Cydba

These Things are Certain

2013-04-22T15:39:00.001-07:00

I waited for the last minute to do my taxes and as I headed into to the tax office I was reminded of the saying, "The only things certain in life are death and taxes." But what happen when those things collide together?

As luck would have it, my tax agent was a acquaintance. We discussed small talk and she relayed to me how she has been doing taxes for over twenty years. She loved her job and didn't mind the extra hours that came with tax season. In some ways if felt more like home at times then her real home. Around her office she had plenty of personal items that gave it a lived in and comfortable feel. Pictures surrounding the desk, plants aplenty with favorite coffee mugs and comfortable chairs.

The only setback, she relayed, was that over the years some of her clients had been slowly passing away. Sure, there were always new clients to take their place, but it always left a gap with the passing of a client you have had for decades. Many times members of the family would come in bearing the news. Wives or children of the deceased would appear, express their gratitude for her services and inform her of how the deceased enjoyed coming in. They would all sit, hug, cry for a bit and soon off they would go perhaps never to be seen again.

As I listened to her sharing, I felt strangely surprised. I was pretty sure no one was going to come and do the same for me when I passed into the great beyond. Who knew the tax office could be such a place for human compassion and connection. I had worked in a coffee shop for years and part of our job there was to connect with others. Over the years, thankfully, we only had to deal with the passing of one our customers. It was a pretty bummed out day for all of us and word got around quickly and we reached out to console the customers family.

They mentioned how much our customer Bernie loved coming in for his drink and how it was the highlight of the day for him. The connection we built with him over the years left a lasting impression on the family and they said they were gracious for our concern and support. We kept a note about Bernie on our board for a month and everyday it was impossible not to walk by and see it and remember that he would never be coming in for his drink again.

It reminded me of a couple of local bars I had been to in the last year. One of the bars had a plaque installed on the counter right above the first stool when you walk into to order a drink. On the plaque it mentioned the customer who was an elderly gentlemen who had been a regular customer for over thirty years. Apparently the regular lived directly next door and would stop by everyday for a beer and connect and make an impression on all of those he talked to.

All connections and all in unlikely places. But I suppose that is being slightly unfair. As we live our lives and go throughout our day we run into people. People we know, people we don't, people we want to know and people we try to avoid. But no matter how you slice it, whatever you do in a day, the majority of us are going to run into other people at some point. There is going to be a connection, it could be in the bank, the grocery store, the tax office, the DMV, the disco and even the people we virtually we run into during our daily lives online.

What we do with those interactions are up to us. I am sure there are plenty of tax offices that are impersonal and efficient and probably would never hear if one of their clients passed. And yet when I think of my friend story, it makes me want to connect more. I think sometimes we hide behind titles, jobs, buildings and our wall of busyness.

So I guess there are three things certain in life: Taxes, death, and our interactions with others. Only one of those can be altered by our conscious decision and attitude. Choose wisely.

Revenge of the Righteous?

2013-04-15T13:00:00.003-07:00

"...before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves."

Lately I have been obsessed with the show Revenge. The premise is simple enough, one daughter, all grown up, must face her past by getting revenge on the uber rich people who destroyed and killed her innocent father. The show is over the top with lots of dramatic pauses and stern looks and people with too much money that they don't even know what to do with it. It's a guilty pleasure but I think it hits home for a lot of people, the idea of having the ability of getting the perfect revenge on those who have wronged us in our lives.

At the end of last year I truly have to say revenge was something that was close to my heart and something I spent a fair amount of time thinking about. Last year was a rough year for me personally and within a matter on months I lost two of the people closest to me throughout my life: my only brother and my grandmother (who was more of a best friend for me during the past two years and taught me so much).

They say death can bring out the best or the worst in people as they cope and deal with loss. Unfortunately for me I saw more of the latter. Even on a good day, my extended family (myself included) has always had a penchant for chaos, disorder, disagreement and overall carelessness for one another. Mix that with strong emotions and loss of loved ones, and you have yourself a mine full of powder kegs waiting to explode!

Needless to say it got ugly at times and within me built a seed of discord. I watered that seed and I watched how everyone handled themselves during our times of duress. My grandmother was a keeper of truth with no time for fools and I tried to carry that torch for her. When I heard a lie, I was quick to point it out. When I saw someone acting shady, I was sure to let everyone know. When people asked, I was quick to air my opinions. I tried my best to use truth (my truth at least) as a sword and if you came close enough I wouldn't hesitate once to cut deep and expose any and all weaknesses I could find.

Did I feel good about it? Yes. Did it make me popular and well liked? I am going to say no. Did I cause irreversible damage that can't be undone? Probably. Would I do it again. Absolutely. Revenge is a tricky subject and for those outside looking in, it can seem like a fun-house of mirrors only understood by those deeply immersed in it.

Just the other day, a friend was telling me about a caretaker job she took caring for the elderly. One of her patients was an 80 year old gentlemen in need of some changing. As she was changing out his bottoms she noticed something peculiar. The gentleman was smooth as a Ken doll downstairs. She was taken aback but insistent on remaining professional and did not want the gentleman to feel uncomfortable. As she was putting his pants back on he smiled and began in a raspy voice...

"It's gone," he said not showing a hint of embarrassment," It's all gone. I had a wife once, a very jealous women. She was convinced I was having an affair. Time and time again I swore my faithfulness to her but she never believed it. She would have these jealous fits and I tried to console her and convince her of my love but she never would have any of it. One night, during one of her jealous rages, she drugged me and put me in a deep sleep. During the night she took me across the border and paid two doctors, $5000 each, to take away my manhood and teach me a lesson about my supposed infidelity. When I woke up in the morning, it was gone. It was all gone. In the light of the morning she realized what she had done and how wrong she was. She determined that I was in fact not having an affair, but it was too late, the damage was done. I was beyond furious and as you can imagine and I could not let it be so. So I hired men of my own and they tracked down each of those doctors. They were tied to a tree and eaten alive by ants!"

At this point my friend smiled uneasily and backed slowly out of the room. Was it a true story? What happened to the wife? Did anybody ever get caught? Was he making it up? How did he get ants to eat people? Who really knows..although to be honest, I feel like this sort of things happens a lot more often than we know. Tales of passion, betrayal, and ultimately revenge.

Now that I look back at last year and my vengeful crusade with my sword of truth, I sort of feel better about myself. Did I really cause all that much damage with my sword of truth? Did I wreak upon others the vengeance of archangel Micahael? When I think about it, maybe it wasn't so much a sword really as just a little dagger. In the future, I will probably still have the tendency to expose the truth (my truth) when I feel like it needs to be heard. I probably won't develop a tolerance for listening to people trying to convince me of their alleged altruistic but actually shady ways. In the end I know I am going to end up pissing people off and making them uncomfortable when I probably should keep my mouth shut in good taste. But I can honestly sleep on the fact that I have never tied anyone to a tree. And that's worth noting

Obituary

2012-12-12T10:09:00.001-08:00

Socorro Q Renteria July 31, 1926 -Dec 5, 2012

You brought so much joy to so many by your smile and your spirit. You loved to sing, talk to animals, dance and make other people laugh. You always tried to give and never placed a value on material things. Nobody was immune to your charm. You were strong, stubborn, and yet always loving. You never let the heartaches, tragedies, and struggles of the world diminish your light. It was impossible to tell you what to do and even more impossible not to love you. Your life lives on in the hearts of those that love you. SERVICES Tues Dec 11th Funeraria del Angel (7 E University) Viewing (10am) Services (11am) Burial @ Holy Hope Cemetery (1230)

Eulogy for my Nana

2012-12-11T01:55:00.001-08:00

Two months ago nana and I were riding home in the car and my heart was heavy with worry and sadness. The doctor had just told us that everything would not be alright for my nana and the end may be looming near. We drove home in silence and I struggled to come to grips about what a world without my nana would look like. Engrossed in sadness I looked over to nana in the passenger side. I immediately noticed her frantic hand motions as she raised her fingers to her mouth. Nana was urgently trying to lower the widow on the passenger side so that she could whistle at a nearby shirtless jogger!

"Nana!" I said shaking my head and laughing, " I think only one of us is taking this seriously!"

The truth was, my nana always tried to see the best out of every situation in life. The first time my nana fought cancer she said she was afraid, but by the second and third time my nana confessed that she trusted the Lords timing and was at peace with the plan he had for her life. No man can keep you from God and no man can send you to God before your time was ready.

My nana always had a lot of faith in God and reached out to churches wherever she was at. She always kept illustrated bibles at her house that she would read to us from. She encouraged us to allow God to be a part of our lives. My nana also kept scandalouso VC Andrews books in the house that including Flowers in the Attic but I guess that's besides the point.

And while my nana always nurtured a walk with God in all if us, my nana never confused religion with relationships with God. As the story goes my nana found God whoever she was at. If she was nearest a baptist church then under the water a 'babtising she would go, if she was attending a Catholic Church then she would repeat the rosary three times. If the charismatic church came a calling then nana would speak in tongues and roll around on the floor praising God and waving her hands. The church wasn't just a building but it was about the people.

The important part for my nana was reaching out to others and getting involved. She was a passionate person and sitting on the sidelines of life was never an option. I will never forget as we sat down nana once told me a story of a man who's wife left him alone with eight children to care for in Mexico. Nana was collecting items to take to the children to help relieve the man of his heavy burden. She looked at me and said very seriously and slowly, " In this life money comes...money goes...money comes...money goes...". I understood what she was trying to tell me. Money was such a temporary thing and if I wanted happiness in this life I shouldn't place it on the temporary joys of material things. True life was about investing in people not collecting paper sheets. Two weeks later I understood nana's words about money going away when i got in a car accident and my money sure went alright.

That story was key for me. As I looked around nana's house I realized she kept boxes and boxes of what appeared to be useless objects. It was a life long habit my nana had of collecting things. It always made me laugh looking at her mountain of boxes. As kids we used the clothes as dress up and played with all the objects inside as toys. It wasn't until that moment and that story that it finally clicked for me. They weren't always the same boxes. All the items in the boxes were constantly changing. Like clockwork my nana made trips to Mexico every 3-6 months where she would take her latest collection of clothes, toys, and household objects to give to those in need. My nana would hitchhike, take a bus, ask a neighbor for a lift...whatever nana had to do to ensure those boxes got delivered. Then she would return and start collecting all over again. It was a lifelong commitment for my nana -- to provide to those who did not have much.

In the later years of my Nana's life she began to get sick from traveling the long distance between here and Mexico. Every time she came back from Mexico she would spend a week in bed laid up. Fever, coughing, exhaustion. But still she persisted. Finally one day this year she realized her body was giving out and the trips were taking too much out of her. She looked at me and said "No more, I will begin to get rid of the boxes." True to her word she stopped going down to Mexico and her unofficial shipping business came to an end. Although let's be honest she kept collecting random stuff in boxes until the very end. She could never get out of the habit even though all of my Tios and Tia's have tried! It was like an episode of hoarders!

My nana was never an angel in this life. Which is one of the things I loved about her. She was passionate, headstrong, stubborn and could be brutally honest. When a neighborhood kid asked her what nana thought about her new Dora backpack my nana replied, "The backpack is beautiful but what are you going to do about your hair. It looks like you are running around like wild jungle animal. You shouldn't be running around with hair like that. Tell your mom I said to fix it. But I like your backpack." Needless to say the young girl walked away confused clutching her Dora backpack.

Once when I was very young, my brother and I were playing outside and my nana made us promise that we would be back before sundown. But we were having a good time with our friends so of course we didn't show up back home until extremely late way past sundown. Nana was very upset and openly chastised us that the devil was going to punish us for being bad kids. As we lay in bed that night my brother and I began to see shadows on the wall from eerie trees that looked like the hand of Satan reaching out right to get us. Screaming and yelling we ran to nana's room. "Nana! The devil is outside he is trying to get us!" we shouted. Nana lifted her head and pointed to get out of the room. "We'll that's what you bad kids get. If the devil doesn't take you then maybe I will see you in the morning!" And with that she shooed us out of the door. As my brother and I lay huddled in the center of the bed crying we vowed to never disobey nana again.

There is so much more I wish I had time to share about my nana because I loved her deeply. She was silly and fun and always looked for ways to make people laugh. She didn't mind acting like a clown as long as everyone had a good chuckle. Coming home from a party I once asked nana if she had a nice time. "I had a very good time," she said " I was able to make lots of people laugh and that makes me happy...and I didn't even have to use any cuss words!!!" She said.

I want to leave you with one final story. A story about the sustenance of God who always provided for my nana. She never had a million dollars but she always had what she needed. This story takes place during a hike in mexico. Nana had taken my brother and I for a hike with each of us only carrying our water canteens. As the sun rose it began to get hotter but onward we went up to the top of the moutain. Soon we reached it's peak and we were exhausted and hungry. "Nana!" we shouted " We are hungry and we have nothing to eat!" Our dusted covered faces were frowning in frustration. Nana looked around carefully surveying the area. "Do you guys want oranges? " Nana asked in a sweet voice. "Nana!" we both shouted, not wanting to play games, " You didn't bring any oranges!" We pouted and crossed our arms not happy with our situation. Then like magic... Nana reached on one side of her bra and and pulls out an orange. Then she reaches in at the other side of her bra and pulls out a other orange. Un milagro! A miracle! Some say my nana never had much in the life but she always had a house filed with love.

Oh Brother, technology!

2012-06-07T18:01:00.003-07:00

"The internet made my husband cheat on me so I need to join a gym and make him close his Facebook account!" she said in a serious tone.

These are true words spoken to a friend of mine. It appeared that the evils of the internet had interfered with her marriage and sent her world crumbling down.The internet had struck again. It was all the fault of modern technology. Or was it? Personally I find it hard to believe that the internet alone can be blamed for every affair or evil. Is the internet a monster? Or does it reveal the monsters that already lurk?

I have had my fair share of internet incidents to swear it off for good but as luck would have it technology made miracles happen this week for me. From the depths of my keyboards through all of the servers and across different wireless routers and finally back to my screen I was able to accomplish something I haven't yet been to able to do.

I found my long lost brother who I haven't spoken to in twelve years.

While I had tried to use conventional routes to find him, none of them worked. It wasn't until I checked again on Facebook that I found him. All those years of asking around and Mark Zuckerberg had tracked him down for me. A recently opened account finally would bridge those twelve years together. Without delay I reached out with the long arm of technology.

"Hi brother!" I posted on his wall.

I paused waiting for a response knowing it had to travel 120 miles to get to him.

"Hey Brother." he stated, ending a decade long silence between us.

Just like that technology made a miracle happen. And I know I'm not the only one who technology reached this week with miracles of wonder. I read a story earlier this week about a man who had been kidnapped as a baby and was well into his 30's befpre he discovered his own likeness on a site for missing children. After several phone calls authorities were able to look into his background and discovered he was taken as 5-month old baby. His father, who had never stopped looking for him, was thunderstruck and amazed.

The power of technology bringing people together. Maybe we shouldn't be so afraid of it after all. Study after study and large blazing newspaper headlines continually try to convince us that the all of our gadgets only make us more isolated and distant from each other. Maybe the next technological horizon will bring us closer in contact than mankind has ever been before.

I was so excited and triumphant about finding my long lost brother that I began to tell a friend who walked into the room.

"I finally found my brother!" I said as I noticed my friend pull out something from his pocket.

"Oh really?" he said eyes down while I began to share the details.

"I haven't seen him in twelve years! It's just so crazy! I can't believe I was finally was able to track him down! Can you believe it! All because of the wonders of technology! What a crazy world right!" I said smiling eyes wide and looking for his equally excited response.

"Huh?" he said ,"That's nice"

I stayed silent and just stared for a sec.

"Oh what where you saying?" he asked noticing my silence ," I wasn't really listening I was trying to get my blasted phone to work."

#$%@^&% technology!

Cat Scratch Reader

2012-05-24T00:41:00.001-07:00

I once read an entire article on parking lots. Five pages to be exact. I would have never thought one could write five pages about a parking lot but the New York Times managed to pull it off. One of my goals this year is to find out what's going on in the world -- even if it's about parking lots.

Some stories even originate in parking lots. At least that's what I found out this week at the coffee shop. We have a group of security guards who come in at various times of the day, I have never figured out quite how many of them there are. My guess is at least a dozen but the number is probably higher than that.

We often make small talk and over the years I would think we would have exhausted every topic possible. That is until today we talked about cats.

"Can I have some cold water with ice for the cats?" ask the security guard with a smile.

"Cats?" I ask confused, "What cats?"

"The cats who live here of course! I thought everbody knew about the cats!" he said cheerily grasping the cup of water.

As it turns out a a litter of cats was found years ago near the parking lot of the mall. Some of the cats died and the mom pulled one away never to be seen again. She slinked away in the shadows, kitten in mouth.

In a strange turn of events the Humane Society had recently moved into the mall after the economy crashed and left an abnormal amount of empty store fronts in the mall. They took in the remaining kittens and found them a home.

It seemed as if the case of the cats had been resolved as quickly and quietly as it had begun.

But of course, the cat came back just not the very next day. It was several months later. The last time they saw this kitten it was being carried away...but now it had returned with no mother to be seen. It hung around a couple of days and they gave it some water. Despite the vastness of the shopping center it never strayed very far and started hunting for food around the lot. It wasn't long before they dubbed the cat 'Trouble' and the name stuck.

Trouble became useful in catching vermin and so he quickly gained the admiration of the officers. The security guards made a home for him, provided food and water, and each took turns watching out for the cat. He quickly became an honorary member of the security squad and the Humane Society agreed to neuter him for free.

Soon another cat showed up scrawny and in need of a home. He became companions with Trouble. No one could settle on a name for this new found cat so everyone just gave him a different nickname. It could be Roy one day or Charlie the next. Every one still knew who they were talking about and it wasn't long before Roy/Charlie/Tom got the old snip snip action himself.

Now there were two cats living in a mall when for all intents and purposes there should be none.

"Once they go," stated the security officer in a solemnly voice , "That will be the end of it. No more cats for us."

He seemed to mean it although I couldn't be so sure. The pair of felines seemed to be a big morale boost for the security team and I guess they were also a hit with some of the ladies at the nearby department stores. They would come in on lunch breaks to visit and have those cats brighten their day.

"Did you know about the cats?" I ask turning to the barista next to me.

"Of course," she said, "Everyone knows about the cats!"

And so they did. It felt kind of strange to realize that all this time there were cats living in corridors so close that I knew nothing about. Two little kittens found a big home. I was spending all of my time looking for unique stories about parking lots in foreign places that I forgot. Sometimes the only parking lot you need to look at is your own.

Cinco de Psycho

2011-05-18T01:10:00.000-07:00

Passion is the spice of life. Or you should be passionate about life and you should enjoy spices: at least that’s my take on it and a quite literally one at that. Lately I have found myself in love with my blender. Mostly because it’s a gateway to lots of great dishes that usually involve spices. In the past couple of months I find myself making a new type of salsa every week, different flavored hummus’, and soups made from pureed vegetables. As this year’s summer project, I have decided to make a different aqua fresca every week. Unfortunately, my blender couldn’t keep up with all the excitement of my creations and has slowly been giving up the ghost . It officially died Thursday April 29 2011, ruining my summer prospect of newfound creations.

I shake my fist at my fallen blender and formulate a game plan. I need a new blender. I go online (Thanks Be to the Internet) and start comparing prices and reviews. I find a KitchenAid blender with amazing reviews. It dices, it chops, it purees, it does the dishes, it holds and consoles you at night. I check the price and while not completely outrageous, it still seems more than I usually would be willing to pay for a blending machine. In this economy a man needs to make choices. Against my better judgment I convince myself that this is a smart purchase and hit the buy now button.

I wince at the screen while it processes and it prints up a neat invoice. My blender should arrive in a week: which clearly falls on Cinco de Mayo. Suddenly it’s a fiesta in my own mind. Who cares about the Ides of March when you have a blender coming in on Cinco de Mayo. I start to brainstorm immediately on what I can make when it comes in. I spend the next five days planning on what I am going to make with the new amazing device. On the third of the Mayo, I find some great deals and decide to purchase some ingredients (on sale!) for a soup I have been wanting to try. On the fourth of Mayo (aka Cinco de Mayo eve), I decide I should purchase some salsa ingredients to keep in the spirit of the holiday.

When I get home, I prep the kitchen for the soon-to-be arrived blender. I neatly organize the ingredients for quick use: first, fire roasted tomatoes, followed by red onion which goes with garlic, trailed by jalapeños and green onions, and spices aplenty set up neatly on the counter. In my mind I figure I have my ingredients set up so that I could make up a batch of salsa in less than seven minutes. (If of course the blender reviews are as accurate I am counting on them to be.)

Cinch de Mayo arrives and I as luck would have I am working before the sun comes up. All day long I have visions of jalapeños dancing in my head. I get home around one and am disappointed to find nothing at the door. I send Paul a text. Occasionally our packages get delivered to Paul’s work because it’s only half a block from our place. Paul texts back and assures that it hasn’t arrived and perhaps I should contact our office.

Good advice, I completely forgot that the office at our condo center frequently signs for packages and holds them for residents. I call and immediately get the ‘we are busy’ message machine. I hang up and dial again ,twice, until I reach a person.

“Excuse me,” I say trying to sound nonchalant, “ I am expecting a package today, by any chance did you receive anything for my place?”

I hear the manager moving to the background and unlocking the giant cabinet where they keep packages. She rummages through and asks for my name twice. No packages and there actually hasn’t been a delivery yet for the day. I thank her kindly and hang up the phone. I am exhausted . I decide to shut my eyes for a moment and wake with a start an hour later.

No knock at the door. No blender.

I accept that this Cinco might not be a fiesta after all. Angrily… poutingly, I arise and start to chop vegetables by hand. I don’t want any ingredients to spoil, and I figure if I can’t make salsa, then I will just make pico de gallo instead. Which just means here’s my chopped up vegetables because I sure as hell couldn’t have blended them without a blender. Paul gets home and we are quick out the door. It’s haircut time. On the way there, I realize that I left the pico de Gallo out on the counter. I drop Paul off and go home to refrigerate the Pico and return before my haircut.

On my way back home, I speculate the postman probably left me a notice in the mail box if he arrived while we were out. I pull in next to the mailbox and check. No post card. I get home, put the Pico in the fridge and cross the busy intersection. While I making a turn I realize the UPS guy is at an apartment complex across the street. Without realizing it, I find myself pulling into a parking spot directly behind the UPS truck. I hesitate and watch the UPS guy gather packages before walking into complex which is surround by high bushes. I figure it is better to let him work before I interrupt him so I watch while he disappears behind the iron gates.

When he comes out, he finds me leaning against the bumper, arms crossed, anticipating his arrival but still trying to maintain a certain level of cool. He looks at me quizzical and ask if I need I anything.

“Do you have my blender?” I ask.

He looks confused and I follow up with a mumbling rant “ Oh, I ordered a blender, it should come in today, I am going to make salsa.”

I don’t know if he follows me a hundred percent, so I ask him if he has delivered across the street yet. He says that he hasn’t but ask for my name so he can check his delivery invoice. I walk with him to the side of his truck and he says he is going to check. I stand in the open door of his truck. One side of the truck is empty and the other is piled high with packages. I spend the next ten minutes watching him slide the boxes from the full side to the empty side until finally the contents of the truck are completely reversed.

“Are you sure it arrives today?” he calls from the inside of the truck moving back towards the open door.

“I think so,” I shout trying to recall the email I received, “It said it would arrive 5-9 business days and today’s the 5th business day.” I hear his feet stamping as he gets closer to the driver side.

“It’s not coming today kid.” he says giving me a look and puts his keys back in the ignition.

“Oh, well if comes tomorrow, I’m working most of the day, so if it arrives I probably won’t be home, but then you could probably drop it off at….” I trail off because I can tell he is not really listening anymore. I step away from the truck while he fires up the engine. As he pulls away I start to realize that perhaps there is a fine (or fairly thick ) line between being passionate and being psychotic.

And once again I have found the way cross it.

UPDATE: The blender did arrive on Seis de Mayo!

Thirty-One

2010-07-13T00:55:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think I am luckier than I can have imagined being. Today is reminder of all things I have gone through this last year. It felt like one long hospital visit after another for the most mundane of injuries. I thought it was the cloak of old age pulling over me, but instead I found it was a fresh garment of compassion for others.

I think I only half listened to others before, when they described their ailments, worries or concerns. I nodded and listened and examined their stance. Since they were standing upright I assumed they were fine. I knew what I needed to know about their condition. Upright meant alright.

This past year though, my ears opened a little wider. I learned to ask more questions. I learned to ask about numbers and tests and braces and casts. I learned about people learning to walk again. I learned about mothers guiding their blind children straight into trees.

I heard about hearts that stopped beating to start up again. I heard about hair falling out and being replaced with kindness in it’s stead. I learned about struggles that people carry with them wherever they go. I learned that pain and fear is inherent in every path of life.

I also saw kindness that was previously unseen. I saw flowers plucked from gardens given as gifts. Cards with jokes inside them with an intent to lift. I saw young people and rough people, with their arms around the old. I didn’t realize that there are already so many people in tune, knowing full well the end comes for all of us soon.

The hardest of things to see was those gifts that were left behind. The material things we give to others thinking they will have it for all time. The gifts stand but the person is long gone and we have to really think about what exactly we were giving.

The gifts stand alone as reminders of times spent and laughter shared. The gifts stand empty when a person is gone and you wish you had fillled a house full of gifts for them when they were alive to let them know where they stood.

If I could translate those gifts into more time spent with those loved ones I would, like so many of us would.

Instead I will translate them into lessons. Here is where the new year begins. It doesn’t need to bring health as long as it brings in kindness. And lessons lived from loved ones lost.

The Nightmare

2010-05-26T21:03:00.000-07:00

As hard as it is to keep real life at bay, it still manages to creep up during those midnight hours.

Lately I have been obsessed with finding a new pair of shoes. It usually isn't such a production, I just pick something that I like and get it. Although after a month of searching, I still haven't found that one pair. Internally, I know what the real problem is. I am still in love with my old shoes. I know they need to be replaced...but where am I going to find new sleek black hi tops with velcro?

It comes as no surprise to me then that I find myself in the middle of a mall searching for new shoes. The great thing about a dream store is that the selection is a lot larger than most real places. I browse through the shoes trying to find the pair that I can't find in my waking hours. I find myself resting at a white table with four pairs of shoes.

I can see in my peripheral an attendant awaiting my decision. I pick up a pair of slim hi tops. They are brightly colored with handwritten designs that mimic graffiti. They are a bold golden color with black designs. I see the attendant watching me while I inspect the shoes. I check the price. (Pretty responsible for me, even in a dream!)

They are reasonably priced but I have a nagging feeling that something is wrong. The attendant frowns and casually walks over to me.

"Those shoes are bit young for you." she says with conviction. I shrug my shoulders and put the shoes down knowing she is absolutely correct.

I awake with a start. Why can't I just dream about zombies and aliens like normal people. At least those you can shoot with guns or drop with a high kick!

Christmas Carol Crusade

2009-11-19T00:48:00.000-08:00

There is something about working in the retail, restaurant, or service industry that really sucks that Christmas spirit right out of you. While everyone is out shopping and sipping on lattes, you are stuck hustling making the Christmas joy happen for others. Usually by the time I have slowed down enough to remember it’s holiday time, it is already January 15th. No Christmas lights, no pine tree, no stockings hanging with care.

This year I decided to be proactive. I wanted to take the Christmas spirit, crush it in one hand and sprinkle its remains all over my face. No sitting on the sidelines this holiday. So I unpacked every Christmas CD I could find and downloaded them to my computer and made some mega Christmas plays lists. Being in the generous Christmas spirit, I wanted to share some of the highlights. Feel free to add and share some of your favorites that I might have missed. Don’t forget to check out the Noteworthy Christmas Song List at the end. Some unique and special songs are to be had. Enjoy!

Special thanks to Paul who finds a vast majority of the music that I just add to my Ipod in seconds (although it takes him hours to find).

NEW TO CHRISTMAS

Matt Belsante (White Christmas) - a 2007 release but it’s new to me. A must have. Christmas never sounded so suave, hip or sexy. With jazz backgrounds and a smooth voice, I just can’t help but picture baby Jesus in the manger with sunglasses. Quit reading and download now.

Sting (If on a Winter’s Night) - Technically this isn’t a traditional ‘Christmas CD’, it is a ‘Winter CD’. It is suppose to evoke all of the winter emotions and moments of the season. Maybe I am just not British enough but this CD just confused me and I felt like elves or dwarves might appear at any moment. More like cold porridge than holiday spirit. Skip this one.

Sarah McLachlan (Wintersong) - The is something beautiful and haunting about this CD. It makes a great background CD and you can almost hear snow falling while Sarah is singing. There is a stream of melancholy in the CD and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who is suicidal, knows someone who is suicidal, or has a neighbor who knows someone who is suicidal. Definitely add to your collection. (Unless , see above)

David Archuleta (Christmas from the Heart) - Don’t judge! I have always enjoyed David’s voice and I was excited to hear it alongside Christmas favorites. The CD is great…but it plays it very safe. Not a lot of surprises here, which I was disappointed in, but there are few noteworthy songs including one in Spanish. Check out Pat-a-pan or Riu Riu Chiu.

Michael Buble (Let it Snow!) - My biggest complaint about this CD? It just isn’t long enough! There are six tracks on the CD (technically only five, because one is a live version). Every song is fantastic but it really leaves you wanting more. It is a great buy if you can find it under seven dollars but I wouldn’t recommend it after ten.

Mariah Carey or Christina Aguilara Christmas - If you like your Christmas with a side of Diva…both of these staples are great. I am particularly impressed with Christina having so many original Christmas songs that actually sound great. I have never heard so many rifts about the birth of Christ before.

Josh Groban (Noel) - I have not taken the time to listen to this CD although I have had so many people recommend it and insist it is Christmas incarnate. Personally Josh Groban and his lovely locks have always frightened me. When the riders of the Apocalypse come to reclaim the earth, I am convinced that Josh Groban will be leading the pack with a hairbrush in one hand and a spear in another.

NOTEWORTHY CHRISTMAS TUNES

THESE ARE THE NOTEWORTHY: FOR THEIR ORIGINALITY OR HEARFELT PULL. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND THESE SONGS…ALTHOUGH NOT ALL OF THEM ARE EASY TO FIND. GOOD LUCK AND ENJOY!

1. 2,000 miles by Coldplay (love this version)
2. Christmas Tree by Lady Gaga (what can’t she do right now?)
3. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen by Matt Belsante (I have never heard it like this!)
4. All I want for Christmas Is Us by Jason Mraz and Tristan Prettyman (Wow! Good luck finding it)
5. Santa Claus Go Straight to the Ghetto by James Brown (If you are feeling braver…try Snoop Dogs version)
6. Maybe Next Year by Meiko ( I can relate)
7. Last Christmas by Cascada (For those who love dance)
8. Black Christmas by Harlem Children’s Chorus (releases end of this month)
9. What Christmas Means to Me by Stevie Wonder (instant cheer!)
10. I won’t be home for Christmas by Blink 182 (anti-Christmas sentiment)
11. O come, O come Emmanuel by Enya (feels out of this world)
12. Angels We Have Heard on High by Reliant K (quickest version I have heard! Great!)

Feel Free to let me know if I missed anything or you want to add a song to the list!

Joseph

Cloudy with a chance of Melancholy

2009-11-11T23:14:00.000-08:00

“Take a slow sweet sip and console your sorrow. What‘s planted this morning will wither tomorrow.”

It is a strange slow November day. It was in the fifties last week, but today the temperature is back in the eighties. The sky is clustered with clouds but they fail to temper this warm winter day. The heat drains me into laziness, but the cloudy skies make me overly contemplative. It is hard to raise my spirits and can’t help feeling a nagging downcast air. I can’t get a story out of my mind that Paul shared with me last week.

A co-worker of his had recently missed work to attend a funeral. A funeral wasn’t too surprising for me because it seems a like a long year of funerals, one after another. I know that’s an illusion though, because funerals are happening all over the world everyday, not just this year. I am just more sensitive and awake to them. This particular funeral bothered me, even though I had no connection to the deceased. I was mourning over a stranger.

Six months ago this lady was in her fifties living a life along side her husband in the semblance of your everyday happy life. Six months ago life was normal and routine until her husband passed away unexpectedly. I can’t fill in the blanks of what occurred during then and now, but what I do know is this. Last week her body was buried. She died from stopping to eat, nothing had passed her lips but alcohol and cigarettes in the months since. She died from a broken heart.

It has really been hanging in my spirit lately and it seems surprising to me that such a thing is even possible. I confided in some friends who pointed out that it was a very simple equation. Husbands death + Alcohol - Food +Cigarettes = Death. I guess I can mentally wrap my head around the fact that physically the equation is possible. I just don’t want to believe that spiritually such a story is possible.

Of all of the people I have known who have experienced loss and great loss, I have always seen such a strength and determination. I witnessed people grow through grief and assumed that this was the natural process of grieving. Love and life always conquers all. I didn’t take into account that not every story involves a happy ending. Sometimes life ends before a proper ending can be written.

In a movie or book, it always seems so poetic and proper when a spouse dies shortly after their lover. In real life it’s jarring and disturbing. I am searching for a possible ending of joy that can come from this woman’s life and final six months. I can sense it's a futile search though, and insulting to try. Only on a cloudy warm winter’s day like this, is it possible to believe that one can die from a broken heart.

Backside to the Wall

2009-10-31T21:28:00.000-07:00

Or "One Night Only"

(note: this is a repost from earlier this year, but I was reminded of the wall earlier today and wanted to the give the wall it's due)

For the past month there has been construction non-stop next door to our coffee shop. During the holidays it had been a seasonal Brookstone store. Once the holidays were over however, construction crews moved in and began hammering away at the space next to us. Something new was moving in. The new store would need an entire new setup and layout than Brookstone had. I was curious as to what would be moving in. After asking a couple of people, I had the answer. It was going to be a Chico’s.

At first I was excited because I thought Chico’s sold super nachos and breakfast burritos. How convenient would that be! Breakfast blend coffee and breakfast burritos from Chico’s! A perfect pairing! Unfortunately, someone was quick to inform me that Chico’s did not sell Mexican food, but was in fact a clothing store. A clothing store for mature fashionable women. A one stop shop for things I didn’t need. Why couldn’t it have been nachos!

The good news was that it could bring in some new customers and new faces. So I was fairly patient with the construction and the loud noises. A bookcase nearly fell on my head several times, but no one got seriously injured. The crews always started early before daylight and worked through the better part of the day.

It was Friday morning when I walked into our coffee shop and I could hear the familiar noises coming from next door. I could hear hammers working and saws cutting as I made my way to the counter to start my day. Halfway to the register, I was caught by surprise by a noise that I have never heard coming from a wall before. I stopped. The noise came again. I laughed out loud. I couldn’t believe my ears. It sounded as if our wall had eaten a weeks supply of bean burritos and had finally decided to let it all out.

There were big sounds, little sounds, elongated sounds, and several large booming sounds. It was a gasternal symphony of sounds.

Our wall had become the largest standing whooppee cushion.

I found out that they were using a special drill that day to cut holes through metal. Apparently, the drill also cuts through cheese just as well.

It was Friday morning, our busiest day of the week, so I jumped quickly behind the espresso bar and began to work. Just like clockwork, our morning rush began. Customers were used to the construction by then and ordered drinks before waiting in front of the espresso bar to receive them. At first there were two customers waiting, then five, and soon there were was a crowd of about twelve. I worked feverishly trying to get the drinks done in a reasonable amount of time.

It was about that moment when the noise started up again. I looked up in time to see a customer glance at another customer with a downward stare and then take a step away. More noises followed. Uncomfortable shifting of shoulders and looking around. More booming noises from next door and suddenly the sleepy crowd became alert and awake. Everyone could hear it, but no one was talking about it. The wall tooted away contentedly oblivious to the fact of the ever growing awkward crowd.

I decided I needed to step in.

I extended my arms as far as they could go in a diagonal fashion, with my highest hand pointing out towards the offending wall.

“MAN, “ I said loudly, determined to be heard over the offensive harmony, “ SOMEONE SHOULD REALLY GIVE THAT WALL SOME BEAN-O!”.

I flashed the largest smile I could create and wriggled my fingertips at the end of my still extended arms. I looked around the crowd searching for the first smile or laugh that would put everyone at ease and get us started on a great Friday.

Nothing. I waited five seconds. Still nothing. Ten seconds. Not one smile or laugh escaped the crowd. Blank faces stared back at me.

I quickly dropped my arms to my side and got back to making drinks. It was the longest twelve drinks of my life. As the crowd filed out, drinks in hand, I realized that my life as a stand up comic had lasted an entirety of two minutes.

Reaching Out

2009-10-31T21:21:00.001-07:00

Paul and I were heading northbound on Craycroft. We probably travel this road nearly every day of the year because it is the same way to Paul’s parents house and to the gym. Our daily routine usually involves a trip to the gym and/or Paul’s parents house or a mixture of the two. The median is divided by concrete dividers that house various desert vegetation including flowers, bushes and cactus.

We are riding along when the car ahead of us catches my attention. It appears that the driver in front of us is part giant. He seems like a big fellow whose frame is barely contained in his car. It is further accented by the fact that his car seems unusually small. A big guy in a little car.

Most people usually just blend into their cars, but he sticks out and appears that any minute he is going to burst out of his car. I am trying to decide if he is actually as big as he seems or if the cars is just so small. It seems like a combination of the both. I am trying to decide his actual height, when his left arm pokes out of the car. His large arm reaches out and grabs a branch from a tree and rips it out and throws it to the ground.

Paul and I look at each other for a sec and then stare back at the car in front of us. His arms stays hanging on the left side of the car, nearly touching the ground. He continues to rip out vegetation and pull out branches as he drives along. He pulls out flowers from bushes, uproots small trees and scatters branches along the median. He is a giant of destruction leaving behind splinters of dead vegetation in his wake.

I am pretty shocked and amazed and how much he can reach and destroy from the reach of his car. Finally he comes along a part of the median which contain large cactus with prickly thorns. He hand remains out stretched and seems poised to give the cactus face a whack. I begin to flinch imagining the pain those thorns could do to a hand. He seems undeterred and is ten seconds away from contact.

I am glued to his hand awaiting the outcome. The giant or the cactus? One second from impact and he pulls his hand suddenly at the last possible second. I sigh a relief. He catches us watching him from his rearview mirror. He speeds off in a zigzag fashion never to be seen again.

That’s my adventure of the day.

Knife in my Gut

2009-10-27T23:50:00.000-07:00

or "Ocean Ommitance "

Two days after my thirtieth birthday and I find myself on a table getting cut open and put back together.

Originally, I had hoped that I might be in Brazil for my thirtieth birthday enjoying an internship, but with the economy in it’s current state, it was canceled. With no Brazil in sight, I decided to go ahead and schedule a surgery. I felt a surgery was still a notable life experience. Perhaps not as beautiful and breathtaking, but noteworthy nonetheless. I didn’t want a significant birthday to pass without a significant event. I was careful to schedule it after my actual birthday because I wanted to give myself at least a couple days of enjoying birthday gifts and friends before going under the knife.

I haven’t had a real surgery since I was seven and I was unsure about how the whole procedure worked. I was diagnosed over a year ago and I kept putting my surgery off. I felt that now that I was accomplishing thirty, it would be the first adult thing I could do. Adults were people who scheduled and had surgeries. This would be my crossing of the threshold called adulthood. Unfortunately I was still naïve about the severity of surgical procedures and gave no more thought to it than scheduling a haircut.

“I need to schedule an appointment for a surgery next week.” I told the receptionist on the other line. “Preferably sometime before Friday because I am leaving for California then. Maybe you have an appointment available Thursday? The earlier the better since I have a flight on Friday morning.”

There was a noticeable pause on the other end.

“I really don’t think it’s such a good idea,” she said sweetly,” Why don’t we reschedule when you get back? You are going to need some recovery time. There are plenty of openings three weeks from now.”

It was generous of her to suggest moving it, but I have never been known to deter from an idea once I have decided something. I think she sensed my solidity and although there were absolutely no appointments available on Tuesday, she made some magic happen. I told her that Tuesday would do and penciled it on my calendar. Tuesday gave me three days before my vacation. It seemed like an exorbitant amount of recovery time but I was sure I could find things to do.

Plenty of loved ones volunteered their presence on Tuesday , but I wasn’t having any of it. I scolded Paul and wouldn’t allow him to miss work because we were already leaving on Friday. He was generous enough to respect my request but he was insistent that his dad drive me. Paul’s dad tried to talk me out of getting the surgery before Friday‘s trip. He was making jokes but expressing his concern, during the drive over but I assured him I would be fine.

It wasn’t until after I signed the contract that I started to reconsider his advice. The contract stated that if something happened which resulted in my death that I was consenting a hundred percent. I was mulling the contract over, sitting with my lower cheeks to the wind.

“I could be wearing my last outfit on earth.” I thought rather grimly. A white polka dotted hospital gown.

I could hear an older couple through the thin sheet curtain behind me. They were being very sweet to each other and I could tell their tenderness was heightened due to their circumstances. If anything went wrong with her surgery, they wanted to make sure to say their proper goodbyes to each other. I started to sweat it a little, but before I could put my pants back on, I was lead away and put under.

* * * * *

A couple of hours later and I woke up scratching my nose. The nurse took that as a good sign and I received my walking papers with several stipulations. The first was to take it easy for a couple of days and second, I wasn’t allowed to enter the ocean. I could get my stitches wet, but the doctor didn’t think it was a good idea to enter the ocean and chance getting an infection. My uncle had just told me a story about a friend whose stitches got infected so bad that they had to operate on him three times . There would be no ocean for me in California.

It was as small price, but one I was sure I could pay. To Paul, that would be the greatest doctor order ever: to not enter the ocean. He loves going to the beach, but he hates the water. He thinks it’s unhygienic, dirty, and he believes seaweed is the mucus of the devil. He actually has never entered the ocean before and refuses to get close. He enjoys the sand and the laying about, just never the water.

It was our third day in California when we finally made some time to check out the beach. I didn’t even bother putting on swim trunks so that I wouldn’t be tempted. I just left on some basket ball shorts. It has been a couple of years since I have seen a Californian beach. We set up camp and pulled out some books and prepared to catch some sun rays. Placing the book aside though, I couldn’t help but walk to edge of the water and get my feet wet.

My recovery had been coming along fine, but for the first time I started to feel pain internally. It wasn’t my stitches so much as it was my soul. I have always associated the ocean with a form of communion with God. I stared at the ocean wistfully and decided to move in closer, at least up to my knees. I stared at the horizon and noticed everyone playing around me, splashing and riding waves. I barely even noticed the two white feet approaching next to me. It was Paul.

“The water is so cold!” he said as his feet touched the ocean for the first time. Just then a wave came in and touched the bottom of my basketball shorts. “Whoa,” said Paul, “be careful, you don’t want to get your stitches wet.”

“It’s just the waves.” I told Paul, “I don’t think it will go much higher.”

I showed Paul how I liked to play in the waves and how the sand sort of melts when the waves pull it back in. He smiled and stuck his toes in the sand and practiced catching waves with me, just to the bottom of his shorts also. This went on for awhile until a huge wave pushed to the shore and left a two foot piece of seaweed attached to Paul’s leg. His eyes widened and he shook it off faster than I thought possible.

“You still don’t like the ocean, do you?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.

“No.” he said giving a half smile.

“You didn’t want to touch the water, did you.” I asked smiling.

“Nope.” he answered quickly.

“You are completely done now and want to head back to our books and the sun.” I asked him, curious but confident at his response.

“Yes. Please.” he said emphatically, already moving out of the grip of the ocean.

I looked back at the vastness of water and then turned and started to follow Paul. I know the only reason he came out was to offer his solace and make my quiet misery bearable . The comforting investment about turning thirty is knowing that living doesn’t just consist of significant events but rather significant people.

BONUS PIC

Time Traveling Dinosaurs

2009-10-20T20:59:00.000-07:00

or "How an ipod saved my life"

The gentleman was extremely excited and he insisted I check out his computer screen. I was intially hesitant, but as is always the case, I was more curious than a normal person should be. The first picture was on his computer background. It was pink, fleshly, and mostly unidentifiable.

"Don't you see," he said pointing to the screen,"It's dinosaur flesh! Real live dinosaur flesh!"

I took a closer look, but still I couldn't make out any dinosaur that I have ever seen in a book. To be fair though, it was a cut-away cross section of dinosaur flesh. They don't usually show those in children's books.

"Don't you see," he exclaimed,"It's one of the world's biggest discoveries in recent years. They checked the DNA to all current DNA types available and there are no matches.It is an incredibly well preserved piece of dinosaur flesh. It really sort of changes everything, doesn't it?"

I thought about it for a moment.

"Well, I guess it depends on how well it cooks up with bacon and eggs." I said.

I wondered how much of the flesh they actually recovered. He continued with more details of the excavation and the implications it could have about the existence of God. I tried to follow his train of logic, but I wasn't sure if he was saying that it would prove or disprove the existence of God. Personally, I found it hard to believe that anybody would change belief teams based on discovered dinosaur meat. I think a majority of people have made up their minds on the matter long before looking at any physical evidence.

I tried to think of any implications that dinosaur flesh would have on my own personal life. Nothing immediately came to the surface. I tried to imagine it on a grander scheme. Would my life change if they had found a whole dinasaur walking around? Maybe perhaps some T-Rex that was discovered roaming around in a hidden jungle somewhere. (Assuming that there are some hidden jungles still existing on earth...although I sort of doubt it).

I just couldn't see how my own day-to-day life would change drastically from the discovery of dinosaurs. I started to take inventory of all the discoveries made during my lifetime and what they did to change the course of my life. Which discovery drastically changed my world? It was undisputable. The iPod changed my life forever.

I am dangerously aware that it may sound shallow, but I know a lot of people who feel the same way.

The first thing the iPod did for me was completely execute the radio. I would never have to listen to the same ten songs every hour again. It really allowed me to explore and enjoy more music. Uncountable amounts of songs are released on the internet everyday. Paul rounds them up on the computer and I put them on my iPod. It makes me feel connected to the pulse of the world.

Technically, I know that wonder really falls under the discovery of the internet, but without an mp3 player you couldn't fit it all into your pocket. Not to mention that with out it, audio books wouldn't fit there either, along with language courses, e-mail, and of course the ever present facebook. ( We won't even get into all of the apps, this isn't a paid advertisement).

Dinosaurs versus the Digital age? I think the dinasaurs are better off staying extinct. I am sure there are still plenty of discoveries waiting to change our lives. Here is my list of discoveries that I feel could be life changing:

1.Time Traveling - If this were discovered, it could definitely change
things up a bit.Although to be fair, it would probably not be in the reach of most people and if it was, I am sure it would be ridiculously expensive. So maybe it wouldn't really change anything after all.

2. Teleportation - Another great discovery that would be make the world smaller. If anyone could be anywhere within seconds, nothing would ever be the same. Of course, again I am sure it would be outrageously expensive and rule restrictive.

3. Life on other planets - Depending on what they knew and shared, I think that alien life would majorly shift our world views. Nearly every book would need to be rewritten in some way or another.

4. Fix-all cure/Eternal Life - Much of our life and view points revolve around our fraility and demise. Take those things out of the equation and what would we do with eternal life and flawless health? It would be interesting to see how great or evil we become.

These are my ideas for future life changing discoveries. Maybe they are kind of grand and far reaching, but I am curious to see what everyone else's ideas are. I know there are millions I haven't thought of, and probably a couple of actual pratical ones! Let me know!

Personal Identity Protection

2009-09-30T23:23:00.000-07:00

or "Debit Debts"

Week five of my walking cast and I am pretty much regulated to working at the register. Most of the other positions in the coffee shop require a lot of quick movement both with the legs and the hands. At the register you can get away with less movement as long as you keep your mouth moving chatting up the coffee consumer . Thankfully, I don’t get tired of moving my mouth, as many can attest to. I would like to think that others don’t mind my mouth moving so much either, which I will just assume they don’t. I spend most of the mornings creating conversations and taking orders.

One thing I have noticed working at the register, is that banks are issuing personalized picture bank cards. I have so many debit cards pass through the line this week with pictures plastered on face of the card. I don’t recall seeing any last month and now this week I have seen at least fifty. Picture after picture and I start to realize that I am getting bank card envy. The face of my debit card hasn’t changed once in the twelve years that I have had it. Always the same, year after year. No spice to our relationship. Money goes on the card, I spend the money.

Now I can spend the money with pizzazz. Well, in theory I can. First I have to decide on a picture for the card. I start stressing about what I want to put on the card. Pets seem to be a big draw. From puppies to birds to mean looking monsters, people love putting their pets on their cards. I don’t have any pets. I have plants, but no pets. I wonder if people will think I am strange if I have my plants lined up for a picture.

At first, I think that I would rather have some characters from my favorite tv show on my card. The idea seems stunningly generic though and I feel a tinge of guilt for being lame. Besides, rules for the personalized card states that the picture must be a personal picture and not copyrighted. Although, I know several people who have skillfully skirted that rule already. I guess the trick is, if you are going to pick copyrighted art or a picture, it has to be an obscure or unrecognizable image. Does it defeat the purpose of having a personalized card if no one recognizes the image on it?

Probably not, I guess a person should just pick a picture that they enjoy and brings them a sense of joy to see. You still have to balance out your choice though. The possibility that other people will catch a glimpse of your card is pretty high. Sure, lots of places have self-checkout and swipe now, but there are places you will have to hand over the card. You don’t want to open up a tab at a late night drinking establishment with a Care Bear card. Or maybe you do. These kind of choices say a lot about who you are.

It is the end of the work week and a stranger hands over his debit card with a personalized picture. I survey the card. It is sweet picture of a blonde around his age and I can assume safely it is his wife from the ring on his hand. It never crossed my mind to do something so tender to my own card. In fact, it is safe to say that tender things rarely cross my mind.

“Awww….” I say taking the card for the swipe, “that’s a endearing personalized card. It’s the first time I have seen a spouse on the card. I heard it’s free, right?.” I leave the question out there waiting for a response. I am fairly sure there isn’t a charge, but it doesn’t hurt to make sure. He shrugs his shoulders and looks towards the pastries in an uneasy manner.

I am never very easily deterred so I keep on in my line of questioning.

“Well,” I add, still working my angle and holding the card, “ I heard it was free. How was the process of getting the card? Was it a long process to get one?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, but he picks out a pastry instead. He is thinking it over and seems unsure of the answer to give. I start to think that maybe the process isn’t as easy as everyone else stated it was. Technology can be a pain sometimes, that I know.

“Not to mention, “ I continue, “It’s difficult to decide on a picture. I was thinking of maybe a landscape pic. I heard that cars are the number one pick for guys. Pictures of their own cars. I was surprised to hear that, although I guess it makes sense. At least you found a good picture though.”

He leans over the counter towards me and begins to speak in a lower voice. “Actually,” he says clutching his drink and pastry, “ I didn’t even realize you could do that to a card.I guess my wife knew. She went online and ordered it for me. It just came in one day and there it was. My new debit card.” He walked away, quickly tucking the card back into his wallet.

I guess the bank really does offer personal identity protection.

The Chocolate God

2009-09-17T22:33:00.000-07:00

It finally slows down at the coffee shop after a busy afternoon. I grab a damp towel to wipe down the espresso bar area while my fellow barista takes some dishes to the back. The counter area around the syrups can get fairly sticky, so I decide to start there. Earlier this week Barry inspected all of the syrups pumps and found some of the washers in the pumps needed to be replaced.The loose seal in the mocha pump allowed for a small leak. Thankfully, someone placed a small cup underneath the nozzle until the new washers would come in.

While I was wiping the area I glanced inside the cup and this is what I saw:

"Hey, check this out!" I called to the barista in back.. She peered inside the cup.

"It's a chocolate smiley face!" I said with a smile on my own face.

"It's kind of creepy." said said.

"Well, at least he's smiling at us." I said looking back inside the cup.

"Yeah, that's true. It sort of looks like he is winking at us." she added.

"Maybe he is trying to tell us something." I said cupping my hands into a megaphone over my mouth.

"WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL US CHOCOLATE SMILEY FACE!" I yell into the cup.

Five minutes later, several women walk in and order a couple of drinks.The oldest lady begins speaking to me, but her english isn't that great. She pulls two items out of her purse and is trying to talk to me but I can't understand. Her friend steps in and explains,"She says it is too hot inside the car and if you don't mind, she wanted to give these to you two before they melt."

She handed me two Symphony chocolate bars. I love Symphony chocolate bars.

"I will only take them if it helps you out!" I said already reaching over the counter for the chocolate. The ladies received their drinks and headed back into the mall.I handed my fellow barista one of the chocolate bars.

I cupped my hands back into a megaphone.

"THANK YOU FOR THE CHOCOLATE, CHOCOLATE SMILEY FACE!" I yell into the cup.

The Chocolate God has spoken.

Secret Saucy Techniques

2009-09-15T01:05:00.000-07:00

or "Late Night Learnings"

It is Friday night and it is far later than I would like it to be. I can’t believe I am shopping for ingredients at a 24-hour grocery store during the latter part of those 24 hours.. I had plans to be home much earlier in the evening but as it turns out, Paul’s very close friend Laila was having a going away party. We had a fantastic time with good company, conversation and as it turns out charity. Laila has always been very involved in the community and even at her going away party, she manages to raise five hundred dollars for a women’s leadership organization. Her going is still giving. That’s the kind of life Laila lives. I can’t tell if she does it to make me feel guilty or inspire me. Either way it was an evening full of laughs and inevitable tears.

After we say goodbye, I picture myself slipping into bed and enjoying a couple hours of rest. Instead I am at the all-night grocery store. I am only one of four people there and I wander the aisles looking for ingredients. Twenty people are expecting a spaghetti lunch tomorrow with garlic bread and salad. I am taking it to work in the morning so I only have a limited time left. For the first time, I am making homemade spaghetti sauce. Usually I wouldn’t attempt something new this late, but my sister-in-law gave me a great recipe that she swore was an authentic Italian recipe she received from a friend. The ingredients to the sauce appeared to be a lot cheaper to make for twenty people than to purchase bottled sauce. Plus, I love a good challenge.

We get home and I pull out various pots and pans and lay out the sauce ingredients, the garlic bread and the pasta. I pause for a moment and feel sort of hypocritical about cooking a ‘authentic’ Italian meal. Earlier in the evening there was a very heated discussion at the table about there not being enough Mexican cooks on TV. Every person on every food network was cooking Mexican food, except for the Mexican’s themselves. Not to mention, a majority of the ‘authentic’ recipe’s include canned beans and pre-made taco shells. I agreed whole heartedly in the discussion earlier, and yet here I am an hour later making what I consider to be authentic Italian food. I know nothing about authentic Italian cooking.

Although to be fair, I am making this food in the privacy of my own kitchen and not passing it off to thousands as the gospel truth. I think that whatever people want to cook and eat in the privacy of their own kitchens, is their business. There were no cameras rolling in my house and definitely not everything I do in my kitchen is audience approved. In fact, just the other day I was using a tortilla to eat Chinese food. Would I recommend that on a food show if I had one? Probably not, even though it tasted good (and disgusted Paul).

Personal philosophy aside though, I had to get this sauce done. I started to heat a large silver pot over the stove while I boiled some water and pre-heated the oven. I threw some garlic and olive oil in the pot and let them sauté. At the same time, I prepared the bread and opened the pasta boxes. I added more ingredients to the silver pot while I chopped away at some vegetables and herbs. I filled the silver pot with more ingredients and hit high on the stove. I know that I probably should slow cook the sauce to let it absorb flavor, but I really haven’t got the time. I throw the bread in oven and finish up the spaghetti and then check back on the sauce. It seems kind of sticky on the bottom but I give it a good stir. I package up the meal and let the sauce cool before I place it in the fridge. Mission accomplished. Time for bed.

I wake up the next morning and get everything ready to go. Before I get set to leave, I try the sauce to see if the flavors have settled nicely. It tastes great to me and I am feeling pretty accomplished. Paul asks for a sample and makes a curious face while trying it.

“How is it?” I ask, already assured it was a success.

“It has kind of a strange taste to it….”says Paul trailing off, “What did you put in it?”. I go over the ingredients with him and I can tell he is weighing through every ingredient carefully.

“Hmmm…maybe you put too much olive oil because it has a unique taste that I can’t really place.” he says while still trying to figure it out in his head.

“It’s fine,” I say “it tastes like spaghetti sauce. I have to go.” I gather up the meal and head to work where I know my food will get tested by many others throughout the day.

“Try my homemade spaghetti sauce!” I say while serving up a plate.

“Hmmm…Joseph ….this is good….” says one of my loyal testers, “What did you put in it? It has a very intense flavor. I can’t quite figure it out.” I go over the list of ingredients with her but she still seems confused. “No, there is something else in there. A smoky intense flavor. Did you use liquid smoke or anything?” she asks nodding her head still mulling it over. “No,” I say ,” I used wheat pasta, maybe that’s what you taste.” I tried to think if I had deviated from the recipe, but I was pretty sure I hadn‘t.

I checked in with the rest of the tasters. Barry seemed to enjoy it and I think he had two platefuls. That made me feel relieved and I asked him what he thought. “It is very unique,” he said, “I picked up on some different flavors the second time I had it. Did you use roasted or grilled vegetables when you made it?” he asked curiously. We usually shared cooking ideas between the both of us. “No,” I said, “I just used the vegetables as they were.” I really started to rack my brain. Several more people commented on the sauce and were asking or guessing about my secret techniques.

Finally a good friend pulled me aside and grilled me about my sauce process and ingredients. I gave a step-by-step play of the previous night. “Wait a minute.” she stopped me. “ It was sticky at the bottom but you stirred it?” she asked. “Yeah,” I continued, “I just gave it a good stir and it was fine and then I let it cool down. And then…”

“Joseph,” she said, “You burned the sauce.”

I thought about it. It was true. The intense smoky grilled flavor that everyone was trying pinpoint was the taste of nothing else but my inexperience and impatience. I felt slightly flushed with embarrassment, but I was also comforted. So many of my friends were willing to consider I had a new cooking technique rather than dismiss my burnt spaghetti sauce. That or maybe they were just good fibbers. It still felt consolatory to be surrounded by those who look past the flaws and search for the fantastic.

Ahoy, Anger Ahead

2009-09-10T23:53:00.001-07:00

I woke up pretty upset yesterday and I was incredibly angry. I tried to let my feelings subside but after an hour I was still riled up. I was getting ready for the day when Paul woke up and entered the room.

“Good morning.” he said yawning.

“I am so annoyed and irked right now.” I snapped at Paul.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, half awake and definitely not expecting my morning response.

“Well,” I started, “ I was dreaming before I woke up that I was moving and that I was waiting for a moving truck but they never came. Finally I was upset by their absence, so I went to find them. When I got there I found my flat screen tv was smashed and glass was lying all around the sidewalk. When I looked at the house I could see my mattress against the wall. When I asked the movers about it, they said it was fine where it was for overnight. It definitely wasn’t going to rain and so I had nothing to worry about.”

Paul just smiled and shook his head. We aren’t moving anywhere and we don’t own a flat screen tv. In fact, I never even considered owning one. I was upset for the majority of the day.

Strange.

* * * * * * *

UPDATE

Today I went home and headed for a nap because I had gotten up super early to prepare for work. As I was going up the stairs I noticed a moving van blocking the way. There were several guys from the moving company standing around talking. I walked upstairs and noticed the door across from us was wide open with bare furniture but didn’t think anything about it.

When I woke up, we headed for the gym and I noticed the moving guys were gone.

“How annoying were they?” said Paul, “It looks like they broke stuff and didn’t even bother to pick it up.”

I looked around and noticed broken glass along the side walk. On the first landing there was sole rolling wheel that looked like it had belonged to a bed frame.

Strange

Somebody mentioned to me that is was like Final Destination….but with furniture.

Spot

2009-09-07T13:04:00.000-07:00

Changing the trash at my work isn’t the worst job ever. Thankfully a vast majority of it just smells like coffee. It makes what some people consider a unpleasant job, a not so unpleasant job. As an added bonus, the receptacles for the trash is located right outside of our store. It’s in a large loading dock area that is used for mall deliveries but is also the unofficial break room for the entire mall. Anytime throughout the day you will find up to six people hanging out before clocking in. Some are smoking, some are taking in the sun but most are usually playing with their phones. When you work indoors all day, it is nice to get some non air-conditioned air.

There has to be hundreds of people who work at the mall, but surprisingly a vast majority of us know each other. If not by name, at least by facial recognition. Everyone is pretty polite if not very friendly and it is highly convenient to be kept informed of sales going on before they happen. One of the perks of being at a mall store -- lots of special discount days. I was taking out a bag enjoying some sun when I ran into Barry.

“Hey ,” says Barry excitedly, “ Guess what! I saw a baby bat flying around here yesterday!”

“Really?” I reply back, “ I don’t think I have ever seen a live bat before.” I racked my brain trying to think if that was true. I can’t recall ever seeing one, although I might have seen a stuffed one at a museum when I was young. I am not sure how prevalent bats are in Arizona, although I know that we do have them.

“Yeah, it was so tiny and furry. It was flying in circles and it kept trying to go over the wall but ended up only bumping into it.” says Barry. I looked around the loading dock area. The walls are incredibly high, probably at least the height of three diesels piled on top of each other. It dawns on me that I forgot that bats can’t see very well. I don’t have a ton of bat knowledge. Batman knowledge, yes. Real bats, no.

I start to picture the little bat flying around trying to escape but it just wasn’t going high enough. It seems so strange that a bat just couldn’t see the open air and fly away into it.

“Awww….poor guy!” I say feeling bad for the poor flying chap.

“Yeah, he had this black dot around his eye, so I named him Spot.” said Barry proudly and described him more in detail.

“Well,” I say, “ I wish I could have seen him.”

“Oh,” says Barry walking around the loading area, “He is still here.”

I follow Barry to an area near the generator. Lying in a pool of water two inches deep is Spot face down with his little arms out stretched out. I can only see his furry back and baby fingers with stretched out wings. I can’t see his trademark eye but I can tell he was adorable. He was tiny and cute and dead.

I guess I still haven’t seen a live bat yet.

Broken Expectations

2009-08-31T22:30:00.000-07:00

or "A Leg up, A month down"

I am sitting at the doctors with one foot uncovered and my sock and shoe lying next to me. I am staring at my toes and realizing that maybe I should have cut my toenails before I decided to come in. A week and a half has passed since my foot started aching. It swelled up midweek and became barely walkable for a couple of days. I am not a huge fan of doctors, but I realize that maybe something is going on with my foot that I should check out. They examine it, poke at it, and take x-rays.

The doctor walks in with the x-ray results.

“Oh,” he says casually, “There’s the problem. Your foot is broken.”

He hands me the x-rays and begins to show me the various visible bones on the screen. I have never broken anything before and I certainly have never examined an x-ray before. As he points at various key areas on the slides, I nod with the conviction of an experienced radiologist. I want my nodding head to demonstrate that I clearly know exactly what the doctor is talking about and could have easily have read the x-rays without him present.

I lie on my stomach as they fit me with a temporary cast. It feels kind of warm as the cast begins to mold around my leg and harden. The set me up with a pair of crutches and give me instructions. It is important that I make an appointment with an orthopedist as soon as possible to receive a permanent cast. I feel a little bummed out, but also slightly curious about the whole procedure. My first broken bone, my first cast, and my first crutches.

We head to Paul’s parents house and I hobble up the long gravel driveway.

“I BROKE MY FOOT!” I yell proudly to Paul’s dad as I walk through the door. I give a demonstration of the crutch walking techniques that I learned at the hospital.

“That isn’t the correct way to walk in crutches.” says Paul gauging my every footstep. I racked my brain, but I couldn’t ever recall Paul breaking either of his feet or ever needing crutches. I wasn’t aware that he was an expert in art of crutch walking.

He takes the crutches and makes a graceful walk across the living room tile. He walks back towards us and then he repeats the walk again. He is feeling quite proud of himself. He is like the runway model for crutches. Hospitals everywhere should hire his assistance in the demonstration of the fine gait of the crutch-way walk. I want to knock the crutches from underneath him, but I have too many calls to make.

I first start calling work. Broken foot means no work for some time. This part really frustrates me because I haven’t been able to work much this past month. I was really looking forward to getting back to making some coffee and having fun. I make numerous calls and send various texts attempting to cover all of my shifts for a week. It is a pain to do last minute, but thankfully after two hours I have it covered.

Next, I try to set up an appointment to see an orthopedist. The first one I call isn’t available for five days. That’s too long to wait, so I make several more calls and finally find one who is available in three days. With the appointment set, I sit and try to envision what my next month will look like.

I had lots of plans to get back into the swing of things after a great summer of laziness. I was ready for a strict workout regime. I had a step-by-step work plan to prepare of us for some audits in October. My birthday resolutions of arduous efforts were going to come true. Unfortunately, most of them involved moving my feet.

I tried to now envision plans with me and my non-moving foot. The doctor said to keep my foot elevated, so I planned lots of activities sitting on my bum. I guess I could catch up on some television. I had some videos games I had yet to beat. Worst came to worst, I could even catch up on some reading. I was sitting there imaging this new month of restful activities when the phone rang. It was the doctor and he sounded slightly flustered. “I’m sorry. I was wrong, your foot really isn’t broken. It’s just sprained. You can cut your cast off now.”

I stare down at my cast. So much for my imagined month of relaxation.

Cake Walk Capsule

2009-08-27T01:37:00.000-07:00

or "Underpass Undertones"

It is finally time for the opening of the underpass and Paul and I are making our way there slowly. I say slowly because my foot is a little sore. I am sure I sprained it last week at the gym. We are going to meet Paul’s family there to see the tile of Paul and his mom. Unfortunately, when we get there, we notice that only one quarter of the tile project is completed. I feel bad because we invited Paul’s brothers and their families, his dad, and his uncle and aunt. Instead of looking at the heart touching picture, we are staring at a blank grey concrete wall.

It is probably better that way though, because when we look at the pictures that are up, we see that there are notable mistakes on the tiles. I think the tiles are supposed to be sepia, but unfortunately some of them are black and white. The artist left a note posted stating that any problem tiles will be replaced but have been temporarily marked with a large red dot. I notice a friend of mine on the wall…with a huge red dot on her face. I apologize to her tile and hope they are able to make a copy of her picture and not just replace it with a stranger whose tile came out correctly. I feel relieved that Paul’s picture isn’t up yet. Hopefully they will work out any bugs before they set up the rest of the walls.

So there we are, with our group, and no tile to look at. We decide to enjoy the rest of the festivities that are going on around us. The opening of the underpass was tied to the city’s birthday this year. Nearly every store, pub, and restaurant within two miles have some “birthday special” going on. Birthday samples, birthday music, birthday drinks, etc. Fourth avenue and downtown are incredibly packed with people swarming back and forth.

“Man,” I say “there is a lot of people out!”

“Well,” says Paul’s uncle” it’s the city’s birthday!”

I have mixed feeling about this. On one hand, I love seeing so many people congesting our downtown. It is nice to see faces about and I am surprised when people leave their homes to be a part of the city. Normally, the only time a big crowd storms downtown anymore is during the street fair or club crawl. Yet, there is a small part of me that is annoyed. The city has birthday events every year and every year it is ignored. No one barely bats an eye when the annual date occurs. When I worked for a newspaper downtown, we would always use ‘birthday week’ as a chance to sell more ads.

“Hey,” I would say “It’s Tucson’s birthday week! Don’t you want to buy an ad to wish the city a happy birthday! I am sure you would, we have special birthday rates and birthday ad space!” Most of the business’ weren’t aware of the birthday but would buy ad space anyways to make sure their business appeared supportive of the downtown community that they were apart of. I felt that most of the people celebrating on the street were barely aware of the cities birthday for the first time in their lives.

I was busy giving passerby’s dirty looks weighing my conflicting feelings, when I saw a sign above Hotel Congress that read, “CITYWIDE BIRTHDAY CAKE CONTEST: FREE SAMPLES TO THE PUBLIC”.

“Yeah,” I shouted loudly, “ It’s Tucson’s Birthday!” I pulled open the doors and beckoned everyone in.

To the left of the entrance, inside the hotels private ballroom, was a scene reminiscent of the Food Network. There were at least fifteen vendors set up at various tables, each with a display cake showcasing attributes of the city and also a spread of cake samples for the people to taste. Each cake artist stood proudly behind their creations and described what they were giving samples of. The ballroom was covered in balloons and decorations, slightly marring it’s usual upscale art deco feel. (Coincidently, we celebrated Paul’s birthday a few years back in this room. I am sure Paul would think it appropriate that the city is celebrating it’s birthday in the same space.)

I tried as much cake as possible, even though I am not a big fan of cake. I even took the samples that Paul didn’t like. It was hard to turn it down when the chefs were explaining the cakes with such passion and detail. Most were chocolate, although some were mixed with berries, others with lemons and the best one , (I think) with hazelnuts. Outside, in the hotel’s new courtyard, bands were playing to good natured crowds.

After the cake fest , we continued our walk downtown with Paul’s family in tow. As we passed each shop and building, everyone had stories to tell about certain shops. Shops that still stood or shops that had long been destroyed and built over. Paul’s dad mentioned a photo of Bettina and him taken nearby. I remember the breathtaking black and white photo clearly from their house. It was a picture of young lovers oblivious to the future. He talked with Paul’s uncle and aunt about all of the buildings they used to know, including the time the Mickey Mouse club was held downtown on the weekends.

As we passed an old wig shop, Paul’s aunt mentioned how they used to go and pick out wigs for the weekends sometimes when the ladies would go out. She still remembered several of the styles and described them to us exactly, including the original color names. She also mentioned how they would pick out wigs for their drag queen friends and fix up their hair. I laughed and it seemed strange that I didn’t think that drag queen’s existed back then.

Around us, there were men in kilts playing bagpipes. Musicians played guitars and sang with microphones, a women was singing very loudly although I couldn’t say pleasantly. Cafes were open and most shops had their doors wide open to invite patrons in. We walked by and saw six men getting haircuts peeking out into the crowd. A man was passing flyers out for a new phone store that would soon be open. It was an invitation for the senses but I seemed too distracted to enjoy it fully. The best part of the night wasn’t the noise, but the stories.

We ended up back at the newly expanded and lit underpass that took two years to build. I remember going through the previous underpass for my twenty first birthday. The old underpass was small and you had to walk single file if anyone was coming in the opposite direction. Somebody always had too much and felt the need to test their vocal cords in the acoustics of the confined space. It had this odd smell and you had to try to hold your breath while you walked quickly under it. Now it was gray, beautiful and large. It smelled like fresh paint, although I can still smell faintly in my mind those nefarious odors of yesteryear.

I thought to myself, you can build over the rubble but you can't build over the memories.

BONUS: Some extra pics

Tarantula Lady

2009-08-21T20:13:00.001-07:00

I am in the self-checkout lane with my arsenal of flu remedies and medicine. I have Emergen-C, Theraflu, Tylenol, Gatorade, etc. Basically, I have the entire Walgreens Sunday ad in my basket. I am moving in that sort of sick zombie walk, where my body is moving slowly and my eyes are glazed over. One foot in front of the other.

I start to pass the front of the registers, close to all of the sale items. There is a large woman sitting in one of those electronic three wheel scooters with a basket. As I pass by she speaks up at me, “Would you like a tarantula postcard?”

I pause. If I had been more alert and less sick, I would have zoomed by her so fast that she never would have had a chance to stop me. Normally, I would have seen someone coming a mile away. I shrug my shoulders.

“Sure,” I say in my zombie voice.

“How many would you like?” she asks fanning out what appears to be at least 20 tarantula postcards.

“One would be great.” I say .

She hands over one tarantula postcard.

“Thank you,” I say and continue on my way. I turn the postcard over and it has two informative sentences about tarantulas. I have no idea who I am going to send it to.

Head I win, Tails I lose

2009-08-20T00:36:00.000-07:00

or "3 in 7,000"

Being sick is different for everyone. For me it is spiritual cleansing, the spring cleaning of the soul. Whenever I am sick, I always recall a story from the Bible about Jesus healing a sick person. In the story I remember, which I profess to not having the greatest memory, Jesus goes to the house of a sick person. He heals them, and then forgives them of their sins. Then Jesus sends them out into the world, asking them to go and sin no more. Or something like that. For some reason the story always equated in my mind, that whenever I am sick, Jesus is purifying me of sins. He is burning away my sins, one degree at a time. Then, after I am done being purified, I am sent on my way free of all sins.

I know that the logic there makes absolutely no sense, but I concocted that theory when I was nine. It has been a long month and I am glad to finally be home. First it was my operation, then San Diego, and lastly Las Vegas. No sleep for the wicked. I get out of bed and realize that my calves are unusually sore. This is to be expected from all of the walking we did up and down the strip at all hours of the night. I stand up. They are more than just sore, I have body aches. I feel my head, I definitely have a fever. I get the thermometer to double check. 102.4. Yep, definitely sick.

I hate being sick, but thankfully I am never sick too long, usually 24 hours max. I lie in bed trying to sleep away most of the sickness. I wake up the next day, only to discover that I am still sick. I still have a fever. This is longer than usual and I am disappointed, although I know my body has had a rough month. I am sure that my immune system is down to zero from the traveling and the stitches on my stomach. As I lie there, I start to speculate that maybe since I had a milestone birthday, perhaps I am catching up on all of my sins from the past decade. My thoughts are interrupted by a much needed break to the bathroom. I start to make that trip frequently that day and before I know it, my bottom because best friends with the bathroom. “What sins are these!” I think and during the next three day I live upon the toilet of purgatory.
If there were any sins left in my body, surely they were flushed down the toilet. I should be as pure as fresh fallen snow and baby lambs now.

I could also use some good news.

The good news comes in the form of a phone call from Paul.

Earlier this year, we were able to participate in a photo shoot for the city’s portrait project. For those of you who don’t know, the city had set up several photo opportunities around the city during the early part of this year. At select events, there were booths set up where people could sit and have their portrait taken. From there, 7,000 of the pictures would be selected and made into tiles. The tiles would be placed in the new underpass, which is opening soon and will connect fourth avenue to downtown. The entire underpass project has taken about two years and has been inconvenient to say the least. Walking from fourth avenue to downtown has always been a favorite pastime of ours, but has been impossible during construction.

We had heard about the project but hadn’t thought too much about it. It wasn’t until Paul’s mom passed that Paul became determined to attend a photo shoot. He tucked a large frame under his arm and we made our way to one of the events. He signed up, filled out the paperwork, and sat for his session. “This is a picture of my mom.” said Paul balancing the large frame on his knee.

“ I would like to take my picture with her.” said Paul ,” if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course.” said the photographer and took several snapshots.

This happened several months ago and I had forgotten about it until I heard Paul’s excited voice on the line. “They accepted the picture!” he said and directed me to the website showcasing the chosen pictures. I searched the site and found it. It was perfect. The picture Paul had chosen in the frame was a picture where Bettina was looking at Paul from a distance with a huge smile on her face. In the chosen tile picture, Bettina is still looking at Paul holding the framed picture.

All in all, 7000 photographs were chosen, but this was the only one that really mattered to me. Paul called his Dad, who was equally excited and genuinely touched. We made plans to attend the grand opening of the underpass on the 20th.

“Oh yeah,” said Paul, “They also selected your picture.”

I stopped for a second. I sort of expected Bettina’s picture to be chosen, but not mine. It was a bonus surprise, to find out that I get to be a part of the downtown city that I have loved so much since my youth. It was the hangout of my high school years, food sustenance of my college years, and disco dancing and friends during my adult years. Considering I almost thought I was dying earlier this week, it was nice to be immortally placed somewhere. Tally score for the week: Head (shots) I win, Tail (side) I lose.

UPDATE: I looked up the bible story and Jesus was actually talking to a prostitute and NOT a sick man. I guess my nine year old brain was wrong. Ah well

PAUL'S PICTURE: http://www.tucsonportraitproject.com/ and search for "Paul Gastellum" in the search box under "Explore Panels"

C is for Conniving

2009-07-31T00:06:00.000-07:00

or "Melting Motives"

I am cookie monster, not a cookie master. That is to say cookies are my one of my favorites dessert, but I have never learned how to make them properly. Which is kind of strange because otherwise I know my way around a kitchen fairly well. I started to learn how to cook when I turned 18 and realized I could not live off of boxed meals. Over the years I have learned to master various dishes from kung pao chicken, egg rolls, homemade tortillas, chili con carne, and even recently, sushi. If I have a recipe, generally I can make it. Except for cookies. Actually, I don’t know how to make most desserts, but I am especially incompetent at cookies.

Part of it is intentional, but most of it is not. I never wanted to learn how to make sweets or desserts because I thought what good would it do to be able to make cookies. Nothing good comes from having 5 dozen cookies in in the house. Think about it. So, for most of my adult life I have never even attempted or looked at any cookie recipes. Why bother?

It wasn’t until this last year that I began to turn my thinking around. There are actually some really tantalizing things about making cookies. Just look at the cost/benefit analysis of cookies.

For starters, most ingredients in cookies are fairly inexpensive. I am no stranger to the way things are in this economy. I don’t have the disposable income that I imagined that I would have at this age. The good news is that for around six, maybe seven bucks, you can easily churn out over five dozen cookies. Sugar cookies you could get even get away with at five dollars. You can feed a decent amount of people for the fewest amount of duckets.

Second, cookies hold a lot of credibility. Lately it seems, I have been accused several times of being selfish, unthoughtful, and ungenerous of my time and energy. If I had I had been holding a plateful of warm homemade cookies…I doubt those things would have been said to me. It is almost impossible to insult someone who has just baked you chocolate chip cookies. Any person who has made five dozen cookies is immediately thought of as kind, warm, giving and an inspiration to humanity. I want to be that person. Especially only for six bucks.

We have an event coming up for children with special needs who can only make it to a doctor once a month. Many of these kids are low income and are in need of some cheer due to their often painful and sometimes terminal illnesses. I can make some cookies for these kids. I throw the cookie ingredients in a bowl, put my mixer in, and hit high. With the dough being made, I scoop them into little balls, place them on the tray and put them in the oven. Ten minutes later, I am ready to showcase and I open the oven to discover….uncooked cookie balls.

My cookies never melted down in luscious cookie circles. They are in the exact shape of the cookie dough that I put them in. “Hmm…that’s weird,” I think, and prep another batch for the oven, convinced the first batch is a fluke. Ten minutes later, the same results. I am starting to panic a little. I need to make those cookies for those flipping kids tomorrow but I don’t want to make their lives more miserable than they already are with my substandard cookies. I place the cookie dough balls on the baking sheet, only this time I squish them down with my hand to make them look flat. Ten minutes later, much flatter cookies arrive. The only minor problem is that my finger and handprints are visible in everyone.

Several more events crop up during the year and I find myself back at the cookie helm, trying my best to come out with cookies that melt wonderfully flat and look like every other cookie I have seen in my life. Six more attempts and six more failures. I start asking my cook friends and they all give me different advice. Am I using enough butter? Am I using too much egg? Is my oven hot enough?. I take all of their advice and come out with the same result. I start getting paranoid and have feelings of cookie inadequacy . I have a dream where I go to the supermarket and I am telling the master baker there about my problems. Just as they are about to give me their advice, I wake up. I finally ask my aunt, who can cook anything in the world, for some advice.

“They are just cookies,” she says, “what’s so hard about it?”

I look at my recipe again, this time really determined to get it right. As I am reading, I notice that no electric mixer is ever mentioned. Everything in the recipe refers to slowly mixing, slowing adding, mixing slowly by hand. I can’t even mix in the chocolate chips, but I have to “stir them in gently”. It sounds sort of frustrating to me, because I am highly impatient. I don’t have time to stand there and gently stir anything. When I make jalapeno cheese bread, I throw the ingredients in the bowl, slap it around, and let it do all the rising by itself. Gentleness is not required in bread making.

But, I am determined, so I give it go. I start stirring slowly. I crack one egg slowly. I fold it in the dough. I start to get into this rhythm trance. My hand just moving in careful meditative circles around the bowl. “You know,” I hear my inner voice say “maybe we had all of the right ingredients all along. Perhaps we were trying to move things along too fast.”

“I do have a tendency to move things too fast,” I think in agreement. “Sometimes I just have all right ingredients, but I am just moving too fast.” My mind starts to branch off in other directions while I stir slowly. “You know,” I begin to think, “Sometimes I do the same things with friendships as well. I try to move things along too fast. I find people with all the right ingredients of friendship and then I want to be best friends overnight. Most of my current good friends, it took awhile to get to know. There is no need to rush. Why do I rush things? I need to patient with friendships with in the future.”

I look down at the cookie dough. This dough look different than the others that I made. It glistens. It looks frosty and smooth. It looks very….meltable. I can feel it. I put it the oven. Ten minutes later, we are golden. The cookies come out round and inviting. These were the cookies I was waiting for. It made me start to think. Why did I keep myself from learning the art of cookie making all of these years. There was never a reason to fear cookies or cookie making. Cookie making could be a gateway for finding universal peace and internal enlightenment. Or it could also be a very cheap way to manipulate others into thinking you are a kind, generous and thoughtful person. Whichever.