So Tuesday night at dinner, my eight year old son Alex posed this question to my wife: "Would you rather be bigger or smaller?" and my wife said, "Smaller, of course, women always want to be smaller," and then Alex said, "No, really small, like six inches, or really big, like fifty feet," and then my wife answered the question -- and she gave the wrong answer . . . so take a moment and decide which is the correct answer, and then I'll explain why one answer is correct and the other is not . . . okay, so now you've weighed the pros and cons and you're ready to see how well you've done on this very short quiz -- and, because it is only one question, you will either pass or fail; my wife said she would rather be fifty feet tall, and her reason was, "if you're six inches tall, you might get eaten by a dog," and while I can't deny that, there are many more difficulties to overcome if you are very large: mental, social and physical obstacles that could pose some real problems . . . you would have a hard time finding shelter, especially when it's very hot or very cold (my wife said, "You'd build some kind of shed for me," but judging by how long it took for me to build this shed, she'd probably die of hypothermia before I finished) and you would have a hard time hanging out with family and friends -- you'd be isolated and alienated and alone (even if you were famous) -- and you wouldn't be able to read a book or watch TV or see a movie or go to a party or attend class . . . and everything you did would be very public . . . where would you go to the bathroom? and if you got sick, it would take an incredible amount of medicine to make you well, and you'd have to eat an insane amount each day, and though you'd probably receive fashion endorsement money, it would still be very difficult to manufacture clothes for you . . . but if you were small, you could subsist on very little food and water, and as my friend Eric noted, "you'd only need to buy one bottle of bourbon and it would last the rest of your life," and though you would be reliant on people, you'd be so adorable that people would love to take you places and hang out with you and carry you around . . . you're life would be strange, but not horrible, as you'd still be able to do many of the same things you did before -- you could shrink the font on a Kindle and read a book (you could jump on the screen to turn the page) and a YouTube video on a phone would be like a big screen TV . . . and so I asked my students this question, and many of them got it wrong at first, but then they were generally convinced by these arguments to switch to the small size: did you get the answer correct?
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Showing posts sorted by relevance for query wife. Sort by date Show all posts
There Are Too Many Fucking Shows
We signed up for a free Apple TV trial so we could watch Slow Horses (and because my wife is stuck at home healing from foot surgery) and last night we sampled some other Apple TV shows: Smigadoon!-- which was mildly entertaining (from my perspective) and hysterically funny (according to my wife) and two episodes of Mythic Quest-- which we both found witty and compelling-- and then I had to bail out when my wife started some Irish show called Bad Sisters . . . I know this is a first-world-problem, but the amount of shows on all the platforms is actually stressing me out-- we have text threads of recs from our TV-watching friends and while I understand this is the time of year when everyone is watching lots of TV-- it's cold and gray and the holidays are over-- and this is exponentially magnified this year because my wife can't leave the house-- plus there's the Australian Open and college basketball . . . I'm barely reading anything . . . but it appears that winter is over and my wife might get her stitches out tomorrow, so maybe instead of "dry January"-- which is a terrible month to quit drinking anyway-- but maybe instead of that silliness, we need to do "no wifi February" and release our brains from this digital capture.
Next Year, I'll Buy Her Some Earrings
My wife is an excellent cook-- creative, efficient, and unflappable. Her skills are crucial in the fall, when our house is extraordinarily busy. She's usually consumed by teaching elementary school math and science, running the community garden, and directing the school garden club. The boys and I are consumed by soccer. Despite these hurdles, she whips up meal after meal, day after day-- often without any help. This fall she worked around four soccer schedules: Alex played JV soccer, Ian played middle school soccer and for a club team, and I coached the middle school team and the in-town travel team. She's also the go-to person for help with school work (I'm more of a school work consultant, good for specific questions but not really capable of sustained service). Catherine times our family dinners around games, practices, and buses. She's the household MVP, keeping us full and healthy. We rarely ordered pizza.
Years ago, at the end of a similarly busy soccer season, Catherine went on a two-week cooking strike. She decided there was a lack of appreciation for all the planning, shopping, prepping and cooking she had been doing. It was a difficult period. The scab labor was unskilled, surly, and mainly underage. Negotiations were tense. Meals were lame. We survived but did not thrive. The boys and I learned our lesson: it is difficult to plan and serve delicious healthy meals all week. Though we learned our lesson, we didn't learn how to actually pull it off.
Last year when the season ended, we preempted any sort of labor dispute by announcing that we would do the cooking and dinner clean-up for a week. The end of the season coincides with Catherine's birthday, so not only did we avoid a cooking strike but we also provided her with a birthday gift. That's a win-win.
This year for Catherine's birthday, I upped the ante. Not only would I cook for a week, but I would also plan the menu and do the shopping. At the grocery store. Now I know-- truly know-- what it takes to cook various, creative, delicious and healthy meals for a week. It takes the planning skills of Hannibal, the scope and courage of Alexander the Great, and the confidence of Napoleon. And running a campaign like this is stressful, and the best way to relieve stress while you cook dinner is to imbibe. So you'll also need the liver of Winston Churchill.
The first step is to make a menu. Here is mine:
Sunday: green chorizo tacos
Monday: pasta, meat sauce, and sausage
Tuesday: leftovers . . . everyone had something planned
Wednesday: grilled shrimp, snap peas, and thin-sliced crispy potatoes
Thursday: grilled chicken, broccoli and rice
Friday: out to dinner . . . yes!
There was a point during my shopping trip when I nearly broke down and quit. I almost shed tears. Seriously. You'd cry too. The store was huge, disorganized, and there were too many choices. I was in there forever, wandering. I actually found the annex (and bought some facial tissues . . . but I never found the 9-volt batteries). And even after all that time in the store, I still had to stop at the Garden Farm Market on my way home for produce because I couldn't find anything decent at ShopRite.
Why was it taking so fucking long to buy some basic shit? Why are food stores insane?
The new episode of Freakonomics tackles this question. In it, business Professor Michael Roberto makes a pitch:
ROBERTO: “I’d like to open a new kind of grocery store. We’re not going to have any branded items. It’s all going to be private label. We’re going to have no television advertising and no social media whatsoever. We’re never going to have anything on sale. We’re not going to accept coupons. We’ll have no loyalty card. We won’t have a circular that appears in the Sunday newspaper. We’ll have no self-checkout. We won’t have wide aisles or big parking lots. Would you invest in my company?”
This store sounds like a train-wreck. But it turns out that this is a successful business. It's a description of Trader Joe's.
I highly recommend "Should America be Run by . . . Trader Joe's?" It's Freakonomics at its best. The topic sounds boring: grocery stores. But there's a compelling narrative, and an explanation of how you can succeed in a low margin, super-competitive, rather bland business. Trader Joe's is killing it in terms of sales per square foot. How the fuck do they do it?
There are no sales, no discounts, no Whole Foods/Amazon algorithmic data tracking. When you enter the door, you've joined the club. It's kind of fun. Sometimes there's free coffee. There are lots of employees and they are instructed to drop everything and help you if you need help. The last time we were there, my wife couldn't find blue cheese. An employee told my wife that she would go in the back and find the blue cheese for her, and then she told my wife to keep shopping and I'll find you and give you the blue cheese. Brilliant. My wife continued to shop and because the store is small, with no annex, the employee was able to easily find my wife and give her the blue cheese.
During my ShopRite shopping epic, I wandered the meat section at for fifteen minutes, looking for ground pork. I was obviously bewildered. I stumbled on someone who might have been the butcher and asked him if they had ground pork. He said, "Nope. None of that today." Do they ever have ground pork? Could he go in the back and get some? Could he grind some for me? I have no clue and I didn't ask. He didn't offer any more information. I bought some ground turkey instead.
Trader Joe's offers a limited selection of each product and they may switch out a product at any time-- although they always have the staples-- but because the food is good and because you haven't worn yourself out looking for things, when the product you want isn't there, you might actually try something new. The store encourages experimentation. And it's small enough to browse but large enough to have everything you need (especially if it's a branch that sells alcohol). They have three kinds of salsa instead of seventy kinds. And they don't cater to everyone. There's an ethnic bent to the food and if you don't like it, you can shop elsewhere. I've only been inside a Trader Joe's once, and I was slightly overwhelmed-- but I get slightly overwhelmed when I enter any new place, especially when people are frantically buying things . . . it's because I vividly imagine the environmental disaster we are rushing towards. This is more of a "me" problem than a problem with Trader Joe's, and now that I've learned about the store through a podcast, I'm more inclined to go there. Ridiculous, but a little background knowledge goes a long way with me.
Trader Joe's is small on purpose. A typical grocery store carries 35,000 different items. Trader Joe's carries 3000. There aren't that many aisles-- I could walk up and down every single one without suffering a panic attack. And they rush you through the line. No weird interactions where you have to "borrow" the cashier's club card. I don't need to develop that kind of intimacy with someone I just met. If I see them on the street, am I obligated to lend them my umbrella? You don't have a card? Do you want to sign up? Uh . . . maybe? I made that mistake once. There's a Trader Joe's up the road from us now, in North Brunswick. I might go there. On my own. And buy some food. Coming from me, that's a bold statement.
Once I made the menu and purchased all the food, the week went fairly smoothly. Or it appeared smooth from my perspective. I only lost my shit twice. The reason for the smoothness was the lubricant: alcohol. I don't know how people who cook every night don't become raging alcoholics.
My thought process always went something like this: time to cut and pound the chicken! Yuck! Gross! You know what would help with a task this time-consuming and disgusting? Some music. And a beer. It's almost five o'clock.
The only night I didn't drink last week was Tuesday. Leftovers night. Soccer night. I now realize that soccer practice and the fact that my wife does most of the cooking are what stand between me and daily drinking. I know daily drinking doesn't always indicate alcoholism, but it's a step in that direction. And it makes you fat. If I had to cook every meal every night, with only my children to help (who are incredible at disappearing whenever there is work to be done) then my alcohol consumption would triple.
The two nights that I grilled were a double whammy. I normally like to have a beer when I grill . . . it's quiet and relaxing out on the porch; I can look over my sprawling bamboo plants into Donaldson Park. The dog accompanies me and occasionally descends from the porch to chase a squirrel off the property. A warm grill on a cold night, it's the life. But I normally have one beer while I grill. Because my wife is inside managing the other things. The vegetables, the rice, the potatoes, making the salad. whatever. Reminding the kids to finish their homework. Meanwhile, I'm "grilling," which includes a lot of staring into the park and enjoying the fresh air. Occasionally, I'll flip something. But grilling when you are also cooking other things inside the house is not relaxing. It's frantic. And when you're in and out so many times, feeling the pressure to get everything ready at the right time-- doing math, subtracting the minutes that the potatoes will be done from the amount of time it takes to grill shrimp-- then you might grab another beer as you pass by the fridge . . . or another glass of wine. Or another tequila, lime, and seltzer. It's dangerous.
I only lost my cool twice. Once was when I tasked Alex with cooking the snap peas while I finished grilling the shrimp. He decided they were burning-- even though we agreed we wanted them undercooked and crispy-- and he poured a bunch more olive oil in the pan. The peas turned out fine, but sort of drenched in oil. I snapped at him over those snap peas, and I shouldn't have. I told him he should have asked me before doing anything so radical, but then I changed my mind. Chefs get irate in the heat of the moment. I apologized and told him it was good that he took some initiative. Normally when I cook, I ask Catherine a million questions and it drives her crazy. Cooking is experimental, and Alex went for it. Next time he might know better.
The other time I got annoyed is when I was serving dinner and Catherine was fooling around on the computer. The house rule is that you're not supposed to be fooling around on the computer when dinner is served. This house rule is mainly designed for me, so when I chastised her, I had an out-of-body experience. It was like I was her, chastising me.
I'm going to chastise myself now. Time to get off the computer and do the dishes. And miracle of miracles, Catherine has already done the grocery shopping.
Thanks Time! For Saving My (Naked) Ass
I was eating some delicious and weird food at Chef Tan today with my wife and kids, sitting outside on the patio, slurping down some cold clear noodles and hot sauce (these clear noodles are especially transparent, square, and gelatinous . . . like something squeezed out of a psychedelic Asian Play-Doh extruder) and the two teenage sisters from next-door walked by, enjoying a stroll down Main Street on a beautiful day and we said,"Hello" and once they passed my wife remembered something and said, "Oh my God, I forgot to tell you!" and then she told me, and I had a momentary lapse of reason, and then realized the gods of time and space had smiled upon me . . . here is why: my wife informed me that she had seen the older of the two teenage sisters totally out-of-context, when she took the boys on a trip to H2Oooohh water park in the Poconos earlier this summer; I wasn't there-- I was down in Nags Head with friends-- and so I missed this incident; they were inside the park, and Alex was riding the infinite wave rider and our neighbor appeared in front of Catherine and said, "Hi" went over and said "Hi" and my wife didn't recognize her for a moment, because it was so weird to see a neighbor in a water park in Pennsylvania, and it turns out she was working in the park as a counselor, and when my wife told me this, I thought, "Yikes! That was close" because this particular water park was the scene of one of my more egregious awkward moments, when I changed into my bathing suit in a corner of what I thought was the locker room, but it was actually an open waiting area that was masquerading as a lock room, and so I essentially stripped in public . . . it was quite embarrassing and my family still gives me shit about it, but now there's a silver lining, at least I committed this rather heinous act when our teenaged neighbor was not working at the water park . . . so thanks Time, for allowing me to escape years and years of awkward interactions with my neighbors (and to repay you, I will do a naked dance in my yard, slathered in olive oil, at the stroke of midnight on the next Leap Day . . . hopefully, no one will be peering through the bushes).
Looking Through My Mechanic's Son's Eyes
One of the most important things in modern life is to know of a good car mechanic, which I do . . . but he's getting older . . . luckily, his son is taking over the business; when my wife and I dropped off the Subaru the other morning we met the heir-apparent and then when my wife picked up the car later in the day, she got to hear-- secondhand from his dad-- the son's impression of our drop-off; apparently the youngster was amused by the fact that:
1) I didn't know how to work my phone and my wife showed me that if you hit the volume button it turns the ringer on;
2) I didn't understand why my wife was hanging around, I thought she was on her way to work, but she was there to give me a ride back home;
3) I chastised my wife for nearly hitting her brother's truck when she backed out of the driveway and she pointed out that she didn't hit his car and that the two dents in the car were both my fault.
1) I didn't know how to work my phone and my wife showed me that if you hit the volume button it turns the ringer on;
2) I didn't understand why my wife was hanging around, I thought she was on her way to work, but she was there to give me a ride back home;
3) I chastised my wife for nearly hitting her brother's truck when she backed out of the driveway and she pointed out that she didn't hit his car and that the two dents in the car were both my fault.
Saxondale: A Show To Watch When Your Wife Goes Out
As a rule, I never watch television alone (unless it's a sporting event, because then I feel like I'm with the crowd at the event) but the exception is made for Steve Coogan shows-- generally my wife and I have similar taste, but Steve Coogan is where we agree to disagree (although we both watched Hamlet 2 in its entirety, and while I can't really recommend the movie, the final play is pretty funny, especially the big musical number "Rock Me Sexy Jesus") and I already knew this from past events: for example, I loved "Knowing You Knowing Me," the fake talk show hosted by Alan Partridge (Steve Coogan) but my wife didn't find it all that funny, and now Coogan's new show, Saxondale, is beyond the pale in its alienation of the fairer sex; Tommy Saxondale (Coogan) is an ex-roadie-- he toured with all the huge rock bands in the '70's, except Led Zeppelin, which is his life's biggest regret-- but now he's an aging rocker who lives in the suburbs and runs a pest control "business" (he employs one other person) and loves his muscle car (a Mustang) as much as his chubby live-in anarchist girlfriend Magz-- though he still has anger issues about his ex-wife and the general decline of his coolness . . . and I can identify with this: these day I can't really stomach listening to Deep Purple and Jethro Tull any longer-- I've outgrown them and so has Tommy (to be honest, I've always hated Jethro Tull) but I still love jokes and references about them and all the other bands and the muscle cars and I can relate to Tommy's confrontation with his age and his inability to rock-out any more, but my wife could care less, and I can kind of see why . . . so this will be a show to watch when she goes out with the ladies.
Double Van Key Character Building Bicycle Bonus
This morning at 7:45 AM, minutes before first period and just after I got out of the coach's room shower, my phone rang and my wife asked me if I had both of the van keys and I realized that yes I did have both van keys-- last night I drove over to Rutgers because Alex had mistakenly retreated back to college with my wife's credit card and the van key and when I picked up Alex and Ava- they needed a ride to College Avenue-- he put the credit card in my wallet and van key on my chain for the safe-keeping of both objects and then I kept them there safely until this morning, when I took my wife's car to school because Ian needed a car to go to a job interview and we try not to let him use the nice car, so he was supposed to take the minivan but since I had both van keys, my wife had to bike to work and my son had to bike to his job interview at Birnn chocolate-- and my wife got to work on time and my son got the job, so obviously biking places-- even if it is very cold and windy-- builds character and works out in the end (even though when I walked out of the school building this afternoon, my first thought was holy shit, I would not want to be biking in this kind of cold, windy weather).
Another Note to Self . . . This is How to Create an Infinite Loop
An easy way to hear my wife use profanity is to spill some granola on the counter, and then instead of cleaning it up, simply sweep it off the counter and onto the floor where "the dog will get it" but the dog gets scared when my wife uses profanity, so this created a infinite loop of me calling the dog over to lick up the granola, my wife yelling at me for my slovenly habits, the dog skulking away because he thought he was in trouble, the granola mess still being on the floor, and so -- once again -- I call the dog over to eat the granola, my wife yells at me for my slovenly habits, the dog skulks away because he thinks he is in trouble, the mess still on the floor . . . and so finally I swept it up, and I won't do that again (in front of my wife).
Dave is Still Standing (unlike his wife)
What a week . . . I had to make numerous parent phone calls to discuss AI issues in student work-- and this got in the way of my planning for my four preps and grading the vast amount of writing that needed to be graded, so I pretty much lost my mind and freaked out quite a bit . . . one of the downsides to knowing your work colleagues so well is that you're not afraid to melt down in front of them . . . I probably need to start working at a place where I am only professionally acquainted with my co-workers because I'm way too familiar with the folks at my current job . . . which I guess often happens to veteran teachers-- I also accompanied Ian to meet the orthopedic surgeon to discuss options and schedule his ankle/foot surgery to fix his tendon and the fact that his foot bone is 40% out of the socket-- and we met with the same surgeon who was soon to operate on my wife's foot so then I had to endure the stress and anxiety of knowing that my wife was going under the knife for Morton's neuroma . . . and now she's laid up for a couple weeks until her foot heals so it's up to Ian and me to do the cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, and general household chores-- but who is going to shave my back hair, which is getting out of control? and then-- hopefully-- my wife's foot will heal and we'll repeat the same ordeal at the end of March with Ian . . . what a week and what a year, already-- and I have made a wise concession to ensure that I can offer aid when necessary: I'm not playing any impact sports than could possibly reinjure my calf (which is feeling great!) until my wife is on her feet again, because if I go down from playing indoor soccer or basketball or pickleball, then we'll really be fucked . . . or maybe not . . . maybe we'll just wallow in our own filth and order lots of take-out, which could be fun.
Melancholia Makes My Wife Angry (Except For One Brief Moment)
Melancholia, a pretentiously artsy film about depression and the end of the world, did not have the intended effect on my wife . . . instead of making her melancholic, it made her very angry-- the slow pace, the random unexplained images, the self-absorbed and despicable characters-- these finally grated on her nerves so much that-- after an epithet laced hour-- she quit watching, but she got the point: it's a film about the earth's demise, but because you have no emotional attachment to the people in this movie, you don't feel much anxiety as the end approaches; though the characters are awful people, living pathetic, anxiety-ridden lives, I wanted to see their final disintegration, and so I pressed on until the end, but really the most fascinating images are at the beginning of the film, and so while I certainly can't recommend this slog through Lars van Trier's imagination, you might try the watching the montage at the start and the horribly awkward wedding scene . . . Kiefer Sutherland is great, though Kirsten Dunst is rather annoying as a melancholic . . . but I think she got a boob job, so there's that to look at . . . and the one thing that my wife and I both liked about the movie was more of a happy accident than something intentional-- during the generally disastrous wedding, there is one romantic moment: the guests make Chinese sky lanterns and launch them into the night, and this was a helpful scene for my wife and me . . . after we saw The Hunger Games, when we walked out into the dark parking lot, we saw some odd, spooky lights in the night-sky, rising rapidly in formation and then burning out, and after much speculation and discussion, we determined that they must have been Chinese sky lanterns and now, after seeing them up close in the film, we are certain that is what we saw . . . and so for that, and for that alone, Lars van Trier, my wife thanks you.
Notes to Self After a Day of Complete Idiocy
When the sun rose on Saturday morning, I was feeling good about myself and the new day dawning . . . after breakfast I went and played some tennis with my son Ian and our guest Carl-- a ten year old boy from the Bronx who had stayed at our house the past week (my wife arranged this through the Fresh Air Fund, and Carl had never been to New Jersey, so we took him to the beach, to the pool, on a train, to an art museum, etcetera . . . it was exhausting because he had never been to any of these places, but he had a great time and it may have opened my own kids' eyes a little bit to how lucky they have it) and now it was time to take Carl back to the Fresh Air Fund office, which was in Manhattan (3rd Ave) and I volunteered to do this because then I was ditching my family and going to meet Connell and Alec in Asbury Park to see The Dean Ween Group, and as I walked out the door my wife said, "Don't forget to get gas" but-- son of a bitch-- I forgot and didn't remember until I was stuck in traffic inside the Lincoln Tunnel-- and this made me a bit anxious and claustrophobic, but I could see plenty of gas stations on the GPS map on the other side of the tunnel, and once we made it through, I tried to find one, but no luck . . . and then I was in downtown Manhattan on Saturday and the traffic was insane and there were a lot of people and tourists and construction, and I kept making my way towards the little gas symbols on the GPS and inevitably, when I got there, it was a construction site or a plaza or outdoor seating for a restaurant-- and I knew my GPS thing was out of date, but you need a doctorate in computer science to update it-- so I finally called my wife, who has a smartphone-- and told her I was going to run out of gas in Manhattan and I desperately needed her help, and she tried to help me, but every gas station she called was closed, or just a service station-- and during this sequence of calls to my wife, she said that I went through the five stages of grief, denial that there were no gas stations in Manhattan, anger that a city full of cars had no gas to run on, bargaining . . . that if I could just get to the office and drop-off Carl, then I could walk for gas, depression-- she said at one point I was "inconsolable," stuck in traffic between construction and parked cars and close to tears-- because what happens if you run out of gas in a spot like that? do they shoot you for being so stupid?-- and finally, acceptance, I was owning it, I was going to run out of gas in Manhattan and block up some traffic . . . but, luckily, this didn't happen and I got Carl to the office, told them my dilemma and listened to everyone lament the fact that there are no gas stations in Manhattan because of real estate prices, and then I ran on fumes to the one station by the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, drove home, packed my bag and guitar for an overnight stay in Asbury and went to meet my friends, and we went out and drank too much and then went to the Ween show and I dropped a beer bottle and the glass cut up my toes-- which I didn't realize until I went to the bathroom-- and then when we made it back to Connell's mom's condo, I realized that I had lost my wallet, and it was too late to go back to The Stone Pony and try to find it, so I ate some frozen pizza and went to bed, and I had to hang around until noon the next day, when The Stone Pony box office opened, and then I lucked out again-- they had my wallet . . . so quite a day, and all the bad things that happened were totally my fault, and I'm lucky things weren't much worse . . . here are my notes for the future:
1) there no gas stations in downtown Manhattan;
2) I will never drive a car in Manhattan again . . . I can't handle it;
3) I should listen to my wife;
4) if you are trying to get tickets early at The Stone Pony, and there is an Italian woman picking out t-shirts, you might be waiting a LONG time . . . this woman tried on so many shirts that we thought we were on a reality show -- and the girl working the counter was so angry with the Italian woman that she was mean to us too, when we said we just wanted three tickets she said, "Not until I'm finished with her" and glared at us . . . so this lady may have been picking out t-shirts twenty minutes previous to us getting there, and after fifteen more minutes, when her seven year old son, who was sitting patiently on a stool next to his dad, coughed or cleared his throat or made some sound, she chastised him back into compliance and he shrank back into himself (my kids would have trashed the place six times over) and then once she finally got the shirts in the colors she wanted, she got into an argument over the price . . . it was surreal;
5) don't carry too much stuff in your pockets -- i.e. hardshell sunglass case-- because when you leave the bar it will feel like you have your wallet, when you really left it behind;
6) do NOT wear sandals to a concert, especially if you're going to drop a bottle of beer-- which I did . . . I was passing up to Alec, who was right by the stage, and i thought he grabbed it, but he didn't . . . and glass must have gotten into my sandals and then everyone was stomping around and the glass got shoved into my toes and I didn't notice until i went to the bathroom and it was gross-- I'm lucky i didn't get an infection . . . this is similar to what John and I learned at The Cult concert in 1990 in Hampton Coliseum . . . Ian Asbury threw his tambourine into the crowd and there was a melee for it and John and I each had a hand on it and some other dude stuck his arm (which was encased in denim) through the hole and then John's face turned pale and then I felt sick and we looked at our hands and they were all bloody, cut by the razor sharp metal shaker discs, and John had to get stitches;
7) the key to Skeeball might be the bank shot.
1) there no gas stations in downtown Manhattan;
2) I will never drive a car in Manhattan again . . . I can't handle it;
3) I should listen to my wife;
4) if you are trying to get tickets early at The Stone Pony, and there is an Italian woman picking out t-shirts, you might be waiting a LONG time . . . this woman tried on so many shirts that we thought we were on a reality show -- and the girl working the counter was so angry with the Italian woman that she was mean to us too, when we said we just wanted three tickets she said, "Not until I'm finished with her" and glared at us . . . so this lady may have been picking out t-shirts twenty minutes previous to us getting there, and after fifteen more minutes, when her seven year old son, who was sitting patiently on a stool next to his dad, coughed or cleared his throat or made some sound, she chastised him back into compliance and he shrank back into himself (my kids would have trashed the place six times over) and then once she finally got the shirts in the colors she wanted, she got into an argument over the price . . . it was surreal;
5) don't carry too much stuff in your pockets -- i.e. hardshell sunglass case-- because when you leave the bar it will feel like you have your wallet, when you really left it behind;
6) do NOT wear sandals to a concert, especially if you're going to drop a bottle of beer-- which I did . . . I was passing up to Alec, who was right by the stage, and i thought he grabbed it, but he didn't . . . and glass must have gotten into my sandals and then everyone was stomping around and the glass got shoved into my toes and I didn't notice until i went to the bathroom and it was gross-- I'm lucky i didn't get an infection . . . this is similar to what John and I learned at The Cult concert in 1990 in Hampton Coliseum . . . Ian Asbury threw his tambourine into the crowd and there was a melee for it and John and I each had a hand on it and some other dude stuck his arm (which was encased in denim) through the hole and then John's face turned pale and then I felt sick and we looked at our hands and they were all bloody, cut by the razor sharp metal shaker discs, and John had to get stitches;
7) the key to Skeeball might be the bank shot.
No Good Dave Goes Unrewarded
It looks like my stint as a community service pandemic shopper is coming to a close. While there were occasional rewarding moments, I'm happy that this chapter of my life where I pretend to be a good person is over. Unlike my wife, I don't think I'm cut out volunteering for things that are not directly tied to my own self-interest (or the self-interest of my kids, wife, friends, students, etc.)
Of course, it also might have been luck of the draw. She's been shopping for a lovely and grateful Trinidadian woman who lives in the senior community building in our town. The woman regales my wife with stories, dirty jokes, and thanks. My wife truly enjoys doing things for this woman.
I've been shopping for a laconic older gentleman who seems to be something of a shut-in. He lives on the second floor of a house divided into three apartments. An old lady with an eye-patch lives on the first floor. I think she's the landlord. She doesn't approve of all the diet soda and iced tea that my guy buys each week.
I think it's time for my guy to get out and about. He lives right around the block from Stop'n Shop and he mainly eats soup, pineapple chunks, crackers, and lunch meat. They've removed the one-way arrows from the aisles in the store, so I think restrictions are loose enough for him to go for it. He needs to see for himself that there is no such thing as "Medium" eggs. These days it's all "Large" and "Extra-Large."
I don't think he understands that I'm a volunteer and that I don't get paid to buy and deliver his groceries (though I've told him this . . . the graduate student that lives upstairs next to him understands this and has been appreciative of my service and the lady with the eye-patch understands the deal as well).
So we parted ways today with nary a thank you. And his emails have been getting a little weird. I'll give you a sample, so you know what you're getting into when you volunteer for community service. It's not all medals and parades.
Here's a recent one . . . so he's discussing a receipt from two weeks ago:
I went through the register receipt for the groceries you bought on 5/22/20. On the bill from Stop’n Shop on 5/22/20, This item was rung up 3 times—I don’t know what it was. SB is the code for Store Brand: SB.CD.HMST.CHKNN 1.19. Also, on 5/22/20, this item was rung up twice—CMP is the code for Campbells: CMP.GRFORCK.FRN 1.89. I don't know what that item was. The Campbell’s products I bought were rung up elsewhere.
This is what I wrote back:
Not sure what to tell you about this. I don't know the codes for various soups and this was two weeks ago, so I don't think we're going to be able to figure it out. I'll try to make sure that nothing is rung incorrectly-- I'm not sure how this happened or if it was some other kind of soup that got rung up, as they don't always have exactly what you ask for so I try to get something close.
I really love his reply to this. He carefully explains how to go to a grocery store and purchase items, though I've been shopping for him with some measure of success since March!
In the store, I ask that you stay with the cart containing my products. Then watch the cashier's moving belt observing the products on it so that only my products are there. When the cashier is scanning the products, see to it that only my products are scanned. Hopefully, your vigilance will be enough to prevent this problem from happening again.
This is what I wrote back:
Not sure what to tell you about this. I don't know the codes for various soups and this was two weeks ago, so I don't think we're going to be able to figure it out. I'll try to make sure that nothing is rung incorrectly-- I'm not sure how this happened or if it was some other kind of soup that got rung up, as they don't always have exactly what you ask for so I try to get something close.
I really love his reply to this. He carefully explains how to go to a grocery store and purchase items, though I've been shopping for him with some measure of success since March!
In the store, I ask that you stay with the cart containing my products. Then watch the cashier's moving belt observing the products on it so that only my products are there. When the cashier is scanning the products, see to it that only my products are scanned. Hopefully, your vigilance will be enough to prevent this problem from happening again.
I'm really proud of my tone in the reply. I tried to channel Saul Goodman, when he was lawyering for all the old folks. He was always patient, good-humored, and empathetic. Never sarcastic.
You got it. I will keep an eye on things and make sure nothing gets rung up twice or mixed together with any other products.
I really wanted to throw around the word "vigilance" in my reply. Especially in regard to Italian Wedding Soup. But I didn't. I rose above it.
While I'm not going to rush out and volunteer for anything in the near future, I'm happy that I did some service. Before the pandemic, I never went to the grocery store. I was awful at it, so it was easier for my wife to go.
But today, I whizzed through the store, grabbing the stuff on my old man's shopping list like a pro: liverwurst here, bananas there, diet root beer in this spot, reach down for the applesauce, grab a few pears, etc.
Fast and fearless.
But today, I whizzed through the store, grabbing the stuff on my old man's shopping list like a pro: liverwurst here, bananas there, diet root beer in this spot, reach down for the applesauce, grab a few pears, etc.
Fast and fearless.
When I look at the guy I was shopping for, I certainly think: there by the grace of God goes I . . . but perhaps learning to navigate the local grocery store is a step in the right direction for me to avoid that fate.
Dave's Laziness Saves the Day!
If you haven't been following my life (which you should) then I'll give you the quick update, and I've got to warn you, there's been a lot of ins and outs, a lot of what-have-you's and a lot of strands . . . and if you have been following my life, then skim ahead to the new shit that has come to light:
1) the story so far: last week, a pregnant raccoon invaded our attic and had babies, and she did this the day before the insulation guys came to insulate the attic and so when they went up there to pump in the cellulose, they were chased away by an irate mother raccoon who was very concerned about protecting her kits-- kits which were mewling and sleeping directly over our heads in our bedroom; we called a raccoon guy and he came and threw some male scent up there-- which usually causes them to vacate-- and we saw how she got in: she tore off a screen I had stapled under a roof vent (to keep the squirrels out) and we learned that raccoons are much stronger and craftier than squirrels, and then we learned that this particular raccoon was much more stubborn than other raccoons-- the raccoon guy had to come back three times (unprecedented) and the raccoon was especially aggressive, so he had to hurl bamboo javelins of scent back to where the nest was (under the eaves) because the mother was confronting him at the access hole (and this section of the attic is really just a crawl space)
2) the new shit: after a final trip to our house Thursday afternoon, the raccoon guy declared the attic raccoon free, which was quite a relief, and he gave me some big washers and heavy duty screws and told me to use those to affix the screen, as they were raccoon-proof; at this point, I probably should have gotten up on the ladder and made the attic raccoon-proof, but it was almost time for soccer practice and I had just downloaded the Ultimate Guitar app on our Ipad and so instead of screwing in the screen, I played "Don't Go Back to Rockville" while my kids got their cleats and shin-guards on; at this point my wife came home and I told her the good news and she told me that she really thought I should screw in the screen, but I told her that the raccoons weren't coming back and I would do it tomorrow and she told me she wanted to "go on the record" as saying that it was really stupid to put this chore off, especially after all we had been through, but then we had to go to soccer, and when I got home from coaching, I grabbed a bite to eat and took a shower-- in the meantime my friend Connell showed up, as it was pub night; and my wife went "on the record" with Connell as to how I should affix the screen and made it clear to him that she would kill Dave if the raccoons came back due to Dave's indolence, and then I came down and pleaded my case-- I wanted to get a respiration mask at Home Depot and maybe some extra metal screen and mainly I didn't feel like going up there and doing the job and that I would definitely tackle the project tomorrow, and then I went upstairs to get a sweatshirt and I thought I might have heard something in the attic-- but maybe not, because I was starting to hear things all the time, due to a sleepless week of listening to raccoons every night; so then we went to the pub and it was a big night-- lots of people were out and there was much convivial dart-playing with the locals-- and it was getting late (12:30 AM) but we were shooting bulls in a game of cricket (which can take forever) when my phone rang and, of course, it was Catherine and she said "guess what? I heard something" and hung up, so I high-tailed it out of the pub (after taking two more turns at the bull) and when I got home she called me a "selfish lazy asshole" and I agreed with her and told her I was completely wrong and that I should have manned-up and gotten up there immediately and that I had no excuse except that "I didn't want to" and then we heard another sound later in the night and figured it was the mother leaving for the last time (perhaps she forgot her phone?) and we didn't hear the babies so we assumed that she carried them to a new spot (which is what the raccoon guy said would happen) and I got up early-- bleary eyed and slightly hungover-- and accepted my punishment: I set up the ladder and climbed into the dusty, nasty crawl space (without a dust mask) and stapled the screen into place and then I promised Catherine I would screw it in tight when I got home from school; despite the lack of sleep and the late-night scolding from my wife, it was still a fun day at work-- I got to recount the story and issue a dire warning to my students about the consequences of procrastination and I planned to get Catherine some flowers with a note attached that read "You Were Right!" to restore marital bliss, and just after I gave my last period of the day a much anticipated "raccoon update" my phone rang, and even though I was teaching, I answered it . . . it was my wife and she said, "the raccoons are still in there, call me as soon as you can" and then-- in a sequence of texts and phone calls-- I learned that when the insulation guy went up to finish blowing cellulose into the other side of the attic, the side you can stand in, he was attacked again and he literally had to jump through the attic access hole at the top of the stairs (a bigger hole than the one in our bedroom) and then the raccoon retreated to a deep recess in the attic where the old house met the new house, so Mark (the most heroic insulation guy in the universe) went back up there and covered that spot with a roll of fiberglass insulation and then Wayne -- the contractor, also a great guy and extremely good-natured about this insanity-- came over with a thermal sensor (which looks like a large stud-finder, but costs eight grand) and located the nest; the kits were behind Alex's closet; so he drilled a two inch hole, and when I arrived home from work, I was able to see the babies through this hole, you could poke them, and apparently the mom was somewhere in this recess as well, somewhat trapped by the insulation; Mark also reported there was some other carcass (with maggots on it) in the recess next to this one-- it was either a squirrel or a raccoon, he couldn't tell and he couldn't get it out until the mother raccoon was gone; the raccoon guy came back over and said he didn't realize that the mother could get to the other side of the attic and he recommended laying down more scent in the attic and in the nest hole, and promised she would soon vacate, but Wayne -- the contractor-- wanted to get the job done as soon as possible and was seriously thinking about cutting a hole in the closet wall and trying to capture the mother and get her out that way; there was an interesting, slightly confrontational showdown between the contractor and the raccoon guy, with each of them questioning the other's methods, but the raccoon guy finally convinced Wayne that a cornered raccoon is a vicious dangerous, disease-ridden beast, and Wayne decided he would just have to finish the job later; now all this was compelling drama, but this is what is truly important about the story;
3) part three . . . the moral: what's truly important here is that Dave is no longer in trouble and, in fact, his wife even said that Dave's laziness was "a blessing in disguise" because if Dave would have permanently affixed that screen-- as his wife suggested-- then the mother would have either been trapped in the attic and ripped her way out, or perhaps, she would have been "locked" out of the attic and done serious damage trying to get back in, or she would have abandoned her babies and they would have died in there, creating a horrible stench; so marital bliss was restored (without flowers) and I was a hero in the manner of Hamlet; at this point I decided to switch things up and actually do some stuff, so I reconnected with my eccentric animal trapping neighbor Leonard-- who I hadn't spoken with since this incident-- and though he had given up trapping animals and driving them far from the borough, he was extremely helpful and set me up with a nice metal trap and warned me six way to Sunday about how mean and nasty raccoons were and how they would "rip your arm off" and so I put the trap up in the attic just for extra insurance (baited with marshmallows and peanut butter) and broke the access panel while doing this, so I had to pull out some plywood and cut a new panel-- which was scary because it meant the attic was wide open and that crazy animal was definitely up there-- but I got that done and the panel back in place and then we went to dinner for my grandmothers 93rd birthday, dropped the kids at my parents' house because our house was a mess and full of dust and debris, and then Catherine and I returned home and quickly fell asleep . . . and in the middle of the night Catherine heard the mother carrying out all the babies and in the morning we checked the hole in the closet and the babies were gone . . . so I stapled the screen in place -- very lazily-- and if that loosely affixed screen stays put, then we know we are raccoon free and I can get up there and screw it in, and if not, I'll be writing another extremely long sentence; again, to reiterate, the point of this story is that Dave's Laziness looked like it might undo him, but instead his unmitigated sloth saved the day!
1) the story so far: last week, a pregnant raccoon invaded our attic and had babies, and she did this the day before the insulation guys came to insulate the attic and so when they went up there to pump in the cellulose, they were chased away by an irate mother raccoon who was very concerned about protecting her kits-- kits which were mewling and sleeping directly over our heads in our bedroom; we called a raccoon guy and he came and threw some male scent up there-- which usually causes them to vacate-- and we saw how she got in: she tore off a screen I had stapled under a roof vent (to keep the squirrels out) and we learned that raccoons are much stronger and craftier than squirrels, and then we learned that this particular raccoon was much more stubborn than other raccoons-- the raccoon guy had to come back three times (unprecedented) and the raccoon was especially aggressive, so he had to hurl bamboo javelins of scent back to where the nest was (under the eaves) because the mother was confronting him at the access hole (and this section of the attic is really just a crawl space)
2) the new shit: after a final trip to our house Thursday afternoon, the raccoon guy declared the attic raccoon free, which was quite a relief, and he gave me some big washers and heavy duty screws and told me to use those to affix the screen, as they were raccoon-proof; at this point, I probably should have gotten up on the ladder and made the attic raccoon-proof, but it was almost time for soccer practice and I had just downloaded the Ultimate Guitar app on our Ipad and so instead of screwing in the screen, I played "Don't Go Back to Rockville" while my kids got their cleats and shin-guards on; at this point my wife came home and I told her the good news and she told me that she really thought I should screw in the screen, but I told her that the raccoons weren't coming back and I would do it tomorrow and she told me she wanted to "go on the record" as saying that it was really stupid to put this chore off, especially after all we had been through, but then we had to go to soccer, and when I got home from coaching, I grabbed a bite to eat and took a shower-- in the meantime my friend Connell showed up, as it was pub night; and my wife went "on the record" with Connell as to how I should affix the screen and made it clear to him that she would kill Dave if the raccoons came back due to Dave's indolence, and then I came down and pleaded my case-- I wanted to get a respiration mask at Home Depot and maybe some extra metal screen and mainly I didn't feel like going up there and doing the job and that I would definitely tackle the project tomorrow, and then I went upstairs to get a sweatshirt and I thought I might have heard something in the attic-- but maybe not, because I was starting to hear things all the time, due to a sleepless week of listening to raccoons every night; so then we went to the pub and it was a big night-- lots of people were out and there was much convivial dart-playing with the locals-- and it was getting late (12:30 AM) but we were shooting bulls in a game of cricket (which can take forever) when my phone rang and, of course, it was Catherine and she said "guess what? I heard something" and hung up, so I high-tailed it out of the pub (after taking two more turns at the bull) and when I got home she called me a "selfish lazy asshole" and I agreed with her and told her I was completely wrong and that I should have manned-up and gotten up there immediately and that I had no excuse except that "I didn't want to" and then we heard another sound later in the night and figured it was the mother leaving for the last time (perhaps she forgot her phone?) and we didn't hear the babies so we assumed that she carried them to a new spot (which is what the raccoon guy said would happen) and I got up early-- bleary eyed and slightly hungover-- and accepted my punishment: I set up the ladder and climbed into the dusty, nasty crawl space (without a dust mask) and stapled the screen into place and then I promised Catherine I would screw it in tight when I got home from school; despite the lack of sleep and the late-night scolding from my wife, it was still a fun day at work-- I got to recount the story and issue a dire warning to my students about the consequences of procrastination and I planned to get Catherine some flowers with a note attached that read "You Were Right!" to restore marital bliss, and just after I gave my last period of the day a much anticipated "raccoon update" my phone rang, and even though I was teaching, I answered it . . . it was my wife and she said, "the raccoons are still in there, call me as soon as you can" and then-- in a sequence of texts and phone calls-- I learned that when the insulation guy went up to finish blowing cellulose into the other side of the attic, the side you can stand in, he was attacked again and he literally had to jump through the attic access hole at the top of the stairs (a bigger hole than the one in our bedroom) and then the raccoon retreated to a deep recess in the attic where the old house met the new house, so Mark (the most heroic insulation guy in the universe) went back up there and covered that spot with a roll of fiberglass insulation and then Wayne -- the contractor, also a great guy and extremely good-natured about this insanity-- came over with a thermal sensor (which looks like a large stud-finder, but costs eight grand) and located the nest; the kits were behind Alex's closet; so he drilled a two inch hole, and when I arrived home from work, I was able to see the babies through this hole, you could poke them, and apparently the mom was somewhere in this recess as well, somewhat trapped by the insulation; Mark also reported there was some other carcass (with maggots on it) in the recess next to this one-- it was either a squirrel or a raccoon, he couldn't tell and he couldn't get it out until the mother raccoon was gone; the raccoon guy came back over and said he didn't realize that the mother could get to the other side of the attic and he recommended laying down more scent in the attic and in the nest hole, and promised she would soon vacate, but Wayne -- the contractor-- wanted to get the job done as soon as possible and was seriously thinking about cutting a hole in the closet wall and trying to capture the mother and get her out that way; there was an interesting, slightly confrontational showdown between the contractor and the raccoon guy, with each of them questioning the other's methods, but the raccoon guy finally convinced Wayne that a cornered raccoon is a vicious dangerous, disease-ridden beast, and Wayne decided he would just have to finish the job later; now all this was compelling drama, but this is what is truly important about the story;
3) part three . . . the moral: what's truly important here is that Dave is no longer in trouble and, in fact, his wife even said that Dave's laziness was "a blessing in disguise" because if Dave would have permanently affixed that screen-- as his wife suggested-- then the mother would have either been trapped in the attic and ripped her way out, or perhaps, she would have been "locked" out of the attic and done serious damage trying to get back in, or she would have abandoned her babies and they would have died in there, creating a horrible stench; so marital bliss was restored (without flowers) and I was a hero in the manner of Hamlet; at this point I decided to switch things up and actually do some stuff, so I reconnected with my eccentric animal trapping neighbor Leonard-- who I hadn't spoken with since this incident-- and though he had given up trapping animals and driving them far from the borough, he was extremely helpful and set me up with a nice metal trap and warned me six way to Sunday about how mean and nasty raccoons were and how they would "rip your arm off" and so I put the trap up in the attic just for extra insurance (baited with marshmallows and peanut butter) and broke the access panel while doing this, so I had to pull out some plywood and cut a new panel-- which was scary because it meant the attic was wide open and that crazy animal was definitely up there-- but I got that done and the panel back in place and then we went to dinner for my grandmothers 93rd birthday, dropped the kids at my parents' house because our house was a mess and full of dust and debris, and then Catherine and I returned home and quickly fell asleep . . . and in the middle of the night Catherine heard the mother carrying out all the babies and in the morning we checked the hole in the closet and the babies were gone . . . so I stapled the screen in place -- very lazily-- and if that loosely affixed screen stays put, then we know we are raccoon free and I can get up there and screw it in, and if not, I'll be writing another extremely long sentence; again, to reiterate, the point of this story is that Dave's Laziness looked like it might undo him, but instead his unmitigated sloth saved the day!
Like Father, Like Mad Cartographer
Last night, at Frankie Feds-- a thin crust pizza joint in Freehold that you should visit-- my son Alex said something inadvertently resonant. He said it to me, and my wife did not hear (it was really loud-- there was a kid's birthday party, and the kids were young and screaming, and the parents were drunk-- as you need to be when you've got young kids-- and they were screaming over the kids. Two large tables of loud adults and one large table of shrieking children. The wait staff gladly moved us as far away from them as possible, but you could still hear them. Also, everyone had a pumpkin).
Anyway, down at our end of the table, my father was telling Alex and Ian he had an atlas for them-- someone gave it to him-- and Alex made a wisecrack about how many atlases we have around the house (though I've cleaned out my books, I just can't seem to part with the atlases) and then he thought for a moment and asked a serious question. "Could I tear pages out of the atlases and put the maps on my wall? Over the Lego Star Wars?"
Anyway, down at our end of the table, my father was telling Alex and Ian he had an atlas for them-- someone gave it to him-- and Alex made a wisecrack about how many atlases we have around the house (though I've cleaned out my books, I just can't seem to part with the atlases) and then he thought for a moment and asked a serious question. "Could I tear pages out of the atlases and put the maps on my wall? Over the Lego Star Wars?"
Alex has an amazing Lego Star Wars mural on his wall, painted by the artistic sister of a friend way back when he was into stuff like that. But now he's a sophomore in high school.
If he's ever going to kiss a girl, it's probably time to obscure the mural.
My younger son Ian chose a slightly more classic theme in his room: a jungle tree full of stylized animals.
If he's ever going to kiss a girl, it's probably time to obscure the mural.
My younger son Ian chose a slightly more classic theme in his room: a jungle tree full of stylized animals.
Ian should be fine with the ladies. The King himself had a jungle room.
I made Alex walk over to the other side of our big table and repeat the question to my wife.
"Mom, can I cover my Lego Star Wars wall with maps? We have all these atlases . . ."
My wife laughed. The apple does not fall far from the tree. When she first met me, I lived in a disgusting flophouse in East Brunswick, right on Route 18. It was old-- historic-- with lots of little rooms. A bunch of my friends had rented it for cheap, and we were primitive. I slept in a sleeping bag on a camping pad. I shared the room with my buddy Ryan. He agreed to my cartographically themed decorating plan.
I raided the old National Geographic magazines in my basement, and I took all the maps. I covered every surface of our room with them. Walls, doors, closets, and ceiling. And for some reason that I can't recall now, I hung all the maps with toothpaste.
This worked.
Sort of-- until it didn't.
Then the maps hung in assorted ways on the walls and ceiling, corners flopping and flapping. And the room smelled like mint. It's shocking that my wife continued to date me, as a room with no mattress, a sleeping bag, and an array of maps on every surface is a stone's throw away from a serial killer's den (maybe not even a stone's throw, maybe closer than that, maybe a shot-put toss away from a serial killer's den).
So Catherine laughed at Alex's request to cover his walls in maps. She had been there before.
I told him to go for it. In my limited experience, chicks who dig maps are cool.
"Mom, can I cover my Lego Star Wars wall with maps? We have all these atlases . . ."
My wife laughed. The apple does not fall far from the tree. When she first met me, I lived in a disgusting flophouse in East Brunswick, right on Route 18. It was old-- historic-- with lots of little rooms. A bunch of my friends had rented it for cheap, and we were primitive. I slept in a sleeping bag on a camping pad. I shared the room with my buddy Ryan. He agreed to my cartographically themed decorating plan.
I raided the old National Geographic magazines in my basement, and I took all the maps. I covered every surface of our room with them. Walls, doors, closets, and ceiling. And for some reason that I can't recall now, I hung all the maps with toothpaste.
This worked.
Sort of-- until it didn't.
Then the maps hung in assorted ways on the walls and ceiling, corners flopping and flapping. And the room smelled like mint. It's shocking that my wife continued to date me, as a room with no mattress, a sleeping bag, and an array of maps on every surface is a stone's throw away from a serial killer's den (maybe not even a stone's throw, maybe closer than that, maybe a shot-put toss away from a serial killer's den).
So Catherine laughed at Alex's request to cover his walls in maps. She had been there before.
I told him to go for it. In my limited experience, chicks who dig maps are cool.
Bags, Cans, Baskets, Etc.
During our vacation in Vermont my wife got to spend more time than usual with me, and so while she got to see how I operate out in the world, I had to endure her criticism -- which was always warranted, but I'm used to doing things in my own particular style, and when she's not there to witness my own particular style, then I think everything is going just fine; here are three examples from the trip that come to mind:
1) I have a poor sense of direction, but I like to drive -- especially in mountainous terrain, because controlling the car keeps me from getting carsick -- and over the course of our week vacation, we took quite a few drives -- for lunch, to snowboard, to shop -- every single time we approached the town of Weston, I had to ask my wife which way to turn (left) and if she asked me which way I thought I had to turn, I would yell, "Just tell me!"
2) we had to take the trash to the dump, because there was no garbage service at the house -- and I put the trash can in the back of the mini-van -- but the seats were folded down -- and so I tried to use the seat-belt to hold the garbage can in place, but every time I stopped short, the can tipped over, spilling garbage juice into the car, and the first two times the can tipped I told the kids to unbuckle their seat-belts and run back there and right the can -- which they thought was awesome . . . "We're walking around in the car while it's driving!" and I was thinking, "Welcome to 1978" and then my wife ended the party by asking, "Why didn't you put on of the seats up and put the can in the well?" and I told her that sounded like a great idea, and that I wasn't sure why I didn't think of that (perhaps I am an idiot?) and when I stopped the car and went back there and tried it, the garbage can fit perfectly and did not spill;
3) at the grocery store, I noticed that Switchback Ale was only $3.99 per twenty-two ounce bottle, instead of the $5.99 per bottle price at the beer store, so I brought six bottles up to the register, along with a frozen pizza and a rotisserie chicken -- and the old lady scanned the beer first, and put the large bottles in three little paper bags -- two beers per bag, and while Catherine was getting out money to pay for everything, I decided that my part of the transaction was over, and grabbed one of those little plastic grocery baskets and put the beer in it, and the old lady gave me a funny look and said, "You're going to bring that basket back, right?" and I said, "Of course, I'm just afraid if I carry these bags loose I'll have an accident," and then left, but my wife got to see her slow head-shake of disapproval at my strange behavior, because she was going to put those three paper bags into another plastic bag, which I didn't anticipate, because I have no patience and very poor communication skills (unless I'm talking about something I just read).
1) I have a poor sense of direction, but I like to drive -- especially in mountainous terrain, because controlling the car keeps me from getting carsick -- and over the course of our week vacation, we took quite a few drives -- for lunch, to snowboard, to shop -- every single time we approached the town of Weston, I had to ask my wife which way to turn (left) and if she asked me which way I thought I had to turn, I would yell, "Just tell me!"
2) we had to take the trash to the dump, because there was no garbage service at the house -- and I put the trash can in the back of the mini-van -- but the seats were folded down -- and so I tried to use the seat-belt to hold the garbage can in place, but every time I stopped short, the can tipped over, spilling garbage juice into the car, and the first two times the can tipped I told the kids to unbuckle their seat-belts and run back there and right the can -- which they thought was awesome . . . "We're walking around in the car while it's driving!" and I was thinking, "Welcome to 1978" and then my wife ended the party by asking, "Why didn't you put on of the seats up and put the can in the well?" and I told her that sounded like a great idea, and that I wasn't sure why I didn't think of that (perhaps I am an idiot?) and when I stopped the car and went back there and tried it, the garbage can fit perfectly and did not spill;
3) at the grocery store, I noticed that Switchback Ale was only $3.99 per twenty-two ounce bottle, instead of the $5.99 per bottle price at the beer store, so I brought six bottles up to the register, along with a frozen pizza and a rotisserie chicken -- and the old lady scanned the beer first, and put the large bottles in three little paper bags -- two beers per bag, and while Catherine was getting out money to pay for everything, I decided that my part of the transaction was over, and grabbed one of those little plastic grocery baskets and put the beer in it, and the old lady gave me a funny look and said, "You're going to bring that basket back, right?" and I said, "Of course, I'm just afraid if I carry these bags loose I'll have an accident," and then left, but my wife got to see her slow head-shake of disapproval at my strange behavior, because she was going to put those three paper bags into another plastic bag, which I didn't anticipate, because I have no patience and very poor communication skills (unless I'm talking about something I just read).
One is the Zoneliest Number
Our cross-country trip spanned 6440 miles-- kudos to the minivan-- and we spent over three weeks together, often in the car (22 days, to be exact) and my wife and I only got into one fight, which I think is fairly commendable . . . it was in Taos, on the plaza-- I got some iced coffee and my wife went to the bathroom, and both kids were with me, and across the hall from the coffee place was a high-end rock shop (they had a fossilized mammoth femur . . . six grand) and so we went across to browse, but we kept checking for my wife, so we could catch her as she walked by, but we somehow missed her and she didn't see us in the coffee shop and so she walked across the plaza and then all the way back to the car and then back to the plaza, and-- after checking near the bathroom and asking about her at the hotel desk-- we poked our heads outside and found her, in an irate mood, looking for us again in the plaza . . . and we argued about who was right: I said that you should never move from the original spot, and that's where we kept checking and we were very close to the original spot and we were totally concerned about her and I took umbrage at the fact that she was accusing us of just wandering away and forgetting about her because we were totally trying to find her (but we were also trying to look at high end rocks and fossils . . . and I didn't tell her this, but I was chatting with the shopgirl about the quality fish fossils we brought back from Byblos in Lebanon for a bit and that's when she probably walked past us) and her point, which was a good one, was that we should not have moved from the original spot and she thought we abandoned her and then she insulted my phone provider (Ting) because her texts and calls didn't go through, and I took offense at that as well, because my phone works just fine and I received a call from her earlier, from across the plaza, and after we said our fill, we didn't talk for twenty minutes . . . and we didn't even play the radio-- and the kids kept quiet too, probably because we hadn't fought all trip, and after we cooled off, we both agreed that it was a silly fight and Catherine said that I was totally right and she should have waited at the coffee shop and that my phone provider is boss and she's grateful for how much money I save the family and that she understood how alluring a high-end fossil shop can be . . . or maybe she didn't say those exact things, and I was smart enough to let the argument drop without trying to get her to say those things-- which is my usual mistake-- and then we were back in the congenial zone that comprised most of the trip, and the moral here is that I have a great wife who I get along with even in the most claustrophobic situations and that though we provide excellent role models for our children, it doesn't rub off on them in the least and they bickered at least once every twenty-five minutes for twenty-two days straight.
My Wife Goes Cruising For Vengeance
Today was "Garage Sale Day" in Highland Park and my wife wanted nothing to do with it-- we had some junk in the storage area but she just wanted to put it out to the curb and let people have it for free, but I insisted on setting up a few tables and I said I would stay out there for a bit and run the sale and then I would put out a "Take What You Like, Pay What You Can" box . . . and as my wife predicted, my tolerance for sitting outside minding the sale did not last very long-- I would make a terrible shopkeeper-- and after 30 minutes I came inside and told her I was putting a box outside and heading to the gym; she laughed at my capriciousness but an hour later, when I got back from the gym, I noticed that our outdoor chairs were missing-- the ones that sit beside the little table in front of the house-- one of the chairs had been pulled out as a stand for the "Pay What You Can" box but the other chair was hidden behind the ping-pong table (and obviously not for sale) and when I told Catherine this she was very pissed off because she really liked those chairs (which she got for free years ago-- someone was giving them away-- with a matching table) and she laid into me for not staying outside and minding the sale so I went to the Ring camera and figured out who took the chairs-- it was an Asian lady driving a white Lexus . . . it was hysterical, you could see her snooping around behind the ping-pong table and grabbing the other chair-- and I said to my wife, "If you're so pissed off, go for a ride and maybe you'll find the lady" and she told me that was stupid and she had a lot of work to do-- but then five minutes later she got into the car and went cruising for venegance, she set off in the same direction as the Lexus-- which our neighbor's told us had NY plates-- and lo and behold! miracle of all miracles!-- she spotted the white Lexus with NY plates on Woodbridge Avenue and confronted the lady-- who apologized and gave the chairs back (and she didn't even put anything in the box!) and then Catherine returned triumphant, and out neighbor John pronounced her a neighborhood hero, AND I ended up making nearly fifty bucks in the "Pay What You Can" box . . . which really should have been a metal can.
Possum Week
I was walking my dog early in the morning-- before sunrise-- and it was foggy, moonless, and still; suddenly he lunged at a gray cat on the sidewalk . . . I was able to yank him away before he got too close-- but this cat reacted oddly, instead of arching its back and hissing, the cat collapsed into a lifeless lump, and upon closer inspection, I realized it was not a cat, but a possum, and it was actually playing possum . . . I had the urge to kick it, to see it come back to life, but I couldn't get any closer because my dog was going bananas . . . so later that day I told the tale to my kids, who were fascinated with this odd marsupial that lives among us, and then two days later-- miraculously-- when my wife and children were visiting "Field Station Dinosaurs," a leafy park in Seacaucus filled with animatronic dinosaurs (I couldn't go because of my stupid pulled quad muscle) my son Ian was selected to "play possum" during a live action dinosaur show; according to my wife, the MC asked for a volunteer who knew how to "play possum" and Ian raised his hand and he was chosen to come on stage . . . and when the MC asked him to "play dead," my wife said Ian closed his eyes and stiffly fell over backward and then never moved, despite the investigations of a giant T. Rex . . . and though Ian claims he wasn't scared at all, my wife has her doubts (and, if you look at the above photo of Ian being nuzzled by the T. Rex, that thing is damned scary).
What Does the Fox Scream?
I thought that when our coffee maker broke, that was the perfect ending for this summer-- but it wasn't-- the perfect ending was a monster rain event that flooded our basement (and everyone else's basement in the vicinity) so I spent my last night of summer dragging furniture up the basement stairs; shop-vacuuming water from the basement floor; setting up a sump pump in the basement shower; building a tarp and whiteboard tent around a leaky basement window in a monsoon, and admiring the fact that my shed stayed bone dry because of the expert flooring and drainage system I constructed; some irony here-- earlier in the day, the kids and I did a massive deep clean of the house to surprise my wife when she arrived home from her first day of school-- we cleaned bathrooms and sorted shelves and vacuumed stairs and carpets and spun the kitchen table so the carpet wouldn't pop up . . . and the kids were cooperative and hard-working and my wife was duly impressed but it all came to naught, because the house got really dirty again because of the flood-- I'll provide pictures and more tomorrow, but now I've got to go to a birthday event-- but late last night, when the park was flooded and the eamimals had to roam the streets, I saw a couple fox strolling down our street and they started SCREAMING . . . apparently this is what they do-- and then I got up and went to work, while my wife and kids cleaned up from the flood-- my wife's school was canceled and my kids haven't started yet-- and now the park is still flooded and all the roads are closed, an epic way to start the school year.
When In Doubt, Blame It On Your Wife
I certainly have no problem blaming things on my kids that are actually my own fault, but there are times when it's much more logical to throw your wife under the bus; last week, I had to take my mini-van to the dealer to get a key transmitter -- and it's already humiliating enough for me to deal with mechanics, because while I teach kids how to write poetry, mechanics get to use powerful pneumatic tools and have extremely manly work-clothes -- but to add insult to injury, when the guy in the overalls asked for my registration and insurance card so he could take down the VIN and some other information, I couldn't find either . . . I searched the glove compartment, the cup-holders, the ashtray, and the floor . . . but no luck, and I finally told him, "My wife drives this car and I don't know what she did with everything," but that's not true, I drive the mini-van, but I had no idea where any of that stuff actually was, and (after I called my wife) what I didn't realize is that there is a second glove little glove compartment above the big glove compartment, and that's where we keep that stuff . . . and the bright side is: at least this ignorance didn't occur when I was being pulled over by a cop for a moving violation.
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