Archive for the ‘Tug’ Category

The highway accident

May 30, 2013

About a month ago I noticed all my stories were gross. Within about 10 days there was a fart, a booger, body odor, a dripping breast and an anal impalement. I could see the theme happening; I just couldn’t get away from it.

This week, I’m noticing a lot of stories about death. I initially put this post aside, but no. I’m giving in to it.

Wednesday I was on the freeway next to a huge cargo truck. We banked to the right and I felt like it was going to tip and crush me. It didn’t.

This is what went through my mind.

Tug, one of the ‘uncles’ we lived with in Boulder, moved in with us when he separated from his wife. He said, “I should have known the marriage was doomed. We were sent a sign.”

They married in Tug’s hometown in Idaho. Fun fact: Tug’s childhood buddy was Pekabo Street, and he lived right next to Ernest Hemingway’s digs.

Tug’s best friend stood up for him as best man. After the wedding, this kid got on the highway to drive back to college. A tire came off of a big truck next to him. I think it crashed through the windshield.

I remember only two details for sure: He was killed, and his mother was following him in her car.

This is one of the many stories I wish I could forget. But everytime I’m next to one of those big trucks, there it is in my mind.

I always imagine the view through the mother’s windshield.

The habanero story

February 4, 2013

Tonight’s story is my husband’s choice.

When we lived in Boulder, there was a gaggle of college boys  — who were old enough to be called men but not mature enough — who were our friends. They all lived in our house on and off, and were like uncles to our babies.

One afternoon we were having a barbecue and Matt brought out a bag of habanero peppers. These are the hottest peppers in the world.

These stupid boys ate those peppers.

Once one of them ate one, they each in turn tried to look more macho.

The barbecue ended fairly early, and it was an ugly night for most.

Our buddy Tug had had his preschool-age son that weekend. The morning after, he was delivering the boy to his mother when the boy was trying to form the story in his mind to report back home.

“Dad, what were those things you were eating last night?”

“Not now, honey.”

Repeat as necessary.

Finally Tug tried to answer. He got “Haba-” out before he puked on the steering wheel.

Tug was the most macho.

The cookie contest story

July 25, 2012

My daughter got a kitten for her birthday. The kitten wants to be carried around all the time.

“I have to do everything one-handed,” my daughter said.

“I did everything one-handed for three years,” I told her. “And babies are heavier than kittens, and complain more when you try to set them down.”

When my daughter was a baby I had made some comment to the guys who lived with us about having to do everything one-handed — probably I was bragging about how good I gotten at it. This ended with Uncle Jer and me having a cookie-making contest.

I had to hold the baby and he had to hold a large sack of flour, no setting it down. The Uncles took seats at the kitchen table and gave us an “on your mark, get set, go.”

While I was practiced at things like pouring vanilla into a measuring spoon, Jer just dumped some in the dough willy nilly. And my cookies had the advantage of being eggshell-free.

In the end, I won for skill; Jer won for comedy; and the Uncles won two batches of chocolate-chip cookies.

click here for photo

The lemon-drop story

April 12, 2012

When I realized I was pregnant with my daughter, my husband was preparing for an exam, the final step in getting his master’s degree.

He had had a vasectomy six weeks before, but hadn’t gotten the go ahead from the doctor. That’ll teach him.

At best, I predicted, he would be too distracted to study. At best was bad. He had even sent me and our son to California during spring break so he could concentrate.

I didn’t want to think about at worst.

Uncle Jer, one of our friends who lived with us, knew. He caught me throwing up.

Uncle Tug lived with us too. One night he said, “I think I’m coming down with you’ve got. My stomach is a little upset.” I kept a straight face.

I was waiting until after my husband’s test to break the news. That meant keeping the secret for a month.

On Easter night we sat around the dining table playing M&M poker. Uncle Jer was making lemon drops.

He passed shots of vodka to whoever won a hand.

I was concerned. I had a full house.

Jer waited until my husband looked away. He gave me a trust-me smile as he pulled a different Absolut Citron bottle from under his seat.

I did shots of water and chased them with sugared lemon wedges.

And in my sobriety, I won all the M&Ms.