Danny

Once every ten months or so, we undergo a major condo reorganization project. Maybe, the reasoning goes, if we just use our space more efficiently, if we just rearrange this furniture, buy this shelf, we’ll feel like we have more room than we do. The planning phases of these projects all end in the same way: a trip to Ikea for organizational supplies.

Our latest endeavor, Project Kitchen Cabinets, brought us to a new place: The Container Store. Armed with schematic drawings and measurements, we were on a mission. Our mission: eradicate free-wheeling, pot-lid ridden, it’s-always-in-the-back cabinet conditions that often led to Angry Megan stomping around the kitchen and cursing.

I knew exactly what I was looking for: those platforms on wheely tracks that are installed on the bottom of a cabinet shelf. Charles didn’t know what I was talking about; so, naturally, he thought they didn’t exist. But, he decided to humor me and look for them in The Container Store. I believe the reasoning was that once I discovered that the magical organization tool was all in my head, we would be able to find something to meet our needs in this mecca of all things organization.

Only they did exist. Once we walked in the store, it wasn’t too long before someone asked if they could help us. I explained what we were looking for and we were directed to an entire aisle in the store full of nothing but the sliding cabinet organizers. To my credit, I didn’t gloat much beyond the indignant exclamation of, “I told you!”

We started in on deciding which of the options before us to buy. And then. Then. We spotted it. A shiny chrome organizer to hold nothing more or less than all of your pot lids, in ascending size order. The curves of this organizer gleamed under the fluorescent lights of the store. When we pulled on the front, it rolled smoothly and stealthily on its tracks. It was a thing of beauty. There were not two ways about it. I was in love.

Then, on the other side of the aisle, Charles found an alternative to the chrome organizer called the Lid Maid. This plastic system for organizing lids was narrower, so would possibly be more versatile in its cabinet placement. The big advantage, which appealed greatly to Charles’s man-logic, was the fact that it was about one third the price of the beautiful chrome organizer. But, it was made of dirty-white plastic. When you pulled on it, it moved haltingly and squeaked. Charles was pushing the Lid Maid option in its cheap plastic glory.

Was he kidding?

It was during this argument (“Function over form, Megan!” “But it squeaks!”) that Danny found us. Danny, the Container Store employee who may have been better served skipping over us in favor of customers with a little less baggage. Instead, he heard the distress call of a stalemate between mates.

“Can I help you two with anything?”

Could anyone help us?

With the last flicker of hope we had for our lives together, and a happy medium in the kitchen, we explained what we were trying to do.

Danny, in turn, listened to both sides of our lid organizer argument. “That certainly is the more economical option,” he agreed with Charles. “It should hold just as many lids, and it takes up almost no space.”

Then he found my side, “You know, you’re right. It does squeak. I guess that could be a little like fingernails down a chalkboard.”

In a flash of inspiration, Danny brought us to the aisle full of racks. Perhaps a compromise could be met? We could mount a rack on the wall to hold our lids. After all, how many lids could we have? Sweet, naïve Danny. If only he knew that we mysteriously have more lids than pots.

We debated the merits of these lid-storage alternatives, only to find we were firmly rooted in one of those first two alternatives: the Lid Maid, or the right choice.

Finally, Danny, our dear friend, stood by with a bemused smile as he witnessed our back and forth. After a well-placed argument on my part, “Who, exactly, spends more time cooking in the kitchen?” we arrived (begrudgingly, for one of us) at an agreement. We were taking home the gleaming chrome. (Megan: 1, Lid Maid: 0)

Danny breathed a sigh of relief as the lid organizer went into the cart, and we turned our attention to the remaining sliding organizers to fill out the cabinets. Why did I feel that we owed Danny a drink?

When in the throes of shopping that affects both of us, both Charles and I can each get very passionate and very attached to our own ideas. We honestly consider each other’s point of view, and we come to the same conclusion: our own idea is better than the other guy’s. Unless a magical compromise option comes into play, we can go back and forth on what each one of us is convinced is the only real option. Danny helped us focus, gave legitimacy to both our arguments, and kept things light and friendly.

He had been through the wringer with us, and had somehow managed to garner peace.

Here’s to you, Danny!

My imaginary son Scooter.

Few things can delight, inspire, agitate and confound all at once quite like a trip to the land of Hypothetical. Everyone's had that conversation around the water-cooler at work about what they'd do if they won the big lottery jackpot. The truly prepared among us have even cemented their zombie-apocalypse survival scenarios. The surreal joy comes when you find yourself in a horns-locking beast-battle of an argument with somebody over a scenario unlikely ever to unfold.

Megan and I tend to spend our Sunday afternoons or evenings huddled up in some cozy booth somewhere being catered to by a helpful wait-staff. This weekly ritual has become our time to let go and relax, catch up on the escapades that we each encountered on our respective weekends off (having an off-hours schedule for me means we sort of have our own weekends), share any interesting things we've read in the week before as well as strategize on the week ahead. The topic came around to a favorite rant for us; children at restaurants.

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, we're completely fine with kids of any age at a restaurant, that is, so long as they are seen and not heard. Nothing quite ruins a relaxing and expensive meal like hearing a toddler shrieking across the room as if it were a South American Howler Monkey being tortured by a logger. The topic started off this time thanks to a heated debate that went on the prior week on a blog we both follow. The blog, Etiquette Bitch, is a younger, hipper Miss Manners and it amazed me that when the author merely suggested that adults tend to their screaming children in public, she received some rather heated exchanges from some parents out there. How is it scandalous to expect parents to actually parent? We both pondered this as we set about scanning Fuddrucker's to see a number of families all with well-behaved kids. Parenting did seem possible without the drama.

It was on the way home we got to take our stroll down Hypothetical Lane.

"Megan, you'll love this. You know that family of four that came in before us?" I asked as I weaved my way through traffic towards the highway on-ramp.

"Yeah, what about them?"

"Well I was in the restroom stall next to them when I heard the dad and son come in. While the dad was using the urinal his kid was just jabbering at him and I heard the kid inform his dad that the woman's restroom had chairs and a couch and a fireplace!"

"Wow, they must have really remodeled since I last used it," she told me.

It was here I felt justified in explaining why I'd be a poor father and should never be allowed to procreate.

"Thank god we aren't having kids, because our kid would be either the most agile-minded or warped thing around. If that were my kid I'd have told him there were also gingerbread cookies in the woman's bathroom and a magical elf."

She was quick to note that this would neither make our child smart or warped it would just make the kid never trust daddy. I reflected on the victory this would be for me since Scooter (at this point I felt the kid deserved a name and why not one that would guarantee him a beating in school to give him character and harden him up) wouldn't come to me for help with homework. She took that in stride, but I couldn't help pondering further and worrying about Scooter's education.

"Of course, if you taught him, he wouldn't ever learn any history."

"I know history, you bastard!" she shot back.

A quick query on name of the 16th U.S. president vindicated my thoughts that this wasn't true, though she stuck by her guns that after I revealed the name she KNEW who the hell Lincoln was, thank me very much. Fortunately her good sense reigned in the novelty of the conversation-which-bordered-on-argument.

She asked, "Um, are we fighting over how we're going to raise our ridiculously named imaginary child we're never going to have?"

"I don't know," I countered. "Let's just agree hypothetically to never have kids."

"It's a deal."

A mix to build a dream on...

It's been said that music soothes the savage beast. In the cartoons or old movies the hero would play a lullaby to put the beast or monster to sleep. To me the original saying is right, but the meaning to it is that the beast becomes more deadly.

This year has been an emotional roller-coaster of jubilant joys and flummoxing financial failings. The fertile spring brought our friends and families numerous newborns. The summer brought vacation travel and rounds of lay-offs at not only my company, but also Megan's. We tried to accomplish a simple rate-reduction modification with our mortgage company and got a 4 month jerk-along with a final offer of over $10,000 just to save us a lousy percent on our note. Then came a debilitating $6,000 assessment from our Condo Association so that our roof doesn't collapse in on us. All in all the year has flown by us in a whirlwind of emotional speed.

In the midst of all this mayhem, come birthdays. Megan's birthday for the last few years has been a month-long gala celebration for me. It's a time when I gift her randomly on days leading up to her birthday with little gifts here and there, culminating in one usually really good present on the actual day thereof. In addition, I usually take the lady to a nice meal at a favorite restaurant, something on par with or even at The Melting Pot. This year, in the hub-bub of our vacation, I fell down on my duty. We went out for a nice meal at one point and I got her a gifty here and there, but it wasn't the concerted effort I can usually offer at that, most auspicious, time of year.

Given this, in the lead-up to my birthday when Megan would ask I'd just say "I don't need anything, really, don't worry about it especially since I failed you on your birthday." Much like when I wax poetic about a zombie movie, she didn't listen. The day rolls around and she made the famed Oreo Ice Cream cake (a home-made ice cream cake to which I finally did say "oooh if you HAVE to do something I'll take one of those") and hands me a present.

"What's this?"
"I told you I got you a little something."
"Yeah, you mentioned something about that but I told you really not to worry about it since I screwed up with your birthday this year."

While she assured me she was happy with her birthday and I plotted mentally to make up for it at Christmas, I opened the gift to find a set of mix cd's inside. I had been driving around with the same dozen cd's in my car for about a year and the salvation to this mind-numbing rut had just been delivered with a bow on it! The three discs were broken up into 2 categories. 2 of the discs were just mixes of cool songs she knew I liked and the final disk was primarily love songs and smooth songs.

The coolness of her thoughtful gift truly hit me the next week on my commute to work. As a background, for me, every time I leave our condo it's like entering one of Dante's previously unchronicled levels of hell. The absolute crush of humanity I encounter daily in a city as big as Chicago tends to unnerve me on a primal level. Whether it's dodging cyclists on the sidewalk or the street, dodging motorists on the sidewalk or the street, or wading through the masses at the deli counter at the store, I'm always some shade of edgy living here. My commute typically feels like a frenzied battle for dominance. So when I hit the road this Monday to the smooth stylings of Van Morrison, Louis Armstrong and Nina Simone, how could I have imagined the transformation my commute would become? Usually my stabs at traffic were the wild chops of a malarial-fevered Congo guide; frenzied, impatient, and borderline insane. That day with the pleas of One More Moondance and just a Simple Kiss to Build a Dream on, my traffic foray became the calm strokes of a top-notch board-certified surgeon; relaxed, precise and efficient.

Megan has given me a melodic center on which to cling. The beast is soothed on his daily travels. Though soothed, this beast does not sleep, he's merely more focused so beware A-holes that try to merge from the breakdown lane 2 miles after the signs warn you, I'm still not letting you over, I'll just do so with a relaxed smile on my face.

Puppy Hydration

One of our strengths, and also one continual topic of conversation for us is the division of labor for household chores. If I walk the dog in the morning, Charles walks the dog at night. If I’ve done dishes the last few times, Charles pitches in with a load or two. However, our finely tuned system is never impervious to renegotiation. Both of us are overly concerned with fairness, a concept that poses an ever-moving target. Each of us, it would seem, has the better end of the deal, according to the other's judgement. And each of us has the worst end of the deal, according to our own.

Consider the distribution of food and water for our dog’s needs. Poor Roxy has been at the center of many a disagreement, with regards to who has to feed or water her. Charles contends that, were it not for him, our dog would die of thirst. This isn’t true. When Charles is out of town, Roxy never wants for water. But the way I look at it, when Charles is so good at giving her water on a daily basis, who am I to interrupt a perfectly good routine?

This arrangement was not born out of mutual agreement, a fact that became quite apparent when years of resentment came to fruition. Charles’s complaint: How come we split the feeding duties, when Charles was the only one providing water?

Here is the true sign of my growth as part of a couple, as a wife, as a human being. I heard Charles’s argument on this point, and I agreed with him. Clearly, the system was only working for one of us. I certainly had no complaints. But, to make it work for both, I proposed an alternate plan. How about one of us feeds the dog and one of us takes care of her water? Done. So now, the hydration of little Roxy Puppyton lies solely in my capable hands. And you know what? She hasn’t gone thirsty yet.

Even if Charles has to remind me every now and again.

Chocolate Tacos

Everybody's had an embarrassing moment at the supermarket. Movies and TV shows have shown us countless examples of the unfortunate soul whose condom or hygiene purchase gets shouted out over the intercom for a price check. The best ones are the ones you see that are less obvious, but all the more fun. Even more challenging is how to deal with them when they involve you.

My own first questionable grocery visit was years ago the day before my first date night in my house since I'd broken up with my long-time ex girlfriend. I had promised to make my guest dinner. My cooking skills meant that dinner was going to be either a spaghetti dinner, a Mac N Cheese from the box dinner (and I'm talking the powder cheese Kraft stuff, accept no substitutions), or Lucky Charms dinner. Given that the object of dating is to pretend to your quarry that you are, in fact, worthy of snogging, coming off as an adult in this endeavor was key, so spaghetti it was!

Fresh bread for the garlic bread was placed in the cart. Spaghetti noodles and a jar of sauce were next carefully selected. I even snagged a can of minestrone, whose picture made it look positively gourmet, to heat up and pretend was hand-crafted. Though not a real fan of alcohol myself, I know folks often enjoy a glass of wine with dinner so I snagged what I guessed was something people would drink. Then, in a moment of sheer hope, I chucked a box of condoms in the cart. It was only on the way up to check-out that I saw the awesome deal on the drain cleaner and remembered that cleaning up the house might also be warranted.

It was the last purchase that really completed the morbid image.
*beep**beep* fresh bread
*beep**beep* Spaghetti and sauce
*beep**beep* minestrone
*beep**beep* wine
*beep**beep* condoms
*beep**beep* Draino
What kind of bizarre Faulkner short story had I just become here? The checker didn't seem to notice anything more than the pressing need to see my ID. Wouldn't the combination of items make asking for my asylum release papers more in order?

In that instance I just gave my ID and felt silly. More recently I've taken a different tack and just laugh it off myself. Megan introduced to my limited diet the awesomeness of uber-greasy, chicken-and-cheese-only-thank-you, quesadillas. Our weekly grocery visit usually includes a stop at the Jewel-Osco (your standard American supermarket) for standard groceries and a second visit to a smaller ethnic produce market for our green goods. By "our green goods" I of course mean Megan's green goods. Since the store catered in large part to the Latin American members of our neighborhood I figured this would be the best place for the tortillas. At the check-out a small voice by the name of Hershey beckoned me to add a chocolate bar to the purchase. After the pleasant young Latino lady rang up my wife's more sensible purchase-cornicopia of produce she rang up my two items: tortillas and a Hershey bar.

"I'm making Chocolate Tacos," I informed the lady.

We all laughed, but a few weeks later I found myself buying tortillas again and again the damn Hershey bar at the check-out got me. This time it was the checker's turn to ask.

"More chocolate tacos, huh?"

It probably ought to bother me that at that store I'm now known as the gringo who makes chocolate tacos, but the more I think about it, the more I wonder how they'd taste.

When Always ain't Always good.

Always seems such a simple word. Forever, constant, continual: these are the meanings most of us consider. In a relationship what's more comforting or romantic than Whitney's "Iiiiiiiiiiii will always loooooove youuuuu?" Take a moment to consider some other meanings of the word: never-ending, ceaseless, feminine hygeine products. The danger of always nearly caught me this weekend and I don't mean an embarrassing trip to Walgreens for my wife.

Always catches us off-guard. The day will be bright with the tranquil twitter-chirp of birds lingering on the afternoon breeze. We'll be having a good time throwing some good-natured barbs at each other about one foible or other. Then suddenly one of us will do it.

"Well, I'd be more inclined to fill up the tank if you didn't always have the car on your days off."

A crackle of thunder pierces the air, a once-twittering bird flops mid twitter-chirp dead upon the ground nearby.

"What do you mean, Always? I spent all week cooped up here so you could have the stinkin' car and you still left me whiffin' fumes to make it to the 'burbs for gas this week."

Always brings the storm from there, a maelstrom of vitriol and hatred carries us away for the next however many hours. In the end, we're spent, a day is lost and there's a dead bird out there somewhere. Sorry, Tweety.

This Sunday I averted a misadventure of the Always kind. Because of my screwball work schedule, Sunday is our Date-night, Shopping day, Hang with Friends day, Relax together day, and Dinner-out night all in one. Due to our various self-inflicted dietary restrictions (Megan, a Vegetarian and me a Pickytarian), dinner-out choices for Sunday usually go something like this:

"What do you want for dinner, Megan?"

"I don't know, what do you want?"

"How about Melvin's House of Meat?"

"How about Tong's Temple of Southeast Asian Food that involves no Meat?"

Sometimes, however, one of us will toss out the other's favorite, or one of the few compromise places we both enjoy. Megan started off the game with that play.

"How about Cheesecake Factory?"

I don't know why, but I have a mental block against the Cheesecake Factory. I enjoy a number of dishes there. They have gratis bread (60% of my reason for liking a restaurant, by the way). They even are a place we both enjoy. For some reason I always do want to say no thanks. This week, however, always did not win. I stopped myself, considered the free bread, and went with my lady to a nice meal out that we both enjoyed. I wish everyone their level best to avoid the always trap too. After all, always left Whitney Houston a domestically abused crack-whore to Bobby Brown.

Movie Night

Last night was Movie Night.

The movie in question was “Julie and Julia,” the new movie with Meryl Streep playing Julia Child and Amy Adams her willing disciple. I thought I would come out of the movie hungry. Instead I came out feeling uplifted, optimistic, and in dire need of a certain cookbook. This movie is more than one about food and where it takes us; it’s a movie about marriage: the good and the bad. But mostly the good.

We learn through both Julie and Julia the importance and joy of having someone in our lives to support and encourage us. Both real-life women had husbands that opened their wives’ eyes to new ideas that led to new dreams. Both real-life husbands were there to cheer on their wives, indulge their passion, and sing their praises. In turn, both women had to understand when to put their husbands first and consider their lives together. This story is one that shows all that marriage is and all that it can be.

I am reminded of a trip I took a few years ago, when Charles and I were engaged. I stayed with a couple friend of ours at one of their parents’ home. The mom is a professional quilter—something that I envy and aspire to be. We all went on a tour of her studio: my friends, the mom and her husband, and me. As we walked around her drool-worthy studio in the ground floor of their beautiful home, her husband interjected with anecdotes about the time they acquired the mondo spool of invisible thread, or on which trip abroad they had found a certain piece of fabric. “Did you see this?” or “Let me show you something,” he would say, leading me away to see an annex for batting, or a cabinet for nothing but family heirloom quilts.

Along the way, I saw the tiny corner of an office he inhabited. “You can see who gets the priority around here!” he said. “But, how much space do I really need? This way, we can work on our own things, but still yell across at each other.” I looked at this adorable man and saw all the love he had for his wife written on his face, the delight he took in her career/hobby and her aspirations plain as day shining through his eyes.

All I could think of was my Charles. My Charles, who’s made my dreams his dreams, found new ways for me to follow them, championed my successes, and supported me if I failed. I have pursued different dreams in our time together, and he got behind each and every one of them with the same zeal. I looked at this friend’s dad and saw my future with Charles. And it looked good.

It still looks good.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to someone about a certain cookbook.

Grocery Night

In the dark recesses of our past lies a time of deprivation, confusion, and fear. A time when days and weeks of indecision led to despicable acts the like of which no one should have to witness. These horrors we have known were born from a single fact:

We were grocery-store poor.

Pretty soon after moving into our third-story condo we realized that parking near our new home was nearly impossible. It involved circling for ages before settling on a spot a half-mile from home. Rather than carry our bags back and forth that far, we tried idling in the alley and carrying the groceries up the back stairs.

In the process, we blocked a parking space for our building. Of course, the neighbor who needed the space came home while we were unloading our groceries. Rather than ask us to move so she could get in, she called the police and reported us. For the only time in known history, the police responded right away and issued a ticket.

The ordeal of unloading groceries under the watchful eyes of our neighbors kept us from the store. Weeks would pass by without nary a mention of the grocery store. The time in between trips stretched out like a food dessert. Toward the end of our sentence, food became scarce; take-out became the norm.

Until a thought dawned upon us. What if we made our grocery shopping night a weekly affair? We’d buy less food, increasing our likelihood of carrying it home in one trip. We’d spend less time there, decreasing our crankiness. The trip to the grocery store wouldn’t take up the entire night. And I’d always have a supply of fresh produce!

The first week of shopping this way was so blessed, it was as if our entrance in the store was heralded by angel song. We haven’t looked back since. Now, barring death, sickness, or out-of-townedness, every week has a grocery night—a night to start fresh, to wander the aisles and dream of meals to come. We travel the aisles together, free from the pressure of once-monthly shopping.

As old and married as it sounds, we look forward to grocery night. It’s an activity we do together; it builds camaraderie. He’s there for me when the Jewel is, once again, out of baby portabellas. I commiserate with him over the long line at the deli. Even though we are hunting and gathering different foods, we are a team.

The Ballad of Dirty-Sock Frito

Gather round, to hear the tale

Of a smelly black doggie with a fuzzy black tail

All through the day, and through the night

She whines and fusses and causes a sight

When she freaks she does exude

A smelly unseen cloud of noxious “ewwww”

That when my delicate nostrils meet

Smells like Fritos stored near a dirty bum’s feet

To this day I do not know

Why she whines and carries on so

On hearing other doggies speech

That from the alley-side does breach.

Pythagoras in the Bedroom

Everyone knows that sharing a bed with someone is a simple matter of geometry.

Everyone, that is, except for my husband.

When I sleep, I lie with my head at the headboard and my feet at the footboard. If you were to draw a straight line through the two, that line would be perpendicular to the headboard and footboard. This doesn’t mean that I sleep like I’m a board; my knees crook, my arms extend from my body, and I relax. But, in general, the line of my body forms right angles with the headboard and footboard.

When Charles has full reign of the bed, however, he does not observe this tendency toward geometric simplicity. The line of his body becomes a diagonal, forming angles with the headboard that are NOT right. (If something’s not right, that means it’s wrong.) Not only is he not in line perpendicularly, but his arms splay out in all directions so that somehow, this one man inhabits all of the space in our king-sized bed.

This approach does not alter when we share the bed. My line is perpendicular; his is not. This means that our lines intersect, usually somewhere around the legs. Intersecting lines may look all sexy on a graph, but in practice, create complications in bed. Limbs have to accommodate other limbs, certain bony knees dig into unsuspecting thighs. A long-range plan of comfort and relaxation depends on the two sleepers being parallel lines. As stated in one of those geometric theorems from long ago, parallel lines do NOT intersect.

They can however, run alongside one another, on and on, forever. Parallel lines have staying power. And spooning power. Spoons nestle into each other; they don’t intersect. So, to spoon successfully, you have to remember not to intersect; otherwise, you’re just forks.

A Place to Put an Elbow

Relationships own silverware. There you find the fine china. A one night stand doesn't net you a set of fine spoons and forks like a relationship that's culminated in a wedding. A one night stand or occasional sex buddy may get you a fork now and then, but the spoons, they only come with someone more intimate. With the right relationship you get a whole plethora of implements useful for any situation. You can whip out the carving knife for a deadly assault or smooth something over with the pleasant panacea poised on your butter knife. You can even fork 'til you spoon. All the things you need are found in the kitchen drawers that come with a right proper relationship. It's with this in mind that I consider the endless battleground that is my bedtime.

If you've ever spent an hour on hold to an 800 number waiting to get an answer to a problem from a guy in India and wondered, "who does this guy call for help?" then wonder no more, it's me. Because of this, 3 days a week I stay up all night to babysit some servers, run a few backups, and solve problems for a bunch of very nice folks in Hyderabad. By and large, it's not a bad gig. The problem of such a gig, however, is the overwhelming monopoly it gives my wife on bedtime resources.

For 3 days my wife gets to engage in conquest the likes of which ancient gods would appreciate. The world of our king size bed becomes a surface unto which the might of MEGAN shall conquer. Pillows fall beneath her might. Entire comforters have become pulled into the war machine that are her arms. The frame itself has sometimes moved, seemingly in terror at her might. Then on the 4th day, I arrive.

My presence disturbs her Mitty-esque adventure. Instead of a pillow and cover devouring goddess, my wife finds herself a mere mortal in a tug-of-war for space. We bring ourselves back to the mundane world where you try to figure out if you should fork or spoon and how the heck do you spoon with this spare arm in the way? Apparently my back is a good place to store an elbow.

I miss Scrabble.

There are a lot of folks out there doing a lot of important things. Doctor friends go to work saving lives every day. Scientist friends go to work to discover new things to make our lives better (unless they're one of those "green scientists" in which case they work on new ways to make our lives worse: I'm talkin' to you low-flow toilet and twisty lightbulb people). Lawyer friends go to work for an hour and a half each day to remind us that, yes, we too could have been rich beyond merit if we'd abdicated our soul in college in favor of law school. The rest of us cling to those things we do that, if not important, at least make us happy. For me, that happiness comes in the form of a well played game.

I grew up in a forest raised by manbearpigs. As such, without a daddy figure to lead me, I never quite grew into the role of a Chess master. This and this alone is the only thing that keeps me from being one of those jedi-master heroes that pop up in the occasional Hollywood movie. You know the one. He's the wizened genius, pulling off the ultimate smooth operator persona and gaming the system. The chess master runs a ring of super-thieves in some David Mamet-like screenplay with bad dialogue and fun but hole-filled plot. If only I'd learned chess, the world could have been mine in similar style. Instead, I've thrown my certified genius (thank you Acme University) in on the complex game of Scrabble.

That's right, Scrabble has nuances. This isn't just some game for word-wonks filled with the holy spirit of the Oxford English Dictionary. Much like Chess, this sucker can be used to eviscerate your enemy. You can trip up, box in, and stump your prey from even making a move. Scrabble, in the hands of the right intellect, becomes a game of chance, knowledge, and cunning. No, I daresay Scrabble becomes the scepter of a mighty latter-day demi-god!

The moral of the story, if you love playing Scrabble, don't make your wife cry by beating the tar out of her.

Marriage Mind Meld

The Mind Meld is a cognitive condition that affects more than just married couples. The root cause of this condition is significant amounts of time spent in close proximity with someone else. Symptoms include, but are not limited to the ability to complete each others’ sentences, near superpower abilities when playing Pictionary, or picking up the phone only to find the other person is calling you at the exact moment you intended to call him or her.

The Mind Meld can seem like a superhuman power. From a close connection with someone else grows an enhanced understanding of another person, his or her life experiences, and how that person thinks. A short-handed communication is born. Complete sentences aren’t always necessary to convey a point. Sometimes you don’t even need words.

What science has not yet proven about the Mind Meld is whether two people in the Meld just really understand the way the other one thinks, or whether they grow to think similarly to one another over time. Perhaps it’s both.

I have experienced such a condition with roommates. In a game of Taboo, my college roommate was able to elicit the response, “a rainbow!” from me by saying, “something you have never seen…” As one of the other players in this game pointed out, this clue could refer to any number of things I hadn’t seen, such as lions mating in the wild or Bono in concert. But I knew it was a rainbow because of the Mind Meld.

Charles and I have been Melded for years now, long before the wedding took place. When we team up for a game of Cranium, we are virtually unstoppable, unless in the presence of other strongly Mind-Melded couples. I know which grunt means he’s not satisfied with the answer to a question he received, and he knows when my sighs mean something more than just a sigh. Sometimes our very silence speaks volumes.

As wonderful a gift as the Mind Meld can be, it can go awry. Take yesterday, for example. Charles and I have been planning to attend the Irish American Heritage Festival ever since we learned that Eileen Ivers would be giving a concert there. However, we didn’t buy the tickets immediately. It was understood by both of us that we would cross that bridge after our trip to St. Louis at the end of June.

We’ve been back from our trip for a little over a week now, falling back into our daily routines. Yesterday, we decided to take action about the tickets. The deadline was coming up, after which ticket prices would double. I placed the order online while Charles was napping at home, deciding I should act on it while I was thinking about it. Charles placed the order after he woke up, after shooting an IM message that I didn’t immediately see. When I turned around and saw his message, I snatched up the phone to stop the inevitable disaster. He answered just as he hit the sent button to make the purchase.

The moral of our story is this: if you or anyone you know would like to attend the Irish American Heritage Festival this weekend, please let us know! We have tickets!

They will SUCK your BLOOD!

When it comes to matters of medical hokum pokum, I am what they call in the scientific community a Woosicus Rex. I cannot handle needles or any other form of invasion by a medical professional. My body has developed a handy response to such stresses to my body and psyche; the blood rushes from my head and I faint. I learned later in my life that this response is called Vasovagal Syncope—the very same physiological response that prompted our former president to faint after choking on a chunk of pretzel. (All things considered, I don’t think death by pretzel is a terrible way to go.)

I fainted for the first time in the fourth grade, when we were learning how bruises formed in Health class. In the fifth grade, during a D.A.R.E. class with our local police officer, Vasovagal Syncope struck again as we learned how some drug addicts shot up heroine underneath their fingernails and toenails to avoid detection. Needless to say, I never contemplated a life as a heroine addict. The class had its desired effect. During high school, I fainted at the ophthalmologist’s office when he stuck his fingers in my eyeballs to put in a fresh pair of contacts.

For years, with varying degrees of success, I have been trying to explain this to members of the medical community when they try to inject some ‘helpful’ chemical or antibody, or even worse, extract some of my blood for their nefarious purposes. The last time I had a blood test was enough for me to swear off needles for good. My veins eluded the nurse’s attempts to find them. She had me squeezing a ball, and she poked my right arm twice and my left arm once before finding a vein to give her blood. I made her take a break to let me slow down the hyperventilating.

Today, I had to return to the scene of the crime for another blood test. Needless to say, memories of my last bloodsucking experience haunted me all the way to the office. But, today, unlike that morning a couple years ago, I was armed with something that made all the difference: my husband.

Sure, this time I had a nurse much more adept at extracting my blood. Sure, I was more hydrated and my veins more visible. But, the lynch pin to help me through the troubling ordeal was my Charles, holding my hand and distracting me with talk of Diet Pepsi. It may not seem like much to anyone who can donate blood, but to me it meant all the difference to have him there distracting me and supporting me.

Am I strong enough to get through things like this on my own? Sure. Would I have made it without him today? Yes. But, it would have been much, much harder. Sharing your life with someone doesn’t make you weaker because you have someone to depend on in situations such as these. It makes both of you stronger, because support from someone you love makes it easier to buck up, face the music, and do what you must do.

Death in a saucebowl.

My ladylove and I have a pretty equitable system for chores. Not codified on paper anywhere, the rules have sort of evolved naturally over time. I'll even jump on the "green" fad and say it evolved "organically." How's that for using some lemming-like vernacular?

Since my wife's mutant power manifests in the form of Meganvision, a highly defined ability to see dust particles left behind by my mere mortal sweeping attempts, she gets to sweep. I generously fell on the garbage Seppuku sword since I prefer she not be hauling rotting garbage down 3 flights at night to a dumpster in an ill-lit city alley. We each wash our own clothes, asking nicely if we need to fill out a load if the other has some apparel they'd like to hitch a ride to cleantown. Cleaning the tub even has a ritual. I auger out the occasional hairball that breeds in the tub drain while she'll occasionally take care of the special cleaning our whirlpool tub requires. Overall our chore existence is pretty amicable. Now and again, however, evil strikes in the form of saucebowls.

Cleaning dishes has been the only area where we still have a back and forth relationship on who gets what and when. Generally we each keep up with loading our items into the dishwasher and running it. The real death to our matrimonial harmony comes when the saucebowls arrive. First you might see one or two. The lady will have some veggie potstickers and fill a side ramekin with some soy or other asiany-type sauce. I will maybe have some leftover chicken tenders and slam some BBQ sauce in a dipping bowl. Regardless of who starts the trend, we get overwhelmed by saucebowls. The things breed. Soon the sink has become a bio-weapons playground full of stagnant saucebowls all in varying stage of superflu petri-dish creation. Then the denial begins.

"I did dishes last."

"No, I did dishes last when I washed the thing near the thing after we went out to see the thing, remember?"

The argument starts off weak, then a few more days of fungal growth occurs in the dishes. Our yuck-pools have, by now, developed a latent early-evolutionary sentience and have begun plans for condo conquest. I'm not entirely certain if spores haven't been released into the air from the growths occuring in the sink, tainting our abilities to rationally just DO the damn dishes. Regardless of the cause, we begin to start targeting each other. Our dog becomes the intermediary for discussion as we refuse to directly tell the other person to do the dishes.

"Roxy, tell mommy it stinks in here from her stagnant saucebowls of death," I'll advise the dog.

"Roxy, tell daddy nothing smells worse than what comes out of his ass every 20 seconds," she'll inform the dog.

Eventually something snaps. Maybe the dog's boredom of our inanity does it. She'll go lick the floor somewhere more interesting. Maybe it's the fact that the other person disappears for a bit (usually the one who snaps does so when the other is working). Maybe God is a jester who has decided to get back to a normal show. Eventually one of us does the dishes. Someday, however, I know in my soul, the death of our marriage could lie in a saucebowl. This is why I'm plotting to accidentally drop all our saucebowls. It's for our love, honey!

Love is conditional.

My wife and I have come up against a topic a few times in jest that has stirred debate in the past about the depths of true love. In the movies, poems, stories or other fantasies of love we're taught that love is unconditional! True love has no boundary. I, callously, find this to be a big fat hairy lie on the wart of sentimentalism.

Love is conditional. Under specific conditions anyone can stop loving another person or thing for that matter. Love that Chilly Cheeseburger? The first time you find a large toenail hanging off the bun you may find that love quelched. Love your high school sweetheart? As soon as you walk into the locker room after the big game to find your cheerleader honey doing "sit-ups" on the JV coach you find the brick wall on the highway of endless amore.

Anyone who denies these truths has either A) never been truly in love or B) exists in a fantasy bubble-city filled with Meg Ryan and Hugh Grant clones. A recent discussion with my Ladylove brings forth the truth of this sage wisdom.

"If I became a vampire, would you let me turn you?" my wife asked after the completion of a True Blood episode.

"I don't know, honey. As much as I love you, I really don't hate the sun as much as you and I've tasted enough of my blood in this lifetime to let me know I hate the taste."

"What if I were a werewolf?"

"I'd totally let you shred and turn me into a werewolf," I replied hastily. "They get all the cool things with long life and immunity to diseases, plus I'd get an excuse to go psycho once a month like most women do!"

"If you turned into a zombie, I think I'd have to join you, because I wouldn't want to go on alone," my wife noted.

I informed my crestfallen wife that if she went zombie I'd crush in her skull and run.

See? We have conditions on our love. I'd join my gal for werewolvery, most likely hit up a life of lightless blood-drinking, but when it comes to being a mindless meat-machete it's game over! I guess I could say I would kill my zombie-bride out of love because I couldn't bear to see her in such a horrid state (nothing cool about zombies, kids), but that'd be lying to you all. The conditions of my love are set pretty high, though, so I feel like I'm on pretty good ground.

She's a Lucky Girl...

In most things in life, I consider myself plagued by abysmal luck. I've never won a game of Bingo, I rarely luck out with a great parking spot or fast checkout lane, and I don't even bother playing the lottery. I have come to accept the fact that in a past life, I committed some terrible crimes against humanity that I now have to pay for in this life.

Or, perhaps, all of the luck in my life was focused on one main thing, one event that changed my life irrevocably for the better: meeting and falling in love with my husband. Not only that, but he fell in love with me back. For both of us, since that first 14-hour marathon date over five years ago, there has been no one else.

Our relationship is not perfect. There are ups and downs: some more up and some more down than others. But this is how love works; you don't move through a relationship in a linear fashion. You don't love each other the same from one day to the next, or even steadily more or less from day to day. Love evolves and changes from day to day, month to month, year to year. There are fits and starts, bursts of love and bursts of anger. Some days it's easier to accept the other person just as they are, and some days you want to scream if you see that same tick one more time. An overwhelming majority of the time I'm happy or content in my relationship and in life with my husband. That's what counts.

Here, I will chronicle the dichotomy: the bursts of love and joy I have with my husband, and those times when I wonder how we ended up together in the first place.