I am "Potty Guy".

She's half basset hound and half black lab. She looks like a giant wiener dog. Long body and short little legs. She is sweet-tempered and loveable. She likes almost all human being, but not so much cats. She enjoys long walks, peanuts, edamame, and any kind of sandwich that anyone is eating. Her name is Jasmine, and we rescued her from the animal shelter when we lived in Nyssa, Oregon.

And to her, I'm "Potty Guy".

I work nights and often arrive home around 4:00 AM when every other sane person is experiencing lovely REM sleep. I will be fumbling for my house keys and on the other side of the door I will hear the whimpering of a dog in distress. As soon as I get inside the door, Jasmine will run to our sliding glass door that leads to the back yard. There, she whines like she has been locked inside the house for days and forced to drink gallon after gallon of water. If a dog could cross her legs in the classic "gotta-go-now" pose, that would be Jasmine waiting to be let out.

And it's not like someone hasn't been home all day long to let her out. With four adults in the house, there is virtually someone here 24 hours a day. But for some reason, I am the "chosen one" for all things potty.

Julie and the kids are often up and around during the day while I'm sleeping. Any one of them is capable of unlocking the sliding glass door and letting the dog out to do her "business", yet she will wait until I wake up before she runs to the door and whimpers - her way of letting us know she needs to be let out.

"She was fine until she heard you" says my wife, Julie. "But as soon as she heard you she started whining."

And as long as we've owned her, we haven't been able to cure her of barking like crazy when someone comes to the door. Being part basset hound, she has a deep, throaty bark that is comical coming from such a short dog. One warning bark would be fine, but she has to keep barking until the visitor comes in or goes away. Makes it kind of impossible to have any sort of conversation with a person standing on our porch.

And she sees herself as my protector.....from my wife.

Occasionally, Julie will misconstrue something I've said or done. For instance, I once said, "Woman, make me a sandwich. Now." For some reason, this was perceived as being negative by my wife and she resorted to her low tactic of tickling me (which should be outlawed by the Geneva Convention as cruel and unusual punishment, in my opinion). Fortunately, the dog is always there to protect me should I fall victim of such a misunderstanding, which happens more often than one would think. She will bark at Julie and try to force her way between us, all the while Julie will be saying, "Jasmine...No!" Of course, I will be saying, "Good dog, Jasmine! Good dog!"

Right now, Jasmine is watching me type this blog. There is a sandwich sitting in front of me. She is watching my hands intently. If they even move more than a fraction towards the sandwich, her tail starts to furiously wag. She is obviously confused as to why we are not eating the sandwich.

As soon as we do consume the sandwich, past experience dictates that she will move over to the door and start whining to be let out.

But when all is said and done, I guess I'd rather be "Potty Guy" rather than "Cleaning up the mess guy."

"The Angry Cowboy"

"Crank up the tunes, Dude!" a sweaty high school teen yelled at my friend, Darrell.

We were in a very small town and I was helping Darrell with a DJ gig he had landed. In return for free pizza, I would often help Darrell with his gigs. Since it is against my religion to turn down free pizza (or any food in general, for that matter) this was a frequent occurrence. 

The DJ gig was for the grand opening of a new deli/bar/teen hangout. One side of the building housed the bar, the side we were on was a room about 60 ft. x 30 ft. that was a small deli. To attract teens, the owner had brought in several ancient video games and a dilapidated jukebox. Thin walls separated the bar from the deli and a door connected the two establishments.

With 30 or so teens, the place was pretty crowded and the owner was ecstatic that we had attracted so much attention.

Darrell had thousands upon thousands of dollars of equipment. He would often run sound for outdoor graduations or large auditorium events with the same equipment we were using for this small grand opening. Huge speakers sat in each corner of the room. The table that we were at barely was large enough to hold his sixteen channel mixing board and other various equipment. When Darrell ran his first sound check, several picture frames fell off the wall.

As the evening progressed, the noise level steadily rose higher and higher as more and more teens arrived. Darrell kept adjusting the music level up as needed, and soon the place was rocking with picture frames occasionally crashing down from time to time. The owner didn't seem to mind.

It was then that a large cowboy opened the door and peeked in. Catching Darrell's attention, he made a motion to lower the volume of the music. I looked at Darrell and I swear I could see him growing little devil horns. Pretending that he "misunderstood" the cowboy's hand signals, he kept adjusting the volume louder and louder. The cowboy was now frantically waving his hands like he intended to attempt flight. Darrell just smiled, nodded and turned the volume up even more to the delight of the teens.

Frustrated that he wasn't being understood, the cowboy bellowed, "TURN THE MUSIC DOWN! YOU'RE KNOCKING PICTURES OFF THE WALLS IN HERE!"

Looking over at Darrell, I see that the horns have grown a little larger. 

"What?" Yells Darrell back to the cowboy. "You want me to turn it up? Sure thing!" and the volume increased. Have I mentioned that the cowboy was large?

Shaking his head "no", the cowboy yells back, "TURN IT DOWN, I SAID! NOT UP!"

"Up? O.K!", yells Darrell and makes another adjustment on the volume slide.

It is now that I start to get worried. The cowboy is clearly getting madder and madder. I can see the writing on the wall, and it doesn't look good. I should mention here that the cowboy was large.

"What are you doing?" I ask Darrell. "That is one angry, drunk cowboy you're messing with."

He gives me the "thumbs up" sign.

Thumbs up? Uh, oh. I remove my glasses in anticipation for the impending fisticuffs.

Then a very angry and drunk and large (Have I mentioned that he was large?) cowboy stomped over to the table.

Leaning over the table he yelled, "TURN THE MUSIC DOWN!"

The size of Darrell's horns have grown to about the size of a healthy ram. I am surprised that no one else has seemed to notice the horns.

"Oh" says Darrell faking surprise. He had a large smile on his face. "I thought you wanted the music turned up. My mistake."

 I would like to say that this is the end of the story. But, no. Darrell was now sporting horns that would rival some of the steers in Texas.

Throughout the night, the angry cowboy -- who was very large, I might add -- would be compelled to come in. Each time, Darrell would give him a huge smile and a "thumbs up" and turn the volume down...fractionally...until the cowboy exited the room.

Eventually, one of the teens came up to the table.

"You might want to keep it down. Bill is my uncle" he said indicating to the door in which the cowboy (large) had exited. "I can tell he is about to blow."

"What's his story, anyway?" asked Darrell. "Why is he so bent out of shape?"

I kind of thought I knew that answer to that one.

"He's mad because he is trying to hit on Cindy, but she's playing hard-to-get." I guess the teen assumed we knew who Cindy was.

I light bulb flashed on above Darrell's head. I begin limbering up my muscles. This couldn't end up good for us. 

At the conclusion of the next song Darrell grabbed his microphone and announced:

"Here is one going out to a lonely cowboy and cowgirl looking for love. Bill and Cindy, come on in and take center floor!" 

A cheer went out from the teens. A few moments later, the door cracks open and Bill peeks in. He points to himself as if to ask, "Who, me?"

"There he is" says Darrell. "Now where is the lovely Cindy?"

Bill cracked a huge smile at Darrell and rushed back into the other room. Several moments later he came back with a petite redhead in tow.

Right on cue, Darrell starts the music and the couple slow dance in the middle of the floor.

Silently, I put my glasses back on and wipe the sweat off of my forehead. I look over at Darrell and he gives me the "thumbs up".

After the gig, Bill and Darrell talk like they've been the best of friends for years. After they shake hands, Darrell went back to packing equipment and Bill and Cindy came out as I am loading the truck. 

I smile and waved, relieved that I didn't have to fight the cowboy (who was very large). 

Stopping, the cowboy looked over at me.

"You better watch yourself, son. The only reason I don't kick your butt is because you're friends with Darrell."

"Dude, Where's Your Coat?"

Once, while thumbing through some old National Geographic magazines, I came across a photo of Eskimos swimming. In and of itself, not a big deal. Lots of people swim. What made this photo unusual was that in the background, it was very clear that there was snow on the ground.

The article went on to explain that even though the temperature was only 40 degrees, that the Eskimos were so well acclimated to the cold that after a long winter of sub zero temperatures, 40 degrees was warm to them.

I'm pretty sure that if you look at my family tree, you'll find an Eskimo somewhere in my bloodline. I know that Hungarian Eskimos are rare, but I'm certain that I must be related to one, because I don't get cold.

This frustrates my poor wife to no end. She will carefully make the bed, only to have me come along and kick the blankets off because I'm too hot. Even in the dead of winter. 

I know I'm an oddity because the reactions I get from other people.

"Where's your coat? It's freezing out here!" a stranger will say.

"I'm not cold" I reply.

"Not cold? It's 25 degrees!" 

I once took my family ice fishing. The lake had about 8 inches of ice on it, so it was plenty safe for us to walk on pulling an ice chest and supplies on a sled behind us.

I had brought a coat along, but as we were loading the sled, it got uncomfortably warm. So I took it off...and left it off the entire time we were ice fishing. I got strange looks from my fellow ice fishers who were all bundled up in cold weather gear.

"Did you forget your coat?" one guy asked.

"Nope, it's right here" I said, pointing to the ice auger with my coat draped over it.

He walked back to his hole shaking his head. I couldn't help but notice that he had a portable propane heater directed at his chair.

I couldn't figure out why I was getting stares from people while I was shoveling the snow off of the sidewalk one day. My wife had to point out that not many people go out to shovel snow in a short-sleeved shirt, shorts, and slippers.

I used to take my Boy Scouts winter camping. We would spend hours carefully building shelters that were sturdy and warm. And then I would take a sleeping bag and camp out under a tree. 

I've always wondered why I don't get cold. One of my students was helpful in this matter. I had just mentioned to my class that I didn't get cold and I didn't know why.

"Mr. Sintay, I don't think Shamu the whale gets cold either."
 

"Heathens and Hugs"

"Dang it, Joe!" I yelled in frustration "Stop hugging me!"

Joe had gotten me, for the twentieth time, in a bear hug with his head snuggled on my shoulder. A blissful smile on his face as he lovingly squeezed me. For some reason that I can never fathom, this was uproariously funny to the rest of my college choir. I thought that the gag would get old, but instead it got funnier and funnier the more times Joe hugged me for some odd reason.

I scooted my chair over a foot or two away from Joe --- right into the waiting arms of Adam, who rests his head lovingly on my other shoulder as he gave me a bear hug from the other side. I'm trapped. Joe closes the distance and now I'm caught, unwillingly, in a three-person group hug. The rest of the heathens in choir find this hilariously funny instead of feeling my pain of having my personal bubble blatantly violated. To make matters even worse, from behind me, Seth reaches around my neck in a two-armed squeeze. After that, I became the unwilling participant of dozens of hugs every day. It was a brutal four years, and I believe I'm forever scarred from the memory.

I never have liked being touched. I just seem to have a larger personal space bubble than most people. My close friend, Darrell, caught on to this very early on in our friendship.

"Does ums' needs a hug?" he would say, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout, arms out in the universal sign of a hug. Oftentimes, this would be in front of a large group of friends, but he wasn't against trying it out on total strangers in a crowded elevator. As far as I can remember, this always generated a laugh. Heathens.

I love hugging my wife, but she cannot keep from tickling me whenever she hugs me. Whenever she tickles me and I voice my displeasure (she calls it squealing like a little girl) the only one that comes to my aid is the dog. In fact, only the dog seems to understand my pain. Everyone else seems to find amusement in my moments of pain.

Once, I was shopping at Wal-Mart with my wife. I had stepped around an aisle and was looking at something when a girl from the theater department came up behind me and gave me a big bear hug. I'm sure I had a sheepish look on my face when my wife came walking around the corner to see me getting mauled. In Ricky Ricardo's words, I "had some 'splaining to do".

The odd thing is that even strangers will hug me.  Why? What is it that makes people think that I would like nothing better than a hug? What's wrong with shaking hands? Perhaps a light punch to the shoulder?

I think Joe got me best in Ecuador when our college choir traveled there on tour. We were both sitting on a park bench talking about something when he reached around me to give me a hug, laying his head lovingly on my shoulder.

"Joe!" I yelled "knock it off!"

He released me from his bear hug and quickly jumped out of my reach as I went to smack him, him laughing the entire time.

An elderly lady found the whole thing amusing, her laughter rang out along with the handful of choir students who were watching. She hobbled over to the recently vacated spot on my bench and sat several feet away still chuckling. She took out some sewing material and contented herself with some project, occasionally chuckling.

I went back to reading a book and it was quiet for a couple of minutes. 

I looked up when I heard some stifled chuckling from the handful of choir students. They were all looking at something to my right. I looked to my right and saw the that elderly lady had scooted over right next to me. When she saw that I had discovered her, she wrapped an arm around my arm and started to stroke my beard with her other hand, and laid her head lovingly on my shoulder just like Joe had done.

Naturally, the heathens found this amusing.

Brownies

"Man, I'm sick of Jason eating all our food!" complained BJ, my college roommate. He was staring sadly at an empty pie plate that he had pulled out of the fridge. 

There was a total of six of us in the apartment. I shared a room with BJ. All the other roommates seemed to stay away from our food, but Jason was another story. He was eating us into the poor house.

"Yeah, but it does no good to confront him because he only denies that it was him. I wish there was some way to catch him at it." I reply.

"The problem is that we're both serious about school, so we're always in class. What is Jason taking, like 8 credits or something like that?" BJ asks. "He just waits until we're gone and then chows down."

I went to the fridge to grab some milk for a bowl of cereal.

"You got to be kidding me!" I yell, pulling out an empty milk jug. "This is getting ridiculous!"

We're both fuming.

"You know what we ought to do?" begins BJ "Naw, that's too cruel"

Jason stole my milk, so nothing was too cruel.

"What?" I asked "What are you thinking?"

He was smiling from ear to ear.

"Let's make Ex-Lax brownies!" 

"Oh, man!" I say "That's a great idea! We don't have to catch him at it. The proof will be him spending the day in the bathroom!"

We were broke college students, so it was a sacrifice to scrape together enough money for brownie mix and Ex-Lax, but we were both so fed up with Jason stealing our food that it was worth the sacrifice.

Returning from the store, we encountered a slight dilemma. Just how much Ex-Lax should be put in the brownies? If he stole only one brownie, one dosage wouldn't be enough. BJ solved the problem by dumping the entire package of Ex-Lax into the mix.

"Better safe than sorry" he said as he stirred in the ingredients. He had an evil grin on his face.

The smell of the brownies was intoxicating while they baked. The entire apartment was soon encompassed in the aroma of chocolatey goodness.

Almost on cue, Jason stumbled into the kitchen, his eyes blurry from sleep.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"It's the crack of noon" said BJ.

"Good morning sleepy head" I added.

Jason watched as BJ began cutting the brownies into squares and placing them on a plate.

"Can I have one?" he asked.

We had rehearsed this part. It was important that Jason knew that the brownies were not for him.

"Sorry. Dave and I made these especially for a "potluck" dinner we're attending tonight" BJ replied.

"We're going to let them cool as we go to class, then we'll pick them up for the dinner tonight" I said.

As we both left for class, BJ reminded Jason not to touch the brownies because they were for a special occasion. 

"Hey, I don't ever touch your guys' food. You can trust me." Jason said.

It was late into the evening when I finally got home. I had forgotten about the brownies and was more focused on getting some homework done. To get to my bedroom, I had to pass Jason's bedroom. BJ was standing at the door covering his mouth and trying not to laugh, his ear pressed up against the door.

"He..he... ate the.... WHOLE plate of.... brownies!" he gasped, trying not to laugh out loud. His face was red from keeping the laughter in.

On cue, Jason let out a groan from inside his room.

"Not again!" he wailed. Several seconds later the door opened and he came rushing out.
He was wild-eyed and clutching the back side of his pajamas.

"Move!" he yelled as he shot past us. The look on his face was sheer misery.

Stifling giggles, we ran to our room and shut the door. Once behind the door we could contain our laughter no more. We tried to laugh in silence, but that only made it worse.

I was laughing so hard that tears streamed down my face. I looked over at BJ and he was sprawled on his bed laughing so hard the entire bed was shaking.

It took us several minutes to recover enough to venture out into the living room where Jason was laying on the couch.

"You guys better not get too close, because whatever I got is BAD" he said.

I had a hard time keeping a straight face. 

"Not feeling too good?" I asked.

"I've never been so sick in my life" he replied.

All evening and into the night Jason made mad dashes to the bathroom. But in the morning he seemed to be doing better.

"You feeling better?" asked BJ.

"Yeah, Fred (one of our roommates) went and got me some Imodium." said Jason. "I had to drink half the bottle to get it to stop." he said.

BJ and I exchanged fearful looks. First a massive dose of Ex-Lax and a large dose of Imodium. That couldn't be good.

His body was probably screaming, "JUST WHAT IS IT THAT YOU WANT FROM ME?"

Alas, our fears were justified. While Jason was taking a shower, he fainted. We ended up taking him to the doctor. He was diagnosed with severe dehydration. Gee, I wonder how that could have happened?

On the way home, we came clean about the whole thing.

Jason, of course, denied eating the brownies, but miraculously our food was never touched after that.