Tonight, after dinner, Jill pulled ice cream out of the freezer.  She made cones for the kids, and dished out some in bowls for the two of us.  She asked me if I wanted “my ice cream,” which is merely a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in vanilla variety.  And by merely I mean only the second-best flavor in all the world.  And no, I’m not referring to my previous Frosty fetish.

On a whim, I saw a bag of Reese’s Pieces on the counter and tossed some into the bowl.  That’s when I couldn’t help but reminisce about the first best ice cream flavor in the world: Reese’s Pieces in vanilla.

I’m sure you’ve never heard of this flavor.  I haven’t had it, myself, since about mid-2004.  Yes, I know the last time I had it.  That’s because I can narrow it down to the spring or summer of that year.  That’s when Dairy Queen stopped selling it.

I’ve had a love-love relationship with Dairy Queen since I was a kid.  In New York, we used to go to Carvel for ice cream.  Maybe even Karl Ehmer King Kone.  Carvel served scooped ice cream, which was ok.  Really, we liked the ice cream cakes more.  Karl Ehmer was good for 7Up floats, which I loved for a while.  But the best place in town was the one we didn’t go to quite as much.  That place was Dairy Queen.

The Dairy Queen in Wappingers Falls was the kind where you ordered outside at a window, and picked up at the other window.  They had a couple indoor seats on the side, but no one really had to use them because in those days, the ice cream parlors were only open during the warm months.  I remember not liking them as much as the other places, for a while.  I started liking them more when they started serving ice cream inside cap-shaped bowls with baseball team logos on them.

And then, they came out with the Blizzard.

I don’t know exactly when I realized that this ice cream and candy mash-up made sense.  I don’t recall the first ones having Reese’s Pieces in them.  But within a few years, they would become my favorite thing in the world.

After we moved to North Carolina, Dairy Queen wasn’t exactly a place we could go to down the street.  But we traveled a lot along the east coast, either to New York, Florida, or places in between.  On every road trip, we’d stop at a Dairy Queen, and I’d get a Reese’s Pieces Blizzard.  If the Dairy Queen didn’t serve Reese’s Pieces, I preferred to go without entirely.  There was no substitute.  The Reese’s Pieces Blizzard and I saw each other a few times a year.  It sucked to have a long-distance relationship with an ice cream treat, but it was so worth those few precious moments each year.

I was aware of just about every Dairy Queen along I95, I85, and US1 from New York to Key West, especially the ones in Virginia, as that was usually the longest part of the trip (and the state had at least four along Interstate 95).  But in Raleigh, as far as I knew, there were none to be found.

Years later, while working for a company to the west of downtown Raleigh, I discovered there was a Dairy Queen in Cary, a few miles away.  I got paid every Friday with that company, and every Friday I tried to grab lunch at Dairy Queen after depositing my paycheck nearby.  That’s when I discovered they had more than just ice cream (granted, many of them during my younger years were JUST ice cream).

Oddly enough, about a year later, I discovered there was one within a quarter mile of my work.  I’d never known about it.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t as good as the other one, not to mention more expensive, so I kept going to the one near my bank.  Only occasionally would I go to the “lesser” Dairy Queen for my Reese’s Pieces Blizzard.

Then, I moved to Orem.  I knew, from many visits over the years, that I was going to be in hog heaven with a full-fledged Dairy Queen sitting right smack (almost) in the middle of town.  I had to cut back for a while because I was eating way too much of it.  But, I rationalized, it was RIGHT HERE IN TOWN.  What could go wrong?

The first thing to go seriously wrong was Dairy Queen’s franchise decision to discontinue Reese’s Pieces.  Apparently, I had been the only one eating it over the years.  After a few visits without Reese’s Pieces, I finally asked the owner why they’d stopped carrying it.  They told me that the franchise itself was to blame.

I was now left without a good reason to go.  I’d go on occasion for lunch, but rarely for anything ice cream related.

And then… 800 North had to be bigger.  The city and state forced Dairy Queen out of business - a viable, healthy business at that - so they could expand a major road going through town.  I visited on the last day the store was open, and I spoke with one of the owners.  The city decided to kill their business with right of use laws.  And the owners were old enough now that starting over made no sense.  So they just gave in to the city and retired.

For a time, I had another Dairy Queen 10 minutes away in American Fork, but that had disappeared into a Subway at some point when I wasn’t paying attention.  I knew there was one 20 minutes south, in Springville, but that wasn’t exactly down the street - it was 20 minutes on I15 at about 70 MPH.  Eventually, I learned there was one in Provo, too, but it’s not exactly off the freeway.

Maybe once a month, we’ll go to Springville for some Sunday lunch at Dairy Queen.  I don’t always get ice cream, and when I do, it’s usually just a dipped cone.  There is no Blizzard for me anymore.  As far as I’m concerned, the Blizzard is dead.  Sometimes, it feels like Dairy Queen has one foot in the grave itself.

Tonight, spooning each chilled candy-coated peanut buttery goodness with a bite of ice cream, I could almost taste that old familiar flavor.  I couldn’t help but be reminded how my favorite part of each Blizzard was finding the unmixed ice cream at the bottom, with the occasional unbroken candy morsel lodged within it.  For some reason, the solid pieces always made their way to the bottom, and the mixer never quite got down to the last quarter of the cup.  For a time, I was visiting my childhood, enjoying something simple that meant so much to me as a kid.

I never give up hope that some day, my flavor will come back.

If they do, I might be screwed.  A large Blizzard is about $5 now!  Not to mention my waistline.  Ouch.

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I have to give a lot of kudos to my wife, Jill, for believing in me as much as she does.  I can’t begin to express how nice it is to have someone who has been so supportive of my desire to be a writer.  Others have supported me over the years, but she really gets to see the best and the worst of it.

As our relationship progressed over the years, I found myself interested in spending more of my time with her.  Previously, for various reasons, I often went to hide on the computer.  I had to get away from real life, and I needed a place to vent my daily frustrations.  It was the perfect time for me to exercise my fingers and my mind, let alone work off some steam.  But as Jill and I became closer, I spent more time with her and less time with the keyboard.

Some might think I gave up on writing a little bit to be with my wife.  There might have even been times when I fell into that mindset, if even for a moment.

But, I’ve concluded, the reason why I don’t blog as much as I used to is simply because I don’t need to.  Writing, outside of the context of blogging, however, was always a difficulty.  The most I’d ever written outside of the blog was about half a short novel, which I scrapped after seeing a movie that was eerily similar to my writing.  So, for the most part, my lack of light blogging has been due to the fact that I don’t need to vent my frustrations as much as I used to.  I have Jill to thank for that.

Writing, still, is a challenge.  I’ve been amazed that over the past 14 days I’ve been able to blog seven times.  I think I blogged seven times in six months last year.  But despite my sudden increase in blogging (and my surprise at doing so), I’ve come to realize that writing still eludes me.  Sure, I’m writing RIGHT NOW.  But I need to be writing short stories and so much more.  I need to be honing my skills, testing the story waters, and getting myself out there semi-professionally.  Blogging is a start.  Blogging can even be a huge part.

So, it’s time to finally quit talking about the walk instead of actually walking it.  I’ve submitted to a few contests here and there.  I’ve said I was going to do better.  I’ve made a lot of claims that I’ve never followed through with.  And through it all, I’ve talked about being a writer without actually writing.  Even more, through it all, Jill has told me I could do it.  She’s told me that she believes in me.  She’s also told me that if I could even begin to see in myself what she sees in me, I’d be able to do it.

It’s time I took a look.

Jill has always supported me going to the office to write, even when I don’t write all that much.  It’s high time I actually wrote for a change.

It’s time I walked the talk.  I’m going to make the most concerted effort I’ve ever made to write each day.  It might be blogging for a while, but it could switch over to story writing at any point.  If I make the effort to do the craft, I can find the strength to succeed at the craft.

Thank you, my love.

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Anyone who reads this blog for a bit knows that I don’t mention work very often.  I don’t talk about what I do for my own privacy, in addition to preventing my own doocing, and most especially because this blog is about me - I’m not the culmination of my employment, but of my own experiences.

But today, I’m going to blog about work.  Still, no specifics from me.  I just want to relay my thoughts.

These last couple days, I’ve been working out of a different office than usual.  I had the opportunity to work with people I don’t see very often.  Some, I’ve worked with before, and it was nice to work with them again.  Others, I haven’t worked with before.  I know them mostly in passing from company events and meetings.  It was good to get to know them for a couple days.

I really enjoyed myself.  It was nice to get out of my element and work with different personalities - both of the employees as well as the clientele.

These past two days got me thinking today.  It’s interesting when you have perceived notions - maybe even opinions - of people you don’t know very well, only to find those notions to be completely off the mark.  The people I got to work with aren’t the people that I’ve pieced together over a couple years of being in the same meetings or company events together.  Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t have bad impressions of anyone.  I didn’t have negative or positive impressions of coworkers, but I can’t help that I had perceived notions of their personalities.

This happens to most of us in life, I expect.  You think you have a bearing on who someone is, and then find out later that they’re much smarter than they seem, or aren’t as introverted as you thought they were.  You can’t help but think about the fact that you haven’t been able to get to know someone very interesting because your limited interactions have created a shell of a persona around someone that you can’t find the drive (or time) to crack.  It makes me want to be a little less self-involved at company functions and get to know more of the people who work in my area.

To the new friends and acquaintances I’ve made this week, I’m sorry we haven’t gotten to work together sooner.  I hope to be able to work along side you again sometime soon.  To those whom I still work with, don’t worry - I still love you all.  To an extent.

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I’ve decided that the Redbox could be the best invention ever.  Hear me out.

So a movie comes out.  Let’s use Old Dogs, for example, a movie starring Robin Williams, John Travolta, and Seth Green.  It’s the one with Seth Green singing to a gorilla in the trailer.  You know, the one you don’t want to see.

It’s not worth paying $7.50 or higher to see it at the theater.

It’s not worth paying $4.50 or more to see it at the matinee time at the theater.

It’s not worth buying for $15 to $25 when it comes out on DVD or BluRay.

It’s not worth renting from Blockbuster or Hollywood Video for $4

It’s not really worth seeing at the discount theater for $1.50.  Why waste your time?

It’s the kind of movie I might watch if someone lends me their own DVD or rental.  Maybe.

I might - JUST MIGHT - watch it for a buck.

That’s the beauty of Redbox.  I pay a dollar.  If the movie sucks, so be it.  I paid a buck.  How can you beat that?

But wait, there’s more.  I can go to more than a dozen locations to find a movie.  I don’t know about you, but there are only two rental places left in town: one Blockbuster, and one Hollywood Video.  There used to be two of each chain.  Go further back, and you’d probably have dozens of local joints, too.  Now, I have about fifteen rental locations all within five miles.

I can pick up a video in one place, and return it in another.  In January, Jill and I rented a Redbox movie in Heber City, and returned it in Orem the next day.  It’s about a 20 minute drive.  I wonder how trippy it would be to a Redbox operator to see me pick up a movie in Salt Lake and return it in Raleigh, 2000 miles away.

I can reserve online.  If I absolutely have to have a movie, and don’t want to chance someone else getting it, I can reserve it online and drive to the location to pick it up.  It’s paid for and ready to spit out of the machine.  It’s waiting just for me.  How can you beat that?

Oh, wait.  I can beat that.  THE MOVIE IS A DOLLAR.

I can watch big box releases (if I can snag one, which would be the same at a dozen Blockbusters, if they existed anymore), or I can watch box office duds.  A premium move is a buck.  A piece of crap movie is a buck.  I can rent four or five movies for the price of one at the chain locations.  I can’t think of anything else quite like it.

And as for the invention itself, I was very curious to learn the history of the Redbox on Wikipedia.  The people who came up with this get a mental high five from me.  I wish I’d invested something on that one.  I’d be filthy rich.

This thing is about as close to having someone pay for my DVD rentals as I get.  How can you not enjoy that?

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Last Saturday I had someone tell me I looked familiar.  Twice.  Two separate people.

I hear it a lot, though usually not twice in one day.  You see, I have a doppelgänger.

One was while interacting with a client.  She said I looked like someone she knew.  I saw her address in her file, and it was almost a stone’s throw from where I used to live.  I would have passed her house each morning as I took my daughter to school.  But that’s not why I looked familiar.

I asked her about her kids at school.  They weren’t even that old yet.

She asked me where I get my hair cut.  I told her Fantastic Sams, which is near both the old house and the new house (we moved about a quarter mile away from the old house).  She works at a place near the Macey’s I buy my canned cheese at, but I never go there for haircuts.

She asked me if I knew Bridger Hunt, a local boy who was hit with shrapnel from a home-made pipebomb firework that nearly cost him his leg in 2008.  Turns out, I don’t know him directly, but I know his family.  I used to work with his grandmother at Utah Valley University (then Utah Valley State College).  But we don’t know each other through the Hunt family.

Turns out, we don’t know each other at all.  I could have seen that lady every day for the four years I lived in the old house.  I could have sat next to her at community events.  I could have seen her at the local parks.  I could have run into her at the nearby grocery store, gas station, or McDonald’s at any time.  But I never did.  I ran into her at my workplace.  For the first time.  And yet, I looked familiar.  I often look familiar.

Later that day, I stopped at Burger King for lunch.  There’s a lady that works there who knows me - another client - who knows where I work and what I do.  But that’s not the person who mistook me for a doppelganger.  It was the restaurant manager who did.

As I walked to the counter, she exclaimed, “it’s you!"  Usually, when I hear this, it turns out it’s not me.  I looked at her quizzically.  She mentioned something about a wedding ring.  I’d had a tangent conversation with a client months prior about wedding rings, but I don’t think it was her.  Then she said something to the effect of having bought her husband’s ring from me.  Uh oh, not me.  I don’t work in the jewelry business.

So I played it off and smiled.  Meanwhile, the lady who works there that knew me had the most puzzling look on her face.  I finished lunch and left without further incident.

Incidentally, relaying this story to Jill the other night, she told me that she had her hair done before the wedding at the place where the first lady works at.  I never stepped inside, and Jill hasn’t been back there since, so I’m not sure how she would have seen me.

I get this all the time.  At least a few times a month.  And if I’m not approached, I get people taking a second look at me all the time in public places.  Sometimes I feel like I’m some sort of local celebrity, gawked at while running my errands.  Sometimes, that feeling is interesting.  Usually, though, it’s creepy.

Back in 2003, I found something that might explain some of the misunderstanding.

While working at UVSC, I worked for the community education program as part of the program’s administration team.  The program had been around for a very long time, and had also been two separate entities some time before - one run by Alpine School District, the local district, and Utah Valley Community College (before getting bigger and bigger).  Being the combination of two formerly competing programs, there were tons of old material in storage.

One day, while looking for advertising ideas, I stumbled across a box of black and white photographs.  I don’t know which program they belonged to, but I could tell by the clothing in the pictures it was probably from the 80s.

About a dozen pictures into the box, I found an eerie image.  It looked like me.  In 80s clothing.  In a school picture.  At about seven to nine years old.

Except it wasn’t me.  In the 80s, I went to school 2000 miles away in Fishkill, NY.

Still, it was almost a dead-ringer for my face.  Somewhere in the Orem area, a kid who looked just like me went to school at about the same time as I did, putting him close in age.  One of my doppelgangers grew up here.

No wonder people recognize me all the time.

I just wonder why I haven’t seen the guy myself.  I see all sort of people in town on a regular basis.  I’m probably one of the few people who would notice the same people and cars around time.  For instance, just last night I dropped off a Redbox rental at Ridley’s grocery store nearby.  I saw a woman in a red Land Rover with chrome rims drive crazy through the parking lot, parking crooked a few stalls away from me.  As I drove by to leave, I looked at her with a sense of bewilderment at her driving skills, and she gave me a weird look in return.  Today, as it turns out, that very car was parked across the street from my house most of the day, visiting a neighbor.  Most people don’t notice small coincidences like that, but I do.  Most probably don’t recognize license plates and random stickers on their car, but I do.  Most probably don’t remember the faces of people who pass them at the mall, but I do.  Given how much I remember about all the people I see around me all day, you’d like I’d seen the Eric Clone somewhere.

So, I’m taking this opportunity to send out an invitation to my local doppelganger.  Stop hiding from me.  Come out into the open.  Come meet me.  Let’s get lunch and talk.  I’m sick of running into your shadow around town.  I’m sure you’ve had the same problem with people who’ve seen me.  Let’s coordinate things a little so we’re not freaking each other out.  OK?

Thanks.

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The neighbors were out in full force again.

The other night was ripe with full monty from the dad and a quick flash from the mother.

The neighbors are like a bad car wreck you can’t look away from.

On the one hand, you can’t help but wonder about the personality of the people behind you when they freely show off their junk in front of their own teenage and tweenage boys.  You’re left wondering how people become occasional nudists.  And a part of you contemplates the amount of brass it must take to not only go naked in your own backyard - even for ten seconds - where you can be seen, but also the stuff they’re made of to do it in full daylight and in front of their own sons.

At the opposite site of your mind, you can’t help but wait for the next event to ensue.  Like that car wreck, you want to look simply because it’s impossible not to look.  Any little noise and you find yourself peering out the window.

Between it all, you find yourself hoping that your kids don’t catch a glimpse of it.  You find yourself wishing they really didn’t have a nudist streak back there.  And you consider all the ways you can employ privacy methods at the top of a tall cedar fence without making it too obvious.

The other night, nudist dad was outside with the youngest son trying to start a fire.  They were clothed, thankfully.  I’d hate to think of what could happen, seeing as how they were using gasoline to get it started.

Even more, they were using green pine branches from the tree in their yard to build up their little backyard flame.  Of course, all it served to do was cause deep, smoldering smoke to billow out into the neighborhood.  It didn’t build up the fire itself, so employing pieces of cardboard as a crude version of bellows soon followed.  All happening while the tweenage son danced around in pajamas trying to use sticks to make his own torch.

After fifteen minutes of trying to make a fire without firewood, they gave up and went inside.  No naked firesides that night.

I’m not sure which is more entertaining: the satellite TV, or the backyard windows.  Of course, I can watch nudity and stupidity on both, but there’s that live aspect to our neighbors that just can’t be beat.

 

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