Parmesan Cheese

Can you smell it? Does the very mention of the word conjure up a memory bank full of tasteful experiences? If you can't smell it I suggest you stop what your doing right now, including reading this, walk over to the fridge, pull out the green tube (regardless of brand, it's always a universally recognizable green), open it up, and take a good whiff. The verb smell doesn't really connote what we do with a cheese. Whiff is much more descriptive of the act. Then take another moment to smell it, more than just a whiff. Inhale it. Feel the deep aroma of the Parmesan enter your nose and travel into your lungs. If you really focus, you'll feel the smell make itself at home there. Take another deep breath and pay attention as the pungency circles around and curls up like a kitten in your chest.
Is it a good smell? Does it remind you of pasta or a golden brown breast of chicken parmesan, crusted to perfection? You've craved it before, haven't you? Wasn't there a time when the spaghetti just didn't seem too great because the parmesan cheese was missing? It is a good smell.
Now imagine opening an expired carton of milk and taking a whiff (it really is a whiff, isn't it?). Imagine smelling that same parmesan smell emanating from the milk carton ; it makes you want to throw up. Same smell, different context.
Not something you want on your Fruit Loops.

What am I paying you for?

The summer before my daughter was born I was working at a landscape company. The work was hard, but seeing a finished yard that had been nothing but dirt and weeds before we got there was very rewarding. At different points throughout the summer I'd be shoveling and my wrist would scream out in pain. The same thing would happen sometimes in high school when I played the guitar. Eventually I decided it became enough of a concern that I went to the doctor. He had me do some simple tests like pressing my hands together and asked me when it would hurt the most. I told him about my landscaping job and he told me I had the beginnings of carpel tunnel and that I should find a different job. I was a little dumbfounded. If you sum up what really happened it goes like this-
Me: It hurts when I do this. Any suggestions?
Doctor: Don't do that.
Me: (thought only) You went to medical school, right? Four years? Thanks for the advice, Dr. Instinct.

Etiquette

The other day I was at work using the restroom. I think for the purposes of this story it's important that you know the bathroom there is a one-man show and I was doing a #2. (Don't think about it too much, it's only background information). Anyways, someone knocked on the door and I froze for a second, unsure how to respond.
Now normally when somebody knocks on a door it's because they want you to open it, but the bathroom is a little different. The knock represents a question, "Is anybody in there?" As soon as I remembered this little nuance I responded to the knock by saying, "Yep," and the person went away with no harm done. But still, there's the auto-pilot effect where we don't realize what we're doing and this can lead to some delicate situations. I now have the fear that someday I'll be doing my business and there'll be a knock at the door. My auto-pilot will kick in and I'll say, "Come in," without really thinking about it. The person on the other side, also in distracted auto-pilot mode, will hear the invitation, and without thinking will open the door and walk in. If I was an artist I'd paint a picture of such a moment and entitle it, "And There We Shall Be."

It's 12:30 in the morning...Do you know where your hapiness is?

Guess what I'm doing right now? Not eating a Pillsbury Toaster Streudel, that's for dang sure. I haven't done the best with running this past week, mostly because I've been super stressed with school and life decisions (graduation is coming up quick). I've felt like I've hardly had time to breath, let alone run which would require extra breathing. Anyways, it's about 12:30 am and I was planning to wake up around 5:15 am to do homework, but I decided I probably wouldn't get out of bed so I should just do it now. I told Emily, I'm gonna eat a toaster streudel if I have to stay up late. I got the toaster out and everything ( yes, in a Wymount Apt, you have to actually get the toaster out because there's no room for it normally). I was like an alcoholic, most kids in college binge drink to relieve stress; I prefer just a plain old binge, the prophets haven't said anything against that, or have they? It reminded me of this time Emily and I were on a date and I stopped at a gas station to by some ice cream. There were two other guys in front of me in line. The first guy bought a pack of cigarettes, the second guy bought a case of beer, and then I bought my ice cream. You don't see a lot of guys buying beer and cigarettes in Utah county, so I thought it was a little funny at first. Then I looked at my ice cream and thought, "Well, I guess we all have our addiction of choice." So tonight, when the stress hit and I was reaching for that sugar filled cigarette, I decided I wasn't going to follow the same old pattern. You know, the one where I feel sorry for myself and feel like I deserve the treat since I have to do so much stuff and then I give in and feel happy, oh so happy, while I'm eating it. (Seriously, food does something to me, it's honestly like a drug).