May 31: The Parents

A few weeks ago I wrote about witnessing a brother and sister make a silent connection and how it made me miss my own sister. Tonight, a married couple came in to the restaurant and when asked if they had enjoyed their day off, they responded by telling me something about getting to watch their daughter's marching band at UT. It didn't register that they were from out of town until I was walking away from the table. They were proud parents that traveled a long distance to support their daughter and when I made the realization, my emotional strings were again pulled taut.

The couple reminded me so much of my own parents that I felt an immediate connection with them and wanted every aspect of their visit to the restaurant to be an enjoyable one. The mere fact that they were staying in a hotel in a foreign city to visit their daughter at college made me think of all of the love and support that my parents gave (and still give) throughout my life.

With the exception of having to to get their taxes done at the beginning of each season, my parents came to watch every single little league game. I warmed the bench for entire games when I played basketball in high school, but my parents were always in the stands and they were there for every play I did too. My mom sold candy bars, wrapping paper, magazine subscriptions, Easter candy and gift baskets at work to help with various fundraisers. My dad was always there to help build cars and rockets for Pinewood and Space Derbies for Boy Scouts.

When I moved two hours away for college, they drove up at least every other month to visit and buy me necessities and the occasional goody. When I decided to move to Austin on a whim without any of my furniture, it was their idea to drive to my college town, load all of my belongings from a storage unit into a moving van and then drive the 1,400 miles just to help me move in. I have some really heavy possessions which didn't make the ordeal any picnic either!

I just finished having a video chat with my dad where we talked about everything from the right time to purchase life insurance to getting the most out of my surround sound system to the willingness of today's youth to have premarital sex. I've written posts about how open I am with my parents and how I can talk to them about everything under the sun. It's just one more aspect of my relationship with them that I value so much. I hear stories from friends about their lack of a relationship with their parents and I can't even begin to comprehend.

Yes, my parents will read this. Yes, my mom will cry and she'll call me to let me know how much she enjoyed this post. I'm not writing this for them, though. I'm writing it for everyone else that stumbles upon it. Seeing those proud parents at table 210 tonight got me thinking about my own proud parents. I want the world to know that my mom and dad mean the world to me and I miss them terribly.

May 30: Denial

I've been diagnosed with having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder on many different occasions by many different people; none of which are licensed psychologists. Every time an accusation arises, I politely laugh, shake my head, and deny it. Sure, I can be a bit compulsive at times, but obsessive? I don't think so. Below are a few of my idiosyncrasies. Read them over and decide for yourself.

• I don't like to share my eating utensils or my drinks with friends. This is the one that sparks the most ridicule. It's the way I was raised. I don't want to go around swapping germs with everyone. It's not that I'm terrified of the microscopic organisms festering within your saliva and on your lips. I just don't want to risk getting sick or coming down with something when it can be avoided.
• I always bring six fives, eight ones, four quarters, six dimes, six nickels, and ten pennies to every shift. I know how this looks and very few people know about it. The restaurant I work at requires (although rarely enforces) us to have a forty dollar bank on us at the beginning of each shift. I'm simply following the rules. Why is it so meticulously counted out? Because I like to give exact change and having these amounts allows me to do that for more than one table.
• I keep all of my paper money in ascending order and facing the same direction. Even fewer people know this, but I'm surprised more people don't do this themselves. It's so much easier to find a five dollar bill when you know that it comes before the ten and after the one. I make all of my deposits with my money organized like this too and the tellers love me for it.
• My DVDs, video games, books, ballpark souvenir shot glasses, and my CDs (when I had them) are all in alphabetical order. Again, it is much easier to find The Princess Bride when you're looking in the P section.
• I keep a detailed spreadsheet of how much money I make and spend on a daily basis. Alright, if anyone has any kind of legitimate argument for me having OCD, this would be it. Until now, however, there may only be one or two people that know about it. I can tell you how much money I claimed I made, how much I actually made, what section I was in, and what I bought for dinner on any given day for the past three years. It started off as a New Year's Resolution to record every cent I made/found and how much I spent over the course of a year. By the time December 31st rolled around, it just became habit to keep going. I don't use the information and I don't ever plan to.

So there you have it. With the exception of the latter, these are all examples people have used to try and convince me that I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I guess this post isn't really the best argument on my end for not having it because the list is pretty silly. Just know that any of these things could be taken away from me and I would be able to go on with my life just fine. I don't have OCD. End of story.

May 29: The Weird Guy

He's usually abnormally short or exceptionally tall. No matter how tall he stands, there is something wrong with his teeth. Crooked, yellow, missing. You name it. His hair is just as bad. Receding, greasy, unkempt. Again, you name it. He is never, and I mean never funny. He thinks he is. He thinks you think he is, but he's not. He is the weird guy you work with.

Every place that I have ever been employed (or volunteered) at, there has been that one guy that just isn't right and has something missing from upstairs. I can always pick this guy out pretty quickly because he's always a little too sociable right from the get-go. He always has a some relatable story or a friend that did, or is something great and unbelievable.

Usually this guy doesn't stick around for very long. He either gets fired for being too vocal about certain issues around the workplace or he quits and moves on. My question is not "What's wrong with these people" but "Where do these people end up" and "How did they become like this?"

I know we've all come across that weird guy at our place of employment. He'll stick around for a few months and then just disappear. It's normal for us to just forget about him and move on with our lives, but I want to know where the guy goes next. Does he continue to skip from office to office or restaurant to restaurant giving every new fellow employee stories to share for the week following his departure? What was his childhood like? How can something that ugly and dumb have so much confidence? What's this guy going to look like in fifty years?

It's easy to write these characters off and forget about them, but isn't anyone else as interested as I am? I wish there was a way to follow the lives of these nut jobs and observe the birth of their behaviors.

May 28: Help Wanted

Are you bold and forward? Do you enjoy putting others' needs before your own? Then you might be who I'm looking for. I need someone to order my meals for me.

There isn't anything wrong with my voice and it's not like I can't read the menu, but I simply refuse to talk to waiters. I can't even make eye contact with them, but I love going out to eat. This is where you would come in.

I will tell you what I want and you tell the waiter. When he asks a specific question about my order, you need to be able to ask me the same question and then relay my response back to him. Am I deaf? No. I heard him ask what kind of sauce I wanted, but this is what I'm paying you for.

When he asks how everything tastes once the food has been served, you will answer for both of us and I will stare at my plate and refuse to acknowledge his presence. We will repeat this step when offered dessert. I will pay the tab, but you need to be able to give the server my credit card and act as if it's your card.

If you believe you would be a qualified candidate for this position, please send me a copy of your resume and a list of references. I will then have someone call you and arrange for an interview. Thank you.

May 27: Constructive Criticism

My knees are slightly bent and my feet are comfortably placed a bit wider than the width of my shoulders. I slowly rock my weight between my center of gravity and my right leg. I point the barrel of the invisible bat toward the make-believe pitcher before bringing my left hand around to greet my right. I squint my eyes in concentration and make small circles in the air with my imaginary, maple Louisville Slugger. The non-existent ball kisses the sweet spot of my bat before flying out of sight.

"Your feet are too far apart and you're pointing your front toes too much."

This really happened. Sometimes at work, I get (Who am I kidding? I'm always) bored. I fight this boredom with song, dance, and obnoxious behavior but occasionally I will enter the throes of my imagination with a game-winning, imaginary walk-off home run.

I don't pantomime the act of swinging a baseball bat for professional critique on my swing. I don't go around asking people to give me advice on my follow through, but today I was treated to a good old-fashioned bullshit coaching session.

Please excuse my language, but this nonsensical belief that someone knows what the hell he is talking about when he clearly doesn't really pisses me off. "Yeah, but how do you know he doesn't know what he's talking about? He was probably just trying to help." How do I know he's full of it? Because A, he's five foot nothing and not David Eckstein; B, because he admitted to not being able to catch a fly ball because of his "faulty depth perception;" and C, because he was coaching my swing with an IMAGINARY bat!

Do me a favor, Coach: shut the hell up. I just won the game with my hitting skills so my stance doesn't need any tinkering. Thank you.

May 26: 512

I met someone. She's perfect. She's beautiful and smart. She's caring and compassionate. She has strong morals and she thinks I'm funny!

We've been running into each other every Wednesday night at the grocery store. I don't even know how it originally happened, but tonight was the third time I've seen her and I was going to go for the number.

The past few Wednesdays were spent making small talk about melons and nuts. She has one of those laughs that just melts your face. I feel like I have to talk louder because my heart beats so loudly when she's near.

I knew I could get her number. That's not what I was afraid of. I was nervous about something else tonight. It was a make or break deal and thankfully I got the former. Some guys like blondes and some like brunettes, but I prefer a ho from a different area code.

May 25: The Moment

The itch has returned. The want. The need. The desire. I close my eyes and I can imagine the whole thing. The set up is perfect. The victim; helpless. I'm on the prowl. The aspiration consumes my thoughts. I dream about it. I watch the scene play over and over. Today, I will fulfill the temptation.

I am naked under the soft, salmon bath towel and my image stares back at me as I stand over the bathroom sink. Eye contact not breaking. My wet hair is plastered to my forehead. The comb cuts effortlessly through it and slicks it back. The pomade adds a devilish shine to the already dark color. My teeth are brushed and a drop of cologne is delicately placed behind each ear.

The engine jumps to life with a simple clockwise turn of the key. The cold air feels good against my recently shaved faced as I merge into traffic. My foot takes control of the speed and my hands guide me. My eyes, however, are searching for the perfect location. I drive through streets with parked cars and streets with playing children. I pass laundromats and post offices. Schools and community centers. Then I see it.

My black '04 Camaro sits with its engine idling a low growl. The skin is stretched white across my knuckles as I grip the steering wheel at ten and two. My jaw slowly and meticulously chews a flavorless piece of Dentine Ice as I wait for my victim. I rev the engine and then I rev it again.

I watch the traffic approach in my rear view mirror and then watch it through the bug-splattered windshield pass. I watch the traffic light change from red to green to yellow and back to red. I watch the cars stop, go, and speed up to beat the light. I watch until I see it; the midnight blue minivan. The Mickey Mouse antenna ball. The dent on the sliding door from a kicked soccer ball unable to find its target. The victim. The light is red. The prey slows to stop just short of the crosswalk. The moment is perfect.

I slam the accelerator to the floor and push against the wheel to anchor myself into the seat. The cross traffic races by in front of the target as my speed increases. The pitch of the engine's scream reaches higher and higher before dropping into the next gear. My jaw is set. My stare is concentrated. My victim is clueless. The minivan waits for me to send it into the cross traffic and to its eminent demise when suddenly, and without warning, I locate the yellow diamond-shaped sign in the lower right-hand corner of its back, tinted window. Baby On Board.

At the last second I jerk my speeding vehicle to the right and through the red light. I make it through the traffic, but just barely. Horns blare, lights flash, and brakes shriek. I wipe the sweat off my brow with a shaking hand and look into the rear view mirror. My victim shrinks and disappears around the corner. The moment lost.

May 24: Coast to Coast AM

It was about ten o'clock at night. I was stretched out on the couch with my three-year-old son peacefully sleeping face down my chest. I had been reading his favorite book to him.

I laid there listening to my son's shallow breathing and the sounds of the old and tired house. A creak here. A groan there. I was just about to doze off when I heard a movement on the other side of the living room. I turned my head and looked into the dark corner of the room just in time to see an unidentifiable shadow begin its journey in my direction.

The movement was accompanied by the sound of quick, shuffling feet. I held on to my son's sleeping body as I watched the shadow creep toward the couch and disappear from my view as it reached the base of the sofa.

My heartbeat quickened and my breathing stopped as I waited for the unknown to happen. The sweet innocence of my son's naivety did nothing to calm my own angst and fear. I continued laying there with my head turned toward the room with my eyes searching for any movement at all when a dark spot rose from the ground and blinded my view of the room behind it. The darkness was less than a foot away from my face when two red slits for eyes slowly opened and stared deep into my own eyes. We looked at each other for what seemed like hours before the eyes closed and the shadow descended to the floor and scurried off.

* * * *

Imagine hearing this story on the radio while laying in your bed in an apartment that you knew once belonged to the landlord's recently deceased mother. As soon as the caller had finished her experience, I leaped from my bed and ran toward the light switch which was inconveniently across the entire room. I then stayed up until four in the morning playing MLB '05 with all of the lights in the apartment turned on.

I have been listening to Coast to Coast AM radio as I drift to sleep every night since my junior year of college. It is a show that has no boundaries. Usually there is a guest that talks about any particular area of expertise and when nothing is scheduled a segment entitled Open Lines allows listeners to call in and share accounts of ghost, shadow people, and UFO sightings and other weird experiences.

Most of the callers are clearly insane, but occasionally there is that one story that scares the crap out of me. No matter how bizarre the story gets, the host of the show maintains a level of interest and never criticizes. Normally the callers and guests go on and on about these ridiculous topics which puts me to sleep, but whenever the host opens the lines for callers, I quickly reach for the remote and change the channel.

May 23: More Blank Thoughts

I can't tell you how often I sit and simply stare at my monitor. Sometimes I have music playing and sometimes I sit and listen to the sounds of the street outside of my apartment. Occasionally I will browse my favorite websites hoping for some kind of inspiration. I click through web address after web address praying for an idea to come to me.

As the hours tick away and my Blogger canvas remains blank, my creative juices drain away. When this happens, even if I come up with an interesting topic, I don't have the energy to write it in a way that would be fun for a reader. It's one thing to come up with the idea of feeling guilty for eating the same food that two fat people are eating. It's another thing to be able to write it in a unique fashion.

When writing, I find that I have to be in the right mood for certain topics too. Now, I've got three things going against me. I need a topic, a creative way to express the idea, and I have to be in the right mind set to make it happen. I think the latter two kind of go hand in hand, but it isn't something I've given a lot of thought to.

I do know that these nights of blank stares and screens always ends the same. I stare at the computer, browse the web, listen to some music, look at the clock every five minutes, and end up writing about having nothing to write about. I also always end up cursing my decision to force myself to write every day. What was I thinking?

May 22: Wasted Idea

I have a great idea for a blog topic. I could really do some creative writing on this one particular subject. I could come up with a bizarre story to incorporate the theme or I could just write my honest feelings on it. No matter how I put it, it's sure to be comic gold. I've had good ideas in the past that have created quite a stir amongst my readers. I've had what I thought were good ideas only to watch them fizzle and not get recognized as I thought they should have. This subject, however, is sure to get some attention. I'm positive it would achieve a few thumbs-up likes on Facebook other than my own. The only problem, is that I know at least one person that would be terribly offended if she were to read it.

When I first started this goal of one post every day for a year, I had every intention of writing whatever was on my mind. It would be an unrated version of what Brandon was thinking. My thinking was that if you didn't like what I had to write, too bad. No one was forcing you to read it. They were my thoughts. My opinions. It was my blog and I was going to take advantage of that whole freedom of speech thing. Trouble is, I'm too nice.

I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I don't want someone to view me as a bad and malicious human being. I don't do well with confrontation because of this and I rarely give an honest opinion for fear of upsetting someone within listening distance.

I've had a few opinionated posts so far this year. In fact, my mom was quick to point out how she interpreted my feelings toward a certain sect of people from yesterday's entry. I've written about bumper stickers and snaggle teeth and I've felt guilty after both of those topics.

Although I have a great topic to write about, you'll never get the pleasure of finding out what it is because of this concern. The person that I'm afraid it will offend the most probably doesn't even read this blog, but on the off chance that she does, I would hate for her to take the topic personally (even though that would be my furthest intention).

May 21: The Rockin' Tomato

The TV blared on about last night's Yankees/Rays game before transcending into the possibility of a Terrell Owens/Donovan McNabb reunion in Washington DC. My lettuce was limp and the pizza was cold. The Mountain Dew was bubbly and delicious, but not worth the eight dollars admission.

As I sat and watched the BarFly trivia ask questions like "Who played Dirty Harry?" on a shared screen with SportsCenter, I heard the faint jingle of a small bell behind me. The sound of a new customer entering the Rockin' Tomato for an overpriced pizza buffet lunch.

I took a bite of my dry and stale pizza before turning to see what the new patrons looked like. My eyes were treated to a site of two bovines waddling to the counter to pay for their meal. As entertained as the sight was, my conscience felt nothing more than guilt.

There I sat at the prime of my youth. Slender, energetic, spry, flexible, and healthy. There I sat with a plate of pizza and a glass of carbonated sugar. I had my plate of salad, though! Lettuce, broccoli, cucumber, and carrots. The perfect balance to my accompanying dishes smothered with a viscous honey mustard dressing.

I stared at my plates. I took a slow gulp of soda. I turned a dressing-covered cucumber upside down revealing its natural dark, green bordered disc of pale seeds and continued chewing my pepperoni and sausage slice. I watched the two cows make their way past the salad bar and to the pizza beneath the heat lamps. The bull, with his bedsheets-sized plaid shirt, licked his lips and proceeded to fill his cup with Dr. Pepper. His wife, in all her moo moo glory, suppressed the urge to take an entire pie and settled for two slices of cheese and one piece of pepperoni.

Disgusted, I looked down at my food. My cold pizza had transformed into a plate of gray, slimy tentacles reaching for my heart. The arms of death grasped at my throat and attempted to squeeze the breath out of me. My pulse slowed to a crawl as I struggled to hold on to my life. The green soda gargled and spat boiling, hot streams of acid on my hands. Red hives and pink rashes spread from each landing zone and worked their way up and under my sleeves. Each individual character of my salad leaped off of the plate and sprinted across the table towards my chest. The carrots grew angry expressions of hate and rage as the cucumbers wheeled their half-covered bodies on to my lap.

My stomach tried to fight back by growling and my heart pleaded for mercy as it pounded on the inside of my chest. My mouth grew dry and my bowels silently belched hot and invisible clouds of gas. The patrons at the buffet turned and hissed deep, satanic fits of laughter. Their demonic, red eyes were dark and orange pits of flame that licked at their eyelashes.

I could barely finish my bite as I struggled with my young, athletic legs to stand. I grabbed my paper napkin from my lap and threw it on top of the fighting broccoli and flapping romaine lettuce. My vision was blinded with a white light from standing too fast, but I persisted. I reached in front of me for the bell on the door and pushed. I heard one last growl of laughter from the Dr. Pepper chugging bull as the door closed behind me and I escaped into the hot Austin air.

May 20: Nature

One day, a scorpion stood on the side of a stream and asked a frog to carry it to the other side.

"How do I know you won't sting me?" the frog asked.

"Because if I sting you, I'll drown," the scorpion said.

The frog thought about it and realized that the scorpion was right. So he put the scorpion on his back and started ferrying him. But midway across the stream, the scorpion plunged its stinger into the frog's back. As they both began to drown, the frog gasped, "Why?"

The scorpion replied, "Because it is my nature."

-Anonymous

May 19: Ouch

The next week or so could prove to be a challenge for my goal of one post per day for one year. I sit at my computer today with my left hand completely wrapped in a soft, white gauze with my pinky finger serving useless. Any attempt to reach the Q (ouch) when using my home-row keys is a painful stretch. At work today, a martini glass shattered in my hands as I tried to place it in a rack at the dish pit and now I have three stitches on the palm side of my hand just below my pinky.

It takes me roughly an hour to write, edit, and post each entry, but now that I am typing at a slower rate, it could take a lot longer and I just don't have the patience for that. I may just copy and paste articles I find on the Internet. It's not the same as writing an original idea down in my own words, but it's still a post.

I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause, but I urge you to suck it up.

May 18: What's in a Name?

About two months ago, I wrote my landlord an email asking him if he would mind if I got a puppy. He quickly wrote back with a defiant no and I've been looking forward to August ever since. I don't know if I'll still be in Austin when my lease expires, but I do know that I want to find a place to raise a new little friend.

Sometimes when I'm sitting by myself, I like to pretend that the little guy is running around. I sometimes call out a prospective name just to see how it would sound. Because I haven't come up with a good name for my nonexistent dog yet, I use this exercise to hear how ridiculous I might sound when screaming the name out in a park.

The problem that I've found is that I can't think of a decent name. I want a name that is representative of my lifestyle and interests. I have recently been watching the entire Seinfeld series in chronological order for no other reason than to find a good dog name. Here is the unabridged list of what I came up with from the show: Kramer, Mickey, Puddy, Bosco, Watley, Cosmo, Bania, Newman, and Reggie (for the coffee shop without the big salad). Some of the names are average at best (Mickey, Watley, maybe Cosmo, and Reggie) while the others are just plain silly.

I've thought about other interests of mine that could inspire a good name, but am still coming up short. I've thought about Marty from Back to the Future and Trevor for the former Padres closer, but nothing seems to click for me. The only thing I love as much as Seinfeld and the Padres is Survivor, but I can't imagine calling my dog Probst.

Alone, I will wait for August to arrive and I will continue my name-test exercise. "Kramer, get off of that!" "Hey, Trevor! Did you miss me?"

May 17: Nocturnal Menace

As I lied in bed last night, my eyelids grew heavy as various thoughts and contemplations skipped through my mind. I thought about the season finale of Survivor and the new people I had met at the bar that night. A light fog began to form over my conscious thoughts as I slowly descended deeper and deeper into sleep. I was just getting comfortable in the N1 stage of my NREM cycle when I felt the slightest tickle crawling on the hairs of my left arm.

My body shot up and with my right hand cupped, I quickly scooped the invisible menace up and launched it into the blackness that was my bedroom. A tingling sensation ran sprints up and down my spine as I continued flailing my arms and kicking my legs in hysteria. I reached over and flicked the reading light on, but the yellow circle of illumination it cast on the carpet didn't show any signs of nocturnal arachnid activity.

I stared at the ceiling with the light on for a few minutes before switching it off and closing my eyes in a second attempt to fall asleep. Somewhere in the dark, a confused and discombobulated spider was wondering where he was and how he got there. Did he fall in between the cushions and the back of the sofa? Did he land on the desk with the computer or in the wastebasket with the junk mail? Would he attempt to get back to the bed or was he simply a figment of my imagination? One thing is for sure: an unknown nightly visitor is creepy as hell.

May 16: Lindsay

Last night a group of ten sat in my section. It was clear that they were mostly family with a few friends thrown in. There was the father, the mother, the grandparents, and the brother and sister. I don't know if they were celebrating an occasion or just dining out. I do know that when I set the large country fried steak in front of the (I'm guessing here) eleven-year-old girl, her face lit up and her glance immediately adverted in the direction of the (guessing again) sixteen-year-old brother across the table. Her facial expression said it all, "Look how big this thing is!" The shocked expression and gleaming smile of the brother responded with an inaudible look of support.

This small and wordless exchange really pulled on my emotional strings. I have never experienced a real connection with a table. I rarely care what the guest has to say and my interaction with all of my tables is rarely more than the necessary exchange of dialogue. This particular table was no exception by any means, either. In fact, I was a little perturbed by the way the father of the group was flexing his alpha-male muscles and ordering me around. That innocent look of astonishment and amaze that the little girl radiated towards her brother and the way the look was received made me think of my own sister and how I sometimes feel like she is the only one that can relate to me.

Six years my minor, Lindsay is my only sibling. I'm extremely close with my entire family, but I am on a completely separate wave with Lindsay. She gets me. I get her. When we're together, hilarity ensues. I can always get a laugh out of her and she is one of the funniest people I know. She is my biggest audience and although I cross that line of silliness and pure annoyance during every visit with her we still get along beautifully.

Lindsay received all of the good genes between the two of us. She's beautiful and insanely intelligent. I wish I had half the amount of intellect that she possesses because watching her breeze through school and life these past twenty-one years has been simply inspiring. Most people are either book smart or street smart. Lindsay is definitely both.

I love everything about my sister. Sure, we've had our share of run-ins, but what pair of siblings hasn't? Other than the occasional hiccup in our relationship, we've always been very close. The look that little girl gave to her brother made me think of Lindsay and made me realize how much I miss being with her. I've seen my sister once in the last year and for a pair that gets along so well, that's not nearly enough.

May 15: Guacamole

I hate cooking. I go out of my way not to cook. My daily diet consists of cold cereal and milk, a banana, sometimes a smoothie, trail mix and some variation of something "toastable" (i.e. Pop-Tarts, bagels and bread, or a leftover piece of pizza). Smoothies are the most extreme I'll get, but only because the cleanup is so easy. Throw a bunch of ingredients in a blender, drink it up, and rinse out the jar. Done! Other than smoothies, the craziest dish I know is Tuna Casserole.

It's about as easy as it gets, and I still hate making it. I hate dicing the onions and cooking the noodles. I hate scrubbing out the casserole dish before putting it in the dishwasher. I hate dividing the leftovers into plastic dishes that I can microwave later for a quick meal. The only reason I force myself to go through the misery of making the dish is because it tastes so great.

As much as I hate preparing things to eat, lately I have been on a huge salsa fix. I have a great salsa machine that perfectly dices the ingredients into a fine yet chunky concoction. I simply install the three-blade contraption, load my tomatoes, onion, garlic, cilantro, etc., lock on the lid and turn the handle. It does the rest. The best part of it all? Cleanup is an absolute snap! I've had so much success with my salsas that tonight I thought I would take my salsa-making skills to a new level. Instead of placing tomatoes into the machine, I bought avocados. I was going to try my hand at guacamole.

One of the things I hate most about cooking is that I can never get the recipes right. I hate buying all of the ingredients and making a batch of something only to later find out that it was all for naught. For whatever reason, it always takes me a few tries before I get any recipe right. Because of this inability to get things right the first time around, I had hesitations of even attempting the guacamole. Avocados are expensive and I didn't want to have a container full of nasty yet pricey green mush.

* * * *

I was absolutely shocked at how good the guacamole turned out. It is definitely some of the best guacamole I have ever had. I had to scrub the salsa machine a bit more than usual when I was done, but I have to admit that it was well worth it. I can't wait until I get home from work tomorrow so I can have guacamole on everything as I watch the Survivor finale.

May 14: Sleeping In

11:40 pm: Go to sleep in hopes of waking up early to go running and rowing.

6:23 am: Violently awaken by the sound of empty dumpsters being slammed on asphalt by trash trucks.

7:15 am: Peacefully awaken by the sound of rain and thunder.

10:12 am: Naturally awaken, but realizing it isn't the best weather to row in so there isn't any reason to get out of bed.

11:15 am: Awaken again by the sound of thunder and dripping water. I might as well stay in bed and prepare for a long weekend of work.

12:05 pm: All signs of grogginess are gone as I roll over, turn my bedside light on and read as I listen to the continuing sounds of Spring rain.

May 13: BackWords Story

It wasn't Freddy Krueger that kept me from wanting to fall asleep last night; it was my back. As the hours slowly ticked away, I remained awake watching video after video on YouTube. I wasn't even watching anything important or special. I was simply procrastinating from extinguishing the lights and crawling into bed.

Yesterday at eight o'clock in the morning, I woke up in extreme discomfort. My lower back was in knots and no matter how I turned my body, the pain was unbearable. Suffice it to say, I didn't get any more sleep. I stood up and tried stretching it out, but it was too painful. For the remainder of the day, I sat relatively motionless. Occasionally I would massage my back and twist just enough to feel the stretch, but I definitely didn't start my new push-up cycle like I had wanted to.

I went in to work last night fearing that I wouldn't be able to lift a tray or bend over for a dropped pen. Thankfully, the night progressed without too much worry and my back slowly started working itself looser and looser. It never felt great, but at least I was given some mobility to work with.

When I got home last night, I listened to the remainder of the Padres' game and wrote my blog. I took a shower and had a bagel. The hours of the night slowly drained as the fear of going back to bed and waking up the same way filled my mind. At 2:30 in the morning, I turned off the lights and went to bed.

This morning, the only pain was virtually gone and I was able to move with ease. I don't know if it's because I spent seven months sleeping on an air mattress or if it's because I'm getting old, but for a guy that is so naturally spry and flexible, my back has really given me some fits within the last year. I'm praying that these little spasms, cramps, and kinks are mid-twenty normalities and I'm not going to be crippled by the time I hit my mid-thirties.

May 12: Let's Make a Deal

I have a digital Black & Decker toaster oven for sale. I'm only asking $15 (o.b.o.) because it doesn't toast evenly. It still works, but not as good as it did when it was new. Email me if you have any questions.

And so it begins. Two or three emails the first week, one the second, and one the third. "I want your toaster. Is it still available?" This is the most common email. I respond that it is and if they're interested they should call me. Rarely, do I get another email from these people that write to me first.

When someone is serious about buying an item I have for sale, it marks the beginning of a series of extremely awkward conversations and interactions. A few emails are exchanged before a phone call is placed. This, of course leads to the transaction itself. You either meet at a common place (this is my preferred method) or they come to your home, track mud throughout your recently vacuumed living room and use your bathroom while you stand awkwardly making small talk with the husband. The latter really happened and I will never let that happen again. That is, until I sell my refrigerator and they have to come and pick it up.

No matter where you meet, though, it's always awkward. I feel like I have to justify why I'm getting rid of an item and I'm always afraid to count the money in front of the buyer for fear of offending him/her. The chit chat, above all else, that comes along with the transaction kills me. I don't care what you want the item for and I don't want to talk about your past or mine.

Craig's List is great on so many levels. You can find a job, a pet, and even a date. You can sell your car, your house, and even your date. Completing the deal is just plain awkward. There isn't a better word to describe it. You're meeting a complete stranger online and then trusting him/her to sell you a legitimate item or you're asking him/her to trust you. If we meet to make a deal, let's not try and beat the uneasy situation with small talk. Let's just get it over with.

May 11: Honest Abe

Many claim that Abraham Lincoln was the greatest president ever. He was the first of the Republican party and was responsible for the abolition of slavery. We all associate the name with the Emancipation Proclamation and the Gettysburg Address. He was a father of twelve children and the inventor of the telephone. In addition to his communicative technological findings, he was responsible for the aerosol can and the camcorder. Few know, however, the true story behind his "Honest Abe" persona. Legend has it that the sixteenth president of the United States never told a lie and for the most part, that's true.

He was born on the twelfth day of February in 1809 to farmers Thomas Lincoln and Nancy Hanks in Hardin County, Kentucky. His father was an unusually strict man and some have been chronicled as labeling him the Joe Jackson of the nineteenth century. Thomas wanted the best for Nancy and himself and he would stop at nothing to achieve it. Unable to father more than one son, Thomas turned his authoritative ways of raising an honest replica of himself on Abraham.

Threats of being flogged and/or grounded rained heavily on Abraham's shoulders if he were ever caught lying. From the moment he could speak, he was being warned of the repercussions of being dishonest. Lincoln's fears of his father were clearly presented in 1945.

It was a group of Boy Scouts that discovered the collection of Lincoln's personal fire-light-written journal entries on his unusual upbringing while on a weekend retreat deep in the Indiana hills. One of the passages reads, "Today is my fourteenth birthday and my father and stepmother have given me a second-hand sweater for the remainder of the cold winter. It is light blue in color with faded, red horizontal stripes and it irritates my skin. It smells like Grandma Bathsheba and there is a tear in the right armpit. I can't stand the retched thing but I am so terrified of Father and his insistence on telling the truth. Because of these fears, I felt a certain obligation to respond honestly when asked if I liked it. My true opinions on the gift have resulted in a punishment for being ungrateful and I am now on a time out in my room without supper. Signed, Abraham Lincoln."

Lincoln and his honest nature had other encounters throughout history. In fact, his truthfulness had a tendency to get him into a lot of trouble with his wife, Mary Todd. On many occasions while getting ready for a night on the town, Mary would ask Abraham if a dress she was considering made her look fat and because of his reluctance to tell even a white lie, he had to answer truthfully. Of course, not every dress made her hips look big but there was, on an occasion that frumpy gown that gave her the illusion of being fuller figured than normal. We all know women that don't take too kindly to being given answers they're not looking for and Mary Todd Lincoln was definitely one of these gals. This being said, it was not uncommon for Abraham to arrive at a distinguished gala holding a plastic baggy of ice over one of his eyes.

Up until the night of his unfortunate assassination by the coward John Wilkes Booth, Lincoln had kept his promise to his father. He never told a lie. This promise resulted in three bruised ribs, fifteen childhood time outs and an undocumented amount of black eyes from Mary Todd. Throughout the years, though, Lincoln remained true to his word. It wasn't until that fateful night in Ford's Theatre when Lincoln was surrounded by a team of medics, actors, stagehands, and Mary Todd that he uttered his first fib. It was the First Lady that had tearfully asked how he was feeling to which he replied as he gazed into her damp eyes and said, "I'll be fine."

Abraham Lincoln was declared dead after a nine-hour coma. The world was shocked and saddened at the loss of the man that had changed so many lives. The man who abolished slavery and invented the skateboard was gone. His graciousness and unselfishness had touched and inspired many, but it was his unwillingness to tell a lie that continues to amaze millions of people to this day. He was a father, a husband, and a president. He was Honest Abe.

May 10: Souper!Salad!

People sometimes ask what my favorite restaurant is. I'm always a bit embarrassed to answer because it's not Ruth Chris or something fancy that one might expect me to say. To me, Souplantation is the best restaurant ever. Even though I get the same exact thing every time I visit, there's just something fantastic about a buffet of handmade soups and tossed salads. The focaccia is disgusting, but the way the warm blueberry muffins mingle with Won Ton Chicken Happiness is to die for.

Unfortunately for me, there wasn't a Souplantation in Pennsylvania and there isn't one in Austin either. I have now been away from my favorite dining experience for over a year. There is, however, a place called Souper!Salad! I had driven by it every single day on the way to work and I had always wondered if it was like a Souplantation. I asked some people at work if they had ever been and a few said they had and that it wasn't very good. I didn't know if they were just really picky or what, but I had to try it for myself. After all, not everyone likes Souplantation so it stands to reason that these people might not like Souper!Salad! either.

Today I had the opportunity to judge for myself and I have to say that I was thoroughly disappointed. It was like the poor man's version of Souplantation. The salad buffet had the standard fixings, but didn't have any special mix like the Won Ton Chicken Happiness that I love so much. I had to eat off of cheap plastic plates compared to the heavy duty ceramic ones I had grown accustomed to. To add insult to injury, there was actually a container of gold fish crackers and Nilla Wafer cookies. That may not sound like a problem, but it looked cheap and tacky.

There were four soups to choose from and the Southwest Chicken soup that I selected wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great either. There weren't any blueberry muffins or delicious chocolate squares and there was only one flavor of frozen yogurt! I mean, c'mon on! Where's the swirl?

For the past six months I had been driving past Souper!Salad! wondering (and hoping) if it was a Souplantation in disguise. Today I came to the sad conclusion that the only way I was going to get myself some delicious Tuna Tarragon was to fly to California and visit the the original restaurant.

May 9: Controversy

I've considered writing about this topic before, but had always thought it was too controversial. I know that I'm going to piss a lot of people off with this post, but I can't not write about it any longer. The thing is, I have such a strong opinion on it that it's literally eating away my insides because I haven't expressed myself.

What I want to write about today is how important a good introduction to a blog is; especially if your primary means of advertisement is Facebook. Now granted, it's late and my introduction here probably isn't as good as it could have been if I had a decent night's rest, but you get my gist. This post is just to see if I could get Facebook readers to click my link based solely on my introduction.

Every day when I write an entry, I copy and paste the URL to my Facebook so all of my friends can click the link and read the entire article. Facebook usually allows just the first few sentences to be displayed in the NewsFeed and I've always wondered how well my introductions reel in my readers based on those few lines.

There isn't any more to this post. If you're reading this from Facebook, I hope I tricked you. If you're just a random reader and this was the post you had to read for the day, I apologize.

May 8: 6th Street

When I moved to Austin, everyone was telling me about 6th Street. They told me that if I wanted to truly experience the city, going downtown was a must. This was the place to be to listen to music, dance, drink, and just get plain silly.

I had been looking for an opportunity to get down there up until two days ago. Because of my work schedule and other obligations, the opportunity had eluded me. I suppose there were times when I could have gone alone, but how fun would that be? Now that I've been, however, I could do without going for quite some time.

They were right. 6th Street is crazy. I'm not exaggerating when I say it is simply a street with bar after bar after bar for what seems like at least three blocks. Once the night really gets underway, the city closes the street to traffic and the college kids take over.

Not only did people tell me that I had to experience the scene, but people also told me that it was bad news. I had heard story after story of people blacking out and getting lost for hours on end. I heard stories of people losing wallets and cell phones yet finding drunk girls to take back home with them. After spending the last two nights down there, I can definitely see how one could get into so much trouble.

It seemed as though every bar we went into was having some sort of drink special. Two dollar beers, shots, and mixed drinks were the standard. Five dollar pitchers of liquor. Not beer, but liquor! There were bars that were bringing their bottled beers down to a single dollar. At one point last night (which was a Friday by the way) free bottles of beer were being passed out. I had never seen or heard such madness! Cocktail waitress made the rounds in each club passing out shots as patrons decided whether or not another drink at the bar was a good idea. Sure each bar had bouncers and doormen that were trained to spot an intoxicated individual, but once in, one could easily go nuts.

What really amazed me about the downtown scene was how people acted as the night progressed. At one point, I literally stood in the middle of the street and just observed. Girls wearing tiny skirts and dresses and high heels stumbled along in each others' arms as meat head guys undressed them with their eyes before going in for the swoop. The streets were also littered with the city's homeless enjoying the chaos. Cops were at every corner just waiting to pounce on drunks.

Simply writing about my two nights on 6th Street doesn't do justice to what the scene was actually like. One has to see it to believe it. They were right. 6th Street is crazy. I'm glad I experienced it, but I don't think I'll be going back anytime soon.

May 7: That's Simply Not True!

It's no secret that I'm obsessed with Survivor. I've applied nine times to be on the reality show. I've written multiple posts on the topic. I've seen every episode and I get genuinely upset when an episode is spoiled for me. I avoid certain websites until I've seen the most recent episode and I've been known to shed tears from emotional tribal councils and family reunion scenes.

People are always telling me that I would make a great castoff. I have a natural agility and athleticism that would help me in physical challenges and I'm smart enough to know what's going around me. Although I don't do so well with bug bites, I'm an overall outdoorsy kind of guy so spending 39 days outside wouldn't bother me.

One of my biggest setbacks in being a good survivor, however, is my inability to lie, cheat, and manipulate. Throughout its ten-year run, the show has evolved from one (somewhat) integrity to complete chaos and manipulation. I recently Netflixed the first season and the castaways were completely opposed to creating alliances to remain in the game. Alliances are now crucial for survival. If you aren't a part of one, you're gone. Period.

Being a part of a group isn't the only thing that has changed throughout the years. Contestants are now creating multiple alliances and bouncing back and forth between them. In order to do this, playing a dishonest game is a must. Feelings get hurt and paranoia runs deep throughout the course of each season.

I am fine with all of this. I know it's a part of the game that I love. I believe there is still a way to beat the game when manipulative players are involved. On last night's episode, however, I watched in amazement as one member of a strong three-person alliance made accusations against another to stir more paranoia. The accusations were completely made up and so ruthless that the accused broke down in tears of pure frustration and bewilderment.

As I watched with my mouth open, I tried to imagine what my reaction would be in the same situation. How would I respond if I were a part of what was thought to be such a strong alliance only to be manipulated against for no other reason than to scare other castaways? I know it's a part of the game. I know you have to be cunning and merciless to further yourself, but watching that scene changed the way I fantasized about being involved. Would I be able to sit there and listen to such bold-faced lies about me without breaking down in tears?

I love Survivor. I want nothing more in life right now than to be on the show. I'm confident I would dominate physical challenges. I don't think I would cause any tension at camp. People would keep me around for pure entertainment purposes. The show has a way of creating lifelong friendships, but allowing myself to trust new friends within the game could be my one major downfall.

May 6: Spot-Free Rinse

Insert card. Remove quickly. One moment please. Do you have a super saver card? No. Do you want to buy a car wash? Yes. Remove nozzle and select grade.

I've never actually purchased a car wash at a gas station, but with my good friend coming into town today, I thought I would wash away the one hour's worth of rain from last week that had left my truck covered with brown water spots. All I was looking for was a cheap rinse and the four dollar option was perfect.

After putting $30 worth of gas into the tank, I entered my truck into "laser-wash" garage and let the touch-free machine do its thing. Before I knew it, and while my truck was still dripping with spot-free rinse, I was being signaled to drive through and go on my way. Apparently, a four-dollar car wash didn't include my favorite part: the high-powered blow dry.

I wasn't worried though. I live a few miles away from the gas station on a straight road. This would be the perfect opportunity for me to rev my engine and dry the vehicle for free. As I pulled out of the station, I put the accelerator to the floor sending my truck speeding down the road.

The needle of the speedometer slowly made its clockwise turn to 20, 30, 40 miles per hour. The standing water on my hood shook and clung to the paint before letting go. The drops on my windshield crawled up the glass before launching off the roof and behind me.

50, 60, 70 miles per hour. This was a lot more fun than sitting still and watching the blue blowers try to pry my windshield wipers off. I was racing around cars to continue my increase in speed; weaving in, out, and around traffic. Pedestrians flew past as they stared in disbelief at my speed.

The needle on the speedometer was nearing 80 miles per hour as my truck spat its excess water on cars we were passing. Just a little longer and my truck would be dry. I was excited to get home so I could inspect my vehicle. Would my theory prove effective?

Street lights zoomed by. Trees were blurred. Just as I was about to slow down to make the left turn on to my residential street, however, I noticed the flashing lights.

May 5: Babies

I just read an article in the most recent issue of Entertainment Weekly about the upcoming documentary, Babies. The piece made me remember sitting in the dark theatre months ago when I saw the trailer. The preview begins with two infant brothers from Africa sitting next to each other playing with piles of rocks. One reaches for a nearby empty plastic bottle and is instantly pushed away by the other. In response, the first baby bites the naked shoulder of his brother who proceeds to jerk the biter by his neck before going back to his rock leaving the biter with his head buried in his hands while crying. All one shot and with no music.

The trailer goes on to explain the premise of the film: four babies from four different parts of the globe (Bayanchandmani, Mongolia; Tokyo, Japan; Opuwo, Namibia; and San Francisco) are filmed for one year. Sufjan Stevens' The Perpetual Self or "What Would Saul Alinsky do?" plays as the kids play with animals, CDs, and bouncing chairs. The babies gaily flail their arms and legs on tables, dance, swim, cry, and giggle. As the music's tempo picks up and the infants are nurtured, carried, fed, and bathed, the audience can't help but laugh with the toothless kids before a great finish to the trailer with one of the kids sitting in a basin with a goat lapping the water.

According to the article, the film has no dialogue save for a few background voices. It's a film that is eighty minutes long and shows the simplicity of being young and how uniquely kids in different cultures are raised. There is a quote from the little boy from Mongolia who is now four-years-old and after watching the movie that he stars in, he says, "This is a film about me, the sky, and how my big brother has been beating me up." Precious!

I don't know if this movie is going to be any good and I don't know if it will be able to keep my attention for 80 minutes. Normally I'm not a baby person at all. People go crazy for babies. I don't. Period. I am, however, really excited to see this film. Not since Young at Heart has a trailer sparked so much emotion from me, so I hope it lives up to the hype.

May 4: Kiss From A Rose

If you know me at all, you know that I love to sing. If you know me at all, you know that I suck at singing. If you know me at all, you know that I don't actually know the lyrics to any song. I know the first line of the chorus and that's about it, but it doesn't keep me from yadda-dat-datting through the rest of a song and irritating any innocent person within vocal range.

One might think that because of my love for singing obscure songs without knowledge of the lyrics, karaoke would be the perfect venue for me. It's not. Music and Brandon simply do not mix well. I either can't keep up with the highlighted words or I have a tendency to want to rush to the next verse. Couple that with my inability to carry a tune and you have a deliciously awful train wreck of entertainment.

* * * *

Matt Wieters had just gone 0-4 in his anticipated Major League debut in Baltimore. The Orioles still beat Dontrelle Willis and the Tigers before a sold-out crowd and a post-game display of fireworks. Once the crowd had dispersed from Camden Yards, Ken, Steve, and I made our way across the street to Pickles Pub where four bottles of selected beers were being sold for five dollars from sidewalk vendors. We watched happy Baltimore fans play Corn Hole, Beer Pong, and Billiards as we made our way through the various rooms of the pub and threw back beer after cheap beer.

After the bouncers escorted us out with the masses from the pub and forced us to finish our drinks, we found ourselves in a small bar down the street from Oriole Park with a few lingering fans. People moved in slow motion around me and I had to speak slower and louder to get my words out clearly. As if I had been planning it for years, I made a beeline to the karaoke disc jockey and put my name on the list of singers as soon as I entered the building. I had Seal's Kiss From a Rose stuck in my head for about a week and this was the perfect outlet.

Within minutes of submitting my name, I had forgotten all about it. I made my way to the bar to get another beer and was in the middle of an important conversation of useless drivel and nonsense when the D.J. told the crowd to give it up for Brandon. Remembering what I had done, I took a defiant gulp of beer before slamming the glass on the bar top and made my way to the stage as the "Bayya (Bop Bop) Badda da Da (Bop bop)" introduction began. I had just enough time to dislodge the microphone from the stand before the first line on the teleprompter started highlighting itself in lime green.

"There used to be a graying tower alone on the sea. Yoooouuuu became the light on the dark side of meeEEE." Never had I gotten further than these two lines. Never had I opened a CD cover or looked up the lyrics online and I couldn't read fast enough to keep up with the continuing highlighting of (to me) nonsensical words. I stood on stage and read the lyrics to myself as the background singers echoed what I was supposed to be singing.

At this time, a drunk Steve emerged from the restroom and saved the day. He leaped on stage, grabbed the mike out of my hand and took the reigns of the evening's entertainment. Was Steve a closet Seal fan or was he just really good at reading? I don't know, but if it weren't for him, the audience of eight people would have had to endure four minutes and forty-eight seconds of torturous noise and cringe-worthy drunken awkwardness.

I'm not usually this inebriated when making an attempt at karaoke, but the result is always the same. I select a song that I think I know, stand on stage and struggle to make it work until the D.J. pulls the plug or until I ditch the stage and the still-playing song and background singers.

For the remainder of that summer, Ken and Steve were kind enough to remind me how horrible I was and how I owe everything to Steve. It was all in good fun; or at least I think it was, but mark my words: Someday, I will blow an audience away with a hilarious '90s love ballad. I just need to learn a lyric or two before that dream becomes a reality.

May 3: For It's Root, Root Root For The Visiting Team!

The home team's pitcher stands on the rubber and peers over his glove at his catcher. He shakes off his teammate's first sign and goes into his windup following the second. As he rocks his weight on his left leg, his right foot toes the strip of white on the mound and settles just in front of it. He shifts his weight to his right leg as his left rises and crosses his body, cocking the gun that is his right arm.

Upon its release, the red-laced, white ball hangs in the air for a bit too long. The right-handed visiting slugger waits for it to drop into his zone as he brings the barrel of the bat around to meet the white ball of leather, yarn, string, and cork. The crack of ash echoes throughout the sold-out crowd and the ball soars over the left field wall into a sea of silent fans.

I leap to my feet with joy and yell my support as the batter jogs around the bases. All around me, fans remain seated and shoot me glaring looks of hatred as my hands slap each other with furious repetition. I remain standing. I remain screaming. My applauding fails to cease. My team has just scored and I want the 43,000 fans around me to know who I'm rooting for.

There isn't anything like cheering for the visiting team. It's a weird feeling being the minority at a ballpark. I've supported the Padres in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Washington D.C., and Pittsburgh in that order and seen them win the first two and lose the last two. I was humiliated in a crowd of over 50,000 in L.A. as my beloved Padres gave up the lead in the eighth, but was overjoyed to watch them regain it and win the ballgame in the ninth. The game in San Francisco was a close one, but again, I was able to hold my head high as I walked out with a Friar's victory. After waiting through a three hour and eleven minute rain delay in D.C., however, I had to walk out in shame as the Nationals scored thirteen times compared to one Padres' run. My team took three games of a four-game series from the Pirates and yet I was at the one game they had lost.

It's a tight rope to walk. To sit in a crowd wearing the visiting team's colors. If your team wins, it feels great. But if your team loses and you're the minority, humiliation is an understatement. Walking out wearing that jersey and cap is like walking out with a sign that reads, "Make fun of me, please!" There isn't any point in arguing or getting upset. You just have to smile at the hecklers, laugh with the taunts and act as though none of it matters.

For as long as I can remember, I have been asking for an authentic Padres jersey and I finally got my wish this past Christmas. Ironically, I had to move away from San Diego and my Padres before receiving my gift. Now that I'm in a city that A, doesn't have a Major League team and B, is closest to a city who's team is outside of the Padres' division, I rarely have an opportunity to wear it. A jersey isn't a piece of clothing that you can wear on a (non-baseball related) date or to dinner with friends. It has to hang in the closet and collect dust for just the right occasion.

This Saturday, however, I will be making my maiden voyage to Houston to watch the Astros take on the Swingin' Friars and guess what I will be wearing. Guess how I will be acting in the event of a Padres' run. I only hope that I will be walking away from Minute Maid Park with a feeling of pride and not that of embarrassment.

May 2: Hardy Har Har

Being in the restaurant industry can cause one to grow increasingly bitter towards people and life in general. A bossy patron. An obnoxious child. I've even been tempted to cry over spilled milk. Anyone, whether in the industry or not can relate to these things. One thing that most people outside of the industry may not be aware of, is that of the jokes that servers hear too often.

Occasionally a server will be so preoccupied with the job at hand that he or she won't be able to check up on a table right away. When the server finally gets a chance to stop by, he or she might ask something along the lines of, "How is everything?" Far too often, a hasty eater that has already licked his plate clean will respond with, "It was awful." Funny, right? You see it's funny because the guest actually thoroughly enjoyed the meal and is being facetious by complaining that it wasn't any good. To the guest and his friends, this is comic gold. To the server, it's another opportunity to exercise the pseudo laugh.

Other examples of such quips include, but are not limited to, lines about not asking for a dropped check and lines about never receiving an ordered drink after quickly downing the delivered one. Because I've worked in this God-forsaken industry for so long, it is extremely rare for me to hear an original joke delivered by a patron that causes me to genuinely laugh. Today, it happened.

I was in the process of delivering a tray of drinks to a table on the patio. I carried the tray out in front of me which blocked my view of the ground and outstretched legs. In an attempt to step over the latter, I accidentally kicked one of my guest's feet. It wasn't anything serious by any means at all, but I apologized nonetheless. The patron didn't miss a comic step, though and reacted as if I really laid into him. "My leg!" he screamed. "I'll never play piano again!"

Now, I don't know how the story will translate through the modern wonders of blog, but I found the reaction so far from the ordinary that I was sincerely entertained. The exaggerated response to an innocent mistake was perfect. The punchline was flawless and executed with quintessential timing and finish. What really pulled the whole thing together, however, was in the way that he refrained from laughing at his own hilarity.

I've heard them all. Reluctantly passing on an appetizer to save room for dessert. Forgetting a wallet and offering to wash dishes to pay for the meal. It takes a certain individual to make a horrible joke in a restaurant, but it takes a different kind of person to make a joke that a server actually finds amusing.

The next time you're out with your friends and you feel the need to make a smart alec comment in regards to your wobbly table, consider how original the line actually is before going for the laugh. Making a fresh joke is difficult, but trust me, it's possible. Not only will you receive a genuine laugh, but you will make a server's day and he or she might actually use it in that particular day's blog!

May 1: Restroom Etiquette

When using a public lavatory, there is a certain etiquette one must follow. Here are the do's and don'ts one should keep in mind when using such a place:

Do:

• Upon entering, open the door and stare at the floor when passing someone washing his hands.

• A quick "thank you" when having the door held for you is in order, but nothing more.

• Maybe an "excuse me" when crossing paths.

• Go in, do your business, wash your hands, and get out.

• If you go in with a friend or family member, discussing the movie you just saw is okay, but nothing more.

• Keep your children locked in the stall with you and let them ask questions as loudly as they want. Everyone else does it so it's okay.

Do Not:

• Do not make eye contact through the reflection in the mirror above the sink.

• Do not, under any circumstance, make small talk with the other patrons.

• Do not carry on a conversation with the person in the neighboring stall.

• Do not grunt, groan, moan, yell, or sigh.

• Do not reach for the paper towel dispenser if someone is using the neighboring sink.

• Do not comment on the most recent thunderous flatulence. We all heard it. You don't need to double check.

If you keep these few things in mind when using a public restroom, you will find your stay very pleasant and rewarding. Thank you.