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!