Out of Kilter – By Ken Carpenter
From Sticky Fingers to Sticky Bun
May 8, 2006
Do you ever wake up in the morning with your brain feeling like clammy, day-old, unsalted, unsweetened and over cooked oatmeal, sprinkled with armpit hairs? Yeah, me too…about six of every seven days in the week.
This week is even worse than normal. The old gray matter absolutely refuses to kick in. It just lies there, belly up, sunning itself on the pitiful amount of light that shines in my earholes and reflects off the bleached-out bone of my poorly filled skull.
Well, I’ll just have to deal with it and try not to humiliate myself in the bargain.
When I was a young child, there was one thing that drove me nuts more than anything else. I could not stand to wander around with sticky fingers. Yes, I know it is odd, ninety-nine out of every hundred kids could dip their hands in honey and blissfully waltz around all day handling everything in their path.
Not me though, that would have been too normal. I would still eat the glutinous stuff with my hands, because after all, many of the tastiest things are resinous. Then, after my taste buds lost control of the situation, my quirky side kicked in to high gear. I would stand there, hands out to the side, fingers splayed open so that they could not magnify the dread by getting stuck to their gummy siblings.
And there I would stand, dripping mortification, until mom came to my rescue with a nice, warm washcloth. A napkin would not cut it, and there would be no half-baked wash job either. Every gluey bit on my hands and mouth had to die before I could resume my career as an un-adhesive oddball.
Sad to say, I never got over this particular affliction. My wife, caring soul that she is, keeps wet wipes in her purse at all times just in case I happen to latch onto an irresistible delight with a gelatinous coating. I don’t know what I’d do without her; stand alongside the road with my fingers spread open like a demented Hari Krishna, I guess.
Along the same lines, but a little further south, I once witnessed a scene that stuck in my memory like Elmer’s reinforced Juicy Fruit. My dad liked to hang around the house in his underwear, as dads often do, and one Saturday morning he sat a plate of syrup drenched pancakes that had mysteriously been placed in his chair. I can’t remember whose they were, but I can vividly remember him cursing as he waddled to the bathroom holding the plate against his Aunt Jemima encrusted behind.
While hilarious, I can only recall this episode with a hint of horror attached to it.
Since sticky fingers freak me out so much, I can only hazard a guess as to what sticky buns would do to my psyche.