An Unholy love of Guacamole

“It looks like baby poo.”

That was the consensus from my kids many years ago when I tried to introduce them to the wonders of guacamole. They were having none of it. I am an adventurous eater, but my children have ridiculous standards when it comes to trying new things.

The oldest was incredibly picky as a child, but has come around to find that there is more to life than chicken nuggets. I’m waiting for her to say, “you were right” because I tried to tell her when she was little that there was a whole, big, flavorful world she was missing.

The twenty-year-old won’t try anything green and subsists on microwave pizzas. And then there is the dancer who eats incredibly healthy. She has always loved to try new fruits with me, so I would scour the global sections of the markets to find star fruits, dragon fruits, and blood oranges to bring home. Yet she turns her nose up at my avocado delight.

I love it. I love it so much it is a problem. I think it is the cilantro that piques my taste buds. I could eat my weight in chips and guacamole.

And every time my kids are around, I stuff chip after chip in my pie-hole and say, “look, I’m eating baby poo!”

Like my other dad-jokes… it never gets old.

My unholy love of guacamole caused me a little embarrassment recently. I get to do some pretty cool stuff in my job sometimes. This year, I got to go out on the field at Suntrust Park to receive a check from the Atlanta Braves Foundation. It started with a reception for all the beneficiaries. Since we got free tickets, I invited my oldest and her boyfriend who loves the Braves.

But on the trip to meet me, he somehow missed the exit and they got stuck in traffic, making us a little late to the reception. We got there just in time, but had to forego the buffet because the presentation started immediately. I sat there ruefully eyeing a mongo bowl of guacamole the entire time the Brave’s representative spoke and handed out awards. I couldn’t sneak any of it because it was right next to the stage.

When the speaker ended, we immediately had to line up to walk down to the field for the on-field presentation!

Driven by green-eyed guacamole lust and not good manners, I allowed everyone in the room to cut in front of me thereby putting myself right in front of the bowl. Chips in both hands, I wind-milled scoop after scoop full of baby poo. With everyone in front of me and no one watching, I ate like a complete animal.

42168918_10156745445099675_205390472875606016_nFlash forward to when we stepped out onto the field, I looked down to find several hunks of that chunky, green goodness on my shoe and pant leg. I visualized the crowd’s reaction and thought of the viral video of the Braves guy with baby poo all over him. But let’s face it, no one pays attention to pregame ceremonies. So while we crossed the foul line and headed toward home plate, I desperately flicked baby poo off of me and onto the playing surface.

I wonder if it came into play during the game – if a ball rolled through it and caused the left fielder to make a throwing error. That would be funny.

 

 

Later that night, in a contented guacamole slumber, I dreamed of a brilliant product idea: ceramic guacamole bowls formed into the shape of a diaper. Because if you look like baby poo but taste like heaven, I say be proud and own it.

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I Broke My Pants

We’ve all heard the expression, truth is better than fiction. When you blog, the two are often woven together with neither being the predominant thread. I’ve been known to stretch the blanket from time to time to suit comedic purpose. Sometimes what could have happened is funnier than what actually happened; so we just go with that.

I was going to forgo posting this week. When you’re seeking high art like I am, you can’t force it. That would be like a five-year-old going to the bathroom just before a trip. “I didn’t have to go then!”

Nothing felt right so I didn’t write… and then life happened.

My pants broke.

In and of itself, this isn’t very funny. But the comedy of life is all about timing. Of course one’s pants do not break while one is at home or when one is in the car a few miles away. No, cosmic forces conspire against zippers to break at the least opportune time and in front of the most people.

I happened to be at work last night preparing for an important board meeting. Being a coffee drinker over fifty years old, I thought it prudent to seek porcelain relief before the meeting to avoid interruption. It was there that I discovered why a zipper is called a fly in common vernacular because the minute I touched mine it flew into a million pieces. Yes, my pants exploded twenty-five minutes before a meeting of the board of directors.

I surveyed my options:

  1. Safety pins. These proved ineffective in patching the devastation and impossible to fasten without help. It did not feel appropriate to seek help with my zipper.
  2. Skip the meeting. Bad option.
  3. Go FIFO – first in, first out. No one sees the gaping hole in my crotch.
  4. Hold my pants closed like a batter between pitches. Seemed too edgy.
  5. Replace the pants and arrive late but fashionable.

After sharing the dilemma with two very empathetic coworkers, I left them in puddles of laughter as I scootched out the door holding tightly the remnants of my pants.

CURSE YOU, Atlanta traffic!

Two miles to Steinmart during rush hour. After ten minutes, I scootched into the store. Of course it was crowded. Of course they all pointed and laughed as I arrived. I quickly found a pair my size and for the first time in my life didn’t even check the price. Of course I interrupted an employee meeting outside the dressing room.

As I explained my dilemma to the cashier, the young man made a valiant attempt to stifle his laughter as I pulled the tags off my butt for him to scan. I have to give him credit. He tried. I didn’t bother with the receipt and I dropped the tattered threads I had worn to work that morning in the trash.

I’m sure the eruption of laughter inside the store was equal to or greater than the sound of my pants exploding in the bathroom just twenty minutes prior. I don’t care… I was headed back to the meeting without a giant hole in my trousers.

CURSE YOU, Atlanta traffic!

I walked back in at 6:29! I made it. I saw the sardonic grins of people as they checked out my new pants. The word had obviously spread. But I don’t mind.

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6:29 and I’m back!

I declare victory over the Universe’s perverse sense of humor… this time. But I’m sure it will strike again. Maybe I should keep a spare pair of pants in my office.