Posted by: nhfalcon | November 15, 2007

At the Behest of Mrs. Chili, Even More Randomness

Oooh – “behest!” My vocab word for the day, even if it isn’t quite the right word for the occasion. Mrs. C. did not command or authoritatively request that I do this. She just thought it would be nice if I did. I like to show people that I actually did learn something from my B.A. in English fifteen years ago, though, so I decided to whip out my vocabulary this morning.

Anyway, Mrs. C. was tagged the other day by a friend to write a post, and though she doesn’t believe in tagging herself and therefore did not actually tag me, she did say that if she were to tag people for this particular post, I would be one of them. Because, and I quote, “(Falcon’s) a master at randomness.”

Aw, shucks!

So, I now need to come up with seven weird and, well, random facts about myself. Here goes (I will steal some ideas from Mrs. C. and others as I go. Just a warning)…

1) I cannot drive a stick shift to save my life. I think I’ve only owned one manual transmission vehicle in my entire existence. I just prefer automatics. I prefer my car to be as idiot-proof as possible because, well, there’s an idiot driving it! 🙂

That being said, if I ever win the lottery and get my dream car, I’m gonna have to learn how to drive a stick again, ‘cuz they don’t make exotic sports cars with automatic transmissions (bastards!).

2) A food that I just cannot stand that most people seem to love is lobster. Not because it’s seafood, either. I love seafood. Clams, calamari, crabs, scallops (forgive me while I channel Homer Simspon here – “oooh, scallops wrapped in bacon..,” *drool*), all kinds of fish – I love them all. There’s just something about lobster that bugs me. I think it’s the consistency. It feels like I’m chewing on rubber. Most people tell me I’m eating lobster that hasn’t been prepared properly if it feels rubbery, but I have a hard time believing my mother and every lobster roll place I’ve ever been to has been screwing up all these years.

I’m not a big fan of milk, either. I put it on my cereal, that’s it. When I drink something I’m trying to slake my thirst, and milk always feels like it’s left this film in my throat. Bleech!

3) On the flip side of the culinary plate (pun intended 🙂 ), I have no problem whatsoever chowing down on some of the trailer-parkiest foods in the world. My mother was and still is a great cook, but I remember loving Franco-American and Chef Boyardee, and Dinty Moore and – the king of them all – Kraft Macaroni and cheese (to quote the late, great Richard Jeni: “still just 33 cents a metric ton!”) when I was a kid. In fact, now that Little Man likes the neon orange  “mac’n’cheese”  I find myself hoping he won’t finish his dinner so I can get the leftovers!

And yes – I had more than my share of Jif peanut butter and Fluff on Wonder Bread sandwiches when I was a tyke.

4) One more food related item. Here’s a food that my mother introduced to me when I was a kid that I still like that most people have to fight the gag reflex when I tell them about it: peanut butter and cheese sandwiches.

What is so wrong about that?

5) I’m a southpaw, and I’m proud of it. I can’t believe nuns used to whack people’s knuckles for using their left hands. If some old crone had tried that with me I never would’ve finished school because I would’ve done something that would’ve gotten me expelled for life.

And quite possibly imprisoned.

As they say, “Left-handers are the only people in their right minds!”

6) I’m adopted. When my parents told me (I don’t remember now exactly when they did, but I was fairly young, I think. Perhaps still measuring my years on this planet in single digits) I did have the (what I imagine to be quite natural) curiosity of finding out who my “real” parents were. By the time I was legally old enough to do so, however, that curiosity had worn off. My “real” parents are the ones who raised me. The parents who conceived me and gave birth to me are my biological parents.

I have no rancor towards my biological parents. My understanding is that they put me up for adoption because they did not believe they could properly care for me due to their financial situation at the time.

Now that I am a parent myself, the enormity of that sacrifice staggers me. I did not want to be a father. Little Man was a surprise. Nevertheless, when Cookiemaker told me she was pregnant and we had to make a decision about what to do, adoption was immediately ruled out. I could not imagine my flesh and blood being out there somewhere in the world and me not knowing where he was or how he was doing.

As such, the thought of finding my biological parents has flitted in and out of my mind again every so often. I find myself wondering if every July 21st (my birthday) and Christmas do they think to themselves “I wonder where James (they name they would’ve given me if they’d kept me) is right now? I wonder if he’s ok?” Perhaps not. It’s been over 37 years since they gave birth to me. They’ve probably moved on by now. Plus, there’s always the possibility that finding them would do more harm than good, either to them or to me and my family.

We’ll see…

7) I seem to have a knack for coming up with (what I think to be) great broad ideas, but I suck at coming up with the details. I’ve been trying to write two different books (one of which I occasionally post excerpts of here) for going on 10 or 12 years now. I’ve played a couple of different games that I think need serious rule-tweaking, but have done nothing about it. I think somebody needs to create a website (if they haven’t already) that would work as a central clearing house for buying things that are only American-made, but have clue as to how to do it myself.

Ultimately I think the problem is not that I lack the intelligence to come up with the details, it’s that I lack the self-discipline to sit down and makemyself come up with the details. If I spent as much time actually doing these things (among others, like learning to play the guitar, I dream I’ve had for, oh, twenty-five or so years now) as dreaming about doing them, they would’ve been done back in the early nineties.

Sigh!

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Responses

  1. That’s OK. More lobster for ME!

  2. Kizz, you can have my lobster, too….

    Falcon, I did not know you were adopted. How did I not know that?!

  3. […] You can read the rest of this blog post by going to the original source, here […]

  4. Mrs. C., I think it just never came up. It’s not that I hold that topic to be intensely personal or anything, it’s just that I don’t think it’s a great conversation starter.

    “Hey, did you know I’m adopted?”

    Where would you go with that?

  5. I love kraft mac and cheese, too. The powdery magic that is the cheese sauce. One time a gal pal of arabic descent started making some for us. And she added tomato sauce, egg, onion and more cheese. I screamed at her, “What the hell are you doing? You are ruining the cheeeez.” She told me that was the only way she knew how to make it because that is how her mom did it. It was good. But NOT mac n cheeez. I never did find out if all Saudis did it that way or not.


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