Karma's Delicate Kick in the Butt

I'm hanging out over at Venus vs. Mars today where I confess to being less than the perfect gentlemen and how it came back to bite me in the posterior--metaphorically speaking. 

Check it out.

Hot Dog on a Roof

I was by myself when I almost died. I was utterly alone with one thought running through my head: This is it. This is how it’s going to happen, choking to death on a hot dog on the roof of a Home Depot parking lot.

I was in a rush that day, trying to squeeze in some errands during my lunch break. WonderWife™ and I were in the midst of renovating our house, so I was making one of the dozens of trips to Home Depot that I would make that week. Anyone who’s ever shopped at Home Depot knows what a colossal time suck it can be, so there was no time for me to finish my errands, pick up food and get back to my office in time for my next meeting. Thankfully there was a roach coach stationed at the entrance to the store so I picked up a hot dog and headed toward the parking garage. It was one of those jumbo quarter-pounder things so big it might intimidate a man lacking in self-confidence.

I took a huge bite as I walked to my car, which I had left on the top floor of the garage. The dog was extremely hot and the bite got lodged in my windpipe. It was jammed in my throat and I could not breathe. I had no idea what to do. There was not a single other person around. There wasn’t even another car parked up there. Gasping for air, I imagined how long it would take before somebody found me lying dead on the roof, a half eaten jumbo dog in one hand and a box of inordinately expensive box of kitchen tile in the other. As the panic set in, I thought about the unborn son that I would not get to meet because I was hungry and in a hurry. What a stupid, pointless way to go.

I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but after what seemed like minutes I managed to expel the dog from my throat. I was okay, although the hot dog had been so hot that it seared my esophagus and I couldn’t talk for the next few days. It was incredibly painful. But I was alive.

Now that years have passed since the incident, the humor of it is not lost on me. Choking to death on a tube of processed meat next to a home improvement store is one of the more ridiculous ways to meet one’s maker. But had it gone wrong, it would have been tragic as well. I am not exaggerating when I say that I nearly died that day. And as much as I would like to say that my life changed in that moment, that the sky became brighter, air became sweeter and I would forever savor every day that followed, it wasn’t like that. After the adrenaline wore off and my throat healed, my near-death was soon pushed to the back of my mind and stored along with the other stories that make up my consciousness.

I don’t actually think about that day very often…except when I’m eating a hot dog.

Pudding, Peanut Butter and Whipped Cream

The combination of chocolate pudding, peanut butter and whipped cream is a dessert that was born out of a craving for a sundae, but the lack of proper ingredients to make it. It actually turned out to be a pretty good combination and is a snack I’ve come to enjoy quite often.

A couple of years ago my dad came to visit, and after a couple of cocktails we got hungry and I made him one. Ever since, he has become obsessed with the dessert. Periodically he will call me. I can hear people talking animatedly in the background and I can detect a bubbly nature to my dad’s voice. He is drunk dialing me.

He always begins these calls the same way: "Let me ask you a question,” he says boisterously.

“Sure Dad, what is it?”

“What was in that thing you made me?”

I list the ingredients and he says, “Okay, thanks” and hangs up to return to his party.

A few weeks ago I was at work, in a meeting. My cell phone rings. It’s my dad. I let it go to voicemail, but he immediately calls again. Thinking the worst, I usher myself out of the conference room and answer the call.

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

“Let me ask you a question,” he says.

“Dad, I’m in a meeting. I’ll call you later.”

The next day, he admitted to me that he was seeking the recipe for the dessert.

Two days later, I’m leaving my office and my cell phone rings again. It's him. I hear the chatter in the background and the now familiar tone in my father’s voice.

“Let me ask you a question,” he says.

“Dad, it’s pudding, peanut butter and whipped cream!”

He was amazed. “How did you know that was what I was going to ask?”

“I just had a feeling,” I said.

“Okay, thanks,” he says and hangs up the phone.

A minute later, the phone rings again.

“Now,” my dad begins, “How does this work? Do you put everything in a blender?”

“Dad, you’ve had this before. I made it for you.”

“Ah, I don’t really remember. I just remember that I liked it.”

"If you aren't in a shape to remember it, you're probably not in a shape to eat it," I scold.

Nonetheless, I run him through the recipe.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ve got it now. We're going out for the ingredients right now”

“Good luck,” I tell him and hang up the phone, knowing that this won't be the last time we have this conversation.

An Unreliable Narrator

WonderWife™ and I have a long-standing private joke. Years ago, we overheard some off-handed remark made by a little girl and we thought it was funny. Since then, we have lobbed this line at each other, knowing it will always earn a smile from the other. What the girl said isn’t important. The important part, for this story anyway, is where we heard it. Or at least where we think we heard it.

I recently discovered that WonderWife™ and I have different recollections of where the joke originated. Completely different. We both agree that it was on our honeymoon and that the little girl was at the pool of the hotel. But on our trip, we stayed at two different hotels on two different islands of Hawaii and we each have a memory of this taking place at a different hotel.

My memory of the event is clear. I recall the pool and where the girl was in the pool. I remember details like where I was in relation to the girl. The girl was there with her brother and was taking to her father. I remember WW™ beside me, laughing as we walked past. Admittedly I have a poor memory, so the fact that I can conjure this up with crystal clarity speaks volumes. However, WW’s™ competing memories of the event are equally as vivid.

So we have one story with two completely different versions of how it happened. The plain truth is that one of us is wrong. One of our memories is a total fabrication. One of our brains is deceiving us. Yet there is no way we will ever know the truth. It’s like a real life version of Rashomon.

It’s startling to realize that just because a memory is vivid, doesn’t mean it’s true. Our brains are the most unreliable of narrators.

Periodically, somebody will ask me why I write this blog. I’ve never had a satisfying answer…until now. I love to write and I adore the small audience of people who are kind enough to read my words. But the reason why I write is so I can capture the moments of my life and the lives of my kids. Because I know that just because you remember something, it doesn’t mean that it actually happened.