Idiot Child-isms, part 2

At what point did our blue jeans go from being snap-fly to button-fly? Buttoning up this morning,* I realized that all my pants used to snap. None of my pants snap anymore and I was overcome with an immediate sense of loss.
I sat on the foot of my bed - half naked - listening to Simon & Garfunkel's "Scarborough Fair/ Canticle" over and over until my sadness passed.
About the fourth time through "parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme", I escaped my stupor realizing life was leaving me quick-as-a-blink. With a compulsion to capture its fleeting moments, I sat at my computer - button-fly pants secured around one leg - and wrote out another set of personal Idiot Child-isms. **

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I'm not sure how most parents potty-train their children. In my head, I always assumed it was like training a puppy not to poop on the furniture. If the puppy's crap went outside, the puppy got a milkbone. If crap happened on the carpet, the puppy got whacked in the face with the New York Times.
Is it going to be a problem if I train my kids using this same model?
According to both my mother and father, while I was learning to use "big-boy" urinals, I had to be held aloft in order to splash-down successfully into the urinal.
I'm not sure why my parents were training me on the urinal before the regular seated toilet, but they did.
That's like learning to foxtrot before being taught the box-step, if I may.
That's like flambaying a full duck before learning how to microwave Ramen noodles, if I may.
That's like bringing sexy back before ever being n'sync, if I may.
The cart before the horse; walking before crawling and so-on, if I may.
But okay, for whatever reason, mom and pop felt it would behoove me to learn the art of peeing in a urinal two feet above my waistline. The worst part, according to my adoring parents, is that it took me longer than the normal child average to figure out how to do this.
I'm clearing my first birthday, still being suspended mid-air, like some burlesque trapeze artist and I'm not even gettin' it! Peeing into the open chasm of porcelin was apparently something that escaped me until my fourteenth or fifteenth month; before that, the adjacent wall did just fine, thanks.
I deserved a whack with the New York Times.

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I was fascinated with goosebumps as a wee lad. I'm still somewhat fascinated with them. Why aren't we more interested in sudden rows of skin bumps appearing on our arms and legs and neck? We take goosebumps for granted, but as a kid, I did not.
I sat in my room for hours blowing on my feet or bellybutton trying to create chills - trying to get a glance at 'dem bumps. I would throw ice cubes down my own back, or tickle myself with my mom's feather duster only to stare intently at any part of my body with goosebumps on it.
Was it the hair raising off of my arms? Was it the nerves pushing through parts of my skin? What could I do to actually appear like a goose all the time?
And most importantly, if we humans are related to monkeys, does this bump phenomena mean that we humans are related to geese as well?
Wierd, huh?

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I hate eating liver.
If any of you out there are ever in a position to make me a nice dinner in hopes of wooing my favor, do yourself a favor and hold off on the liver, because I will most likely throw the meat up in the air and swing at it baseball-style with my knife.
Either that, or I'll throw it into a nearby cabinet.
When I was six, my mom insisted on making liver everyday of my life.*** Most of the time I was given a respite as long as I "tried a little bit of it." I never understood the philosophy behind this. I was quite aware the heinousness set in front of me was liver and that I was not fond of it's taste.
Trying it would not be a sensible solution to my problem.
And whereas, most dinners I just eeked the mea down my gullet, every once in a while I was a desperate little boy and sought a different route. I was very good at putting food in my mouth, chewing, and politely wiping any spare morsels away with my napkin. It should be noted that when discussing liver, anything already in my mouth was considered a morsel and I'd play the ol' bait 'n' switch with my parents.
I can't tel lyou how many liver dinners ended with a full napkin.
Eventually, I'd excuse myself from the table to go to the bathroom, taking the napkin with me. After a nice flush, my problem was nye.
But there was one dinner where there was simply too much liver to flush into the fiery depths of hell. It would never flush.
I had to go to plan B, even though I hadn't yet formulated a plan B.
And that's the problem with my younger self; I was excellent with plan A, but I never gave a second plan any thought.
It was winter, and dad had installed storm windows so, I couldn't gingerly toss the poison-filled napkin out the window. We had a nearby fish tank, but I loved those fish and the liver would certainly cause them a horrendous death.
We had cabinets. Lots of cabinets and I never really knew what was in any of them, which meant that I assumed a napkin full of meat would go completely unnoticed...

...When I die, I'd like to believe that we get one hour to watch instant replays of various portions of our lives. The look on my parents' face when they found a rotting wad of half-chewed liver buried with their fancy place settings a week after liver was last served, is something I will certainly want to replay up in Heaven.

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I don't know how to ease into this one, so I'm just gonna come out and say it.
I'm just gonna spit it out because I'm a secure dude. I am a rock.
I am an island.

When I was a little kid, I really got a kick out of lip-syncing to old pop and soul songs from the 60s. But not just any of them, the ones I liked the best were the early Aretha Franklin songs and the Phil Spector girl groups.
No one wanted you to "Be My Baby" more than me. No one recounted "Then He Kissed Me" more than I did when I was seven and no one was more excited about "My Boyfriend [Coming] Back" than I was.
The songs were so dramatic back then.

He went away and you came around / And bothered me every night.
And when I wouldn't go out with you / You said things that weren't very nice.

Oh boy! That's dangerous. You don't mess with some other dude's chick. Even a seven-year-old knows that.

You've been spreading lies that I was untrue / Hey-la, hey-la, my boyfriend's back!
Well lookout now 'cause he's comin' after you / Hey-la, hey-la, my boyfriend's back!

Every once in a while I'd pretend to be some version of Kinicki from "Grease" standing in the corner combing my duck-tail haircut happy that my girl was smart enough not to double-cross me. Other times I pretended to be the jerk pushin' in on Kinicki's girl. I'd create some spastic character who should never have even attempted to push up on some other dude's dame.

You're gonna be sorry you were ever born / Hey-la, hey-la, my boyfriend's back!
'Cause he's kinda big and he's awful strong / Hey-la, hey-la, my boyfriend's back!

Most of the time I didn't pretend to be the guys in these pop songs, I was always the singer and the singer was always a girl. I always sashayed around all sassy like the singers in those songs seemed to be. And it always took on the same format, I'd pop a tape in the player, press play, find my hairbrush and sing into it while swinging my hips from side to side like a metranome.
I don't know if my father was aware of this behavior. If he wasn't, I'm glad about it. It was really unmanly.
I can see why my mom thought I was gay for a while.

I blame my toilet training.

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* Alright you got me, I slept in. It was this afternoon.

** For the first set, click on this blog's category link to find the prequel, entitled "Idiot Child-isms, pt.1"

*** Maybe not everyday of my life, but certainly once or twice a month, which was still just too much liver