Double Anchovy and Onion

How does a guy know when a girl is interested in him, and not just his steamy good looks? A guy has many tools at his disposal to test the sincerity of his dates. He can be lucky and have a physical defect from birth…like genetic ugliness, or a cowlick that just won’t lie down, or male pattern baldness. He can utilize supposed personality flaws such as talking too much about himself, giving a play-by-play sports highlights of historic cricket matches. He may even resort to dressing down for the date: wearing stripes with plaids and unmatched socks. In some extreme cases, he may have to fall back on more unconventional options. Sometimes a man’s smokin’ hot vibes will overcome any genetic defects, personality foibles, or fashion faux pas.

I believe that to have been my fate. I wanted a girlfriend: a sincere girl with a sweet disposition and electric sensuality…who wanted me not for the smoldering manhood they saw, but for the trembling child housed within. I had no obvious physical drawbacks, and I had the enviable talent of making the most obsolete subjects sound interesting at dinnertime conversation. My fashion sense, though off-beat, could not downplay my obvious physical charms. I needed a new tool for my arsenal of love. I needed a way to screen out the sex kittens and find the woman for me.

Here is how it all came about:

I went on blind dates while I was in high school. My best friend, Andrew, had the fortune of meeting his future wife (Andrea) at a young age. They had heard enough of my drunken diatribes about how I was not fit for female consumption. They were around for most of my early relationship disasters, so they looked to remedy that by setting me up with Andrea’s friends from the school choir.

We lived in a suburb west of Denver. Truthfully, good places to go out in Lakewood were gems: you had to mine for them. The best places to eat and go on dates were closer to downtown. Our favorite dinnertime destination was a small family owned pizza parlor called Frank the Pizza King. Yes, Frank truly was the king of all pizza. So we would pile into Andrew’s big red Buick: Andy and Andie up front, with me and a random date for the evening in backseat, and head out to Frank’s. The ride into the city would give me ample time to know whether or not the girl was for me or not just by the conversation we had (or didn’t have if that was the case.) When we got to Frank’s and ordered our pizzas, I would give the secret prediction on how I saw the night ending…

I would order a double anchovy and onion pizza.

That’s it. Nothing nixed the prospects of a good night kiss like my pizza of choice. Usually, I didn’t want that good night kiss from whoever I had come with in the backseat of the Buick. Once I ordered the pizza BOOM the date took the idea of the kiss off of the bargaining table. In fact with that she would usually retract the concept of either a snuggle, or more mind numbingly dull conversation.

This pizza had a magical quality about it. Not only did it taste good, but it kept me free of any romantic entanglements. The toppings on the pizza kept an aura of sickliness constantly emanating from my mouth, thus insuring another night of abstinence.

They should teach this in schools today, it would contribute to a drop in teen pregnancies I’m sure.

HOLIDAY SPECTACULAR

Ok...this is a rant, but a rated G rant. This rant is suitable for all audiences.

I hate calling this "the holidays." I know that other holidays come along this time of year besides Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. People celebrate Hanuka, Ramadan, Tet, Winter Solstice, Dongzhi Festival, Soyal, Yalda,  Shabe Yaldā, Mōdraniht, Saturnalia, Pancha Ganapati, Dies Natalis, Solis Invicti, Yule: Pagan, Anastasia of Sirmium, Malkh, Boxing Day, Kwanzaa, Saint Stephen's Day, Saint John the Evangelist's Day, Holy Innocents' Day, Saint Sylvester's Day, Watch Night, New Year's Eve, Hogmanay-- yeah, right, GOT IT.

Still, I do not see any corporations in the United States of America granting a day off for anything but Christmas Day and New Year's Day during the so-called holiday season. So, if we must, in our vanilla-watered-down-everyone-is-equal-please-don't-sue-me society, be politically correct and reduce the single most holy day of the year for the majority of living in North and South America, Europe, Australia, Africa, and the isles of the seas into "the holidays"-- then we must be equal. Corporations must now provide paid days off for ALL or these holidays.

Then, and only then, will I be o.k. with calling this time of year the holiday season.

MERRY CHRISTMAS everybody!

DRAGON HEART

The human heart is given might
much greater than its size.
The gift of vigor, both broad and deep,
providing strength enough to rise.

No man ever faces a dragon
and does not drawn upon this well
of power and courage and fortitude
to knock on the gates of Hell.

Dragon hunters are a fearsome lot--
all limitations they must shun.
They draw a line, and stand toe to toe,
when instinct shouts at them to run.

With broad sword or spear or hacking axe
they wade in with gusto and ire.
For a smaller scale 'gainst towering foe
helps avoid the dragon’s fire.

The Twinkie Thief

Box of Twinkies (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In memory of an American icon that died this day, I relate the following (true) account that highlights just what Twinkies mean to me...

I lived in the Dominican Republic, most of the time in the campo (I guess what you would call the countryside or the provinces.) I spent two years there doing the work of the Lord. I taught people the gospel, I served in their fields, I helped clean up after hurricanes and tropical storms, I helped build houses, I taught people to read, and so much more. It was highly rewarding. However, there was very little comfort. I ate beans and rice and drank Coke (or Pepsi) with every meal (my mantra: nothing can live inside of a Coke bottle.) I only had the occasional treat and it was usually a treat made locally and sold on the street.

My favorite treat growing up has always been the Twinkie. I love Twinkies. In all of that island where worked, I never found anything that even came close to that golden sponge-cake filled with cream. I dreamed of Twinkies...I longed for Twinkies-- but the country had no Twinkies for a hungry young man to consume.

By the end of my service as a missionary, I had not eaten a Twinkie for two years. I told my missionary companions about how much I missed Twinkies. Of course it goes without saying that I told  Elder Nelsen of my love for Twinkies and how I missed them. We worked together for a few months in a town called San Geronimo. Elder Nelson went home six months before me …and he promised to send me a box of Twinkies. I understood, though, that once a guy leaves the mission field, it is hard to fulfill such promises. So I was not surprised when I never received a box of Twinkies.

The night before I went home I was back in the capital. One of the missionaries who worked as an assistant to the mission President (Elder West) and I were walking around the town. We had both come out together, and we were leaving on the plane together in the morning. We were good friends, and this night was our last night on the island.

We ran into a bunch of other missionaries who were sitting outside a corner café. Some of them were very new, and I had not yet met them. Elder West introduced me to the other missionaries, and one of them instantly perked up.

“Justus you say? Elder Justus who served in San Geronimo?” he asked as he shook my hand.

“Yeah.” I answered.

“I have to tell you that you received a package a couple of months ago. We had never heard of you, so we opened it. It was a box of Twinkies.” He said. “We were so happy that we ate them all.”

I just stared at him…waiting for his heartfelt apology. It never came. This was a clearly unrepentant missionary boasting to me of his thievery. For those that may not realize it yet, repentance has certain rules and steps to follow:

1. Recognize that you sinned
2. Feel Godly sorrow for your sin
3. Make amends to those that were wronged by your sin
4. Promise to never repeat that sin again

We went door to door, house to house, every day teaching this to people. This man knew that he sinned….and that is where it ended. He never felt bad about stealing from me. He never even apologized. His repentance was incomplete. He risked his immortal soul-- over Twinkies.

“So that’s it?” I asked, “No apology or anything?”

“No, I’m not even sorry—they were so good.” he said laughing as he walked away.

One day that man, and those who also ate my Twinkies, will stand before God to be judged in this life. I work every day to forgive them. It really hurt me that they would steal from me like that and then go away and teach others the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Hypocrites! At that judgment day, unless I hear from them, I will stand as a witness to their hypocrisy and thievery. My testimony will thrust them down to Hell.

Now the company that makes Twinkies (Hostess) is going out of business. Those men will never have the opportunity to fully repent. Without a Twinkie in the world, they cannot make a full restitution. How can I properly forgive them without savoring one more Twinkie. I never knew that my last Twinkie would be my LAST Twinkie.

That is the story of the Twinkie thief. I work every day to forgive them of their sin against me, a fellow servant of God. Why would you steal a man's Twinkies? Why?

RIP TWINKIES

1930 - 2012

Words With Strangers

As I have delved deeper into the mindless shallows of Facebook, of course I have become enthralled with the games that I can play. I have farmed in three different communities, managed my own café, settled the frontier, lived the cosmopolitan life in a town called YoVille, battled super-heroes, whacked rival Mafiosos, created my own theme park, hunted hidden items, raised dragons, created medieval and post-modern civilizations, waged modern warfare, and built my own city. I feuded with my families, played Banagrams, rock/paper/scissors, slots, bingo, answered Jeopardy-style, got the price right, and spun the wheel of fortune. Of all of these games, the one that excites me most…the only one that has never bored me into blocking it forever, is Words with Friends.

Words With Friends is not true Scrabble (I played that and eventually dropped it.) It is, however, Srabble-esque in nature. Instead of adhering to the very restrictive Scrabble dictionary, Words With Friends has its own very liberal dictionary. It allows some foreign words, albeit on a completely arbitrary basis, it allows slang, it allows many more possibilities—though the game board and tile values mirror Scrabble almost identically. For those of a literarily challenged nature, one can download the a Words With Friends cheat to make themselves more competitive.

I started out playing with my wife, a few mutual friends, my sister, my mother, my cousin’s wife (my greatest competitor and arch-nemesis), and some friends from work. At any given point in time I probably had 10-16 games going. It was a heady and exciting time of life. Pulling an 86 point word like JEOPARDIZE out of my—well—from out of nowhere for the win is gratifying. Also, if Alec Baldwin is right, it is a game for smart people…and it sure makes me feel smart.

Enter the summer of 2012 and the decision that I had wrestled with since the beginning of that previous year: divorce. I left my wife (NOT my son) knowing that the decision came with backlash. I would lose friends…even though they assured me that they were still my friends, things would forever be different. I would lose standing in my church (Mormons do not accept divorce lightly.) I would lose time with my son (at least until a judge can award some back to me.) I prepared myself for all of these contingencies, but it did not prepare me for the one loss that came from left field—Words With Friends.

First the obvious ones dropped me like a heated stone: friends that came through my soon-to-be ex-wife’s family members. Then the friends that we shared mutually resigned their games and disappeared into the night. Then church members dropped off the grid. Then family members—yes my own family members, fell away from the light and truth of literary gamesmanship. Workmates who apparently took her storyline without listening to mine were next to go in the great Words With Friends exodus. Finally, Words With Friends became Words With Friend—my arch-nemesis…and then she too was gone.

Still addicted to the game, and unwilling to give it up, I resorted to pushing the “random opponent” button and starting games with just anybody. I did not care if they used the cheat. I did not care if they were English doctoral candidates. I just wanted to play. So now my game has changed completely from Words With Friends…to Words With Friend…to…

…Words With Strangers.

IT ALL BEGAN AND ENDED WITH A KILT

I may have mentioned before that, for our wedding, I really wanted to wear a kilt. I have Scottish heritage, and I wanted to celebrate it. Jen did not want me to wear a kilt. Was it perhaps jealousy? Was she worried that she would not be the most attractive person in a skirt on her own wedding day?

At any rate, the plan for the kilt lay smoldering on the trash heap.

Over the following 16 years I had tried to revive the idea of a kilt on special occasions. None of them ever happened. Finally we came to a great opportunity: a cruise. I floated the idea with Jen...and it took wing an flew! I then introduced the concept to my friends, and they agreed that it would be ever-so-cool on formal nights to wear a kilt instead of just a plain old boring tuxedo.

Of course some wives prevailed-- so we switched it to the semi-formal night for those boys. But as for me and my house: we would wear the kilt! I think that, in the end, those wives were jealous-- I definitely was the better looking one in the skirt on those nights.

Ok...let me just say that it wasn't all just the kilt issue that took down our marriage. It was really a non-issue compared to other stuff. This is not the forum for that, let me just say that over the last year of my marriage-- even with my awesome son TROY whom I love-- I fell out of love with my Jen. Things came to a head on that cruise, while I was in the kilt. I told her how I felt. Tears fell. Many tears fell. I had already cried out my tears in silence before that point, so I am sure that I looked like the insensitive jerk.

To tell the truth, I replaced the love in my heart that I lost (there are reasons...trust me) with another love. She is the subject of another 300 blogs that are all forthcoming...all under the Vanj heading. But I digress...

After a month of trying to make a relationship work that I had already abandoned, I moved out and on with my life. We are in the early stages of divorce. I am trying to get time with TROY whom I love. I miss him like the rose misses the water. I need him.

So it all began and ended with a kilt.

Once More Into the Breach, Dear Friends

According to the counter on my blog page, we are coming up on 2 years and 16 months of Troy in our lives. What do you do when you do not have children for 14 years, adopt a boy, and he is perfect. What, nobody's perfect you say. No-- Troy is perfect. Let me list the ways that he is perfect for you:

* He eats his vegetables, all of them, and loves them
* He know his abc's and his 123's already
* He says please and thank you, and knows when and where to use these phrases
* He loves to go to bed
* He is cute
* He tells us what is bothering him so that we can help him
* Even when he does throw a 2-year-old fit, he keeps them short

Did I mention that he is perfect?

He is perfect in all ways, but one-- and that is our fault. He would be a perfect older brother, but we have really done nothing about that. Well, it's not like we haven't tried the more conventional means of baby making, but it just hasn't been our strong point. So, after enjoying his infancy, and getting two years older, we decided to pull the trigger on adoption numero dos.

This time we come to the battle armed with the knowledge of how things work. We come ready for the guilt and trauma that no one ever told us about. We come hoping not to wait another five years, but prepared to do so if we must. We come hoping that a perfectly lovely woman wants a perfect older brother to play with her yet-to-be born baby. Yes, as Henry the V said, "Once more into the breach, dear friends!"