Worst Decision Of My Life

So I woke up this morning to endless possiblities. A Saturday off with nothing pressing to do. I hadn't been to Costco in a long time since the closest one is an hour away. Being the bachelor that I am, I only had one scoop of laundry soap left and was down to the last roll of toilet paper. So I decided to venture out. I chose to go west because that Costco is close to a ski shop and I needed some ski wax. I told a friend of mine that I was going and she advised me heavily against it. I guess its been so long since I've been to Costco, I've forgotten about what a zoo sample day is. I could barely find a shopping cart let alone a parking space. I finally got inside and of course I got "that" cart. Stupid wheel had so much hair and nasty jammed in it, it would jam up and I'm left bulldozing a squeeker around the bagels. I almost got into fistacuffs with a "rural" gentleman over a block of delicious Tilamook pepper jack cheese. Plus this Costco did the soap in the opposite corner of the store so I have to shove my way through traffic with a loaded cart that won't roll on all four wheels just to get some Cascade and Tide. Then I decide to use the self checkout lines to save time. Everything is going great until go to pay and realize that they don't take VISA. What's that all about? They'll take American Express but not VISA. Really? Fortunately they accepted my debit card and after twenty minutes of trying to worm my way through a bunch of obese middle-aged men and their slices of pizza, I made my way to freedom. Exhausting. Plus everybody kept giving me the stink eye because I was passing them in the aisles like I was in the Indy 500. I guess some people just like to relish the atmosphere that only a bargain club warehouse can provide. The day was saved by a trip to Wendy's and a no. 6 combo with a Dr. Pepper.

Hello My Name Is...

A shocking revelation has recently been brought to my attention. It is the personal introduction followed my church calling IE "Hi my name is Chet Chippewa; elder's quorum pianist." These people exist. One particular example can be found in the glorious Moses Lake singles ward. The elder's quorum president. Every person he introduces himself to he follows it up with is status on the religious hierarchical ladder. Can you imagine if everybody did this. "Hi I'm Steve Gravy, and I have webbed feet." "Hi I'm Molly Juniperberry and I'm a convicted felon." I suppose it would make life easier. I'm not sure what is more sad, the person doing the introducing or the person being impressed by such magical feats. Apparently it must do something because the dude has had like 4 girlfriends in the last 3 months so who am I to judge. But I make an impassioned plea to society as a whole; Unless ordered by a judge or your probation officer, spare us the grandiose title. Nobody cares. Not even your grandma (seriously she called me and we had a whole conversation about it).

Land Of The Lost

I enjoy grocery shopping. I should say I USED to enjoy grocery shopping. I suppose my love for it stems from my childhood when I would go with my mom to Albetson's and on occasion she would let us kids open the wheat thins and eat them while we were shopping. Recently however, my joy has been tainted by the very thing I used to love. I loved the environment. Each aisle was a new adventure. One side of the store was the jungle of produce while the other side was a industrial setting of meat and seafood. A surprise awaited around every corner. Now those surprises usually consist of an overweight gentleman scratching himself in front of the frozen pizzas. I'm sure all of you have experience Wal-Mart fever. No matter when you go, there seems to be an overcrowding of characters that can best be described as former carnival ride workers. Where do these people come from and why are they all congregating at Wal-Mart. I suppose I don't do myself any favors by always shopping on Saturday but these people appear at all hours of the day. Today I was deciding on which brand of peanut butter best represented my extreme attitude toward life, when I witnessed something rarer than a unicorn's bar mitzvah. There was an EXTREMELY overweight lady on a store provided motorized scooter. Well I'm not sure if she broke it, the battery went dead, or the entire machine just couldn't take its miserable existence anymore, but there she was in the middle of the aisle yelling across the store at what I can only assume was her husband for help. I guess her husband was too eager to get to the libations aisle and left her in the dust. I would have offered help, but she wouldn't stop muttering long enough for me to get a word in. It was just another example of the litany of surprises that can only be afforded at Wal-Mart. When will I learn my lesson and start shopping somewhere else? Probably never because I feel so much better at the state of my affairs after a brief hiatus into the land that dignity forgot.

Follow My Lead

I haven't had much to rant about lately but something recently has gotten under my skin. This will probably be pretty foreign to those of you who have names that can't be shortened but for those of us with names that are easily changed, there is a major epidemic out there. I always introduce myself as Clinton. For my entire life I've referred to myself as Clinton. My parents have always called me Clinton. My siblings have always called me Clinton. So why is it that the second after I introduce myself to someone new, they immediately ask if I go by Clint? If I went by Clint, don't you think I would introduce myself as Clint? Are those last two letters that big of a tongue twister? At least those people ask. Some people just automatically start calling me Clint. I mean if somebody introduced herself to me as Victoria, I would start referring to them as Vicky or Tori. Maybe Ictor but I would at least ask. Usually being called Clint isn't that bad but there are certain people out there that when they say Clint, it sounds super trashy and redneck. I don't know if it is their accent or my general feelings of disdain toward them for changing my name, but sometimes it just comes out wrong. I think the whole name thing could be an underlying reason for growing the beard. People think twice about sabotaging a person's name if that person has a beard. Probably because a beard makes people think you are smarter than you really are (at least that's the case with me).

It just doesn't make sense. If you feel like changing my name, whey not switch it up to something extreme like Bojangles, Vanilla Mischief, or Kevin? I'll bet Eastwood never had to deal with this.

Beard Busy

As you have noticed, I've been MIA for a while. Well that is due to the fact that all my energies have been devoted to facial hair establishment and maintenance. As you can see, it is coming along quite nicely. That glorious jungle on my face is about 4 weeks worth of complete devotion. Actually, I started the beard at the beginning of buckwheat harvest and I can't shave it until we are all finished. We've got about 600 acres left but it rains here every three days so I could end up looking like ZZ Top by the time its all said and done.

And yes ladies, I am single.

The Littlest Con Artist

Last Saturday I was on my way home from work when my cell phone rang. Now my most called numbers have distinctive rings so I know who it is before I look (mainly so I can prepare myself for the boss's call). The ring that penetrated my ears was the sound of a pinball machine going crazy. It could only be one number "The Hurricane." As many of you might know, I refer to my brother's family as The Hurricane. I love getting calls from them because usually the kids want to tell me about something that happened to them. This particular day I was completely unprepared for the conversation. My brother was on the other line and told me my niece, The Bam, had a question for me. Being naive, I thought it was going to be something about how awesome I think I am. The Bam says hello and immediately dives into her question. I can hear my brother in the background coaching her on. The conversation went something like this "Uncle Clinty, my school is having a walk-a-thon and I'm going to walk (whispering in the background How far Dad?) I'm going to walk a mile and a half. Will you sponsor me? Grandma already gave me (whispering again How much Dad?) Grandma already gave me 25 dollars." Brilliant. There is no way I could refuse that offer and no way I could give less than Grandma. I replied,"Okay Bam, what if I give you another 25 dollars?" She said,"That is okay but I need it really soon! (whispering in the background But Dad I don't want to talk to him anymore)" My brother gets on,"Well I guess she's done." What a sucker I am. The check was in the mail that very day. She played my like a fiddle. My only question is, isn't a mile and a half a pretty good distance for a kindergartner? Plus isn't the school starting a little young getting the kids out pedaling sunshine and rainbows? Well I'm a proud donor to The Bam's Hillcrest Elementary Walk-a -Thon. I just hope in the future she doesn't call up asking for my right leg, because sure enough two days later you will see me hobbling around with a 2X4 duct taped to my leg muttering to myself, "Why on earth does a first grader need my leg for show and tell."

Things My Mom Taught Me

I've decided to follow up my last post with the co-most influential person in my life my Mom. Whenever I did something usually my parents fought over who "had" to claim me: the Bakers or the Bowens. Both genetic lines are pretty full "short bus" DNA so I think its a toss up. My brother looks like a Bowen and both my sisters look like Bakers but I'm some genetic mutant with no specific look from one particular side. So I guess what I'm saying is both my parents are to blame for this outcome.

The majority of things my mom taught me can be summed up in a quote she often said before I left the house with my friends, "Don't embarrass me!" She knew I wouldn't get into real trouble but there was a high chance that she would hear on Sunday from somebody that they saw me Friday night putting a teacher's kid's bikes on the roof or sleeping on top of the high school auditorium. True on both accounts. My mother taught me patience. I didn't learn it but she taught it constantly. She always told me patience was a virtue, so I always claimed to be unvirtuous. She had the patience of a saint. From putting up with me trying to stick 50 grapes in my mouth at the dinner table or watching me fake vomit over the sight of lamb stroganoff. My mom taught be the quickest route to the hospital. She chauffeured me for a broken nose (church ball), gashed leg (Cadillac in the snake river), gashed head (trampoline under clothes line, WWF with dad), and even a broken ear drum (a Q Tip with a vendetta). She even put up with me doing a header into the filing cabinet at the doctor's office while there for my brother. My mom usually doesn't do well with blood, but when it comes to her kids (especially me), she is Hercules. My mom always taught me to eat my vegetables. Once again I didn't learn but she was quite the teacher. I remember one time I wouldn't eat my green beans so she said I couldn't leave the table until I did so I decided to play chicken. An hour later, I choked down cold green beans because she called my bluff. I think that is where I get my stubbornness.

I don't know if most homes are like this, but if Dad got mad, we could handle that. If Mom got mad, your life was about to suffer drastic consequences. But my mom is definitely the glue that held us all together and often times kept us stuck to the wall after "doing something embarrassing."