Nachos

He Said:

Remember how good your house smelled when you were growing up? It was like fabric softener, your Dad’s cologne, shampooed dog, your mom’s scented candle habit, and the smell of dinner formed this enchanting waft that was as much a part of your identity as your last name. You also knew which of your friend’s houses smelled awful (like burnt toast and butt hole) and who’s house smelled close enough to yours to make you feel at ease at a slumber party.

That smell—the tang of your youth—is almost impossible to reproduce. If social anthropologists tailored a questionnaire to identify your family’s habits and then gave that completed questionnaire to a lab of bifocaled chemists, I’m certain they couldn’t reproduce your family’s smell even if they worked around the clock, tinkering with variations of a theme.

If chemists ever tried to blindly bottle the smell of my youth, it’d be very close to cinnamon-sugar-Tide-Brute, but it wouldn’t be it.

But you try. Memories flood back. You try to replicate that smell by piecemealing it together one aroma at a time. As an adult you return to the things that were part of the younger version of you that makes nostalgia tangible. Instead of a daydream, it’s a trip to a familiar destination, the sound of a television rerun coming from the other room, or making the signature dish from your first 10 years on the planet.

Every family had a signature dish that defined a day of the week or a season of the year. Even if the dish was terrible, like some unidentifiable 7-layer casserole, it was your dish, and it is bronzed in your memory.

In my family, nachos defined Sunday afternoons after church. Nachos were part of the marrow of the day, as if clocks wouldn’t tick forward unless the perfume of crispy nachos propelled the steam engine of the Lord ’s Day.

After sitting through an hour of church—which was basically my Dad crafting four church bulletin’s into four different paper airplane’s for me and my brothers; or him bribing us with lemon drops and sticks of Juicy Fruit every three minutes in order for us to sit still—at 12 noon we’d dart out the back of the sanctuary hungry for nachos.

On the way home we’d stop at a convenience store and get a bag of Tostitos, two cans of refried beans, a bottle of fresh hot sauce, and a bag of mixed Mexican cheese. Waiting at home in our fridge was the biggest jar of jalapeños you’ve ever seen. Like choreographed ballroom dancers my mom and dad would artfully arrange the chips on an oven sheet and distribute all of the ingredients, working in unison and never getting in the other’s way.

It would take all of ten minutes, and before we knew it, we were eating. Every time at least two of us would spill our drinks thanks to a hyena-like lust to destroy the plate of nachos before us, never fully aware of our elbows roam.

And over the past 15 years I’d say I’ve made nachos a hand full of times, until very recently.

First you need to understand that Danielle and I walk a fine line between healthy eating (a fridge full of organic vegetables, no soda, and zero pig bacon) and hypocrisy (ice cream in the freezer). At turns we will eat salads overflowing with avocado (good fat) and then drink a dark beer to wash it all down. And maybe a little ice cream too.

Our latest culinary creation harks back to my childhood (thanks, setup). We even made nachos together for the first time one Sunday after church. But we opted for “healthy” nachos, if there is such a thing.

We found all the necessary ingredients needed to make nachos in their organic form, save the chips. The hot sauce is refined. The red bell pepper, onion, avocado, and refried beans are all certified organic. And the cheese is too.

Danielle is more reserved than me, though. She will spread a thin layer of chips, but if I can still see the bottom of the oven sheet I’ll come along and add more chips until no color shows through the bottom. I’m looking for a layer of 100% yellow corn chip, just the way I saw it done back in 1989.

I’m a bully, really. I tell Danielle that if we are going to make nachos, we might as well go for it. And so we pile all the ingredients as high as we can, slathering each chip with as much brown refried bean as possible, and liberally applying the remaining toppings.

When we take the tray of nachos out of the oven (broil, anyone?) they look gorgeous. They even look somewhat healthy (our fingers still smell of freshly washed vegetables, after all).

But after taking nine minutes to eat the entire tray, both Danielle and I look pale. A bit of sweat is on my brow. My belly feels like it has added a new roll, just below my chest. And I feel that at any moment I am going to produce a burp or a fart that will peel the paint in our apartment. It isn’t a pretty sight.

So, we retire to the living room, where the only two comfortable chairs in our entire apartment are located. My posture is never worse than after a meal of nachos. I feel like the only way I’ll achieve the needed gaseous release is if I could crunch my body up like an accordion and then stretch out, thus neutralizing the bloated feeling.

Excessive exhaling lasts for 20 minutes. A nap soon follows.

Two hours later we are back to normal. Our breath still stinks and maybe the vent is on in the bathroom. But we are happy campers. Nachos are now a happy memory, and we’d gladly make them for lunch the next day as well.

But most of all, it is the simultaneous start and renewal of and old family tradition. Nachos. It’s an easy meal. And I know we have the intestinal fortitude to pass it on to a future generation of snotty nosed brats, just as soon as we can perfect the smell in our house, thus negating the need to try and recreate the old.

She Said:

My family was never big on traditions. I remember passing over a “7th Annual Walter’s Family Reunion” t-shirt on a Goodwill rack while in high school and thinking to myself, “people actually do that?” If we did something one way this year, you could bet the farm it wasn’t going to happen like that again.

Christmastime especially was filled with the sounds of reindeer on the rooftop and a “newly adopted” traditions fizzling out. One year my parents thought it would be cute/spiritually diligent for me and my sister to read about the “Littlest Angel” over breakfast before we opened up our presents. This tradition currently holds the “yearly occurrence” record: three years.

The first year we were intrigued; and, need I say it, enthused by the prospect of a New Tradition (or one at all). The second year my sister and I fought over who would get to sit in front of the book while my dad read, mostly because we had forgotten what the story was about (even though it sat on our bookshelf all year) thus rendering it still “new” to us. On its third and final year, my dad brought the book out, but it lay untouched on the dining room table until after the presents had been opened. Only after our gifts had been thoroughly discovered and tortured, while my sister and I were waiting to eat lunch, did we thumb through its pages, merely looking at the pictures. By then it was old news; one more tradition in the can.

We weren’t always like that, though. When I was not yet old enough to realize that my parents had a life outside of my realm, that they were not just here to feed and coddle me, they had a couple of traditions that exceeded my understanding at the moment, but with hindsight come into focus.

For one, after church every Sunday, my mom and dad would make nachos. If I had known what clockwork was back then, I would have been able to predict their weekly bounty of hot deliciousness, but to me the setting of the sun was still a pretty random occurrence. I probably wouldn’t even remember the nachos themselves if it wasn’t for a moment one day when their existence was seared into my brain.

Here are two descriptions of me as an under-four year-old: 1. chubby, 2. generally scantily clad. Either I wasn’t too keen on clothes or my mom thought it was hilarious to have me run around in nothing but my diaper/underpants with my name crocheted on them, because half the pictures I have of myself are nudies. (The other half are me in overly fancy outfits, obviously seconds before I tore everything off.)

Thus, one lazy afternoon, as my parents were making nachos, I was running around in my natural state of being. I remember so distinctly rounding the corner to see them setting up the T.V. tray by the couch and placing the cookie sheet full of nachos right on top. I’m no dummy so I didn’t waste time sidling up next to the tray to reach in and get my share. However, as I reached for a chip, I underestimated the protrusion of my belly and quickly learned what nerve endings are for. The hot sheet had branded a red line onto my stomach; I had been burned by the one tradition my parents had left.

After that incident, though, nachos rarely make an appearance on my memory radar except for random blips of appetizers at a sweet 16 birthday party, a last resort for dinner in high school, what the overly talkative girl in my art club would order at Mexican restaurants, etc. Either I started wearing shirts and thus had no reason not to relegate their consumption to just a casual detail in the day, or we stopped eating them as a family unit altogether; whichever approach suits you, the bottom line is there, the tradition died out.

Or, they went into hibernation for a period of time, for Blake and I have recently started to resurrect the “tradition” of nachos. Now here I call them a tradition not because we have a set time and place where we eat them, that is still to be established (mostly they land on a Sunday afternoon, but sometimes we’ll crave them during the week), but because of the whole pomp and circumstance that surrounds them. We fawn over them as if we were preparing them for Louis XIV. Before even our first bites they have already been declared worthy of the gods, an incredible concoction of absolute rapture, we are two pinafores short of spinning around and clicking up our heels.

First we lay the foundation of the perfect chip, perfect because it was both healthier and cheaper than the competitors, and comes in a non-descript bag, which means that they are more authentic in our point of view (too much marketing on the package denotes a bad product). On top of the chip we spread refried beans and then we add layers upon layers of chopped onion, red pepper, green pepper, avocado, jalapenos, and anything else we feel the spirit leading us to chop up at the moment, topping it off with more cheese than should be allowed. There is always a point when I feel like we’ve covered them thoroughly when Blake will urge me to add “just a little bit” more. (I think I gained 10 pounds just writing that.)

The best part about nachos is the “instant gratification” quality, there is basically no waiting period between me adding more cheese and us pulling a steaming heap of pure ecstasy out of the oven. We barely have to choreograph another “ode to nachos” dance number before we are hovering over our creation, forks raised high and mouths watering.

For the next seven to ten minutes our mumbled utterances of elation and approval act as beats on a metronome over the continual sound of chewing. And that is when the guilt sets in. It is physically impossible for me to eat nachos like a civilized adult who lives in a first world country and has seen food before. I can’t, I just can’t, God knows I’ve tried. When my face is in front of nachos, it’s like I have just returned from a ten month long space journey and had run out of dehydrated food during the ninth month. All my mouth wants is for nachos to constantly occupy the available space behind my teeth. When I’m about to swallow, I already have a bite hanging in mid-air, waiting to fill the imminent void. It’s downright shameful.

As Blake and I scavenge for bits of onion or crumbs of chips, I wallow in the after effects of gluttony. My head spins as I try to remember what my first name is, my stomach feels as if it’s going to jump ship and leave me alone, my legs are numb and my soul is contrite. My delirium leads to aggrandized visions of never eating ever again, never looking at a tortilla chip without vomiting, working out 3 hours a day for a month, being so heavy I fall through the floor, a young Leonardo Di Caprio hitting me and telling me to “wake uuuuuuuuppppp!”

Blake and I barely stumble from the table to the two chairs in our living room that we call “the couch” without falling over, and usually stay seated there for thirty minutes unless we fall asleep, which extends our collective coma another hour or two. Nachos do NOT equal productivity. They are so tantalizingly delicious yet wreak a tremendous punishment on those that bask in their glory.

Amazingly enough, like any abusive relationship, it’s the good times that Blake and I remember, for we are always going back for more; and that might be the solidifying factor in making this one of our first family traditions. For I think that most traditions start out surrounded by anticipation, nostalgia, and hope of a wonderful time, but end up burning you with the reality of too many ingredients ingested in too short a period of time, leaving you reeling and pathetically exhausted until your slow recovery gives way to an eagerness for the next go round.

Wedding Dowries

She Said:

I think that I’ve been directed towards the wrong profession.

I should have been an archeologist who catalogues each tiny speck of dust she comes across, carefully placing broken shards of pottery in color coded plastic bags and labeling everything she touches. Or, maybe I would have been better suited to be the director of a museum, who could find charm and value in each tiny acquisition, joyful to see new things come into my collection, bitter to see them go. At least these vocations would validate my intrinsic desire to keep everything I’ve ever been given, bought, or left with.

When I was young, my grandma, maybe in an effort to steer me past the obnoxious trends that buffet a kid’s sensibilities, decided that she was going to give me “collectibles” as presents. I remember the day she told me that “you are going to collect boxes, starting with these” (placing the first three in my hand). Not only did she decide that I would collect boxes, but angel ornaments, dolls that you didn’t play with, and tea sets. I came to adore my collections, and dust them with care, in part because I was a tender child, yet more so because I knew that somewhere in Florida, my grandma was shopping with a friend and keeping her eyes peeled for new boxes or angels to send me, and I didn’t want to spoil the perfect image of me she was picturing at that moment. At Christmas or Birthdays, I knew that 80% of my presents would be a new ornament, accessory for one of my dolls or a box, and 20% would be something that she wove for me. Thus, instead of money wasted on cheap plastic toys that I would break before her next visit, she bestowed upon me the future moral burden of what to do with these collections she had built up for me with such care and effort or heirlooms she had made herself... when my age and spatial restrictions had outgrown them.

And that’s just my paternal grandma, who has a house filled with every important LIFE magazine issue since 1932, clippings of anytime basically anything happened, and boxes of cloth samples a quilt maker would drool over. Walking through her house is like peering into the 8 ball that holds my future.

The doozy lies within the genes flowing from my mother, where sentimentality thwarts all attempts toward ascetic living. In my old house, we had transformed the garage into what we called “the studio.” It was a big open carpeted space with shelves lining the walls and enough room for me and my sister to spread out and express ourselves without cramping each other’s style. We could do summersaults and play with hula hoops, even ride our bikes if we didn’t mind getting dizzy. I say this to express how large an area it was.

Yet, as the years passed, our wide open space grew smaller and smaller, and that wasn’t in respect to our growing statures. It was because we were acquiring more than we were getting rid of. My mom catalogued our youth with the care of the Smithsonian. She kept the braids of our hair after our first hair cuts, every dress we ever wore, every award or report card we ever brought home, every scrap of paper that we scribbled on with what looked to her like artistic intention. She even kept my sister’s umbilical chord (she would have kept mine if she had thought of it). Plus, my mom had a history of her own that deserved cataloguing. She had modeled in Europe and Asia, a profession that leaves you not only with great clothes, but great pictures of yourself that, squarely based on the idea that nobody else could easily have these done, should not be thrown away. She also had a knack for acquiring unique and timeless household items. She transcended fads and whims, settling only on possessions of true beauty and style. Yet all of this still had to be put somewhere.

We had a common refrain in our house that went like this.

“Mom, what should I do with this?”

“I don’t know, put it in the studio.”

“Mom, I need some props for the school play!”

“Look in the studio”

We would know it was time for a garage sale when we could barely walk around the clothing racks, boxes, and furniture in the studio anymore; and that’s when the sleeping giant would rouse. We (my mom) were GREAT at having garage sales. My sister and I would man a cooler filled with soft drinks we had bought at SAM’s for 10 cents each and were selling for 50 cents. My mom would prance around in her jean shorts and tank top, glasses half falling off her nose, fanny pack filled with change. To her, every item had a price, and every person represented a paying customer. My mom could sell the paint off a car. She actually did sell a used toothbrush and half a bottle of shampoo. You only left a Judie Huey Garage Sale with a free item if you were under five years old, and your parents had just bought something.

During the weeks after a garage sale, going into the studio was delightful, you could see the carpet again and actually know where to find what you were looking for, or actually reach it for that matter. We were riding high on the wave of organization, but, like all waves, they eventually peter out.

Thus, my house was somewhere in between garage sales when my mom died. I don’t know what was more traumatic, losing my mom or facing the task of reducing the entire household of a 50 year old to fit the lifestyle of a 16 and 20 year old. Where I wanted to magically keep everything somehow, my sister had no qualms with just selling it all. She affords no speck of sentimental value to anything. She would have thrown away her baby book if I hadn’t found it and kept it with mine (She’ll thank me later, or her kids will). But, thanks to her pragmatism, we were able to actually sell and give away enough so that the leftovers could fit into a 20x20 unit at Public Storage. For a few years our true residence was Unit #83.

By the time Blake and I moved into our one bedroom apartment, I had successfully minimized even further, each purge preceded by a mini-elegy for my mom, telling myself that I wasn’t getting rid of my mom, just her things. We are still busting at the seams, and I’ve adopted some nifty “arrangement” techniques, but that is pretty good considering all this stuff used to fill a three bedroom house. My constant mantra is that I should only hold on to things that I truly love, not just what my mom loved, and things that I think represent my personality and style, otherwise I will never wear or use it. Right now all I have are things I will supposedly keep forever or have been warned severely by my mom’s friends not to get rid of.

“It takes years to acquire the silver collection that you already have!”

So now that I am at this point, I just have to stave off the genetic urge to compile my own little Museum of Danielle or start a collection of things nobody else would keep. The symptoms are there, I have been given “that look” by Blake or my sister many times as I jealously guard a worthless item because it “means something” or “can be used in my art.” I’m like a pre-diabetic person on a diet; it’s a slippery slope, but as long as I don’t have a “studio” to fill, maybe I’ll stay ahead of the curve.

He Said:

Looking back at my quarter-century on earth, I’ve noticed an alarming pattern and it has nothing to do with Russia, Regan, Dan Aykroyd, or the Cold War. I’m talking about a behavioral pattern that isn’t flattering, yet has served me well. I’ve never been the guy who offered a ton of material aid to anything (re: roommate contributions). Not a real shocker to anyone who has split rent with me.

But one thing seems to redeem me—I trade in personality currency, and few people can pull it off without getting labeled a thankless mooch.

For example, when I went to summer camp as a kid I never brought a trunk full of candy and supersoakers for everyone to enjoy. I just didn’t care about winning the allegiance of the cabin because I was a borrower. And I still am.

My entire college career is a perfect example of this. What I lack in stuff I more than make up for in upping your laughter quota as a kickass roommate. Plus I’m a good listener. But I’ll always be way better at borrowing, and you can put this on my tombstone: If you’re going to bring it, why should I?

In college my roommates provided 100% of the furniture at every place I lived (apartment and fraternity house). I just showed up. Take my junior year. I lived with three other guys and we decided to hire a U-Haul to transport all of our stuff to school at the start of the fall semester. I say our stuff because I believe in premature ownership.

Not a single item in that U-Haul was mine. And I begrudgingly paid 25% of the cost only after my roommates twisted my arm with the well worn argument that I’d probably use their stuff more than anyone else. I didn’t argue.

But for my lack of ownership (outside of the communal sense, of course), I was never that vagabond who slept on the floor, tangled in a fitted sheet; nor did I steal my roommates reserve sheets for my makeshift pallet. Somehow I always ended up with the things I needed, and I’m not just talking about toilet paper and water.

That same year one of my best friends offered to let me use his girlfriend’s twin brother’s bed. And I did. It wasn’t lumpy and at the end of the year I didn’t have to worry about transporting it somewhere else because it wasn’t mine. It was a beautifully twisted trail of accommodation, and I was happy to accept.

My buddies took care of me because they knew my motto was never move-in with more stuff than could fit in my Honda Accord. While I’m a chintzy mover, I always had towels and other necessary creature comforts. However, I never brought the big screen TV, a comfy couch, or a loveseat. Not even a beanbag or a microwave.

And here is the rub, as they’d say (they, in this context, would be any British person loyal to the crown). Being a terrible community contributor didn’t shame me from enjoying my own 14 inch TV, positioned right next to my borrowed bed. It isn’t that I’m a selfish guy, either. It’s just that I’m that guy who likes donut holes and buys 12 for himself instead of splurging on a box of donuts for the rest of the gang.

The only problem with this is that there is no real explanation for why I never contributed stuff other than my general policy of If you’re going to bring it, why should I?

And in this same way it is funny how little a person can bring into a marriage while at the same time bringing mountains of invisible joy. History has an odd way of repeating itself, as it did when Danielle and I got married. Out of every piece of furniture in our apartment, not one piece came from merging my stuff with her stuff.

Why?

Because I didn’t have any stuff to merge. We donated my bachelor bed to a friend. And my desk, 14 inch TV, and plastic chest of drawers were donated to charity.

However, Danielle brought a ton of stuff into our marriage, material or otherwise. I believe it is called a wedding dowry in arranged marriages. Unless you consider cupid’s arrow, our marriage wasn’t arranged (I had to do it). Even still, Danielle came with a hell of a dowry; she is the MVP of contribution.

I’m not sure the scales of justice have ever been more lopsided. You see, Danielle inherited the most beautiful furniture you’ve ever seen, and it became the filler for our first home together. Our apartment looks like it was put together and decorated by a female Indiana Jones—meaning, the most priceless, unique, irreplaceable family heirlooms occupy every square inch. No Pottery Barn. No Pier One. No IKEA. If you inventoried our place, it’d seem as if two wealthy senior citizens lived there. But they don’t. We do.

And that’s not all. Under this same scenario (wedding dowries) I, as the groom, am responsible for paying a “brides price” to her family. But even if our marriage was arranged, this wouldn’t have been possible. Among other things, Danielle inherited a bloated whale when we wed. The only thing I brought into the marriage, other than an Air Jordan shoe fetish, was a little credit card debt. And even after reading the fine print, a little credit card debt isn’t considered a worthy “brides price.” Nor are Air Jordan’s.

You probably know by now (after reading a few entries) that Danielle is a notoriously well heeled penny pincher. So she was able to help me pay off what became our debt after she said I do. I’m sure it was like adding insult to injury. While she brought a surplus of hard earned savings, incredible furniture, killer wit, and a hot body into the marriage, all she got was a guy that makes occasional good jokes, can purchase shoes online, and has a bellybutton where lint goes to die.

Very uneven merger, even after you factor in all my personality currency.

Wine Drinking

He Said:

Drinking wine is supposed to have a certain elegance associated with it. It is the one alcoholic beverage that looks out of place at a sporting event, and it is the only beverage you drink with a paper napkin in one hand. And it is the only drink that you can gurgle, sip, sniff, and swirl and not look like a child wondering if they should drink the entire bottle of bubblegum flavored mouthwash. Wine is the lioness of the bar, the kind of refined pleasure any Francophile, such as Danielle, loves to enjoy.

All other alcohol is cheap swill, an insult to the fermentation process—the kind I like to drink. My ancestry is partially to blame. Hillbillies drink/drank moonshine. Germanic barbarians subsisted on fermented water, which monks later turned into beer. Bank presidents drink double scotches, and fraternity guys will drink anything that you hand to them in a red plastic cup. These are the drinks I grew up wanting to indulge in and now enjoy on a semi-regular basis.

There is something extremely fulfilling about pulling a glass from the freezer that looks like it has just survived a blizzard, offering you the kind of palm-refrigeration your beer will need five minutes after the head recedes.

Yet, a wineglass, dotted with spots from the dishwasher, is boring and stiflingly average at room temperature.

Nonetheless, Danielle’s eyes flutter about at the thought of pouring a quarter glass of red wine, letting it breathe, reveling in the pomp and pageantry of drinking the kind of drink Jesus could produce at a moments notice. Likewise, I’m a pious drinker, but I prefer the kind of holy ale Dutch monks created 700 years ago.

And how could I not? I grew up seeing my Dad drink a Coors Light after mowing the lawn each Saturday. Hearing his sweat beads giggle with delight after the cooling refreshment of Rocky Mountain pilsner washed over his body made me a curious son, eager for a beery taste of my own. The only ceremonial act I noticed with beer-drinking was the need for speed; as in, drink it as fast as you can, especially in the absence of a koozie.

Meanwhile, Danielle’s mother spent three years in her early 20’s modeling in Paris and traveling about Europe, developing a worldly taste and appreciation for the finer things in life, all stuff Danielle picked up as an eager, note taking daughter. Trust me, I’ve seen her notes.

And now that Danielle and I are married, we spend many nights cooking dinner together accompanied by a sub-$10 bottle of wine. Watching us drink wine side by side, however, offers a laboratory of observable differences. It’s a stark contrast in style, like a Londoner meeting up with a bloke from the Australian Outback to share a drink. Both are loyal to the queen, but one is culturally poised and the other is a tactless descendent of 18th century convicts.

To Danielle, drinking wine is ceremonial, a choreographed dance that imaginary judges scrutinize and score. Uncork it and let the air set its aroma free. Pour a thimble for the first taste. Swish and swosh it about the cup. Delicately sip it, letting only the tip of your tongue critique the first taste. Then parade the wine around the inside of your mouth, like a beauty queen perched atop a Rhone Valley float, waving to adoring taste buds below. Nod approvingly. Pour but a thimble more and enjoy, taking tiny sips for the next 30 minutes until you’ve consumed all 3 ounces in your glass. Repeat. Never gulp.

Meanwhile, I’m gulping, not because I can’t sip, but because gulping is my default setting. My wine glass is empty in a matter of minute(s), creating a different kind of buzz that brings with it red teeth and a sophisticated brand of cottonmouth. At the same time I am finishing my glass, Danielle is sipping ever so lightly and hovering near an exotic cheese plate, oohing and ahhing at the complimentary tastes.

Me, I just want a refill.

Our behaviors are amplified when we have guests over. For Danielle, it is a chance to showcase her hosting skills, setting up various arrangements of bread, imported and spreadable cheeses, grapes, and the finest crumbling crackers available for purchase. The wine is but an accessory to the hors d'oeuvres spread and the conversation.

The only difference in my behavior when we have guests over is that my wine lasts a bit longer, and not because I’m drinking any slower. I simply wait to start drinking it until after I see other wine levels around the room start to go down. Then, almost unassumingly, I gulp my portion of wine just in time to receive a topper, along with the rest of the party.

I lived in France for close to a year. I drank my fair share of table wine and even splurged on the oft expensive bottle. I developed a taste for wine. But I’ll take beerish fizz over winy sass any day.


She Said:

Blake’s culinary journey is a true rags to riches story, not in regards to the price of food, but concerning his approach to the table. When we first started dating, we went to one restaurant, and one restaurant only, Chili’s. It was an adolescent rut that took no prisoners. Neither of us, having always just eaten what was put in front of us or what we were told to prepare, had really earned many brownie points in the arena of exploring different cuisines. This was our first time out of the “family style” nest, our training wheels of adulthood, and we were wallowing in the passenger drop-off lobby.

True, Chili’s was about four blocks away from my house and it had a big enough variety in fare to please all appetites, but more importantly, it wasn’t quite fast food (what we and our fellow teenagers were used to getting when we went out with friends) and thus qualified as a “nice” restaurant. (Somewhere in New York Zagat’s just threw up on itself.)

And, of course, when you’re young and impressionable, all concepts of or advice on dating comes from movies and Seventeen magazine, thus, “nice” restaurant = real date. And Blake and I were only in for “real dating.” Even though my mom was following me around with “The Rules” (remember that book?) as I got ready for our “dates,” reading paragraphs that clearly outlined where Blake had goofed the week before and telling me that in her day she dated multiple boys at one time*, I knew that Blake was the only one I wanted sitting across from me in the booth at Chili’s.

It was true love. True in the sense that I could look beyond his table manners and see through to the true person I was in love with. A lot of people use the phrase, “were you raised in a barn?” to humorously chastise a person for manners that would expedite their dishonorable discharge from Cotillion. Well, Blake grew up in a small town outside Dallas, basically a synonym for “barn.” When you’re at the dinner table with both him and his three brothers, there’s barely enough room for the plates due to the conference of elbows that’s taking place. Sometimes I feel as if I’m looking at a small scale model of an Cherokee village, each plate has a tent made of forearm pitched over it. This would have never flown in my house, where there always loomed the fear of someone grabbing your resting arm and jamming it down on the table if your elbow dared grace the eating surface. I guess you could say we were savages in our own way. Whereas Blake and his brothers were smoking their peace pipes around the campfire, my sister and I were scalping off each other’s elbow skin.

But where my true love shined through was during the physical task of eating. First of all, despite the many “enticing” items on the Chili’s menu, Blake never ordered anything other than chicken fingers. It was like he had cut a deal with Tyson Farms to ensure that their off spring went to college. I got sick of chicken fingers and I wasn’t even the one eating them. Every week, same restaurant, same arrangement of battered chicken flesh. This rut was for real. Secondly, watching Blake eat wasn’t something you would do for pleasure. Sometimes my own manners would be sacrificed (jaw dropping open while food was still in it) as I would watch this person across from me bring his face so low to the plate that it looked like Noah was lowering the ramp to allow the chicken fingers to walk up it two by two, followed by a pair of French Fries. If I hadn’t already had food in my mouth, I’m sure it would have come back up.

After enduring a few months of this, I couldn’t hold back my tendency to act like my Grandma anymore and I told him one should never bring their mouth to the food, but the food to their mouth, via a fork, best case scenario. It was at this moment that Blake’s own true love prevailed. He didn’t break up with me after I had just bared my most bossy, self-righteous self.

Thus started a long but fruitful stage in Blake’s life where, under my tutelage, not only did his manners improve, but his palette expanded from chicken fingers, pizza, and burgers, to the delicacies of Thailand, India and Japan. He wasn’t allowed to say he didn’t like anything unless he had tried it. He has evolved from calling Ethiopian food “mush,” and will even enjoy a stinky cheese here and there. Plus, he has adopted my O.C.D. trait of avoiding restaurants that are chains, have neon signs that can be seen from the highway, or pictures of their foods in the menus (unless the menu isn’t in English, but that’s on a strict case by case basis). All in all, it’s a cultural transformation that should win him some sort of achievement certificate.

However, since platitudes seem to be overflowing as of late, here’s another one. You can take the _________ out of the ____________, but you can’t take the ___________ out of the _________. That is to say, amidst all this progress, there is one hurdle we haven’t quite surmounted in this marathon to refinement: the finer points of wine consumption.

Now both of our parents were fully versed in the art of imbibing wine. My mom used to have a glass occasionally with dinner, telling us that if we lived in Europe, both my sister and I would be drinking a glass also, that over there wine is enjoyed and respected by even the young. Then, when I started drinking myself, due to self-imposed pressure to not look like a neophyte, I quickly read up, observed and acquired the right vocabulary, attitude and approach to wine, enough to get by on appearances at least. Blake, obviously, didn’t really feel the need to impose that sort of rigor on himself.

The first time we had a glass of wine together, it was like Chili’s all over again. Be it half frat-guy stunt, half craving for comedic approval, Blake drank his glass of wine like a bottle of Gatorade after a football game. I half expected him to pour it on his scalp and slowly move his head side to side to fling the beads of sweat away like a human sprinkler.

From there it’s gotten a little better, he at least gulps occasionally, instead of all at once, and has acquired enough “terms” to poke fun at the whole thing. But I can’t shake the notion that secretly Blake thinks he is drinking a room temperature beer that “has robust flavors of wild berries and currants” with “hints of toasted oak and clove to enhance the velvety smooth finish,” and in order to enjoy it, he’s got to “Pound It.”


* My mom was just over-protective; all along she had always liked Blake. But she wasn’t going to let either of us know right away.

Free Read

She Said:

All throughout the day, the little idiosyncrasies that Blake and I hold dear co-exist in almost perfect harmony, politely humoring each other and cordially getting into a “you first,” “no, you first” stall at the entrance to various doorways. There is always enough elbow room and time for our personality differences to express themselves and be nurtured; everyone has their turn holding the “talking stick.”

But then it gets close to bedtime, and our individual priorities start to differentiate themselves… drastically; and, like two opposing factions of a civil war, you wonder how they ever got along at all.

Every person is built with fundamental necessities. The first three are universal: food, shelter, and security. After these three, though, it splinters into a rainbow of different desires and needs that are procured by ones environment, childhood, and gene pool (to name just a few factors). If you were going to make a chart of our specific priorities, you might say that in the row after the “vital three,” there would be “rest and relaxation” for Blake and “being productive” for me. The priorities that follow might fall more in line with each other (wanting to make only one trip from the car, thus turning ourselves into human pack-mules) or separate further (our preferred Indian dishes), but it is these two specifically that collide at bedtime, where my desire to continue to “get things done” interferes with Blake’s needed rest.

Now Blake is not a lazy person, he just needs more sleep than I do. We have a joke that each of us, found in our natural states, i.e., “at rest,” would be doing completely different things. Blake would be lying down, and I would be running around or occupying myself with some random task.

On Saturdays, when we can sleep in, I’ll usually wake up after eight hours of sleep, toss around a little to try and go back to sleep, and then decide I might as well get up and do something rather than just lay there. So I’ll read or talk on the phone, nothing too strenuous, but I’m awake. Blake, on the other hand, will doze on and on for at least ten hours before I start “rummaging” around in the kitchen or talking loud so he will wake up. If no outside factors interrupt him, I swear he could make it more than twelve hours. But it’s at this point that I’ve already passed my “hunger panic” stage where I frantically eat a snack because I thought I was going to throw up or faint if I didn’t while I dutifully hold off on the big breakfast until Blake can join me. So, by the time he gets up I’m like a baby who has been jumping in its crib all morning, sitting in its poop, ready for somebody to pick it up and play with it, the excitement is almost too much.

On weeknights, though, when we have a specified “wake-up” time, it’s as if Blake has an inner clock that tells him how many hours of sleep he will not be getting the longer he waits to go to bed. Around 9:00, we’ll start winding it down, but, true to form, my “wind down” takes a while longer than Blake’s. He will supernaturally zip through the routine of washing his face and brushing his teeth, and gleefully hop into bed with a book, settling in for a time period we dotingly call “Free Read.”

“Free Read” is a no man’s land. It doesn’t last for a specific amount of time, but covers the gray area that is the transition from activity to sleep. During this time, we both read whatever we want (hence, the “free”) until Blake comes to a stopping point, which signifies that his clock has told him that this day has come to an end. (This isn’t saying that I couldn’t be the one that comes to a stopping point, I just never would.)

However, while Blake is getting a jump on “Free Read,” I’m still at the dining room table, going through some papers, or in the living room trying to come to a stopping point on my painting, or distracted with clipping my fingernails. Then, I still have to wash my face, inspect it for malfunctions, brush my teeth, floss, moisturize, moisturize more, and make sure that everything is satisfyingly tidy before I can enter the “Free Read” stage. Thus, most nights, by the time I get into bed and open the book, I haven’t even found where I left off before Blake closes his and says he’s going to sleep.

Now, Blake isn’t forcing me to go to sleep as well, and every night that I want to read more, he doesn’t complain about the light, in fact, he’s terribly cordial about it, but I’m still confronted with a problem. You see, just a few notches below “do stuff” on my inner priority list is the desire to be cuddled. Thus, Blake’s inner clock sets my own two needs at odds with each other, would I rather read at least a page tonight, or get cuddled before we both fall asleep? I don’t want to make him stay up, heaven forbid I hear about that in the morning, but I also would like to finish my book this year at least.

Because he knows my inner dilemma, Blake will taunt me as he hops into bed while I’m still in the middle of a task. He’ll roll around the bed, making it “sleep ready” and sing to himself, “Free Read, Free Read,” giggling as I frantically try to wrap things up, only getting further tangled in distractions, and give me a sly look as I slide under the covers, twenty minutes after him, pleading for him to wait just ten minutes more.

It’s our nightly dance, or vaudeville folly, but I’ll have to admit, since we’ve been married, I’ve never felt so rested.

He Said:

Have you ever seen an infant or toddler that does things at an accelerated pace, making every other set of parents feel inadequate with the offspring they’ve produced? If so, then you can imagine what kind of a baby Danielle was. She was that kid. That Baby that redefined all of the developmental milestones because she was born wearing a backpack full of textbooks.

For example, normal kids start walking around 13 months; Danielle was that baby that started walking around eight months, just when other kids were starting to pull themselves up by the coffeetable. She also started reading early, putting every other kid to shame as she zoomed through the big words and started to make pun jokes in preschool.

I, on the other hand, developed in proportion to how much breast milk I could find. I was like a retarded, prehistoric hunter/gatherer that didn’t have the motor skills to document my suckling successes on the cave wall. But I did have a priority scale that had two levels (nothing in between) and looked like this:

Lot’s of Breast Milk

Or

No Breast Milk

My mission always revolved around being at Lot’s of Breast Milk status. So, instead of trying to walk or study the shapes of the mobile spinning above my crib, I developed an overactive nose that could sniff out even a whiff of lactation. Besides, if I was near my mother’s breast I would more than likely be in her arms, negating the need to learn how to walk.

I breast fed until I was almost two and a half. Even at two and a half, instead of looking at books and trying to figure them out, I normally ended up sucking on their corners, praying to God there was a lactating mechanism that would kick in, which never happened.

So while Danielle was living just 45 miles away from me in the early 80’s, engaged in learning and developing at a breakneck pace, I was just honing my ability to compartmentalize tasks, never doing any activity that wasn’t directly related to what I was doing that moment.

Danielle, as you can probably guess, is a born multi-tasker; there aren’t too many things that can stand in her way even if she is trying to juggle a zillion things at once. She has always been an overachiever. In fact, she had more AP credits going into college than I had brain cells.

And not a lot has changed in 2007. I still mono-task. She perpetually-tasks. Each of our behaviors can be predicted, to some degree, based on past behavior. If you watch Danielle in the morning, she is simultaneously brushing her hair and teeth, tweezing her eyebrows, and reading one of the two magazines we subscribe to (or the current book she is plowing through). As a law, whatever Danielle is doing, she must also have her head tilted at an awkward angle trying to squeeze in a few paragraphs of information. I’m surprised she doesn’t sleep with an open book on her face, hoping osmosis applies to pulpy paper and flesh soldered together. It is an amazing thing to watch, the orchestra of reading and doing that she conducts.

I didn’t learn to read until my parents realized they didn’t want to send a complete idiot to kindergarten. So I gradually slogged through word after word (mostly pictures) until I got the handle of it. I wouldn’t say I’ve caught up to Danielle in the speed reading department, but I’d say I share her same appreciation and love for reading.

And each night, before bed, we have a 30 minute allotment of time for what we call "Free Read". It is the time of night that we have earmarked for quiet activity that still doubles as quality time—we’re still hanging out with each other, only we’re both reading.

Or at least I’m reading. Free Read occurs just after the nightly routine of zit popping, teeth brushing, and mouth washing, but right before we drift off to dream land. Danielle normally gets less Free Read time than me because by the time she is done preening, she has but five or ten minutes left to read.

This is where Danielle feels as if Free Read is an unfair arrangement, because Free Read starts when I’m done with my beautification process (which takes all of 90 seconds) and ends five minutes after Danielle gets to bed. And I don’t feel that guilty about ending Free Read when I do.

So here is how I rationalize the discrepancy in Free Read time that we both get to enjoy. First, Free Read is probably the first time all day that I’ll sit down to read. It is my only 30 minutes to curl up with a book, as I spend the rest of the day at work, writing, and hanging with Danielle. Remember, I’m no multi-tasker.

Danielle, on the other hand, has spent her entire day trying to squeeze in a magazine article here, a paragraph here, or a book chapter there. Reading is a part of most everything she does. If she is on the toilet—yep, reading. In front of the mirror primping—yep, reading. Waiting for her next class to begin—yep, reading. It is a never ending torrent of doing this, that, and the other, all while reading. She is remarkable. All of her sporadic reading throughout the day adds up to 30 minutes or more when you factor in the five or ten mintues she also gets during Free Read. It evens out.

The best part of Free Read, though, is when I make an effort to close my book or magazine just audibly enough so that Danielle knows that Free Read is over. I’ll hear her sigh, watch her shoulders drop a bit, and then roll over to look at me with the cutest fake-mad face I’ll ever see. And I get to see that face every night, at some point after I pop my last zit and right after I’ve read my last sentence of the day.

I always tell her she can stay up and read if she wants to, but it is like making a bargain with the devil for her because she likes to read, but she likes to be cuddled to sleep a whole lot more.

Revisionist History

He Said:

Growing up my parents told me I’d make a great lawyer, and it wasn’t because I was a gifted strategist, navigating cracks in their logic like a capable trial lawyer. Nope, I was just argumentative, which takes little skill and even fewer functioning brain cells—especially when you are not the decider.

Being an argumentative brat didn’t do me any favors, either. I never stopped while I was ahead. I never came close to presenting a compelling reason to annul any punishment received. I usually just obliterated any chance for a sympathy acquittal because I argued to argue and was really good at one thing: getting in the last word. This never aided my defense because being good at getting in the last word is like being good at taking out the trash; it isn’t a real skill.

Needless to say, I was a terrible adolescent lawyer. But I was relentless. I was like Bender from The Breakfast Club; talking back earned me little more than additional Saturday detentions at home.

It is odd that my parents praised my lawyerly disposition so often because my attention to detail was (and is) by no means sweeping.

Here is an example:

In high school I begged my dad to get a satellite dish after he told me we lived too far from the road to get cable (an excuse I actually bought). He said no to the satellite dish in between exhaling and taking his next breath. When I pressed, asking why we couldn’t at least get a dish thanks to emerging technology, he simply said, “Son, I already told you, we’re too far from the road to get it.” My dad got a lot of mileage out of that excuse, and I never thought to ask how we could be too far from the road to receive an invisible signal. I was pretty dense.

I was also an instigator. I’d argue with my brother’s over anything. Like who liked Michael Jordan or motorcycles the most. Or who would win in a fight between a bear and a shark (both on land and in the water).

We could snipe at each other and argue over nothing for hours. In a male dominated house the rules for arguing were pretty clear, especially between brothers:

1. He who talks loudest is clearly right.
2. He who loses his voice first, loses.
3. Accidentally misspeaking is cause to dismiss an entire argument.
4. Interruptions increase your chance of derailing the opposing view.
5. Failure to recall concrete details on the spot (re: in one second or less) actually proves the other person’s point for them.

Rule number five was a big one. If you couldn’t recall your point on the spot and had to take a moment to clearly construct your argument, you were evidently doctoring the historical account of what really happened. It is what we called revisionist history.

Arguing between males is never really about who is right, either. Rather, it is about who can be more convincing with the usage of periphery arguments that have nothing to do with the initial argument.

But come to find out, most women don’t argue this way. Civility is the name of the game. And early in our marriage and even while we were dating I learned that rules 1-5 don’t work within the laws of reality.

Sometimes I feel bad for Danielle because she is accustomed to constructing logical points when we disagree with each other. After all, she grew up in a house with nothing but females, where feelings were involved.

Arguing for her isn’t about over-talking or interrupting which is why she sometimes gets frazzled under the pressure of arguing with me and sometimes misspeaks.

This is where my lawyerly adolescence can really get me into trouble. I make legalistic statements about the accuracy of what she has said, trying desperately to change the subject and go down a rabbit trail where I know victory is mine; usually at this point I realize I’ve lost the original (big) argument and it is time to score moral victories for my fragile psyche.

And this is where rule number five comes into play. If Danielle innocently misspeaks in the opening minutes of a disagreement and tries to come back later in the argument to correct her statement, I tell her she is a revisionist historian. She is changing her account to fit her argument, even if what she is saying is ironclad in its honesty. I just can’t take it.

But I’ve learned a thing or two since I lived at home or with my brothers post-college. And I’d even like to think I’m passing along some bits of wisdom to them.

Sometimes, I’ll break rule number five, and Danielle won’t call me a revisionist historian. She’ll actually concede the point. I’m learning.

She Said:

I might have had the most privileged “womb” experience of any baby ever born. My mom was 29 when she married my dad and, even though the women’s liberation movement was already in full swing, she was anxious to get the procreation party started. So, in 1980, when I showed up on the radar screen, she took every precaution to make sure my gestation came to a successful completion. Maybe it was her age, which combined maturity, along with eye-witness accounts of friends’ experiences and a higher accumulation of practical information, with anxiety towards the statistics concerning older mothers and the pressure of time; or maybe it was the fact that she had been anticipating this moment since she could talk in sentences, but she spared no sacrifice in giving my fetus the red carpet treatment.

The sacrifices she made are of epic stature. Besides the expected no-no’s, coffee or alcohol, she also banned ice cream, artificial flavoring, MSG, (mind you, this is 1980, before things were bad for you) sugar, salt, yellow die #5, canned goods, red meat, fish and non-organic produce. I’m not sure what she actually ate, and the idea of living up to her example doesn’t really make me want to rush out and get pregnant.

She might have been a little extreme but she was a woman on a mission: to give birth to the healthiest baby possible. After birth I was swaddled in 100% cotton, guarded in my sleep, fed only organic vegetables and yogurt, treated with homeopathic medicine, and after weaning, given goat’s milk to drink. Everywhere I crawled had been thoroughly cleansed with Lysol and Bleach. I don’t think I touched dirt until age three. My aunt gave me my first soda, a Dr. Pepper when I was five, and my mom was crushed.

To my mom, I am extremely grateful for giving me as big a head start towards being healthy that she possibly could, knowing what she knew.

However, amidst all this precaution and protection, and despite my usually excellent health record, a particular ailment has begun to surface over the past few years. That is, I’ll sporadically suffer from acute memory loss. Despite all my efforts in prevention, I can’t seem to get rid of it. I’ve tried to narrow down the instances of said memory loss to specific situations, and have realized that usually my “attacks” occur when I’m arguing with Blake over a certain situation where I was supposedly wronged. For some reason, the affront seems so clear and vivid until I try to recount it to Blake, when, forced to give an “instance” in which his behavior was as despicable as I’m proposing, I’m at a loss for words; my mind is blank.

It’s a horrible disorder, one I’d trade all the organic vegetables in California to not suffer from. In the moments leading up to the confrontation with Blake, the scene seems so clear in my head, his words or action falling with great weight, the offense incredibly lucid. So vivid will my recollection be that my mood will start to transform and stage a vigil around the “wrong-doing” I have suffered, that is, until Blake starts talking. Noticing my sour mood, he will ask what is wrong and all of the sudden, I have a relapse. It’s as if I’ve woken up from a dream and don’t know where I am, all my previous points of contention quickly slipping from my grasp.

Being that Blake lives in reality, he expects to know the “action” that caused my “re-action;” and, sadly, due to my condition, I can’t provide him with what he needs. Yet, he still presses, so, drowning in desperation, I give him as much of the truth I can conjure up from the empty room that is my head at the moment. Upon this sheepish and reckless testimony Blake will erupt into his favorite phrase, “REVISIONIST HISTORY!” almost jumping out of his skin due to both the assumed absurdity of my claim and the excitement that comes with saying “revisionist history.”

You see, Blake has a tendency to hold onto words and phrases longer than most people. He is a “repeater.” If he finds a word or phrase that is fun to say, or recalls something funny to him, he’ll say it over and over, changing the tone, projection, emphasis and sound with each new uttering. For him, something hasn’t really been said unless it has been said five times. I attribute this quirk to too much aspartame during his developing years.

It’s even worse when it comes to him making a point during an argument. While defending himself against my (I’ll admit) sometimes outlandish qualms, he’ll suddenly fall across a phrase that he gleefully adopts as his campaign slogan throughout the duration of the fight. “Revisionist History” or “Revisionist Historian” are most commonly called to duty.

Maybe it’s because we live in the south and have had to struggle against actual revisionist history ever since we realized that the Civil War wasn’t just about states’ rights, in the ninth grade, but it’s a phrase that touches a nerve in both of us. It’s Blake’s main line of defense against any accusation brought against him, and it’s my biggest obstacle, spotlighting the memory lapse I’m fighting and scrutinizing any mud I can feebly sling.

Thus, what started as a mere miscommunication assumes the gravity of a Supreme Court case, and now nothing is too insignificant, ephemeral, or ludicrous to be scrutinized with intense care and attention. Against the accusation of being a “revisionist historian,” I struggle against my disability, searching desperately to find anything that will salvage my reputation as a truthful, upright citizen. As Blake recounts his version of the scenario with enviable detail, I compare it to the apparition of my memory, trying to eek out some grain of clarity. Eventually, thanks in most part to Blake’s incessant questioning, I come to understand the situation in some fashion and a compromise is reached, apologies are exchanged, and promises of future behavior on both parts are made.

In hindsight, though, I wonder if I have emerged out of my state of forgetfulness to realize what truly took place, or, like the blind leading the blind, have just come to adopt Blake’s “revised” version as my own reality. Thus, when you think about it, one way or another, it does not matter how much Omega 3 you put into your body, you’ll never be fully immune from the effects of revisionist history.

Driving Styles

She Said:

One of the first memories I have of Blake takes place in the early fall of our junior year of high school. He had only been driving for about 3 months and still wasn’t allowed to have people ride in his car while he drove; so, our friend and I had to follow him in a separate car one night to go see a movie. Neither of us had ever actually witnessed Blake drive before, save the parking lot of our school, and so had no premonitions about his “road behavior.”

To our astonishment, here he was, a male, just sixteen, with a V8 engine (Honda Accord), going 10 mph below the speed limit. Blake drove in the right hand lane unless he absolutely had to get into the left lane. Upon accessing the highway, we stayed behind him in, of course, the right hand lane, and for a second I thought that if I got out and ran, I would get to the theater before the cars did. With all of us at the peak age of showing off, acting cool and knowing everything, this was a true anomaly.

“Boy, that Blake is a careful driver,” our friend said, a smirk crawling across his face, hands definitely not at 10 and 2. I giggled in agreement, downplaying my newfound fear upon realizing that it would be safer to be in Blake’s car than riding bitch to an erratic guy with suicidal tendencies.

And it was. Blake’s car is one of the safest places you can be. During a tornado, I would probably head to his car rather than the bathroom. There should be a “safe zone” sign in his back window, or at least some sort of “honorary citizen” decal, to notify people of his intense cautionary stance towards driving. His car holds the opposite effect to those cars that have missing bumpers or crunched in headlights, the ones who wear their “car-wreck scars” like tokens of how many lives they have left to live. While you avoid being next to or in front of those cars, you would cozy right up to Blake and his “safe car,” knowing it’s the securest spot on the road.

However, you should not sidle up next to me. Whereas Blake has yet to be issued a speeding ticket, (He was pulled over once and let go with a warning, “where’s the justice there?” I ask,) by the time I was 24 (that’s 7 years of driving if you subtract the time I spent abroad, not driving) I had racked up four tickets and had been in three wrecks, one of them definitely not my fault (hit from behind), one of them kind of my fault (got cut off in the rain and slid into her from behind), one of them definitely my fault (ran into somebody from behind going 15 mph. Oh, and that’s not counting the time I hit an illegal immigrant from behind while we were stuck in traffic exiting 635. Luckily for him, it was nothing like the bumper nudges you would experience in any foreign country where cars aren’t cooed over like newborn babies. Luckily for me, he didn’t have insurance and probably didn’t know how to press charges so just drove off without more than a shrug. Thus, because it never made it to my driving record, that instance doesn’t count. I’ve also backed into a tree, a brick mailbox, and rolled backwards into a car while at a red light.

It had been a mystery to me why I had to drive so fast, find the quickest route, sometimes not pay attention to the task before me, and treat traffic like a marathon where each person I pass equals one more second shaved off my time. But, then I drove with my Uncle Doug, who speeds between stoplights on neighborhood streets, each sprint burning a new hole in the ozone layer, saying “why spend your life at a stoplight? This is the way to go, Dani!” And of course there is my grandpa, who has been driving since he was nine and still doesn’t wear a seatbelt because he has “survived thus far without one,” citing the one time people were saved because they were thrown from the vehicle that ended up looking like a sardine can. He drives like an 84 year old James Dean, his white minivan turning into white lightening. One time he didn’t even bother to pull over to wipe the ice off our windshield but hung his hand out the window, going 50mph in a blizzard, and used a Kleenex to wipe himself a little 4 inch square peephole. Talk about reckless, even I knew better than that. To top it off, though, there is my dad, who will get so wrapped up in what he is saying that it looks like he has forgotten that he is at the wheel. It’s a real life re-enactment of all those car scenes in old movies where the character that is driving has not looked at the road for such an agonizingly long period of time that you squirm with anxiety, no longer paying attention to the dialogue, but rather making predictions on when they will crash. To compound the stress of riding shotgun with him, my dad tailgates like it’s his main line of work. So, basically I’m swimming against a huge genetic tide.

I drive a small, manual transmission car that can easily “bust it” (as I like to say) around the lumbering trucks and SUV’s, emerging like a little Prefontaine, racing ahead of the pack. I had to get a stick shift, knowing it would turn driving from a monotonous chore into the Game of my Life! It’s a glorious feeling and it’s really addictive, although probably not smart considering my genetic disorder. Blake drives a Honda Accord (still) with automatic transmission, always pays attention to the speed limit, is overly sensitive to brake lights ahead of him, and thus can only resort to honking as a way to entertain himself. Blake is that person that honks way too soon. He’s like the George Bush of honking, always preemptively attacking. He tries to get me to prematurely honk as well, but I like to allow periods of grace. So that person was heading towards me, I knew that they would eventually see me, just like I eventually see people too. Not in Blake’s eyes, they can be a football field away and if Blake senses they don’t know where they are headed, he’ll “lay on it.” Everybody “stays the course” with Blake at the wheel.

What’s funny is that between me and Blake, I was the one that went to driver’s ed, logging in “driving time” after school for eight weeks while Blake just read the booklet and took the test. The significance of this difference would remain undetected until you sat with him while he attempted to parallel park. You see, when I took my driver’s test, I messed up when the instructor told me to parallel park. I was nervous and the guy had the friendliness of Walter Matthau. He came close to failing me and I had to BEG him, yes, BEG him, not too. Embarrassed at my incompetence, I worked off my weakness with intense determination, perfecting my method with the finesse and precision of an Olympic ice skater. Watching me parallel park elicits the same feeling you get when you find the last piece that brings your puzzle to completion. It’s Sweet. Watching Blake parallel park is like trying to tie a knot with the cherry stem. On average he will go from reverse to forward about ten times. It’s a mess, and of course, true to form, I can only sit there and laugh at him.

You see, for me, this is my glory moment. It’s at this one little instant, or approximately 12 minutes in time that I become the better driver, the one with the skills. His standard prudence and caution, which normally win boasting rights, become crippling attributes and he is pitifully found in want of my inhibition and nerve. All my speeding convictions and driving transgressions become but inconsequential statistics, seemingly necessary but small prices to pay for the ability to park like a champion, to achieve a driver’s gold metal. You might feel safer with Blake, but if you want to not only arrive on time but also get out of the car as soon as you get there, you’d probably want to ride with me.


He Said:

Like a political candidate hoping to air all of his dirty laundry before his opposition can leak it to the press, I have a confession to make:

The shame of failing my written driver’s test still haunts me to this day.

Some nights I’ll wake in the middle of the night with sweaty butt crack, dazed, having to remind myself that I have a valid driver’s license. I’ll mercifully fall back to sleep in a pool of my own snot and saliva, thankful I’m no longer on the eve of my 16th birthday.

I remember the day of the driver’s test with the same clarity as when I first realized puberty brought with it new hair. Why is this hair black and not brown?

It’s 1997. Mid-June. I’d probably gone to see The Fifth Element or The Lost World: Jurassic Park at the theater the night before. I went into the test without studying a lick, except to memorize green means go; red means stop. And yellow means step on the gas.

I was “student-driving” at the time. On the way over to take the test I changed lanes in the middle of an intersection and my step-mother kindly let me know that maneuver was illegal. I made a mental note of it, hoping it would be an answer to a question on the test. It wasn’t.

When I got the results back (which happens immediately) my ears burned with shame and I could barely stand up. I failed miserably and needed 32 ounces of corn syrup to nurse me back from the depths of an ego-shattering collapse.

I couldn’t take the test again for two weeks. But I passed it the second time with the confidence of an Eastern Bloc chess champ. I crushed it.

The experience scarred me in the same way a bungled spelling bee performance in elementary school scarred Danielle. She was booted from the competition in round one for misspelling today and vowed from that moment on to be an academic mercenary. Never again would she be on the losing side of an academic competition. History would judge her differently. No Cliffs Notes for her.

Flunking an easy driver’s test spurred me to take Danielleian action as well. Walking out of the DMV that day I made a monastic-type vow: to pledge a life of traffic ticket celibacy.

And up to this point I have remained celibate, while Danielle has slept with every speed trap in town.

To gloat, I have never gotten a speeding ticket. Not once.

And I am fairly certain the only economic boon I brought into the marriage is great auto insurance. Danielle’s abysmal driving record couldn’t even sabotage the rate we got—the fact that she could teach Defensive Driving didn’t hurt us at all.

Thanks to me, Danielle and I enjoy the cheapest auto insurance on the planet. It is almost like we get to drive for free.

But sometimes my hubris gets the best of me. Danielle would tell you that I can be an annoying passenger. I probably am. But the explanation for this is simple. Growing up I was a tattletale and combined with my immaculate driving record today makes me a horrible back seat driver. Mea culpa.

Some of the chilliest moments in our relationship are marked by episodes of “suggested driving techniques” from yours truly—tactical driving recommendations offered from the passenger’s seat.

I like to think of myself as an artful dodger, mindfully aware of speed traps and state troopers hiding between rows of interstate bushes. In fact, I see myself as a driving coach, passing along bits of information I’ve learned over 10 years of perfect driving.

Okay, so you almost rear-ended that guy…we’ll brake a little sooner next time.

Lookey there, speed limit is 65…we should probably take cruise control down about 20 mph’s.

It’s rush hour traffic, no need to be a hero…

You get the idea. But Danielle doesn’t always take kindly to my “tips”. I can tell I’m starting to overstep my passenger-bounds when she starts to get quiet and a frosty condensation starts to creep up the windows. At this point I feel like we are going to crash or get pulled over at any moment.

Usually neither happens. We arrive safely and avoid being pulled over. Like most things it is the principle of the matter that gets us going at each other—me offering the oft tip, her gripping the steering wheel tighter and tighter, maintaining her driving superiority.

And believe it or not, we haven’t killed each other yet. Not even on a road trip.

Roadtrip Potty Breaks

He Said:

When I was a kid we took a lot of family vacations before my mom died. And we would normally drive to get wherever we were going. In the summers we’d drive to a time-share in the Ozarks. In the winter we’d pile in the car for a trip to the Colorado Rockies.

I’m also one of four boys, meaning we never really had to stop for bathroom breaks unless my mom had to go—we called her a squatter. If I (or one of my brothers) had one too many Hi-C’s or Capri Sun’s, my dad would simply pass back a plastic bottle and tell me to hit the mark. He’d be extra careful not to hit any potholes or make abrupt lane changes as I relieved myself; after all, few things smell worse than fresh, vitamin-C-rich pee seeping into minivan upholstery.

In the rare event we didn’t have any bottles handy my dad would pull over and we’d urinate by a highway mile marker. But we were always back on the road in record time.

As I grew older and went on ski trips with my church youth group, I morphed into that kid (re: Fuller from Home Alone) whose bladder is so small it necessitates extra caravan stops just to accommodate a painfully kinked hose. You know how youth group leaders have a legalistic need to adhere to the itinerary, as if it were God-breathed? Well, I stressed them out beyond belief with my inelastic bladder. We stopped a lot and seldom arrived according to schedule.

And now that I’m married not a whole lot has changed. Danielle and I love to travel. And if getting from here to there means driving, throw us the keys. In the months leading up to our wedding last summer we drove to Florida, Tennessee, and Colorado (twice). And we drove to Colorado last month so we could snowboard for a week.

That is a lot of driving. And we don’t mind. Road trips are great because it is so easy to jump in the car and go. It is just you, your companion(s), a coffee-stained map, great music, endless conversation, small town speed traps, and a ton of liquid.

And I’m still a liberal Roadtrip Potty Breaker. After about 150 miles I’m going to need to pee—real bad. Sometimes I can stretch it out to 200 miles (okay, one time I made it 200 miles).

But when the coffee/soda/water finally starts to knock on the valve door, I have to stop immediately. It hits me in one violent moment of realization, as if a bunch of fire ants are stinging me below. Coupled with the seatbelt strangling my midsection, it feels like my gut is going to explode.

Pinching it just isn’t going to work…

At least I’m predictable, though.

Stopping after a few hundred miles is organic. I’ll admit that I initiate potty breaks much more than Danielle. But my breaks stay in stride with the trip. In addition to using the bathroom, we can stretch our legs, fill up with gas, and switch drivers. Stopping to pee is actually convenient.

But I can guarantee that I won’t have to pee within the first hour of a trip. In fact, the most manic I get on a Roadtrip is within the first hour. Getting out of town quickly is the only way to build Roadtrip Momentum.

True to form, Danielle schedules her potty breaks for the most inopportune times—they might not be as frequent, but they are much more hiccupy. Her favorite time to alert me that we need to stop—you guessed it—is 30 minutes into the trip, just as we're trying to beat the rush hour traffic on our way out of town.

Sometimes she’ll try and trick me into stopping just as our trip is underway. She’ll tell me she is thirsty, and like the dictator I am behind the wheel, I take this as a cue to step on the gas; I’m wise to her ruse. But if she really needs to go, I tell her, there will be a scheduled stop coming up in 150 miles.

She Said:

Never am I more in tune with my bladder than on a road trip. With every audacious sip, I can’t escape a visual of the rising liquid levels in the silo below my large intestine. I know that it is not going to evaporate out of the back of my head; judgment day will soon be upon me. And just like the end of the world, you don’t know it’s here until you are right in the thick of it.

Like all humans, though, I try to prognosticate the future. My body becomes the subject of an intense science experiment. If I drink this much now, how long will it take before the liquid is banging down the exit door? On top of measuring the amount of liquid, I also have to take account of time. Will it make me have to pee faster if I drink this quart of water slowly or all at once? And then, there is the chemistry of the drink at hand. Does coffee excite a bigger, stronger stampede than Dr. Pepper? Will one cup of coffee plus one bottle of water equal the distance between this town and the next? No matter how many times I repeat the experiment, the results are forever elusive. Like slot machines, it’s not a system built around your success.

My Achilles heal is that I am orally fixated. I sucked my thumb for a large portion of my youth and ever since I stopped, I’ve been searching for a thumb replacement, like a ghost limb. I suffer from what I call, “constant boredom of the mouth.” I either have to be chewing or drinking something or my mouth throws a figurative temper tantrum. Usually I curb this perpetual craving by chewing ice, but I’m only truly satisfied if “sips” are involved. Therefore, I drink a LOT of water, a lot.

During a normal day, I usually go to the bathroom over and above twice an hour. At this rate, we might as well be driving a horse drawn cart; so much time would be lost on my restroom breaks. So on road trips I do everything I can to lengthen the time intervals between stops, living with a parched mouth and rationed gulps so as to ensure we arrive at our destination within a reasonable amount of time.

Yet, I found someone who’s TBP (Time Between Pees) is shorter than mine, and married him. Where my TBP is determined by the massive amount of liquid I consume. Blake’s is due to a physical factor, the size of his bladder. I don’t even think that Blake’s bladder is visible to the naked eye. He has to pee after he has already used the restroom for the last time before we “hit the road.” And that is NOT an exaggeration.

Thus, when Blake and I set out on our merry way to travel somewhere via vehicular transport, we barely make it 45 minutes before we are both squirming in our seats. This past Saturday we drove from my grandma’s house in Louisville, Colorado, to the mountains to go snowboarding for the day. Being in Colorado, we were going over and above my grandma’s advice to “drink a lot of water,” so as to not get dehydrated (as if I would ever have that problem). You basically never saw the bottom half of my face the entire weekend we were there. On top of all the water we were drinking, my dad made us huge cups of coffee for the road, which we sleepily downed, ignoring the repercussions soon to come.

Excited to get started on our two hour drive, we only went to the restroom one time each before leaving, and spent the first half of the trip distracted by the task of navigating snow covered highways. I think “the feeling” hit us both about the same time, but you know how it is, nobody shows their cards right in the beginning. About 50 minutes into the drive Blake said, “I’ll definitely need to pee when we get there.” Thus, while to him this was a cry for help and inside he was slowly dying, wanting to voice his pain, even if just abstractly, to me I heard that he could definitely go the whole way without stopping, which aroused in me a small panic.

For the last ten minutes my senses had been aware of the “little situation” growing in the depths and my body was already starting to engage its standard emergency procedures. Basically, when I have to go to the bathroom and am not sure when relief will come, I experience three stages of reaction.

Stage One: Growing discomfort, belly gets tight, toes clench, legs cross, body suffers erratic chills, mind is mildly aware of state of affairs.

Stage Two: Intense, desperate pain, unbutton pants, slouch in seat, start to sweat, have visions of the repercussions of actually urinating in the car, mind is highly panicked, no end in sight, flashbacks on my life, RED ALERT!

Stage Three: The pain has been evenly distributed to every neuron in my body, and they are collectively focused on alleviating the intensity in my bowels. This causes me to fall into a Zen-like state of concentration, as if I’m balancing a plate on a stick. My eyelids lie half open and the world is fuzzy.

Thus, I was already in Stage Three when Blake transitioned into his own Stage Two, which is panic without hope of a Stage Three. Like a bear awakened from hibernation, Blake was IRRITATED, and the emotions I had just experienced quietly were being acted out loudly and passionately by the guy in the driver’s seat. As he unzipped his snowboarding pants and slouched in the chair, his frustration only elicited giggles from me as each cuss word hurled from his mouth.

Even though my laughter was that of the insane, since I was experiencing an altered state of reality, it didn’t help either of us. Doubling over with laughter does not help keep the plate balanced on the stick, nor does it calm Blake down. Any merriment I was deriving from his situation only seemed to drive him deeper into aggravation.

“Don’t laugh,” he said, with all the sternness he could muster, “It’s not funny.”

Oh but it was.

Argument Series #1: Versailles

She Said:

The ancient Roman comic playwright Terence once said, "The fiercest quarrels do not always argue the greatest offenses."

Blake and I fight over matters of principle. Like World War I, it’s just a combination of coincidental factors that contribute to a scene worthy of any Univision 21 daytime special: the usual suspects are crankiness, P.M.S., pride on the defense, miscommunication, or Blake feeling overheated. The real reason for the fight is caused by a little fairy with a naughty mind that scrambles our words and then disappears back into the forest, back to the Fairy King, leaving us arguing without remembering what it was actually for, yet carrying on in defense of our opposing principles. All of the sudden we turn from logical adults to conniving miscreants, sparing no rhetorical tactic to rise victorious and slander the other principle as if were nothing but the silly idea of a child.

One hot day in August, while Blake and I were working as tour guides in Paris, we decided to spend our day off exploring parts of the city we had not yet seen, and going to Versailles for lunch at this little Mexican food restaurant we had passed many a time yet never with enough time to eat. Today was the day, two Texans about to get their “salsa” fix. I put “salsa” in parenthesis because I don’t think that jalapenos are native to France, and they must all jump ship on the trip across the Atlantic, causing the “salsa” to be more like “tomato sauce.” But we happily gobbled it down along with our one bowl of chips, (forgetting there are no refills in France,) and happily ate our meal too. The day was going so well!

Then, the bill came.

Sidenote: In France, the restaurants include the tip into the menu price of a food item, thus ensuring that the waiter/waitress gets paid, and no more people are put out into the universe complaining about “the industry.” Strictly genius. When you go to a restaurant, you know exactly what you will be paying, because it’s the price on the menu, no tax, no tip, no headache.

Now, of course, if you feel like you have had exceptional service, you can leave something extra, but nobody will be spitting in your food the next time you eat there if you don’t. So when Blake and I put down our portion to split the bill, Blake used the change I had given him to give the waitress a 3 Euro tip = 4 dollars. Seeing that he was being so generous, I took back a Euro to spend somewhere else, feeling as if 2 Euros was more than plenty. And this is when the “salsa” hit the fan.

Blake scoffed at how “cheap” I was being, saying “It’s just a Euro.”

Oh how many times had I heard this in my life! From friends, “It’s just leftovers!” from my sister, “It’s just a shirt,” from everyone, “it’s just a few bucks!” Did our whole generation grow up with the phrase “A penny saved is a penny earned” lost on us?

Placing my cup of iceless water on the paper placemat, I calmly explained, “Yes, it’s just a Euro, but do you know what a Euro can buy you? One Euro equals One Coke from the Coke machine, One Euro equals One Small Espresso to go, One Euro equals 20% of our ticket out to Versailles! One Euro equals ONE LESS EURO you have to pay for your next meal!”

Convinced that my logic could persuade an orangutan to save that Euro, I leaned back in my chair, delighted with the formula that had never failed me. I thought of my Grandpa adding water to his cranberry juice, eating rotten bananas and yogurt past the “best by” date, and knew that he would be puffed up with pride if he could see me now. After all, it was him that started asking for the Seniors Discount when he turned 45.

But Blake wasn’t convinced. He knew that he had been had. He had never had training like this. Up against my black belt in Savings Economics, he was nothing, a paltry opponent. However, going down easy isn’t in his make-up. He’s a second child, the antagonistic one, the one who speaks faster than he thinks, that tattles and then hides, who has to get in the last word. Basically, a perfect match for the first child in me: the one that has to be right, who makes the rules, who is the boss, whose authority is never questioned. Sho-sho-sho-sho-down-down-down.

Acting as if my previous words were nothing to him, he repeated his first accusation, that I was being cheap and selfish. And with the javelin, pierced me where it hurts, saying that his virtue of generosity trumped my virtue of conserving money. There they were: the principles. How could I stand to be accused of not being generous! We were still giving her a tip ON TOP of the tip she was already receiving! And her job as a waitress didn’t even entail the necessity to refill our chips! How unfair, how LOW.

This called for the big guns, the only arrow in my quiver that did any damage, allude to his plush upbringing. Sarcastically I told him that of course it’s easy to be generous when you’re not worried about who is going to pay for the meal. Growing up with his father always picking up the bill must have been so fun. I knew that he chose his meal based on his appetite, whereas I had grown up choosing within self-enforced price limits. “You don’t know what it’s like to be worried about how your mom is going to pay for dinner or not being able to go on a ski trip because it is too expensive, or crying when you saw how much school supplies would cost,” I whined, not meaning to bring in these other situations but improvising for effect. Sometimes you just have to go with it. I was also starting to get emotional (note: back up arrow is the buildup of tears, eventually they always win out) so this was giving me a needed advantage.

Involving other situations, implying that Blake is spoiled, and crying for no reason are three surefire ways to infuriate him. Putting them all together is a deadly combination. Not only did I get a lecture on how he was not spoiled, followed by exhibits A, B, and C, but I also got an earful about how I was being ridiculous to make such a big deal about this, that he couldn’t believe I would be so sensitive, and that if it meant so much to me, that I should just keep the Euro.

What is it that causes a person, upon acquiring a hard earned prize, to not want it anymore? If I took the Euro now, I would look like a baby, a pathetic, selfish brat. No way! If it costs me leaving 10 Euros, I’m dropping that image like a bad wig.

We sit for a moment shoving the Euro across the table, yelling in whispers “Take it!” “No, leave it!” “You wanted it, it’s yours,” “No, I want to leave it.”

We ended up taking our “situation” outside, and this is where I crumbled. There is something in me that can argue for so long, but, like a building that is being imploded, I lose all foundation and just kind of emit this babble of crying nonsense, where I just want it to end. Please Lord, make it stop! And right as I’m feeling like a horrible wrench, my thriftiness mistaken for selfishness, unable to comprehend my own thoughts, Blake turns into a sympathetic Kleenex. As my building implodes, he puts his second child back in its box and starts to apologize for inciting me to frustration. I counter with endless apologies for insulting his upbringing. We both feel bad, we don’t even remember where the Euro is, and in hindsight, we don’t care anymore.

Walking back to the train, we can’t get over the fact that we just fought over One Euro, in a Mexican Restaurant, in Versailles, France; One Euro that hopefully bought that waitress a Coke, or an espresso, or One Euro off her next meal.

He Said:

Danielle and I don’t fight. We have disagreements. Which lead to arguments. Most of our hall-of-fame arguments begin over nothing—benign little asides that you just can’t let go. I’m willing to bet this is a universal truth for most couples.

When we disagree it is normally over the principle, meaning we’re both stubborn in the areas in which our upbringing differs the most. She is a first-born. I’m a second-born. She claims supreme knowledge by way of birthright. I claim all-knowingness simply because I’m programmed to annoy and push buttons as a second-born. So I do. Even as a 25 year old.

And we have the uncanny ability to drop what we are doing and argue even if we are in a crowded department store, elevator, or church foyer. We’re that couple you see talking through clinched teeth before erupting into ear-to-ear patronizing grins. We look like we’re playing ping-pong or volleyball with each cross-examination, volleying counter points back and forth.

We’re the annoying couple who tell people we don’t go to bed angry—and we don’t because we’ll duke it out in public.

One of our most memorable pre-marriage arguments took place overseas, when we decided to argue at the expense of our diplomatic example; as expatriates we didn’t want to be the loud, obnoxious Americans. We wanted to blend in, act like we belonged and really understood the culture. It is worth pointing out that we lived in France at the time, where we spent 2004* working as tour guides.

On this fateful day we took a trip to Versailles to get Tex-Mex, a rare delicacy in France, where, at the conclusion of the meal, we completely forgot all that crap about being good stewards of the U.S.A. and its image. The gloves came off. International Domestic Dispute.

As is normally the case, this disagreement started over nothing—how much tip to leave the waiter. However, as is customary in France the waiter expected no tip because it was included with the price of the meal, the exact opposite of how it works in America.

Note that Danielle is the world’s most prolific penny-pincher. Every cent counts because if you save enough of them you’ll start amassing dollars. And dollars buy stuff. On the other hand, I was the world’s most prolific penny-ignorer. If it can’t be folded, it isn’t currency—something I no longer believe, but did at the time.

When the bill came Danielle decided to pick up the tab. I was grateful, so grateful in fact that I decided to tip the waiter three Euros—and I was being generous with Danielle’s money. Danielle’s hard-earned money.

When Danielle saw me leave the gratuitous tip I could tell she disagreed with not only the amount of tip but also that I tipped anything at all. So we negotiated and settled on a two Euro tip instead of three.

I thought it was crazy to get worked up over one Euro, so I muttered under my breath how there really is no difference between two and three Euros. Somehow, probably because I can’t whisper or mutter in a low volume, Danielle heard what I said. And she was appalled. And before I knew it her eyes were welling with tears and she was storming out of the restaurant.

As I sat there, for just a moment longer than her, I contemplated my next move: I could either A) apologize or B) goad her into thinking she was being cheap. I went with option B.

When I got outside of the restaurant I found Danielle sulking near the bike racks. It was a sunny day and tourists and native French were milling about. When I approached her I noticed the overwhelming amount of blood-shotness in her eyes. This terrified me because I knew I wouldn’t be able to win the disagreement very easily. But I had to try.

But Before I could open my mouth Danielle lit into me, proclaiming me to be the world’s most spoiled brat, even calling me Richie Rich. All over a Euro—one Euro.

She launched into how growing up, for her, every last dollar mattered. She didn’t wile them away as if they grew on trees. And I didn’t think I treated money like that. But apparently I had. Danielle was doing the conversion rate in her head, realizing the exchange rate meant one Euro was actually worth more than one dollar, and this upset her.

And it upset her that I thought it was no big deal, like I didn’t understand her as a person. My nature is to get defensive, and I felt attacked and tried to change the direction of the argument, to no avail.

In the end I realized how ridiculous the argument was. I was being caviler with Danielle’s money, knowing full well how differently she treated it.

And she still controls our finances to this day. When the bill comes I always slide the credit card receipt over to her, where she can tip the waiter whatever she thinks he is worth.

*Danielle actually spent the first four months down in Nice before moving up to Paris. I was in Paris the whole time, a fact that bugs her because she claims to be the bigger Francophile. As a button pusher, sometimes I’ll talk about how awesome it was to live in Paris longer than her, which is a cruel way to torment someone by reason of fact over feeling.

Cleaning

He Said:

Universal truth: male tolerance for filth decreases by getting married.

No denying it. Women have the ability to make men enjoy cleanliness. The metamorphosis is amazing. Suddenly living in a world that can find you wearing a white dusting glove doesn’t seem so far-fetched. It’s an assimilation program I, along with millions of other program-devotees, refer to as domestication.

Just a month after getting married, for example, I visited my brother in college. To save money he offered to let me sleep at his place—an offer I thought little about and certainly didn’t turn down.

I didn’t know it at the time, but this was a huge mistake. You can’t send a married guy back to college and expect him to go along for the ride—unless that ride is sanitary, smells good, and is really comfy. I’m not totally emasculated, but this is what one comes to expect after adding the word “plush” to your vocabulary.

In going back to college I should have made the following preparations: purchased a pair of shower shoes and my own bar of soap, brought a tube of Neosporin, and donated a gallon of bleach to my brother’s house (which he shared with five other dudes). I should have also received new immunization shots.

My brother’s collegiate home was a filthy den of unholy smells, stains, dust mites, and contagious foot fungus (I caught the foot fungus, by the way). The spilled beer smell that seemed to permeate everything amazed me. My brother and his friends are really dedicated to spilling beer. On everything. You’ve got to admire that.

Beer-smell even seeped into the frozen pizza we dined on that was freezer-burned beyond recognition. Gross stuff, but bachelor stuff.

Funny thing is that just a month prior to this visit I was still a bachelor living in an apartment in Dallas with my other two brothers (who won’t be nominated for cleanliness sainthood anytime soon). The point is that after just a few weeks of marriage I became intolerant of bachelor living; I was only a month removed from living in relative squalor myself.

For years I proudly upheld the bachelor code of living: Don’t Clean. Ever.

So how could just one month of marriage make me forget my roots? Simple. Marriage has made me understand (dare I say appreciate) the need for routine cleaning. I even value the oft potpourri basket.

I never thought I’d wake up on a Saturday filled with so much excitement, ready to vacuum the apartment. Look at the perfect lines in the carpet…it looks just like a flawlessly manicured football field!

I can’t help but feel like a trained pup. One month I’m leaving a wet towel on the bed and the next month this becomes an infraction worthy of having certain privileges revoked; privileges I’ll refer to here as doggie biscuits. A male can learn and adjust quite nicely under such female mandated give-and-take rules. Just look at me!

So what do I do that is so different now? Well, a lot of things Bachelor Blake never did.

I am basically in charge of the kitchen area. This means I do the dishes after a meal (I used to be a big soaker). I wipe the counters clean (with minimal crumbs finding their way to the floor—just don’t walk into the kitchen barefoot).

I take out the trash (as a bachelor I would let the trash stack all the way up the wall until it was about to topple—like a condemned building—before even thinking to take it out). I vacuum, of course. And I clean the bathroom (re: toilet, where we poop).

All of these new chores I do with much more precision than I once did as a bachelor. Prior to marriage I cleaned for cosmetic purposes only. Meaning: I stuffed crap into closets, under beds, and wiped all the crumbs to the floor.

And I think I’m doing a great job now. Until I look over at Danielle.

She has one cleaning mode: OCD, or Obsessive Cleaning Danielle. She cleans with a purpose and determination only one other group of people can imitate: class-action lawyers, who comb through medical records in search of dying people who can still sign on the dotted line.

Danielle is a machine. As I’m haphazardly catching 67% of all the countertop crumbs, I’ll see her scrubbing base boards (I never acknowledged the existence of baseboards before), dusting the crown molding (I used to deem anything above eye-level “out of bounds”), ridding ceiling corners of cob-webs (see: out of bounds), actually folding laundry (as opposed to stuffing it somewhere), mopping the kitchen floor (mopping!), scrubbing the shower tiles (it looks painstakingly arduous), or dusting even the tinniest crevice.

It is amazing to see. She is a cleaning goddess. But her cleaning acumen doesn’t inspire me to want to make the Cleaning All-Star team. And I doubt it ever will, unless the threat of losing all doggie biscuit privileges stands to be revoked. After all, I’m a pup. I can be trained.

She Said:

When it comes to cleaning styles, Nurture wins out as the deciding influence on how each of us approach the task of cleaning the apartment. You see, after the crash of 1986, Blake’s dad still had a solid, if not affluent, job. Mine, however, would remain on the street corner of ex-real estate agents for years to come. Although both of our families were middle class, we each represented two different groups within that stratum, those that hired a maid, and those that couldn’t afford it.

Oh, I knew what it was like to hire a maid, it was heaven! Once a week I would come home from school to see somebody else doing my chores, walk like Little Lord Fauntleroy to get some Oreos and plop down on the recently fluffed couch to watch The Brady Bunch, surrounded by the scent of CLEAN. But that only lasted a year, the year my parents divorced and my mom took up real estate herself. Soon my mom had found a way to make money from home as a photographer, which meant that my stint as a latch-key kid was over and my role as a proper contributor to the household funds began.

Every weekend my sister and I would digest our morning cartoons with the “To Do” list looming above our heads on the kitchen counter, right next to a puddle of milk that jumped ship from our bowls of Cheerios. To the soundtrack of the Loony Toons ending credits, we would negotiate who did what, like choosing sides for a game of playground baseball.

“I’ve got the windows!”
“Nooooo, you got them last week!”
“Fine, ok, but you have to mop.”
“I hate mopping, I’ll dust the living room and all the bedrooms if you mop”
“Deal”
(“That’s all Folks!”)

With that we would separate, scattering Clorox, Windex, and 409 like an emergency sanitation program, anti-bacterial soldiers spilling from our aircraft. We would clean all the windows, inside and out, vacuum our bedrooms, sweep the floors, mop the floors, clean the bathtubs, toilets, sinks, mirrors, baseboards, floorboards, and countertops, fold the laundry, and dust the shelves. It was a tremendous undertaking, but somebody had to do it.

In retrospect, it was extremely satisfying. One must know that my mother’s style of decorating resembled that of a blank canvas: keep all the walls, counters and floor tiles white, add color with furniture and decorations. Thus, even amateur dust and dirt particles felt like they were in the big leagues, such was the amount of attention they got. For me, nothing was more satisfying than returning a wall to its previous state of pristine, wiping off fingerprints, lifting off dust, making the crown molding sparkle like new, feeling like you have just created a bubble of cleanliness, where your nose may roam free from the fear of being assaulted by horrible smells or dust. In fact, sometimes watching that transition from grey to white was so addictive that my mom herself would have to tell me that I had done enough, wrenching the damp rag from my unyielding fingers and sending me outside to play with my sister.

However, Blake was never privy to such satisfaction. For him, cleaning would always be the act of straightening up his room so that their maid could be more efficient and able to focus her efforts on sanitizing the bathroom rather than picking up baseball cards. His lone cleaning “experience” consisted of jamming his t-shirts into an overstuffed drawer, kicking his books under his bed, and wiping all the random objects from his desktop into the top drawer with his forearm. The smell of Clorox working its magic was but an abstract sensation. He knew that his toilet bowl was clean but the process was lost on him.

Thus, we acquired two ideas of “clean.” For Blake, “clean” means “organized.” For me, “clean” means “sanitized.” When we each stand at the horizon of a room, we perceive completely different scenarios. Whereas my skin might crawl at the vision of dust mite colonies staking claim to the fireplace mantle, which sends me into a whirling dervish state where my rag takes on every bit of dirt that dares show its face, Blake will spontaneously combust into an organizer of piles, or thrower away of important scraps of paper, just as long as the table looks cleared. I don’t mind if clothes aren’t put away and books are splayed about as long as the countertops are free from dirt and the carpet is still configured to the “just been vacuumed” pattern. Blake doesn’t mind if the kitchen floor is filthy as long as there are no boxes standing between him and the refrigerator.

Thus, even after Blake has cleaned, the room still needs to be cleaned, i.e. he has really just prepped the surface for a professional cleaner, me. I find myself sweeping up the crumbs that he whisked to the floor while wiping the countertops, wiping the mirror dry after he has washed what must have been Nickelodeon Slime from his face, or dislodging food from plates that weren’t scrubbed before he put them in the dishwasher. (“That’s what the dishwasher is for,” he says.)

Maybe my priorities are a bit off, and it’s probably annoying for him to be “cleaning” the counter while I soap up a new rag in order to wipe up his trail of smeared food and bread crumbs, as if I’m thwarting his ploy to eat Hansel and Gretel. I know he gets exasperated when I come up with more chores that need tending just as he has plopped into the chair with a cold glass of water. (“Can’t we just sit for a while?”) But I can’t help if one of the first things my parents did when I learned to crawl was attach a teensy rag to my wrist, turning me into a Baby Roomba. It’s all I know.

The Bedroom Fan

She Said:

One November day in 1980, I made that journey from womb to open air. It might have been because I didn’t personally have to exert any effort on my trip through the birth canal, but I was born sucking my thumb, an accepted sign of comfort and leisure. I take this to mean that all my life up until that point had been spent in an absolutely perfect environment, and despite being squeezed into another atmosphere, I was basically just expecting more of the same. Boy was I in for a shock. My other hand had just barely started waving at all the big faces when my thumb was ripped from my tiny mouth, I found myself being flipped upside down, and somebody was hitting my bare and prone tush in an effort to “save my life.” Note to Dr. Shore: I was already alive, and happy, perfectly happy, in fact, until you came along.

Thus started my lifelong search to recreate the warm cocoon I had once known so well, a place I never imagined would be taken away from me so abruptly. For starters, I agreed to be raised by my parents, who live in Dallas, Texas, where so many summer days are spent in the 100’s that each year we dare Nature to surpass the previous year’s record. It’s a sick game that messes with your head; you begin to believe that your shirt will always be stuck to your back and that sweating from the back of your knees is normal. Growing up, I always wondered why The Gap’s new “Fall Line” included hooded sweaters and jackets. “Why would you want to wear that? It’s stinkin’ hot out!”

However, there’s a catch. Being that Dallas is found in the United States of America, something called air conditioning always finds a way to interfere. For every degree higher the temperature outside would climb, the store manager, teacher, mall operator, office maintenance crew, or driver in your life would crank the A/C in their respective Tom Thumb, classroom, mall, office building, or car to an even lower degree, until you felt like you lived in a refrigerator and the only respite came when somebody opened the door, i.e. you stepped outside.

On a typical trip to by tampons, I would run through the grocery store with an awkward jerkiness because my arms were welded across my chest, deeming them useless in the aid of balance or momentum; I would deliver my multi-pack to the cashier by turning to the side so that my right hand could let go from beneath my left arm. I would have used my teeth but they were chattering too much to be of any use. Not waiting for change, I would turn to the side to grab the plastic bag, and then do that weird canter again until reaching the door, holding my breath as if the warmth of the sun was my source of oxygen. Of course, I would think that the cashier had just giggled at me because I was buying a feminine hygiene product, not because I ran like a lizard in a straight jacket.

It’s a hostile place, Dallas; you can’t go anywhere without hauling along a heavy sweater, fearing the wrath of central air conditioning or industrial sized fans to assault you at any moment. One would think that their bedroom, in their own home, could provide shelter from the world’s schizophrenic inclinations towards temperature, but that is where my problems were just beginning.

You see, if Blake could have his way, he would sleep on a helicopter pad, in Alaska; or better yet, the top deck of the Titanic (pre-iceberg). For every moment I spend freezing, he spends sweating, and not gracefully. A desperate crankiness comes over him and instead of being still, which would usually quell the onset of further sweating, he moves about, naked, probably wishing he could somehow remove his skin and throw it on the floor along with his clothes. It’s at these moments when the fan over our bed becomes his lifeline. He basically bows before it, waiting for the sweat to evaporate from the little pools that have gathered on his body.

And that’s when I get cold. Innocently walking through our bedroom to get something from the closet, I’m ambushed, empty-handed, without a defense mechanism to fend off the abrasive current of cold air filling the room. Blake will be sitting prone on the edge of our bed, mouth half open and eyes glossed over, while I frantically duck and run for cover.

In the first few weeks of our marriage we both thought that the other one would just “come along” and accept the fan to stay in our respective preferred states of being; me: off, blake: on.

The fan would be spinning while we got ready for bed, but when we turned off the lights, I would look at Blake and say, “ok, can we turn off the fan now?” Blake, still sweating because he had just used scalding water to brush his teeth (he thinks its more hygienic), would ask to keep it on. I would claim that I’ll get a cold if I sleep with a draft and he would counter with a lengthy description of the restless night to come if he was too hot, which would lead to sickness as well. Checkmate.

That clicking sound that the plug makes when you pull it to set the fan at different speeds became our nightly soundtrack. I would click it to the lowest setting, Blake would click it once more to put in the middle, then I would click it three times to get back to low. Each approach to the fan plug was surrounded with exaggerated movements from our comfortable position under the covers, on our knees to reach the plug, and then back under the covers, squirming around to find that perfect spot. We’d finally agree on a speed and then settle into our places one final time; Blake spread eagle with just the sheet on top of him, me with the covers built up to provide a shield from the northern front that would be moving through our room, each dreaming of those innocent days in the womb.


He Said:

When I was growing up I had three fans in my room: an overhead fan, an oscillating fan, and a clip-fan for my headboard. All were set to high. The three fans provided turbine-like gusts of delight that easily put me to sleep—like a baby suckling drowsily at the tit of climate-controlled comfort. Even if I went to bed with a wet head I never got sick because my immune system was so comfortable.

Fast forward to 2007. As a married man my temperature controlling powers have been reduced to Soviet rubble. I’ve been neutered, effectively made to feel like a sixth-century Italian Castrato performing tragic operas about being hot all the time.

If you dusted the thermostat in our apartment for prints you’d find one match: Danielle’s. I’m not allowed to touch it, under any circumstance—even if Danielle’s thermostat-adjusting-finger is out of commission in a teeny-tiny little cast.

Only after I start to show signs of heat stroke and my forehead skin starts to bubble will Danielle adjust the temperature (1 to 1.5 degrees cooler). To some degree (pun alert) I knew this would happen before we wed, but I didn’t know things would get this hot. I know part of her rationale is trying to keep the electric bill down—way down.

But I’m an optimist. At the very least I thought I would be in control of the overhead fan in our bedroom. I thought Danielle would cede territorial control of it for the right to control central heating and air. This wishful thinking proved to be as plausible as suggesting life exists on the surface of the sun and its inhabitants survive by eating popsicles.

Come to find out I am but a serf, made to obey Danielle’s feudal temperature decisions. This dictatorial arrangement is tough for one obvious reason: I get hot at the drop of a hat, the way a fat man does when he looks at stairs. I can’t help it. My body needs to cool a considerable amount before I can fall asleep.

Predictably, Danielle is the exact opposite. She consistently uses the same argument when I attempt to turn on the bedroom fan at night, saying, in a sickly voice (for effect), “I don’t want to get sick because my head is exposed…I’ll get sick.”

It doesn’t help that Danielle needs to be cuddled to sleep, as I lay there in a humid mess, sticky as a Fruit Rollup. My argument is simple: it is easier to put layers of blankets on the bed than it is to cool my body once hot.

But I’ve got a feeling I’ll be laying on top of the covers for years to come, searching in vain for the slightest breeze, staring up at the ceiling and the motionless fan, as Danielle nestles next to me, cuddling, drifting off to dream land quickly because it is too comfortable for her not to.