Stems & Seeds #1

Over the last few months that I have been on hiatus from this blog, I've written numerous posts that I have (clearly) not published, and some of these unpublished pieces are not exactly long enough to warrant their own post. So I've decided to combine them all into one sort of super-post, as a way to get them out there (and to ease myself back into posting regularly). Each one of these "S&S" posts will contain somewhere between three and six mini-stories, usually anecdotal and pointless, but entertaining nonetheless.
Note: The last two of these four have been published on Facebook previously, so if you've read them before, I apologize.

My Observation (Part 1)

For as long as I can remember, I've been a very observant person. I tend to notice things in peoples' behavior and demeanor that others don't, and because of this, people-watching has become a favorite pastime of mine in recent years.
A few months ago, I was sitting on one of the benches in my local mall doing just this, and my eye caught an average-looking Indian man walking in my direction a few dozen yards away. Seconds after I began watching him, in lieu of nothing, he dropped to his left knee, put his left hand on his right foot like he was tying it, and reached out with his right hand to rub one of the (clearly fake) leaves the mall had "planted" in the mall's medians. I assume this awkward arm-and-foot-crossing was done to check and see if the plants had been real or not, but I'm not certain because the way the action itself flowed so fluidly made me think he'd done it a dozen times before, and I can't imagine someone needing to check that many mall median planters over the course of their lifetime.

Aside #1: To fully understand just how awkward-looking this position was, I suggest you try it out for yourself using the description above as a guide. It really was insane.

Immediately after doing this, he stood up and noticed that I had been watching him the entire time. He turned around on one heel and began to quickly walk in the opposite direction, looking back a few times nervously as if I'd caught him doing some heinous act.
It was only when I watched him fade away into the crowd that I realized that he'd been wearing slip-on sandals the entire time.

My Observation (Part 2)

Another one of my favorite interesting observations came shortly after the "leaf-feeling"one, at that same mall inside of a small furniture store.
I saw a small family walking around the same portion of the store as me, with a mother, father, and two twin girls, aged around eight years old. Both girls had mild down syndrome, and their parents were very patient and understanding with them, a perfect portrait of a family dealing with disabled children.
But something was amiss. As is tradition with young twins, both girls were wearing matching clothing, save for one small detail. The first twin was wearing a red shirt adorned with a large, white circle, with the words "THING 1" on it. The second was wearing the same, but hers said "THING 2."
Now, obviously the girls were wearing these shirts because of the characters in the age-old Dr. Seuss tale "The Cat in the Hat," but did the parents of these two disabled children not realize the implications of these t-shirts before buying them? Their poor planning and execution when it came to their daughters' clothing made me feel like the worst person that had ever lived, as I had to run (not walk) to a different area of the store so I could have a laughing fit without hurting their feelings. I wasn't even laughing at the implication or the fact that the children were disabled, either. I was laughing at the parents' carelessness and blatant stupidity.

The Sun-Visor Story

When I was a kid (around the age of ten or eleven, I'd say), I was driving in the back seat of my mom's car on the driver's side, playing with her handleld vanity mirror that she always kept in her purse. We were in notorious Dallas traffic, barely inching forwards every few minutes. I was playing with the reflection of the mirror, holding it at different angles, watching how the light's reflection changed as I moved it.
I noticed a blond-haired woman with big teeth and sunglasses sitting in the car next to us, in the passenger seat. She had a very mom-ish look about her, and was talking to the man who was driving (presumably her husband). Suddenly, an idea struck me, and I aimed the reflection directly at her eyes. She immediately shielded them with her hand, and turned to try and look at me. I ducked down quickly, and the light was very bright, but I was sure she saw something.
Slowly, I poked my head back up over the edge of the door. She was looking right at me, shaking her head sadly and saying something to her husband. She didn't seem angry, or hurt, just disappointed. She pulled down the sun visor and turned it so no light could be shone in her eyes from my direction. I sat there, and stared straight ahead for the rest of the car ride home, feeling terrible.
Every single time someone around me uses a sun visor in a car, I think of that woman. I wish I could go back in time and apologize for being such a little douchebag. Not only because it was a terrible thing for me to do, but because I'm sick and fucking tired of having to see her horsey-ass face trying to guilt-trip my pre-teen self every single time someone uses an everyday fucking item in a vehicle. That shit sucks.

Fucking With People

Since before I can remember, I've been inventing new ways to fuck with people.

Aside #2: My definition of "fucking with people" is as follows:

fucking with people (slang term) - A blanket phrase used to describe any practical joke-type situation that is harmless and usually leaves the target confused.

When I was in school, I'd practice sleight-of-hand magic tricks on my classmates, often stealing small objects (erasers, candy, etc.) in the process, claiming they had "disappeared." I was and still am a master of slipping any object into my sleeve without notice, a talent I'd often practice in front of mirrors as a child and teen. Now, as an adult, I usually bum cigarettes from idiotic drunk hipsters at keggers whose minds are blown by such simple tricks, and gladly cough up a coffin nail for a short magic show.

Anyways, cheap entertainment aside, I've invented a few ways to fuck with people that I hope others will exercise and spread, to bring a little more confusion and hilarity into the world.

#1: Journey

Description: When listening to 80's rock music with other people in a car or otherwise, referring to every band as popular ballad-rockers Journey. See if anyone corrects you. More often than not, they won't. They'll just uncomfortably shift in their seat and look at the ground, or pretend to be distracted by a bit of fuzz on their slacks. It's delightful.

Aside #3: If no 80's rock is available, use the French phrase "c'est la vie" ("such is life") in the wrong context and see if anyone notices. Even further, when offered something from a friend (such as food), claim to be allergic to something that has nothing to do with what they are offering you. My personal favorite is when someone offers me a cigarette. I respond with "No thanks, I'm allergic to peanut butter."

#2: Toilet paper

Description: When in the bathroom at someone's house, fold the end of their toilet paper roll into a triangle shape like they do at hotels. Also applicable in public restrooms, though they could assume it was the janitorial staff that folded it.

Aside #4: If you don't think this is funny, imagine someone that you didn't know previously (a friend of a friend) coming over to your house and doing this while in your bathroom. Wouldn't your next bowel movement be made a bit nicer (albeit confusing) by this small, polite gesture?

#3: Sneezing

Description: While walking and holding a drink that has some amount of liquid or ice in it, fake-sneeze loudly and throw the drink into the air as if you sneezed ridiculously hard. Swear loudly and pick up your cup. Or don't.

#4: Salt and Pepper Shakers

Description: This one takes a bit of effort to pull off, but the outcome is well worth it. Go to a Goodwill or other such resale store and pick up a pair of generic salt and pepper shakers. After washing them, take them with you the next time you eat at a restaurant and exchange them with the ones they have at your table. Take the now-empty ones with you, to use the next time you go out to eat. I like to imagine the look on the busboy's face when he realizes what happened.

Before I end this, I'd like to encourage you all to come up with your own way of fucking with people. Remember that it cannot be harmful in any way, and must be executed with the utmost seriousness. Fucking with people is an art form that should be appreciated and admired, and passed down through the generations. It makes people's day a bit more interesting, and generates that minute bit of anarchy that all of our lives deserve.

My Step-Grandpa

From the time when my mother married my stepfather when I was seven to when I was nine years old, the three of us lived in the company of my stepfather's dad. Not wanting to disrespect my "true" grandparents by implying that he was as influential in my life as they were, he and my parents told me to address him by his first name, Bob.

Aside #1: I don't know if this was actually their reason for this, but it was what I believed while growing up and what I will continue to assume unless told otherwise.

As most seven year-olds would be when thrown into living with a senior citizen they hadn't grown up around, I was incredibly apprehensive about the situation at first. After all, he didn't only live with us, he actually lived with us. I'd never seen anything like it before. He watched TV. He took showers. He ate dinner with us. He even lived in the bedroom next to mine. It was as if they had adopted another child, except this one swore a lot and didn't have regular bowel movements.

Aside #2: Because I can't find a way to coherently incorporate it into the above paragraph, I'll just mention it here: Bob lived with my stepfather before he married my mom. That is all.

But after a few weeks, I became accustomed to having him around. Usually, I'd arrive home from school to find him sitting on the couch watching the news or reading his Bible. Once I'd become completely comfortable around him, we'd go on walks together, where he would explain how the colorful Southwestern Bell telephone line-marker flags I was pulling up and collecting were actually placed there by a kid around my age who had gone on a walk alone and left a trail so he didn't get lost, and that he wouldn't be able to find his way home if I continued to take them.

Basically, he completely fabricated a story that was tailored to my adolescent mindset to give me an actual reason to stop taking the flags, rather than just telling me "don't do that" like a normal adult would have.

Aside #3: One of my favorite things I ever asked him on one of these walks was how cigarette filters tasted if you continued to smoke past the tobacco. His answer? "Burning paper. Don't try it if you ever smoke."

Because of his demonstrative way of passing down wisdom, Bob would teach me three of the most important things I've ever learned in my life over the course of the next two years; through things he did, not things he said.

Lesson #1 - The world around you is important, always keep up with current events.

There was a woman that lived across the street from us with her husband and three kids that Bob would talk to regularly, named Jane. She was notorious for getting her news updates through Bob, because she didn't read the newspaper or own a television.

Aside #4: It's sort of implied, but I'll say it anyways: This was in an age before the internet was most peoples' primary source for news.

One evening, Bob realized how dependent she was on him for this, and decided to play a prank on Jane, telling her that there was supposed to be a massive solar eclipse the following morning around 7 AM (when Jane would be waking up, and in her windowed kitchen making coffee). After explaining that the eclipse would make it pitch black outside around this time, he told her not to open her blinds during the few minutes the eclipse would last because she might unintentionally look into the sun and be blinded. Taking his word as truth, she believed him implicitly.

Late that night, long after Jane and the rest of her family had gone to sleep, Bob walked across the street with a handful of thick black trash bags and a roll of duct tape, affixing them over the few windows Jane would walk by on her way to the kitchen the next morning.

It worked perfectly. The way she told it, she woke up in her dark room and walked down a dark hallway into her dark kitchen, where no sunlight was shining through any window. She became suspicious and went outside, she explained, after the "eclipse" hadn't ended by the time her pot of coffee was done brewing.

Lesson #2 - Work can be entertaining, if you make it.

Sometime during the first six months of my mother and stepfather's marriage, they decided to paint the entire interior of our house peach. I don't know why, but it happened. Naturally, Bob and I were enlisted to help, with me taking on most non-painting duties (like watching!) as he worked on painting the living room.

Watching him work was infinitely more entertaining than watching either of my parents work. He would paint shapes and simple little drawings to entertain me as I valiantly tried to stop myself from dipping my Hot Wheels in the paint. He joked that he would paint a mural while I was at school one day, even though he only had the single color.

Lo and behold, he did. Sort of. You see, this story happens to take place the same week as Halloween, and Bob apparently realized that peach isn't so far from the fall season's head color, orange. So he painted a giant, smiling jack-'o-lantern on one of the walls in the hallway that lead to our kitchen. Upon my arrival home, I nearly shit myself with happiness when I saw that an adult had done something so cool. He had even left it out for me to see, meaning that it dried completely before he painted over it later that day.

That also means that every time I would walk by that wall, and look at it from a certain angle in the right light, I could see the faintest outline of a grinning pumpkin, years after it was painted.

Lesson #3 - Learn to make fun of yourself, before others do.

I don't know or remember what planted the seed of the idea that I was obsessed with the then-ridiculously popular Britney Spears into Bob's head, but after about a year of knowing me, he suddenly would not stop hassling me about it, teasing me every time she was on TV or in the newspaper.

Aside #5: He even left a Britney Spears poster for me to find in my room one day, suspiciously signed "To Tyler, Love Britney S. XOXO" in Bob's all-caps handwriting. That's how bad it got.

Being a hotheaded child that hated being made fun of even a little bit (like I still am), I chose not to ignore him and was subsequently driven mad by his constant success in pissing me off.

Like one earthquake triggering another, my anger turned into nonchalance over time, and soon I was reacting to her appearances in media faster than he was, with mock excitement. I don't he was ever as proud of me as he was the few times I did that.

But unfortunately, as I mentioned above, my time spent with Bob didn't last more than two years. He moved out to live with his brother and other family members in Rochester, New York, on an alpaca farm. From there, he would send us letters and photos every month or two, either of the crazy weather they were having or members of his family in the crazy weather they were having. They had a photo printer and loved to use it.

Aside #6: Seriously, if you went through my photo collection, you would wonder why half of it is comprised of unidentifiable blurry people in snow gear waving at the camera from off in the middle-distance.

One of my favorites was not of either of these things, though. It was of Bob and a young alpaca named Don Diego, standing outside of a veterinary office where the animal was to get some shots that day (as explained on the back of the photo). Along the bottom, a caption reads "This won't hurt?" which was for me at the time, the pinnacle of all things humorous. I put it up on my wall immediately.

A few weeks after sending this last picture, in apropos of nothing, Bob had a stroke in his sleep and passed away. From the moment I found out until the moment I saw him lying in his casket after flying out to Rochester with my parents for the funeral, I didn't believe it was possible for him to be gone. But he was.

It rained on the day of his funeral, which is always fitting. I was in shock for most of the evening afterwards, not really talking to anyone or getting to know these family members I'd never met before. Seeing this, Bob's brother and his wife offered to take me out to the stable to meet a few alpacas, an offer I gloomily accepted.

After meeting the half-dozen they owned and posing for a few obligatory pictures with each one, we returned to the house to print said pictures out to take home with us.

Immediately after plugging the camera in and turning the printer on, a sheet started running through it without having the order to do so. Curious, everyone in the room watched as the printer spit out a sheet of four identical pictures of Bob standing next to Don Diego, caption and all. No one said a word. Then Bob's brother started laughing, followed by everyone else.

It was then that I realized that he'd once again inadvertently taught me a life lesson, one that I value most of all: always keep 'em laughing.

The Potato Salad Story

No one ever believes me when I say that I hate potatoes.

Aside #1: Except for French fries. Those don't count.

Mashed, diced, baked, it doesn't matter. I absolutely despise them. Not because of how they taste, or feel (as I so commonly tell people), but because I had a...traumatic experience involving them when I was around 9 years old.

My mother, stepdad and I had all sat down to eat dinner. I can't be sure as to what the main course was, but it doesn't matter. Amongst the two or three side-dishes that were sitting on the table, I saw one that I'd never tried before. It was potato salad, and my mother told me that I'd have to at least try it before I was to be excused from dinner. Not a big deal, right?

Wrong. After finishing everything else on my plate, the ominous, lumpy "salad" still remained. Using my fork, I cut a corner off of one of the potato chunks before putting it into my mouth. Almost instantly, I felt my throat close as my gullet simply refused to accept the food that was being shoveled down it. I spit it out into my napkin before being scolded by my parents for what had just happened. My mother, never missing a chance to make me feel guilty for even the tiniest thing, put her hand over her mouth dramatically and claimed that she had "lost her appetite." After she left the table, I was left to face my stepdad, someone I didn't know too well at the time.

Aside #2: He had married my mom less than two years earlier.

I didn't know it at the time, but I would soon discover that he was a very hard-headed individual. One that clearly didn't consider my choked-on slice of potato to be a "true bite."

Aside #3: If my life story ever becomes a sitcom, I'd love to have clearly exaggerated version of kid-me sketch out a diagram on a napkin of what should be considered a "true bite" in relativity to the mass of the object being bitten vs. the mass of the actual bite. Genius kids always get good ratings.

After unsuccessfully trying to coerce me into eating more (something I think anyone would refuse to do, given the situation), he began to get frustrated with me, telling me that I was absolutely forbidden to leave the table until I had eaten a single chunk of potato. Matching his stubbornness, convinced that the potato "bite" in question had nearly killed me, I continued my single-food strike until well after he'd left the table, minutes ticking by on the oven clock across the kitchen.

Soon, a few hours had passed. I kept sitting, refusing to budge until I either died of starvation or they were forced to let me get up. Suddenly, it was well past midnight, and both of my parents were asleep. Laying my head down on the table next to my plate, I fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up with the sun. My mother was already up, brewing her usual pot of coffee. After seeing that I'd woken up, she walked over to me.

"Did you sleep here the entire ni-"

Her words were cut off as thick, white vomit spewed from my mouth and nose, all over the mostly-empty plate sitting in front of me. Rushing over to comfort me, my mother began to mop up my vomit with a dish towel after telling me that she was going to make me some chicken nuggets after I'd gone to the bathroom to clean myself up.

Aside #4: I've never really thought about it before, but I find it funny that my mom had no issue with seeing me vomit, but had a huge issue with me spitting out a tiny piece of potato that I hadn't even chewed once. Also, it should be noted that she made me chicken nuggets an such an early hour because normal breakfast food would have likely upset my stomach even more.

Standing up and walking down the hallway, my stomach felt empty. My kidneys ached from lack of urination. I could barely hold my head up. But I had won. For the first time in my life, I stood up for something I believed in, and never backed down for a second. Every argument or fight I've ever won, every time I've defended anything I believed in has stemmed from this one moment of pure, unabashed victory.

But as I mentioned earlier, winning came with a price. I have never, ever eaten potatoes in any sort of raw form in the ten-plus years since. I've tried, but I simply can't do it.

I guess there is just something deep, deep within me, buried in the back of my head, near all of my primal instincts and central programming that refuses to let the silent assassins known as potatoes make another attempt at my life.