Christmas Carol Crusade

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Steamy, Sweaty, Smelly

Or "Picture Perfect Places"

It was after work and Paul and I were headed to the gym. I was pushing buttons on my phone when I heard Paul let out a long breath.

"Isn't that amazing," he said, " the beauty of God's creation. Look at that sky to the left."

I looked up from my phone and saw what he was nodding to. There before us, in the bluest of skies, was several large billowing clouds. They were piled high atop each other like a majestic altar of glory. Piercing through the center of the clouds were pure rays of light that refused to be hidden, but reached from the heavens on high to shine down upon us on earth.

I took in this magnificent stage set up for man's eyes to delight in…and immediately I wanted to puke. The scene was perfect. Almost a little too perfect. The scene reminded me of these small cards we used to pass out at my high school. Each card had a bible verse and inspirational messages on one side, and on the other were these amazing scenes of mountains, beaches, and forests. Each picture was meant to showcase the finest beauty of God . It was like God having all of these incredible photo ops and someone just happened to come across God at the right time with the right lighting. Thinking about it now, it sort of bothered me. Did God ever have a bad hair day in those pics?

Recently I had the opportunity to participate in a weekly feeding program for people who needed it. As I walked through the door my friend was quick to give me a warning. "Just so you know, " she said , "this place can get extremely hot, we get very sweaty, and not everybody who comes in smells the greatest." I stared at her for a moment. " I am just telling you that up front," she continued, "I feel obligated to tell everyone on their first day just so that they know what they are getting into."

The night continued on and I could see why she felt the need to warn me. The air felt barely one degree cooler than the summer air outside. The crowd was mixed, children without shoes sat with their parents, while next to them an older women sat talking to an invisible crowd. Some of the people coming in looked like they had just finished a brown bag beverage before stumbling in, while others were calm and patient, appreciative to be there. The dining area was small and mismatched tables were placed together covered with cheap plastic table cloths. Drinks were served in Styrofoam cups, and the food was a hodgepodge of items. The menu was made solely out of food that was donated that week. It was a beautiful sight.

Sometime during the fast paced serving, between putting bread rolls on a plate and doling out a scoop of salad, I noticed a sense of pervading peace and order in this place that I had failed to find elsewhere on my spiritual journey. Just being there, witnessing the entire program in motion really made me excited again. The patience and acceptance of the volunteers was inspiring. They never know who was coming to eat that day, or how many, or what condition they would be in. The idea that the program runs on no set amount of volunteers was incredible. If only two people show up to help serve fifty people, then two people will do it. If twenty people show up, then even better. Either way the food goes on, week after week, day after day. If ever there was a picture worthy of a small card, this was it. To me, it seems that God is a lot more visible in places other than beaches, lighthouses or forest clearings. I mean, I know that he likes to leave footprints up and down the coast, but it seems that the times I catch glimpses are usually not as glamorous as those recorded by others. I wish that I could send pictures to the card inspirational people and offer up a different line up for finding faith in the 2009.

If only I had my camera.


NOTE: This is actually an older post from 2008, but I wanted to include it because Bettina always laughed when she read Paul's first line in the story. She must have repeated it ten times and laughed each time. I can still hear that laugh and it makes me smile. She always wanted me to write more and wanted the best for every person she came across. Some of the posts may come out of order but I will try to keep them as chronological as possible so that they make sense.

Sun Stealing

or "Gogh-ing....Gogh-ing...Gone!"



So we are heading home from a short night out, when I spot what appears to be at least 50 sunflowers growing in a yard. I come to a quick halt and stop to admire them. Sunflowers have always been my favorite flower and seeing this many growing in our desert town is enough to make me hold my breath and pause. I look over all of the different stems holding various sized flowers. Many of stems are as tall as me. (Not that my height is hard to equal, but I am just painting a picture here.)


I can't remember when I first fell in love with sunflowers, it just has always been that way. I have tried, sometimes successfully, to grow both usual and unusual varieties. I never knew that they could come in such different colors, sizes, and even the amount of petals they could have. I am like Van Gogh obsessed with them, except I am lacking in the artistic drawing ability part that he had. Strangely enough, I also have a fondness for Van Gogh, although it is hard to say which came first. The Van Gogh or the Sunflower?

"Wow!" I say aloud to both Paul and Will, "Aren't those sunflowers amazing!". I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and both of them had to stop as well behind me. They were looking over my shoulder, checking out what caused the commotion.

"They are alright, " says Will, giving them the side eye clearly not impressed. I could sense contempt and boredom in the tone of his voice. "You know, sunflowers get much bigger than that hunny," he adds, I think giving a dirty look to one of the more modest stalks.

"Yeah, that's true." confirms Paul looking over the green and yellow, equally unimpressed.

"What!?!" I stammered, "I love sunflowers!" Then, as if to prove my proclamations of love, my hand reached out and plucked the first available flower it could reach. I could scarcely believe my own fingers, so nimble and adroit. And while I would never condone thievery of any sort, this was a different matter altogether. It was a matter of love.

I held my new prize close to my chest and placed it carefully in the cup holder for the ride home. We walked in the door and I gently layed it on the counter. I reached for the closest vase, which was clear glass and probably more apt to hold two dozen roses than one lonely and displaced sunflower. I began to fill it with water.

"Wait a second." said Paul from the bedroom, I could hear him rummaging through some boxes. "Ahh...here it is." he says and displays in his hand a sleek obelisque type glass vase. Near the rim of the vase is the letter 'B' etched in frosted glass.

"It reminds me of my mom." he says and hands the vase to me. I look down at the other vase, bulky and gawky and half-way filled with water.

"Oh," I say, "that will work." I pour the water down the drain slyly hoping no one noticed that I was going to place the single flower in such a ill equipped vase.

Paul trims the stalk and arranges the single flower like the gold that I think it is. He is a master at work when it comes to dealing with flowers. When he is done, I sit back and admire it. My prize from our shady sunflower heist. Not a bad night at all.

Eulogy

One of Bettina’s memories that she would share with us took place when she was a little girl. Due to a leg ailment, Bettina had to wear special orthopedic shoes. To say that these shoes were unattractive would be an understatement. One day, on their walk home with her sisters, Bettina made them stop. She slipped off one shoe. She slipped off the other. She found the nearest trash can and promptly deposited the both of them. When she got home and was questioned about the whereabouts of her shoes, she confidently and calmly replied, “I threw them away.” The next hour and a half was spent searching neighborhood trash cans until the shoes were found and Bettina was scolded. On the way home, the very next day, those same shoes found their way into another garbage can.

To Paul, Bettina was the living embodiment of Wonder Woman. She was strong, beautiful, just and kind. All of the kids in school referred to her as the ‘beautiful teacher’. Looking back at photographs that Dan has, you feel like you are looking at a Hollywood starlet photo shoot. Every hair in place, every outfit picked out just right. Of course, it wasn’t an accident, Bettina had such a passion for beauty and art throughout her life. A passion that she transferred to Paul. With her eyes she could take in a work of art, and with her hands she could recreate in to near perfection with such detail and patience.

She was an angel, only Bettina was never a boring angel. She wasn’t just about harpsichords, rainbows, and puppies. She was about fire, passion, and enjoying all of the good things that God gave to this earth. She had a fierce love for her husband and children. They were always her priority. She had an uncanny knack for truth. She saw through to the heart of people and knew what they were about. She saw their faults, their struggles, their insecurities. And when she found those things, she found a way to help.

Bettina spent her life in servitude to others. If you needed kind encouraging words, she gave them. If you needed someone to liven up an event she would shout and sing. She could also be comedy relief at a moments notice, bumping into things and acting silly. There wasn’t a role that she wasn’t willing to play in order to meet the needs of others. I have even heard her say some pretty choice words when the proper occasions called for it. Anything for her family.

Last Sunday, the night before Bettina passed, I wasn’t able to attend Sunday dinner with the family. As was her custom, Bettina sent home with Paul a box of goodies including a dinner for me. As I was thanking her over the phone, She informed me that Dan was on the way over to our house. She said that as she was looking in the fridge she noticed that she forgot to send over the toppings for the meal. “Oh that’s not a big deal Bettina,” I said, we could have just picked it up tomorrow. “

“No.” she said firmly. “You need it tonight, not tomorrow. But tonight. I want you to have what everyone else in the family had.

When she said it, I knew what she meant. She wanted me to enjoy all of the love, happiness, and concern that she gave to each of the boys. She wanted me to experience what it was like to grow up in a household filled with love and laughter. A place that wasn’t just a fairytale. A place that existed in the Gastellum household that she worked so hard to create. She wanted me to experience a fraction of the love that Paul enjoyed every day of his life. I am proud to say that I have and it has changed my viewpoint of what true love can accomplish in this world.

February 2nd 2009

This is a day that changed my life forever because this is the day Bettina passed. It is hard to express easily what all of this means to my life. There are so many ways she influenced who I was, am, and continue to be. Consider this entry to be a starting point for understanding who she was on this earth. I know given time, she will surface in my writing and more likely than not will still be editing some of my writing, even from heaven. I don't consider her lost or gone from my life, but I do wish she was only a phone call or visit away as she had always been before.

Bettina Marie Gastellum October 6, 1947 – February 2, 2009. Any angel in heaven would have a hard time keeping up with Bettina. Her husband, Dan, of 40 years knew she was clever, wise, loving and beautiful. Her family was the fountain into which she poured her love for her three divine gifts and their spouses, Phillip (Denise), Mario (Rachel), and Paul (Joseph). Every single day she spread joy and love into their hearts. Her life was focused on the love of others, especially her angels on earth, Sharayah, Maya, Acelya, Gabriel, and Lia. Their Abuelita meant the world to them. They hold her love forever in their hearts to keep them warm. On Earth she contributed her time to the United Way Board of Directors, Floresitas, and taught at St. Cyril’s. She is survived by her special sissy Andrea (Phillip) & her Suki Alexia, & sisters Irma, Lupita, Leticia, Anna & brother Frank (Sherie). A native Tucsonan, she left many with her words of wit and wisdom. Her kind acts for others were as plentiful and beautiful as the flowers in her nurtured garden. To say that she will be missed is like saying that we need air to breathe. Services will be held Friday, February 6, at St Cyril’s Church (4725 E Pima St). 10am (Viewing), 10:30am (Rosary), 11am (Mass). (Burial) at Holy Hope Cemetery.

Some Like it Long

or "Like. Long"

I submitted an application last week for a work summer internship. I checked the requirements online and saw that an essay was required. Sounds fun, I thought. I looked further and noticed that the essay had a limit of 2000 words. I can usually pound out 1500 words easily on a topic so I wasn’t stressed out. The only problem was that there was only twenty four hours left to submit in online. I sat down and two hours later I had something that I was proud of. It hit all of the required topics and I had bundled it neatly in a story.

I went back online and filled out the application and pasted my essay in the required area. A red warning started to flash on the screen. “YOU ARE OVER BY 6256” it blared at me. What? There was no way I was over by that much. I had word checked my paper before I submitted it. It was 1736 words. I tried to resubmit it by hitting enter again. The same red warning appeared, “YOU ARE OVER BY 6256”.

“What the cupcake?” I said out loud giving my screen a dirty look. (Okay, maybe cupcake wasn’t the exact word I used, but you get the idea.) What was the problem! I decided to look over the essay guidelines again. It did indeed say 2000. However, it did not say 2000 words. It said 2000 characters. That included punctuation.

“Cupcake!” I said again, but this time with much more force.

Well, no big deal, I thought. I am sure there are plenty of extra words hiding throughout the paper. I went through and took out any words that I didn’t think were necessary. I ran the paper through word check again. 1632 words. This wasn't going to be easy. I spent the next forty minutes cutting and slashing sentences that weren’t directly related to the topic. 1200 words.

How many more words would I have to cut? A friend of mine did the math. The essay had to be approximately 500 words. And that was if I was using mostly four letter words. At this point I had plenty of four letter words to use, just not ones that would help me. I cut out any descriptive words or adverbs. 900 words.

I know it is suppose to be this great challenge for a writer to cut out any extra information in a paper and just deliver the true meat of a story. I could rise to that challenge, I could make it happen. I went through again and started to substitute short words for long ones. 700 words. “Oh, a cupcake to your mother!” I said aloud. I spent another hour refining the paper cutting everything to the barest minimum I could imagine. 500 words.

Perfect! I filled out the online application again and pasted my newly trimmed and edited essay. “YOU ARE OVER BY 500” the computer screen replied back at me. What! I started to suspect the computer had it in for me. There was no way I could cut any more sentences, but I had worked so long on this project and I didn’t want to give up or start over. I looked over the essay again, my eyes squinting while my hand hovered over the delete button. There wasn’t a sentence that wasn’t needed. Then I realized what I had to do. I started cutting out any “The” that I saw. I was only over by 300 characters now.

What other words weren’t needed? Did I really need all of the “a” or “of” in a paper? They were sort of unnecessary, and plenty of other languages never used articles. I cut them all out. Soon I found myself cutting out verbs, punctuation, capitol letters. (I don’t think the capitol letters helped at all, but it made me feel productive). Finally, after all the alphabet carnage laid in my computer trash file, I once again tried to submit my application.

“Thank you for your submission! We hope you enjoyed completing this application and we will contact you soon!”

“Go eat a cupcake!” I yelled. I read over what I had finally submitted. It wasn’t so much an essay anymore. It was this coarse, carnal drumbeat poem. I felt like I should read it loudly by a fire. All of the ideas that I wanted to include were there, but that was pretty much it. I imagine when they read it, they will picture me in a loincloth , huddled with a crayon, scratching out my first words on a piece of animal leather.

“Me. Costa Rica. Coffee grows. Man Lives.”

Children Crashing Cars

Or "What's New is New"

My highlight of the week? The story of the six year old boy who missed his school bus. Instead of staying home and watching cartoons all day, he decided to take the keys to his parent’s Ford Taurus and drive to school. He made it most of the way, passing several cars on the street, until he finally crashed into a utility pole. At that point, he got out of the car and started walking to school. When asked later why he did it, he said that he did not want to miss breakfast or PE at school. Man! What kind of breakfast do they serve at his school! But seriously folks, I do really admire his determination and passion. I don’t think there was anything I was that passionate about as a six year old. I wouldn’t risk anything that crazy when I was six. My heart was already hardened and frozen by that age and it was nothing but tough living ever since. It was just Fozzie and I against that cold heartless world. A world where Seasame Street was filled with needles and bums and strangers who didn’t give a squat.

Okay, maybe that’s a little melodramatic, but that point is, I admire and want to emulate his passion this year. Last year, for me, was all about the people connection. Making the world smaller, creating connections, finding ways to get involved. (Or as Will says,“ Petting puppies, smiling at babies, planting trees, saving the whales, or whatever freaking charity you’re doing this week honey”.)

I think the goals this year for my resolutions are more internal. I want to learn more about the world and really try to discover things I don’t know that much about, or as I call it ‘what’s new is new’. There are so many things in the world that I really haven’t taken the time to admire yet, and I am sure there a billion things that exist that I haven’t even imagined yet. I want to fill my brain with so much ridiculous new information that by the end of the year, my entire viewpoint of the world will change. Still the same me, of course, just with different eyes.

One of the first items on my list of discovery, is classical music. I know absolutely nothing about classical music. I don’t know if I was just asleep in class, or maybe I was just sick that week we learned about it, but I really haven’t the foggiest notion of what it all means. So many people dedicate their lives and talents to the studying and playing of classical music, and I can’t even muster a couple of sentences about it. There are people that DIED for the sake of classical music and ruined their lives and the most recognizable piece for me is the Charlie Brown theme song. My hope is that by the end of the year, I can hear just two notes and say “Oh isn’t that the concerto, Summer Bees in the Park, played in the note of G, written by Watersford Richelhiemersomnd.?”. Or, at the very least, maybe just gain a better understanding and appreciation and find out what all the fuss is about.

I mentioned this quest to a recently made friend of mine. I have probably only seen this person a handful of times but I knew they had mentioned classical music as something they had an appreciation for. I was surprised when I ran in to them, by chance, a couple of days later and the first words out of their mouth was, “ I have something for you. One moment, it’s in my car.”

I looked at Paul and made a face of uncertainty. He returned carrying a hardbound book. He handed it to me and I looked it over. It was heavy and I thumbed through the pages. It had biographies of composers, timelines of classical music history, glossaries of terms and instruments. It also had eight cd’s that contained music from the whole gamut of classical treasures. It was a starting point from an unexpected source.

“This is very sweet and kind.” I said, surprisingly moved. I barely knew this person and definitely did not see this coming.

“It is actually very selfish of me.” he said.

“How so?” I asked looking up from the book.

“Well, when I was young my parents had me take piano lessons. I feel in love with classical music. I would play it on the radio whenever I got the chance and spend hours listening. I would wait for Philharmonic concerts to come on and then I would turn up the radio dial in the house . My parents and brother would give me strange looks and then just change the channel on the radio. It is has been very far and few between during my lifetime that I meet anybody who really sees and feels the beauty of the music. If I meet anyone who ever expresses even the slightest of interest, then I want to support that.”

During the next two hours he shared his passion for the music. He told stories about composers and anecdotes about their lives as if he had been there when it happened. He sang several bars of his favorite songs and discussed how women never get enough credit in classical music. Normally if someone talked about something for two hours, I would have slit my wrists already and would have been long gone. This time, however, it was charming. The book wasn’t really his real gift that night, it was his passion and excitement. I would even go as far as to say that it was noteworthy.

Resolved to Relax

It is New Year's day and I am putting the finishing touches on my resolutions for 2009. I have a whole page of things I want to change, learn, and do differently this year. Like most people, fitness tops my list. I am going to work out more this year, eat healthy and be active. No time like the present to make those healthy lifestyle choices.

Unfortunately my gym is closed today.

Instead we decide to make chili cheese hot dogs with zesty seasoned fries. I add cheese on top of my fries. I spend the next five hours on the couch watching movies back to back. I decide to get up and be productive. I make three dozen snickerdoodle cookies.

I end the day with warm cookies and a glass of milk. (Nonfat, of course). I try to imagine what the next 364 days of the year will be like.

All in all it was a great first day of the year .

Upside Down World

Or "Tragic Tales of the Town"

Sometimes I think that world has gone crazy.

Last week I was at work when an acquaintance came in. She put her bag on the counter and seemed flustered and anxious.

"Oh Joe," she said, "Thank goodness you were off yesterday! The most awful thing happened and I am so glad that you weren't here to see it!"

I turned around and gave a quick smile. "What happened?" I asked.

"Well, I was walking down the sidewalk sipping on my drink, when at least four boys on bicycles zipped past me as fast as can be. You know how those young kids are, no respect for anyone. I don't know how fast they were going, I almost dropped my drink but I jumped out of the way at the last minute and they barely missed me!" she said visibly distraught.

"That's crazy ," I said starting to frown a little, "Good thing they missed you and that you are okay."

"Well, I'm fine Joe," she continued, " but they kept on going passing people, not caring who was in their way. They weren't paying any attention. They kept plowing down the sidewalk right past the bookstore. As they were crossing that area a woman was pushing her baby across in a stroller. Wouldn't you know it, BAM, one of the kids smacked right into the stroller. The baby flew out of the stroller, onto the sidewalk. The mother started screaming and I couldn't even believe it was happening. The boy got onto his bike and he and his friends rode off as quickly as they could.!"

"I rushed over to the baby , the mother was crying and security called the ambulance. There were like eight policeman there and they had the paramedics take the baby to the hospital. I was so worried, Joe. I heard the baby was still in ICU." she said wide eyed.

I felt disturbed and deeply annoyed with time. It is amazing how quickly terrible things can happen. The difference in milliseconds it can take to destroy a lifetime is unfathomable.

"Those stupid kids." I said shaking my head in disbelief.

"You are telling me," she agreed , "I was so upset I drove around the area looking for those little monsters. Sure enough I spotted them, about half a block away, behind an abandoned restaurant. There was six of them. I didn't confront them but went back and told the police what I saw. They were so relieved I didn't try to talk to those boys by myself. Apparently they have been receiving complaints about those teenagers for the past two weeks. It was possible that at least two of them had guns.!"

"Wow," I said, " I can't believe that. That is so crazy."

"Yeah," she said, "I am glad you didn't have to see it. It broke my heart, I tell you what Joe .I have to get out of here but it was great seeing you Be careful out there. It is an upside down world."

I was trying my best to process all of this information when one of my security guard friends walked in the door.

"Hey, how is it going," I said nodding a hello, " I can't believe about all of the madness yesterday with that baby being hit by the teenagers on the bike. So crazy."

"What baby?" said the security guard.

"You know," I said, "The baby. Those teenagers who ran into the stroller yesterday in front of the bookstore. I can't believe they ran. I hope the cops caught them."

"What cops?" he said blankly.

"The eight of them that were here yesterday after the incident. The ones who called the paramedics that took the baby to the hospital. That poor mother!" I exclaimed.

"Ummmm…" he started, "I worked all weekend, and I am pretty sure that nothing like that happened. In fact, I know it didn't. There has been no crime in this area for the past six months. We haven't even had a car broken into this year. It has been so boring!" He rocked on his feet and in fact did look pretty bored. He even yawned.

"So," I said, "There were no cops, no baby being hit in a stroller. No crazy teenagers hiding nearby?"

"Nothing like that." he said "But I will take a glass of water if you don't mind."

I thought about the tragic tale she had just told me and remembered some of the other ones she had told me over the past year. The time she went to the gas pump and how she soon realized that it had been tampered with. The hose began spewing gas everywhere. Gasoline on the car, on the pumps, on her clothes. If it hadn't been for the attendant running out, yelling at her to not dial her cell phone, the whole place would have burst into flames. I remembered all of those trips she had told me about, all of those strange characters she met along the way.

Thinking back about all of the details, I couldn't help but laugh. There were elements of danger, surprise, and adventure. There were twists, turns, shady characters and stories we could all learn from. She always pulled from an endless supplies of facts and details. It always kept me interested and wondering where the story would go next. Moving in to this next year, I realize maybe the truth isn't always as important as we make it out to be. I guess I really don't care if you lie to me, just make it a good one.