Bologna Sandwiches

Growing up, my mother always made lunches for me to "enjoy" at school.  My mother was from the Midwest, and apparently that didn't inspire much by way of being a children's lunchtime gourmet.  Most of my lunches consisted of a poorly-insulated thermos filled with cold Spaghetti-Os, a bag filled with potato chips or Cheetos, a fruit roll-up, and a bologna sandwich.  I hated bologna sandwiches...especially the bologna sandwich part.

My bologna sandwiches were special.  First off, they had bologna, which was already working against them.  Next, they were being spooned by a slice of cheese.  Not delicious cheese, but processed American cheese.  All this was sandwiched between two slices of the best bread money can buy: Wonder Bread.

The final abhorrence, however, was always to be found in the butter.  Why was there butter on this sandwich?  Answer: My mother liked to put butter on everything that involved bread.  Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?  There was definitely butter on those.  For some reason, I hated butter as a child...but that didn't stop my mom from slathering it all over my sandwich.

I remember this one kid in my first grade class that had some weird obsession with cheese and milk, but was never allowed to have them due to some sort of allergy.  My sandwiches possessed cheese, which made them very valuable to him.  Oftentimes I could trade my sandwich for his more appealing (and butterless) peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  I would watch him as he voraciously devoured my cheesy bologna delight, and then have to spend the rest of the afternoon in the nurse's office.

Yep.

Magical Belly Button Buddies

So the other day I was at Vons.  On my way out, I saw this:

 

It's one of those crane machines where you try to win stuffed animals but can't because it's rigged.  Who even carries quarters anymore, anyway?  It seemed really awesome and exciting, mostly because it looks like the animals are flying out at you and because they incorporate the word "magical".  Naturally, I decided this was the best thing ever.  I took a picture of it and sent it to my sister.  The following conversation pretty much sums up what is going on with these magical belly button buddies:

Sister: Hahaha what?  What do they do?  Have buttons in their tummies?

Me: They are magical, can't you read?

Sister: Yes, but what do they do that is magical???

Me: BUTTONS!

Sister: Oh.

(end scene)

Genetic Humor

Road trip champion!

Most would describe my sense of humor as fairly "odd".  Maybe sarcastic, dry, dark....etc.  I like to think I'm witty.  I've come to realize that my sense of humor is almost entirely derived from my dad, and Seinfeld.  Lots of Seinfeld.  I'm often laughing by myself.

Humor or not, my dad has a unique view on life.  He says things that are strange, but with a convincing straight face.  You can never tell if he's joking, or if he seriously believes what he is saying.  Usually he only acts like this in the comfort of his own home, so this is only experienced by a lucky few.  There are funnier things, but this is just what I thought of off the top of my head.

Examples:

1) When I was young, my dad convinced me that he could play the ukelele, all without actually showing me that he actually possessed this talent.  Dad: "Oh yeah, I played the ukelele all the time in college.  I was a ukelele prodigy."  I was fascinated with this "fact".  You may have noticed that I put "fact" in "quotes".  Years later, I somehow remember my dad's ukelele-playing prodigy skills when confronted with the presence of an actual ukelele in my parents' house.  I got all excited and asked him to play it.  He looked at me with a confused glare.  In front of my family, I talked about my dad's ukelele ridden past, and how he was about to spread his ukelele-playing joy all over our ears.  My mom seemed concerned, my dad seemed confused (or he was denying that he had messed with my head as a youngster), and everyone else thought I was crazy.  Dad: "I've never played an instrument in my entire life."  Thanks, dad.

2) My dad is convinced that he is actually Native American.  Ethnically, he is 75% German and 25% Norwegian...some would call this "white" or even "Caucasian" if they're feeling fancy.  Everytime the census rolls around, or any form that requires you to indicate your race, he checks "Native American".

Me: "Dad, Native American means that you are derived from the people that originally inhabited the Americas before the Europeans came over and took over the place."

Dad: "I was born in America, ergo, I am Native American! 'White' is not a race!"

Me: "That is true, but it doesn't change what the words imply; they are trying to gather ethnic information, and you are skewing their survey results."

Dad: "I was born in America!  I AM NATIVE AMERICAN."

3) The other day my dad e-mailed me a blurry picture of a podium.  The e-mail stated, "We had a great time seeing Huell Howser in person last night."  No context, no details, no explanation.

4) I was at my parents' house one evening watching television with my dad.  Out of nowhere, he blurts, "I found a typo in the newspaper, and I e-mailed them about it."  No further explanation, no details.  After a lengthy period of silence, in which I was expecting the rest of the story, I finally ask what he was talking about.  As it turns out, while my dad was reading the newspaper he noticed that the journalist had referred to the contiguous 48 states as the "continental" United States.  My dad was perturbed by the fact that people often forget that Alaska is on the same continent, and is thereby included when referring to the continental states.  He decided to e-mail the journalist and point out that he had misused the word "continental", and that he should have said "contiguous".  The journalist then e-mailed him back to say, "Thank you for pointing that out, [jackass]."  It didn't actually say jackass, but I imagined that's what the journalist wanted to write so I added it myself.  My dad was very satisfied with himself.

5) One day I was looking at a magazine at my parents' house.  It had a picture of a lovely place on the front, and I wanted to know where it was.  I thought it looked like some coastal Mexican resort.  My dad was convinced it was Europe.  Unfortunately, there was no caption for the photo so we were left unsatisfied.  Three days later, I receive an e-mail from my dad informing me that the picture was taken off the coast of an Italian island.  He had gleaned this information by correspondence with the magazine editor.  My dad was very satisfied with himself.

6) As you can deduce from item #2, I am white.  I was born in El Centro, California, which is the opposite of white.  Apparently it was very easy to spot me in the nursery because the other babies are not white and bald (guess what ethnicity they are).  My dad is always very politically correct when it comes to issues of race.  He refers to Mexican babies as "wolf babies".

7) My dad has some serious road rage.  He likes to drive fast, and he likes to drive furious.  We took a lot of road trips in my youth, with our family stuffed inside of a Chevy Astro Van.  My dad barreled down the two lane highways of middle America, tailgating any fool that stood in his way.  If they were going too slow he did what we call "dad hands", where he throws up his hands in disgust in a seemingly involuntary movement.  Once I thought I'd ask why he tailgated everybody, since it didn't seem to be getting us anywhere any faster.  My dad replied, "I'm intimidating them so they'll move out of my way."  My dad taught me how to win at driving across the country.

8) My parents went out of town, and my dad left directions to take care of the family dog, Echo.  Here is a picture of the instructions he left:

Honey Nut Cheerios?

9) My dad likes to play games, but more importantly he likes to win.  Whenever we are about to start playing a game, he usually states, "I love this game.  I've never lost a game of [insert name of game] in my life."  It doesn't matter if we had played it ten times the night before and he lost every time, or if he's never even heard of the game.  In his mind, he has won, always.  If you inform him of the facts, he somehow makes you feel wrong.  He is always the score-keeper, and he writes "Winner" on the sheet instead of his name.  As soon as we start playing, if he starts to lose he falls into a sulky, temper tantrum laden state.  Once the game is over, however, he will proclaim to anyone in his path that he is the champion.  Sometimes he actually sings "I Am the Champion" by Queen.  I am aware that the song is actually "We Are the Champions", but that's not what my dad thinks.  If he actually won, he will be like "in your face!"  and "oh yeah, I win, you LOOOOOOSE!", etc.  This is fine now that I am an adult, but imagine that you are eight years old, and your dad is gloating all over your impressionable self confidence.  He raised my siblings and I to be cutthroat, game-playing champions (and sore losers).

10) One day I realized that I had never seen my mom in the driver's seat if my dad was also in the car.  He was always the one driving.  I asked them if mom had ever driven dad anywhere, and he quickly replied, "No!  Why would she?  If I drive we'll get there faster."  My mom just shrugged.