Wednesday, 02 March 2011

This evening, I attended a “Publishing Seminar” organized and put on by my college. My one word for describing this event is: depressing.

Do you want to know how to take your English degree and get a job in the world of editing and publishing? Be an intern! Yes, that’s right, two of the three people on the panel discussion were editors working for local book publishers (the third was a published poet) and they one of them stressed how she spent their summer during college working as an inern at places where she eventuall got hired. The guy, meanwhile, told his tale of woe how he almost got hired at this great publishing house, but that they decided to go with their intern instead. So then he moved back hom and lived with his parents for a few months while working as an intern at another company. That company eventually hired him.

Did I mention they didn’t get paid for these internships?

The other thing they mentioned was the importance of networking. For example, that same guy noted how he’s in charge of reading the incoming unsolicited manuscripts that they receive every January and May. He says some are good, some are not so good, but regardless, they end up going with people they know – like maybe one of the manuscripts comes from a former classmate of one of the editors. I figured I would go up to him and get to know him after the seminar and tell him a little bit about my book…but then I learned that he received his degree from Bringham Young University.

Thursday, 03 March 2011

Today, over dinner, while discussing the third in what is (apparently) an endless procession of lay-offs at my job, Owen started crying. Turns out, he was very sad that I might lose my job. When we tried to console him, he told us that he still wanted to be able to go to the ball pit.

Yeah, that’s right – did you know my company has a ball pit? Okay, so actually they don’t. Instead, at the local community center, about a mile from my company, there’s a play area for kids. And Owen didn’t want to lose that.

See, when we lived in Big Lake, Jennifer would drop Owen off with me for a couple of hours every Monday while she went to a therapist. At first, I didn’t know what to do with Owen. Sometimes I brought him into my job and took him to the cafeteria to have lunch with my co-workers.  Other times, I took him to Cub, and we’d just walk around and then eat in their dining area. Once the weather became warmer, we went to the local regional park and played on the playground or walked on the beach.

At some point, I eventually realized their was a community center in town, and I began taking him there. For $3, he could play in this kid’s area, with slides, mazes, and, yes, a ball pit. There was even a special area cordoned off for kids under three years old (which he was back then).  This was the perfect place, because he could be loud and crazy, or just sit quietly and play with a toy. When he was done playing for a little bit, we’d go eat lunch off on the side, then head back in for some more play.

The area where we ate overlooked a swimming pool, and Owen said he wanted to go swimming in the pool one day. After several months, I finally made good on that and we began heading into the swimming pool every Monday.

Anyway, today we explained to him that we haven’t been to that ball pit in a long time, and that there are other play areas we’ve been to in the meantime. He said, “but they don’t have pools.” Well, es, we conceded that that was correct, but then we pointed out how we’d been to other pools, too.

Here’s the funny thing: do you the last time we went to that community center? Three years ago today. Owen has more than doubled in age since his last visit there, but he still recalls that place fondly. Pretty cool, I think.

Tuesday, 01 March 2011

Here’s where my day peaked today—

I was running a little late this morning. I quickly brushed my teeth and put on my shoes. I started to put on my coat when Owen, tired and bleary-eyed, came hobbling out of his bedroom. I said good morning. He said good morning. Then I said I was sorry that I couldn’t spend any time with him at the moment because I had to hurry off to school. “But we’ll see each other this evening, okay?” I said to him. He nodded.

This whole time, I was fiddling with my coat. I couldn’t seem to locate my left sleeve. “Ugh!” I said, exasperated. I finally realized that the inner lining of my coat was turned inside out and so I hurriedly tried to fix it. “This stupid coat,” I said.

“What’s wrong?” Owen asked.

“I can’t find my sleeve,” I said.

And just then I found my sleeve. As I zipped up my coat, Owen said, “That happens to me, too, sometimes.”

I smiled. We hugged and I thanked him for his concern. I was awake for another 14 hours – but that was the highlight of my day.

Saturday, 26 February 2011

Today Jennifer and Isla took off for a ladies’ afternoon with all of their female relatives. Owen and I stayed home. I was contemplating doing about five or six different activities (e.g., making good on an offer a chess master made to give Owen a free lesson, heading over to my friend Ryan’s house for computer assistance), but when the moment came, I didn’t feel like doing any of them.

Instead, we just stayed home. Owen played out on the deck, then we matched wits at checkers and chess. We organized some of his animal trading cards and did some dishes. Later, we drove over to Ray’s Mediterranean Restaurant and dined on some yummy comestibles.

While there, Owen asked me if John McCain was still president. I explained that McCain has never been president. “When will he be president?” Owen asked. I said, “Never. Well, probably not. I doubt he would try running for president again.” I then reminded him that Obama was currently the president and that a man named George Bush was president when you were born. He asked who was president when I was born. “Gerald Ford,” I said. Owen admitted to never having even heard of that man. “Yeah,” I said, resignedly, “he’s probably the most forgettable president of the last hundred years.”

Sunday, 27 February 2011

This evening, for the first time in three years, we watched almost all of the Academy Awards ceremony. I just felt like having it on, I guess, for old time’s sake. See, once upon a time, I loved watching the Oscars to get ideas of what films I wanted to see. Later, I made it a goal to see all the movies that won the Oscar for Best Picture, a goal that my wife shared with me. Later still, Jennifer and I would try to see as many of the Best Picture nominees as we could – from 1998 to 2003 that’s pretty much what we did.

It was a lot of fun to see all those movies. It made the Oscar ceremony that much more enjoyable, as well. Then, sometime around 2004, I kind of stopped caring about them as much. I still was curious to see who won what, particularly if someone I really admired was nominated, but I no longer made the concerted effort to see all the nominees.

This year, Jennifer and I saw three of the Best Picture nominees (The Social Network, Toy Story 3, and Inception). I was also rooting for Randy Newman – that perennial loser who, over the past 30 years, had won exactly one of the 19 Oscars he had been nominated for.

Jennifer, Owen, and Isla all went to bed just before the Best Song category. I stayed up for a few more minutes to see who would win. I was so thrilled that Newman won that I went in and disturbed Jennifer, then posted it to my Facebook status. Not only did Randy win, but he gave the best speech of the evening. Congratulations, Randy.

On the downside, I am once again unable to say I’ve seen every Best Picture winner. The King’s Speech…here I come.

Monday, 28 February 2011

Whew! Made it!

Yeah…February is a brutal month for us, and not just because it’s I Love to Read Month. Over the past several years, we’ve all seemed to get sick in February. We all got sick this month, but just mildly. Owen missed one day of school; I never called in sick to work.

February was a tough month last year – Owen was sick for weeks, and Jennifer and I were back in school for the second semester in a row. This year appeared a little easier, I’m happy to say. I’m still busy with my college class, and I’m pretty much done with the winter (a feeling I get every year around Groundhog’s Day).

Of course, I get sick at least once every March or April. It’s been that way for about 20 years. So, as I say good-bye to February, I say hello to a looming illness.

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

Today marks the 10th anniversary of a very special occasion. It’s not a day that I set out to purposely remember, nor is it a day I logged into my list of events. But, as luck would have it, today is exactly one day shy of my sister-in-law Kara’s wedding and, therefore, it was on this day back in 2001 that I attended her and her fiance’s wedding rehearsal and subsequent dinner.

Why is that day so significant, you ask. Good question: ten years ago today was significant because it was on that day that I had the extreme misfortune of putting into my mouth the most disgusting food in my life. Ever.

Let me explain…

Although there are some foods I generally don’t choose, there’s precious little that I find absolutely disgusting. Actually, I’d be hard pressed to name any foods that completely repulse me. There are, however, a few foods that I can not and will not consume by themselves. Milk, for example, is a beverage I can’t stomach. But a bowl of cereal is just fine. Cheese and eggs, too – in a salad or on a sandwich I love them, but I avoid eating chunks of cheese and I never order scrambled eggs or hard-boiled eggs at restaurants. And I might also mention pasta: if it’s strung thin, a’la spaghetti, that’s cool, but those sheets of lasagna are unpalatable (even the texture makes my tongue shriek back).

Now let’s consider some things that can detract from a food’s savoriness: Did you ever eat or drink something while thinking it was something else? I did. I recall once, at the movies, my wife went to get a beverage. When she returned, I saw the beverage was dark and assumed it was iced tea. I took a big gulp. “Oh my God, what is this stuff?” I said in horror. “It’s root beer,” she responded, “what’s the problem?” Well, there was no problem, it’s just that my palate was expecting something else.

Second, do you ever go to a fancy-schmancy restaurant and thus expect to consume a really great meal, only to be left ambivalent? Yeah, that’s happened to me, too. It’s a classic case of having one’s expectations raised too high.

So there I was, sitting at the end of a table in a party room, enjoying the meal that was given to me and other members of the family and wedding party. My wife sat to my left, and her aunt JoAnne was to my right. A couple of times that evening, I had heard that the dessert awaiting was top-notch. After all, it was created by the groom’s mother – and she was known as a wonderful cook.

After dinner, I went up to get a piece of the dessert. Unbeknown to me, my wife had already tried a bite of the dessert and was quietly disappointed. As I carried it back to my chair, my mouth was watering at the looks of it: it appeared decadent in richness, with what appeared to be white chocolate in thin layers (such as you see on a French silk pie), held together with a creamy goodness that looked to be the same stuff bakers shove into donuts (though, I hoped, ten times better).

I sat back down and picked up my fork. Cleaving off a generous portion, I brought the attractive, rich dessert to my lip and gently set it on my tongue. HOLY CRAP! Did that ever taste worse than repulsive. Immediately feeling the dry heaves, I puked it out of my mouth onto the plate and said, “What IS this thing?!?” While JoAnne turned red with laughter and couldn’t stop giggling, my wife scolded me for throwing etiquette to the wind and verbalizing my enormous, sudden hatred for the groom’s mother’s confection.

“James!” she shouted at me, “Don’t be so loud! You’re embarrassing!”  JoAnne continued to laugh. “I’m sorry Jennifer,” I said (lying), “but that is the nastiest clump of whatever I have ever put in my mouth.” Again, Jennifer yelled at me for saying such things, and JoAnne continued to get a good laugh. When she saw me the next day, before the wedding, she again laughed at me, even before saying hello.

I’m trying to think of how to describe the taste without being too terribly crass…so…here goes:

Pour about two cups of milk into a blender. Then add two hard boiled eggs. Then add a block of cheese. No, not provolone or Monterrey jack, something that just barely qualifies as cheese…say…American. And don’t grate it, oh no, just place in a big half-pound block of it. Now, start the blender, but don’t set it to PUREE; CHOP would be a more appropriate setting.

After about 15 seconds, pour the gloop into a latex glove (or condom, depending on whichever is available). Tie off the open end. Now place in the refrigerator for 10-15 days.

Ready?

Now just bite into it.

If you think that it sounds like eating vomit, you’d be wrong. As a person who has vomited, and loathed at the taste it left in my mouth and the acidic revolting sensation of my own spit, I gotta say: vomit tastes better.

I think that experience, which haunts me even to this day and is causing my stomach to do cartwheels just reflecting on it, did have one positive side effect: it has meant that whatever I am served at anyone’s home or restaurant is sure to leave me satisfied by comparison, if for no other reason than because my taste buds live in fear that if they complain, they may be abused so maliciously a second time.