Cupcake Catastrophes

From an early age I have realized that Hostess Cupcakes and I have a rocky relationship.

That's right. The delicious devils cake topped with the chocolate frosting with the curly Q flare of white icing and the creme filling on the inside? You know what I'm talking about. Even my co-worker, who's actually allergic to gluten, would probably slam one if these babies down if there was an opportunity (actually that's a lie, she's been really good at keeping away from the stuff, but I think you get my point.)

Don't get me wrong, I love the things. And if you know me--and believe me this blog is only available for you, my closest and dearest of friends--you know that if someone hands me one of those things I'm more likely to gnaw off that hand while devouring it than turning the thing down. 

Which is why when bad things happen to good Hostess Cupcakes, I'm likely to either throw a fit, or cry.

Like when I was three.

STORY ONE:
The Tail of the Toddler Tantrum

Imagine a three year old Jason sitting at the kitchen table watching the tail end of his weekly dose of his Saturday Morning Cartoons. You got the image in your head? Good (If you went "D'awwww!", then you are not alone. I was a pretty cute kid).

Now, I always knew when the Saturday Morning Cartoons were nearing their end. The last two of the day were Bugs Bunny and then, straight to yawnsville, with Tarzan. Not that there is anything wrong with Tarzan, it was just not my cup of tea. 

The only thing that I found remotely interesting was during the credits. I know, that's not the best compliment out there. It's equivalent to saying to someone, "the best part of seeing you is when you leave." I know. But in this case it was true. There was this point when, during the credits, the producer's names rolled around Tarzan's head. I can't tell you why, but I thought it was pretty cool. 

It was during this moment of watching the end credits when my mom (God bless her), gave me a Hostess Cupcake as a snack.

(This is where the clouds parted and thick beams of sun light broke through and the joyful cries of angles were also heard)

I looked down at the white icing and admired the way it loopty-looped within itself. Only a monster would even consider eating something as beautifully made like that. A cupcake monster that is (steeples fingers and laughs maniacally). And I picked the cupcake up, was about to take a bite when the frosting, the whole top part of it, all fell off and landed flat on my plate.

*thump*

The angles stopped singing and the clouds rolled on in.

My cupcake was dead.

Tears filled my little Jason's eyes and I wailed. 

My mom came running up to me.

"Oh my God, what's wrong?"

Tears rolling down, I pointed at the dead cupcake and at the decapitated frosting that lay lifeless on the plate.

"Oh," she said through my wailing,"it's okay. It's okay. I can fix that."

While it didn't stop me from crying, I did quiet down a little as I watched her as she was about to do some of her mom magic on the cupcake. I tried to control my sobs as she leaned in and picked up the hardened disc of frosting on the plate. 

To be honest, I didn't know what it was that she was going to do. But surely this, whatever it was going to be, was going to be magnificent. She picked up the frosting, and then simply put it back down on top of the cake.

That's all she did.

She picked up the frosting...

... and plopped it back down on the cake.

That was it.

That was all.

There was NO MAGIC. None. Zip.

Just a pick-it-up and plop-it-back-down.

I don't know what exactly I was expecting her to do. But I do know what my reaction was. I didn't wail like I did before. No sirree bob. I wailed even harder. I'm fact I want to say I kicked and screamed to make it even worse. I was unable to see reason beyond how my cupcake was treated.

"Look," she said, putting the cupcake down in front of me, "I fixed it. See?" She held the cupcake up. The frosting she replaced was crooked and loppy. "See? It's as good as new." 

I reached over, and lifted the frosting up.

Disgusting.

I didn't want it.

It was dead to me.

I had a full out tantrum. I know that. Heck, I even knew it at the time. Deep down, while I was having my melt-down, I knew I was being unreasonable. But I couldn't stop it. 

But even to this day... if I see a Hostess Cupcake that's been unloved, I feel sorrow.

Which leads me to...

When I was a junior in High School, down in Durham, North Carolina.


STORY TWO:
The Tail of the Last Cupcake


There are those days when you don't know you woke up on the wrong side of the bed until it's too late. When a series of events lead you to believe that the universe has somehow pin-pointed you in particular and misaligned all the planets on purpose and to sit back just to watch your day come apart in front of you. And laugh.

You know the days. You've had them. I've had them. They suck.

But this day in particular was my day. Where everything that could go wrong, did go wrong.

So what were they? 

To be honest, I can't remember.

While I take pride in my long term memory, the bits and pieces of that day are vague and foggy. All I know is that from the moment I woke up and heard my friend Joyce knock on my door to pick me up for school, my day was off to a bad start. I might have woken up late or had forgotten to do my homework. I don't know. But it just started off bad and nothing I did was right. 

But one thing I did know was that there was one more single Hostess Cupcake left in the 8 pack that we had bought.

Mmmm. That's right, one more Hostess Cupcake.

It was there in the box on top of the refrigerator. I saw it before I left. And that cupcake was what kept me going that day. I know it sounds stupid, and might even sound like it's made up. But it's true. And that lone cupcake soon became the focus of my sanctuary for that day. 

And as that day went on, it only proved to me time-and-time again that things weren't going my way. And with every hit that I took I would think, 'Crap, could this day get any worse?' And then by the next period in school I would realize that it could. It could get worse. In those fequent moments I kept saying to myself, 'At least I have that cupcake waiting for me. At least I got that.'

I wish that I were exaggerating on this. Because it seems so simple, doesn't it? To just get home from the day, and eat the last of the Hostess Cupcakes that we had? And then it would all be better.

So simple.

When school got done my friend Joyce drove me home in her little yellow Datson and dropped me off at my home at the British Woods Apartments. I got out of the car, walked through the breeze way and let myself in. I b-lined for the kitchen, dropping my back-pack on the floor and reached up for the box above the fridge.

Usually this is where people try and guess what had happened. And they usually say, "annnnd you found out that your mom did take it."

Which is a good guess. And it would have been a nice twist in the story. But that's not what happened.

Because it was there.

The cupcake.

I pulled it out of the box and unwrapped it from its cellophane. And in that brief moment I had the cupcake in one hand, and the cellophane in the other. Unwrapping that cupcake was a symbol that my day was over and my just reward was about to be had. 

I deserved it.

And in one motion, as I was about to take my first bite from it, I tossed the cellophane into the trash. But I suddenly noticed that the cupcake was no longer in my hand. Because the wrapping was still crinkling in my grip. I looked down. And there, lying on top of the trash can was my cupcake.

I had thrown away the cupcake instead of the cellophane. 

'But wait!' You ask, 'You had such a bad day! Couldn't it have been saved? Couldn't it be salvaged?'

Trust me, I looked.

As I looked at it I was instantly reminded that my mom had emptied her ash tray before she had left for work that morning. And my cupcake--was lying on top it.

(Add deadpan look to the camera: here)

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw something.

But I didn't. 

The damage was done. The milk was spilt and there was nothing I could do about it.

I have had plenty of Hostess Cupcakes since then, but none of had such an impact as those two occasions had on me. The only other time that I've faced any pathos concerning a Hostess Cupcake is when I haven taken the last bite of one.

I can only hope that there isn't a tragic trilogy finally in my future. 

Trailer Man

So there's apparently some new Star Wars trailer out there that has swept up this Thanksgiving weekend into a--wait, was it Thanksgiving? Because I just got Jedi Mind Trick'd.

#boom.

It's apparently called Episode VII The Force Awakens or something like that. That's right...

It's here.

It's really happening.

And it hit social media like white-on-rice and making all my friend's jaws drop collectively at the same time. Which led them, I can only assume, even if the slightest bit, to pee in their pants with no shame.

I might not have a Star Wars tattoo, or have legally changed my name to Qui Gon Jinn, but I am--as those who know me--a pretty big Star Wars fan.

And, no, I haven't seen it yet. 

I know.

I know. I should turn in my vintage 1978 Millennium Falcon to some fan who apparently deserves it more than I do. 

I know.

But before you start screaming at me with your refound adolescent cries, let me explain. 

I have been burned by trailers more often than I can count. When I see a trailer (especially one I'm looking forward to) I can't help but try and decipher the story and then start to piece, with what I've been given, together. Speculate and guess. As a creative person that's just what I do. It's something natural and organic that just happens with me. And you have to admit that these days they show more of an abridged version of the whole movie than a generalized feeling of what the movie will be like anymore. More often than not, when you're watching a trailer, you might see something really cool. But that thing, that awesome/cool/maybe funny bit you just watched is probably a big moment in the final film, thus spoiling the moment when it actually happens. Because you're seen it. And there was no surprise in it. They expect you to "ooooo" when you already "ahhhh'd" six months earlier.

There will be no doubt that I will see it in good time.

But while I mentioned all the points of being disappointed by trailers in the past, there is one thing that will probably get me excited to see it. And pay the price of possibly being disappointed in the long run.

To watch it with my son.

There are a lot of things that I think about when  I think about Star Wars. But none other than my guy. And while he's older now, and doesn't play Star Wars like he use to, he'll still reference it with fondness. When my wife surprised the two of us to tickets to see John Williams conduct the CSO last year, he and I both realized how important his music is to the both of us. Especially when he started playing Yoda's Theme from The Empire Strikes Back. That was a great moment.

Last night, after I picked him up from his mom's, I told him about the trailer. He didn't know about it and asked if I had seen it yet.

"No, I haven't, Mister. Not yet."

"We should watch it together."

And we are... Tonight.

I hope I don't pee.

A Thanksgiving Mystery

"Hey Buddy, what'cha doin' for Thanksgiving?"

As a divorced person (I say that like we have our own special section at the zoo or something), you become keen with your instincts when a friend asks you that question.

It could be that they are just asking to ask. You know, much like how that co-worker who you bump into in the kitchen of the office. It's easier ask them about the upcoming holiday opposed to having the co-worker-to-co-worker awkward silence. You know, the easy topics to pass the time and to fill in the gaps. But every now and then the question isn't asked to fill in any gaps but actually asked with a purpose. Where a good friend, or family member will invite the reclusive divorced person over to their house to spend [add particular holiday here] with them and their family.

And when they do it's almost like they are asking you out on a date or something. You see the approach, and you feel the awkwardness in their delivery. You can actually see the timidness from them because they don't know what luggage, if any, you might associate with that particular holiday. They don't want to be the reason for any of that regressed luggage to suddenly some spilling all over the floor.

Gut instinct, from the rare/near-extinct divorcee is that the friends are probably feeling sorry for them and the friends don't like the thought of them being alone and watching a marathon of Firefly eating a bag of Double Stuff'd Oreos.

(Not that I did that. Not without a glass of milk that is.)

But the holiday's are rough. I admit that. While I have my son throughout the school year, he spends the majority of the holidays with his mom. So during those stretches of celebration, I don't see him too often. And the home becomes eerily quiet.

So when my good friend, James asked, "Hey Buddy, what'cha doin' for Thanksgiving?" I was happy to tell him that I didn't have plans after  my son and mom had our Thanksgiving together.

"Wanna come over to our house after? Kristen's family is coming over for dinner. We'd love to have yah over."

I said yes.

This was early November when my friend James asked me over to celebrate Thanksgiving with him and his family. Little did I know, at that time, that my life was just on the verge of turning completely head-over-heels.

I had met a girl.

In fact we had a date set up for the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

Now, I usually hold my cards pretty close when it comes to stuff like this. And while I have no problems when close friends tease me, I just don't like to be teased when I talk about how I might feel towards someone. It's a vulnerability that seems to cut easier than other things.

While I spent the morning cooking our Thanksgiving lunch for my family, I was texting said girl. When we were all done eating, my son and I took a walk to his school's playground and then afterwards I took him over to celebrate Thanksgiving with his mom.

After I arrived at James and Kristin's house, with 3/4's of a pumpkin pie in tow, James and I caught up at the dinning room table as things were finishing up.

"So what's going on man?"

"Well," The involuntary smile coming through sneaked through, "I kinda have a date this weekend."

"Oh yeah?" He smiled that way only a friend can when hearing something like that. You know that kind, the 'isn't that cute/tell me more' smile.

Now you have to understand that most of my friends have only known me as divorced/single/dad Jason. The funny guy and his little side-kick. And throughout the years my friends have seen me go on dates with Miss Wrong, and Miss Wronger and even Miss Whyintheworld. But they all wanted to see me with Miss Right.

So when James had leaned in, hoping to hear more, I froze for a split second unsure if I should indulge his curiosity or not. When his wife, Kristin came through the kitchen and said that she needed help finishing things up.

So I got out of it.

For the time being.

There is an art to having two Thanksgiving meals so close to one another. You have to pace yourself, try not to be tempted by any 'seconds' and limit what you intake during that first meal. So by the time I was half way through on that second meal I was starting to feel the pull. The tightening of the stomach that is filled with such yummie food and going through the internal struggle of knowing you should stop. But its so good that you find yourself getting that other helping. And then maybe one more.

It was sometime after the meal when the inevitable food coma came and we played a round of Apples to Apples (which is where I amazed everyone with my uncanny ability to perform as both Casey Kasem and John F. Kennedy. Who, despite the feelings of that night, are 'not' the same person). And then we all retired to the living room and stretched out.

It was then that said girl and I exchanged a few texts back and forth. The, what was normally an inconspicuous action, became noticed by my good friend.

"Is that her?" He had that same smile spread across his face.

I paused, shot a side ways glance, "Maybe."

"Who's who?" asked Kristin.

"Somebody," said James, throwing a thumb in my direction, "has a big date this weekend."

Kristin's eyes widened and immediately became curious. "What? You do? With who?"

"Is it anyone we know?"

"When are you guys going out?"

"Where are you taking her?"

"How'd you guys meet?"

"Is it so-and-so?"

"it's not so-and-so, is it?"

I couldn't help but smile at the scene that was laying out in front of me. Eventually, not only was James and Kristin eager to find out who I was going to go out with, but her family was too.

Now you have to understand that the Quad Cities, where I live, has a pretty big theatrical arts circuit. Everyone either knows one another, seen them in shows or has at least heard of them. So when someone finally asked the break out question of, "Does she do theatre?" it started the unraveling of who this mystery girl was.

She did do theatre.

Names were thrown out of women we all new and who were available. But, with each guess... they were wrong. James hunkered down in thought for a second and asked if she was ever in a show with him.

"No."

Which resulted in a 'we're getting closer' looks between them all.

"Has she ever been in a District Theatre production?"

"Yes."

"This year?"

They were getting closer.

"Yes."

From there it became like the end of "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World" and all of them were shouting out the names of the past shows within the District Theatre's repertoire.

Parade? No
Xanadu? No
8? No
Next to Normal? No
Rocky Horror? No
Avenue Q? No

They were weeding it down... and even Kristin's mom, who I hadn't met before that night, had whipped out her ipad and went to the theatre's facebook page.

And then they hit it.

Company?

A smile.

"It is isnt' it?"

They then started to name off the company members in the Sondheim musical. Which then became a race between James and Kristin, who trying to remember the cast from memory, and Kristin's mom who finally brought up the theatre's poster that conveniently listed the names of all the actors and actresses on it.

And then James said,

"Erin Lounsberry?"

Again... I smiled and nodded.

They cheered in the success of solving the Thanksgiving mystery, but it was followed immediately by wide smiles and the "you GO boi's" or the "Way to go's!" from them.

I was already excited about the date. Erin and I were already having marathon talks on the phone every night. But it was in that moment that I realized that something was different about this girl while I was sitting there with my good friends. That my normal vulnerability, that  I normally have in those type of situations, was substituted with pride.

That Thanksgiving, the one that I've dubbed the Thanksgiving Mystery, will come up in conversation from time to time. And it always brings a smile to my face. It was the best. It is also known, but only to me, as the last divorce invite that would be offered, and the last one I would accept.

That next year, in the following December, not only would I be standing on a church alter with that beautiful Mystery Girl, but the wienermobile would be waiting for us outside to whisk us away.

But that's another story for another day.

A Turkey of a Dinner

I was seventeen years old--a senior in high school--when my mom sat me down and told me some information that would become a source of topic, and laughter, for years to come.

With enthusiasm she announced that she would be cooking us a Thanksgiving dinner.

My jaw probably dropped.

Normally something like this probably wouldn't be anything to even bat an eye at. Thanksgiving coordinating with a Thanksgiving dinner? It almost seems to go hand in hand right? It wasn't a ground breaking idea or anything.

But you have to understand the reason why I had to pick my jaw up off the floor after she told me this was because my mom never really made a Thanksgiving dinner for us. Not that there wasn't a desire to, but as a single parent with an only child, it probably seemed like a daunting task to make a huge meal for just the two of us.

But also--and I realize that this might make me look like a horrible son... But--my mom *cringe* isn't that great of a cook.

I know, I know. Me = Horrible.

But before you light the torches and grab the pitchforks, it might help you to know that she is a self proclaimed bad cook.

FUN BACK STORY
(popcorn time)

When my mom was a little girl, living in a farm house in Taylor Ridge, IL, the first meal that she ever made for her family were grilled cheese sandwiches. A) Who doesn't like a good grilled cheese? and B) When you think about it, grilled cheeses are perfect for a first time cook. She wasn't alone in her journey though. My grandma was there to oversee everything as my mom carefully made the sandwiches for my grandpa and her two sisters, who were all waiting in the dinning room.

When she finished grilling them all on the stove, she carefully placed them all on the serving tray. Pride filled her little self as she picked up the tray and watched in horror as they all slid off and onto the kitchen floor.

Time stood still and my mom's heart was in her throat.

My mom looked up at my grandma with a "what do I do??" look. Without hesitation my grandma simply reached down, picked them up, placed them back on the tray and leaned into my mom and said in a whisper, "They don't need to know about this."

Now, I don't want you to think that everything that my mom makes instantly becomes black and ashen, because it's honestly not like that. My mom's homemade chicken and noodles and chocolate chip cookies are outta this world. And when I was in grade school she would always make a homemade pizza topped with hamburger every Friday night. Yum, right? They were always good and I always looked forward to them.

There are just times when the kitchen might as well be a chemistry lab.

There is part of me that will always remember how the house smelled when she burnt the mashed potatoes. It was a smell that just seemed to linger for days. < < shiver > > And I'll never forget when I finally brought up the courage to tell her that her fried chicken always gave me a stomach ache. You have no idea how it pained me to go to her and tell her. But after years of cramping indigestion I just couldn't let it go on anymore. She took the news well. She just looked at me and simply said that she was sorry and that, had she known, she wouldn't have made it. But promised she wouldn't make it again.

And she hadn't.

While my stomach has been forever thankful for going up to her, a part of me has always felt guilty about it too.

But in that early November of 1990, she seemed so excited as she told me what she had planned. No, she wouldn't be making a turkey, that would be just too much. But instead she was going to roast two small Cornish hens (which was better for our small family), and she was going to make us some mashed potatoes, corn and dinner rolls. I want to say there was a chocolate pudding pie on the list, but I can't remember exactly.

So the count down to Thanksgiving had begun.

There were only a couple weeks until then and she was growing more and more excited. And, throughout the whole time, I didn't have any doubts or worries.

None.

Really.


SIDE STORY

I was currently in the regional competition play at my school (there will, no doubt, be an entry on this at some point. So I'll get back to this soon. I know... You = Pins-and-Needles) and we had just won regional competition and were busy rehearsing it for state. And the Wednesday before Thanksgiving my good friend and polka-partner, Julie Totten, gave me a lift home that afternoon. I jumped into her little silver car with the reddish/purple interior and she played a James Taylor cassette on her boombox that lay on the floor board of her passenger side (her car stereo wasn't working). I straddled the boombox with my legs and she drove me home.

Now British Woods Apartments, where my mom and I lived, kinda wove in and out a little bit and I didn't want to bother Julie and have her take me all the way to my building. So, as I had done with other friends of mine, I had her drop me off at a parking lot that was parallel with my building. We wished each other well, and said we'd see each other on Monday.

But I ended up getting a call from her early the next morning.

Apparently I had left my back pack in her car and she was calling me to let me know that she dropped it off. But since she didn't know exactly where I lived, she dropped it off at the only place she knew of. The parking lot. But not just out willy-nilly anywhere in the parking lot, because that would look too suspicious even for 1990. So she did the next best thing. Left it near the dumpsters.

Now before you start judging her, keep in mind that this was pre-cell phones. So she had left it there and couldn't let me know until she had gotten to a phone of some sort. So after we talked for a minute, I got up out of bed to retrieve the back pack, and as I walked out in the hall I noticed that my mom was already hard at work in the kitchen.

When I got back in with my back pack my mom said with a big smile on her face that the hen's were in the oven! And promised to announce when they were expected to be done. She couldn't wait. She was so excited. Going back into the kitchen she wielded the pots and pans like a professional circus performer and began to work on the sides.

During this time I may have started to watch a movie. And I say this without exaggeration, started what may have turned out to be a second.

By the time I started to watch the third my mom poked her head into the living room.  She looked confused. "I'm not sure why," she said, "but it doesn't look like they're getting done." she scrunched her face, and went back into the kitchen. About forty minutes later she came back apologizing, "I don't know what's going on. I don't think that they should be taking this long. Should they?"

I shrugged.

"I don't know, Kath. I've never made them before."

Forcing a smile she headed back into the kitchen. I heard the oven door open again and heard her say, "They shouldn't take too much longer... I don't think."

During this time we started to set up the table. The mashed potatoes, the corn, the rolls and maybe the mysterious (if really present) chocolate pie.

She checked in on the hens again. And again.

About an hour later she looked defeated.

"How does peanut butter and jelly sound?"

"It sounds great, Kath."

I know that it wasn't the Thanksgiving dinner that my mom had imagined for us that day. And as I've grown older I think that her persistence and excitement about it all was because she was seeing it as, what might have been, the last Thanksgiving we would spend together. It was an end of an era. And she wanted something nice to remember it by. A perfect Thanksgiving. And I can only imagine what her disappointment was like on that Thursday.

As we sat down and looked at our plates--the PBandJ surrounded by the traditional Thanksgiving sides staring up at us--we started to laugh. We laughed though the dinner and poked fun at it all. The whole time as the Cornish hens were still stewing in the oven.

They never did get done.

Sometimes life might not go as you had hoped or planned. Which can be disappointing or heart breaking. But in the effort to find a solution, no matter how simple the solution might seem, the end can make some of the best memories. And those memories can often overshadow what would have been perceived as being perfect at the time.

My mom might not be the world's best cook. But if it were any better, we would have never had a fun memory to share with each other every year.

Wanted: Deep Pockets

One day, when  I was about eight or nine years old, I picked up one of the many paperback mysteries that was lying around our house.

My mom, who was an avid reader, had paperback novels everywhere. I'll admit that, at the time, I wasn't all that interested in reading. Reading was on par with brushing my teeth and eating broccoli. It was something that I thought as being a chore. But I did follow what books my mom read, and the characters that the authors had created. But, at the time, what really fascinated me was the book covers and the paintings that were on them.

They say you shouldn't buy a book for its cover. But when I was a kid, I did just that. Hardy Boys, Bad News Bears: Breaking Training or even, dare I say, a copy of Star Wars all drew me into the cover and the stuff that was in the middle was all filler to me. Because the covers for the books were the movie posters for it, and how I loved looking at movie posters back in the day (I'll let this natural segue slip by this time and geek out on movie poster art later. Lucky you).

So when I saw my mom's copy of Agatha Christie's, "The Body in the Library" lying on the side table, it had intrigued me enough to pick it up and look at it.

On the pale pink cover was a woman who seemed to be sleeping within the shelves of the library, surrounded by multicolored hardback books. At the time I didn't think it made much sense, and had probably even laughed at it. I mean how'd she get in there in the first place?

And up in the top right hand corner there was the familiar publisher's logo. I liked how the letter "P" swooped down into what was a kangaroo running off to the spine of the book. And underneath that it said the word, "Pocket". 

Pocket Books.

POCKET.

And then like a bright light, brilliance happened. And I thought, 'Hey... Wait a second, I have pockets.'

And suddenly I became fascinated by the idea of...

wait for it...

...putting the book IN my pocket.

Now I was a weird kid. I admit that. And for those who knew me then, or even those who know me now are probably all nodding their heads in unison. I've accepted it many years ago. And I'm alright with it. But when I saw the Pocket Book logo I became intrigued. And suddenly the thought of walking around with a book in my back pocket seemed amazingly AMAZING. The skies opened up, sun beams came down on me and a chorus of angles sang. And the world suddenly became a whole lot bigger and it's possibilities were endless.

Now let me break in here for a moment.

I know mentioned the skies, sunbeams and the angels thing, but I don't know if you completely understand the concept on how amazing I thought it would be to be able to put a whole book in your pocket.  A book. In your pocket. A whole book in your back pocket!

AMAZING!

I wanted to try it. And the only thing that was stopping me from doing just that was me. Only me.

So I took the book in one hand and placed it behind me. And slowly, with concentration, fit one of the corners into my back right hand pocket. Step one to book-in-my-pocket mission: Complete. Second corner of book into pocket: Commencing.

But...

It didn't fit.

The book was too wide for my eight year old jeans. And no matter how many times I tried, it just wouldn't fit. The only way it would fit was if I crammed the book in, where it would inevitably bow out. And, trust me, that just looked downright silly. And it wasn't comfortable at all. And walking around?  Forget about it. Chickens have more grace.

Frustrated, I took the book out and put it back on the side table. Was I disappointed? Absolutely. But not as disappointed as I was....

TWELVE YEARS LATER
(or something close to that)

It was late summer 1994 and I was preparing to go back to college (There's a longer story here. I'll just skip it for you for now. So just go with me here). And I was really excited. I had so many things ready to go. Some new clothes, new and horribly expensive books, and art supplies for what was going to be my major: Art. And... what any decent/normal/not-weird student would have: A back pack. But not just any regular back pack. No. A black back pack that had two wide pockets on the back of it.

That's right.

POCKETS.

(add in widening eyes and widening tight-lipped smile: here)

And suddenly I was fantasizing about my days as a college student. Walking around. Going to class. Carrying around stuff. And in between all that I daydreamed that I would go to the student center, reach into one of the wide back pockets of the back pack and pull out... that's right... a book. But, not no ordinary book. No. A Star Wars book.

It was the mid 90's and there was a new re-surging interest in Star Wars. And since the 1991 publication block buster "Heir to the Empire" by Timothy Zahn, there was a multitude of new Star Wars novels and comics that had come out. And by that time I had been transformed from not only being a Cover-Only book buyer to an all around book lover. And the thought of carrying around my book with me, sitting comfortably in my back pack, thrilled me.

And I'm my excitement I even hand stitched the Star Wars logo onto one of those pockets. 

Yup.

Hand stitched. Right. I know. That's equivalent to saying, I self tattooed "place-nerd-icon-here" with only a needle and a Bic Pen on my shoulder. All on my own! Won't the girls swoon now! 

I admit, even though I thought that the stitching could have been better...

(No! Really??)

... I was pretty proud of it. And I already had the perfect book picked out. They had republished Brian Daley's Han Solo trilogy and it was deemed to be the first book for the official (I say that loosely) Star Wars Pocket. If there was a winning moment I had in college, I was living it dear readers.

I.was.LIVING IT.

And when the moment came to place the Star Wars book in the Star Wars back pack pocket, I found out quickly that the book didn't fit.

I can almost see the shock on your face. 

And when I say "it didn't fit", what I mean to say was that I managed to make it fit with a lot of elbow grease. And taking it out was even worse. So the whole idea of having a pocket...

POCKET *swoon*

...for a book was nice. It just wasn't practical if I couldn't store it, or take it out easily. 

So for the second time my book/pocket dreams were destroyed. And with some deep soul searching (and two interventions) I finally came to admit that my book/pocket spacial awareness wasn't as keen as I had hoped or dreamed. 

My book/pocket days were officially over. I had retired.

Finished.

TWENTY YEARS LATER

My eleven year old son is wild about the Erin Hunter cat clan series "Warriors". And as of today he started his thirteenth novel this year.  He has been reading the Warrior series consistently, back-to-back-to-back since the winter of 2014.

I took him out of school today for a doctor's appointment, and while he finished eating the Arby's sandwich I got for him, he asked me if I thought that taking the book in was a good idea.

"I don't think it would be a bad idea, Mister. You don't know if we'll have to wait awhile or not. It'll be nice I have. You know, just in case."

When we got out of the car I saw him trying to put his newest Warriors book in the right hand pocket of his winter coat.

It didn't fit. 

Never did I see something that disappointed my son make me so proud.

Late Beginnings

Hi, my name is Jason Platt. It's great to finally meet you. 

Here's a little tid-bit about me.

And I'm usually late to the party.

No, not the literal party. I'm rarely invited to those. When I am, I'm usually the guy standing in the corner with the "non-toothed" smile on my face, nodding and probably looking like the weird guy that was accidentally invited.

Side note: This probably gave you a pretty weird first impression of what I look like, or what strange social interactions I have. Rest assured dear readers I do, in fact, have teeth. In fact, my teeth are so big that they have been known to be seen from space without the aid of any type of telescope*.

Side note to the side note: I am and have been successfully invited to parties before (I probably gave you the wrong impression when I said that I was "accidentally invited to parties"). Truth of the matter is that I am that friend who just plain loves to laugh. And--if it's in good taste--you might find me laughing at the relentless teasing that my friends, and even loved ones, have endured me with over the years. As I've grown older I've realized that being able to laugh at yourself is a good quality to have.

But I digress:

On more than one occasion I have felt and even thought to myself, "Wow, look at me, I just used a quotation mark for an internal monologue... wait, I'm talking out loud!" and after that literary mishap I would actually think, 'Wow... I should have been at this point in my life a long time ago. Why didn't I get here sooner?' 

I know, I know. It doesn't matter when you get there, as long as you do.

Blah blah blah blah.

I've heard it before. I've even told it to myself from time-to-time, I have even said it to other people. Had I known about the T-shirt, I probably would have purchased a few. On the up-side: Had I known about the T-shirt, my dresser drawers would probably be overstuffed with them by now.

I remember when I was a senior high school I was amazed how classmates not only knew where they were going to college, but knew what they wanted to do for the rest of their lives. FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES. I could barely make a solid decision on what movie I wanted to go see that weekend, let alone beginning the steps on a foreseeable future.

At the time I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I had no plan and had no particular drive. Even though I went to the local community college right after graduation, it wasn't until three years later, and a lot of self searching, before I had a clue of what it was I wanted to do. And when I got to that point I thought, 'why did it take me so long to get here?'

It can be hard to figure out where life takes you. It can be hard to learn from mistakes you've made in the past, and, sometimes, even harder to push out the left over energy you have at the end of the day to pursue what you really want to do.

I have thought about doing a blog like this for sometime now. But it was one of those "I'll get to one day's" type of thing. I had tried to so something like this a few years ago with not much success (I was trying to do something more linear at the time.) I'm not saying I'll be great at this whole thing. I'm not saying that I will have anything in particular interest to share. Or even claim that I will write something profound or anything with meaning.

That being said I will share with you some if my favorite stories I've experienced; some of my successes and some of my failures. Stories of both fatherhood and being a husband. And--of course--the stories that are embarrassingly awesome about myself. For some of you who know me personally, you might have heard some of these before. But you know... there are some stories that are worth hearing again.

I can't say I know exactly where I'll end up with all of this, but I can say with certainty:  It's better to have a late beginning than no beginning at all.

*this may or may not be an exaggeration on my part.