Del Monte

The other day Betsy bought a case of Del Monte canned peaches. Usually the peaches are scrum-diddly-umptious... but for some reason, the first can of peaches was completely nasty. Betsy said that she could squish every peach against the roof of her mouth and it would simply dissolve. I laughed a bit as she poured most of the can into Sharona's food dish... even though I was crying a little bit on the inside since each can equates to approximately $1.30.

The next day Betsy opened another can of Del Monte canned peaches and I heard her groan while I was checking out all my friends blogs on the computer. She said something about how upsetting it was that she couldn't enjoy the peaches like she usually does. This time I asked to try a peach before she gave them to Sharona. When I put the peach in my mouth, it was so extremely soft, I wondered how it was able to even keep the shape of a sliced peach. It tasted like a peach, thankfully, but the texture really threw me off. It was almost as disturbing as the sound of cauliflower squeaking when you bite it (which is why I don't eat cauliflower).

Well, since I was already on the computer, I clicked the Google link on my "favorites" bar and then typed in "Del Monte canned peaches". About three clicks later I was plugging in my personal information and began typing about my less-than-ideal experience... explaining in great detail the grotesque nature of the peaches, but countered my complaint with extremely flattering comments about our more common enjoyment of Del Monte products.

While I was typing up my Verbal Kung-fu, I remembered how often I would do this sort of thing when I was a teenager. I would be eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes and reading the side and back of the cereal box for the hundredth time because we couldn't afford the newspaper in my house and I wasn't old enough to read the Ensign (not because my parents forbade it... only because it was boring), and I'd stumble across a phone number underneath the words "Questions or comments, call".

I grabbed our cordless phone while pouring my second bowl of yummy, sugar-coated, flakes with the intent of simply talking to a representative about my cereal consumption as well as my personal opinions regarding their product. I figured they were used to getting complaints... cause, really, why else would you call? I decided I would make their day by just offering an innocent "comment" or asking a simple "question" about their product. On this particular occasion, I asked how they were able to cook such delicious sweetness into each and every flake. She prodded me as to why I was asking such a question. I struggled to think of a reason other than "Cause nobody else is around for me to talk to" and ended up with something like "cause every once in a while I stumble across a naked flake and I can't help but wonder what went wrong". Well she instantly asked for my name and address so she could send me a coupon for a free box of Frosted Flakes. I tried to explain that I wasn't unhappy with the quality of the product, but she wouldn't hear it.

It wasn't five days later I had my own personal 21 oz box of Frosted Flakes. The same thing worked with Strawberry Quick, by the way.

I got this letter in the mail the other day along with a check for $7. Thank you Del Monte. Even though you addressed the letter to a "Ms", the facts remain... you nourish my family and enrich our lives... everyday.

Remote

When I was single and living in my parents basement, I hardly ever misplaced anything. I always knew where my stuff was. I always left my keys and wallet in the same place... day in and day out. On the rare occasion when I couldn't find something like my sunglasses, I could easily go through the list of places I might have left them. In the car. By the tv. The back of the toilet. On my headboard. And I could always find them within a few minutes.

Once I moved out of my parents house and moved in with 8 other dudes, things changed a little bit. If I misplaced something, I could sometimes locate them by going through a list of places they might be. But if I couldn't find them, I'd assume one of my savage roommates borrowed whatever it was without permission. At that point I'd go through the expanded list of possible locations. In John's room. Under Adam's bed. In Tom's car. Under Abe's pillow. It took significantly longer to locate my personal items, but I could usually find them.

Once I had children... all of this changed. If I ever lose something... it's gone... with few exceptions. There's no such thing as a "it's probably here" scenario. There's no limit to where my stuff could be. I've found my tools (ie Hammer, tape measure) in the refrigerator. I've found my DVD's in my kids drawers in their bedroom. I've found applesauce in my kids' backpack. I'm pretty sure most of our missing remote controls end up in the garbage cans and are inadvertently thrown away. By the time we realize our remote is probably in the garbage... it's usually already in the dumpster or has already been hauled away.

I don't think my kids are trying to hide my stuff on purpose. I think they just get carried away with their imaginations. Tyton has been known to hide his stuff from Boston and then forget where he hid it. I found Ty's Spongebob DVD on the top shelf of the cupboard the other day. I asked him what it was doing up there and he said Boston kept taking it out of the case and rubbing it on the wall. Tyton had pulled the kitchen drawers out like stairs and climbed to the countertop. He then climbed up the shelves like a ladder with the DVD in his mouth until he could put it on the top shelf.
I've actually watched Boston open the fridge to get a drink from his sippy cup, but he was carrying a stuffed animal and needed both hands. He placed his stuffed animal next to the milk, grabbed his cup, got a drink, put the cup back and closed the fridge... leaving his FurrBerry alone between the grapes and eggs to slowly freeze to death. I think Boston would feel even worse about it if he knew the fridge light goes off when the door closes... leaving his toy in the cold, pitch blackness of refrigerator hell.

I usually find myself chuckling when I find things in odd places. It's hard to be mad when I'm picturing how the X-box controller found it's way behind the dryer. I get a little upset, though, when I see brand new rolls of toilet paper floating in the toilet. That's just a waste.

Please, won't you be... my neighbor?

(My apologies to those who read the first portion of this post before it was posted in it's entirety. I inadvertently published this post before it was completed.)

There are probably several of you who read my blog on a regular basis, but are virtually strangers to me. Everything you know about me can be found somewhere on my blog… and even then you probably question whether I’m exaggerating my own experiences for entertainment purposes. I’m about ready to give you another nugget of information about me. I work for Adult Probation and Parole as a supervising agent… that really means I’m a glorified babysitter who gets paid poorly, but has an above average benefits package. I deal with criminals every day. My caseload consists mainly of drug-related offenses (ie. Drug possession, drug dealing, burglaries and thefts that are committed to pawn stolen items for drug money, forgeries of checks to get money for drugs, forgeries of prescriptions in order to get prescription drugs… you get the idea). But I also have regular contact with sex offenders.

I have a difficult time with the sex offender population, like most people, but I’m in a unique position. I’m forced to have professional contact with them and don’t have the luxury of avoiding them altogether like everyone else.

While I was at work last week, my wife called me and said she was in the middle of perusing the Sex Offender Registry. She located an individual who lives right around the corner. In fact, his backyard runs perpendicular to my own back yard at almost a 90-degree angle. She told me his photo wasn’t coming up so I took the liberty of looking him up on my work computer. Sure enough, this was the guy who had initiated several conversations with me at the back of my property over the past seven days and had even shown up on my doorstep to talk about my dog enclosure. His offense: Sodomy on a Child.



Well you can imagine our frustration at the prospect of sharing a property line (about 10 feet) with a registered sex offender… though I’ve said many times “It’s the sex offenders who’ve never been caught who people should be MOST worried about”. Nevertheless, I decided that measures needed to be taken to protect my family and myself. I told my wife I would tell him to stay away from my house and my family the next time I saw him. She didn’t like the idea of this kind of confrontation, but she knew it was necessary.

If you know me, you know I only fear two things: Confrontation and rejection. (This was the main reason I had such a hard time dating.) It’s because of these two fears that people are surprised when they find out what I do for a living. They’re even more surprised if they ever find occasion to witness me doing my job. They’re often astounded that the fun-loving Cameron they toasted marshmallows with on Saturday could be so confrontational and vicious with a convicted felon… often handcuffing and swearing with very little sympathy or mercy. Because of my career, I thought it would be a breeze to speak my mind to this violator of children. I was especially frustrated that this “guy” had already found a reason to ring my doorbell, knowing I have small children.

Two nights ago I heard my dog barking at the back of my yard. I walked out there expecting to find a cat or raccoon making faces at my dog, knowing she was tethered to the ground. Instead I found this S.O. doing something to the fence separating our yards at the back of my property, deep in the trees and shrubbery that is growing uncontrollably. (I discovered later that it was nothing malicious. He was trying to untangle some branches of his tree that had grown through my fence.)

I called him over to me and initiated the beginning of a surprisingly awkward, but completely necessary conversation.

Cameron: "Hey, AJ, c'mon over here for a second."
AJ: While walking away, "You didn't do what I suggested with your dog over here. I see that you-"
C: "AJ, forget about my dog. Come over here for a second. I need to talk to you about something."
A: (still on the other side of my fence) What's up?
C: I wanted to let you know that I work for the Department of Corrections. I'm not sure you knew that.
A: (face drops very noticeably) No, I didn't.
C: Well I came across some information the other day... I think you know what I'm talking about.
A: (sheepishly) Yeah.
C: I know it's an old offense-
A: It was in '85 and I went down in '86-
C: Let me finish, AJ. I was gonna tell you that it looks like you've been keeping your nose clean since your offense. Either that or you haven't been caught.
A: No. I haven't done anything since then. I have more eyes on me than the President of the United States.
C: I don't doubt it, but listen, AJ... I know it's an old offense and it appears as though you've been doing what you're supposed to do. In fact, I noticed you came in in January for your yearly registration.
A: Yup, I've been doing everything I'm supposed to do. More than half the people on the block know about this and I've got more eyes on me than the President-
C: I know, AJ, but... and I'm trying not to sound rude, but I have kids... and nowadays you can't be too safe, you know?
A: (looking slightly embarrassed) I understand.
C: I think it would be in both of our best interests if you kept your distance from my house, my yard, and my family, ok?
A: I understand. But if you ever need help cleaning up this jungle you have back here-
C: You know what, AJ? I'm not interested in your help. I have enough on my plate near the front of my yard. I appreciate the offer, but I think you need to keep your distance.
A: I understand. (begins making unrelated small talk about cleaning the gutters in public streets)
C: I'm going inside now, AJ.
A: Oh. Ok then.

I felt like the conversation was sufficient. I also told my wife to let me know if he made any effort whatsoever to talk to her or the kids. If he does, I'll go to his tin shack and explain the seriousness of his situation... with a little more force. Maybe I'll take my partner over there when we're all geared up. But hopefully that's the end of it. Hopefully.

Soup Bone

We've had our dog since we got married. She's an English Mastiff but is often confused with a Bullmastiff since they're a more popular breed. I remember how excited I was to have a big (giant) dog. When she was about a year old (and about 150 pounds) I took her with me to McDonalds to pick up some dinner. She was in the bed of my truck while I was going through the drive-thru. All of a sudden my truck started idling kind of funny. My car felt like the engine was about fall out. It was shaking and bouncing and I started to get nervous because we couldn't afford any major repairs to our vehicle. Just then I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Sharona scratching her ear with her back leg. She was really going at it. Then she stopped scratching... and so did my idling problems.

She's so much fun and my kids love her. I have to punch her in the face occasionally when she tries to break out of her enclosure, but she spends most of the time in the house so she seldom causes us any problems.




My wife gets grossed out whenever I bring home one of those gargantuan soup bones from the store. It's supposed to be an "outside treat", but after my wife saw Sharona carrying this bone around for 45 minutes waiting for us to let her in so she could enjoy it in her room... my wife finally caved and let her bring it in the house. I usually have to take the bone away from her at night because she keeps us awake when she chews on it... and she's in the basement while we're upstairs.

It's gonna be a sad day when she dies.

The V Monologues: Part 2

I called a couple days ago to schedule my vasectomy. The receptionist said my normal doctor didn’t perform them, but there were two other doctors in the same office that did. I told the receptionist that I’d prefer to have the procedure performed by the doctor with the most experience. I also asked if the doctor had had a vasectomy himself… you know… so he could sympathize. She laughed a little and said something about how it was her first day, but that she’d ask. Before I could tell her I was joking, I found myself on hold.

I guess she decided not to answer my questions. When she came back on the phone she told me I had to have a “vasectomy consultation” before I could have my actual vasectomy. I asked if I could schedule the consult for the same day as the surgery. Nope. I guess there’s a mandatory waiting period… like if I was buying a gun. She scheduled my consult for today.

When I got to the doctors office, I was surprised when they told me I had to pay my regular $15 co-pay. Seriously? They’re gonna make me pay $15 to have a doctor try to talk me out of having a surgery that would end up costing me hundreds more? It seems like they should be able to roll the co-pay into my vasectomy bill.

The lady came out a few minutes later and escorted me back to the doctor’s office. She started taking my vitals and decided to make some small talk. “So you’re getting a vasectomy consultation, huh?” I was a little surprised the nurse/assistant felt comfortable enough asking me. “Yeah. I am.”

“How many kids do you have?”

“I have three kids.”

“How old are they?”

“Five, two, and six weeks.”

Then she says, “You’re happy with just the three kids then?” It was at this point I started to wonder if maybe she was the one doing my consultation. Why else would she be asking me these types of questions?

“Yeah. I’m happy with the three. We decided we’re done.”

“Oh. Ok. I mean, we live in Utah, so it’s kind of odd to see a vasectomy after only three kids.”

“Um… I can see that, I guess. We’ve just decided that we have our family and didn’t want to bother with other forms of birth control.”

“Ok. Well the doctor will be in pretty quickly. He’s just right out in the hallway.”

A few minutes later the doctor came in and sat down. He had my file but decided to ask anyway. “What am I seeing you for today?”

“Well, I’m here for the required vasectomy consultation. My wife and I decided this was the best way to go.”

He expresses his peace of mind knowing my wife had agreed to the procedure. Then he goes over all the details that I’d already read about on the internet. He told me about every little detail about the procedure. Details that I’m not really sure I needed to know. I mean, really… if he just answered the basics like “What kind of pain can I expect?” “Is this really permanent?” and “How long afterwards before I can use it for something other than removal of liquid waste?” I think I'd have been fine.

Luckily I know enough people who’ve had a vasectomy that I knew the answers to most of these questions. However, this doctor is really serious about his vasectomies. Everyone I’ve talked to explains the procedure like this: “They numbed me up, made a little slice in my sack, snipped both tubes, tucked the severed ends back into my scrote and threw in a couple stitches.” Good. Great. No problem.

Not this guy. He started talking about NOT cutting… but using what’s called a “tissue separator”. He made a peculiar hand motion when talking about the “tissue separator” using the fingernails of his index finger and thumb. Then he started talking about how it takes a hour and a half because of the EXTREME measures he takes to ensure the tube stays severed. Stuff about removing a segment of each tube, peeling back the tissue from the ends of the tubes, cutting off additional vas deferens, then wrapping the "pulled back" tissue up over the top of the vas deferens… (I envisioned it kinda like wrapping a miniature bottle of Sparkling Grape Juice with tissue paper at Christmas time. You know how you pull it up over the top and tie it all together? Except MY tissue paper will be living tissue that will eventually grow together creating a permanent seal that can’t be broken without freezing it and thawing it repeatedly for several days followed by a sharp blow with a claw hammer).

Ok. That’s cool.

Finally the doctor explains that there will be no stitches because, luckily, the scrotum has the ability to constrict itself to close the opening created by the “tissue separator”. I know this is true for several reasons… one of which is because my scrotum was the size of a quarter for our entire conversation.

Then he scheduled my vasectomy for May 29th... right after he made sure he could find my vas deferens. I hope that's routine. If not, I owe him dinner.

Profile

So I've gotten some crap lately about my profile photo. I guess some people aren't happy with the way it makes me look. There are some homophob's out there as well as some individuals who appear to be "anti-drop-dead-gorgeous"... so I've decided to change my photo. I think this is necessary to keep my single female friends, married female friends, and even my female cousins from thinking about me in an inappropriate way. This might also dissuade some of my male pursuers from embarrassing me in public again. Let me know which photo I should choose. I can't decide.

The Vasectomy Monologues

My wife and I are a pretty open couple. When I say "open" I don't mean we invite third parties into our bedroom (sorry Chris), I just mean we don't have very many secrets. We talk openly with family and friends and occasionally complete strangers about such topics as bowel movements, "toys", previous transgressions, and anything of a reproductive nature (ok so mostly it's me talking openly, but Betsy participates and seldom gets embarrassed, often nodding in agreement with an infrequent obligatory "Cameron!" spoken in a surprised tone when we both know she could see it coming a mile away).

Recently, however, my wife and I made the decision for me to have a vasectomy. For the first time in the duration of our marriage we actually debated whether our decision and chosen path should be a topic of discussion around our respective dinner tables. We were back and forth as to whether people needed to know. Ultimately it came down to two things: "What will people think?" and "Can we really keep it a secret?"

The first question ended up being a pretty easy question to answer. Ready? "Who cares?" We talked through all the pros and cons and ultimately decided it was the best solution for our family and it did not interfere with the plans we have made for our progression in this life or the next. (I may choose to go into the common questions and hypothetical scenarios later on in this mini-series, but not now).

The second question was a little bit harder to answer. Even if we wanted to keep it a secret like my dad did for so many years (sorry dad, I totally just outed you), we weren't sure if we could. I mean, I could picture myself at Christmas dinner at the in-laws saying something impulsive like, "It's weird cause I've only had to shave my face once a month since my vasectomy. They told me that's not how it's supposed to work. Crazy, huh?" Everyone would look at me all shocked... probably thinking I'm making some sort of off-the-wall joke. But then they'd see my smile fade to a look of embarrassment and all the blood in my entire body would instantly travel to my face and ears. Even if I wanted to brush it off as a joke, it would be impossible because the beads of sweat on my top lip and other non-verbal cues would have already alerted the entire family to the truthfulness and subsequent mortification of my vasectolictified statement. So we decided if we were comfortable enough with getting a vasectomy, then we should be comfortable enough defending our decision if need be... and need will probably be with some of my more "replenish the earth" type of friends.

I've decided to document my experience over the next few weeks via my blog. It'll probably be interspersed with posts about my new Indiana Jones Hat Prize which should be coming any day now, as well as some other random posts about my family and friends.

Thanks for reading and wish me luck.