that I feel I’ve wronged doesn’t expect an apology. The point is, I’ve begun to realize that nothing in my life is as important to me as the relationships that I’ve built. If someone wrongs me, I’ve decided that I want to forgive as quickly as possible. If you are one of my friends, please know that I love you all, and that I will never hold anger in my heart against you. Likewise, if I’ve wronged you, hurt you, or insulted you in some way, please let me know and give me a chance to sincerely apologize.

There isn’t enough pride in me anymore to let the sun set on my anger. What about you? Are you willing to forgive and be forgiven? Or, will you let the sun set on your wrath?

“BE ANGRY, AND yet DO NOT SIN; do not let the sun go down on your anger…” ~ Ephesians 4:26 (NAS)