Cake makes me wanna Barf

How many people in the world say that they are NOT finicky eaters? Not picky. Will eat anything and everything. Doesn’t matter as long as it is prepared basically correct, and served at the right temperature it’ll go down the gullet. I used to be one of those. But I started getting picky when I was around 8-9 years old. One of those major life events that changed how I looked at certain foods.

My Dad and Step Mom (SM) got married in 1980. They had dated I am guessing at least half a year, maybe more. I never really cared at that age. Well, Dad had a regular job as a draftsman for Beard Industries. They made grain dryers for farms all around the country. SM had a job working in shipping/receiving at the only Peter Paul/Cadbury plant in the US. Which on a side note was located in Frankfort, IN. Boy, I sure remember the days when she would bring home bow of damaged Powerhouse candy bars … or Easter when they got discount prices on them Cadbury eggs with the crème in the middle. Anyways, I am getting sidetracked.

SM had always done some side business of making/decorating cakes for people. Most of the time it was for friends since she worked full time, but she would make exceptions for other people too. She had had one of them long ass classes from Wilson cake school on decorating and she is a very artistic person to boot. Well, as the goes, we moved into a 2nd floor apartment in Frankfort within a year or two. The 1st floor consisted of 2 empty “stores”. Well, SM and Dad decided to start of a cake decorating and supply shop since Peter Paul had closed and she was out of work. Sure enough they did start one up, and it did moderately well considering. One of the main things of the biz was taking cake orders. For anything. Parties, B-days, Anniversaries, weddings – I mean anything. I even saw her do one for a bachelorette party. So she got a good number of orders throughout the week, and even busier on weekends, and that would vary more with the time of year.

Guess who learned how to bake? Uh Huh. You betcha. From the time I got out of school I would be in charge of baking the cakes. Make sure of correct flavors, sizes of the pans, and then have to make the icing to boot! Gotta know how much for what sized cake, is it supposed to flavored or not. This went on for 2 years, basically until Dad got diagnosed with cancer and they closed the shop.

I learned to hate cake. I learned to throw up at the mere taste of frosting. I don’t even like the smell of it baking. You know how many times in a normal year you are exposed to cake as a dessert? My family still asks if I want any at Bday parties for the kids and always get the “look” from me, like I would puke on them if they came near. But sometimes, you just have to swallow your pride and try not to puke.

I had gone to a poker party last Saturday night, and had Daughter watch the 2 older boys. We arrived back home about 10:30’ish I would say, and of course they were still up. Well, I in the bedroom taking off my shoes when the Daughter comes in. Seems they had made a cake for the Wife’s and mine anniversary. Cake. Worse, chocolate cake, with store bought icing, in 3 different flavors. I about hurled. But, being the parent I am I said how nice it looked and to get it back in the kitchen before she dropped it or something. I can sit here and tell you how my 15-year-old Daughter has known from birth I hate cake, but it didn’t stop her. Or the boys who had helped.

God knows I love the thought, but next year, a hug will do just fine.

Why I hate Bugs

Well, I believe it was my sophomore year, and yes, I had those outside chores to do. The attempt was being made to grow grass in the front and back yards. The front yard was fairly small, and had sprinklers, but they had to be turned on/off manually, and you had to watch how long they ran. Same in the backyard, but you were watering dirt patches more than anything else there. We were also trying to grow bushes and a couple trees in the front yard, One of my chores was to water the bushes and trees every Mon, Wed, Fri after school. It was a pain in the ass because the bushes ran along one side of the property, then around the front by the sidewalk, and would take forever for a teenager to get done (about 20-30 minutes actual).

So this one particular day I am in a hurry to get this chore done. I don't remember why. Maybe some television show was coming on I wanted to watch, who knows. I am out there in my bare feet, hose in hand, over by the side watering the bushes one by one, when I feel something tickle the top of my foot. It was a mild sensation, and my mind being elsewhere than watching what I am doing, I thought it was just some of the water splashing. After I had shifted a couple bushes I fell it now on top of both feet, and I determine it shouldn't be the water. I glance down, and damn near jumped straight on top of the roof!

My feet were coated with bugs! I don't mean little bugs like tiny ants, or aphids - we are talking large mutant ladybug-looking creatures!! Yes! Ladybug-like mutants! They were about 1 ½ inches long, and had their backs colored a rust-orange with black spots, and antenna that they could use to radio to the moon. There legs were black and reminded me of grasshopper legs, how they grip a bit to hang on to anything.

I dropped the hose, and moved faster than sound in wiping them off my feet. Just as I shivered thinking about how I was lucky to get them off before they bit me, I remembered the hose was still running and it wasn't on the bushes. I went to reach for the hose and saw the ground. I looked forward, left, then right, then straight down at my feet. I was surrounded by these bugs by about 4 feet to either side, and as far forward as the back fence (about 10 yards). They literally blanketed the ground, and they were starting to crawl on my feet again.

With a yell that broke sound monitoring equipment three counties over, I ran for the house. I ran to the backyard and on that side of the property, there was a mass of them back there as well, covering about 6 feet wide swath through the side of the yard, and over the shed. No where in the yard did I see them but that one side. At this point I am scared shitless since I have no clue if they are poisonous, if they bite, are they in the house?! I put on some boots and run to shut off the hose, taking big steps across the bugs and moving as fast as possible. Back inside I call Mom. She is getting ready to leave work and will check it out when she gets home. I am hoping I can survive until then.

Mom comes home and she has no clue what they are either. Same with the step-dad. They placed a call to the pest control company (who sprayed our place every 2 weeks). The guy that came out, our regular service guy, had no clue what they were either. So he takes a few for samples to send over to ASU's entomology dept (bug teachers). Within 48 hours we found out all about them bugs.

Seems they are not poisonous, and they migrate in these huge groups. Their migratory path is in a straight line, but what makes this line stay straight no one knows. They eat vegetation and should be out of our area within a week. Not near fast enough for me. Sure enough, within a few days they had migrated out the backyard and over to the next property along the way. They didn't damage the lawn like I thought they might, in fact you couldn't tell they had been there. Except for my Mom, to whom making fun of me for being scared of a few bugs was just the funniest thing. To this day I cannot stand any type of bug longer than like an inch. They freak me out.

The Other Night out at the Bar

So I am sitting at the bar last night, had my semi-regular stool and spot, Jack with the Bud chaser, book in hand, minding my own business, when this well-endowed woman damn near tackles me off the chair. Actually, she was doing her best to hug me, I think, because the first words out of her mouth were, "Do you like strippers?"

What in the hell do you say to a woman that asks that. Funny you should ask. I told her. "Yeah, I do." (Imagine that Ray Stevens style like in "The Streak")

"You like the way my tits look?" as she pushes them against me more.

I look down upon her ample cleavage, and say, "Yeah, I do."

"You wanna come see me dance naked? I'll let you look at my pussy..." she says, trying to be seductive. At the same tie I am trying to disengage her arms from me and stand her upright instead of using my lap for a bed.

"Not tonight, Honey. I got enough for me to do right here and now. How about a rain check?" I give her the smile, you know, the one that is supposed to reassure people you know what is best.

She straightens up, shakes her breasts back and forth across my arm, gives me one of those fake puppy dog grins, and says "I will be watching for you. You better be front row on Friday."

"Not a problem. you best be careful going home now." She stumbles on over to the door, where another gal she was with, was waiting for her, and they staggered out the door. I was sitting in my chair thinking 'WTF was that?!? A proposition from a titty dancer to go see her on Friday night, and she didn't even tell me where!'

I shook my head.

Sipped my Jack.

Lit a cigarette.

Blew the smoke out of my mouth.

Turned to the next page in my book.

Mexico and Jack Daniels

Late in the year of 2004, a few buddies and I had gotten together and decided to do a special trip down to Rocky Point. We decided it would be in January, and it was going to be a “Guys Only” trip considering we would go down once or twice of the year with the wives/girlfriends. Sounds cool! Guys only, in Rocky Point, for a good three day weekend.

Well, Friday morning started off well, and we car-pooled on down to the border. We always stop to get a few items from the Duty-Free store there, like smokes, and hard alcohol. I was debating on buying a bottle of Gentleman Jack, or to go with Crown Royal. Prices were good (and tax free) coming to about $28 for a bottle, when normally it would be well over $30 back home. As I was mulling over the dilemma of which would be better for the weekend, Don points out to a display case.

“Why not get that Jack, Ralph?” I turned to look and my jaw drops. There was a HUGE bottle of Jack Daniels sitting there. A sign on the bottle said $51. I looked at Don, and he starts laughing. I take a closer look, and realize that has got to be the buy of the day. A 3 liter bottle of Jack for $51. Now the normal “big” bottle in the stores runs around $40 - $45, and it is only 1.75 liters. I am getting 1.25 liters more for about $6 more. Do the math. It’s a good buy. I took the bottle to the counter.

All the boys were giving me some grief about buying the biggest bottle of Jack the world has probably seen, but I grin and think … mmm, gonna taste good. Meanwhile we move on down the road.

As soon as we get settled into the condo, I got that bottle opened and start pouring. Normally I drink a Jack with a Budweiser chaser, but being in Mexico, and the way we buy beer there, it was usually a Corona, or Pacifico instead of Bud. We had other stuff too, depending where we were at. I know I had some Sol and Dos Equis as well.

Well, the weekend went along, and I am drunk the whole time. I always tend to drink a lot when I am vacationing. Sometimes that’s good, sometimes bad.

Good: Mellowing in a chair out on the patio looking out on the ocean enjoying the buzz.
Bad: being so drunk when you lay on your back to give the dancer a dollar from your mouth, and your friends spin you like a turtle while trying to help you off the stage. Don’t Laugh! It happened – not that trip, but still.

As my friends will tell you, probably just about all of them, cannot keep up with me when drinking. For some stupid reason, I get a thrill out of that, but that is just wrong. However, there were many times someone would be up in the wee hours of the morning, and see me half asleep on the patio with cup and bottle in hands.

This particular trip, I think we all found out who is able to sleep with whom at night. I had warned all before the trip, but some people just have to be convinced, and Bo was the one who won that trip. I snore. Let me rephrase that. I snore – LOUDLY. Every time I went to bed that weekend, Bo was up and moving, no matter the time. Heck Saturday night he slept on the tile outside the bedroom door. It made a good laugh for most of the guys, and I just grinned and said “I told you so.”

So, come Sunday morning, I get on up out of bed and stumble towards the patio. Most of the guys are up and moving already, and one of them points out the bottle of Jack sitting on the counter. Now it had sat on the counter as open for anyone since Friday when we arrived.

“Hey Ralph. You gotta drink the rest of the bottle.” I glance over at the bottle. Damn! There is only about 3 inches of Jack left in it. I shook my head.

I groggily said,”Nope. Ain’t gonna happen. Did anyone else drink any of it this weekend?”

I believe only 2 or maybe 3 said they had had the equivalent of a shot of Jack earlier in the weekend, but no more. So I think to myself, I drank damn near that whole bottle. I sat there and thought about it for a few minutes, thinking maybe I should finish it off. My stomach kept saying no way.

I ended up bringing the rest of it home and actually finishing it about three weeks later. I held on to the bottle until it was decided that it did not need to be displayed where everyone coming into the house could see it. I still wonder on occasion, do they have bigger bottles, or is the next size a keg? How long would it take to drink a keg….

OTL and the Bus

I don’t know how many of you have heard of the Over The Line tournament held every year in San Diego. It is a pretty big production bringing literally hundreds of people from across and even out of the country. Old Mission Bay Athletic Club has sponsored this tourney for the past 53 years. You can read more about it at www.OMBAC.com if you are interested. Quick basics are that it is a 3-man team, 20 minute game, double elimination event. Field dimensions are different than a regular field (see website for more info). Lastly, the team name can be ANYTHING you want it to be, no matter how long, how wordy, how vulgar, or anything. For example, if I remember the team names correctly of my buddies, there was “Phoenix Beaver Eaters”, “IF you’ve Been To Phoenix, Chances Are We Fucked Your Relatives” or something like that. I think I messed up a word or two. Lastly, this year’s new team “Two in the Pink, One in the Stink”.

My buddies had been doing this OTL thing for about three years, or so, and each year they bring along a couple more friends that enjoy it, and continue going. Well, this year was my year to be initiated and decided I would go and check it out. It would be good to be where it is cooler than Phoenix, and drinking with 8 of my buddies for four days. This first year, I would not be playing unless a last minute accident and they needed me.

Before I get too far into the story, I probably need to explain few things to you. The OTL is held on an island (Fiesta Island, to be exact) that has only 1 exit/entrance. There is VERY limited RV parking, and this is the only time of year the island officials allow even more limited parking. No biggee – we were doing car pools anyways as we had all flown into San Diego. At the OTL there are a number of sponsor tents, and food tents, etc etc scattered around the edges of the playing fields. One particular tent is called the “Circle of Champions” and costs $35 per ticket to gain entrance. This ticket has to be bought prior to the OTL start date by mail. What you get once you are in though, is free food, and drink (alcoholic or other) for as long as they are open. There are also no running water restrooms on the island and Port-a-Potties are prevalent all around. So a brief recap:

1. “Circle Of Champions”
2. only One entrance/exit to the island
3. limited parking
4. port-a-potties all around

It’s Saturday morning and OTL begins in about an hour. We all load up in the Limo (yes Limo. Friend knew a connection and we got a nice discount to have him drop us off at the island). All of us cram in and away we go. We are conveniently dropped off at the gate to the OTL. Since I was the only one there not playing in any games, it was determined I would get a table at the “Circle of Champions” and reserve it throughout the day for the other guys as they had breaks between games and whatnot. Perfect! Sit and drink and eat as much as I want! Well, I had to wait about half an hour before they opened, and I strutted my way in the that fence enclosed structure, admiring the red band on my wrist that gave me reign to come and go from this most honored establishment. I quickly ordered up the requisite Bud and a Jack. Glancing around I saw many tables still available (as I was like the fourth person entering) and quickly headed for one in the back corner, no more than 15 feet from about 7 port-a-potties (for quicker and easier access). The table is only 20 feet from where the food will be brought out, and has a good umbrella shade to protect me from the sun. I see a waitress start heading my way.

“Here ya go Honey,“ I say with a smile as I give her a $20 bill. “You earn that and maybe more, if every time you come by me, you bring a Jack and Bud, for as long as I am sitting here.”

She smiles at me and says, “No problem. You ready for one now?”

“Matter of fact, yes, just bring it on out, even if I have little still in front of me.”

That was the start of a beautiful relationship of the day. I do not think I could have loved anyone else more than that waitress at that moment. So I am kicking back, listening to the announcer call out the names and field numbers for the teams to play. Every now and then there would be a good one, like, “We were going to hang your black ass until we found you was our daddy”, or “Owie, Owie, get it out it hurts”. I wish I would have gotten a program so I could be sure I wrote those team names right, plus so I could seen the ones I don’t remember hearing.

So things are going along well and time moves on. My buddies came and went, and the drinks kept going down. About 10:30 or so I think (I had only been in here since about 9) the first piece of bad news arrives via the waitress.

“We are out of Jack Daniels. Is there something else you would prefer?” I asked for my choices and there were not many. All the alcohol had to be carted out to the island, so there was a limit to how much could be there as well. I settled switching to Jim Beam, and proceeded to enjoy the day.

Throughout the morning, I had had my share of pretzels, and a little later on there was nachos with some pretty spicy salsa. Around noon the good food started coming out, and the “Circle of Champions” started to fill up quite well. There were all sorts of lunch meats for sandwiches. Real good stuff and the slices were nice and thick compared to most places. My buddies have all played at least their first game around this time, when I hear the news that someone has been injured and taken by ambulance tot the hospital. That’s too bad, this was such a beautiful day and things were going well. Then I find out, that guy is one of my buddies. Seems he got hit by a line drive or fell on the ball, but ended up hurting his ribs (final tally was three cracked ribs). Well, the rest of us knew he knew where we were staying, and would be able to call some of us if needed. That was one team out, two to go.

Around 1:00pm, we have a nice crowd filling in the Champions tent, and I am eyeballing every pretty woman that I could see. My waitress was doing a wonderful job until she came to tell me more bad news.

“They are now out of Jim Beam. Is there something else you would like?” Again I listened to my options, which were obviously a shorter list than last time. I decided on the scotch. If nothing else, I doubt very many people would be drinking it, and I may make it the rest of the day with out having to change again. Bud is still flowing mightily.

Things after that did not seem to bother me a bit. From what I remember, our other two teams ended up losing their second games and near 4pm we decided it was time to leave. I do not recall the exact number of guys there was in our group, my main concern was that I was never left alone somewhere I was not familiar with. Everyone in our group, plus many other people that were attending today, were shuffling and staggering (limping & staggering in my case) towards the main gate. At the main gate were two separate lines for the buses to take you off the island. Since I had been slower than the rest of our group, I was a bit behind, and stood there trying to figure what line am I supposed to be in, when I was hailed from my buddies. They were ahead in one line about 8-10 people ahead of me. Well, after maybe 15 minutes in line, a bus comes up and they begin boarding. Wouldn’t you know it, but the cut-off for the bus was right in front of me. I am standing there, all my buddies are on this bus (all of them I thought) and I am alone, having to wait for the next bus. I holler at them to be sure to wait for me when they get dropped off.

As the first bus pulls away, another is right behind it, so I am glad I won’t be but 5-10 minutes behind my buddies. I look over towards the end of the line and I see Joe, one of our group. I holler at him to get up here with me so we don’t get too separated. We load up the bus and it takes off. Everyone is feeling good after a day at the beach and OTL, and talking and whatnot.

After about a 10-15 minute ride (I think) the bus ends up pulling into this parking lot, in the middle of nowhere it seems. Everyone begins to get off, except me and Joe. About 5 minutes later, Joe, myself, three other guys we knew from Phoenix, and 2 others I didn’t know were still on the bus. Our bus driver was this short black woman that reminded me from the way she talked and looked like Nell Carter. She looks up in her bus driver mirror and says “Y’all gotta get offa my bus. This is the end of the line.”

Now, I had been drinking beer & whiskey, & scotch since about 9:15 in the morning, and it is around 4’ish in the afternoon. This woman made me sober so quickly with just that sentence. In the brief moment of silence, I looked at Joe, then looked out the window, and realized I had no clue as to where I was. There were no stores, buildings, nothing, but an overhead roadway. Again, the seven of us passengers all looked at one another as if to say “What do we do now?”

“Ma’am,” I say, being polite as I think I have ever been. “Isn’t this bus supposed to go over to Mission Bay Park?”

“No. You done got on the wrong bus if that was where you is supposed to be. This is my last stop” I can see her glaring at me in the mirror, and I began to fear. My chest began to tighten some, and that little voice in my head had dropped to the very back of my head saying ‘you’re so screwed’ that I almost began to believe him. Joe had started to get up to head out the door, and I reached out to grab his arm, having him pause what he was doing.

For those of you that know me, when I have been drinking for a time, my voice changes some. I start having a bit of a sort-of Southern drawl. I have been called Larry the Cable Guy on many occasions. Almost like Ray Stevens in that song “The Streak” – Yeah I did. Git R Done.

“Ma’am, is there some way that we can rectify this situation?” I heard this come from my mouth, sounding like a hick that had been educated at an Ivy League college. “Is it possible for you to at least drop us off at the island so that we may get in the right line for the bus we need?”

“No way am I doing that. This is my last stop and I am done for the day.” Man, I swear things can’t stack up against me any worse. My mind is still reeling about how I am going to get out of this place when I have no idea where I am at…..

“Ma’am, I am going to be honest with you. I am from out of state. I have no idea where we are right now. I do not have a cell phone with me to call for a cab, plus if I did, I don’t have any cab numbers with me. My friends were on the bus ahead of me, and we are supposed to meet at Mission Bay. What can we do to rectify this situation?”

There, I had laid it all out on the table. I am a simple person. I watched the bus driver, as she was studying my face in that wide bus mirror. The radio is playing in the background, but I couldn’t tell you what song, I only knew it was the only sound at that moment. She looks at her watch, looks back to me again. She raises her left hand and slaps it down on the steering wheel and lets out a laugh.

“Well, boy, it’s your lucky day! I guess I am going to get an hour’s more pay. I will take you on over to Mission Bay, but it gonna cost you.” My mental emergency brakes went on. I glanced around the bus real quick. Everyone is looking at everyone, not sure of what to do. I glance back to the mirror. “Someone gonna have to sing me a Commodore song on the way.” Again she lets loose with a big laugh.

I inwardly sigh – no problem. A song for the ride and I get to where I need to be. I start asking all the other guys. “Do you know a song by them? DO you? DO you?” All six guys tell me no, they have no idea of any Commodores song, let alone know one. I sighed. I only know one, so I let it loose and fill the bus with the sound of “You’re Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady” as the bus pulls out to the road. The bus driver is just smiling and singing along. I am not sure if I got all the verses in there, and I am not sure if all the words were correct, but after singing I made sure all the guys knew to be putting some money in her tip jar. I actually said to fill it up as it was about 2 inches from full. As we unloaded at Mission Bay, I was the last off, and placed a $5 bill over the now filled tip jar, and turned to the driver. “Thanks so much for helping me out.”

“Not a problem,” she said and gave me a hug.

I am happy. I am where I am supposed to be. Where is everyone else? A quick phone call found the other part of my group not knowing exactly where they were either, but they were bus-less. I told them basically that Joe & I were headed to Coaster’s, and they could meet us there, which they did within about 15-20 minutes.