my favorite food group

I have a confession to make. I love cereal. Cereal is my favorite food group.

I love all kinds of cereal. I love sweet cereals, I love healthy cereals, I love cold cereals, I love hot cereals. I love all kinds of cereals. I always have at least four boxes in my cabinet: two “good for you” boxes and two “sweet and childish” boxes.

I love cereal right out of the box, dry and hand-to-mouth like a box of Cracker Jack. I love cereal in a bowl with milk. I love dipping a spoon of yogurt into a bowl of cereal when I have a taste for something sweet and crunchy.

I love cereal with fresh bananas or strawberries sliced into it. I love it with sugar on top. I love it with honey on top. I love it with agave nectar on top. Sometimes I sprinkle Splenda, Sweet-n-Low, or Equal on my cereal when the pantry is bare of other sweeteners.

I eat cereal for breakfast, lunch, or dinner; and I have eaten it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, on separate days and as each meal in a single day. I eat it as a mid-morning snack or a late night snack. I typically eat a bowl (or two) each night for dessert. I eat it at the dining table, on the sofa, at the kitchen counter, in bed, at my desk, and even out of a ziplock baggie like a toddler. I don’t care.

Have I made it clear? I LOVE CEREAL. It is my favorite food group.

I have two spoons that I prefer to use when I eat cereal, my “cereal spoons.” One is for cold cereals and the other is preferred for hot cereals. Both spoons were my favorite gramma’s … my lovely Gramma Sam.

The cold cereal spoon is from The Hotel Stattler. It is bent and nicked from being stuck and chewed in some garbage disposal. Gramma Sam didn’t use this spoon for eating; she used it as a potting spoon for her plants. I don’t know its back-story or how she ended up with it, but when she passed away and I saw it, I knew I had to have it. Her hands were on it often. She loved her plants. She used this spoon. I wonder … did she steal this spoon? I picture her and her best friend, Madge, on some trip together at the Hotel Stattler; white gloves, hats, and a nice dinner.

“Put in your pocketbook, Sammy. No one will know.”

cold cereal is awesome with this spoon …

*     *     *     *     *

The hot cereal spoon is a soup spoon from my great-great-grandmother’s sliver, none of which is around today save this one random spoon. It has a deep bowl and is engraved with the initials MEB, for Mary Elizabeth Barnes. This is also my favorite spoon for soup because it is the quintessential soup spoon.

Each time I use it I think of the etiquette lesson Gramma Sam taught me during one of my stays at the house on Pepper Drive in Lake Elsinore, California. The proper way to eat soup is learned by following this little poem:

Just as Ships Go Out to Sea

My Soup Spoon Goes Away From Me

This was said while spooning up the soup from the edge closet to me to the edge on the far side of the bowl.

hot cereal tastes better with this spoon …

Let’s get back to cereal, shall we? I am pretty much a cerealphile, but there are some that I don’t like. I do not like Kashi. (I think half the world gasped.) I prefer some taste to my cereal, and by that, I mean a taste that isn’t cardboard. I don’t like cereals with excessive crap in them like chocolate bits and raspberries. Or crap like vanilla cream frosting with dried banana and kiwi slices. Fruit “mix ins” are just gross. Peaches and Cranberries! Yuck. I mean c’mon, that is just icky. Don’t get me wrong, I love crappy cereals … the ones that five year olds beg for. I love ‘em hot and I love ‘em cold.

My favorite hot cereals are Cream of Wheat, Oatmeal, Grape Nuts, Shredded Wheat, and Wheatabix.

I love Cream of Wheat with a pat of butter, some brown sugar, and just enough milk to get the cream of wheat to float like a little boat of deliciousness. Oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins or with maple syrup. And eating one of those huge Shredded Wheat biscuits with hot milk and powdered sugar makes me feel like I am seven years old in the kitchen on Antonio Lane.

My favorite “good for you” cold cereals are: Frosted Mini Wheats; Rice Krispies; Cheerios (traditional and honey nut); Total, GrapeNuts;  Corn Flakes; Special K (traditional … they’re crazy with the “mix ins” now); Puffed Rice and Puffed Wheat; the Chex suite (Rice, Wheat, Corn); All Bran (although it gets mushy very quickly); Raisin Bran; Honey Bunches of Oats; Just Bunches; Cracklin’ Oat Bran; Crispix (it’s crispy times two!); SmartStart (for a healthy heart); granola (yummers!); Total Raisin Bran; Kix (I tested them, my mom approved); and Wheaties.

My Uncle Scott taught me the proper way to prepare Cheerios: a bowl of Cheerios, a sliced banana, and a coating of sugar on top so it looks like it just snowed on the bowl. It is hard to tell the crunch of the cereal from the crunch of the sugar. I don’t put that much sugar on now, but I do squeeze on the honey.

My favorite “bad for you” cereals — my guilty pleasures, the boxes I can eat in one sitting — are: the suite of Cap’N Crunch cereals (eventhough they cut the roof of my mouth); AlphaBits; Frosted Flakes; Coco Krispies; HoneyComb (it’s got a big, big bite!); Golden Grahams; Apple Jacks; Froot Loops; Honey Smacks (they used to be called Sugar Smacks when I was a kid); Trix; Lucky Charms; Golden Crisp (used to be Super Sugar Crisp); and Fruity Pebbles.

*     *     *     *     *

I once went to the doctor for having blood in my urine. I had an examination, did blood work, and peed in a cup. During the examination, I answered some routine questions.

“Has this been going on for awhile?”

“No. It just happened yesterday. There was a lot of it.”

“Have you exerted yourself physically recently?”

“Yes. I recently moved apartments.” This was when the cost of moving was buying pizzas and beers for the friends you convinced to help you lift sofas, mattresses, and boxes of books and dishes.

“Does cancer run in your family?”

“I am not sure.” I said this because at the time, I wasn’t, but inside I was freaking out.

He only asked that because he knows I have cancer. Fuck! I have cancer. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. 

This was before the phrase OMG.

“Have you engaged in sexual activity recently?”

“Ummm … well, of course. I am 22 years old.”

Later that week , the test results arrived and I was convinced I had some kind of cancer and was going to die. Over the phone, the doctor said that no blood cells were in my urine and that my blood work appeared fine.

“I think you may have ruptured a blood vessel during your move, a very minor thing that clears itself up. But, I do want to know if you have changed your eating habits recently.”

“My eating habits? No.”

“Have you been eating foods that you don’t normally eat or eating more than normal?”

I thought about it for a minute. There was something. Once the move was complete, I bought groceries. In those groceries were most of the cereals that I was never allowed as a kid (see the “bad for you” list above). The day before I called the doctor, I ate two boxes of Fruity Pebbles for dinner.

“Ah ha,” said the doctor with a slight tinge of ‘you stupid kid’ in his voice, “It was the dye from the cereal. Just don’t eat quite so much in one sitting. And try eating from all the food groups in each meal.”

Well … isn’t that interesting? Just so you know, I do eat from all the food groups. I enjoy all vegetables and fruit (except mushrooms), I eat poultry and beef, I enjoy dairy (cheese is heavenly!), I love bread and pasta, and I will eat anything else except seafood (yes, all seafood…). But, c’mon, who am I kidding? Cereal is my favorite food group.

black twenty-two

When I was in second grade, a new kid came to my elementary school and I fell in love. He sat behind me and we became fast friends. He had blue eyes and brown hair. He was funny and rambunctious. He was a rough and tumble kind of kid. He was smart, good at math and good at sports.

This young love of my life and I would ride bikes in Campbell Park and to the percolation ponds to watch crawdads get pushed over the falls’ edge by the rushing water. We’d use sticks to help them along if they didn’t fall by the grace of nature. We’d play horse in the school basket ball court with the other boys. We would shriek and laugh, and climb trees, and collect bugs. We called each other best friend.

The first time I spent the night at his house, I was unaware they had cats. I had asthma and was allergic to cats. Before the night even began, it was very apparent that I couldn’t breathe. I was embarrassed to say anything because I wanted this keep this new friend so badly. I didn’t want anything to jeopardize our friendship.

My wheezing got so bad that his dad drove me home. I remember getting out of his father’s truck and his father walked me to my front door. He and my dad talked a bit as I went into my house, took my Marax and a huff off my atomizer, and then went to my bedroom and cried. I cried because I was scared he would not want to be friends anymore. A following weekend we tried again. This time I had my atomizer and Marax with me. It was a success and began a tradition of trade-off sleepovers.

We would play board games, like Battleship and Risk. We would stay up late, drink soda and eat popcorn. We would watch Creature Features and try our hardest to stay up to watch Saturday Night Live, but usually end up falling asleep. We put underwear and t-shirts on his German Shepherd just for laughs. We’d play Captain and Tennille and dress up with items from our costume box. This was the only time I have ever done drag.  

His mom always cooked the same dinner the nights that I stayed there: ham with a honey glaze, green beans with lots of butter, and au gratin potatoes. Typically, there would be pudding for dessert.

He had bunk beds. I always wanted bunk beds. He slept in the top bunk and I slept in the bottom bunk. In the morning, we would watch cartoons and his mom would make us pancakes or waffles. He taught me that peanut butter on pancakes is actually quite delicious; something that I still enjoy.

He lived across the street from Campbell High School where we would play on the track, wander the halls, or throw tennis balls from the top of the school’s theater fire escape. One adventurous day, we climbed through the broken, boarded up windows of the old Campbell Elementary School and wandered around the ghostly halls and classrooms. It was scary and interesting and dangerous. It was amazing fun!

We also spent a lot of time teasing his little sister, but found ways to include her in what we doing many times. I always tried to be generous with his little sister considering that I personally knew how older siblings could be a wee bit inconsiderate to the youngest.

One night, we were playing Casino with his little sister. I was the rich tycoon – the high roller – who was betting large and winning big. He was the card dealer and the roulette caller. She was the mysterious woman who came into the Casino and captivated the attention of all who were there. She gambled and won. She wagered hard and anteed up her cash, her furs, and her jewels.

During one rousing roulette game, the wheel spun fast, the ball put into motion, and the caller asked for all bets. I gave the caller my bet. As a high-stakes gambling man, I enjoyed how focused and direct this woman was. She was glitzy and glamorous and was clearly in need of the money. She was gambling a high stakes game and hoping for a high stakes win. She did not know that the caller and I had rigged the game to fall on numbers of my choosing. The caller and I were in cahoots and all winnings would be divided between us! Bwah hah hah hah! We had it all figured out and we going to make out like bandits off this gambling dame.

The lady, in her high-society trill with all the confidence of a seasoned winner, said “Black. Twenty Two.”

The ball spun around clockwise. The wheel whirred around counter clockwise. The tension filled the casino floor as all eyes were on the lady, her jewels on the table, and the anxious look in her eyes. The caller and I knew we were in the clear and were already scheming how we would spend our spoils.

Then the unthinkable happened. The ball slowed and plunked right into the black twenty-two cup. The lady screamed with glee and the caller and I hollered in disbelief and also in joy that his little sister actually won.

Occasionally, just to elicit laughs from each other, we’d say that phrase and giggle like it just happened yesterday. During this time of my youth, I tape recorded most interactions. I still have the cassette tape that was used to capture the entire “casino interaction,” including the statement “Black. Twenty-two.”

These types of memories continued until sixth grade when his family moved to the Pacific Northwest. Once school finished, and early in the summer months, the family moved away. The morning that they left Campbell, I rode my bike to their house. Their station wagon had suitcases and coolers inside. The moving van was packed and bolted.

I said my goodbyes to his mother and father and sister. I said good-bye to him. I gave him a card whose contents I cannot recall, but I assume it was filled with “I’ll miss you, Keep in touch, Call sometime,” kind of phrases. We hugged briefly and then the next thing I recall is standing there watching the station wagon drive down the street. I watched the car until I could no longer see it. They were gone. He was gone. I was alone.

I took my bike and walked into the Campbell High School baseball diamond dugout. I sat there and cried. I cried long and hard. I had lost my best friend. I had lost my first love. For the first time my heart was broken.

I neither heard from him nor saw him again. I am unaware of any of our childhood friends that have kept in touch with him or have heard from him.

I joined a website where you can search names, addresses, and phone numbers. I searched his name to see what would happen. Nothing. I entered his sister’s name and found her name and a phone number. I clicked a link to see family relations and saw her father and mother’s names. There was no listing of his name.

The mystery remains … what happened to him?

Maybe one day I will summon the courage to call her to see if she can put me in contact with him or at least shed light on his whereabouts. I am afraid of what I might hear. Maybe he wouldn’t want to hear from me. Maybe he doesn’t remember me. Maybe his memories of our friendship aren’t as deep and meaningful as mine.

And if I do call her, maybe I won’t get far enough to find out his fate. Maybe she won’t even remember me. But if she doesn’t remember me, maybe I can jog her memory with a little story about three little kids in a little bedroom in Campbell, California playing a little game of roulette in a big casino, with a big bet, and big win on black twenty-two.

hats, white gloves, and handbags

My mom is celebrating her 70th birthday later this week, but the festivities have begun. My sisters, their families, and I took her to dinner. It was a surprise. Well, I was the surprise. My immediate family lives in Northern California and I live in New York City, so I flew in for a few days to participate in the celebration.

When I fly, I fly direct because connections — especially during wintertime — are especially tricky. You never know if you’ll get off the ground in New York, get out of Chicago, or be able to land in San Francisco with the weather being so screwy. Money is tight, so I had to book a connection.

I miss the days of glamorous air travel. The days when you actually dressed up to go to the airport: hats, white gloves, and handbags; suits, ties, and polished shoes. Leisurely walks to the gate, kind and cheerful gate agents. Stewards and stewardesses who smiled, shook your hand, and seemed to really, really, really mean it when they said they were happy you were on their flight.

Those days were waning when I was young, but I did get to experience them. That’s when Pan Am was actually still in operation and not a retro TV show or kitschy items to buy at flea markets. That’s when disaster movies like “Airport ’75” ran through your head when you buckled your seat belt. When people marveled at the luxury of air travel, replete with beverages in real glasses, real meals on real plates with real metal flatware. It was a special event to fly in the air, to pass over the Gods on Mount Olympus.

Fast forward to recent years, where air travel is akin to waiting in the Port Authority Bus Terminal for the 195 to Rutherford, New Jersey. This is not a glamorous event. It’s a long series of lines, a conundrum of people, lots of screaming and poorly behaved children, rude service, and a cattle call of “hurry up and wait” to get on, in a seat, and go. It’s just plain gross.

After a leisurely morning, I left for Newark and arrived at the airport $75 lighter in my wallet. From front door to gate, it took 40 minutes, including getting through security. Breezy! That’s kind of glamorous.

I paid $9 extra to be in boarding “group 1” so that I could be the first to shove my small duffel bag in an overhead bin. The small, two row plane (not a fan of those) wouldn’t fit it and my bag had to given to the “valet”. That sounds glamorous, but it’s just a fancy term for “give it to the guy on the jet way and then, upon arrival, wait in line with 30 other people who had to do the same thing in order to pick it up.” No real time savings there. And, I guess I really just paid $9 for no reason. That’s glamorous!

I had the two-seat row to myself and since it was a quiet flight with little turbulence, I slept until Chicago. That’s kind of glamorous.

Here’s where the glamour stops. I arrived in Chicago and had just enough time to get my bag from the “valet,” go to the restroom, and quickly eat a little lunch. I ate McDonald’s. It’s my air travel treat. Two cheese burgers, fries, and a coke. It’s a perfect match for the unglamorous experience of air travel. If I must endure the trashy delight of air travel, I might as well go full-tilt.

The flight from Chicago to San Francisco was full. Full flights are like being on a hot, crowded bus with chickens, goats, lots of screaming babies, and loud and egotistical business people drinking and talking too loud.

I prefer the window seat. In the window seat you are in your own little universe. You can turn your back towards the row, look out over the world, and wish that you were anywhere but this NJ Transit Bus in the sky. You can control the window screen. If you want it up … it’s up. If you want it down … it’s down. You aren’t interrupted by others’ bladders. It’s easy to send the non-verbal “do not talk to me” cue from the window seat. I am NOT a plane talker.

I despise the middle seat, and that’s where I sat on this flight. An older woman was in the window seat reading when I boarded (Oh good … she doesn’t want to talk!) and a fidgety, middle-aged, track suit wearing man was in the aisle seat.

I settled in, buckled up, placed my journal and book in the seat pocket in front of me, and promptly closed my eyes. Mr. Fidget says, “Are you headed home?” all smiles and eager to become best friends for the next 4.5 hours.

“No. Well, sort of. I grew up in the bay area. I am heading there to see my family.”

“Oh that’s great. My wife is sitting in the next row. We got separated, but we’re next to each other. She’s wonderful. We have two daughters. They are with some close friends. We’re going to visit her parents in Marin. We’re in (someplace I can’t remember) in Minnesota, near Minneapolis.”

Fuck. Shut up. Please stop talking. I close my eyes. He closes his mouth. Waitaminit. A wife and kids? I could swear you are gay, Mr Fidget. You and Uncle Arthur both. No fooling me. I bet you went to one of those “conversion camps” and are saved from the gayness inside. And, yes, your knee has touched mine one too many times in this brief encounter, so now I have both of my legs leaning closer to Old Reader on my right. 

Oh God. Please don’t test my abilities to not say what I am thinking. I promise I will not get angry on the subway from now on. Please.

They announce they have to de-ice the plane. The lady next to me looks at me, worried.

“Better to do it than not,” I say.

“True,” she replies and then puts her nose back in her book.

I like her. A lot.

Mr. Fidget proceeds to pull out food. He has tons of food with him. A salad, crackers, a bag of sliced apples, two bottles of water, a cup of ice, and a baggies filled with mini bottles of vodka. It was as if he were embarking on an epic journey and needed to bring provisions. Granted, I had a baggie of red grapes, so I am a believer in bringing something to eat, since you have no idea how long you may be trapped on the bus.

“I travel a lot and hate it when people have stinky food. Don’t you hate that?”

 “Yes. Poached salmon is especially bad.”

“I got a salad that doesn’t smell. Can you smell it?”

“No. I can’t smell it.”

Please God, please, do not let us get delayed on the tarmac due to weather. Please do not let us sit here for hours on end. I promise I will be a good man. I will pray every night. I will give change to the homeless. I will volunteer at a retirement home. I won’t talk like Marlee Matlin just for laughs. Please. Please. Please. Or … please smite this man with muteness. Either / or. I’m easy.

We take off. He chats with the person in the seat across the aisle from him, who is his <ahem> wife. They engage the woman in her row’s middle seat. They seem happy as clams to chit chat. I sleep. I wake up. I keep my eyes closed even though I am awake. Turbulence. My fake sleep is spoiled.

He keeps ordering orange juice to make personalized screwdrivers with his mini bottles. The flight attendant says that he can’t do that and that she will not serve him anymore orange juice. I like her. I like her a lot.

He breaks out a bagel … with lox. Mmm … poached salmon. Nice smell.

Maybe now he thinks I am an asshole since I mentioned that before and he won’t talk to me.

His wife and her middle seat companion get up to join the restroom line.

“Don’t you think it’s funny how women always have to go to the restroom together,” he asks. “What do they do together there anyway?”

“I really don’t know,” I sigh. “Gossip. Touch up their make-up.”

“Talk about their men, that’s what they do!” he remarks while the faint smell of screwdriver and locks waft towards my face.

“Men don’t go to the bathroom together. We have strict rules about that. If there are three urinals, guys will choose one on the left or one the right and then choose the stall before going to the center one. And if someones at the center one and the others are available, I go right for the stall.”

I am sure you do. I bet you’re a toilet talker, mister. Please just shut up. Just shut up.

“Speaking of that, I should use the restroom, if you’ll excuse me,” I say as a way to hopefully find some peace and quiet from Mr. Fidget now Mr. Drunk.

I make my way up the aisle, take my place in line, and watch “Toy Story 3” on some child’s DVD player. Then I hear this voice behind me.

“I always hate sitting in the back because people wait in line for the bathroom and look over your shoulder.”

Oh my God. Really?! Are you fucking kidding me?

I say nothing. I wait in line in silence. I pee, wash my hands, wipe out the sink with my paper towel, and take a deep breath. I return to my seat and close my eyes and force myself to sleep.

While in this half sleep, I think about being a little kid and being walked to the gate by my parents. Walking on the tarmac and climbing stairs to get into the plane. Waving goodbye while being escorted to my seat by a stewardess.

Once, coming home from a trip to Southern California, my Aunt Joyce gave me a hand-me-down suit and tie from my cousin Steven. My shoes were polished. I was about seven or eight years old. I felt so grown up. I sat next to a couple of girls who were probably 12 or 13. We had Coca-Cola on ice in glasses. During this flight I concocted this story that I was in Los Angeles auditioning for a TV pilot. I felt so grown up and glamorous and mature. This is what flying was all about. Dressing up, being pampered, being grown up and independent, having dreams as lofty as the clouds the plane passed through.

I wake from this vision of sugar plums to the announcement that we have 45 minutes to landing. Mr. Drunk proceeds to show me pictures on his iphone: his kids, sunsets at the lake house, a trip to Hawaii. I give in and say polite things about the photographs, which are actually quite pretty, after all. I see pictures of his cat. We talk about our pets. He asks me if the murals in Coit Tower are worth going to see. I say absolutely.

We land. The old woman next to me, who has been staring out the window, turns to me and speaks.

“We are far from San Francisco. I thought we’d land in town.”

And for a split second I saw the wonder and glamour of air travel. The excitement of visiting new places, the fascination with being high in the air and safely coming back to ground, the opportunities that must exist on the other side of the terminal, out in this new world. And for a split second, I saw her in a hat, and her white gloves clutched her handbag.

costs money

When I was a child, we had a dog who we called Fritz. Fritz was a little black dog, around 40 pounds, with Doberman-like markings. Dogs were not called “mixed breeds” in those days; they were just plain ol’ mutts. Fritz was a scrappy little mutt. Actually, Fritz was one of the best of them plain ol’ mutts.

He had wiry hair and a tail that curled into a perfect circle. He ears were always perked up, not floppy like some dogs, and he had soulful eyes. Fritz was a dog’s dog. He did what dogs do, or at least he did what dogs did in those days. He kept me company, played with my sisters and me, barked when the mailman arrived, and ate cheap canned food or Chuck Wagon kibble with water for dinner. He seemed to enjoy the savory gravy that the powdered kibble created.

He smelled like a dog, too, and I do not mean that he sniffed the ground or hunted cats. He had a knack for getting out of the backyard – we called it “running away” – and for finding his way into the neighborhood’s garbage cans. Where he found these garbage cans nobody knows, but he would return home smelling like crap and rotten food, and was drunk on being a bad dog. I am sure those whose garbage cans were overturned knew our Fritzy well.

He wore one of those antique plastic pest control devises known as a flea collar. I am not sure they still make flea collars like that, since “modern” dogs such as mine use Frontline to control fleas. Fritz’s flea collar had to be trimmed with scissors to ensure a proper fit and it carried the faint smell of pesticide when it was brand new. Accompanying his flea collar were his dog tags, a chain with his Santa Clara County dog’s license and a tag with his name, our address, and phone number on it.

His tags jingled whenever he walked. You could hear him coming. Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle. When he scratched, which was often since those flea collars worked so well, his chain and tags tinkled loud and fast. Ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting. You could also hear him coming by the clack of his toenails. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle.

He would show his excitement when we would come home or when his dinner was being prepared by clacka-clacka-clacka-clacka-clackaing in place. We called it “tap dancing” and he earned the nickname “Fritz Astaire.”

He wasn’t great on tricks or commands. He could sit and lie down. He would come when he was called and he would stay sometimes. He would shake. He would attack and chew on your slippers if you made them out to be monsters, a game that delighted my sisters and me into fits of giggles. He would chase you in the fields at Rosemary Elementary School. He could catch a Frisbee, chase a ball, and walk on a leash. He was a good boy.

He did have one trick that was his specialty. It was called “Costs Money.” My mother’s father, Grampa Harry, taught him this trick. I am not sure when he was taught this trick, but it must most likely during a Thanksgiving or Christmas visit. Grampa Harry had a great sense of humor and was a definite clown. I am sure he loved teaching this little dog this trick.

Here is how it worked:

Fritz would sit. A treat would be placed in front of him. He would start towards it and would be told that “it costs money” in a tone that indicated, “you can’t eat that yet .” The phase “costs money” would be repeated in teasing proportions as the treat was moved closer and closer to him. He couldn’t eat the treat until he paid for it. And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes. He would sit there patiently and stare longingly at the morsel, whether a bit of Thanksgiving turkey, Christmas ham, salami, bread, or a charcoal Milk Bone dog biscuit. Sometimes he would drool. Sometimes he would need to settle into his sit again, or regain his balance, and his toenails would clack-clack-clack on floor.

“Costs money, Fritzy. It costs money.”

When it was time to pay, when services were rendered, the age-old system of barter was in play. The goods were presented, desired, and waiting to be enjoyed. But first, an exchange was needed in this commerce game. Oh capitalism, how you enthrall me!

The person who was withholding the bounty would extend their open hand and Fritz would swipe his paw into it. This was the equivalent of him reaching into his wallet, and placing cash in the open palm. At that point, the keeper of the feast exclaimed, “It’s paid for!” and Fritzy would gobble up his reward.

The phrase “costs money” has been top of mind for me lately. I hear that phrase everywhere I go. Everything everywhere costs money. Since leaving my last job, and still not working, my income has been greatly reduced. I have lived my entire life with income and I have lived my entire life with expenses. There has always been money coming in and I have been good at ensuring that money goes back out again.

Everything everywhere costs money. Eating out costs money. Ordering food in costs money. Groceries cost money. A new pair of mittens cost money. Learning to knit costs money. Buying yarn costs money. A manicure and pedicure costs money. A new pair of nail clippers costs money. A movie costs money. A book costs money. A newspaper costs money. Everything everywhere costs money.

A friend said once that the minute you walk out the door in NYC, you drop at least $30. And the sad part is that it is true. Even when attempting a “cost free day”, where you do nothing that costs money, you must budget at least $5. There is no such thing as a “cost free” day. You watch TV and it costs money. You turn on a light it costs money. You surf the internet and it costs money. You eat lunch and it costs money.

From my perspective, the only thing that does not cost money is sitting in my living room, petting my dog and thinking. This is something I do very often. I think about how we taught my childhood dog a trick called “costs money” and then I pet my dog, Victor. I think about how it is so true that everything really does cost money and I pet Victor again. I pet my dog and I think about how maybe I should write something about Fritzy or maybe something about “costs money.”

While I pet my dog, I think about how I need to get my taxes done. Even that costs money. It costs money to pay the government money. Pet, pet, pet, think, think, think.

It is a good thing that there is no way to tax thoughts or petting … yet.

don’t touch my poodle …

I know FM really stands for frequency modulation not frequency moderation, but I have been thinking a lot about how to moderate the frequency of my posts. Since blogging is new to me, and since I don’t want to force content, I am a bit flummoxed by how to establish a process. Besides, I like the play on words.

Should I post something every day? Do I really have something that important and mind blowing to share every day? Most likely not. I might find that I am simply stretching a Facebook status update into a blog post. For example, this post could have been this status update: “I am thinking about how often to post updates to my blog …”. Done and over with. Period and end of sentence. Except, I typically end my status updates with an ellipsis, so it would be “ellipsis and end of sentence” in this case.

Should I set a specific day to post updates? That would mean there would be a commitment. Yikes! Commitment! Run! Completing updates in that manner could set me up for failure based on the pressure to perform on command. I would have to get something up on a particular day, otherwise I would not be meeting obligations. It would be like being in a relationship and dealing with sex. When the pressure is on, or when it becomes an obligation, I want nothing of it. I guess I could do what I would typically do in relationship … cheat. You know, find a blog other than mine and post there. Or I could pretend that that blog and I just met at The Eagle, and that its swarthy good looks and pecs were h-o-t hot and would look great in my Room and Board metal bed. Then, I’d be all good for a quick posting.

Should I post only when it tickles my fancy? What is ones fancy and how does it get tickled? I must have skipped school the day they reviewed that in biology. The “mysterious fancy” could be a post in and of itself, which I once saw written as “inaovenself” by some fucktard on Facebook. Now that tickles my fancy. I think.

Should I post pictures? Should I have included a picture of Fritzy, my childhood dog, in Costs Money? Would it enhance that post? Should I post pictures of Victor, my current dog? Should I post pictures of my poodle that can’t be touched? Oh wait, I am not creating that kind of blog. And, ewww, gross … I just called “it” my poodle. It’s not a poodle, it’s my … my … never mind.

Should I post old crap? I have written many other stories (or essays, thoughts, musings, or whatever you want to call them); however, posting those seems like cheating and feels like the easy way out. At the same time, they are interesting and help explain what makes me, well, me. And that is what I really hope to accomplish: explaining what makes me, me. If only for myself.

Should I be profound? I could use this blog as a forum to share deep, meaningful, and thought provoking content. For example, my sobriety and the intricacies of navigating life through that filter, my struggles with growing up gay in a straight man’s world, my views on childhood obesity, war, peace, or how I feel sorry for toddlers in tiaras. Should I expose myself in ways I haven’t already done, or talk about the ways I already have?

Maybe I’ll start by posting some old stuff with its original posting date for transparency purposes. Those who have already read them will be reminded of my brilliance (or stupidity) and those who haven’t will marvel at the same.

That’s what I will do. Sunday night postings at a minimum, a mix of previous work with new work, and other postings as the need (or inspiration) strikes ….

Ellipsis and end of sentence.