Display by Label: GSD

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 

If you happen to be standing outside of our apartment door on a Sunday afternoon between now and February 4th, you may be shocked to hear the sound of a female voice shouting furious words at some unlucky SOB. Don't be concerned. The threats are meaningless. And that unlucky SOB is not me. It's the TV set. C and I are just watching a little of the football.

Over the years, C has taken a liking to pro football. I take full responsibility for this. Believe me - I knew not what I was doing. C has actually turned into a far more dedicated fan than myself. She enjoys watching just about any game, regardless of whether she likes the teams. This is all very interesting since my desire to stay home on one particular Monday night nine years ago and watch the Broncos play the Patriots - rather than meet her at a bar to celebrate the completion of her last exam - very nearly put an end to our nascent relationship. Later that season, the Broncos went on to their first Super Bowl win. It was an emotional game. We watched it together at a friend's house, and I'll admit that some tears were shed that night (possibly by me) at the sight of John Elway holding that trophy over his head. Some women might be ashamed to see their new boyfriend moved to watery eyes over a football game. But not C. Lucky for me, she was hooked - not just to me, but to football.

Over the next couple of years, as we watched games together, C would ask me questions about the game. The player positions, the rules, the strategies. I was the guide, and she the young apprentice. She was a fast learner, and absorbed every aspect of the game. Soon, I could no longer answer her questions. They became increasingly complicated and usually involved knowledge of stats, percentages, and prior scores which, as I've mentioned before, I typically have no mind for. This has always made me feel a bit inadequate, not only as a 'football fan,' but as a red-blooded, American male. But C, once the apprentice, is now helping guide me back to my God-given role as alpha football fan in the family. Together, we're journeying into a realm of football watching neither of us ever imagined possible. We now watch games with laptops open to both ESPN.com and NFL.com. Reading the detailed play-by-plays, watching the stats and percentages of the game as it unfolds. Looking up historical averages for teams and players. This is serious stuff.

Now if I could just find that spark of passion that would make me get up and cheer and shout, maybe and even tear-up when my favorite team wins the Super Bowl. I guess in my thirties I've become a little less impassioned when it comes to these things. But I miss it. Not only in football. I miss it generally - in life. So it was with pride that I looked over at C protesting some terrible call this weekend as we watched Indianapolis play the Giants. Pride and envy.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Cath  GSD  Sports 

In the last installment of 'Gender Stereotype Debunking,' the subject was the remote control. This installment has to do with another navigating device: the map.

Let me set the stage with a typical dialogue between Catherine and me, one that you would no doubt witness for yourself if you happened to go on a road trip with us. It usually goes something like this:

'Where the hell are we?'

'No friggin' idea. I think I made a wrong turn back there.'

'Give me the map.'

'Wait, wait. We don't need the map, I think I can get us back to . . . '

'Give me the map.'

'Oh God. Okay, fine! Wait . . . it's not . . . it's on your side! Get it yourself.'

Can you guess which one is me? Many people would assume that since I am the male, I would be the first to go for the map. But they would be wrong. The assumption probably stems from a generally-accepted notion that women can not read maps, a notion that is actually supported by a number of scientific studies, which I suppose makes it more of a 'hypothesis.' I did a quick Google search and found several results on the topic. One recent University of California study looks to the different ways men and women use their gray matter and white matter as the reason why women have a harder time reading maps. Another study from Ruhr University in Bochum, Germany points to a lack of testosterone, citing the fact that women can actually read maps better during times when the hormone is more abundant in their systems, like during a period. (Hey, I'm not making this stuff up.) Well, I challenge any scientist offering evidence in favor of women being inferior at reading maps to drive from DC to New York with my wife. He'll be singing a different tune somewhere around Wilmington, Delaware.

There is a reason that I usually drive when we are navigating difficult territory on road trips, and it's not because of my superior driving skills, though that would be a pretty good reason in and of itself. (Eh-hem.) No, it's because, while I'd love to sit here and tell you that I'm an excellent map-reader, that shit ain't the truth. The harsh reality is that I suck at it, and after several frustrating episodes involving poor advice and wrong turns, we decided it was best for both of us if Catherine manages the directions.

Now, in my defense, it's not that I can't read a map. Honestly. I do grasp the nature of it relatively well. I think even Catherine would attest to the fact that I have a pretty good sense of direction and she might even admit that I can get around certain parts of DC better than she can. I guess when it comes to me and maps, the problem is this: I can't seem to effectively process the information on a map through my brain and have it come out of my mouth in any kind of useful, or even recognizable, verbal communication. As you can probably guess, this makes it challenging for anybody who happens to be in the driver's seat next to me. I think my map-interpreting issues stem from the fact that I don't really perceive the map as a 'tool' the way it's intended. Instead, I see it as some kind of abstract object, a work of art even. I look at a map and I get lost in the patterns, the lines, the pretty colors. I know it's supposed to be about A to B, but that's relatively boring stuff, isn't it? I like things to convey some deeper meaning or significance. And multiple layers of it, if possible. For this reason, I believe a map should be studied and contextualized. If you ask me to tell you the way from A to B, I won't give you a straight answer. Instead, I'll give you an array of confusing possibilities. And when I'm through, we will be well on our way to someplace we never intended. I don't mean for it to happen. It just does. It is the way of things.

Catherine, on the other hand, has a much more commanding way with maps. For her, it's about finding the quickest, most efficient route from A to B and she has no problem determining that within a couple of seconds. Also, she seems to have greater powers of recollection which allow her to determine our exact location on a map quickly, if asked. I've seen her with a map in one hand, the steering wheel in the other, driving through traffic, and she'll point to where we are with a casual flick of the wrist. Effortless. Like I had just asked, 'point to the nose on my face,' or even simpler, 'show me the general location on my body where my head is located.' Yeah, my baby has mad map-reading skills. More importantly, she can take the information she finds on a map and turn it into meaningful language. She can employ phrases like, 'take a right here' or, 'continue straight ahead through the next intersection.'

So there you have it. Gender stereotype, the map: Debunked.

One side note: As long as I'm disproving one stereotype, I should go ahead and affirm another. When the map fails, Catherine has no problem stopping to ask strangers for directions. I, on the other hand, conform to the general principle that no self-respecting male should ever submit to the indecorum of asking another human being how to get somewhere, especially a human being he does not know personally.

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

There are certain stereotypes inherent in the male/female relationship. C and I defy those on many different levels. I plan to explore this in a series of semi-regular posts called 'Gender Stereotype Debunking.' Welcome to installment one: The Remote Control.

Typically the male is known to be the primary channel-flipper in the 'married couple TV watching ritual.' I feel it is an unfair stereotype, but I suppose I understand where it comes from. Ultimately it boils down to the fact that the male is thought to be the restless one, the one who changes channels (insert 'lovers') as soon as there is a commercial break (insert 'no sex') and often forgets to flip the channel back before the show they had been watching starts again (insert 'gets caught in bed with secretary, mid-thrust, bare bottom mooning the ceiling as wife enters bedroom'). Of course, males see it as a competition to conquer the greatest number of channels, which will have them watching multiple shows at the same time, pretending to be faithful to all, and yet never really committing to any, dumping one, then another, as soon as something better comes along.

I'm here to tell you this is all b.s. - an unfair truism handed down from mother to daughter. The same channel-flipping behavior we're accused of can be found in the fairer sex, as well, and when it is, it is often compounded by a Lance Armstrong-like stamina that leads to a marathon of channel surfing, lasting hours, days, and if the necessities of work, sleep, and food didn't come into play, weeks.

Yes, contrary to the conventional wisdom, I am one guy that is usually satisfied to watch one show at a time. Now don't mistake my meaning here; I'm not saying this makes me noble or venerable in any way. Rest assured, my habit of watching one show at a time stems primarily from a laziness and a sincere belief that most stuff on TV is crap (the sexual analogy from above has ended, by the way), and since there are at least 75 other channels at my disposal with different but equally bad crap on them, I often have little curiosity in regard to finding said crap. Basically, once I've found one piece of crap I can tolerate, I am resolved to continue watching it until the end. When a commercial comes, breaking up the 2 or 4 individual segments of crap that make up the entire episode, I will do one of four things: 1) read a magazine, 2) go to the kitchen and search aimlessly for something to consume, 3) visit the restroom, or 4) pass bodily gases. Sometimes I manage to do at least three of these things at the same time. The bottom line is this: I commit to a show and I watch it. I'm loyal.

My wife lacks this faithfulness, this dedication to any one show. She will often watch two, three, sometimes four shows at the same time.

No way! you say.

Impossible! It can't be done! you say.

Oh, I assure you, it can be done. If channel surfing were abstract art, my wife would be Jackson Pollock. If channel surfing were jazz music, my wife would be Miles Davis. The remote is her instrument, and she improvises with it at will, and with alarming virtuosity. She will concoct new channel combinations, each press of the button like the decisive splatter of a painter's brush. Expressionistic, heroic, the ultimate extension, elaboration and refinement of the channel surfing ritual. She understands remote control functions I have never heard of. Her fingers blur across the remote with astonishing speed and precision. All the while, she's able to take in several plots, innumerable subplots, and complex character developments, all with a kind of concentration on a par with champion chess players who juggle multiple boards at the same time.

Watching her work can be mesmerizing, but because I don't understand it, I'm mostly left feeling baffled and vaguely nauseous. I stare at the ceiling in an effort to ground myself in the here and now and keep the room from spinning. Eventually I give up and resort to reading or some other activity.

There is no fighting for the remote in our home. I recognize C's superiority and I do not interfere.

Gender stereotype, the remote control. Debunked.

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