Author: Gary

French Homework

Recently, my youngest child asked if I wanted to go see movie with her. I was a little surprised by the invitation, but I thought that would be a great idea. I enjoy movies, and they are always more fun to see with company, so I said yes.

Then she asked if I could drive her to the theater and pay for the movie. This question was not as much of a surprise. But I’m a father. I’m used to being the one to pay for everything. So, I still agreed to it.

I asked her what movie she wanted to see, and EM2 said she had been given a homework assignment from one of her classes to see a film called, “Cyrano, My Love.” That seemed a bit odd to me. It has been several decades since I went to college, but I do not recall taking any classes that sent me to movies for homework assignments. I asked what kind of classes she had signed up for and she said it was her French class.

The movie was in French.

That made much more sense, but also sounded like a lot less fun than the movies I thought we were going to see. I don’t know a lot about French cinema, but I had images running through my mind of black and white films of mimes smoking cigarettes and dying slow, agonizing deaths while a gathering of strangers applauded and whispered bad poetry.

Like I said, I don’t know a lot about French films.

Despite my misgivings, I agreed to go. I suppose I should clarify that it was actually my wife who agreed that both of us would go. I was simply too slow trying to come up with a good excuse to stay home.

Off to the movies, we went.

Our adventure into French film started off a bit rocky. We parked in a parking garage that advised we could get our parking ticket validated at the movie theater. When we bought tickets at the front ticket counter, my wife asked about our parking. The young man behind the window said we could have our parking validated inside at the concession stand.

Inside at the concession stand, the fine young gentleman at the cash register told us tickets could be validated outside at the ticket booth. Either neither one of them had any clue what we were asking them to do, or else this was some kind of scam the parking garage people were running to make sure everyone parking in their facility paid full price.

With no immediate resolution to the problem, I bought a bag of popcorn. I figured if I was already at the front of the line of the concession stand, I wasn’t walking away empty handed.

We went into the theater and found seats for ourselves.

The movie we were seeing was only one film of many that were being screened for the sixth annual, French Film MiniFest. The entire day was devoted to watching and discussing classic French movies. When I heard we were attending a film festival, I assumed that we would soon be surrounded by pretentious, twenty-something hipsters with man-buns and questionable bathing practices. Instead, the theater slowly filled up with old people like me, who apparently had nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon. I admit to being a bit disturbed to find out that I actually was the demographic the theater was shooting for that day.

I don’t recall much (or any, actually) of the French I learned back in high school. I was prepared to sit in the theater and catch a two-hour nap while people on the screen in front of me rambled on in a language I did not understand. I figured at least I would be able to tell all my friends the next day that I had attended a French film festival over the weekend. That was a statement I had never been able to make at any time prior in my life. I could pretend I was trying to become more cultured and sophisticated, instead of merely admitting I had been suckered into helping my kid out with a school assignment.

The movie, however, had subtitles. Instead of a language lesson, it was suddenly a reading and comprehension exam. I put my glasses on and tried to keep up.

To be fair, the movie was pretty good. I enjoyed it quite it a bit. It was the story of the playwright who, in 1895, wrote Cyrano De Bergerac.

To my horror, EM2 asked me who Cyrano De Bergerac was. She had never heard the story of the long-nosed poet trying to win the love of Roxanne for another man. Either I’m a failure as a parent, or EM2 is simply an uneducated lout.

I’m prepared to blame the kid.

When the movie ended, I returned to the box office window. By some miracle, the kid who had been there earlier had been replaced by someone who knew how to validate parking.

We returned to the parking garage and I went to the machine to pay for my parking. I placed the ticket into the slot and … it disappeared. The machine was out of order and it ate my ticket. I started pushing every button I could find trying to get my ticket back. After the ordeal I had gone through to get the damned thing validated, I wasn’t going to pay full price because some machine was having a bad day.

The ticket stayed gone.

We found our car and drove to the exit. When the attendant asked for my proof of payment, I started yelling. My wife and daughter slunk down in their seats trying to make it appear as if I was alone in the car.

The attendant never stopped smiling. He opened the gate, waved me out, and wished me a nice day. I’m not sure if he was amazingly nice, or if he just wanted me gone, but I took the hint and drove away. I don’t know who the guy was, but his boss should give him a promotion and a raise. People who can handle assholes like me and keep a smile on their face are a rare breed.

Despite the few hiccups, my day with my wife and daughter turned out to be a pretty nice outing. I got popcorn, watched a decent movie, and got to park for free. Not bad.

I’m going to call that a win.

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Farewell to Candy Corn

October has come to an end. It is time to say goodbye to Halloween, Trick-or-Treating, and bowls of bite-sized candy treats. This makes me sad, but at least there is a bright side. There will be no more candy corn in my house for another year.

I have never understood why candy corn was created or how it has continued to exist for so long. There is nothing about these tiny little nuggets of nastiness that would make me understand why anyone buys them or, God forbid, eats them. They are neither candy, nor corn, but rather tri-colored plastic chunks designed to make children cry.

Even the color of this stuff is off-putting to the heartiest of appetites. Orange, yellow, and white. There is nothing else in nature that is orange, yellow, and white and is the slightest bit edible. Actually, let me amend that statement: There is nothing in nature that is orange, yellow, and white and is the slightest bit edible.

If a bird saw a caterpillar that was the same color as candy corn, it would immediately turn and fly off in the opposite direction. Even an animal with a brain that tiny knows those colors probably mean the item is highly toxic and it’s not a good idea to try to eat it.

People should have the same good sense.

I understand that people have different tastes. I get that. My dad used to love corned beef with cabbage and liver with onions. He grew up poor, and the few times his family had meat on the table it was usually one of those two things. While I would rather go hungry for a week than eat liver and onions, my dad had very good memories of eating the stuff as a child, so I get why he likes it.

Candy corn is a different matter entirely. It is nobody’s idea of a treat. Putting candy corn in your mouth is on par with eating a scented candle. You can do it, but you won’t enjoy it and everybody who sees you do it is going to think you’re a little weird.

When I went out trick-or-treating as a kid, there were always certain houses in the neighborhood that I would avoid. I didn’t avoid the houses because of the people that lived there, I didn’t care too much who was handing out candy if it was the good stuff. I avoided the houses that handed out the items that a kid my age considered to be “crap.” You know what I’m referring to: apples, toothbrushes, pennies, and other items adults would call “healthy alternatives.”

But I would happily take a bruised and rotting apple over one of those small cellophane bags full of candy corn.

Conversations with my friends on Halloween night often sounded like this:

Friend: “Are you going to Mr. Smith’s house?”

Me: “Yup!”

Friend: “You know he murdered four kids on Halloween last year, right?”

Me: “I know, but he’s handing out full-sized candy bars.”

Friend: “What about the Johnson’s house. They have candy corn.”

Me: “I’ll go over to their house later. I have to get some eggs and toilet paper first.”

Candy corn is a scourge on our world. They are triangular shards of misery that I am convinced were invented only to suck the joy out of the word “candy.”

And the worst part of all is … my wife likes them.

I don’t know why. Perhaps there is some deep-seeded childhood trauma that makes her think she likes eating candy corn. Her taste buds may be damaged. Or she may simply have horrible decision-making skills.

She did agree to marry me after all, so her mental capacity has always been suspect.

But whatever the reason, she does like them, and that means that every October, the little nausea bombs turn up in my house. They are like vermin that only move in for one month out of the year. It could be worse, but it could certainly be better.

As we move into November, I can rest easier knowing that my house will be candy corn free for the next eleven months. But I can never completely relax. I know that it is only a matter of time before they show up once more.

There must be people other than my wife that buy candy corn. They wouldn’t keep making the stuff if someone wasn’t buying it.

Would they?

Or maybe, no one is buying it, but there is some massive, Illuminati-level conspiracy to keep candy corn around. Is it possible that candy corn is part of some kind of macabre, government experiment? Are scientists trying to discover how long it will take before children are brought to the point of outright rebellion and rioting over the presence of candy corn in their trick-or-treat bags?

I suppose it’s possible. Even probable.

In fact, now that I think about it, I see no other plausible explanation.

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A Good Old Fashioned Halloween

Next week is Halloween, and all over the world there will be children dressing up in costumes and knocking on their neighbors’ doors asking for handouts. These wandering vagrants-in-training will be wearing all the latest safety gear our modern world can provide them; bright day-glow colored costumes that stand out for hundreds of feet, flashing  lights attached to various body parts, and open-faced masks that allow for full peripheral vision while crossing busy streets.

But where is the fun in all that?

I miss the good old days when children had to take their lives in their hands if they wanted to pester the neighbors for those little compressed chunks of sugar and chocolate. If the rewards come too easily, nobody truly appreciates what they receive. After a few near misses with cars in poorly lit streets and dark alleyways, kids of my generation learned to truly savor every fun-sized candy bar and cellophane-wrapped hard candy.

I remember one year of trick-or-treating as a young child, I was wearing a store-bought dinosaur costume. The main costume was a dark green, vinyl one-piece that covered me from neck to feet. Of course, the material was so cheap one of the sleeves had already torn most of the way off while I was putting it on, but it mostly held together. The color was so dark, car headlights could not illuminate it no matter how close the driver came to running me over. I felt like a ninja, cartwheeling through roadways as traffic blew past completely unaware of my presence.

The mask I had was a hard plastic thing that covered my entire face and was held in place by a single elastic strap that went around my head. The strap was attached to the mask with a single staple on each side, adding the risk that at any time it might break and the elastic would recoil and snap out one of my eyes. Or at least leave a nice red welt on the side of my cheek.

There were two small eye holes cut out of the mask. The holes were about the size of a quarter and they were placed way too close together to allow for any peripheral vision or depth perception. They were perfectly designed for maximum risk of injury to the child wearing the mask. I’m not sure if that was a design flaw, or a pre-planned feature of the costume.

Every year, we lost a few people while they were out trick-or-treating. But those were just the slow ones that let their attention wander during crucial moments of wending through the neighborhoods. The survivors came away faster, smarter and more experienced than their failed counterparts. It was a harsh, but effective, selection process. The winners got candy. The losers got lovely newspaper articles written about them the next morning.

Keep in mind, the world was not so badly overpopulated in the 1970’s and 1980’s as it is now. I think that may have been due to the annual culling of the children we call Halloween. In the 1990’s, people demanded children’s costumes be safer and the obvious result of that trend is that now the world has way too many people living in it.

Maybe the old ways weren’t so bad after all?

We have made child panhandling too safe these days. The fun has disappeared along with the risk.

Several years ago, the United States even pushed back the end of Daylight Saving Time a week so children would still have sunlight during the prime trick-or-treating hours.

What was the purpose of that? Trick-or-treating in daylight is like wearing skis in the desert. You can do it, but it makes no sense to anybody watching.

Trick-or-treating was meant to be done in the dark. Why else would people put on costumes? In the dark, that vampire costume looks cool. In the daylight, you just look like the weird kid nobody at school wants to talk to. You know the one: the overly pale kid that always overdresses for whatever event he shows up at.

A cape and a tuxedo just don’t cut it when the sun is still shining.

 I think our current generation has weeded out everything that made Halloween fun.  We might as well be keeping the kids at home and handing them a pile of candy purchased earlier that day at the grocery store. Costumes can be sweatpants and t-shirts as they watch TV and eat their “loser candy.”

I say we need to bring back the cheap plastic costumes and the suffocation risks that came with it. Start remaking the hard plastic masks with no breathing hole over the mouth and zero visibility for anything that isn’t standing directly in front of you. And change the clocks so the sun goes down at 3 PM on Halloween night.

Are we going to lose a few kids in the aftermath? Of course, we are. But the ones that live to see November 1st are going to thank me for all the fun they had the night before.

Happy Halloween!

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Natural Born Athlete

I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I will say it again, but I am out of shape. I know I am out of shape because my body keeps sending me little reminders that I’m not allowed to do things I did all the time when I was younger. Things like play sports, run long distances, or touch my toes without sitting down and breaking into a cold sweat. It is a little bit discouraging when you have to get down on the floor and brace your back against a wall just to tie your shoes. It isn’t the greatest start to a new day.

When I was younger, I got hurt all the time, but the injuries all made sense. I earned each and every one of my battle scars. In my teens, I dislocated my knee while playing football. I also tore a muscle in my leg playing baseball. In my twenties, I injured my shoulder in a fight. I was in my thirties when I broke my hand playing softball, and I bruised two ribs in my forties sparring in a karate tournament. Every one of those injuries happened for a good reason. Perfectly understandable forces of nature interacted with my body to cause all of them.

More recently, I have discovered that I sustain injuries for no apparent reason. I might be sitting on the couch and get a sharp pain in my neck, or perhaps I will stand up too quickly and get a massive cramp in my calf. Just a few weeks ago, I woke up in the morning and, as I got out of bed, I realized that at some point during the night I pulled my hamstring muscle.

Apparently, I can’t even sleep anymore without risk of sustaining physical damage. I thought that lying perfectly still for several hours surrounded by blankets, a mattress and a pillow would be about the least risky thing I could do, but somehow, I managed to hurt my leg during that prolonged period of inactivity.

My body has completely failed me. It is breaking down and falling apart all on its own with no need of further help from me.

I have never been what people refer to as a “natural born athlete.” I am not, and never was, a paragon of physical prowess. However, once upon a time, I did have the ability to successfully remain motionless without serious bodily damage. Not anymore. These days, massive muscular and skeletal failures may be just one overly exuberant breath away.

I need to work out more. I need to lose weight and eat better. I know these things. None of that is mind blowing news. The day I woke up and discovered all of my Hawaiian shirts were now form-fitting outerwear was a huge clue that I am no longer the same size I was in high school. But how am I supposed to risk getting on a bicycle or lifting weights when I know that pulling a muscle in the back of my leg only required me to lie down? If I attempt anything more strenuous that total immobility, am I going to just spontaneously explode?

Maybe I should just accept these phantom pains and injuries as a sign. The universe no longer wants me to work out, play sports, or involve myself in any further physical activities. I should be taking up more sedentary activities to keep me busy, things like movie marathons, rocking chair calisthenics, or competitive slow mouth breathing. I bet I could be really good at that last one. If they ever make it an Olympic event, I could probably win a medal. Maybe not gold – I’ve met some fierce competitors in my day – but certainly silver or bronze.

Since exercise appears to be a non-starter for me, I guess I will have to find other ways to improve my overall health. I suppose I could start eating better. It’s just that most of the stuff that’s supposed to be good for you tastes like dirt and sadness.

I am going to have to think about my limited options for a while; come up with a new plan for improving my overall health that doesn’t involve risk of self-harm or eating kale. However, sitting upright in this chair as I write down my thoughts is beginning to take a toll on my fragile physique. I need to rest and recover my strength.

 I think I am going to go take a nap. I just hope I can lie down on the couch without causing any bruises or broken bones. No pain, no gain, I suppose. I’ll let you all know how it goes.

If I survive.

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Wishful Thinking

Four years ago, I dropped my oldest child off at the dorms to start her first year of college. I admit that at the time I was a bit sad. My baby girl was growing up and taking the first steps to becoming an adult. I thought that it was only a matter of time before she left her mother and me for good.

That was just wishful thinking.

In June of this year, EM1 left school and moved back home. And not just for a visit. She lives in my house full time once again and there is no exit date in the foreseeable future.

I wouldn’t mind so much if things went back to where they were before EM1 went off to college, but unfortunately there have been some drastic changes over the past four years. Changes that might be improvements in her eyes, but they have not made living with her any easier.

Now that she is an adult (her words, not mine), she has developed certain habits and ways of taking care of herself that no longer fit the previous family dynamic. She behaves less like a daughter and more like a roommate.

To clarify: she behaves like a roommate that eats everything in the fridge, pays no rent, and makes a mess of the house without even attempting to clean up after herself. If she actually were just a roommate, I would have kicked her out of the house three months ago. But because she is family (although the DNA tests haven’t come back to confirm that yet) I am compelled to let her stay.

For now.

When EM1 was merely a child, I could ask her to do chores and she didn’t complain. She did not actually do the chores, but at least she ignored my requests silently. Now, when I ask her to pick up her stuff or help with cleaning the house, she tells me that the house is fine as it is, and she sees no reason to change it. If I want it cleaner, she says I should clean it because I’m the one with the problem.

For example, EM1 left half of a tissue on the counter recently.

Half. Who the hell uses half a Kleenex?

She had a cold and was constantly blowing her nose. Although we asked her to throw her mess away, my darling child declined the request. The half tissue (along with several other used tissues) got tossed in the garbage by her frustrated mother. EM1 immediately complained that she had set the half tissue aside to use later and we had wasted it.

Feeding her has become a problem as well. When she was little, EM1 ate whatever meals I fixed because that was the only thing available. Now, if she doesn’t like what’s on the plate in front of her, she will fix herself something else. Of course, she is still using stuff in the house that I paid for and probably had planned to use later. If she can’t find anything in the house she likes, she will go out and get something from a restaurant using the credit card that I pay for.

A few days ago, my wife made some scrambled eggs for us. EM1 asked if she could have some and my wife said, “Of course.” EM1 then proceeded to say, “But don’t use so much salt and pepper. You season it too much and I don’t like that.”

In a restaurant, that behavior might work. In a house where you don’t pay for rent or food, you keep your mouth shut unless you’re saying, “Thank you.”

Somebody did a lousy job raising that kid.

It must be nice to always get what you want and not worry about where the money comes from. If my dad wasn’t already dead, I would move back in with him and see if I could get away with the same crap that EM1 pulls on me.

I am getting a little tired of my “roommate” treating me like the hired help. I am running out of patience for the constant criticism and complaints.

If I fix stuffing or pasta, EM1 asks why we’re not having rice. If I bake a potato, she wants it mashed. If I open a window or a door to let in some air, she closes it and says she’s cold and that I’m letting bugs into the house. The counters are covered with dishes that seem to appear overnight, and the hallway is full of clothing and furniture that has somehow managed to escape from EM1’s room. It seems even inanimate objects are trying to get away from her.

Yesterday, I was watching a movie on television. I paused the movie to pull some laundry out of the dryer, fold it, and put it away. The process took about ten or fifteen minutes. When I returned to the living room, EM1 was on the couch holding the TV remote and watching a Korean boy band talk about the most interesting foods they ate while on a tour in Europe.

Apparently, the fact that the TV was on pause did not register with her that someone else just might have been watching before she sat down.

Again, as a daughter, I love her very much. As a roommate, she sucks.

Living with a twenty-two-year-old that has had four years of being on her own requires a significant adjustment period.  I am learning that the hard way. We are butting heads over things that never occurred four years ago. My wife keeps telling me that I need to be patient and things will eventually smooth themselves out.

I hope so.

If not, the kid is going to find herself on the streets looking for a new place to live, and I don’t think her chances of finding an apartment will be very good.

Especially since I will probably be the only reference on her application.

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When the Wife is Away

Homemade pizza on a wooden pizza paddle.

My wife plays the trombone in a German band. I have mentioned this before (And the Band Plays On), so I won’t go into too much detail other than to say that this time of year is her busiest season with the band. She is gone every weekend during the last half of September and during October for Oktoberfest.

Because I enjoy German music about the same way I enjoy getting wooden slivers rammed under my fingernails, I do not go to the Oktoberfest events with my wife. I just stay at home on my own and enjoy not listening to polka music played nonstop for five straight hours.

Ordinarily, being home by myself is not a big deal. Recently, however, there have been a few changes in my life.

I went to the doctor a couple months back because I was having some issues with my blood pressure. It was getting a bit higher than the typical level for sustaining human life and I decided I should get checked out and make sure it wasn’t anything to worry about.

It was something to worry about.

The doctor advised that because of my weight (yes, I have gained a few pounds since retiring, but who would have guessed eating more and moving less could do that?) my blood pressure had gotten high enough that I might have to start taking medication to control it.

I dislike taking medication, so I asked if there was another way to deal with it. The doctor said if I could lose some of the extra fat I was carrying around it might make a difference. He advised me to cut my calorie intake to 1500 or fewer each day, and to stop consuming alcohol, sugar, processed foods, and caffeine for a couple months and see if that helped.

I’m not sure if his attempt to suck all the joy out of my life was to improve my health or if he just had a bet with some of the other doctors to see if he could make a patient suicidal.

I asked if there might be a third option in this scenario. He told me, “no.”

Then he asked which was more important to me, to see my grandchildren grow up or to eat fast food.

That question really hit home. I don’t care for my kids all that much, and I don’t expect I’m going to like theoretical future grandkids much better. Especially if they’re being raised by the wild animals that call themselves my daughters.

Plus, I love cheeseburgers.

I explained my quandary to the doctor, and he said, “Forget it. Go on a diet or I’m prescribing pills to get your blood pressure down.”

So, I went on the diet. And I’ve been really good about sticking to it as well. Except when I’m left on my own. Which brings us back to Oktoberfest.

With my wife gone on the weekends, I am left to take care of myself. This is never a good idea in the best of circumstances. My youngest daughter is still away at college, and my oldest, although she moved back home with me, is usually out with her friends in the evening and I don’t see much of her except at about noon when she is getting out of bed and getting ready for another day of leaving me alone in the house.

So, what happens when I’m alone? Let me walk you through a recent day of fending for myself.

I spent the morning and early afternoon sticking to my diet and keeping busy working in the yard and doing some writing in my den. About three o’clock in the afternoon, I started eyeing a bag of potato chips in the pantry that are definitely not on my diet. Instead of eating them, I decided to go out and get some exercise, so I put on a pair of sweats and went for a walk.

While I was out walking, I started feeling sorry for myself because I was alone and hungry. Mostly the being hungry part. I began to think about what food I had in the house and what I should fix when I got back home. We had lettuce and vegetables for a salad, and we also had some leftover meatloaf from a few nights previously.

Those items would have been perfect for dinner, if there was someone else at home watching to see what I was eating. Which there wasn’t.

So, I made myself a pizza with extra cheese, and ate it with a bowl of ranch dressing (nature’s most perfect, artery-clogging food). To wash it all down, I opened up a couple of Mike’s hard lemonades which are mostly sugar and alcohol, neither of which is physician approved on my current diet.

All I really needed to cap off the evening was to smoke a carton of cigarettes to assure that I would be dead by Monday.

That was just one weekend. I have four more to get through without any adult supervision. I don’t anticipate my self-control is going to improve over the next month so I can already hear what the doctor will have to say the next time I see him.

“Mr. Wilbanks, I can see by your test results that your blood is 30% ranch dressing. Your blood pressure is still high, but the good news is your arteries are so plugged nothing is moving around inside your body anymore.”

I blame my wife for all of it. She has seen firsthand what happens when I’m left by myself. She should know better by now.

I need to have a talk with her about her poor decision-making skills.

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Enjoying Deep Dark Thoughts? Follow me on Facebook so you don’t miss a post. Just go to my page and click the “Like” button to receive updates on my blog and other projects.

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