Seven windows to my soul

Though dates had little meaning to me then it must have been September of 1977 that my mother registered me for kindergarten class. As I recall the teacher ran it like an open house where moms sat down and filled out the necessary paperwork while kids got to try out the standard array of classroom toys: blocks, cars, dolls, etc. Light refreshments were served in the form of animal crackers on napkins and orange juice in Dixie cups

These were the real animal crackers too and not the more economical bootleg Animalitos that I pick up in the ethnic foods aisle for my kid now. The cups were those standard run-of-the-mill pattern everyone had in their kitchen at the time. You know the one I mean? Harvest gold flowers with a fold-out handle on the cup for easy holdage. Speaking of which, be sure and check out this video for Dixie Cups in honor of Earth Day.


Anyway, I remember not caring for the orange juice because it had pulp floating on top. Now I prefer extra pulp while my toddler whines about it the extra fruity goodness and makes a point of dramatically spitting it out when I try and pass it off on her hoping she won't notice.

Another early school memory is from when I was at the listening center with Kristie in first grade. We each had those gynormous headphones on and were listening to some audio cassette that I'm sure told us to circle the red balloon or write the letter A or some other equally engaging task. At one point in the exercise, Kristie leaned down into the speaker of the tape recorder to tell me she thought it was almost time to line up for lunch. She thought somehow that by talking into the speaker of the tape recorder that the sound would electronically be transferred into my ears.

Stupid Kristie.

At 13 I took piano lessons. I had played the trumpet in band so I wasn't totally ignorant when it came to reading music and I had practiced my piano recital piece ad nauseum I'm sure much to my family's delight. It was I Just Called to Say I Love You by Stevie Wonder.

When the time came I chose to play the song without sheet music because I had been told that would leave a bigger impression on the audience. I made it through almost the entire song, including a major key change, without so much as a single flub, but for whatever reason when I got back to the refrain on the last verse I missed my fingering and quickly broke tempo in order to try and correct the mistake. Scott, a fellow student, claimed he couldn't tell that I had goofed. He no doubt lied, but he was kind that way.

Nice Scott.

Not long after my seventeenth birthday I was living as an exchange student in Seyssinet, France. I took classes with several other American highschoolers during the morning, and we were all left to our own devices for the rest of each afternoon. There was this one chick who always wanted to scribble defaming remarks about me in my workbook. She was cute and a year older than I, but because I was a late bloomer, I didn't know at the time that workbook scribbling was some highschool girl pre-dating ritual.

One day she proposed getting together to hang out in the park after school. She wanted champagne to commemorate the event and indeed it was easily attainable at the local grocery store so I bought a bottle. Several giggles and quaint remarks later the bottle was empty but I wasn't feeling particularly intoxicated nor had the courtship progressed beyond sideways glances and flips of the hair, so I proposed going back to the grocery store for a bottle, only this time for a bottle of rum and a bottle of Coca Light.

I'm sure some of the more pessimistic among you can see where this is going. You would be right in your assessment. I've got family who reads my blog, so I'll spare y'all the sordid details, only some of which I even remember to this day.

There was the expected first shared kiss, another shared kiss, feeling up, being felt up, vomiting, foggy memories, having to move to a vomit-free bench, regaining consciousness with a semi-circle of nosey locals watching the show, getting on the wrong tram and having to eventually take a taxi back home. The brief courtship didn't last long after that. OK, not at all. The paramour did suggest weeks later that we stay in touch once we got back to the other side of the pond, but I think my ego had been damaged by the whole thing, so I never tried to contact her after that.

Some chicks you just gotta stay away from.

While going to college I still lived at home. One morning when I was in my early twenties I woke up at oh dark thirty to the sound of a ringing phone. Still asleep I instinctively picked up the receiver but said nothing. I could hear my father on another extension talking with some other man whose name I recognized but had never met. Without even needing to eavesdrop any further to determine what was going on, I hung up the phone and whispered My grandmother just died. She had been my last living grandparent.

By the time I hit thirty I had been married a couple of years to my wife whose grandmothers were both still living. One day one of them called, and again I answered the phone. When I learned who was calling I was quick to tell her that my wife wasn't home but would be back within the hour to which the elderly woman replied That's okay. I called to talk to you.

I had agreed to help her with some shopping the day before and apparently something made it into her grocery bag that wasn't hers. She was calling to see if instead maybe it was mine. When I asked what it was in the bag she explained that it was a toy car -- not a matchbox sized car but a model replica sized car -- and she thought maybe I collected them and was therefore the rightful owner. Incidentally I don't collect model cars and never have, but I liked that she had thought of me in this way. After years of being grandparent-less, on that day I felt like I was a grandson again.

Only last week my wife and I were talking about the television shows my daughter has, much to my dismay, taken a liking too. One of these god-awful shows is Big Big World which is hosted by a huge Plushy who talks like a washed-out stoner who hails from the West Coast. I told my wife that Meryl and I don't watch that show very often because, as I put it, the show comes on at the buttcrack of dawn. Meryl, who being not yet two years old and therefore at the stage where she parrots back everything she hears, responded simply yeh . . . uh huh . . . butt crackers.

Like sands through the hourglass, so are the seven windows to my soul.

I'll teach you

I am 35 years old. I have yet to learn the Electric Slide.

Truth be told

Time is a precious thing when I've a kid who's sleeping and I've doubled my teaching schedule on top of that, but I'll make this brief. In response to which of my previous claims listed here was not 100% true, I'll preclude with this:

In Steve Martin's book, Shopgirl, the main character whose name is Mirabelle has a theory on lying that for whatever reason I think has merit. She says that in order for a lie to be effective it must have at least a certain minutiae of truth to it and it must also be embarrassing to tell. Each prerequisite serves its own purpose. A lie that has a certain element of truth to is easier to tell convincingly, and a lie that was somewhat embarrasing for the teller to tell is less likely to lead to having to answer further questions that, if answered wrong, might uncover the lie being told.

It is true that I do not wear underwear, but it is not true that I don't own a pair of button fly jeans. I do in fact own a single pair of button flies which makes the last statement untrue. Such is the beauty of the coordinating conjunction. Sneaky little devil.

In response to the few family members and lone googler who responded, the statements about driving the police car and chatting with the priest in the confessional were in fact true. My sister was quick to point out a typo on my part about the police car already running and the cop tossing me the keys. I'll be honest. I don't remember which part of that was true. Was the police cruiser already running when I jumped in, or did the cop toss me the keys to crank it? I can't remember. I would have corrected the discrepancy in my writing were I to have detected it first, but since it was already pointed out, I thought shame on me; I'll just leave it.

As to chatting with the priest, again that was 100% true. My wife and I were in Prague on vacation. He caught me snapping flash photography in the cathedral which is one of the no-no's though he didn't say so and I admired him for indirectly correcting my errant behavior by instead simply engaging me in conversation. He asked me what my religious background was, and I told him I was not Catholic but that my wife was. Apparently, wven as a non-native English speaker, he saw through this non-answer and asked me again what my religion was. When I confessed that I was without religion, Father Petr was quick to share that he felt the message of Jesus Christ was intended for all people because Jesus was the Prince of Peace. When i returned from Prague, I sent Father Petr and email stating that I had cancer and that my wife was in the cathedral that day lighting a candle for me to which he responded:

Thanks !

Praying for your healing.

Fr. Peter

Five months later after undergoing chemotherapy I wrote to Father Petr again updating him on my condition and thanking him for his prayers and kind words. He replied with these kind words. Now, I don't normally make personal emails public, but I think his message is one that would benefit others and therefore should be shared.

Dear Kevin,   I wish you a strong health, all the best for your common life, and the great gift to have a grateful heart in all moments of your life, even those less nice ones.   May the Little Jesus, the Prince of Peace, bless and protect you all!

Father Petr
Monastery of the Infant Jesus of Prague

Even four years later rereading his email makes me a little teary-eyed. I was a stranger he didn't know from Adam. Being the head abbot at what many vacationers see as a common tourist attraction and many Catholics see as a miracle site, he likely encounters thousands of people each day. Surely his in-box is overflowing, but he took the time and energy to write back to me, someone who lives a third of the way around the planet, and in a foreign language no less. I think that says a lot about him and his vocation.

Father Petr's commander-in-chief faces much criticism as he pays his first papal visit to the United States, one of which is that he hasn't done enough to evangelize and bring more sheep to the flock. I'm not Catholic so it's not really my place to make that criticism, but I would dare say that if he's trying to up his numbers, he should consider putting Father Petr in charge of the Programming and Outreach Department. Not only that but Father Petr gets my vote for sainthood.

No lie.

Will the real Kevin please stand up?

There are things about me you people wouldn't understand. Things you couldn't understand. Things you . . . shouldn't . . . understand, but in the interest of public interest I feel it's time I came clean. If confession is good for the soul, then I'm about to do my spiritual body good. I'm going to share with you five things about me, one of which is a bold-faced lie. Cause that's how I roll. Oh yeh, and I'll elaborate a little on each one so's y'all can get some idea as to which one's made up.

Kinda like on Wait Wait . . . Don't Tell Me!, only without that smarmy Peter Sagal and those pesky intermittent requests for contributions from listeners like you.

1. I once spoke with a Catholic priest in a confessional.

Well, I wasn't in the confessional but he was. I don't confess to priests, because I have you people to tell my dirty little secrets to. Anyway, it was at the Church of Our Lady Victorius where it's locally known as Kostel Panny Marie Vítězné. The cathedral is home to the Infant Jesus of Prague. As it happened I was merely walking around the church snapping flash photographs when Father Petr stepped out and asked me where I was from. Not scoldingly either. He just struck up a conversation with me. His English was good and before we parted ways he wrote down his email address on my palm pilot.

2. I am a former smoker.

A pack a day, and sometimes if I was out late or working on a paper I probably stretched it into a pack and a half. I started smoking Kent, then went on to whatever brand was cheapest, and finished off with Carlton before finally quitting after six years. On the evening I decided to quit I threw all my cigarettes out my car window along with empty packets, lighters, matches, even old butts while driving home. Sure, I may have pissed off Woodsy Owl, but I was determined to snuff out Joe Camel.

3. I once drove a police car.

Well, not for a living or anything, but I did hop in the driver's seat of one once and back it up so as to unblock the parking space my car was in. The engine was already running and the door was even open. The cop was standing there, and when he asked me if he was blocking my way and I said yes, he tossed me the keys and told me to back it up. I did. Those cars are plush on the inside. Our tax dollars at work, I suppose.

4. I have appeared in newspapers, radio and even television.

While I don't have the time to get up on the community theater stage as much as I used to, I've performed in a number of local shows and have therefore had my name and mug in the paper a few times. I've been on the radio twice, once as part of a scout tour when I was eight, and then later I was a caller on the David Paul show.back when he was on WSB. As far as television appearances go, mine aren't that glamorous. Once I was lurking in the background of a televised town meeting and another time viewers could see me waving to the camera along with everyone else at a children's program at my local public library.

5. Because I think relieving oneself should be done as quickly and easily as possible, I do not wear underwear and I don't own any button-fly jeans.

Two things I fail to understand when it comes to this are: 1) why more guys don't go the commando route; and B) why people are ooked out when I say that I do. Does underwear really serve any vital role these days? Is it just a hand-me-down from the Victorian era? And as far as button flies go, unless you're Amish (and if you are shame on you for being at a computer terminal!) why would anyone opt for this type of closure? A guy who wears them has to stand at the urinal an extra thirty seconds trying to get the damn things buttoned back up. And if the second to top button comes undone while he's buttoning the top one, that's another ten seconds added on right there. Sheesh!

OK, enough confession. Though while I'm at it I should probably let you know that this post is in response to a meme sent to me by Blog Antagonist who as it happens is offering a prize to a random correct guesser of her own little untruth. If you can successfully guess mine, your prize is nothing more than the joy of winning which basically equals suckitude. I guess I could offer you something from the "gift drawer" but who in their right mind would want some thrice re-gifted Ikea napkin holders? Besides we might actually use those some day.

Tell you what, if you guess correctly, you can have my voice on your home answering machine.

Uncovering the ultra high price of a Subway sandwich

Dear Guy at Subway,

Thank you for the prompt and efficient service you provided to me and my daughter during what was for you I imagine a rather busy lunch hour. You took my order, grabbed the necessary fixings and prepared my sandwich and hers with aplomb. When I asked about the seemingly exorbitant price for a child's mini-sub, you were kind enough to point out that it also came with a drink and the toy you had provided along with a stack of complimentary napkins.

I took you up on the accompanying drink and picked out a Glaceau Vitamin Water even though, unlike you, I am old enough to remember when we called this stuff Kool-Aid and, not only did it taste great, it only cost about 59 cents per rain barrel to make. My mother could make enough for the whole neighborhood in a matter of seconds, and unlike the poor schlubs in the TV commercial, we never were chased down by some creepy anthropomorphic drinking pitcher.

The toy you gave my daughter was a plastic replica of a microphone, small enough to get lost behind the couch cushions but big enough that she couldn't swallow it. This is a good thing because, seeing as how to a toddler the item looks like one big lollipop, she very well might try to put it in her mouth. On closer inspection however, I realized that the top of the microphone comes off to reveal a red felt-tip marker.

A red felt-tip marker?

Guy at Subway, what did I ever do to you? What heinous misdoing or unforgivable transgression could I have ever committed that you can now reasonably justify taking revenge on me in this way? I have a good mind never to eat in your establishment again if this is the thanks I get. I don't care how much weight Jared lost.

Have you no clue what havoc my child would reek with this weapon of mass destruction? Within a mere five minutes of my multi-tasking parental supervision otherwise known as checking email, fixing more coffee or putting poop in Dad's potty, she would deface all the wonderful goods her mother and I have worked so hard to earn the money to buy.

The tablecloth we bought in Provence would be ruined. Our high thread-count bed linens would forever have red scribbles on them. The walls I spent weeks painting would be for her a mere canvas upon which to express her angst at having such materialistic parents. Even the cat would likely not escape her pen-wielding wrath.

You appear to be a young subway guy who, judging by your late morning work schedule, either were asked to leave high school prior to graduating or perhaps you just left of your own volition. Maybe slinging the Dijon horseradish sauce was a requirement of your probation. Who knows? Regardless, I am prepared to cut you a certain amount of slack for not thinking outside the protective sneeze guard. But get a grip.

Mischievous toddlers and red marker don't mix.

Sincerely,
Kevin