SCOTT hamilton

Flustered @ Friday’s

The other night we retrieved the girls up from piano lessons and headed to TGIFs to throw some grub down their throats. As we sat down I started my usual encouragements to “Focus, focus,” without which a decision about what to order would take a solid 25 minutes. Our server came back with the drinks faster than expected and our table became a universe of questions and indecision.

In the midst of chaos another server sat down a shot glass filled to the brim as if we had ordered it.

My ability to manage the chaos was tested.  While trying to assist the girls in determining their culinary choices I missed my chance to let the other server know about his mistake. The additional burden of solving the ill-placed jigger of spirited juice cracked my composure. And it got worse.

The servers whisked off before I could voice “disownership”. I searched for eye contact and simultaneously saw scribbling on the napkin that the bunglesome booze was sitting on. It said:

"Way to go last Sunday - Great job!"

AAHHHH!! The foreboding inebriant had been sent by someone from church! Thoughts collided in my mind. There’s no way I was going to drink it. I couldn’t. I’ve struggled with the demon of alcohol in my life – I’ve never been able to just “socially drink.”

My brain synapses were melting down. Too much to process.

I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. It was a note of encouragement. They were obviously showing love. Maybe they were just messing with me. The longer it sat there the more chance someone else might see the pastor “throwing down some hard liquor.”  So what. There’s nothing wrong with drinking. What if I explained to them I appreciated what they did, but I couldn’t  drink. But what if they in turn felt bad about sending it then. Worse, what if I went around the corner and didn't recognize anyone. They sent encouragement and I couldn’t  even have the decency to know their names . . . . AAAAHHHH!

Then I started belly laughing at the situation and my inability to handle it. It was great.

Dipping my pinky finger in it, I tasted it on the off chance that it wasn’t firewater and someone was just giving me “the business.” (later my youngest asked why I didn't just smell it . . . good point.  I was flustered OK?!)

It was tea.

They got me! At this point Tess and I were laughing hysterically. Thinking about all my ridiculous angst made me laugh even harder. Sometime in the midst of the cachinnation I proudly grabbed the whiskey glass, assumed the shooting position, uttered the reminiscent, “through the teeth and over the gums . . . look out tummy here it comes,” threw back my head, and downed it in one fell swoop.

Thanks Joe and Katie for the laugh . . . but don’t think this is over by any means.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

When Good Goes Bad

One of the best things about Brazil is the food. They love to eat meat. Not wussy meat like pâté. I’m talkin’ huge slabs of beef and pork hanging from steel skewers that looked like the instruments of the animal’s demise. It’s a guy’s paradise.

We visited many churrascaria, which is, in essence, an all-you-can-eat-meat-fest-that-pushes-the-
boundaries-of-gluttony restaurant. It’s great. 

Well into our stay we paid the price for our gluttony though. One night we hailed a taxi, and we quickly surmised that we needed more than one. Trying to be cost effective we put as many of the littler people in our only private car and the three biggest guys into one of the taxis. Guess where I ended up? 

As our taxi was following the caravan we rounded a corner and rising before us was a pretty steep hill. With a stop light at the top and the front cars of our caravan waiting at it, our driver hesitated a small distance from the base of the incline. I looked over at him and noticed two things. He had a look of concern on his face, and he too had visited many churrascaria. 

The light turned green.
The other cars sped away.
Our driver gunned the engine and tried to build up as much momentum before ascending the hill. EEEEEERRRRRRrrrrrrr . . . rrrr. . . rr . . .

We didn’t make it. The four of us churrascaria devotees broke the back of that poor little horsepower challenged taxi. 

Half-way up the hill we had to throw the ballast (us) over board to lighten the load. He eventually made it to the top where we packed back in and sped off to catch up with the caravan. 

I’m currently on a diet and have a restraining order against me from all Brazilian taxis.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Serpent in the Garden pt.2

With a little convincing and fatherly reassurance that we would not get in trouble they agreed to help me scare their mom. Our plan was for them to give my wife kisses and hugs as soon as she came home and then make their way to the back yard. I would draw my wife’s attention to them and as we made our way out one of the girls would pick up the snake and scream bloody murder. It would be fun.

 

We rehearsed the plan a couple of times, and I had just sat back down at the computer again as my wife opened the door. Mischievous excitement made my heart pound as I nonchalantly welcomed her home. My youngest blurted out, “We found a fake snake.” My heart sank. The plan was ruined. I wondered why God hadn’t blessed me with more devious girls. But, I realized that my wife hadn’t responded to it. In all the commotion and chaos she had missed it. Hope held out – we could still pull this off. Bah ahh ahh (evil laugh).

 

With wide eyes first looking at my girls and then out towards the backyard and little head nods to match, I hinted to the girls to go take the stage. The subtleties of my head bobbing hints were lost on them. I got frustrated with having to work with a 6 and 7 yr old, and I was beginning to wonder if we would ever be able to pull this off. I resorted to directness, “Girls why don’t you go out in the backyard and play. It’s a gorgeous day.”

 

My wife and I talked in the kitchen. I glanced out the window. With an ever so slight look of concern, “What are the girls doing?” (bait dangled).

“That’s not a . . . snake . . . is it?” (bait taken – hook set). This was the easy part. I steadily made my way to the patio door. With my wife on my heals, I could feel her palpable frustration at my less than quick pace.

Serpent in the Garden pt.1

It was a lazy-after-school-afternoon as I sat at the computer glancing out the patio glass at my girls who were playing in the backyard. They were 6 and 7 yrs old, so I was still in somewhat of a protective hovering mode. I had noticed that they were standing still, huddled together, staring at something on the ground. My parent radar went up and I knew something just wasn’t right.

 

I sat for what seemed like an eternity waiting for them to move, which would indicate to me that everything was ‘normal’. I didn’t want to overreact like my wife I didn’t want to overreact, but I realized something was up – they didn’t move.

 

As I stood up making my way to the screen door I question them, “GIRLS WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” No answer. “GIRLS . . .” No answer.

 

The adrenaline flood gate opened wide and I picked up speed making my way to the back deck, interrogating them the whole time. Coming down the stairs from the deck to the yard I realized that they were answering me, but it was unclear because they would not take their eyes off of whatever captivated them. Growing impatient because I was not getting the information I wanted I continued to interrogate them. At the bottom of the stairs I made out one terrifying word – snake.

 

Everything inside me wanted to go back up the stairs, but my girls were out there and I felt obligated. Not wanting to overreact like my wife Portraying the epitome of bravery I remained calm, and as I reached them I gently nudged them back from a snake that was sunning itself on the rocks that border our back lawn. Through my shallow, rapid panting I managed, “Wow, that’s cool.”

 

So what was a father to do as he and his two girls faced a three foot snake. Something deep inside of me made its way to my conscience and I knew I had to ‘mess’ with it like any other 7 yr old boy in the presence of girls. At the very least I had to poke it. I could poke it with a stick, but if I really wanted to impress these girls I would have to poke it with my bare hand, and that’s exactly what I intended to do.

Drool Drool

I love cheese cake. I mean I really love it.

 

If I weren’t married and if it were legal to wed a dessert . . . well you know the rest.

 

Some of the best cheesecake I savor is acquired at The Cheese Cake Factory restaurant, which I happened to be at not too long ago. Unable to resist an overwhelming cheesecake compulsion, I had scooped the family into the Explorer and headed into the cement jungle of lower downtown (LoDo). I drove around the maze of one way streets for much too long looking for an open meter only to ransom a kidney at a pricey lot. After an eternal wait we were seated and I executed my strategy for maximum cheesecake conquest. We waived any entrées and went right for the booty. My two girls and my wife each ordered a wedge and I . . . I had two. Yes two! I couldn’t finish the swollen morsels of decadence though – they were at least a pound apiece. To top it off I ordered two more pieces to-go. Happily toting my horded wealth out the door I chanted, “Glut-ton-y, glut-ton-y. It’s for me, it’s for me!” I was happy as a lark. Until . . .

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Adversary

My wife, our two girls (two and three years old at the time) and I took the days following Labor Day weekend 1999, and journeyed to Golden Gate camping ground. It was a trip that would go down in infamy.

I had put massive amounts of time and energy in preparing this glorious trip. It was going to be heaven. I researched the campground, planned out the route there, inventoried our equipment, and dreamed up a gourmet menu. We would be feasting in paradise - we had planned the perfect trip.

As we drove up Sunday afternoon, I knew we would have dreamland to ourselves. We were headed against the busy flow of weekenders making their way back to the city to prepare for their Monday morning monotony. I smirked and reveled in the thought that they just didn’t know when to go and when to come. Why would any one want to go camping when everyone and their brother was doing the same. Didn’t they know that the idea behind camping is to get away from the terrors of society and commune with the gentleness of nature? We passed endless vehicles of various shapes and sizes, carrying lifeless campers. They looked as though they had spent such an incredible amount of time and energy trying to have a relaxing vacation that they wore themselves out. I smirked again, “They could learn a thing or two from me.”

After the journey, during which the kids were incredibly well-behaved, we arrived at Golden Gate campground. We learned that we wouldn’t be alone – there would be a group of teenagers staying there also. “That’s OK,” I thought, “This campground is big enough for both of us and they look like decent kids.”

The campground sure was big enough. It was glorious. It had pristine trees, which gave off the most tranquil aroma of pine I had ever smelled. It was flawlessly clean and tidy. The individual camp sites had their own tables, a fire pit, and smooth level plots for your tents. They made it so easy to ‘rough it’.

As I was demonstrating my manhood by setting up our shelter – a newly purchased, triple nylon, weatherproof tent – a park ranger drove up. I knew I had nothing to worry about because our fee was paid and we had read every rule and regulation as we entered the grounds. I thought, “He probably just wants to welcome us and wish us a heavenly stay.” As I walked over to his truck he blurted out, “Have you seen the bear?”

___________________________________________________________________________________

Visual Thesaurus

I love writing.

One of the aspects of writing I enjoy is finding just the perfect word.  In this sense I am a thesaurus junkie.  I came across this powerful on-line thesaurus and decided to subscribe to it.  It is non-linear and organically flows more like a brainstorming session than the traditional book entry.  The main word you enter appears as the hub and is larger.  The synonyms are spider webbed out from it with antonyms indicated by red slashed lines.  Check out this sample query.

Yes, I doctored this to reflect my total revulsion of the Bronco's effort today.  Try the thesaurus for real here.

A True Life Horror Story

Part Three.

Terror seized our hearts and we leapt into a full out sprint.  As this thing tore after us we wailed with frighten little boy screams.  Our light bulb and safety seemed all but lost.  In our attempt to out run and sacrifice the other, Brent and I began stumbling over each other.  We went crashing to the ground whipping up a huge dust cloud.

It was on us in an instant, hovering over us and cackling with a sinister laugh.  It reached up towards its hat as if to shield our eyes with it from our gruesome fate.  We shrieked as we watched it pull off its hat . . . and its hair . . .

A True Life Horror Story

Part Two.

As usual the highway that night didn’t have one motorist.  It was just me and Brent.  Our trek back home was easier.  The dim afterglow of the moon made the flat black top simple enough.  It would have taken three times as long stumbling through the pitch black forest.  Although our highway journey was filled with trepidation it was nothing compared to the horror that awaited us on our dirt road.

County Road 47 peeled off the highway at a steep incline.  Within 25 yards you were off the main road and into thick forest.  The only source of comfort came from two porch lights, our neighbors and then ours further down.  It was amazing how our little 40 watt bulb offered so much security.  The distance to that light bulb instantly grew too far and the security it offered overshadowed by heavy footsteps behind us.

A True Life Horror Story

Part One.

I vividly remember the night my brother Brent and I were attacked by a horrifying half-crazed mountain man.   I was around 7 yrs old and that would have made Brent 11 yrs old.  We lived in Grand Lake, a tourist-trap-mountain-town west of Denver.  As the fall season dwindled the vacationers we adjusted to the ghost town atmosphere left behind.  Living a mile out from town we felt the isolation even more.

My brother took an odd job of feeding the pets of a psychiatrist that by that time was frequently missing weekends in his summer home before he made the full relocation back down to the city for the winter.  He lived about a quarter mile from us, which for a 7 yr old seemed like a Louise and Clark trek.

It was in the late afternoon that I found out that I was volunteered by my mother to assist Brent.  It’s funny how I don’t remember getting a cut of the paycheck though.  I’m not bitter.  In fact I’m grateful that I escaped with my life that night . . .