Display by Label: Cath

"How come when you crack eggs, there's this nice little crack on the side of the shell and you can just separate that sucker all clean-like without getting bits of shell all in the scramble? But when I do it, the side of the egg just crumbles and smashes and falls apart in the pan?"

"Because you're an idiot."

One of C's marketable business skills is boiling complicated things down to their simple essence.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Cath  Ho_Hum 

"I think I'll get Honey another one of those bones for this weekend."

"I don't know ... looks like she's still got some mileage on that one."

"Yeah, but it would probably be good to get her another one anyway, you know."

"No ... I don't. Why?"

"I don't know ... it just would."

"You just like buying her things."

"No ... it's just I think ... they've got expiration dates, those things."

"Bones?"

"Yeah. If they don't, they should. Shit ain't fresh."

"Jesus."

"She needs a new one, that's all."

"Do you even realize it's my birthday tomorrow?"

link to this | comments (2) | File:  TheLine  Honey  Cath 

"David and I could wait for you in LA for a few days of quality time together before we all head off."

"Just to be clear, when C says 'quality time,' she means she will watch anime while I go to the beach to catch up on the latest bikini fashions."

"He sooo gets me."

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Ho_Hum  Cath 

"What is it? Do I stink?"

"Kinda like dog."

"Cool. Honey and I have bonded in smell."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"The thing is, Baby...she doesn't smell like you. It's not a two-way street."

link to this | comments (1) | File:  TheLine  Honey  Cath 

There are a number of ways to bring on a divorce. One sure-fire method is to have an affair. As I've said before, I've never tried this approach, but if I did, ya'll would be the first to know. Another good technique is to spend entire days together doing something inherently frustrating ... like assembling IKEA furniture. C and I gave this one a go on Sunday. And, you know, there may have been a time, several years ago, when engaging in this sort of activity would have been peppered with snarky comments about our respective IQs, and endless repetition of the phrases, "Here, let me do that" and "No, no, no ... it's supposed to go THIS way." And the whole thing might have ultimately led to a day of silence and bruised egos. We are, after all, a couple whose dinner plans got thwarted once over an argument about my driving. (To her credit, C was right: it actually IS impossible to share food with somebody after they've been driving like a granny. And I admit it. I was ... driving like a granny. But in my defense, it was only because I was trying to tell a story. Geez.)

After eight years of marriage, though, you begin to figure out certain things about being with one-another. Like how to tolerate granny driving. And how to put together furniture. Over the last several months, C and I have tackled jobs from the Futon Sleep Shop, to Staples, to IKEA, and I'm happy to report that furniture assembly is no longer the divisive activity it once was. Much the opposite: I think this time it actually brought us closer together. I might even go so far as to say that it was borderline romantic. And yes, I realize that this fact is probably ... no, definitely ... a sad commentary on what we find "romantic" these days. The thing is, we each know our roles in the furniture-assembly equation. C likes puzzles, and she knows that I hate reading instructions of any shape or color. So she handles that part. I like using power tools, and I know C is delicate and girly and averse to calluses, so I do all the grunt work and turning of screws.

As she put it to me before we got started: "You screw and I'll do everything else." (God, I love it when she talks dirty.)

So we have another room mostly done. This time it's C's office which, thanks to a futon, will double as a second guest room for when we have lots of guests ... like this weekend. It's fun having a futon again. I like the way they smell. It reminds me of college. And I guess it probably says something about us that we have both of our offices very near completion and haven't yet a spec of furniture in the living room, aside from my piano.

But back to this weekend ... A bit of Texas is coming to New Jersey this week. Three bits, to be exact. A keg of Miller Lite has been ordered to make it more home-like for them. And there's plenty of Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Jr. on the iPod. Oh, and there will be grilling. Lots of grilling. I'm hoping I don't scare the neighbors, which is why I've invited them all over for the 4th as a sort of North-South peace offering. Hopefully, just like with our furniture-building, just like Barack and Hillary, it will lead to unity. We'll see.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  House  Cath 

In 1972, Franco Harris made the now-famous Immaculate Reception in an AFC playoff game against the Oakland Raiders. And, you know, we really need a name like that to describe what David Tyree did in the fourth quarter of Sunday's Super Bowl game, 3rd and 5 on the 44 with 1:15 left. Was there anybody sitting down on that play? I mean, that catch — hell, the entire drive — just begs to be immortalized with some clever title ripe with miraculous and/or religious undertones. And I've been racking my brain since Sunday trying to think of one, but I've got nothing. All I can think of are bad puns about how Tyree was really "using his head" or how he did a great job of "keeping his head in the game." No, no, no. That's all wrong.

How about . . . Immaculate Reception, Deux? Crap.

Speaking of reception, C and I went all old-school for The Big Game. We watched it — get this — over the airwaves. Because we still lack the Fios. (It's supposed to come tomorrow, but I've heard from our neighbors not to get our hopes up). Anyway, we had planned on going to a bar to watch it and be surrounded by Giants fans. But we were torn because, while that sounded like a lot of fun, we also wanted to see (and hear) the commercials and when you're in a bar, you tend to lose that ability to ambient noise. You also wind up missing crucial moments in history that can occur in a split second. I learned that lesson the hard way a couple of years back with Janet's boob. And let me just say that damn, that Etrade baby cracked me up. So it was all worth it.

So if I remembered my history correctly, we actually had television signals all around us, we just needed a way to turn those signals into a discernible picture on our set. What we needed was that relic of TV communications known as the "rabbit ears." Luckily we had a set, which I had been keeping in my plastic bin of wires for a special occasion such as this. So we got them out. And we stood there, staring at these strange things in my hands, trying to remember what we were supposed to do with them, again. Did we have to plug them into something or did we just put them near the television set and wait? Were we supposed to pray before using them? Should we get out the aluminum foil? We had so many questions.

We played around with the positioning of the rabbit ears (which really look nothing like the ears of rabbits) for a while, doing that dance our fathers did, and their fathers before them. Rabbit ears have such a rich cultural history. I tried standing on one leg, then I held one end of the antennae while pointing to the ceiling with my free hand. There was still a fair amount of snow. C suggested I try it naked, but I was really skeptical that would work. Finally, we found a placement that allowed us to get two channels: NBC and Fox. And of the two, Fox came in the best. In fact, it actually came in better than our Cable-supplied CBS channel in Baltimore, something which had always been a bit of a sore spot for us.

So great, we had Fox. Now we could watch . . . House. But aside from that, who cared? We figured the Super Bowl would be on NBC. And while that channel came in, it certainly wasn't at all purty. Oh well. It would just be part of the experience. We would just pretend it was snowing. Indoors. In Arizona. It would surely put a test to our imaginations. Why did Fox have to be the good channel, anyway? Of all the bloody channels. Then we realized we didn't actually know which channel The Game would be on. Hell, it might be on ABC, which didn't come in at all. So we checked to verify the broadcast station and, well, did I mention things are just kind of clicking here in Jersey? I've never been so happy to watch Fox. Ever.

So we watched the Super Bowl, with damn decent reception, over a set of rabbit ears that had been buried away in a plastic container for years, waiting for this one chance to shine.

And it was glorious.

We watched all the commercials. In part because we wanted to, but also because we lacked a Tivo "Pause" button. When we needed food, we went one at a time so that the other person could tell the one getting food if they were missing something.

And look, I'm not one to gloat about victories, okay? Particularly when it comes to a team which has only recently become my "home team." But when I watched Eli make that final drive down the field, it did generate a few of the warm and fuzzies inside me, I have to admit. And I'm just real sorry there, Pats . . . 18-1 just doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?

So it's a day of celebrations, not just in New Jersey and New York but all over the states. Because it's also Super Tuesday (which is sweet, sweet nectar for political junkies among us — show me your Roll Call) and Mardi Gras (which is sweet, sweet nectar for the cocktail-inclined among us — show me your flask).

Oh, and yes, today is celebratory for one more reason . . . Happy Birthday, C!

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Sports  Giants  Football  Cath 

I've always fancied myself an aficionado of the pop culture, particularly of any variety born or raised in the 80s or 90s. And while I'm not the encyclopedia of information that my friend Mitch is, I am, perhaps, something of an abridged coffee-table reference. Or maybe a pocket dictionary. I remember once playing Trivial Pursuit, 20th Anniversary Edition with C's family several Christmases ago and being given the following question: "Who was the front-man for the 80s rock band Twisted Sister?" I remember how they had all looked at each other like maybe they hadn't read the card right, or perhaps it was written in a different language or something. And whoever had read the question began to put the card back in the box and pass the lot to the next person because, you know, what the hell was a "Twisted Sister" anyway? And, whew! sometimes this game really tossed some crazy shit out there, and well, better luck next time, Dave, and . . . "Dee Synder" I said, confident and matter-of-fact. "I'll take a wedge, please." They all looked at me with wonder and awe. And I sat back and smiled, basking in the glow of my own pop-acumen, a byproduct of my grueling after-school regimen of MTV and Fruity Pebbles. It was tremendously satisfying given the fact that I normally have to sit on the sidelines of most of C's family's discussions because they're apt to involve the finer points of business strategy or physics, subjects which often render me completely mute.

But C got me back last night. After watching our old NFC-East home team get beaten by our new NFC-East home team, C told me to fast-forward past the post-game recap and sideline interviews with Eli and Romo and get on to the next show. We always TiVo football these days so we don't have to watch the commercials. I didn't know it at the time, but C had extended the record time to be sure to catch the show that came on directly afterwards, the pilot of The Sarah Connor Chronicles.

I zipped past Eli in his shag cut telling Pam Oliver how his brother's loss earlier in the afternoon was "tough." Translation: Suck it, Payton. This time I'm the one going to the Championship. Then, I slowed things down when the next show started. At this point I still wasn't sure what the show was. But C seemed excited about it, so I watched the first minute or so. And after seeing a bit of the opening sequence, which involved lots of gun fire and a frightening, indestructible robot, it dawned on me: "Oh, this is that Terminator thing, right? I think I heard about this."

C nodded and eyed me suspiciously. It was as if I had just uttered, "Oh, shoes are things people wear on their feet, right?" — something ridiculously apparent like that. "Yeah," she said, "The Sarah Connor Chronicles."

"Was Sarah Connor one of the characters in the movie, then?" I asked.

Again, I detected some skepticism from C, if not downright distrust. She paused the show. "Yes," she said, minor annoyance brewing. "She was the mom. Remember?" She rewound, then started the action again. Clearly this was not a time for talking.

"Oh sure," I said. I immediately recognized that "the mom" probably should have sufficed as an answer, not — as it did for me — open up more questions, like: You mean there was another character in the movie besides Ahhhnold? Wanting to keep my pop-culture cred in tact, I kept this one to myself and instead decided I'd just let C watch the show in peace and maybe sneak upstairs and look up "The Terminator" on IMDb. I started to get up from the couch. C paused the show again.

"What? You're not going to watch it with me?"

I hesitated. Weighing my options. "Sure," I said, "But . . . you know . . . I . . . " It was time to come clean with her. After all, she was my wife. She'd understand. "You're going to have to bring me up to speed." C looked confused. "I've never seen the Terminators, okay?"

I can't be positive, but I think this was the most outrageous and hilarious thing C had ever heard uttered from anybody's lips, let alone mine. She erupted in laughter, betraying her complete incredulity and wonderment.

"You've never seen the Terminators?"

I shook my head.

C's hilarity gave way to stunned silence and an aw-shucks sort of bewilderment, as if this piece of information was actually making her doubt my very existence. As if she was thinking, by God, who is this man and how did he wind up seated across from me in this living room?

"What else are you going to tell me?" she stammered, clearly disturbed and perplexed over this tragic revelation. She almost seemed sorry for me. Like I had been deprived in some vital way. "I mean, did you ever see . . . Sesame Street? Or how about drink water?" Her eyebrows raised. "Is that something you ever did in your life? Did you ever breathe?"

And that was about the crux of it: For C, a life without science fiction was akin to a life without water or air.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Pop_Culture  Music  Movies  Football  Cowboys  Cath 

A man and a woman are in the lingerie section at Macy's. It seems like they've been shopping for a while. It seems this way by the number of bags they are carrying. White House | Black Market, Nordstrom, Gap. And maybe this is their last stop, and also something of an afterthought. But I wouldn't know this. I couldn't know this. It also seems, by the looks of things, they don't go shopping all that often. It's possible they have a real impatience when it comes to this sort of thing. It's possible the only reason they are doing it now, in fact, is because it has become absolutely necessary. Jeans that no longer fit—the current pair barely held up by a thick brown belt. A black blazer that has been lost, perhaps while traveling in areas north of here. Maybe it's undershirts that bring them to this particular location in the mall. Or bras.

Who knows, though? I'm just making this stuff up.

By the looks of things, it also seems there might be a TiVo recording a football game somewhere in these people's lives. It might be that the football game has been billed as the "Battle of the Unbeatens," and the knowledge of this game being played right now while their eyes itch from the dry air of the department store, and their feet swell, and their minds hum—well, it seems to be distracting them. It's possible they're both fans of the football. They look a little tired. A little antsy, maybe. There could be a cold IPA in this man's imminent future.

All of this, of course, is conjecture.

"Do you like this?" says the woman, motioning to a slight mannequin wearing a bra-and-panties ensemble. The panties have a gold and black pattern. They are lacy around the edges and they are square-cut. The bra is patterned similarly. Gold and black and lace.

"Mmm-hmm," says the man, affirmatively. "Yes, I do." He seems like the kind of guy that really goes for those square-cut-panty numbers. You can spot the type from a mile away.

The woman fingers a strap on the bra. "They always make these cute sets for small-breasted women," she says.

The man takes a step closer and assesses the mannequin. He extends his hand and cups it over the right breast. The breast disappears under his hand, fitting neatly in his palm. "You're right," he says, turning to the woman. "Small." He smiles proudly. It might be he thinks he made a pretty funny joke. Though it's hard to say for sure.

There is some head-shaking from the woman now. Maybe a sigh could be heard. Some exasperation, perhaps. "I really didn't need the illustration," she says, looking around them to see if any of the other respectable women shopping for lingerie had noticed the lowbred oaf standing next to her feeling up the mannequin. She turns, muttering something about embarrassment.

Moments like these, it's easier to write about myself in the third person.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Ho_Hum  Football  Cath 

Me (entering car): Hey, baby!

Kisses. We drive away.

C (sniffing in my general direction): I smell . . .

Me: What?

C: Mustard.

Me: (Blank stare.)

C: Or hotdogs, maybe?

Me: (Head shaking in wonderment.)

C: Have you had something with mustard on it?

Me: I had a turkey sandwich with mustard on it . . . five hours ago.

And, just for the record, I had brushed my teeth since then. And washed my hands. I know a man shouldn't make comments like this about his wife, but sometimes C exhibits characteristics that resemble a Beagle. Which is to say, C's got a sensitive nose. She would make a great sommelier.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Cath 

It's been a while since I've mentioned Hoshi. In part, this is because thoughts, of late, have been consumed with other things, such as trips to Japan, bathroom renovations, condo leasing, and trying to find a place to live in B-More. Even without those things, Hoshi doesn't really factor into my daily thoughts all too often. I don't have the same history with her as I did with Carmen. I only drive her about once or twice a week, usually on the weekends. C and Hoshi have a much more intimate relationship, making their daily hour-and-a-half round-trip commute to the office campus and back together. More and more, people in their 20s and 30s seem to be making this awful reverse commute - not to, but away from - the city. Large companies love cheap land. So they build their campuses far away from anything right and proper. C's office complex is located on a lonely stretch of a nowhere suburban landscape somewhere between DC and Baltimore. It has a name, this area, but we've come to know it, affectionately, as 'The Vortex.' Every morning, C bravely maneuvers Hoshi into this world of clean, right angles and strip centers. And back out in the evening. Sometimes I worry she will be lost inside the swirl of it. But to my relief, she manages to make it back. But a good part of her day is sucked away out there, in the vortex. Lately, she's been working quite hard, and has had to leave before the "no rush hour street parking" begins on Mass Ave. Then she arrives home well after the sun goes down. But she's never lonely on her travels. First of all, she's always equipped with at least two cell phones, and she's not afraid to use them (with headset, of course). Second of all, she's got Hoshi to keep her company. And driving Hoshi on the highway is sometimes all the company you need.

C has gotten used to driving alone. That is, with no other sentient being in the car with her. And this is a good thing. Because anything with a bladder and/or bowels and even the slightest instinct for self-preservation should take great caution when sitting in the passenger seat of a car C is driving, especially Hoshi. Small children and the elderly are probably better off engaging in activities that are slightly less . . . stimulating. Like a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon, or a roller coaster ride on top of New York, New York in Las Vegas.

But I'm probably not the one to be throwing stones here. I'm pretty aggressive myself. It's hard not to be when you're driving Hoshi. That growl works its way through your ass down your leg and into your foot and results in a significant increase in weight in that particular appendage. You get used to the way your stomach always feels like it's a passenger in the back seat. And you like it. The thing about driving alone most of the time is you get used to the fact that nobody is with you. And you can do what you want. I understand it. I got this way in Dallas. You know your route, you take it every day. You know where the pot holes are. You can anticipate every turn, every bump, and - to yourself - you're just driving normally. But when others don't know the route, when others aren't privy to all your knowledge of the road. It leads to a bit of the white-knuckleness.

Anyway, the point is, we're both a little on the aggressive side. But, that said, we do have very different driving 'techniques,' and the fact that the other doesn't share a particular habit has lead to more than a couple heated arguments over the 'correct' way to drive, and even once resulted in the cancellation of our dinner plans. The logic being this: how can I possibly share the same dinner table - let alone the same bed - with this person, who is such an obvious idiot when it comes to maneuvering in heavy traffic? Sometimes our passions get the best of us.

But one aspect of our driving that we both have in common is we like a clean windshield. This is an absolute must. I know there are people out there who drive their cars around with all kinds of shit on the windshield, where the only clear spot is a small area near the rear-view mirror and you have to drive with your head slightly tilted to the right to see anything. And you want to say to them, What is wrong with you, man? Clean that shit off already! And so you nag them into turning on their wipers, but they don't even work properly and all they do is smear the shit around so that now there is a general film o' shit over the entire glass, along with semi-circles of water where the wipers had something stuck to them and left a mark. This drives both C and I equally crazy. And it's one area where we can reach a common ground, bringing us back to speaking terms, where we can again contemplate the prospect of dinner and, thankfully, bed.

With pollen season firmly upon us, having adequate cleaning fluids in the windshield-wiper fluid reservoir is imperative. It's possible that, on a heavy pollen day, we might, in fact, use several cups of the stuff. We usually have a liter bottle of the bright blue liquid in the back, you know, for emergencies. Like the one that happened recently: Much to C's horror, she pulled on the lever one day only to witness a pathetic dribbling of windshield wiper fluid onto the very lowest portion of the glass, an area untouched by the wipers. She pulled into the next gas station, bought a bottle of fluid, and topped off the reservoir. Problem solved.

Or not. A quick test resulted in the same sad display of dribble. This would not do. Was there a problem with the pump? Hoshi was only six months old. Could she be developing these sorts of problems already? This is why we'd moved away from VW's, so we wouldn't have to deal with this kind of slow self-destruction. C told me about the problem and we agreed that something needed to be done about this situation, pronto. So we made an early Saturday appointment at the Mazda dealership, which we both entirely forgot about and slept through the first week. So we re-scheduled for the following Saturday (last Saturday).

Let me pause here to remind people that C defies most gender stereotypes. She is downright intuitive with a map, she cheers louder than me when the Broncos play, and her savvy with a remote control instills in me great fear and awe. So she can hold her own around a car. She's not afraid to lift the hood, kick the tires, or stick her hand in greasy crevices. She certainly knows how to top off windshield wiper fluid.

Unfortunately, the mechanics at the Mazda dealership don't know the C that I have come to know. They don't know the girl who helped me change a car battery in our VW Jetta - a five-hour affair involving lots of cursing and threats to said Jetta of an imminent demise with a large wrecking ball - or replace a halogen headlight. They don't know the girl who gets excited by football stats. Instead, they caught a glimpse of a different sort of C. They bore witness to a C who delightfully re-affirmed all their pre-conceived female stereotypes.

I wasn't there when C got the car, but the exchange seemed to go something like this:

"Well, we topped off your fluids and you're good to go."

"Oh no you don't. You're not going to pull that one over on me. You don't think I tried that already? I topped off the fluid long before I made this appointment and it didn't do anything."

"Really?"

"Yes! So don't try and tell me that's all that's wrong here, because I know . . ."

"Come show me where you put the fluid."

The mechanic lead the way outside. Like Hoshi's freshly cleaned windshield, a similar clearing began to occur in C's mind. And it's generally recognized that a clearing of this sort - in the area of the brain - can often lead to a sinking of the stomach. Suddenly, she didn't want to show the mechanic where she had put the fluid. She didn't want to show herself where she had put the fluid. She didn't want to know.

She pointed to a plastic container that contained a bluish-green liquid. And looked at the mechanic, a bit sheepishly.

He shook his head. "Anti-freeze," he said. Then he pointed to another container. "That's the windshield wiper fluid." The container he pointed to had a cap with the universal sign of squirting arcs of water emblazoned on it.

When she got home, the exchange between us went something like this:

"We need to take the car back at three."

"We do?" I said. "Why? Did they have to order a part?"

"You're going to be mad."

"What?"

"Don't be mad."

"I'm going to be mad if you don't tell me!"

"Well, let's just say they need to flush the coolant . . ."

It turns out putting a little windshield wiper fluid in the anti-freeze isn't actually the worst thing you can do to a car. And they might not have even flushed the cooling system if Hoshi wasn't so gloriously turbo-charged.

It also turns out I wasn't really that upset, considering we'd been driving Hoshi for the last two weeks with her special brand of anti-freeze and it hadn't caused any noticeable problems.

In the end, no eating plans were canceled. And I even resisted the urge to joke (until now.)

In the past, I've made posts about how C defies the natural laws of gender stereotypes. But this post is different. It's a 'Gender Stereotype Affirmation' post. And I'm proud to report that my baby can honestly be a real, live . . . girl! Oh, I've actually known this for some time and there are many other examples I could give to its veracity. But in general, I try to help C maintain her tough-girl image. But every once in a while it's kind of fun to expose the truth.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Cath  GSD  Hoshi