Tuesday, August 31, 2004

What would Jesus do to a guy in his office that ate BOTH of his Red Baron pizzas?

He'd probably give him His Dr.Pepper too. Not me...I wanted to kick the guy in his teeth. Here's how it went down...

I was on my way to work one early morning and I was tired. I stopped in the local convenience mart to buy a Red Bull when the microwavable section are caught my eye. "How convenient," I thought since I left my lunch at home. I quickly decided for the Red Baron pizzas and went on my journey. At work, I put my beloved pizzas in one of two of our "public" refridgerators and went along my day. I ended up going out with a friend for lunch, so my pizzas had to wait.

Last Wednesday morning, I was looking in the freezer at work and, BEHOLD! It was my pizzas...oh wait a second! My two pizza stash had been diminished by one and the container holding the last pizza was in someone's crusty yellow shopping bag, forced to lie with other peoples microwavable food. I huriedly grabbed my precious pizza and put it on the top rack of the freezer where it belonged.

Later in the day, as I was gathering the troops for our daily routine of lunch, my fellow comrade mentioned that he had nothing to eat. I said, "Don't fret young man. God will provide." (Okay, I really didn't say that...yet another failed attempt at humor) I did mention, however, that I had one pizza left "with his name on it." Excited at the opportunity to serve, I pulled open the freezer door and (scary sound effect from Psycho the movie plays) MY PIZZA WAS GONE! In a frantic, desperate attempt to locate my precious, I opened the trashcan. AH HA! Someone ate it. I sheepishly admitted to my failure to provide and the next 40 minutes worth of conversation was devoted to "how-to-get-a-thief-back-for-stealing-your-food" conversations. I finally gave up.

A few hours later, another comrade of mine popped his head in on someone rifling through the freezer. "What's that," he thought. He was searching through the yellow crusty bag! Another event, the same afternoon occurred with the same guy where the same conrade said he didn't have a very good lunch and the yellow-crusty-bag guy offered a TV dinner from his bag! Quickly, the Loyal informed me of his discovery.

(HOURS LATER) I creeped into the kitchen, opened the refridgerator door, pulled out the crusty-yellow-bag, and moved it to the other freezer. I kept this up two or three times over the next two days, when, finally, I was caught. As I was walking out one day, the yellow-crusty-bag guy was walking in. As he was searching for his once-again-moved bag, he made the connection.

Yesterday, at about 6:30AM, I was sitting in my cubical, typing away when I heard the crinkle of grocery bags coming my way. Suddenly, a mob of full crusty-yellow-bags were in my view and the yellow-crusty-bag guy was holding them. (Ephiphay...the final clue) He stared me in the eye and asked, "Oftem times, I bring TV dinners for lunch for the week. Is there something wrong with where I put my stuff in the freezer?" I stared him back in the eye with a straight face and said, "No, I don't think so. I wouldn't see why that would be a problem." Confused, he said, "Okay," and walked out.

The thought of what he may think of me and the "Jesus loves you" miniposter I have in my cubical. I tossed ideas of calling him on the carpet and confessing of my messing with his food...but nah. I'll wait until he forgets...and blind side him again. Hey, is that what Jesus would do? Maybe not...

Monday, August 30, 2004

I hate Sundays.

When I was nine years old, my parents divorced, leaving me to my own thoughts of commitment, marraige, and stability. I live with my mom, and every other weekend, my dad would come and pick me up. We'd have a great weekend, like to "men" should...until Sunday. We'd watch America's Funniest Home Videos, and then it would be time to go. I hate that show. As the final minutes drew close, and the winners were selected, my heart would seize with a pain that's indescribable. I knew, like clockwork, that at 6:00PM, my dad would say, "Well, should we get you home?" I sheepishly nodded, knowing I was lying inside. The short drive home was usually quiet, not much to say from a dying child. I would hug my dad, go inside, shut the door to my room, and cry. Holidays were the same. As an adolescent, I would spend my holiday day driving from one home to another. Often, this endeavor would involve three to four stops. This routine switched households when I went to live with my dad at the age of 13. Somehow, however, I felt great coming home. A male figure, constantly affirming my masculinity, was what the then recovering boy need.

Now, as a grown man, I find myself toating my own family from my mom's house, to my dad's house, and finally home. As the sun goes down, and we are driving home, my mind shifts to a time when a young boy hurt so bad making the same homage. Some days, currently, the hurt is still the same. I can't spend enough time with my parents...and we are all slowly dying. Lord, take them under your wing. We love you.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004