My Fatherhood

I love being a dad! I heard a comedian the other day suggest that it wasn't natural to want to have children. He is a moron. He went on to say that if any man ever suggested that he wanted kids, that his "man card" was to be revoked. This man is clearly a world class idiot and his hatred for children is probably just a projection of his resentment toward women who obviously and wisely avoid him completely.

I am proud to say that I love my boys and am completely thrilled to be a dad. I encourage any and every man to have as many kids as you can handle. Don't go all NBA or anything- get married to one woman- but have as many kids with that woman as you two desire. It's a good thing.

There are obvious benefits to being a dad. I get to eat fruit snacks and drink capri-suns without people casting their judgemental eyes upon me. I can watch things like Spongebob and Phineas and Ferb completely free of shame.

There are also some drawbacks. You end up subjected to all the songs from Thomas the Tank Engine along with the slightly off pitch English accents that sing them. You are also spit upon or sometimes worse (those of you with kids know what I'm talking about; those without kids, I'd really hate to spoil the surprise). It's somehow not as bad when it's your own kid though.
There are unhappy moments when it comes to parenting, but the good far outnumber the bad and really there's no comparison. Yes, I've had to get after Bryce from time to time but all of that gets erased when he does what he did a couple of weeks ago.

On the 23rd of February, I turned 33 years old. I received many gifts from friends and loved ones. When I came home from work, there was a hand made card on the counter that read, "Happy Birthday, Dad". There was a drawing of the two of us on the outside and when I opened it, I saw that he had drawn another picture and had written a couple of sentences about me. It read, "Dad, I love you. My dad is funny (a revelation which swelled my heart with pride-he thinks I'm funny!). My dad plays with me. Thanks for my swings." Under that he had drawn a picture of his swings and a birthday cake. It was awesome but if I may draw your attention to the last sentence of this lovely card.

My wife and I used some of our tax return to purchase a swing set for our backyard. We love having a backyard and had a few toys scattered here and there but nothing that could occupy a significant portion of the boys' time. So we purchased a lovely metal swing set from Wal-mart.

As I've mentioned, I love being a dad, and if you're a reader of this blog you know that I am a somewhat paranoid parent. I have the ability to see the worst possible outcome of any situation that could slightly cause bodily injury to my sons. I've said it before and it's still true today, that my preferred method of parenting involves bubble wrap and inflatable furniture.

Armed with this knowledge, you may be wondering why someone who is so worrisome would bother having a swing set at all, let alone the death trap that is a metal swing set. Well, when you are a parent sometimes you do things you wouldn't normally do in order to bring joy to your children (anybody who has ever taken a kid on "It's a Small World" knows exactly what I'm talking about).

It took me just about three hours over the course of two days ( I like to pace myself) to assemble the swing set in the backyard. It has a slide, three swings-two standard and a third with foot rests (my guess is that's so your feet are comfortable while you slip off and land in the dirt face first), and a see-saw.

My boys love it. I can only look at it and see utter mayhem and destruction but when I get those visuals, I just chase them from my mind by picturing the smiles on the faces of my boys as they saw what daddy was building them in their backyard. I still see every possible thing that could go wrong- Bryce catapulting Henry on the see-saw; falling of the top of the slide, backwards; falling of the bottom of the slide (you may question this one but that's exactly how Bryce broke his arm a couple of years ago); whacking each other with the swings; and of course, the whole thing just collapsing down on top of them. I picture these things I just try not to dwell on them. Instead I like to think of that birthday card in which Bryce thanked me for getting him swings.

He thinks I'm funny!

My Terribly Horrible, Gloriously Wonderful Day

How many of you have ever thought you had a chance at winning the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes? We see the Super Bowl commercials and how thrilled the family is that wins. We immediately begin to fantasize what it would be like to have Ed McMahon (or his ghost-I honestly have no idea who delivers the cartoonish 3' x 6' check anymore) ring our doorbell and surprise us with a million dollars (I'm also not sure what the current prize is valued at, but a million seems like chump change anymore).

Maybe I'm speaking in antiquated terms. How many of you have ever heard a radio contest and thought, "I could be the 9th caller"? We may hear them or even occasionally enter sweepstakes of some kind but we never really expect that the "You" in "you could win" applies to us. We always assume that it is a reference to some nebulous person in Culver city who wins every contest and his house is overflowing to bursting with swag from the local radio stations.

Well, it was with that same, "I don't stand a chance to win" attitude that I filled out a small postcard with my name, cell phone and a fake email address that I use for entering things like this (so that my main email doesn't get hit with copious amounts of spam from these sorts of things). But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself a little bit. The title does begin with with "Terribly, Horrible" so I guess I should address that first.

You see, this particular Monday started out like a typical Monday. I woke up at 3:30 that morning got dressed for work and headed out the door. That isn't a typo. I get up between 3:30 and 4:00 every Monday morning and go to one of 40 Jack in the Box restaurants. I serve as asset protection for a franchise. You should only ever eat at one of the 40 Jacks owned by Beshay Foods Inc. (for a complete listing send me an email). Anyway, I drove to work in Rancho Penasquitos (Ranch-o Pen-a-skeet-os, for all those non-southern Californians) and began my audit.

About 8:00 that morning my phone chimed to let me know I had missed a call (my phone has been temperamental (mostly mental) these last few days). I listened to my voice mail and it was someone representing the sports store that was holding the drawing and told me I should call them back by midnight tonight. I figured that there was no way I actually won the contest. I was certain that if I did in fact return the call that they would tell me I didn't win but they have some intriguing offers for me.

I finished with the bulk of my work and decided to head over to another restaurant to pay them a visit. As I was crossing over the 15 (that's Interstate 15 for all you non-southern Californians)I approached an intersection that will forever be ingrained in my mind. This is a somewhat unique intersection. If you stand in the very center you have to go up hill to get out of it. It doesn't matter which direction you choose, you must go up hill. I was waiting at the light to turn left and when it changed I entered the intersection and my vehicle stalled. Everything went dark. I still don't know what exactly is wrong with it, I just know that it didn't run and there was no electricity at all. I was in the middle of an intersection with cars about to start approaching me. I jumped out and with one hand on the open door and the other on the steering wheel I began pushing the Jeep Grand Cherokee up hill. I huffed and I puffed and I pulled a muscle in my calf and just as I was entering the cross walk I reached that point at which you know you have lost all forward momentum and are about to start rolling backwards. Just when I thought I couldn't go any farther a good Samaritan happened along and gave me the impetus I needed to get the car through and alongside the curb. I thanked him and he disappeared.

I'll spare you the boring details but suffice it to say that I spent the next two and half hours being passed by countless cars with no offer of assistance whatsoever. I found a loose cable, I repaired it and, since I could get no help, called a tow truck company to come give me a jump for a paltry $25. When all my efforts at repair proved inadequate, I was forced to have the tow truck guy load up the truck and take me back to the Jack in the Box less than a mile a way. The tow truck driver informed me that there was usually a $99 flat fee charged to tow less than ten miles but that since I only called for a jump and the drop wasn't even half a mile away he'd do it for the price of the jump. I was thrilled at that thought but was quickly smacked with reality as the tow truck drove away leaving me in a parking lot 46.3 miles from where the Jeep should be.

I called my father-in-law to ask for any sage mechanic advice he could give me that might make the Jeep miraculously spring to life. But after a few last ditch efforts, the vehicle just sat there like a half ton paper weight. With no other recourse, I quickly called another tow truck company with better-not good,but better-rates.

You may wonder why I knew that the Jeep was resting 46.3 miles exactly from the Church parking lot. When you receive a quote to have a vehicle towed for a $50 hook up and $5 per mile, you know exactly how far you have to take it. So for those of you who failed Consumer Math, that's a grand total of...wait for it...$285 (yes, that means the 3/10ths of a mile were rounded up!). A bill I would have to foot entirely even though it wasn't even my vehicle.

With the Jeep securely tied down to the tow truck and the driver finishing a few last minute notes for his paperwork, he remarked that I seemed different than anyone else he had towed. I asked him to explain and he responded by saying, "Most people are extremely upset and even get mad at me for having to tow/charge them. But you're joking around and seem completely okay with this." I must preface my response to him with this: if he had seen me a couple of hours earlier, he probably would have assumed I was no different from anyone else he's ever met. I was pretty upset at first, but you see, I had about four hours of down time and I guess I just got over it. While at one point I was ready to push the jeep off a cliff, I was resigned to my fate and determined not to let it control me any longer.

I conveniently left all of that information out when I responded by saying that I was the Assistant Pastor of a Church in Temecula ( a truth that would become abundantly clear when we pulled into the parking lot to drop off the Jeep) and that as a Christian, I was commanded to trust that God had a purpose in everything (though at the time I had no idea what that was). He perked up immediately at hearing that I was a Pastor and asked me if I ever did any counseling. I told him that from time to time I did (omitting that fact that it was usually with teens) but not very often. Well, apparently he heard, "Yes, I'm a tremendous counselor. Please, tell me all of your troubles." because he began telling me all of the issues he was going through.

I didn't really have any wisdom to impart to him, but I asked a few questions and mostly listened to him. I think he may have just needed someone to whom he could vent his frustrations. After he finished, I asked him if he went to church anywhere and if he knew what it meant to be born again. He said he started going to church with a buddy recently but had never really gone before. I began to speak with him and just as we were coming down the road to the church, it all sank in and he understood what he needed to do. As we crossed the last stop light before the church, he prayed and asked God to forgive him of his sins and make him a new man.

That was when my Terribly, Horrible day begin to transform into a Gloriously, Wonderful day.

As He finished unloading the Jeep into the church parking lot, I pulled out my empty wallet to reach for my bank card (which was also void of funds) not sure how I would pay for this whole thing. He walked up to me and handed me the paperwork and told me that he was so grateful to me for sharing the gospel with him, that he was just going to use this as a tax deduction and that I would be charged absolutely nothing! That's blessing number 2, for those of you keeping score at home!

I was so excited (and exhausted) that I forgot all about that drawing I had entered and didn't call the people back. I realized that the next morning as I was driving my son to school and wishing I had a new phone because my Blackberry was freezing up again. Once my phone came back up, I called the number of the store holding the contest again just on a whim. Someone picked up and I began to explain that I got their message to call by midnight last night and I related the ordeal I endured the day before. The person on the phone told me that it was alright that I still qualified as a winner of their drawing and that I had won their Grand Prize!

Now the biggest thing I had ever won before was a $50 gift certificate to ProFlowers from a sports talk radio station in San Diego. I just sat there unblinking as I realized what I had won.

A brand new 16gb iPhone 4!

I went over to the Apple store in Temecula (still disbelieving) and walked out with a $461 (tax included) phone. I was so flabbergasted that I could barely control myself as I called my wife extolling the virtues of Apple and the sports store that had held the contest. I was so ecstatic that one could have mistaken the smile etched into my face as a botox injection gone wrong.

My iPhone and I have lived very happily together for the last couple months. It does everything I could hope and so much more. I even got a nifty cover featuring the logo of the World Series Champion San Francisco Giants to protect it from harm. The only issue is that my wife complains of being an iPhone widow from time to time, but I try to keep my iPhone from hearing such talk.

My Trip to Lowe's

Have you ever met one of those guys who can build, fix or basically do anything? If not, allow me to introduce you to my father-in-law. That man's idea of a relaxing vacation isn't spending the day at the beach or going to Disneyland. His idea of vacation is changing the floor plan of his house. He actually lives in a double wide Mobile home, but to look at it, you'd never be able to guess that is what it is. His handiness isn't limited to construction either. He's also a mechanic and a journeyman electrician. Basically, he can do just about anything (except get a computer to work for him). I, on the other hand, am not so inclined (except for the computer part). You can imagine the significant disappointment my wife must have felt the first time she told me that our washing machine was leaking. I just stared at her unblinking. I didn't have the first clue how to fix it. I did, but not completely and to be honest, it was a pretty terrible job.

I said all that to say that because of my deficiency in the area of handymanliness, I don't have many occasions to go to a hardware store. However, as it happens, I was in need of something specific that I was sure I could find at my local Lowe's. So I jumped in my little pick up truck and drove to the redneck Mecca.

When I arrived I began playing the game of "Where Do I Park". I haven't been to enough Lowe's to know whether or not they are all built similar, but I'd be surprised if they weren't. The problem is that the entrance door is at one end and the exit door is at another. So you have to choose: short walk from car to building; or short walk from building to car. There is always the third option of parking all the way to the right of the building where you can pull up after you've made your purchase and load your truck. The problem here is two fold.

1. Unless you're buying 2x4's in bulk, you're gonna have a long walk to whatever section of the store you actually need.

2. It's is generally populated by construction guys buying 2x4's in bulk and they tend to make snide comments about how "cute" my truck is.

So I opted for "short walk from store to car" in case I actually purchased what I was looking for, I wouldn't have to carry it too far.

I found a place, parked side ways in two spots (don't want any hard hat wearing, hammer jockeys to scratch the paint job), and entered the labyrinth of hardware. Another uncomfortable thing about Lowe's is its employees. The front end is completely peopled with women (and a couple of men who are management and know next to nothing about tools-this is the part of the store in which I would work) and most of them are either enraptured with a book they're reading or waiting for the next cute construction guy to walk in. After I've disappointed the watchers, I make my way to the stockers and specialists.

I say that, because there are two kinds of Lowe's employees out on the floor. First, is the guy who actually knows what he is talking about. He is extremely helpful and eager to be so. The problem is that he is usually speaking to the guy who walked in right before you. If you happen to get this guy, your Lowe's experience will be favorable and you will return frequently (even if you don't get him on subsequent trips, you'll return in hopes of finding him again).

The second kind (and the coincidentally the kind I get) is the stocker. This is the guy who works at Lowe's because that is where he is employed, but could just as well be working at Office Depot or Kohl's for that matter. He doesn't know a rotary tool from an oscillating tool (neither do I but then I don't work at Lowe's). He is just as friendly but lacks even rudimentary knowledge. He smiles as you approach and welcomes you warmly. He even asks if you want any help. The difference is that the whole time inside him there is a normal dude without a red vest screaming, "just keep walking, there's nothing to see here-these aren't the associates you're looking for (complete with an attempt at Jedi mind control)". If you make the mistake of asking him for assistance, you will spend the next few minutes traversing the store hoping to stumble on the item you were asking about or the specialist who knows all about it.

This day I knew exactly what I was looking for and headed straight for it, turning aside all offers at assistance. This is when my real problem began. You see I was looking for something specific that could only be found on one specific aisle. So as I made my way to that aisle I heard a slight commotion and turned down my aisle to see a couple making out with ferocity. She had him pinned against the shelving unit and they were deeply involved in the kind of passionate, wild kissing that you would expect to see in a couple that is truly in love and haven't seen each other for 10 years.

As soon as I had seen them, I caught my self and stopped at the entrance of the aisle. I turned away quickly and began examining the items immediately in front of me. They continued on undisturbed. I cleared my throat but they paid me no attention and kept on going. The problem (other than the obvious) was that what I needed was right next to where they were desecrating the sanctity of Lowe's. I was torn- do I walk away and leave them be, or do I get what I had come all the way to Lowe's to get? At this point, I figured it was my duty to put a stop to it. After all, there were children present and sooner or later someone would stumble on this unholy activity and have to put a stop to it. I figured if not me, who; if not now, when! So I cleared my throat, summoned all the fortitude I could muster and pulled out my cell phone and began talking loudly to no one at all.

As I got closer and closer, my true horror was revealed. The talking loudly thing worked and they broke up the little tryst. That is when I discovered the grisly truth. This couple who had just been locked in Love's strong embrace and had been slobbering all over each other like he had just gotten out of prison had a combined age of no less than 120 years. If either one of them was a day under sixty then I'm cupid.

My stomach began to churn and I no doubt turned a greenish hue. They smiled and began walking away hand in hand. I kept expecting him to ask if she wanted her gum back and for her to ask if he wanted his teeth back.

Now, I suspect that somewhere there is a girl who is gonna read this and say, "How sweet, after all these years, they are still very much in love and desire each other." I tell you it's not sweet. I do hope that my wife and I will be that much in love when we're sexagenarians (no pun intended). But you can be certain that it will be reserved to our home or sneaking little kisses in public, not holding an entire aisle at Lowe's hostage.

The sad thing was that the thing I went to Lowe's to get wasn't what I was hoping it was and I left empty handed but with a mind full of things I couldn't un-see.

My Christmas Parade

I have lived in the Temecula Valley for 10 years and have never attended the Old Town Electric Lights Parade. To be perfectly frank, I don't care for parades. I think they are generally a line up of poorly constructed floats decorated with a bunch of self important people. However, last night I felt oddly compelled to grab the wife and kids (and by that I mean she dragged me out there) and trek out to old town to join the denizens of this fair valley in all of this festive fanfare, which I was sure would produce a generous portion of blog fodder.

As we arrived a little over an hour early, traffic had already begun to back up significantly. My wife myopically suggested that the majority of people were just headed home. She was wrong. However, we decided to grab some dinner at the golden arches, which turned into a great idea because we discovered another parking area that was not nearly as far a walk as the other secondary lots. So we enjoyed our dinner and walked over to the parade staging area.

We found a spot near the tail end of the parade. We were warned that we might miss some of the parade because we were technically outside of the parade route. I was sure that once they saw the hundreds of people with us, the floats would extend their parade route to include us. I was not wrong. We did miss seeing the marching bands in all of their glory but we still heard five different renditions of Jingle Bells and one version of Angels We Have Heard on High (thanks Calvary Chapel Murrieta for marching to the beat of a different drum).

While standing around waiting for the parade to begin, the sidewalks began to resemble a line crush at a black Friday sale. People were elbowing and pushing their way through others to get a better seat. Just as the parade was to begin a woman with two little girls and three pink lawn chairs stepped in between me and the rest of my family and tried to set up camp. I didn't say a thing (I'm much to non-confrontational for that); I just resumed the position I had been in prior to their trespassing. Once the woman saw that this giant of a man had every intention of looming over her she quickly assessed her position and found it less than desirable. She picked up and moved on, presumably to sit in someone else's lap.

The parade began and the first entrant to make it's way past the end of the route was the Great Oaks Marching Band with a rousing rendition of the aforementioned Jingle Bells. They were decked in Christmas lights and looked very festive. Then there was a line of City Council members, Community Service representatives and a few other civil servants waving and bequeathing a merry Christmas on all of the parade revellers.

We then saw the first of what seems like a thousand different boyscout troops walk through the parade. I didn't know we had so many different troops in the valley. I am not entirely sure why we need so many different troops. It seems like they could start one and just let anyone from the valley join. But they had a plethora of them. It was comical at times. There was a stereotypical "nerd" troop leader. He was walking in full camping gear (backpack, sleeping roll, pots and pans and a fishing pole, complete with fake fish). He had his little scarf tied around his neck and was wearing the trade mark cargo shorts with hiking boots and brown tube socks pulled half way up his calf. He looked like a hairy, nerdy version of Shelley Long from Troop Beverly Hills. I yelled, "We don't need no stinkin' badges" but he either didn't hear me or was pretending not to because he just kept walking.

The highlight of the scouting portion of the parade was when one boy scout, walking along side the float holding the rest of his troop, chided a crowd member by irritatedly calling back, "I'm not a cub scout!" I hope at their next den meeting they discuss the meaning of the word "semantics".


Next followed a few local businesses and clubs. There were cheer groups and martial artsy people along side a dachshund club and a bus of retired people on "holiday". At one point, Arby's made an appearance with two people dressed as the hand thing that stands out front and waves people in and two girls dressed as elves. One was dressed as a male elf and the other-well, based on her costume, I can only assume she is Arby's hood rat.

There were some local celebrities on hand, but the highlight for me was meeting Drippy, the water drop. He represented the Rancho Water district and I had a few questions for him about my water bill. I suspect it's some sort of conspiracy because he flat out refused to answer any of the hard -hitting questions I asked.

Then a float of little beauty queens passed by. It was full of little girls who wore enough makeup to disguise congress as a bunch of zombie's (okay, that analogy maybe lacking in sufficiency) and who will no doubt wind up on an episode of E! True Hollywood Stories as a cautionary tale of toddlers and tiaras (at the very least they'll wind up on The Soup being made fun of by Joel McHale).

The next set of "celebrities" to walk by were some of the contestants from various reality TV shows. There were a couple of the tap dancing dads from America's Got Talent, some Survivors, Amazing Racers, and two Big Brothers. They passed by with Santa close behind, which made me speculate as to what Santa might bring these people. I surmised that fire and a compass would make suitable gifts for the Survivors and Racers respectively; the tap dancing dads might get some new tap shoes and I am certain the Big Brother contestants would receive industrial- grade antibiotics.

There were some 95 different entrants in this small town parade. One of the best was the Volkswagon Club that included 25 different VW's. There were Bugs, Buses and one Kia Spectra. I didn't just make a typographical error. For some reason the VW club was anchored by a 2001 Kia Spectra.

The grand finale to this little parade was a float with St. Nicolas himself riding a sleigh bedecked in lights and tossing candy to the kids in the street. Or at least that's what I imagined it would look like. We left with about four entrants to go. Both boys had seen enough (as had their parents) and were ready to go. All in all a good time was had by all.

I have not yet decided if we will make a repeat appearance at next year's parade. I think I have gotten all out of it that a spectator can get. I say spectator because, although I am not sure how, I think it would be great to be in next year's parade. So this year I shall endeavor to be an exemplary citizen. One so worthy of note that the parade planners are compelled to replace Santa with me. I will be so loved and admired that they'll make me honorary Mayor. Either that or I'll just start a Boy Scout Troop.

My Pops

I want every one to know that I love my Pops. I have always loved my Pops. I can't remember a time in my life where I didn't respect and care about my Pops. If you aren't familiar with my family allow me to inform you that "Pops" is what my brothers and I call our dad. I can't really tell you for certain when we started calling him Pops but whenever that was it stuck and we have been calling him that ever since.

Anyway, I really do love my Pops. We've never had "issues". I never resented him for anything he did while I was a child. We've had one semi-serious argument since I was 12 and we both admitted we were wrong and hugged and made up within 20 minutes of the dust up (for the record, I was more wrong than he was). Basically, we'd make for a really boring episode of a day-time talk show.

My Pops never claimed to be the smartest man alive, but he was always ready with an answer for any query we threw at him. I remember a time when we were driving down interstate 5 in central California and I asked him what the giant stands with the large propeller things were for. He quickly told me that they were called windmills and they kept the earth spinning on its axis. A little farther down the road we saw the other kind of wind mills, the kind that look like giant egg beaters. When I asked him what that kind was for, he without a moments hesitation told me that they kept the air in our atmosphere circulating so that we wouldn't breathe stale air. In other words, my Pops was a creative genius.

I would like to tell you about an event in our family's history that has become a story that will be passed down from generation to generation until it is only spoken of in distant memory but with the utmost respect for my Pops.

One day in 1992 my Pops came home from work and told my mom he needed to speak to her privately. Now this was weird because in a family of 7 privacy is a foreign concept. But he stressed that it must be private and it must be now. He led my mom back to their bedroom, closed the door behind them and told her she had better sit down. What happened next is legendary.

My Pops had a very concerned and pained look on his face. He began pacing back and forth in front of my mom and wringing his hands. He kept muttering things like, "I need to tell you something important."; I'm not sure how to say this"; "This will be hard for you to understand."

My mom is a worrier. She (not unlike me) can see the worst possible outcome in a situation and it makes her nervous and causes her discomfort. She is not a worrier to the point that she stays up at night wondering and troubled about unimportant things. But when something gives her adequate cause for concern it will bother her. As she was sitting there on the bed a million terrible thoughts were rushing through her mind: Is he having an affair? does he have cancer?did Tom Selleck die? (you'd have to know my mom to understand that one).

My Pops just continued pacing back and forth. He was completely distraught at how exactly he would drop this difficult news on his wife. His worry was how she would look at him after she knew his secret. The pain of the task that lay before him was evident in every aspect of his demeanor. His countenance had dropped. A line of perspiration had appeared across his forehead. He was so fraught with worry and anguish.

At this point my mom was really concerned. She was trying to gather herself, to summon all of her courage, in order to pry this troubling information from him and begin to deal with the fallout. In her best "calm" voice she said,

"Rod, just tell me."

My Pops stopped in his tracks. He turned and faced her. He leaned in close, and with an ashen face and in a raspy voice he told her his secret.

"Kay....I'm Batman!"

Yep, that's it! My Pops is brilliant. This maybe the greatest practical joke a man has ever played on his wife. This story is often rehearsed in our family, usually with a tone of awe and raucous laughter. My Pops is a comic genius! I love seeing the expressions on people's faces as I share this story. I wish I could be sitting next to you in person now just to see your face when you read the line above.

I love my Pops for many reasons, but I will always fondly recall this moment of triumph. Every time I think of it a smile spreads across my face and my heart swells with pride. I wish everyone had the same kind of relationship with their dad that I have with mine, but let's face it, not everybody grows up with batman as a father.

My Montezuma's Revenge

Have you ever met one of those people who always orders the same thing at a restaurant? It doesn't seem to matter that they've been there eleventy-hundred times, they will without fail order the same exact thing. It doesn't matter if the restaurant were to mark up the price a bazillion times, they'd either quit eating there or shell out the money! Do those people annoy you? Do you find yourself wanting to grab them and shake them and scream, "For the love of everything sacred and holy, will you please just pick something else!"? If this is true of you, putting aside your obvious need of therapy of some kind, you may want to discontinue your perusal of my blog. For yes, as you may have guessed, I am one of those people.

If that bothers you then I am sorry that I don't really care about your personal issues. If you haven't caught on yet, this blog is not about you--unless you have the misfortune of being one of those people that annoy me enough to write about. In which case, it is very much about you, but not the way you probably hoped.

As I mentioned earlier, I am one of those people who gets the same thing every time I go to a particular restaurant. If I may (which again, this is my blog, so yes I may), I would like to let you know why I have become such a creature of habit. Pure and simply put, I find security and comfort in it. If I don't try anything new, I am never disappointed. Every now and then at the behest of my wife, I will sample a new entree and almost every time, I am disappointed.

Despite my predilection to culinary invariability, I feel that I would make an excellent food critic. You may scoff at such conjecture but what I lack in variety I more than make up for in ability to aptly describe what I am eating and can be very persuasive when called upon. If you are one of those narrow minded sorts who thinks that you have to have a variety of experience to know what's the best, I would just ask, Who is more of the fool-the man who knows what he likes and orders that or the man who tries a hundred different things, only to settle upon the exact same thing that another man chose at once?

However, my point is not to tout my own prowess, but to pass on to you what I have learned from my trip to several different Mexican food eateries. First off let me state, I lack the consent of these places to mention them in my blog, therefore I will be giving them fictitious names. However, I will be leaving clues so that you might surmise the identities of these establishments and steer clear or patronize them at your leisure. Secondly, I would like to say that my findings may be somewhat tainted as I am a fan of tex-mex and not Mexican food in its traditional form. I have been to Mexico and I feel that we in America make it so much better. ( I here illustrate my point by directing your attention to Chinese food. It was just mediocre until they brought it to America and some genius said, "Why don't we try deep frying it?" and a succulent sensation was sired).

Let us now turn our attention to the first restaurant (these are listed in order of my favorite from least to most). Let's call this restaurant "The little bull". This restaurant is considered tex-mex but it may be more accurate to refer to it as mex-tex because it is far more Mexican-y than it is Texas-y. Here I ordered, the taquito/flauta platter. Mostly because I don't like this restaurant very much and feel it is next to impossible to mess up a taquito. I will say that they were good and the Mexican Cesar salad was delicious (the pine nuts add a special twist). I would have quite enjoyed my meal if it hadn't been for the woman seated at the table next to us. I am not sure how old she was but I am quite certain that she is too old to be that plastered at 5:00. She was so tanked that when she had finished drinking her meal, she refused to tip her waiter, preferring instead to give the money to the bus boy who had been shuttling the drinks she was imbibing from the bar, fueling her booze soaked repast. Overall, I give the restaurant 4 stars (out of a possible 100). It was good, but if you want me to return you'll find someway to quarantine the alcoholics in the bar!

Next on my list of lunch is a little restaurant we shall call "Blevy's". Some people think it is named thus because it was founded by actor Blevy Chase, but that is just an urban legend. Here, I ordered the flautas and empanada platter (are you beginning to see a pattern?). The food was terrific. I especially like this restaurant because if it is your birthday they give you a big sombrero with "Blevy's" written on it. The thing I wish to address here is the hostess. When we walked in the man with whom I was eating said to her, "Tres, Senorita!" She looked at him perplexedly and said, "I am sorry, I don't speak Spanish." I interpreted for her and we somehow made it to our seats. As much as I love Blevy's, I am concerned that they employ such people and am forced to ponder-if this is who they have as the face of their company, what kind of mental midget is working the grill?

Much of my young life I considered Blevy's to be my favorite but only because I hadn't learned that our next restaurant existed. As my #1 favorite restaurant I give you, (drum roll) Over the Boarder! They have the best empanadas, flautas, nachos and pretty much anything else you would find at a tex-mex restaurant. If you have noticed, I have mentioned multiple items because this is one of those rare instances in which I was not disappointed by venturing outside of my comfort zone. As a matter of fact, I have never been disappointed by Over the Boarder. Their food is excellent, I have never met a waiter/waitress, host or cook I didn't like. They are even selective in their clientele. They don't let just any one eat there. If you choose to eat there, you are obviously a person of high taste and astute discernment.

Well, I suppose I have ignored my boys long enough. They are threatening to get me banned from Over the Boarder if I don't stop and play with them. I know they're probably bluffing, but that's not a hand I'm willing to play!

My Driver's Education

When I was a kid I can remember watching the cartoons on the Disney Channel (mind you this was back when they showed Disney Cartoons-you know Mickey, Donald and Goofy not Miley, Lindsey or (insert name of latest "tween" sweetheart to foster the image of a rebellious harlot to get back at Disney for forcing childhood innocence upon them into their teen years). One of my favorite cartoons was the one about Goofy becoming a different person behind the wheel of a car. I remember distinctly how he was very calm and polite and would go out of his way to avoid even stepping on a bug and then he would get behind the wheel and transform into a Mr. Hyde- type character. This once caring and concerned citizen became a tyrannical despot who felt that all others should yield to him and allow him the right of way. He didn't just feel that way, he considered it his right and demanded others' observance of it.

I only bring this up because I have been contemplating my own driving skills and feel that I also make a sort of Hyde-esque transformation when driving a vehicle. Before you get on your high horse and "tsk-tsk" me, just seriously consider your own driving habits. It amazes me (as I think from the safety of a desk and not behind a wheel) how I almost always assume the other guy is at fault (although, in my defense that is usually the case). I am not so level headed behind the wheel and it is at those times that I "know" the other guy is to blame-not me!

Case in point: Near my home there is a shopping center on either side of the street and an island in the middle of the road almost completely blocking access to the other shopping center depending on which side of the street you're on. The only way to turn left out of the strip mall on the east side is to turn right and pull a U-turn from a turn lane which serves as the only access to the strip mall on the west side of the street (still with me?). The point is the other day I found myself needing to turn left out of the east side of the street so I pulled into the turn lane and waited for traffic to clear so that I could make my safe and legal u-turn. The problem was that while I was waiting for traffic to clear, a car prepared to make a right hand turn out of the west side shopping center. This woman pulled up to her stop sign (I had no such posting impeding my progress) but only looked back at the traffic coming at her and failed to even look at the lane in which I was patiently waiting to make my turn. Now the sensible and kindly thing to have done would be to wait for her to proceed knowing that she hadn't seen me. However, the Hyde-ian part of my brain was triggered and instead of ensuring safety, I felt it was necessary to assert my personal rights-specifically that right to proceed first when I don't have to stop and the other person does. As you may have guessed, I pulled out, she did too and was completely shocked and awed that there was now a silver mini-van where she expected only black top. What happened next is what baffles me and is really the point of my rambling today. She began to lay on the horn and yell all manner of cursing and insinuations about me and various farm animals. I did not appreciate this! My window happened to be down at the time so that my ears received the full brunt of her slander and calumny. My window being down also afforded me the opportunity to defend myself from this salacious speech. In a calm rational voice (that never exceeded a decibel above a normal talking voice), I stated that I didn't have a stop sign and that she would do well to heed the advice of my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Saul and, "look both ways next time!" Except you know from the tenor of my introduction that this is not how it went down at all. No, I yelled at her that I didn't have a stop sign and went on to imply that she was a woman of low moral character. I am not saying this was right. But when she began to yell at me because I was adhering to the rules of the road it was just like Goofy! I became a different person entirely.

For the most part, I am an exceptional driver, especially with passengers. If I, in a moment of clarity, realize I am the one at fault in a near miss, I have no trouble waving or admitting in some way that I am at fault. But if I am not-LOOK OUT!

That is why I feel that there should be some kind of class or test that one should have to pass before they are allowed to get behind the wheel of a motor vehicle. Hey, November's just around the corner, maybe we can get it on the ballot this year!