Potty Mouth

Forgive me in advance as todays topic may be considered just slightly past the bounds of polite discourse. With that vague warning in mind, sensitive folks may want to take their leave now.

lets set the stage...

In my best Andy Rooney voice: "why is it that some men feel compelled to engage in social interaction while using the men's restroom facilities?" Uh huh, thats right, I'm talkin' about talkin' while attending to the business "at hand" in the head. Why do some guys do this? Am I the only person that thinks this behavior is just bizarre? Personally, I don't get it... it's never made sense to me, but I see and hear it all the time at work.

For my part, I find public restrooms very unsociable places and my goal each and every time I use one is to get in and get out as fast as I can. Its the last place I want to have a conversation of any sort. I'm not in the least bit interested in making small talk, chewing the fat, having a confab, following up on this morning's teleconference, hearing about your maladies or your kid's amazing performance at last Saturday's game. And no matter what you may think -- I REALLY don't want to hear about your performance particularly as it relates to golf or your sexual conquests.

In my opinion the theme song for bathroom use should be the old country tune: "When You Say Nothing At All".

I want to be left alone. I don't want anyone to address me. I want to complete the task, wash my hands, and walk out without any kind of interaction with anyone. Once outside in the hallway -- heck, the bans are lifted and you can talk to me all you want. But, toilet talk is verboten!!

One other aspect to consider here. It may be that the men's restroom is the ultimate bastion of the glass ceiling... or, the porcelain ceiling as the case may be. Since members of the other gender aren't invited in, its possible to leave certain people at an information and networking disadvantage because they don't get a chance to hear the tidbits dropped in the loo. So, how does the playing field get leveled for everybody then? I think you know... it goes right along with my philosophy. As Nancy Reagan would tell us:

Just say no... or better yet:

Just say nothing at all.

Two Doughnuts for $13!

Last Saturday morning I dropped my bride off at work so we could leave from Fredericksburg for a dinner engagement with one car at the end of her shift. I'd been planning a quick run to the Krispy Kreme after dropping her off, but fate in her compassionate splendor wouldn't allow it. When we pulled in to let her off I asked one of her co-workers where her SO happened to be. With the devil's mischief and a leprechaun's glint she replied simply, "he stopped at Paul's".

"uh huh, I was planning on hitting Krispy Kreme, but what is this Paul's you speak of"?

Horror-stricken, she managed to eke out "you've never been to Paul's"?

I repeated, "what is Paul's"?

Like Narnia's White Witch offering Turkish Delight, she explained in suddenly smooth tones: "why Paul's is a bakery right down on Lafayette with possibly the best doughnuts on the planet. You really must try them."

That was all I needed to hear. Gypsy magic or Jedi mind tricks I was now propelled by a mission. Yes, I MUST try them. A hearty wave out of my car window, followed by a farewell shout and shrieks of joy, I was crankin' down the road to pastry heaven.

Paul's unassuming shop took a while to locate, but I found it -- drawn inextricably to the center of the universe. Opening the front door to the small space housing Paul's cathedral doughnuteria I just managed to squeeze into the back of the line already threatening to snake out the door into the parking lot. As my eyes adjusted I could see this was no new-wave fusion cuisine upscale trendy decor mecca to marketing. Instead, the spare olde timey room was simple, almost bland but everywhere the eye could roam I could pick out baking racks or counters filled with confections of untold promise.

The line moved slowly allowing me to get a much clearer look at the offerings. I could see all sorts of yeast and cake doughnuts, with and without toppings. Traditional rings and stuffed pastries, danishes, cakes, candies, and even a few bagels to lend the appearance of a health conscious alternative. I knew better. I'd bet those bagels had been there for decades, contract art crafted in plasticene holding pretense at bay with the illusion that someone might actually order one of these pretenders to the throne.

Half way thru the line I realized I had no cash with me. In my excitement to get into the place, I hadn't considered whether Paul's olde fashioned shoppe might accept a card as payment. Fear gripped me for an instant. Blind with the onslaught of the wonders before me I didn't see any indication that Paul's would accept my debit card. And now the mission had to be fulfilled. I'd offer anything. I could go back and clean the kitchen. I'd take garbage out. I could sweep the floors... or even hand out doughnuts over the counter. Where there were doughnuts, there would be a way.

When it was my turn at the counter I sighed in relief at the little Visa sticker next to the register. I was saved!! My eyes moved ever so slightly to the right and I saw these words: "Credit Cards Accepted. Minimum order $10." Hallelujah!! In less than a second my mind arrived at the obvious solution!

"I'll take two dozen, please"

The angel taking my order unpacked two boxes and began the task of gathering nirvana into slim cardboard. As she reached for the glazed doughnuts she smiled with the artistry of Lucifer saying -- "the first hit's free" -- and said ever so gently: "they're hot, oh... they must have just come out". I melted inside.

"Here, we won't seal the box -- they're still cooling".

She rang the total at just over $13 and took my card. When I'd signed the receipt, she handed over the trophy of my hunt: a plastic bag holding two boxes and a handful of napkins.

I barely made it out to the car before my hand was inside the box tugging gently at one of the glazed doughnuts. It was so soft, so warm, the top half broke away in my fingers. Splendor, followed by bliss evolved into foodie epiphany. Amazing! Superlatives leapt thru my mind and cascaded down a whirlwind of rapture. I reached for the second half and accidentally brought out the remaining portion firmly attached to the ring next to it. Into my mouth went one and a half doughnuts and I was euphoric.

It was in that instant that I knew what I had to do. If I didn't drop these boxes off at Jan's work -- and drop them off right now -- they would be consumed. By me. All of them. And I wouldn't feel guilty. They would be consumed totally. And I wouldn't care. I'd eat every last one of them. And I wouldn't tell anyone else. I'd do them in with lusty gluttony. And no one else would ever know.

I launched the car into drive and headed for the shop. As I rounded the parking lot my lovely SO was coming out to look at a bike. Confused she headed over to my car as the window on her side rolled down. I forced my hand to turn the bag over to her. My eyes pleaded, don't do what he says -- he's crazy, he's lost it.... just put the doughnuts back in the car.

But, my mouth was able to form the words that would divert my doom: "take these, please!!"

I drove away silently, realizing I'd just spent $13 for two doughnuts.

I drove away feeling, without question, it would be the most worthwhile purchase of the weekend.

I drove away planning, there's always next Saturday.

Soccer Practice "Homework"

When I picked my grandson up for soccer practice today I was greeted with a blank piece of paper and a "homework" assignment. His teacher had instructed the kids in the class to ask someone in their family about an event significant to family origins. In his thinking I was the logical person to ask for information about the first person in our family to come to America. So, with this brief introduction and his crooked smile, I received a sheet of lined paper, a tired pencil, and a suggestion that I could work on the project while he practiced with his team.

When we got to the field I sat down in the camp chair I'd brought, took out his piece of paper, an old pen I'd found in the car (the pencil really was too tired), and my phone. I'd remembered some of the basics, but knew I had more details stored in my email account under a folder I'd named Family History. I reckoned I could locate those emails using a little patience and my internet-capable phone.

Before trying the phone I managed to jot down some quick remembrances with kids and parents buzzing around me:

-- somewhere close to 1858, Austin and Johanna Callahan left Kilrush, County Clare, Ireland by boat, bound for America.

-- they entered the country through Ellis Island like so many before them and over time made their way to Wisconsin.

-- Austin and Johanna stayed in Wisconsin, living out the rest of their days in that rich, green reminder of Ireland.

-- the Callahan family remained in Wisconsin for many generations until my grandfather, also named Austin, moved to Chicago, then onto Sacramento, California.

It was in Sacramento that my father met my mom and my personal family history began.

Sorry, I digress, back to the story at hand.

I'd forgotten how hard it was to navigate through my email folders via my phone and, more importantly, how difficult it was for me to read the teeny print on the phone's screen. I wasn't very successful digging up more information, but in the process I did stumble across several email threads with my Aunt Pat (Patsy as I came to call her). Patsy really was the fire behind the genealogical research and she pursued it with fervor and diligence.

But, it was also during this time that Patsy was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. As I read thru each of the emails the painful details of her struggle with the disease came back to me. Pancreatic cancer has very little mercy and Patsy eventually lost the fight. Through it all she never flagged or accepted defeat. She was always positive, always expecting she would overcome.

Before she succumbed to that terrible disease, she managed to take a trip to Ireland with her daughter, my dear cousin Kim. What an incredible gift that was! During that trip, Kim took one of my favorite pictures of Patsy. That wonderful photo remains with me, indelibly etched in the back of my thoughts, all the time. Its the way I remember her. Its the way I carry Patsy with me through life, transported between the mundane and the magical. With a smile of triumph and joy, she is standing in front of the verdant Irish countryside, arms wide open as if the whole of the kingdom was hers, as if she'd come home and was welcoming each one of us in -- bidding us share in the glory and splendor that was her ancestral home.


It then occurred to me that when a young child asks about our family and wants to know how we got here -- I have an opportunity. I can paint a picture of Patsy, I can describe an impressionist's portrait of of Austin and Johanna, I can retell stories of their aunts, uncles, and great grandparents. I can relate what I remember and describe what I know. I can keep the memory of all those that came before alive and vibrant. And, I can help plant the seeds of vision and wonder in the hearts of the future knowing they will carry this rich heritage far beyond me. Its in that spirit that these words from an old Irish tombstone ring true:

death leaves a wound that no-one can heal,
love leaves a memory that no-one can steal.