Backer-Inners

Are you a backer-inner?  ‘Cause I don’t understand backer-inners.  Mostly because only two percent of that population subset is capable of what seems to be the Rubik’s Cube of motor vehicle skills. Ok, Batman and some over-the-road truck drivers have it figured out but the remaining 98 percent are lot clogging, sideways parking misfits!  Daily I find myself hostage in a parking lot by a backer-inner slowly docking their beige Buick equivalent of a Carnival Cruise ship. And when they exit their ride they offer the “manly nod of understanding” as if I get it.  I don’t.

So what or who is a “backer-inner?” (Being a peeve, I’ve been paying close attention to this mysterious group of drivers.) From my experience, backer-inners are white men between the ages of 68 and 110 whose necks don’t work.  Seldom will you see a backer-inner (from now on referred to as a BI) that has any sense of spacial symmetry or  situational awareness.  Now I say “seldom” because I have a friend that was a tank commander in the military who is indeed Batman. He can whip his large SUV into a tiny parking spot and be exactly equidistant between the yellow lines, while parking his civilian tank in mere seconds. And to my knowledge he hasn’t been responsible for pet fatalities or crushed parking signs. Why he chooses to be a backer-inner is unknown.  I think it’s just an old-habits-die-hard tank thing. I never asked his wife if he has a cape and tights. (Some things are better left private.)

I’ve watched several BI’s execute their prolonged preferred parking method, snaking into a clearly marked stall only to exit their vehicles with a dumbfounded expression at the cattywampus position of their minivan. But instead of correcting their double-spaced docking there is typically a “good ‘nuff” head shake and a slow stroll away.  I’ve seen BI’s back into buildings, signs, parking barriers, lawns, and landscape. I’ve had BI’s back in so closely to my truck that I’ve had to climb through my passenger door and over my console like an astronaut climbing into a space capsule to escape a parking lot. 

So why… WHY… for the love of God do they back in?  It makes no sense.  Either way they have to back in one direction to enter or exit.  Is it more prevalent at restaurants, with over caffeinated old guys needing a getaway-car escape to drive home to relieve themselves?  Is it a throwback to their younger years with muscle cars at the drive-in? Do they see back-in zig zagging as a safer alternative to the more visible direct straight-ahead approach? 

And why aren’t women backer-inners? A lot of my married male friends and insurance agent would probably have a strong opinion on this but we eventually have to close our eyes to sleep. Maybe it’s as simple as women are task-oriented and just zip straight in, then zip straight out, occasionally using mirrors for visual cues. Maybe the fairer sex lacks the patience to backward braille their way into a parking stall. Or maybe, just maybe they know intuitively that backing in is just dumb and unnecessary. (With Batman and tank drivers being the exception of course.)

I’d like to have bumper stickers made that I can slap on the bumper of the BI’s that say something fitting… like, “I Used The Backup Camera And Still Can’t Park”… or “This Looked Better From Inside.”

I hope that if I’m ever compelled to join the ranks of the frozen-necked over-caffeinated spastic bladder  backer-inners someone close to me steals my keys!

Mele Kalikimaka

“LET’S MAKE CHRISTMAS COOKIES AND WATCH HALLMARK SHOWS!” Bekki said excitedly.  “IT’LL BE FUN!”

Define “fun” I thought as I watched the mayhem unfold.  (Note to self:  If I ever build another house the kitchen will have a floor drain and at least two garden hose connections on the walls.)

As projects go (and I have A LOT of them pending before the holidays) Christmas cookies sounded fun.  But then I remembered the territorial hockey game that happens every time Bekki and I find ourselves in the kitchen at the same time.  Quite simply, I get ass-nudged and hip checked around our puny work island until I draw a foul and find myself in the penalty box.  I’ve realized over the past several years that kitchen hockey is a lifeskill Bek acquired from her mother; a passive aggressive domain claim, like grizzly bears clawing trees to mark their territory.

I walked into the kitchen finding several bowls of pastel colored Easter frosting.  Soupy thin by frosting standards but everyone has their secret recipes for stuff.  I spooned out a few teaspoons of the watery mess into a couple of small bowls, thickened it with spoonfuls of powdered sugar, and made my own colors. I like bright colors.  It must be a guy thing.

I learned I was doing it wrong.  Before this project I didn’t know frosting is supposed to “soak in.”

I watched the master baker create.  

“What’s that?” I asked, looking at one of her creations.

“A crab!” Bekki said, looking over her glasses with a big smile.

“REALLY BEK?  A Christmas crab?  It’s supposed to be Santa.  You have it sideways,” I said.

She paused for a few seconds, staring at her creation.  “Well the cutters aren’t marked.  How am I supposed to know what that thing’s supposed to be! Are you gonna be all critical or are you going to make some?”

I reluctantly picked up a cookie.  The goalie immediately came outta the box and blocked my every move.

Instead of falling into the predictable territorial grizzly kitchen trap, I employed Christmas guy-psychology. Call it “guycology.”

 It worked.

“THAT’S NOT CHRISTMASSY!  YOU RUIN EVERYTHING!” She said, taking a picture of my creation to share with her friends to validate that I am indeed the Grinch.

“Come on Bek, It’s very Chrismassy!  I call it mele kalikimaka!” I said, moving the little hula dancer and singing the only words that I know to the song… the title.

As projects go, it was fun to watch Bekki get in the holiday spirit and make Christmas crabs.  I’m almost certain there will be a second round of holiday baking when the kids come home.

Mele Kalikimaka to all!

The Bony Cold Shoulder

Something happened with hugs.  It happened in a short span of time; the leapfrog period of my youth till now.  Hugs for me are a personal connection between family and close friends, when a handshake is not enough and a kiss is too much (or inappropriate).  

But something happened.  A hug evolution.  Hugs used to be a full-frontal embrace: A greeting  or goodbye.  Consensual physical contact between willing participants, with a brief – or prolonged (depending on context) – arm wrap, like two constrictors meeting in the rainforest.

Most hugs now are sterile…tentative.  Hugs are one of the things in life that require full participation.  You have to be all-in.  Anything less is like parking crooked between the lines.

The new evolved hug is a tentative lean-in sideways shoulder bump.  It’s more like two big horn sheep meeting on the side of mountain than an embrace.  And because I’m an “all-in” hug guy, I invariably find myself with my arms around someone that has their shoulder stuck in the center of my chest and their head recoiling in the opposite direction.  It’s the new sideways hug.  

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Crack Awareness

There are some sights I just can’t get outta my head.  Sure, I can try to wash my eyes out with pretty images; pictures of a beautiful woman… nature… or whatever visual cleanse is appropriate for the erasure. But there are some things that are the optical equivalent of eating sardines, that even pizza and hot wings can only mask for a few seconds. There are life-images that even a glimpse etches into that special place in my brain reserved for memories of my senior prom or birth of my kids.

And I’m feelin’ kinda robbed that my happy-memory database is being slowly formatted by out of control image-bombing.  Here’s the thing, I’m incapable of looking away.  I’m not sure if my mind isn’t processing images quickly enough (possibly because there’s no logical reference in my database) forcing me to stay fixed on target too long or if I’m just simply drawn to craziness.

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Zombies in Leggins

Is it a just another social trend or some other kinda misguided response to happiness, excitement, surprise, dismay, fear…just about anything that requires an emotion-enhancer? Why do women – from beauty contestants (that is to say “bachelorettes”) to school girls – cover their mouths. It’s America and you probably have some sort of dental care, so it’s not your choppers. So you’ve watched the series of movies with the crazy native shirtless werewolves and horny glowing skinned tree-climbers but you’re NOT a vampire with big pointy teeth. So why the mouth cover?

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