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.