Cellphone Conversation: Friday, July 31, 2009

I (UP) called Hayley, my neice (HM), and Linda, my Sister-In-Law (LRM), both of whom were leaving Colorado Springs on their way back home to Silverthorne, Colorado.

FIRST CALL:

UP: Hi, Linda!

LRM: Hello? Hello? Are you there? Hello?

UP: (I could hear her) Hello? Linda, can you hear me? Hello? Helloooooo?

LRM: Hello? Darn! (HANGS UP)

SECOND CALL:

UP: Linda, are you there?

LRM: Yes. I could hear you before -- you kept yelling, "hello!"

UP: Hmm? So, I could hear you, and you could hear me? I hung up for no reason?

LRM: Well, we are on a freeway outside of Colorado Springs on our way back home, and there is a lot of traffic. It sounded like you were under water!

UP: OK, well, how is Hayley? Is she feeling better?

LRM: Yes, I would say so. Just blowing a lot of stuff out of her nose.

UP: (LAUGHING) Well, tell her that is a good thing. She taking her medicine?

LRM: Yes. She is taking the antibiotics, the Sudafed and the other thing.

UP: Good. So, what were you two doing in Colorado Springs?

LRM: We decided to take the opportunity to drive down to UCCS to take a look at the school; you know she is a Senior and is actually thinking of going into nursing school.

UP: Oh, really? I had never heard that before! Hell, why not medical school?

LRM: She doesn't want to go to school that long.

UP: (JOKING) Oh, ..... she plans on marrying a doctor, then?

LRM: Yeah, that's what she wants ..... she wants to marry some a****le! (LAUGHING)

UP: WHAT DID YOU SAY? DID I HEAR YOU CORRECTLY? (She never swears)

LRM: (LAUGHING) I just said it for effect; you know that -- it was a joke.

HM: MOM! I CAN'T GET IT TO SHIFT!

UP: Wait a minute! I thought you were driving? So, Hayley is driving?

LRM: NO. I am driving -- she is SHIFTING!

UP: WHY IS SHE SHIFTING?

LRM: So that I can talk to you .....

PAUSE

LRM: ..... and eat my sundae!

UP: WHAT?

LRM: We stopped at a drive-through and got ice cream sundaes. I am driving, talking to you, and also trying to eat a sundae -- and, yes, Hayley is shifting for me. Well, she is also feeding the sundae to me!

HM: Mom, you had better finish this soon or I am throwing it out the window!

UP: Let me get this straight: You spent the day in Colorado Springs visiting a college and nursing school she would like to eventually attend all so that she might someday meet and marry an a****le? NOW, you are driving home, Hayley is shifting the gears -- so that you can continue talking to me on the phone while eating an ice cream sundae?

LRM: Well, it has stopped raining!

PAUSE -- (GUT WRENCHING LAUGHTER)

UP: Oh, well, that is a relief! Glad to hear it has stopped raining! Anything else I should be worried about?

LRM: OH, I HAVE TO PUT THE PHONE DOWN. A police car -- with its lights on -- is coming this way!

PAUSE

LRM: Oh, thank, God, he's going after somebody else!

LRM: The sundae is no longer overflowing; I can handle it now.

UP: Really? Is there anything else?

LRM: Well, we are driving into a lane with orange construction cones. But, it is only an exit.

You would just have to be there; we all really LOVE our Sister-In-Law!

MY Chicken

I recently came across a book of “celebrity” chefs each of whom was asked a single question:

“What would you eat for your last meal?”

I was somehow overlooked.

Had the author bothered, I would assure him my choices change with time; my tastes are continually in flux. But, for the moment my all-time list might include:

Mylla’s roast, Karen’s potatoes, Paula Deen’s green beans with new potatoes, a field green salad with Jeannie’s dressing, ending with Ina Garten’s Frozen Key Lime Pie.

Sure, we have all eaten roast, but it is Mylla’s roast that I crave. People may be loathe to admit in public that they covet a good roast, but we all search for a way back to some special time or place in our lives through food; I think it is called "comfort food."

But, seriously, Mylla isn’t a classically trained chef; for that matter, neither is Paula Deen or Ina Garten. Mylla learned the secret to her roast; it didn’t appear to her in a vision. I would also venture a guess that Paula and Ina have recipes which originated on bits of worn paper discovered in neglected recipe boxes from long-forgotten kitchens. Moreover, these savvy women have gone on to sell books filled with the purloined recipes from those dusty boxes to people like me; if only I were so smart.

So, how is it that all of these people have come to hold proprietary claim over certain recipes? And, how many different recipes can possibly exist for pot roast? In my mind, there can only be so many ways to, “skin the proverbial cat.” Yet, bookstore shelves overflow with an ever expanding collection of newly minted instructional cookbooks.

Googling “pot roast," I was confronted with a staggering “1,150,000” posts. Adjectives describing the recipes include: Best, Classic, Simple, Slow-cooking, Oven, and Stove-top – to name a few.

The Food Network – today – lists a mind-numbing 541 recipes, most all of them with generic tag lines of: Meat, Mushroom, and Beef.

If I was new to a pot or even a roast, the choices would be all too confusing. I would need help. I might think to call Marilyn.

If ever in the vicinity of Lecanto, Florida – and desperately in need of resource material for a recipe or future cookbook – as well as a purient desire for a wee glimpse of “the crazies” – one need make a single stop (once past security) to see my good friend, Marilyn B. (That's her: she doesn't believe in makeup but never fails to have a blob of icing on her face.)

Some people collect stamps. Others save newspaper clippings. Some even horde – or have difficulty parting with – garbage. Marilyn has only one vice: Cookbooks. I will do my level best to locate incriminating pictures of her collection; suffice it to write that the shelves of her bookcases moaned and strained under the sheer weight of the collection when she moved to the Black Diamond Ranch community – and lost. The aggregate number totals some 800 or so books; she gave away a "couple hundred of them" before making the move. She has every cookbook known to man.

I guess one could write that I am a one-woman man; I very seldom stray from Ina Garten. (There are occasional dalliances with the likes of Paula Deen, and Tyler Florence – please, don’t go there.) So, when compared to Marilyn’s library, my eight or nine books might seem anemic. Well, to my way of thinking, the collection while small is also mighty.

What has Ina done for me? She has brought great food to the table for my family and friends. As a result, she has also made me a very popular guy. People think I can cook -- and when others come to believe you do it well? Forgetaboutit.

How is that? Look at the picture -- I cooked those beauties!

Ina’s ridiculously simple and fantastic roast chicken is now “MY” roast chicken. I made no claim; I let the recipe, my ability to follow instructions -- as well as the results -- do the talking. I should note that I may-have-also-kind-of-sorta (silently) laid claim to her homemade gravy – as well as her frozen key lime pie. It is an innocent sin of omission; I never declared ownership. By way of full disclosure, I should probably add that I pretty-much cook almost everything Ina offers up; I may very well be guilty of a multitude of similar sins.

I don’t imagine I will ever have the opportunity to meet her -- unless a lawsuit is filed for failing to declare that the food I cook, “is the intellectual property of Ina Garten.” Absent litigation, I certainly wouldn’t forfeit an opportunity to meet Ina -- if only to thank her and to relay how her recipes have greatly expanded our collective compendium of “comfort food.” And, I hope she would actually find comfort in knowing that some of her recipes, those which have now become MY crowd-pleasing favorites, will live on in the hearts and minds of my family and friends. She has my unflogging loyalty as well as some of my money; maybe she could spare a little of the credit?

And, if Ina really pressed, I would even consider asking Mylla, Karen, and Jeannie if I could share their recipes with her. (I doubt they would charge.)

Rest assured, Ina. I have no interest in writing a cookbook – y(our) recipes are safe.

I wouldn’t trust Marilyn, however.

"You Been Goofing With The Bees?"

I hate -- that is a strong word -- "very much dislike" on-line "quizzes." For the life of me, I don't understand why anyone would want to know if I like "broccoli," or if I am a "birdwatcher?"

Regardless, a friend recently forwarded a multi-question interrogatory my way. Generally, I would have dismissed the quiz out of turn; had it been sent by almost anyone else, I surely would have relegated the test to its rightful place in the wastebasket of the Ethernet.

50 questions.

I began by answering with bored, monosyllables but soon found myself elaborating. Worse, I later "got to thinking."

Question 47: How many tattoos do you have? None. Unequivocally, NONE.

Not that I have anything against body art; I actually believe tattoos, in moderation, suit some personalities. (But seriously, why would you tell me on Sunday you have no money to pay bills, then proudly celebrate a brand new "tat" on Monday?)

My issue with tattoos is long-standing but has nothing to do with ink.

I am trypanophobic -- I am terrified of needles.

Question 26: "What did you want to be when you were little?"

When I was five, I wanted to be a firetruck. I had issues.

If alternatively asked, "what could I see myself doing as an adult?" I may have answered that I wanted to be funny -- like Dick Van Dyke. But, I most certainly also wanted to be a physician.

I somehow managed to accomplish both; although one of my patients is always quick to (re-)assure me that, "(funny) looks aren't everything."

Again, I very much dislike -- no, really hate -- needles. How did this needle-phobic kid become a physician?

Summers were spent outdoors; there were no computers or video games. There was also the dictum that children were "meant to be seen -- preferably outside." So long as a summer sun ruled over our street lights, we ran and ran and ran. This amount of time accorded me the opportunity to accumulate a great wealth of (dis-)information from "knowledgeable" siblings and friends.

One valuable lesson handed down -- and confirmed by the singer, Nilsson -- declared: "Don't be goofing with the bees." The rule, in my mind, logically extended to anything with a stinger. I had personally witnessed pain and suffering inflicted on countless friends by these flying marauders; while it wasn't a pure case of schadenfreude -- my general thinking was, "better them than me!" The take home lesson: anything with a stinger is bad.

So, given this construct, why would anyone believe I could somehow grant special sanction to man-made "stingers" attached to syringes filled with potentially life-saving vaccines or not?

My family eventually came to expect it. I suppose it may very well have been embarrassing for them; not for me.

As a result of my fear, I spent a great deal of time as a kid running and screaming through sundry doctor's offices in failed attempts to avoid moustached, pointy-hat wearing, syringe-wielding nurses in white. It was just too bad if you happened to get in my way; I was going through you, "come hell or high-water." In the end, unfortunately, the Cloris Leachman-esque nurses of my youth always had their way with me; they had help -- I clearly understood THAT tone in Mother's voice.

The logic escaped me. Why would anyone voluntarily sit still for the infliction of any pain? Seriously, which of us was truly smart? On one hand, you had an automaton of a child who unflinchingly sat "like a good boy" while under a parent-sanctioned assault. Or, as in my case, you had a boy who dared question -- strenuously -- the necessity of being needled by some stranger. My parents had always told me to use my head -- well, my mind, heart, and accumulated life-lessons called on me to rise up and "fight the man."

Perversely, I later opted for that career as a physician -- with a license authorized by the state to stick ridiculously large bore needles into the persons of my patients. The object of my dread as a boy has now become one of the tools of my trade. Ironic - perhaps even hypocritical. 

Question 22: Birdwatcher? I have never personally seen a tufted tit-mouse.

Question 42: Broccoli? I do like broccoli. Blanched with a squeeze of lemon. Have recently been told to try a broccoli garlic mache?

Question 47: How many tattoos do you have? None.

I DO hate on-line quizzes.

And, I recently had a tetanus shot.

I took it like a man; the bite marks on my hand were visible for at least a day.

Super Size Me!

I am driving in the right of two Northbound lanes of traffic on a hilly and winding highway notorious for police speed-traps.

The posted speed limit is 55 mph.

It is fast approaching rush-hour -- but not quite. There is still ample room between cars but the volume of traffic is rapidly increasing.

The cars in my lane are, inexplicably, going at least five miles below posted speeds; my only thought is, "Boy, life at home must really be good," or, dare I say, some of the drivers may very well be "Occidental?" Whatever the reason, my little brain, by force of habit -- as well as fear of tickets -- demands I use my blinker before moving into the left-lane to pass.

As an aside, I believe blinkers have come to represent a genuine modern-age relic. From my observations, I could very well be the last driver who actually still uses them religiously. Either, blinker technology is patently defective, or -- I hate to generalize-- my fellow travelers are simply choosing to not obey the law!

Every American driver should take up the challenge of successfully navigating the massive "intersection" of 610 Highway and US 59 in Houston, Texas at least once -- preferably -- before they die; it could very well be more perilous than bungee jumping with a rubber band. Maneuvering your way through this interchange is hard enough at 2 am, but to come away from the "adventure" unscathed -- as a "newbie" -- and during rush hour traffic is a genuine accomplishment.

It was on the concrete morass of this, the "Spaghetti Bowl," that I learned a hard lesson: use of blinkers is a sign of weakness. By activating the annoying clickety-click, you are signalling to everyone that, "I am wimp and would very much like to have permission to move into your lane. Thanks, and have a nice day!"

"Oh, really?," is the first-half of a nearly-universal reply.

This pitiful display is anathema to most Texans. By merely indicating your intent, the other drivers, acting as judge and jury, immediately convict (you of being said-wimp) and impose sentence; after quickly accelerating, the unspoken retort is:

"NO, you will NOT be moving into your desired lane. Bite me. I have an appointment with a Big Mac."

If I am wrong and this is not a conscious decision, then the mere sight of blinking lights must produce a Pavlovian response which forces (victimizes) the offending drivers to advance, thereby blocking your lateral movement. My independent (anecdotal) research, however, indicates there seems to be a positive statistical correlation between this rude behavior and cellphones, big hair -- and trucks. Singularly or in combination.

This is guaranteed: The day I don't use my blinker is the same day I get a ticket for not signalling my intention to turn or change lanes. Sorry, I digress ...

Going back to where we started, (after having used my blinker) I am now safely in the left-hand lane. I then begin to accelerate, moving past the slower drivers to my right -- making certain they all get a good look at my displeased countenance -- I am silently transmitting to each of them, "my time is valuable, too." (Those who are not oblivious to other drivers) will know better next time! Eventually, I settle into a "safe" cruising speed -- 5 miles or so above the posted speed seems to be the universal "rule." In this case, at 60 or 62 miles per hour, I am moving at an acceptable speed that is not too slow and one that shouldn't subject me to ticket and fine. The reality is that you never know.

My current beef is with those drivers who are then in an even greater hurry to speed past me. These guys -- a disproportionate number in oddly over-size trucks -- clearly don't understand or care for the well-established "two-second" rule for maintaining safe distances between cars. By way, of "making a point," some of them feel compelled to -- pardon my "french" -- ride my "ass." Well, it just so happens that this poor decision generally tends to, "chap my ass." (I really don't know what that means -- just sounds right.)

"Excuse me, insecure guy in the embarrassingly-large truck: I am already driving well above the posted speed limit in an area notorious for police speed traps! Now, you would have me increase my speed further on the odd chance I might -- might -- secure an opportunity to move over into the congested right lane full of "slower people" -- all so that you can rocket past me?"

MY knee jerk -- well, Texan -- response is to apply the brakes -- slowing down, thus, allowing the offender a little time to realize he has been adjudged guilty by ME.

"Slower Traffic Keep Right."

To be certain, this does not translate to:

"Speeding But Slower Traffic Move The Hell Over So I Can Break The Law Even More Than You Are Already Doing So I Can Git Me Some Beers And Fast Food."

Before judging ME, please do not forget -- in this situation -- If I were to accept his bullying and accomodate him by accelerating, I would probably be the first target of the police and dread radar gun.

I am not restricted by any mandated sentencing guidelines but punishment is generally the same:

"You will travel at an even slower rate of speed to be set by my NEW best friend -- the lady to my right --the one with blue hair who can barely see over her dashboard. The duration of punishment is variable; be it one mile or ten, we will travel together until you either find an avenue of escape -- or, until I get bored -- (or, you pull out a gun.)"

And waving your disfigured hand will generally not sway me. I can be a bit stubborn.

Oh, and here is a news flash:

McDonald's will still be open when you get there.

What's In A Name?

I have a mountain named after me -- I really do.

Puppy Peak.

Yes, I'm sure there is some officious name mapmakers have ascribed to it, but everyone I know in Colorado refers to it only as, "Puppy Peak."

I was born Robert. If asked, I think most would say that the diminutive for Robert is Rob -- it stands to reason. Well, there are those who strongly disagree -- at least with me.

It is a fact that I was named for the famous physician, Robert Lamar, MD, who was the first to arrive in Bataan as WWII drew to a close; he was also the same inebriated, Robert Lamar, MD, who brought my twin brother and I into the world.

After suffering labor with two six-pound plus watermelon equivalents, my Mother never again  had a kind word to speak of the tipsy physician who spent most of the day reading comic books and patting her on the head while admonishing her to "be a good girl."

It  remains a puzzle to me, then, as to why my parent's decided to name me for this man.  While it was probably my father's idea, I can assure you Mother never called me Robert again ~ except on those rare occasions when I was (mistakenly) in trouble.

So it is that in my world, my given name begat Bob, which morphed into Bobby and eventually to Blob .. ad nauseum.  There was also a time during high school when I was inexplicably "Uncle Bobo" to most of my friends; the truly sad aspect of this fact is that I never discouraged it..

There seems to be a negative cultural connotation of sorts with the name, Bob.  There are plenty of movies as evidence which invariably portray the village idiot as some mouth-breathing buffoon named, "Bob."  And while I may simply be paranoid, it also seems that television sitcoms routinely curse every stupid husband with the dread name.

Why not Fred?  Better yet, Blake, Bill, Scott, Mark or Jim?

The movie, "What about Bob," is a perfect example.

Bill Murray plays a psychiatrist-stalking, obsessive-compulsive ~ albeit lovable ~ psycho named ... you guessed it ... Bob.  At the beginning of the movie, the doltish Bob forces his psychiatrist into an early retirement but not before the shrink foists the loon into the care of an unsuspecting and egomaniacal collegue.

The not-so-subtle irony in the movie ~ for me ~ comes when Bob then proceeds to drive the aforementioned unsuspecting, egomaniacal, Dr. Marvin, into an asylum.

When it comes to my names, I can't win!

One day while in college, it all changed for me; I woke up one morning as "Bob" but went to bed that night as "Rob."

Catherine ~ carob eating, soda nazi, lawyer-to-be ~ informed me while (she was not) studying Organic Chemistry that "you are most definitely not a 'Bob' ~ you are a 'Robert!'"

For the life of me, I don't know why her words resonated as they did; I had never really given my name much thought.  Even so, I listened when this intelligent, pre-med dropout cum future lawyer declared the use of the name "Bob" taboo.

I asserted my prerogative and went to bed that night freshly empowered with the name, "Rob."  I have been Rob to most everyone since.

I probably should have told my father.

While at home over the summer break, it dawned on me that I hadn't heard from many of my college buddies.  I mentioned this curious turn to my father who went on to tell me that while they "had received quite a few odd phone calls requesting to speak to someone named 'Rob,' no one had specifically asked to speak to me!"

Before hanging up, my father apparently ended the calls with an abrupt, "There is no Rob here!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today, there exist at least three distinct camps:

Most family members stubbornly refuse to call me by any name other than 'Bob' ~ as well as the many cute permutations of the same.  (My cousin informed me recently that she once requested to speak to her cousin, one of the staff physicians at the hospital named, 'Bobby Marvin.'  I am amazed I never heard anything of this exchange from the viscious pack of nurses.)

My college and med school friends (post-Catherine) all know me as Robert, Rob, Marvin, or even 'Starvin' Marvin' (thanks to South Park).

And, finally, there are the (Non-South Park) Colorado relatives who prefer to call me, "Puppy."

Puppy came from the mind ~ and mouth ~ of my first nephew, Evan.  As a mere toddler when he met his favorite Uncle, he was intent on making a great first impression.  So, despite his youth and underdeveloped communication skills, he did the very best he could (especially given his father's contribution of translocated genes) to call me by name.

Bobby became Puppy.

The name stuck and it doesn't bother me in the least; it makes me feel special.  Other than another second-tier Uncle who is called, EUB (to distinquish him as 'Evil Uncle Bob), I am the only other family member with such a nickname.  I prefer my moniker ~ and besides, I have my own mountain!

Those Colorado Marvin's live in Summit County.  It's sad to think that everyday familiarity would ever have them taking the beautiful vista of Silverthorne for granted.  One need only walk a few steps from the front door of their home on any given afternoon to bask in the growing shadows of the Gore Range mountains.  Standing proudest, in my mind, is Puppy Peak.

It would be a nice memory for me to treasure if I knew of how they all came together and decided to honor me with the tribute of an entire mountain.

Unfortunately, I don't believe that is actually how it happened.

Come to think of it.  I may very well have named it for myself.

What would you expect?

Any self-respecting, crazed person named "Bob" would have done the same thing!