August 1: Veggie Tales

You shouldn't be surprised to know that while growing up, my family ate every possible meal together. During the week, my mom had to get ready for work so it was just my dad, sister, and me eating a bowl of cereal. But every night, Mom would cook dinner and the four of us would sit down together and talk about our days. On the weekends, we did the same, but with breakfast thrown into the mix.

Without the distraction of cell phones, books, or hand-held video games, we would always sit in the same seats at the table. Dad would be at the head with Mom to his left, Lindsay across from him, and me to his right. There would be meals filled with tear-causing laughter and meals of bad-mood silence. There would be times where I would orchestrate ridiculous games of nonsense such as Mom and me leaning into the table and Dad and Lindsay leaning away and then vice versa. Each game would end with uncontrollable laughter which inevitably turned into us laughing at Dad's high-pitched laughs.

I treasure those memories. Not only were these family times responsible for molding my personality and views on life, but I'm starting to believe that the meals we were eating were just as important. There was at least one serving of fruit or vegetables with every meal. We ate most of our meals at home and rarely ordered take-out.

As I witness parents feeding gobs of queso and grease to their kids on a daily basis, I often find myself wondering what these kids will look like when they move away from Mom and Dad and begin deciding what to eat on their own. I strongly believe that if it weren't for the years of healthy and steady diet while growing up, I would be a pudgy mess. Because I ate my fruits and veggies during my crucial years of development, I feel like my metabolism fully established itself which in turn has allowed me to eat as poorly as I currently do.

Although I don't eat like I used to, I'm still extremely cautious with what I eat which is more than I can say about the future of these young fatties. Queso and grease is just the tip of the iceberg, I'm sure. A parent that allows that kind of diet is a parent that brings home a bucket of KFC for a Friday night in front of the tube. A parent like that doesn't pay attention to the hours and hours a child will spend playing video games or surfing the net instead of playing little league or riding bikes around the neighborhood.

There have been documentaries upon documentaries of how America is becoming increasingly obese and lethargic, but I see it in person every day. These kids aren't eating right. Their ideas of exercise is playing Wii fit; a video game. What's wrong with being outside? What's wrong with ringing the neighbors' doorbell and asking if Jimmy can come out and play? Why do I care?

July 24: A Recurring Favor

This post doesn't apply to you, Amanda. It doesn't apply do you either, Phil. This post is for all of you truck drivers. We love our trucks. Some of us drive big trucks and some of us drive compact trucks. The bros lift theirs and the gangstas lower theirs. When it comes down to it, though, we're all driving trucks. I'll even throw in the El Camino with this one. If it has a bed, this post is for you.

Although we love our trucks, we put up with one common request from friends, family, and neighbors. Whenever someone needs to move, guess who they call. Whenever someone needs to relocate a large item (i.e. barbecue, refrigerator, etc.), guess who they call. They call us truck drivers.

I've moved mattresses, barbecues, and couches. I've even escorted a dog to his final resting place. I moved all of these things for other people because I own a truck. I've moved bales of hay, entertainment centers, and patio furniture. Why? Because I own a truck.

I'm not complaining. It comes with the vehicle and I know that. When you purchase a truck, it's inevitable that you will eventually be asked to help someone move or be asked to transport something. It can get old though. I hate moving my own things so why would I want to move someone else's?

This post doesn't apply to you, Frank and it's not for you, Kate. This post is simply for all of the other truck drivers/owners out there. You are not alone.

July 10: Life is for the Living

I don't know if it's Austin, Texas or the specific restaurant that I work at, but I have never seen so many old people that look as if they're one sneeze away from keeling over. Walkers, wheelchairs, hearing aids, and a whole lot of loose veiny, translucent skin. Wisps of white hair that refuses to lie flat on freckled and speckled scalps and the posture! My goodness the posture!

It takes three grown men to help one doddery hunchback in and out of the front seat of a sedan. Getting an old lady from her seat at the table to the handicap stall takes another two middle-aged women and one little girl. One lady pulls the hands, one lady slips her right hand under the overcoat and supports the lower back, and the little girl holds the handbag.

The elderly can't walk, hear, or speak louder than a whisper. They usually don't have a sense of humor, they're rude and bossy, and they're crotchety beyond belief. They can't drive, jog, or cook and they contribute nothing to society with the exception of an occasional good story; and that's if they can remember it!

As soon as I can't wipe my own butt it's time to pull the plug. When I need someone to put my parking break on so I don't roll away, it's time for a make out session with a goose down pillow. Let me go to the bathroom by myself. If I can't get up, leave me there; I don't want to return. When I need someone to spoon the dribble off my chin, it's time for a spoon of arsenic to my oatmeal.

I'm a firm believer in euthanasia. I once saw a quote that read, "Life is for the living" and I never really understood what it meant until I started this post. Being carted around and babied all day every day is not living. If you're an infant, then yeah, life will come around. But if you're an old man or woman, life isn't going to get any better for you. It's only going to get worse.

I feel like people keep their parents and grandparents around for their own selfish reasons. An old man that lies in bed all day long, hooked up to a breathing apparatus and an IV is not living. He's a vegetable. Yeah, it's difficult letting go and maybe my views will change when I find myself in that scenario, but keeping them going isn't doing them any favors. If they were in a coma it would be different. But being a hundred and three in a wheelchair by a window without your mind is useless.

I guess what I'm really trying to say here is do what you want. But when I reach that plateau in life where I need someone in the stall with me, I'll say my goodbyes and get on with it.