Hi, My Name is...Buddy!

One of the more disconcerting aspects of being an aging Boomer is how the RAM portion of the brain's memory can crash so quickly.

Case in point. Have you ever been in social situations where you meet someone, hear their name, and instantly forget it? Now, if it is a guy, there is an easy solution...you call them "Buddy".

NOTE: My much, much younger counterparts can insert "Dude"...but then, they don't have memory issues do they?

Anyway, Buddy will always work and no one is the wiser, especially upon leaving, when the dismissive departing wave is accompanied with, "Hey, take care buddy!".

Buddy. It is the pre-Alzheimer guy's life preserver.

Last Saturday night I went with Margo to her school fundraiser dinner/dance. There were lots of recognizable faces, however, I was absolutely unable and clueless on recalling any names. Contrast my dilemma with the fact that my wife can remember everyone's name, including the 830 students and 85 staff members at her school only serves to exacerbate my anxiety.

Our table has ten people, one couple I have known for nearly 20 years so I am good to go there, but another couple I meet for the first time along with yet another couple, they all introduce themselves and as much as I am trying to remember them, I have forgotten their names before they have even finished the last syllable.

The remaining couple sitting to our right I have met at least 3 other times (they have even been to our house!) and I am drawing a complete goose egg on the guy's name. I spent a good 15 minutes mentally going though the alphabet trying to recall his first name to no avail, so I gave up and defaulted into my "buddy system" for the remainder of the evening.

I hope it is not hereditary. Although, the other night I was talking to my son on the phone and just as he hung up he said, "Hey, take care Buddy!"

Dang!

I Have Been Tagged!

I woke up this morning with "XIII Los Lobos" spray painted on my belly!

Sadly, with plenty of room to spare...

Actually, "tagging" in the blogging world means that I am suppose to reveal 7 unusual things about myself and then pass the "tag" along. My daughter-in-law, Renee, was the one who tagged me after she herself had been tagged.

So, without further ado and in random order:

1. I met the Shah of Iran. In early 1980, (after he was exiled and Iran was taken over by the Ayatollah Khomeini), in Atlanta at a Financial Planning seminar. He was trying to raise money...but that is whole other story.

2. I have a phobia about swimming in lakes. I can swim in a pool. I can swim in the ocean. Get me in a lake and I start to hyperventilate. I think it stems from almost drowning in Lake Berryessa...again another story.

3. I can still hit a 90 mph fastball. A nasty slider on the other hand...

4. I have scored over 84,000 in TextTwist.

5. My first computer was an Apple II with 64K of memory. I used Visicalc for spreadsheets. They didn't have a word processing software then. Windows did not exist.

6. President Hinkley and I have talked on the phone. Another story of course...

7. I have said the opening prayer in front of 15,000 people...yep, at the Marriott Center.

Now, I am duty bound to "Tag" three other people (and they in turn tag three more...hey, if everyone "tagged" would send me a dollar, how many downlines would it take to reach a million??? Okay, Britton, we know you answered the question before anyone else...)

Anyway, I now "Tag": Tia (aka Aileen), Grandmalita, and Britton!

Now...how do you remove spray paint from skin?

All I Want For Christmas is a New Menorah...

Alex is a wannabe Jew.

Where he developed this affinity and fascination with Judaism is beyond me. Last year he really did indeed want a Menorah for Christmas and which he did, in fact, receive.

Alex and Margo (his quasi-Jewish mother) went to a Hanukkah party last weekend at a REAL Jew's home and played games (spinning the Driedel) and ate Kosher food. He apparently had a good time because he is now cutting the bills off all his baseball caps and using the remaining hat as a yarmulke.

To top it all off, Margo actually WON the Matzoh Ball soup contest at school which pitted the Mormon-Green-Jello-Salad-Queen against the Jews and their historic Matzoh Ball soup recipes that have been handed down from generations of Jewish moms. I told Margo to tell them that the secret ingredient that made her soup so tasty was bacon!

They got even though...the winning prize was a bottle of wine and a coffee mug.

Why I Hate Cats...

Sometime, well after the fall of Adam, God created telestial creatures like cockroachs... and CATS!

My dislike for cats was borne through years of observation and honed into a fine hatred during my missionary days in England.

While I always seemed to have companions that were deathly fearful of dogs, I have always loved dogs and they seem to have a natural affection for me. Even the most vicious dog was reduced to a vigorous tail wagging puppy when I met up with them...maybe it's a "gift of the spirit".

Cats, on the other hand, were a completely different story. It seemed that every house that we got into, that had a cat, would do it's obligatory rub against your leg, jump onto your lap with it's "you-may-pet-me-now-you-large-pink-colored-beast" look, which I would reluctantly indulge the finicky feline. Inevitably, the petting is abrubtly halted by a tear-inducing scratch and bite from the crazy cat as it leaps from your lap. (Note: A dog will look at you, acknowledge with a lick his gratitude for the scritch-scratch, and meander off. A cat, however, feels obligated to punish you for exceeding your time-limit of petting).

Back to the scratching cat. It's timing was impeccable one time as it was my turn to bear my testimony about a particular principle:

"Mr. Brown, I want you to know that I have a testimo....OUCH!!! &*#*$%@&!# CAT!"

The Browns never joined the Church. I blame the cat. I dust my feet of that cat. I'm convinced that Satan probably owns a cat.

Now, I know I will get the cat lovers of the world dander up (pun intended) and I am okay with that. The prevailing rejoinder of that misguided group of cat-lovers is that cats are:

1. Smart. Yeah right. Show me even one that has graduated from kindergarten.

2. Loving. I submit that they don't love you, they allow you to live so that you can feed them and change their litter box.

3. Loyal. Yeah? Just miss one feeding time and they are shacking up with your neighbor faster than you can say Pamela Anderson.

4. Clean. They shed. You vacuum.

5. Easy going. Sure...until you cross them.

As irony would have it, we "own" (or do they own us?) two cats! Yes, dos gatos! This is in direct defiance of my wishes (which by virtue of having two cats proves the utter lack of power and authority I wield in our family) and brought into our home by my animal-loving daughter, Kelsey, who apparently (and suspiciously) did not inherit my cat-hating gene.

I am awaiting the DNA results.

On Spitting, Scratching, and Double-Headers

I don't think I can ever watch the end of the movie, "Field of Dreams", when Kevin Costner asks his father, "Hey, Dad? You want to have a catch?" without breaking down and bawling like a baby.

Britton and I played (and AJ watched) in a Father/Son Baseball tournament in Phoenix, Arizona last week in what (with apologies to Iowa) heaven is suppose to be like. There was unlimited sunflower seed spitting, scratching, butt-slapping, more spitting, and the grabbing and adjusting any part of your body, with unfettered joy.

We played a double-header (two 9-inning games, for the less enlightened. By the way, I wonder where that term ever originated?) on Thursday, and then on Friday we played another double-header. Thirty-six innings of baseball in less than 24 hours!

It was Nirvana!

We won our first game, and lost the remaining 3 games. Saturday we could barely move. I caught all nine innings of the first game (in 98 degree desert heat) and have 3 new bruises in spots that will be difficult to explain to my wife. We are slightly heat exhausted, battered like baby seals, and move "slower than cold molasses through a straw" (Britton's terminology).

Man...that was fun!

Gangstas vs Hoods

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First Dates

Do you remember your very first date?

Through the wonders of the internet and Classmates.com I was contacted by a high school friend, Judy Friddle, whom I was delighted to hear from and catch up with what she has been up to for the last 35 years.

It took me a couple of days to recall, but she was my very first date! I remember it now so vividly because, through no fault of Judy's, it was a disaster!

In high school I was pretty outgoing but, like most teenage boys, lacked a certain confidence level when dealing with girls. I had postponed dating, through sheer terror of rejection, until my senior year in high school when I finally, after dozens of dry runs, called Judy for a date. She apparently accepted, because I cannot recall any of the conversation, and we decided that we would go to her high school play (she attended Pinole High School and I attended DeAnza High School). It seemed like a safe first date.

Having no car of my own, I was forced to ask the old man for the use of his car, a green 1965 Ford Galaxie 500 with an awesome 390 cubic inch engine. His response was typical of any dad... a short and sweet "NO!". I pleaded with him, and after finally confessing that I had a "date", he responded:

"With a girl?"

Apparently pleased that it was indeed a girl, Dad relented and agreed to let me use the Olson family's "second car", an old, grey, 1960 Pontiac Catalina station wagon that my Dad salvaged from some fellow worker who was ready to completely junk it. Dad would tinker on that car for many weekends and finally got it running but I was always suspicious about it's lifespan and it had a annoying quirk of refusing to restart if you were ever listening to the radio.

I was dressed and ready to go about 5 hours early. Finally, after giving myself ample time to drive to Judy's house in Pinole I cruised in my pimped out ride and being a typical teenager...I turned on the radio!

Ater the normal meet the parent pleasantries we headed to the Catalina station wagon and I dutifully opened the door for her and hopped into the driver's seat, turned the ignition and...

Nada! Nothing, ziltch, not a peep from that freakin' pile of dung...it was dead as a doornail!

Bent on showing my prowess as a mechanic I quickly popped the hood and stood with all the masculinity I could muster staring at the jumble of wires, pipes, filters and belts that comprised the beast's innards.

"Must be a dead battery," I said as I leaned around the hood.

The thought then came to my mind that we could "compression start" the vehicle by getting it rolling. As fortune would have it, Judy lived at the top of a street that was straight with a slight downhill slope to the barrier at the end of the street.

"Slide over to the driver's side, put the car in neutral, and I will push you, then you can start the car!" I instructed confidently.

The old Catalina station wagon started her journey down the street with me pushing from behind and began to pick up speed where I was basically holding on to the back of the car. It was at that point that the ignorance of youth, and my inability to inherit anything remotely mechanical from my father, was made manifest by the fact:

YOU CANNOT COMPRESSION START AN AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION!

Now the Catalina station wagon is really rolling with me in a dead sprint behind it! I'm yelling to Judy to hit the brakes which she attempts with her entire 5'2'' frame standing on the brake pedal. The car is not stopping because, of course, with the ignition off, the power brakes are not going to work.

A vision of the Catalina station wagon and my date careening down the street and crashing through the dead-end barrier flashed through my mind when finally, the Catalina station wagon began to slow and stopped just short of the barrier.

Crestfallen from this lame attempt, I knew that my date was toast. Fortunately, Judy showed some compassion and said,

"It's okay, we'll just walk!"

We walked 4 miles to her school with me trying to make small talk and mentally scolding myself for being such an idiot. We got there well after the school play had started and luckily got a ride back to Judy's house from one her friend's mom.

The humiliation was almost unbearable.

Judy invited me inside for ice cream and after a little while I left, walked down to the end of the street got into that stupid, grey, Pontiac Catalina station wagon and turned the key.

It started right up.

I drove home with the radio blasting so loud you couldn't hear me swearing at that old Pontiac Catalina station wagon.