My Thumb's Off to Ya.

Occasionally, at my new job, they allow me to handle a knife.

I was cutting cilantro when I almost cut off my thumb. I'm not sure how close I came because I wasn't looking. Someone else had to tell me that I almost cut off my thumb. All of this alarmed me a little bit. Of course I was alarmed that I had almost lost my thumb, but that wasn't the worst of it. My thumb and I have had some wonderful times together. He's definitely one of my favorites. If I won't even pay attention when a prized digit is at stake...

What else do I do without looking?

I deliver burritos while listening to NPR; talking on the phone; unwrapping and consuming Commit Lozenges; finding the ideal location for thawing the fountain pop I bought at Jimmy John's the day before; changing the Elvis Costello album I will listen to when I tire of NPR; checking to make sure my proof of insurance is up-to-date in case I get into an accident.

I flirt with the girl at the bar while watching ESPN over her shoulder; wondering which Africa story will impress her without horrifying her; considering the number of Commit Lozenges I have left in my pocket.

I apply for a job while wondering if it is the job I really want; hoping it will provide enough income for me to pay my bills and buy more Commit Lozenges; worrying over the possibility that I have simply traded my addiction to cigarettes for an addiction to Commit Lozenges; considering another escape to a foreign country; weighing the odds that this job will impress that girl that I flirt with at the bar.

It turns out I do a lot of things without looking.

But when I chop cilantro these days, my attention is focused entirely on my thumb.

I'll Check it When I Damn Well Feel Like it.

December 23, 2008

Dear "Check Oil" Light,

I've noticed you've been around more lately. Things never used to be this way. I remember a time when you would only come around once or twice a year. Now it seems you're here everyday.

I understand your concern and I appreciate your attention to detail, but I'm writing to let you know that I have things completely under control.

I know that I am taking a risk by driving with you around, but it is a risk that I will just have to live with. You see, it is quite out of the question that I stop. The people of Duluth need their burritos and you need to cooperate with me on this.

So, with this letter, I am officially asking you to leave. If you fail to comply, I will be forced to cover you with a little piece of electrical tape.

I hope it won't come to that.

Thank you,

Dave

Could I Have the Snow Salsa on the Side?

It's been three years since I last drove in winter weather. I feel that amount of time gave me the opportunity to develop the sense of fear and respect that this kind of driving deserves. It now scares the hell out of me.

So I asked myself, "How can I overcome this newly self-assigned fear?"

I answered myself thus: "I'll get a job that involves driving constantly."

The people living on the terrifyingly steep streets of Duluth need their burritos- especially during snow storms.

On Sunday, it snowed most of the day. I would give you an estimate of inches, but I'm not good at that sort of thing (making small talk in Minnesota at this time of year almost impossible for me).

On Monday I drove to work at 10:45 am. I almost lost it on the first curve, but I turned into the skid and pumped the brakes and whatnot and regained control. For the rest of the trip I built up what could be defined as a tenative confidence. Then when I tried to park in front of the restaurant, the car refused to stop and I almost slid into the back end of a truck. I went into the Burrito Union, clocked in, and quietly had an anxiety attack.

Luckily the deliveries were few and far between and I was able to deliver burritos (at about the pace of a Zamboni machine).

So I'm facing my fear of winter driving and it's teaching me a valuable lesson. Maybe next I'll go bungee jumping or I'll buy a pet spider; or maybe I'll just eat a granola bar and watch another season of "Aquateen Hunger Force."

I Begin a Delivery Job With a $300 Car (two-thirds paid off)

I remember sitting on the airplane on the way home from Zambia and thinking that my life would begin again. I guess I had taken on a bit of the Zambian viewpoint that America is a sort of material paradise and that you are simply handed money when you step off the plane.

For those of you that haven't heard, I no longer work at the Southside Mini Mart. My gas station anecdotes from here on out will have to be from the vantage point of a customer. I am not sad about this at all.

I'm going to keep the name "Cigarettes and Gasoline" because it's catchier than "Commit Lozenges and Ethanol."

I have a new job. I deliver food for a communist-themed burrito joint in Duluth, Minnesota. I know what you're thinking: no blogging material there.

It will be tough, but I'll try to manage.

So I begin a new chapter in Cigarettes and Gasoline. I'm calling it, "I Want A Burrito Right Now- I Want It Perfect And I'm Not Leaving My House For It."

Go ahead and visit www.burritounion.com

Peanut Butter Covered Cherubs

Occasionally I would take time away from my job at the Southside Mini Mart to actually use my teaching degree. I'm not a full-time teacher anywhere- mostly because I don't live anywhere full-time- so I substitute teach.

So far, I've subbed for band, shop, first grade, and preschool. Band is obviously my favorite because I've been trained to teach band. First grade was a long day because it was spur of the moment and because first graders are starting to learn to push the limits of authority. I will never sub for shop again if I can help it. We couldn't use the machines, so I had to try to tell a bunch of high school students that they needed to spend the hour sweeping. Even though I had promised I wouldn't, I actually broke out the perennial "'cause I said so."

Preschool was a lot of fun. Preschoolers still cry when they have to leave home for the day and they are usually just looking for someone to help them get through it. Most of the time, that's also what I'm looking for.

We ate apple slices with peanut butter and were covered in peanut butter. Then we painted and we were covered in paint. When we were cleaned up, we sat on a rug and read books together. The tooth brushing was a major accomplishment on the day.

I sat with a group of little boys at one point and we played with little plastic cows in a toy barn. We had a long conversation about agriculture that helped me to learn a lot about the "big" cows and "little" cows.

There was one little boy with a rat tail. He was wearing a T-shirt that said, "Save gas, fart in a jar."

Don't worry little man, I thought, someday you'll be in charge of your own appearance.

Overt Testicle Reference

An elderly woman came into the Mini Mart last night and asked me to cut for her a pound of deli ham. I took out the ham and began to slice. She asked for very thick slices, which usually makes it incredibly hard to slice the meat into an exact weight. I began to slice and lay the pieces of ham on the scale. After seven slices or so, the scale read exactly one pound.
At this point, I intended to say, “hey, right on the nose!” I meant, of course, that we had hit the weight “right on the nose.” I said, instead, “hey, right on the nuts!”
The phrase came out of my mouth and sort of hung there like a puff of smoke. I quickly tried to justify it in my mind. It’s a common figure of speech, I said to myself. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the male reproductive organs.
But after thinking about it during the silence that ensued following my little “figure of speech,” I realized that there was no other way to look at it. I had made a reference to testicles while slicing lunch meat for a sweet old lady.
She knew what I meant, I knew what I meant and there was no getting around it: I had hit it on the nuts.

Pigeon Dialogue

“There’s a pigeon outside.”
“I’ve seen.”
“It’s sitting on the ice cooler.”
“Uh-huh.”

Pause during which nothing is accomplished.

“It keeps swooping at the people in the parking lot.”
“‘Swooping’, you say?”

Second pause.

“Should we call someone?”
“Whom shall we call?”
“Animal Control?”

Smug laughter on the part of the former.

“What’s so funny?”
“There is no Animal Control.”
“Oh… well what should we do then?”
“We have only to wait… and to watch.”

Both parties turn toward the window as a winged shadow passes over their rapt faces.