Analysis of The Ur Post (Dedicated to My Beloved Wife)

Eleven years ago, I started writing a blog called Sentence of Dave. The premise was simple: rain or shine, I would write one sentence per day. The sentence might be short and sweet or it might run on and on. And while I didn't initially recognize the pun in the title, I soon realized that I had committed myself to a weird sort of imprisonment of chronology and structure. I generally embraced and enjoyed my self-imposed sentence-writing experiment (and I was always inspired by my fans, commenters, and critics).

Recently, however, writing the sentence became onerous, another chore. And I felt limited and rushed. So I'm trying something new. I'm going to take it slow and write some longer posts. I'm going to revise, ruminate, and procrastinate. Move at my own pace. Stall. Use periods. Park the bus.

The first post I wrote over at Sentence of Dave was dedicated to my loving wife. Here it is, in its entirety:

I am shopping for a new digital camera because my wife has a habit of leaving things on the roof of our car.

For good luck, I am once again dedicating this first post at Park the Bus to my wife. She is a wonderful woman: beautiful, loyal, smart, funny, and adventurous. I am lucky to have her. Unfortunately, she is also reckless and irresponsible, something of a menace. I need this longer format to truly explain what I mean.

To all appearances, my wife seems to be a diligent and dedicated elementary school teacher and mother. She helps run the community garden. She's a great cook with a green thumb. She eats healthy, works out, dresses sharp, and donates her time to charitable causes. But she's also the kind of person who will leave you a car with an empty gas tank. Below the line. No fuel at all. Not because she doesn't care about you-- I think most people would agree that she's a caring person. She will leave you the car on empty because she drives it around on empty. She's too busy running important errands for our family and the gardening club and her students and the elderly to stop for gas. And if you switch cars with her, and nearly run out of gas on the way to work ( while you are sitting in traffic because of construction) and call her-- your tone a little perturbed-- and give her a piece of your mind, and later on, text her some information, some completely innocuous and objective information about the consequences of using an internal combustion engine with very little gas in the tank, information about burnt out fuel pumps and kicking up sediment, then, oddly, you're the one who's going to be in trouble.

I'm a high school English teacher and my students-- despite the fact that they don't always read the assigned texts-- are often wise beyond their years in the ways of relationships. They vehemently advised me against sending those texts about sediment and fuel pumps to my wife. They told me it wasn't worth it. I explained to them that our Honda CRV was the second most expensive item our family-owned (a distant second behind our house) and it was my responsibility to inform my wife about these sorts of things. Because she was reckless. Not that she was alone in this manner of recklessness . . . I did an informal poll and though my evidence is anecdotal, I'm fairly sure that the world is equally divided into two kinds of people: sane folks who gas up when their tank gets down to 1/4 full and lunatics who drive around on fumes until their anxiety finally gets the better of them . . . or they actually run out of gas.

I could go on and on. My wife fills her coffee up far beyond what is normal or necessary. She walks around the kitchen with a meniscus of steaming hot liquid sloshing above the rim of the mug. Drinking coffee is supposed to be relaxing, a morning treat. A warm and tasty pick-me-up. Not an invitation for second-degree burns.

She does something similar (but less dangerous) with the dog's water bowl: she fills it up until the water is hovering above the brim and then cavalierly carries it across the room. She fills up the recycling bin in our kitchen so far above the rim that it's impossible to pull out the garbage/recycling drawer. For many years, she put large knives in the sink amongst all the dirty dishes (because she likes a clean counter). I actually broke her of this habit (but it took some bloodshed). Why does she do these things? Because she's got an incorrigibly reckless soul.

A quick mathematical aside: the relationship between a person's sanity and the amount of coffee they pour into their cup is the same as the relationship between a person's insanity and the amount of gas they have in their tank. I know formulas can be off-putting, but I think these equations are fairly simple and common-sensical.

the percentage you are sane = amount of gas in tank/full tank of gas

the percentage you are insane = amount coffee in cup/full cup of coffee

Running on fumes? Mathematically, you are 1% sane. Coffee cup filled to the absolute maximum? You are 100% insane.

The camera on the roof of the car; the empty gas tank; the overly full coffee cup, the overly full dog bowl, and the overly full recycling bin: these should all be entered as background evidence. What I really want to discuss is something that happened a few days ago. I was about to start teaching class, when my phone buzzed. There was a text from my wife and an accompanying photo. The text explained that our dog Lola had chewed up a bunch of papers that she had in her school bag. Student papers. Graded student papers. Essentially, the teacher's dog had eaten the students' homework. Damn close to Alfred Harmsmith's dream headline: "man bites dog."

I informed my class of the bad news . . . which was especially bad for me because I am in charge of training our new dog and if she behaves badly then the responsibility is mine. This is not particularly fair-- I'm no dog whisperer-- but my wife does take on a lot of responsibility in the house, so I can't complain. If Lola screws up, I'm to bear the brunt of it. And my wife is still partial to our old dog, Sirius, who shuffled off this mortal coil last March. So there was no winning this one. Lola had screwed the pooch, and I was to take the heat for it.

The first text message my wife sent me about the paper-eating incident was light: she recognized and enjoyed the whole "our dog ate the students' homework!" aspect of the scene. But then she instructed me that if I left the house when everyone was still sleeping, as I did on Wednesday, then I should bring the dog back upstairs and close the gate so she couldn't roam the house and chew on things. She made it clear who was culpable for the chewing. Me.

The final reckless thing I'd like to discuss about my wonderful and loving wife is that she does not zip her bags. She does not zip her purse. She does not zip her school bag. She doesn't zip her laptop case. She doesn't believe in zipping. She likes the convenience of easy entry. (Insert filthy joke here).

I'm constantly zipping my wife's purse shut. Sometimes because it's hanging by a thread on a hook with seven other jackets. Or it's teetering over the center console in the car. She should have zipped her school bag shut. We have a young Rhodesian/lab rescue in the house, and she likes to chew things. When I noticed the unzipped bag in the photo, I asked my class if I should bring this to my wife's attention. This wasn't my fault! This could have been prevented! If she had taken precautions, if she had zipped her bag shut, if she had utilized Whitcomb L. Judson's marvelously pragmatic invention, then the dog wouldn't have chewed up her papers. I presented this argument. My students' answer was still a resounding "NO!" I should NOT text her about the unzipped bag.

I explained to them about the purse and the gas tank and the recycling bin and the coffee. They didn't care. It's not worth it, they informed me. Even my sophomores understood this. They were so adamant that I sort of followed their advice.

I am proud that I did not text my wife about the unzipped bag. I patiently waited to bring it up until later in the afternoon. It was Thanksgiving Eve, and once we had imbibed a bit, I pounced, the same way our dog Lola pounces on her rubber bone when you toss it across the room. It was a much better method than texting. My students were right. You can't text about something as delicate as this (I learned that during the whole gas tank incident). But I wasn't going to completely ignore the situation. I knew it wouldn't change anything, but my voice had to be heard. It's the same reason I sat down and wrote this long-winded post. It feels good to take notes, organize your thoughts, and get it all out. People need to know. My wife needed to know. And I will give her credit: she took it like a champ. She may have called me a few choice names, but then she was over it. We went out to the bar, saw our friends, and I had a story to tell.

I'd like to thank my wife Catherine for the inspiration and the material . . . your irrational behavior makes me love you all the more.

Please Do Not Tell My Wife About the "Send Audio Clip Over SMS" Feature (A Close Reading of an Irate Text)

My students have informed me that you can send an audio clip via SMS on an Android phone. Please do not inform my wife about this Android feature. I'm afraid she will use it.

I should preface this story with the fact that our dog Lola sheds a lot. And my wife drives a car with a black interior. And our dog is light brown.

More of a honey gold really. With some white spots. And she's a shedder. Drives my wife crazy.

This morning, I received three text messages in reference to an incident that happened yesterday afternoon. My wife discovered the evidence of the incident while driving our kids to school this morning. Apparently, she dictated the text to my son Alex as she drove. Then she asked him to read it back, to ensure that he captured her tone.

A couple things here.

First of all, I love that my wife used "fricking" instead of "the queen mother of dirty words." I think this is because she was dictating the message to our fourteen year old son. I asked Alex about this. He said that mom did use the word "fricking" and that he thought it was inappropriate to text his father the f-word anyway.

Second, despite the text format, my wife and Alex were fairly effective at yelling at me. I got the message loud and clear. They made liberal use of exclamation points and all caps, and there's even a sinister ultimatum. What the fuck might happen to me if I don't vacuum the car this weekend? I'm not going to chance it. If you seek me, I will be vacuuming the car.

This next line really resonated with the women in my office:

It's so unsatisfying yelling at you through a text.

My wife

And then she yells at me some more! She's "so mad" that her diction literally falls apart. Even though this is actually only poor typing on Alex's part, it's a happy accident. Form fitting function. Sound equals sense.

Finally, the existential "WHY?" Though it's not in my best interest, for the sake of accuracy, I will elaborate on this. Thursday afternoon, as I was coaxing the dog into the back seat of her car, I did indeed think to myself:

Why? Why am I doing this? I know our dog sheds. I know she's going to shed all over the black interior of my wife's car. I know I'm going to get in trouble for this . . . why? why don't I walk across the street to my car?

I had these thoughts, and I did it anyway. I loaded Lola into the back of my wife's car. It was so cold out. Frigid. And I was dying. I had a runny nose and a scratchy throat and my eyes were glassy. I was sick. And I was heroically taking the dog to the dog park so she could run around. And my van, my filthy smelly dented van, my van that was full of dog hair (which doesn't really show because the interior is light gray with lots of dirt stains) was across the street. And it was so cold. I didn't feel like walking the extra twenty yards. That's why I did it. Laziness. But laziness for good-- or at least reasonable-- reasons. It was cold, and I was dying. I may have saved my own life. I'm forty-eight years old. I can barely deal with a cold. How could I handle pneumonia?

Anyway, I read this text strand to my students and one of them immediately yelled: "She can yell at you through a text! She can send you an audio clip!"

I hope my wife doesn't start utilizing this Android SMS feature. Actual angry audio can be pretty intense. It would be a lot to handle at work. And then would I have to send a sincere audio apology? I'm not a voice actor! What if some sarcasm leaked into my message?

I think text is a better medium for yelling at someone than actual live full volume yelling. Real yelling is loud and scary, but with texting, you have a moment to respond properly . . . which I think I did. By the time we both got home from work, my wife was no longer angry. In fact, she agreed to let me use a "screenshot" of the text strand. My students had to teach me how to take a "screenshot" on my phone. They're very clever. They also taught me where to find it. In my "gallery." I had never used this Android feature before, but now that I know about it, I'm sure I'll use it again (unlike the send audio clip function, which I'm never going to use . . . I thought we invented texting to avoid talking).

I am an Idiot, My Wife is a Saint

Friday, as I was pulling into the school parking lot, I felt my cell phone buzz and I instantly remembered what I had neglected to do . . . and then my phone started ringing and I realized that I wasn't going to escape this transgression with a mere text . . . my wife was going to talk to me about this, and so I accepted my guilt, accepted the call, and braced myself for the oncoming tirade . . . "What is wrong with you?" she began and I immediately started apologizing, because there was no excuse-- for the third time in two weeks, I had driven the wrong car to work-- we were trying to take my Jeep to the shop to get the brake lights fixed, but every time she made an appointment (and you need an appointment because our mechanic is so good) I forgot to drive the Subaru to work and instead took the very car that my wife needed to drop off at the garage . . . forcing her to call our mechanic and report to him that her husband was a complete idiot and she would need to reschedule . . . so this time she wasn't going to do that, and so she devised a plan whereby I would drive the car to her school and we would swap cars and I would be able to do this because I had a half day of classes and my parent conference schedule was light in the afternoon-- but there was only one problem, which I explained to her: "The only problem is that I'm supposed to go to lunch with Terry . . . if I drive all the way over there then he won't have anyone to go out to lunch with," and right after I explained the "problem" I realized that it wasn't really a "problem," and more just my concern with eating, but it was too late and so I braced myself once again for a deserved angry rejoinder: "I think it's more important that you get the brake lights fixed on the car that you drive both your children around in, rather than get a slice of pizza with Terry!" and I couldn't agree more and told my wife that I would meet her, and then went into the school and while I was summarizing this book in the English office, and explaining how I was in a System 1 mood, because my wife made me a chart for what I had to accomplish in the mornings (the kids have a chart and I have a chart, and my wife is on the chart, but I don't actually think she needs the chart) and I was very happy that I completed my Friday morning duty (walk the dog) and so I blithely walked out the door and hopped into my car, not thinking that I wasn't supposed to drive my car, and went straight to work . . . and while I was summarizing System 1 and System 2 to a colleague, my phone rang again and my wife told me that she was driving to my school right then, to swap the cars, so that I wouldn't have to drive all over during my lunch, and while I was extraordinarily happy that I was going to be able to have lunch with Terry, I also realized that it might be my last meal on earth and immediately decided that I would send my wife some flowers or perhaps place them in her car at work . . . but then I couldn't even get credit for that, as while I was recounting this story to my first period class, I felt another text arrive on my phone and it was from my wife and it said, "You better send me flowers" and the text also included her school address and the name and phone number of our local flower place, so not only did I know she was serious, but also that she thought I was an incapable idiot . . . but I managed to successfully send the flowers and I have smoothed things over . . . for now.

Dave is Empathetic About His Wife's Shortcomings (and she should reciprocate)

My wife moves fast and gets things done. A downside of this is that she sometimes misplaces her stuff.  The very first blog post I wrote on Sentence of Dave addressed this:

I am shopping for a new digital camera because my wife has a habit of leaving things on the roof of our car.

I'm proud to say that I'm always supportive and understanding if she loses something. She has her fingers in a lot of pies. No time for serene transitions. She doesn't always have time to fully think through where she's putting her stuff down.

We were already having a wild week-- my car was in the shop getting a new crankshaft position sensor (a big job) and so we were down to one car: our Honda CRV. At some point on Wednesday-- a day we had off for Yom Kippur-- my wife lost her keys. She realized this Wednesday afternoon, but in a casual sort of way. She didn't think anything of it until Thursday morning.

Since my car was at the shop, I drove her car to work. My school is farther away. Her school is only two miles from our house, so she planned on biking there. I leave much earlier than her for work, and once I arrived, I started receiving frantic texts.

Apparently, she had really lost her keys-- the whole set. The house keys, the keys to both cars, the keys to her classroom . . . everything. She had looked everywhere. In the dark. In her pajamas. In the garden. In the garden compost. In our garbage. Yuck.

She assumed someone stole them.

This is what she surmised: she had left the keys on the ping-pong table in our driveway. She had been running around, from Zumba to yard work to acupuncture and then back to yard work. Unlike a normal person-- myself, for instance--she didn't take any breaks between these activities. No snack or cup of coffee or moment to put her feet up and read a magazine. Just one thing to the next. And she was sure that someone had filched the keys right off the ping-pong table and this light-fingered scuzzbag was planning on breaking into our house AND stealing both our cars. There had been a few robberies around town recently, so her thoughts weren't completely unfounded.

When she got home from acupuncture, she put her purse on the hook just inside the door, and then went outside for a moment to pick up the weeds and piles of brush from her garden. She had the keys in her hand, but then put them down so she could put on a pair of gardening gloves.

She also complained that lack of sleep from ear pain may have contributed to her miscue.

I tried to make her feel better about the whole thing. We all make mistakes.

But things went from bad to worse.

It was hard for me to imagine. I was at work, teaching class. I had a working car in the parking lot. I had keys, all kinds of keys. But I could feel it, like a splinter in my mind. My wife was in some weird circle of Hell.

What a morning is right.My wife does too many things! She has too many responsibilities! The horror! The least I could do was figure out a way to make her afternoon easier. I put some deep thought into it and came up with a plan.

A heroic plan.

My wife was appreciative about my solution. She told me that she loved me, and I felt good about supporting her in her time of need. She doesn't screw up very often, and when she does she always feels awful about it (unlike me, I've become inured to it).

So I left school early, drove home and unpacked the soccer gear from the car-- as I would have to lug it down to the field on foot-- then went into the crawl space and got the bike rack. On my way out, I smashed my shoulder on the low ceiling. It hurt, but sometimes heroes have to suffer some pain. I strapped the rack on the car and put my bike on the back of the CRV.

Before going to my wife's school, I dropped off the dry-cleaning. I was running some serious errands. Taking care fo business. Getting it done.

I drove the CRV to her school, parked it in the staff lot, dropped the keys off in the office, took my bike off the rack, and rode home. Now she had the car, which would make it so much easier for her to get to the allergist after gardening club. Mission accomplished!

I got home and dragged the soccer equipment down the hill and ran practice.

What a day.

When I got home from practice, I did a thorough search around the house. If I found the keys, this I would increase my hero status exponentially. It got dark. I took out a flashlight and looked all around the front yard. I hoped to see the glint of metal.

No luck.

Over dinner, we discussed changing our locks and purchasing a couple of Club brand steering wheel anti-theft devices. And the cost of fixing the mini-van.

Yuck.

Then Catherine had to run yet another errand-- she had to pick up Ian's allergy prescription at Rite Aid. On the way, she had a thought. In her brain. A thought about me, her loving heroic husband.

She remembered that I like gum.

And that on Wednesday, right before I went running with the dog, I asked if there was any gum in her car. And she said, "Yes. There is gum in my car." And I grabbed her keys, to get the gum. And I had the dog.

And I never came back inside.

She checked the CRV's center console storage compartment-- the place where she stores her gum-- and she found her keys.

I had hidden them. Subconsciously.

It was all my fault (aside from the bike chain, which was such an easy fix-- I can understand that she was in her work clothes and didn't want to get greasy, but still).

I was the cause of all the stress. My wife didn't have her finger in too many pies. My wife was fine. I had fucked up. I had lost the keys. I had caused her all the stress. It was all on me.

My only saving grace was the fact that I had been so kind and compassionate when she had lost the keys (even though she had never lost the keys). When we thought she lost the keys. I had been calm and levelheaded and empathetic. We all make mistakes.

All I could ask is that she reciprocate.

P.S. I remembered about the water bottles this morning, and kept Lola from licking them! A heroic act of remembering, if there ever was one.

Jury Duty: You Don't Need to Be a Clairvoyant Racist Lunatic

Last week, my wife had jury duty on Wednesday and I had jury duty on Thursday. This week, my wife had her administrative observation on Tuesday and I had my administrative observation on Wednesday.

Weird.

I hope my wife doesn't get bitten by a rabid animal (probably a coyote) next Monday . . . because it's going to happen to me on Tuesday. These things come in threes.

As far as jury duty went, my wife got called upstairs but didn't have to fill out any questionnaires or do any interviews. So she didn't need to utilize any of the stupid advice people give about how to get out of jury duty. 

Stupid Advice People Give You So You Can Get Out of Jury Duty

"Tell the judge you're racist!"

"Tell the judge you can tell people are guilty just by looking into their eyes!"

"Act crazy!"

The Real Deal with "Voir Dire"

If you've ever been interviewed for a spot on a jury-- the process known in legal parlance as "voir dire"-- then you know this advice is absurd. You're in front of the general public, in a formal situation, talking to someone wearing robes, in a court of law.

You don't want to present yourself as racist clairvoyant lunatic.

You might run into these people in the future.

My wife sat in a room for a while and then got released early.

I was not as lucky as my wife.

I arrived at 8 AM, and snagged a choice seat at the one large table by the TV (advice from my wife) so I could get some grading done. The presiding judge came down and spoke to us about the importance of jury duty and the system. He explained the difference between an inconvenience and a hardship. Then we watched a video, which gave us some instructions on how to behave if we were on a jury. We instructed to not only listen to the witnesses, but to observe their body language and tone of voice as well. I had a problem with this, which I tucked away in the recess of my brain. Then I got back to reading quizzes.

I was called upstairs at 9:30 AM, with a hundred other citizens. One of the elevators was broken so we had to stuff ourselves into the good one, in shifts. We were crammed into a courtroom. I was sitting in between a tall white guy from Texas and an older African American gentleman with one earring who was working on an adult coloring book with some markers. The judge told us they needed 12 jurors for a criminal case, and then he told us a bit about the case. I can't reveal this information, or I might get fined $1000. The prosecutor and the defendant and the defendant's lawyer were all there. The defendant was accused of a violent crime. He was African-American and looked like a tough hombre. You'll understand why I mention his race soon enough.

We filled out two questionnaires and then the judge, prosecutor and lawyer interviewed possible jurors. This went on for hours. We finally got to break for lunch at 12:30 and I went to Tavern of George (a.k.a. Tumulty's) and inhaled a burger. The beer looked was tempting, but I didn't want to be found in contempt of court.

I went back, finished my grading, and added some information to my questionnaire. Quite a bit of information. There was nothing else to do. And I decided if I got called up that I wasn't going to repeat what I did last time I went through "voir dire." No pathetic pleading. I would not throw myself prostate upon the mercy of the court. My kids were older now, and more responsible. If I got called to be on a trial, so be it.

So I would be myself. I would explain that it was a rough time of year for me to miss-- because of the College Writing curriculum-- but that this was more of an inconvenience than a hardship.

At 2 PM, I got called up for some "voir dire." I took a deep breath and walked over to the table with the judge, the prosecutor, and the defendant's attorney. I sat down. I told the judge my school situation, but very plainly, without drama or histrionics, and he said he would consider it. Then we got into my questionnaire.

First he wanted to know why I said I wouldn't be able to convict someone just on testimony alone. I told him about the new Malcolm Gladwell book Talking to Strangers and just how difficult it was to determine whether a stranger was telling the truth or lying. I told him I had a problem with the instructional video, because its very difficult to determine anything credible from tone and body language. Some people always seem like they are telling the truth and other people always seem nervous or anxious or sketchy. And it doesn't mean much. I talked about the fallibility of human memory and the ambiguity of eyewitness accounts.

Then we went through the people my interactions with the legal world. My brother worked in the building. My dad was director of corrections. I had a few run-ins with the law, but mainly college shenanigans.

Then he asked me why I wasn't sure if the legal system was fair. I told him I had read and listened to a lot about Ferguson and the shooting of Michael Brown, and I had listened to Serial Season 3 in its entirety, which delved into the corruption int he Cleveland court system. I told him I had learned that sometimes the court system is designed to shake down and oppress people of color.

Then we took a look at the free response questions. We were upstairs for a long time and I had answered the questions comprehensively. For example, there was a question about how you get your news. I had listed every podcast I to which I subscribed-- this is a long list.

The judge saw this scrawling mess and said, "I don't think we've ever had anyone run out of room on the sheet."

We talked my favorite books and movies (the judge enjoyed The Irishman) and the prosecutor pursued the list of magazines I often read: The New Yorker and Harper's and Mother Jones and The Atlantic and Wired and The Week.

The judge took a look at the people I'd like to meet. I had listed The Wu-Tang Clan, Dave Chappelle, and Howard Stern. I forgot Larry David.

The judge thought about all this for a long moment and then said, "I'm going to have you take a seat over there."

He pointed at the jury box.

"Over there?" I said, in slight disbelief. I was headed toward the jury box! I quickly accepted it. It was my civic duty, it was only a six day trial, and my family would figure it out. It wasn't the end of the world. My students would be fine.

I took three steps, and then I heard the judge again. I turned. The prosecutor had just finished speaking to the judge. Telling the judge to dismiss me. No way the prosecutor wanted some liberal bombastic blowhard all full of random and useless information on his jury.

So I was dismissed. And I didn't have to act like a racist or a lunatic or a mind-reader.

I just had to be myself.

Tragedies, Cars and Phone Etiquette: A Bad Combination (for Dave)

Yesterday while I was driving to pick my son from track practice, my wife called me. I'm not very good on the phone when I'm not operating a motor vehicle, and I'm even worse when I am. I shouldn't talk and drive. 

We had terrible news to exchange, so the conversation proceeded. I told her about the poor 8th-grade boy from East Brunswick-- the town where I teach-- who fell through the ice and died. Police and firefighters formed a human chain, but he slipped under. Awful awful story. 

She told me about a house fire in Edison, right by where she teaches. A five-year-old girl and her grandmother both died in the blaze. It turns out that in 2006 my wife taught the mom, who was at work when the fire occurred. My wife was pretty shaken up about that.

And then, while my wife was mid-story, my son walked up. And I had just pulled up to a busy intersection. The light turned green, and he was still throwing his bags in the back of the van and I got overwhelmed. Apparently, I was very rude to my wife. Apparently, I am a "jerk" . . . and the worst kind of a jerk, a jerk without phone manners. Because I said something in the manner of "I GOTTA GO!" right in the middle of my wife's tragic story. And then I hung up. 

My defense is that I was driving and things got hectic. My wife has decided that it is her fault. She knows the deal. She has promised never to call me again. 

I did send her a nice text today, thanking her for my salad and giving her some encouraging words about a parent meeting. I even included an emoji. But I struggle in real-time, and I certainly can't multi-task. So If you want to communicate with me, send me a text (or even an email). 

Food Safety, Cookies, Bacteria, and a Healthy Dose of Hypocrisy

I am certainly a hypocrite. There's no question about that. But I'm still entitled to my thoughts and opinions, even if they contradict my actions. Sometimes a compelling idea outstrips the operating system of the brain that tries to install it. So you get some cognitive dissonance, some contradictory behavior. And it's not unbecoming. It's not annoying. It's inspirational.

I occasionally eat pizza that's been left on the counter overnight. Despite this, I still believe I am an inspirational figure. A figure who has done some reading, checked his sources, and just wants to pass on that information. But it's information no one (especially my wife) wants to hear. She may be able to shut me up on this topic in the house, but she can't stop me from blogging about it.

The Ugly Truth

The USDA asserts that perishable foods should only remain at room temperature for two hours. After two hours, you should throw this food out.

I can find nothing to contradict this Golden Rule of food safety. Despite this, I am BANNED from discussing this topic in my house. Censored!

The Danger Zone!

For the record: it's not a sin, it's not a waste, it's not a criminal offense. If food has been in "the danger zone" for more than two hours-- and the "danger zone" is defined as 40 to 120 degrees Fahrenheit-- then you should toss it. Your food has become a Petri dish of exponential orgiastic bacterial procreation. The bacteria population on this food is doubling every twenty minutes.

No one wants to hear this. Including my wife. Everyone wants to "pack up the sandwiches" that have been sitting out for five hours (slathered in mayonnaise) because it would be "a waste" to throw them away. And no one wants to read (or hear) about exponential bacteria growth. And you can't smell bacteria, even when they're hastily copulating.

Bacteria going at it . . .

Though I know this rule, I admit I'm a bundle of contradictions. I eat food off the floor; I double dip chips; and when I'm at a barbecue, I certainly eat food that's been sitting out too long. But when I do this stuff, I do it with the knowledge that I'm rolling the dice. And I know what the result might be. My wife should know as well. We lived in Syria for three years, where food safety is not a priority, refrigeration is poor, human excrement is used as fertilizer, the water is not particularly potable, and fly-covered meat is often displayed hanging in the window of the store.

Some Syrian meat just hanging out . . .

We suffered every kind of intestinal distress in the book. I got giant intestinal roundworms. We had frequent bouts of diarrhea. But those memories have faded from my wife's mind. I have included some bonus photos of Syrian butchery and meat at the end of this post (they are not for those with a weak stomach) to show you how lucky we are to have such hygienic food in America. I doubt my wife will look at them or take them to heart.

I admit I occasionally take it too far. I get annoyed when my wife leaves the refrigerator door open for too long. While this article explains that you should shut the door and then reopen it, instead of leaving it open the whole time you're putting away groceries, I'm not going to show it to her. It's not worth it.

My wife thinks it's strange that I'll scoop out some yogurt into a bowl and then realize I have to feed the dog, so I'll put the yogurt into the fridge for the few minutes that it takes to feed the dog. I don't want the yogurt to to get warm while I'm doing the chore. She thinks I'm insane. I think I just truly appreciate the miracle of refrigeration. In the good old days, people used to die from drinking milk.

The people in the English department are split on this. Some people are grossed out by food that has been left out. Stacey just doesn't care. She'll eat fried chicken that's been sitting on an end table all night (being licked by her dog). Her opinion: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I get it, but I need to do more research on public opinion. I need talk to some of the science and health biology teachers and see what they think.

But like I said, I'm a hypocrite. I'm not afraid of being critical of other people who I think are behaving too obsessively about food safety.

The Illustrative Anecdote

Thursday night, a bunch of us were sitting outside at Pino's, quaffing beer and bourbon, eating gourmet chips ( provided by the Deatz . . . thanks Deatz!) when a woman walked up to the table and offered us fresh baked cookies. They were leftovers from a political function happening inside. You shouldn't take candy from a stranger, but this woman seemed trustworthy.

Everyone grabbed a cookie. And then things got embarrassing. My friends were just bonkers for these cookies. Grown-assed men, giggling over treats. It was weird and sad and silly. Pathetic, really. Especially because when I bit into my cookie, I realized those dark blobs weren't chocolate chips, they were raisins. It was the most deceptive (and disgusting) of cookies: oatmeal raisin. Yuck.

But everyone loved them. I couldn't harsh the buzz. I couldn't criticize the cookies. The guys were writhing in ecstasy while stuffing chunks of raisin-laden oatmeal into their pie-holes.

So I palmed my half-eaten cookie, reached into the gourmet chip bag for a chip, and left it behind. Voila! Now I didn't have to explain why I didn't finish my cookie. It was hidden in the chip bag. The chips were pretty much finished. Everyone's hunger was sated. No one would ever find me out. I didn't have to go on some weird rant about expectations and raisins. I could let the party continue, unimpeded by my grouchiness. Like a child slipping vegetables into his napkin and then surreptitiously tossing the napkin into the garbage, I had-- rather immaturely-- disposed of something I found unappetizing, without causing a scene.

The guys went inside to hear the band, leaving Paul and me at the table. We chatted for a bit, and then Paul reached into the gourmet chip bag for a chip and he pulled out my half-eaten cookie. He was disgusted. Appalled. I had contaminated the entire bag of chips! It was like I put my whole mouth in the bowl!

I mocked him for his squeamishness. We were at the pub! It was men's night! We were drinking and eating! It was my half-eaten cookie, not some random, unknown entity. Me! My mouth germs were fine!

Paul wasn't having it. And while I continued to berate him, I understood his position. Because I am a hypocrite.

Bonus Photos

Proceed at your own risk . . .

Eid al-Adha in Damascus

The next day, the flies came in droves . . 

It's hard to find fresh camel head in Jersey

How long can you leave a cooked head at room temperature?

Oops! Dave Did It Again (time is a flat circle)

My wife is a beautiful, wonderful, generous woman. Any time I can do something for her-- as long as I understand exactly what she wants to be done and I think I am capable of executing this task to her standard of excellence-- I do it.

Monday she had a Zoom meeting about school curriculum at 12:30 PM. Right smack in the middle of lunch. We are down at the beach in North Carolina and we were excited to order from a lauded seafood takeout place around the corner: Food Dudes Kitchen.

I volunteered to write down what everyone wanted, call and place the order, and go and pick-up the food. This is big for me-- I don't mind picking up the food, but I generally never volunteer to call and order because I'm awful on the phone. I can't hear that well and I really need to see people in person so I can use my good looks and charm. The phone just doesn't convey it.

But if this was going to please my wife, I was all in.

We looked over the menu; everything sounded good. We discussed every option, including the special. Then I wrote down the items we decided upon, so I could be coherent during the phone call. I can't talk on the phone unless I have something written down.

I successfully made the phone call. I ordered the food and noted when I had to go pick it up (see the above photo).

We then waited for a few minutes, killing time with our new family obsession, the NYT crossword app, and then Alex and I completed the pick-up.

Catherine was still on her Zoom meeting when we got back.

The food looked amazing. I was hungry. I opened the box containing my sandwich-- I had gotten the same thing as Catherine-- and then quickly checked the other box. Same thing. Mahi-mahi wrap with bacon and greens. Lightly breaded and fried.

Alex mumbled something about the color of my fish as I started eating, but I was so hungry I didn't hear him.

Catherine's meeting finished and she came down the stairs, opened her styrofoam container, took a look, wrinkled her nose, and said:" This is your sandwich. This is tuna. Where's mine? Did you eat mine?"

Oh no.

It was at that moment that I realized I did NOT order the same thing as my wife. I was GOING to order the same things as my wife, but then--at the last moment-- I switched to the fajita grilled tuna wrap.

It was right on my order sheet. I had written it down. You can see this for yourself in the document I have provided.

When I quickly opened the other box, to make sure we had the right stuff, I saw a wrap with some fish in it. And some green stuff surrounding the fish. I looked too quickly to notice that the fish was tuna (and this is why Alex made the comment about the color of my fish . . . mahi-mahi is whiter than tuna) and that the green stuff was avocado salsa, not greens.

Unfortunately, Catherine doesn't eat tuna.

I apologized a hundred times over. I had really really wanted to make lunch smooth, easy, and delicious for her. Instead, she made a salad.

My punishment was severe: I had to eat the fajita grilled tuna wrap for dinner. I shared it with Alex, who does like tuna. It was superb. The whole thing was totally unfair, and it was completely my fault.

Looking back, it seems insane that I did this. I had WRITTEN DOWN my order and it wasn't the same as my wife's order. I looked at the sandwiches. But my brain reset to the first thing I decided upon, which was to get the same thing as my wife. And I was hungry. And stressed from making a phone call.

The worst thing is that I have done this before. Twelve years ago, I ate someone's sandwich in the English Office. And while she was pretty and blonde and a teacher, she wasn't my wife. The circumstances were equally absurd, and I had plenty of chances to NOT eat her lunch. But I suppose it is my destiny to repeat history over and over . . . Nietzche's eternal recurrence. Rust Cohle's "flat circle."

All I can say to these people, these people whose sandwiches I have eaten, these people whose sandwiches I will eat, is this: I'm sorry . . . I wish I could control this, but everything we've ever done, we're going to do it over and over again. Some combination of low blood sugar and intense hunger and airheadedness and difficulty with auditory communication without visual clues and the fact that I do things too fast, especially eating, is going to set up the same circumstances. Again and again. Over and over. It is my destiny, to eat your sandwich.

New Paltz with No Kids: A Study in Words and Photos

Just after Christmas, my parents took our two boys to Florida with them. This afforded me, my wife, and our dog Lola a chance to take a kid-free vacation in the Hudson Valley. My kids got to relax and live it up with their grandparents in Naples. Their trip looked like this:

This is NOT their story. Theirs is a story of balmy weather, good eating, and luxurious living. They had a wonderful time and my wife and I are much obliged to Grammy and Poppy. But it's boring stuff.

This post is about what to do in New Paltz if you're lucky enough to go without your kids. In December. In all sorts of weather. In a tiny cabin. With a dog. And a sick wife. Not only will I regale you with my eloquent prose, but I'm also going to include a visual feast for the eyes: digital photos! I will save the best shot for last: during a chance wildlife encounter, I actually had the wherewithal to snap a picture with my cellular phone. I generally forget that my phone has this capability, but now I'm emboldened. Now I'm a photographer (as well as an expert at indoor plant installations . . . but that's for another post).

Two days after Christmas, we dropped the kids at my parents and headed to New Paltz for our romantic getaway. The dog traveled in the crate, which turned out to be a godsend. Lola normally pukes on longish car-rides-- which is not very romantic. She had recently puked directly into our tennis-ball hopper. The hopper contained at least forty-five tennis balls. Tennis balls have a radius of 1.25 inches, so if you multiply that by 4π then you get nearly twenty inches of surface area per tennis ball. There was dog vomit on most of the balls, hundreds of inches of vomit covered surface area. Really gross. But in her crate, she lay down and slept. Vomit-free trip. Very romantic.

While we were traveling northbound on Route 1, we saw something kind of sexy on a Sonic sign (if you're into carnivorous bestiality).

This is not the actual sign we saw, but apparently Sonic restaurants across the nation use this obscenely anthropomorphic/cannibalistic haiku as a marketing gimmick. The chicken strips in central Jersey go for $5.99.

Two hours after we imagined a pullet performing at a gentleman's club and then promptly being thrown into the deep fryer, my wife and I arrived at our cozy and dog-friendly Airbnb cabin on the Rail Trail, less than a mile outside of downtown New Paltz. The location couldn't have been better. You could hike the Rail Trail for miles into the wilderness, or you could go the opposite direction and stroll into town, passing through scenically historic Huguenot Street. We unpacked and got ready to begin our (moderately) romantic kid-free vacation. Moderately romantic because-- unfortunately-- my wife was recovering from strep throat and also had a nasty cold (and accompanying cough). Phlegm makes things a little less romantic than lack of phlegm. But despite this, to her credit, she never complained once . . . she just blew her nose a lot.

Our little cabin

It was a beautiful afternoon.We took the dog for a long hike down the Rail Trail and then pondered where we should go for an early dinner.

My wife looked over her handwritten list of great things to do around New Paltz, provided by her friend Kristen. Kristin highly recommended an Irish bar/restaurant called Garvan's. We checked the map and learned that while downtown New Paltz was nearly a mile from our cabin, Garvan's was only a few hundred yards. It was just across the Rail Trail, by the golf course. We were walking distance to a bar! On a vacation without the kids! Pretty sweet. And it had a fantastic happy hour.

Garvan's is in an old building near the club house of the New Paltz Golf Course. It's the most Irish place I've ever been (I've never been to Ireland). The owner-- Garvan-- was very friendly and very Irish. Thus I decided to go with the Guinness. It tasted especially good, which I mentioned to the bartender. It was the end of his shift, so he might have been a little more brusque than normal, but he basically told me that it had better taste good, since Garvan's was one of the few places in the country where Guinness had installed the tap, so the blend of nitrous oxide and CO2 was perfect. Okay, I said, that explains that. What else could I say?

Catherine went with a half and half (also known as a snakebite or a poor man's black velvet). It consists of half cider and half Guinness. We also had the beet and jicama salad, some truffle fries, and some sliders. And some fish and chips. Very Irish and very delicious. The place is awesome, especially for happy hour.

Then we walked back to the cabin, walked the dog, and watched Derry Girls. If you haven't seen it yet, Derry Girls is the perfect show to watch after going to an Irish bar. It's an Irish Netflix comedy; essentially Mean Girls meets Adrian McKinty's "Troubles Trilogy." Catholic school girls (and one boy) amidst the political/religious conflict in Northern Ireland. In the '90's. It's fabulous. (Also, I'm good buddies with Adrian McKinty, so I don't use him in an analogy unless I'm dead serious . . . check the comments).

The bed was a bit soft and there was some coughing and snoring from my wife's side of it, but I had consumed enough Guinness to sleep through the sniffling.

The next morning, I walked the dog down the Rail Trail again (while my wife slept). And I realized that while the location of the cabin was great, the cabin itself was not perfect. It was clean, and it was cheap, but it was cozy. I am a solidly built American male, so when I say the cabin was "cozy," I actually mean claustrophobically small. Normally when we travel, we make some coffee and grab a light breakfast at home, then do something active, eat lunch out, and then-- at least a few times-- we cook dinner back at the ranch. This is the most economical way to do it. Lunch is the cheapest meal to eat out. It's also nice to get back to home base for dinner. You can drink as many local beers as you desire, without worrying about driving under the influence in a new locale. And going out for breakfast is just stupid. Pay for eggs? I can make eggs.

This photo makes the kitchen look bigger than it actually is.

On this trip, our normal schedule got turned on its head. The first morning, I tried to make some coffee, but I kept banging into things in the kitchen. The kitchen was too small to make coffee in. I made an executive decision and told my wife we were going to the Mudd Puddle for coffee and breakfast. She readily agreed. She loves to go out for breakfast but recognizes that going out for breakfast defies all my logic and reason. Lunch food is better than breakfast food. I hate to eat before I do some exercise. If you eat breakfast out, then you're not hungry for lunch. If you eat breakfast out, then you're not ready to snowboard, ski, hike, run, etc. It's completely insane to eat breakfast out. But my claustrophobia (and the lack of children) overrode that decision.

We had been to New Paltz once before-- with the kids-- and remembered that the Mudd Puddle had the best coffee in the universe. While we would never bring the kids to a local coffee shop for breakfast-- the place was too small and slow and local-- we realized that we did not have the kids with us. We could bring our books and read while we drank coffee.

So we went to the Mudd Puddle, got coffee, read our books, and I ate a James Special sandwich, which involves eggs, bourbon-soaked bacon, balsamic caramelized onions, and some kind of homemade bread. It was wild! It was crazy! We were eating food before doing exercise. The sandwich was the best thing ever. I had one every morning for the rest of the trip.

Then the rains came. We beat a hasty retreat back to our tiny cabin. Catherine, still nursing her cold, fell fast asleep. I took the dog for a long walk down the Rail Trail in the rain. It was gross. Hugeonot Street was historical and scenic, but I was full from breakfast. It's hard to appreciate 17th century architecture when your is stomach is full and your socks are damp. I got back and we watched "Bandersnatch" on Netflix. It was fun to choose but the plot was only okay.

It was pouring. The kids were sending us pictures. Ian caught a lizard. They were lounging around the pool. What the fuck were we going to do? The cabin was tiny and it was raining cats and dogs. Once again, it took a moment to realize that we didn't have to amuse the kids. They were in Florida. We took a ride to the Yard Owl Brewery. It was run by James, the guy who owned the Mudd Puddle. The beer had to be good.

It was. But playing Bananagrams in a small craft brewery on the Hudson Valley Rail Trail with my beautiful (but phlegmy) wife was even better than the beer, though. Very relaxing. Time seemed to stand still. And you could blame it on her illness, but I kicked her ass three times in a row (which doesn't usually happen).

The best beer at the Yard Owl was the Chouette D'or. It was divine! Divine I say! And that means a lot, because I hate eating, drinking, and enunciating anything French. The Owlet was also tasty (and very cute). We also had a cheese plate with red onion relish. The red onion relish is to die for. To die for! And it doesn't have a French name.

Catherine also liked the local cider.

The next day the rains let up. We went hiking in the morning on one of the trails in the Mohonk Preserve. We wanted to see the Mohonk Testimonial Gatehouse up close. It was built in 1908 and apparently, it was in a 1985 horror movie called The Stuff.

The Mohonk trails are beautifully maintained, but there is a $15 dollar fee daily fee per hiker. Fuck that! We trespassed.

After going for a hike, we headed over to Mid Hudson Sporting Clays to shoot some shotguns.

This was harder than I imagined. Catherine was pretty good, but I kept picking my head up. Also, Steve-- our instructor-- gave me a "man's gun." A 12 gauge. Catherine got to use the 20 gauge. Every time I picked my head up to watch the shot fly, the gun kicked and hit me in the cheek. This hurt like hell. We shot fifty rounds. Forty of them whacked me in the cheek. Ouch. If you look closely at the picture, my cheek is swollen. I would have not made it very far in the Wild West. Clint Eastwood would have shot me while I was rubbing my swollen cheek.

Over the next few days we did more of the same (aside from the shooting). We visited Catherine's favorite cider house: Bad Seed. They had a lot of interesting ciders on tap. There was also a wild double birthday party going on in there. A gaggle of women in their mid-fifties dressed in 70's style clothing. Apparently, this is what you do around New Paltz. Drive out to breweries and cider houses and have a good time. They are spacious places. You can bring kids and dogs. It's a sweet set-up.

Here's a shot of historic Huguenot Street. If you look closely, you can see that I am balder than I think I am. If you look very closely, you'll see my dog's anus.

One morning we drove out to Lake Minnewaska and hiked from Awosting Falls up to the cliffs around the lake. It's a spectacular place.

Here's a shot of Awosting Falls. The falls were really running because of all the rain.

There were a couple of other excellent spots. Arrowood Farm-Brewery is scenic and has great beer. Another big open space that is dog and kid-friendly. The Main Street Bistro serves vegetarian food good enough to make me a vegetarian (at least for a little while, later in the day I couldn't pass up short rib sliders at Garvan's). We had one fancy meal at a place called A Tavola and it was worth it (and I hate expensive restaurants). Then we went to the Denizen Theater and saw a play called "Adaptive Radiation." The play was very experimental, as was the performance space. It's called intimate black box theater and it's cozy. By cozy, I mean claustrophobically small. We were right on top of the four actors; the stage and seats were in a sort of an alley set-up: the seats rose up on either side of the stage, so you were staring at half of the audience (I enjoyed seeing their reactions to all the weirdness in the play). The play was more professional than I thought, and it was also louder than I thought. I also think that theater should happen before dinner. As I pointed out, The Denizen Theater was a cozy space, and I had just drank quite a few Molly IPAs and eaten a heavy meal. There was certainly something brewing in my belly, and a brisk walk in the air would have been more appropriate than sitting very still in a small black room in close proximity to a bunch of strangers. I managed to curtail any flatulence, but it wasn't easy. I had to sit very still.

And now, as promised, I'll show you the pièce de résistance . . . some stunning wildlife photography. I was out walking with the dog at dusk, on the Rail Trail, and I felt a presence. Something looming over me. It was an owl! A very appropriate animal, since we had been to the Yard Owl Brewery (where Cat bought an owl hat). And the owl is the Highland Park mascot (Highland Park is the town in which I live and coach).

Because of all this heaping significance, I actually remembered to pull my cell phone out and snap a photo. A few people who saw the photo were curious as to my equipment: I used an LG Harmony phone to take this picture. It costs twenty dollars when you sign up for Cricket. I don't think I had it on the highest resolution. Here is the photo. It's a keeper!

Let me zoom in. This is the stuff of National Geographic.

A vivid memory from a fantastic trip.

We had a smooth ride back to Jersey, hosted a small New Year's Party/game night, and picked up the kids at the Trenton airport on New Year's Day. The kids were fat, happy, and tired. Alex had gained 8 pounds and Ian had put on 5.

Once we got home from New Paltz, the dog seemed pretty depressed but then when Ian walked in the house she went totally bananas. It was like a miniature version of the end of the Odyssey; Odysseus returns home after his twenty-year voyage and his dog Argus sees him and gets so excited that he dies. Lola did not die (nor did she pee in the house) but she was pretty damned excited to have the kids back (and so were Cat and I . . . especially because they had followed our instructions and watched Derry Girls, so we had a lot to discuss).

Gas Tank = Toilet Paper Roll

So apparently there are two types of people:

1) people who fill their gas tank as soon as it gets a bit low;

2) people who drive around on fumes as a matter of course;

and I am one of those people who fills their tank as soon as it gets low-- it's bad for the car to drive with very little gas in the tank: you could burn out the fuel pump and you could kick up sediment (and, of course, you could actually run out of gas and have to freeze your ass off walking to the nearest station) but my wife is one of those people who is always driving around on empty (or even below empty) and while that's normally her business (sort of, because her car is the second most expensive item we own, after our house) sometimes it impinges on my life; Friday, we planned on swapping cars so that she could drop the van at the shop, which is right by her school, so they could put on the snow tires-- and my wife would get a ride to school (the shop is less than a mile from her school) and I would drive her car to my place of work; we made this plan last week, and so on Wednesday, I prepared the van for the swap-- I took out all the soccer equipment and stowed it in the shed-- and then I took the snow tires out from the crawl space (always a difficulty for me because you have to crouch down-- I often hit my head-- but I must point out that I did this chore without my wife's assistance) and I rolled the tires from the backyard to the driveway and put them in the back of the van so we were all prepared for the car swap and Friday morning I got up early, got ready for school, spent some time with my wife in the kitchen discussing the consequences of the FCC's rash and partisan decision on the future of net neutrality, and then hopped in the car-- the correct car, my wife's car-- to execute the final portion of the car swap, the actual swapping, but as I was driving out of town, I noticed that the gas meter was below empty . . . and I was running a little late because of our discussion about net neutrality so I didn't have time to stop for gas-- so I got pretty irate, mainly because my wife has a short commute, so she must have been running low on gas all week, but didn't prepare as considerately for the car swap as I had done and also because it's bad for the engine to run on empty, which I know she does-- she's an incorrigble low gas driver-- and also because I almost got stuck in a massive traffic jam, there was a helicopter hovering over Route 1 and the entire road was shut down and some of the overflow traffic was spilling on to Route 18 (and if I had taken Ryders Lane, I certainly would have run out of gas) and so I called home-- this is the danger of cell-phones, everything happens in real time before you have a chance to cool off, and got Ian to put Catherine on the phone and then I expressed my views on leaving someone a car with no gas in it for a car swap and then when I got to school, I did some research and sent a text describing just what could happen to the engine when you drive on empty and then I conducted an impromptu seven hour poll: I asked all my classes and every teacher I encountered if they ever drove on empty, and I'm happy to say that the results were slightly different than I thought: I began with a rather sexist hypothesis that this was a woman thing, and that women didn't understand the mechanics of an engine, but found that the split was fairly even-- wive's complained about their husbands, women admitted that they were risk-takers, men confided that they were on empty right this very moment, a woman whose father was a mechanic brought up the possibility of burning out the fuel pump, some people said they just hate getting gas and want to do it as little as possible, some people wanted to see just how much it cost to fill the entire tank . . . people were vehemently one side or the other-- people who didn't drive on empty thought that it was insane to do so-- that's my camp and my metaphor is toilet paper, there's very few things in life that you can directly gauge-- your gas tank is one of them and the amount of toilet paper left on the roll is another . . . when the roll gets low, you get more rolls of toilet paper and put them in the bathroom, you don't wait until there's one square left-- that's a disaster waiting to happen and it's a situation that's easy enough to assess and remedy . . .anyway, I don't think there's any way to change people on this issue and I'm not going to try (but I will check my wife's car the night before we do a car swap and if it's on empty, I will just go and get gas, and try not to lecture her about fuel pumps and sediment and frost bite).

My Wife is a Tough M#therf&cker

The other night I fell fast asleep before 9 PM. I woke to the sound of fisticuffs in the hall bathroom. Apparently, Alex was trimming his toenails and would not let his younger brother enter to get his toothbrush.

I'm not sure why Alex took this position-- in my book, brushing your teeth trumps cutting your toenails-- but Ian forced his way in and they went at it. This woke me up from my slumber, but I didn't have to intervene. My wife heard the commotion from downstairs, where she was watching TV, and summoned them.

As I was falling back to sleep, I saw Alex come into the room and grab a full laundry basket. I learned the next morning that my wife had immediately assigned them some chores; reparations for the fight and waking me up. I really admire this about my wife: she can immediately think of an appropriate consequence for bad behavior and execute the punishment quickly and justly. Plus, she's got my back when I'm sleeping.

When I'm left in charge of discipline, I tend to lecture the kids for a while, as I process what they did wrong. In doing this-- the long lecture on expectations and behavior-- I work myself into a greater and greater frenzy. This furious lather doesn't help anyone, and the punishment I eventually mete out in no way reflects the crime committed (or even correlates with sane behavior). I'm either too angry or too empathetic or too flabbergasted to think straight.

My wife is feeling even more confident and powerful than normal because she has joined a kickboxing gym. She comes back from these sessions energized and amped-up. Yesterday she was practicing her roundhouse kicks on my legs, pretending to kick me over and over. Lola, our dog, came to my rescue. She inserted herself between my wife and me.

This made me happy. I've got two tough bitches in the house.

Oops, I Did It Again?

I've got a plethora of excuses for my actions yesterday (though my wife is accepting none of them) but apparently I got naked in a public area again, though I didn't realize it; this time, at least I was out-of-state-- at the H2Oooohh! Waterpark in the Poconos-- and my first excuse is that I hate indoor water parks: I hate the noise and the echoes of the noise, I hate being damp, I hate how hot and crowded it is, and I hate the claustrophobia . . . so I was mentally bracing myself for a rough time, and I wasn't paying attention to details-- and so after we got our bracelets and proceeded through the glass doors, my wife handed me my bathing suit and spandex, and I went into "changing mode" and found a bench surrounded by lockers, and while I did find it weird that there was a big glass window, and that the people in line could see into the area, conveniently, there were no people near this section of the window, and there weren't any people around me-- so I whipped off my shorts and boxers and quickly put on my spandex and bathing suit . . . and while it should have seemed strange to me that I was in the same area as my wife, I didn't really count her as someone who shouldn't see me naked, and there were no other females around, and the floor was nice and dry and there was no one anywhere near this bench, and-- like I said-- there were lockers, so I went into "locker room mode," but apparently I was still in a very public and visible area (so much so that my wife couldn't stop laughing for the next twenty minutes and actually took a photo of the spot where I changed) and while I don't think anyone saw me, my wife insists that a couple of teenage boys witnessed the incident, and were like "WTF!" but this can neither be confirmed nor denied, and the worst part is that I've been to this waterpark several times before and know where the men's locker room is, but my brain somehow blanked this information out . . . I don't know why I went into auto-pilot like this, but perhaps I was excited because the floor was so nice and dry in this area, and inside the actual men's changing room the floor is wet and damp everywhere . . . anyway, my story is that I changed so quickly that no one saw anything out of the ordinary, but my wife isn't buying this one bit.

A Word To The Wise About A Word

So this sentence is about a word that I learned to NOT to call your wife on a Friday afternoon . . . to explain: my vocabulary lesson began Friday third period, when Eric recommended the movie Super 8 to me-- explaining that it was in adventure in the spirit of The Goonies-- and so I asked him if it was okay for my kids to watch (they are 6 and 7 years old) and he said, "Absolutely," and though he has no kids, he does have a baby on the way, and he once was a kid . . . so I trusted his review and went to the local Redbox and got a Blu-ray copy and proceeded to get my children all amped up for movie night-- a movie that not only would they enjoy, but that mommy and daddy would enjoy as well! and we would order food! and watch the whole thing!-- and then my wife came home and I told her my awesome plan-- to order some food and watch this movie that the entire family would not merely tolerate, but actually enjoy, and she said, "Super 8? I don't think that's for our kids . . . I think that's too scary for them," and Alex, Ian, and I claimed it was NOT too scary and that Eric had recommended it, and when my wife pointed out that Eric didn't have kids, we ignored her logic, and then my wife-- who was already feeling a bit sensitive as a parent because that afternoon my mom and some other teachers gave her a guilt trip about our kids not believing wholeheartedly in the whole Santa myth-- looked up Super 8 on the internet and found some reviews that said the film was a bit scary and inappropriate for young children (perhaps that's why it's rated PG-13) but I found a review by Roger Ebert that said it's like The Goonies and then I called my wife a word that I should not have called her . . . I called her a "buzzkill," which she did not take kindly . . . but because we (meaning all the boys) were adamant that the movie was going to be great, we sat down together and watched it . . . and it was great, but it is pretty inappropriate for young kids: there's an F-bomb (Alex turned to Ian and said, "That was the F-word") and there's some drug use and some major violence and suspense and a fair bit of cursing-- all of which Eric remembered when he was reminded about it, but skipped his mind when he offered his endorsement-- and due to this content, Alex claimed it was "the greatest movie ever" and Ian concurred-- though he hid under the blankets during one scene . . . and every time there was an inappropriate part I had to suffer the withering stare of my wife and her sarcastic, "So I'm a buzzkill?" refrain . . . and though I've banned the use of sarcasm in the house, I had to let it slide this time because I certainly deserved it.

Road Trip Day 13: Flatulence in Paradise

We hit our first bump in the road trip yesterday: my son Alex came down with a head-ache, a stomach-ache, some body-aches and a fever . . . but Alta, Wyoming is an especially scenic place to convalesce (I can't stress this enough, The Grand Targhee Lodge is literally paradise in the summer: great hiking, cheap rates, laid back vibe, incredible weather, etc. etc. . . . but I'm sure this is true for just about any ski resort in the Rockies in the off-season, long ago, my wife and I had similar experiences at Breckenridge and Beaver Creek in Colorado); anyway, my wife was nice enough to drive Alex down to Driggs, Idaho so Alex could get some meds (it probably wasn't just kindness, my wife knows that I'm not assertive enough with doctors and she wanted to be certain that Alex got some meds); this bump in the road trip actually afforded us a break in the routine, which was kind of nice (despite Alex's pestilent flatulence, which had the remarkable ability to completely overpower the paradisiacally crisp and dry mountain air) because Ian and Catherine got to take the chairlift to the top of Fred's Mountain and take a hike with a naturalist (great photos on Captions of Cat) while Alex slept and I read about Yellowstone Park, and then Alex, Ian, and I watched the Argentina/Netherlands game while Cat took the lift up the mountain again and hiked the Bannock Trail, a long meandering trail down the spine of Fred's Mountain, which she called "the most beautiful hike of her life" and this convinced me that I should go up there and hike down as well -- and I had plenty of pent up energy from watching the game (which went to anxiety inducing PK's . . . go Argentina! . . . I chose them to win it all in our family soccer pool) but I decided that instead of taking the chairlift up, I would hike to the top of the mountain-- and this was partly because I had a lot of energy and partly because I was too cheap to buy a lift ticket and partly because I was too scared to use my wife's lift ticket even though my wife said there was no way the "granola guy" working the lift was going to deny me . . . but I was too tired to think on my feet if there was a confrontation-- even though my wife provided me an answer as to what to say if the granola guy with the scanner said anything-- plus, I wanted to conquer the mountain without the aid of a funicular, and so up I went, and within moments, I was lost, but a friendly employee using a backhoe to build a banked downhill mountain bike turn showed me the fastest way to the top, which was an insanely steep service road-- but despite the lack of oxygen, I made it up-- and at the top, which is nearly 10,000 feet, the air was fresh and clean, without a trace of my son's noxious viral gas, and you could see all the Tetons (from the backside! if you know what tetons means in French, then you'll find that especially dirty) and there were snow banks on the mountains and majestic pine trees and birds and butterflies and marmots and prairie dogs, and a 360 panorama of the Targhee National Forest in the valley below, but by the time I got back down to the bottom, every part of my body hurt, and I could barely walk up a flight of stairs . . . but Alex was feeling much better, and this wasn't the kid of hike you could take the kids on, way too long and dangerous, so perhaps his sickness was somethign of a blessing for both Cat and I, who have done a lot of family time in the last week and a half . . . and I'm sorry, but I don't have a resolution to this sentence . . . I don't know if Alex is completely over his illness, and I don't know if I'm going to wake up tomorrow and be completely incapacitated from hiking nearly seven miles at altitude in a little over two hours (that's right, I'm the master of the humblebrag) but like it or not, I will keep you posted.

Here We Are . . . In the Congo

I've explained what kind of woman my wife is, and now it's only fair that I turn my laser-like logic and self-reflective acumen upon myself.

What kind of man am I? Who's there?

To unravel this eternal question of character, I will rely on the classic Bud Dry commercial "Why is a good man hard to find?" 

I'd like to thank my buddy Whitney over at Gheorghe:The Blog for recently reminding me how much I love this piece of our pop-culture past.

Before I get down to brass tacks, I would like to point out that this commercial is "classic" only in the modern sense of the word. Which isn't saying all that much. It contains one of my favorite bits of dialogue, ever . . . a piece of dialogue so good there should be a t-shirt for it (there isn't).  Something far wittier than "WHERE'S THE BEEF?" A piece of dialogue that resonates deep within my (rather shallow) soul. But I'm certainly lowering the bar . . . because I'm stupid. Corrupted by modern times.

I say this because I'm in the middle of a true classic right now, George Eliot's Middlemarch, and it's hard to compare a thirty second Bud Dry spot to a novel of this caliber. Middlemarch is incredibly well-written, and-- inconceivably--it was written by hand. You can see some of the manuscript here.

A page of Eliot's Middlemarch

There's some revision of course, a few cross-outs and some inserted lines, but I think when Mary Anne Evans-- the woman behind the pen name-- began writing a sentence, she knew exactly where it was going, in terms of thought, rhythm, structure, and syntax.

And so she could produce sentences like this one:

But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. 

Classic stuff. Most modern sentences just don't measure up. Part of the problem might be that many writers-- including myself-- compose with word processing software. And so instead of concentrating on thoughtful sentences and paragraphs, which translate into thoughtful thought-out thoughts, we often get consumed with "presentational elements."

This phenomenon is occurring right now, as I fiddle with the text in the link, experiment with different image layouts, and use a Wordpress feature called "Blockquote" to emphasize the Eliot sentence. I'm also occasionally Googling things like "how do you take a screenshot on a Mac" and " what is the effect of word processors on writing?"

Does anyone not succumb to these sort of temptations while they are writing?

Despite the distractions, I will try my best to return to original question: what kind of man am I?

Certainly a digressive one . . . but aren't all modern technologically embedded men more digressive than we once were? The internet itself shoulders some of the blame for this, but the problem also might be baked in to the nature of a typical male. Men and easy access to infinite information might be a poisonous combination. My wife doesn't get up from the dinner table to use our desktop computer to Google the population of Peru or what year the Oklahoma Land Rush occurred. But I do this kind of thing all the time (despite family rules prohibiting this behavior). And not just at the dinner table. This happens when I'm teaching class, talking to my friends, sitting on the toilet. I want a piece of information NOW. And it's usually nothing life changing. Perhaps male hunter-gatherers were always wandering off mid-meal to seek a different grub or tuber than the one being served?

It's incredibly hard to maintain a steady stream of thought when there's always the temptation to follow some other niggling idea, an idea that's probably dumber and more trivial than the one you're actually trying to think about. And the internet constantly affords this luxury, so when you have access, it's harder to write long, beautifully constructed sentences like those in Middlemarch.

There's some hard data on this, but you're going to have to wade through a long comment thread on this English Language & Usage Stack Exchange forum.  Or I can save you the trouble: some smart people have come to the conclusion that as time has passed, sentences in literature have gotten shorter and shorter. I've read my fair share of literature and I can confirm that the sentences in Tristram Shandy are generally longer than the sentences in Freaky Deaky. And Hemingway? That guy could barely type a seven or eight word sentence before he had to take a break and grab a scotch and soda.

Anyway, I have been told that when you're writing for the internet, you should keep your sentences short and sweet. Though I ignored this advice for eleven years, I've come to acknowledge that it's true. It's tiring to read on a screen. Short sentences, plenty of paragraph breaks, and white space are an internet writer's best friend.

I really wish that my Kindle Paperwhite had a better browser, so I could read internet articles and posts on a non-glare screen . . . but apparently, no one else wants to do this. The populous demands to see their algorithmically chosen ads in vibrant, persuasive color. The internet would be a totally different experience if it were in matte black and white. Less intense, more about the words, less invasive.

I have lost the thread. Enough digression. Let's get back to using this classic Bud Dry commercial to decipher my riddle-inside-an-enigma personality.

There are five archetypal men presented by the commercial:

Guy # 1

A lot of women find my looks intimidating? Do you?

Once upon a time, I believed I was better looking than my wife. Whether or not this was true is a matter of opinion, but it's debatable. Look at the picture below, and you can be the judge. (Note: this photo is just before young Dave and Cat left on a "just hair-do it" themed bar crawl . . . this was NOT our normal hair).

Currently, there is no question that my wife is much better looking than me. The hair on my head has migrated to my back, ears, and shoulders. So any connection I once had with this guy is long dead. That Dave is gone.

Guy #2

My mother makes the best brisket . . .

Once in a while, I run across a dude who has a really tight relationship with his mother. While I find Woody Allen movies humorous, I don't want anything to do with this guy in real life. Creepy.

Guy #3

There I was, there I was, there I was . . . in the Congo.

This is the guy. This is the dialogue. Brilliant. Classic. Moving. Though I recognize that he comes off as a total douche, I still feel a strong connection with him. He's got an interesting story to tell. He demands your undivided attention. He's probably not going to consider what you have to say, but at least you're in for an interesting ride. He's self-centered, he makes weird gestures with his hands, and he's got his chair turned backward . . . but on the plus side, he's passionate and he's traveled the world.

I've taken my share of shit for being this guy. My wife and I taught in Syria for three years and I have a lot of stories that begin, "There I was . . . there I was . . .  in Damascus." It's insufferable, but I love those memories. I think as I've gotten older, I've gotten more aware about how self-congratulatory those stories are, and I rarely dust them off . . . but when I do: watch out. That guy is me.

I first saw that commercial in the early '90's, long before I had traveled the world, and I felt an instant connection to that weird bit of dialogue. He presented me with my destiny . . . to become that vociferously annoying little man. Luckily, my wife accompanied me on all those adventures, so she never had to endure me telling those stories to her (but she does have to listen to me tell them to other people).

Guy #4

Just a minute . . . okay!

This guy is '90's Donald Trump. He's buying high, selling low, and using his dad's money to get rich (or go bankrupt). I've got none of this guy in me. Zero point zero. I can't stand spending money on clothes, I constantly pass up opportunities to make more money (so I can engage in hobbies like noodling on my guitar, writing this blog, and coaching soccer). But I think it's important to recognize that this is a type of guy, and while I don't really know or hang out with this guy, I've got to acknowledge that guys like this probably control the government and the economy and how the Giants will do next season, and I've passed up my chance to be one of them.

I'll never have a larger sphere of influence. I'll never be that guy.

Guy #5 

You gonna finish that?

At least that's what I think this guy says-- his mouth is full and he's also got a thick New York accent. I appreciate this guy's turned up collar, rolled up sleeves, weight-lifter physique, and forward nature. Plus, he's doing a good deed: he's keeping his girlfriend slender by eating some of her food.

I've definitely got some of this guy in me, though I try to corral him. I've learned to let my wife and kids finish eating before I swoop in and grab the remains . . . but this guy is always lurking in the back of my brain. I may look composed on the outside, but my inner voice is running this monologue:

That's a big pile of fries . . . doesn't look like she can finish . . . and Ian looks full too . . . I think there's still a piece of bacon on that burger . . . patience . . . play it cool . . . patience . . . he's pushing his plate away . . . don't look at it . . .  maintain eye contact with the wife . . . okay, you've counted to ten . . . time to pounce . . . you've got to beat Alex to it . . . maybe you shouldn't have gotten the side salad . . . can they see the saliva is pooling in your mouth?

"Are you going to finish that?

No?"

Yes! It's mine! All mine! My cunning and patience has paid off! Now if I keep it cool, I can parlay this into even more food . . . even more food!

I'm ten percent guy #1, eighty percent guy #2, and ten percent guy #3 . . . and I'm fine with that. In the end, though, the lesson is another sentence from Eliot's Middlemarch:

“Confound you handsome young fellows! You think of having it all your own way in the world. You don't understand women. They don't admire you half so much as you admire yourselves.”

For a long time, I never understood why my wife wasn't more impressed with my snowboarding and soccer skills, why she didn't take more interest in my progress on the guitar. But then I realized, these are the things I admire about myself. She just wants me to help out around the house, do some of the cooking, and listen to her stories . . . which usually begin, "You're not going to believe what happened at work/the garden/the grocery store today!"

And then she names seven people I've never met and places them in an interconnected web of insult and indignation.

It's her version of the Congo.