Peter Pan Syndrome

I think "Peter Pan Syndrome" is a mental condition where it's host refuses to grow up. Preferring to remain a child forever. I don't think I possess this impairment. Granted, I look pretty damn good for my chronological age. Despite the protest of my family members, both immediate and extended, I'm aging rather gracefully. Especially when compared to individuals I grew up with. Yikes! Most of them (if not all) look decades older than I. Haggered. The years have not been kind, and perhaps it is because I "refuse to grow up". Or maybe, more specifically, I put absolutely no merrit in chronological age, and don't stress out about the passing years.

That, however, doesn't explain why the hell my mother refuses to treat me like an adult. It seems like every conversation I have with the woman, winds up a heated discussion on what I should be doing with my life and what I shouldn't be doing. Always talking to me like I'm a retarded and shouldn't be let off my leash. Like I haven't got any f*cking idea how the "real world" works.

I am "x"-number of years old. I own my own f*cking house. I own my own f*cking vehicle. Both purchases I made on my own without someone having to hold my hand. Yet at the same time, I get shit for buying them. Well, not the vehicle so much, but with the house there was a comment made by my mother about how I should have waited until the housing market settled rather than buying it during the housing craze which occured a few years ago. Maybe that's correct, but I can't go back in time and change that. I'm not Marty Mc-f*cking-Fly. The vehicle I bought wasn't a f*cking DeLorean with the Mr. Fusion garbarator feature. So why f*cking mention it.

What kicked off this tyrade was this morning. I called her up to wish her a "Happy Easter" and to inquire about the festive dinner she's making this afternoon. I mentioned to her how I went out the other night and purchased a new stove for my house, which will be delivered next week. The first question out of her mouth was "How much was it?" It's always about the f*cking money with her. No comments like "Oh good for you." or "Yes, you really needed that." "How much was it?" I told her and because it was a few bucks more than hers (she cheaped out and got the $400 bargain stove that will likely cack in another four years or so) she starts freakin' about I didn't need to spend "all that money".

I didn't "spend all that money". I got the best buy for my buck. The stove has convection heating. A power burner which allegedly boils water in twice the time. (I don't know how long it takes for water to boil normally, but I suspect it's faster than the 15min my current stove takes.) And it has a warming burner. It's a white flat-top stove made by Kenmore, and while price-wise it cost more than twice of the one my mother bought, I believe it's lifetime will also last a hell of a lot longer than my mothers too.

In the end.., I'm not a f*cking idiot. I'm able to walk, talk, drive, and fend for myself quite nicely. And while I don't stay on the "straight and narrow" path that most people travel throughout their dull and mundane live, I think I make out pretty f*cking okay. My late father never treated me like a child. If memory serves, he never treated me like a child, even when I was a child. Whenever I made a mistake in life, he'd let me know it, and I'd learn from it. My mother's approach is the opposite. When I make a mistake, she mentions it for years thereafter. Even when I don't make a mistake, she makes it seem like I made the wrong choice... For years thereafter.

My mom isn't old, not by my definition, but I know she won't be on this earth forever. In all honesty though, I bet she'll out-live me, but in the meantime, I should cherish her good traits. She is generous and caring and is willing to lend a helping hand whenever I request it. She's a good grandma to my nephew and is a super-super friend to all of her pals and neighbours. I just wish she'd share more of her good traits with me, rather than give me the gears all the time. I just wish she'd allow me to "grow up" in her eyes, instead of viewing me as a goofy little kid always in need of a helping hand out of trouble.

A Letter To The Kid Blocking My Driveway

Dear Annoying Kid Blocking My Driveway,

Whilst I'm sure that whatever stupid trivial shit that's going on for you in your pitiful little life is deemed mucho important in someone of your considerable youth, it isn't so important that you park in front of my driveway and pick your nose.

I'm not totally unsympathetic to your plight. Admitted, I myself, have been plagued on occasion with a more than annoying nugget caught somewhere deep in my nasal cavity, however, I have always chose to deal with those matters in private. I never, not once ever, chose to block another's path in traffic, so to address the problematic morsel.

How you didn't see me, in my truck, towering over your teensy little red sedan, is beyond me. You were looking directly in my direction. Of course, I did notice that you had a friend in the passenger seat, and undoubtedly you wanted to avoid the uncomfortableness of digging deep into your nose. Truth be known, I did notice your eyes curved back into your skull, much like a feeding shark. What's the matter? Were you afraid that the crusty nugget in your nose might break free and shards would splinter into your eyes? Perhaps that could happen. I doubt it, but perhaps.

Still, you should have done this dastardly deed elsewhere. There was no traffic behind me when I turned onto my street, but you sat there in front of my house for so long that there was a hord of vehicle trapped behind me, when you finally took notice and moved your snotty ass.

'Twas really annoying, boy. Pick your nose on someone else's time. I hope we never need to address this subject again.

Dodging The Bullet

For a number of years, I've professed that Country music will turn a man gay. I've got it documented a number of times in another blog, not to mention the shit I've seen with my own eyes, including on young dude this past New Year's Eve, who dropped a half-full beer on the floor, to go dance with his buddy to some stupid country shit.

Other examples I have is Kid Rock. He used to date Pamela Anderson. That is, until he began recording some of that country-inspired shit, then he dropped her ass like a hot potato. This proves the man is turning gay, because I for one, would never drop Pamela Anderson as a romantic partner. I don't care if she squatted in the middle of my living room and dropped a stanky deuce. As long as she cleaned that shit up, we'd be good to go.

Another example is that Kiwi crooner, Keith Urban. There was a point in which he dumped his (now) wife, Nicole Kidman. They've since reconciled, I can only imagine it's mostly because of her excessive forehead. With her chosen hairstyle, she closely resembles a balding man with a skullet. It's kind of a Jack Nicholson look. Only with nicer boobs. Still quite discombobulating, though.

So last night, I went out with some friends to a local bar, where for the most part, music was enjoyable. I've been there a couple of times previously this year, once when I was painfully inebriated and therefore I'm unable to recall much of that evening, let alone how crappy the music was. I went once more on St. Patty's Day, where I remained sober and hated the music, which was a abundance of heavy beated boogy-boo music and a lot of Rihanna, whose voice I've now equated to sounding like a Scottish bagpipe. Good lookin' girl, sure, but her voice is more grating than nails drug down a chalkboard. But I digress. As annoying as Rihanna is, her music won't turn ya gay. However, country music still will.

As I stated, last night the music was quite enjoyable. Still too much Rihanna for my liking, but it was preferable over the two country music selections that the second rate DJ chose to inject into an otherwise enjoyable musical repertoire. The first song was a murdered version of the Bruce Springsteen classic "Cadillac Ranch". Personally, I don't know why country music homo's would record a song about Cadillacs, in the first place. Everyone knows that cowboys prefer to ride horses, old Cutlass Supremes, and each other. Cadillacs never enter the picture until one is hauling their AIDS-riddled body's off to the cemetery. But thankfully, because the song was written by The Boss, Bruce Springsteen, there was enough heterosexuality in the lyrics to keep me safe from turning. Phew, dodged that bullet.

However, a second country song followed that first one. Only this time it was an original recording from a duo known as Brooks & Dunn. These cowboys were recording music on the cusp between the era's of when country music was okay, because of manly artists like Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash, but with those two icons dead and buried, musicians have had to stop recording to make way for the fruitier artists like... uh. That Paisley fellow and a whole host of others with equally gay names, I'm sure. Still, with the bouncy beat of the "Boot Scootin' Boogie" raining over me in the cramped quarters of the bar, I soon found myself wishing to be shot in the face.

Let me clarify. I find that country music is SO painful, that I often pray for death when it's being played. Kind of like those individuals in the zombie movies, who'd rather die than become a member of the undead. This is kind of the same. I'd rather be a rotting corpse than a flamboyant gay cowboy, listening to that drivel. So last night, as I sat in the booth next to M______ & D____'s friends, I was quietly wishing to be shot in the face. And not the kind of shot in the face that gay homosexual cowboys like to be shot in the face. I didn't want no beef jerky spitting it's molasses on me. Nope! I was picturing a manly 9mm Beretta blowing the back of my cranium out. No sooner, had I pictured my brains spread across the people inhabiting the booth behind me, than did AC/DC's "Who Made Who", came over the soundwaves, quickly cleansing my soul and eliminating all thoughts of self-termination and demise. Thank the Powers That Be for AC/DC. Sure they can't play worth shit, but they'll never turn anyone gay either.

It Took 'Them' Seven Tries To Get 7up Right

The other night at the movies, some friends and I were chatting about fast food and somehow the idea of "deep fried mash potatoes" was mentioned. It's something that, to the best of my knowledge, hasn't been done yet, but in my creative mind, I believe it could be done. Small balls scooped from semi-solidified mashed potatoes, dropped into a hot vegetable oil could produce some tasty potato-treats. I voiced my love of the idea and was overheard by the woman and her daughter seated in the row in front of us. We all chuckled at the "proposterous" idea. Them, more so than myself, as it is just that kind of ingenuity that gets one noticed in the world of culinary arts.

Admittedly, for a couple of years now, a guilty pleasure of mine, is watching the Food Network. There are a small number of folks who I try to follow on a regular basis. Iron Chef Bobby Flay is among them, although I find he adds a lot of nuts and honey to his dishes, two ingredients that I'm deathly allergic to and avoid on a daily basis. Giada DeLaurentis is another, mostly because she is Hollywood royalty and is an extremely attractive woman. Sadly, I never get to see her shows very often due to questionable scheduling of her program. Guy Fieri is the other guy. He's wild and outgoing and I loved watching both his programs, "Guy's Big Bite", whose recipes I've tried on occasion with fairly good success. (That's right all you single ladies, I can cook. [wink]) His other show, "Diners, Drive-Ins, & Dives" is another beloved program. Those are the shows in which I wish technology would come to the point of Taste-O-Vision, because many of those dishes simply look too f*cking awesome to pass up. They definitely make me want to go on a cross-county expedition of the U.S.A. in search of all these featured eateries.

It was on a recent episode, I don't know if it was a repeat or not, nor do I recall as to the location of this wonderful creation. However, it was simply one of the greatest spectacles I've ever bore witness to, even if it was only in video form. Someone had the audacity to create, nay re-invent, nay..., PERFECT the classic hamburger. What they had done was substitute the generic hamburger buns with Grilled Cheese Sandwiches. Absolute (pardon my french) f*cking genius.

So for a couple of weeks, the idea of this burger has plagued my mind. Not to the point of haunting my dreams, but whenever I got hungry, I'd find my thoughts wandering to this monumentous accomplishment. So yesterday, after much thought, I figured 'What the hell', and set forth to copy this burger, not only to satisfy the rumblings in my stomach, but to prove to myself that this meaty mass tasted every bit as delicious as it seemed decadent.

Sadly, my grilled cheese sandwiches aren't very good. They usually come off as greasy and soggy, and yesterday they failed to prove otherwise. So while the hamburger experiment of having grilled cheese sandwiches instead of buns still proved to be a tasty treat over the traditional method, the overall experience still needs improvement. I wish I had better news for my readers, but there is still hope. If any of you out there, can produce a visually and tastefully appealing grilled cheese sandwich, and you have a tendency to be naughty once in a while, I strongly recommend that you try this treat. It's not something that you'd want to eat everyday, mind you, but then it wouldn't be a treat if you had it everyday, now would it.

Pyrotechnics

I haven't been sleeping very well lately. Late nights combined with early mornings are making me a little bit sluggish. So when I laid back in my bed this evening, watching a little television and just relaxing, it was no wonder that I dozed off. The program I was watching wasn't of any significant importance, I'd seen what I wanted, so a nap was a welcome state, to say the least.

I'd only been out for a couple of moments, I'm sure, although the images flashing in my mind, felt like the time was a little more substantial. I can't recall what I was dreaming about, but I do remember the startling images that rocked me out of my slumber.

As I stated, I can't recall what the dream was, but I do remember that I was in my kitchen. The kitchen was mine, for all intense purposes, but differed greatly from the kitchen in my house. My mother was present and babbling about something that she deemed important, but given my reaction, it was more annoying than helpful. I had a bowl of some kind of soupy food in my hand and I was mindlessly vocalizing "I know. I know." to my mother. A practice that I perform in reality a whole lot. I went to turn, food in hand, when suddenly I was stricken with blinding pain matched with images of exploding fireworks. I remember dropping the food item, it splashing across the linoleum, followed by myself falling to my knees, hands tightly clenching my forehead.

Although it was a dream, the pain felt real. Excruciating, in fact. Synaptically to some of the worst migraines I've ever experienced. Those blinding, gut-wrenching headaches that completely shut me down, like a stalled out automobile on a frigid winter's morning. So real, was the pain I was experiencing in the dream, that I violently woke up with a shudder.

A little groggy, I looked about, regaining my familiarity with where I was. Then I felt it. A friggin' headache. Not as bad as the one I woke up with this morning, and definitely not as bad as the one depicted in the dream I'd just had. Still, though, I can't help but wonder if this was some sort of warning by my subconscious mind. Something telling me that my brain is about to explode, or implode, or some f*cked up thing.

I've had dreams before that mystifyingly came true. Odd and obscure dreams that seemed too silly to take serious, then one day, WHOOP, there it is. So I can't help but wonder if this is a similar situation.... NAH! Probably just a vivid imagination mixed with some paranoia and a dash of hypochondria. Right?

It's Not A License To Be An Asshole, You Know

Dear Handicapped Lady,

My condolences for whatever handicap you've been burdened with in this life. While I have some physical restrictions in my life, I am lucky enough to not be saddled with anything that is too laborious and am able to function relatively well in my everyday life. I can't imagine the challenges that you are faced with on a daily basis. However, just because you have these challenges in your life and are among those lucky enough to still be able to drive yourself and therefore have a disabled person placard for your automobile, it is my opinion that you shouldn't still be an asshole.

I realize that society can be ignorant towards those who differ from themselves, whether it be mentally, physically or otherwise. However, in a world where you know how shitty it is for non-handicapped people to unlawfully commandeer your parking stalls, it should be equally unlawful for someone, like yourself, who is handicapped to park their vehicle like an asshole across two handicapped spaces.

I guess what I'm trying to say, in a round-about sort of way is: Just because you're handicapped, doesn't mean you have to park like you're handicapped. There are literally thousands of other handicapped folks who can park just fine, within the designated parallel lines, so why the f*ck can't you? If lining your vehicle up within those lines is difficult, which it shouldn't be, considering the space is a hell of a lot wider than those of non-handicapped folk, then maybe you should hand in your drivers license and placard, and start taking the Handi-Bus. I'm just sayin', is all.