The class factotum speaks

Wisconsin 101: Custard conspiracy

2012-02-11T08:05:00.000-08:00

SH: The middle of February is going to be busy.

Me: Why?

SH: Because Kopps and Oscars have all the flavors I want at once.

Me: What do they have?

SH: Tiramisu on the 7th. Tiramisu again on the 17th. Chocolate chocolate chip on the 18th. Midnight chocolate cake on the 19th. Never Enough Chocolate on the 22nd.

Me: That is an awful lot of custard.

SH: Then Oscars has Death by Chocolate on the 17th!

Me: You cannot get all that custard.

SH: It's like there's a conspiracy to put all the chocolate flavors together in a small part of the month!

Me: And the purpose of that conspiracy?

SH: I don't know! But they're not doing it right.

Me: It's a good thing we bought the deep freezer.

Marriage 401, Lecture 163: Paranoia

2012-02-10T08:02:00.000-08:00

SH: Here's some bellybutton lint.

Me: Ick!

SH: It has a different consistency from regular bellybutton lint.

Me: I don't want to hear it.

SH: Because it's from long underwear.

Me: Oh. Different fiber.

SH: Yes.

Me: You're a weirdo. I can't believe you stick your finger in your bellybutton.

SH: No, you're a weirdo for not wanting anyone to stick his finger in your bellybutton.

Me: No I'm not. Stay away.

SH: You're a weirdo for not wanting to stick your own finger in your bellybutton.

Marriage 401, Lecture 141: Beauty school dropout

2012-02-09T04:11:00.000-08:00

Me: So I was facebookstalking people from high school last night.

SH: Yeah?

Me: There was this girl. We weren't friends. But I knew who she was. She was kind of obnoxious and strident.

SH: Um-hmm. [Pretending to be interested.]

Me: The main thing I remember about her was that she was so poorly groomed: sloppy, dirty hair, greasy face. But this cute guy in my class would neck with her! He wouldn't pay any attention to me, but he necked with her!

SH: Sweetie. Sometimes girls like that get attention because they put out.

Me: Maybe that's what she was doing. But she was so icky. I wasn't a fashion queen, but at least my hair was clean.

SH: Hmm.

Me [leaning forward and poking SH in the arm]: Guess what she's doing now. Guess!

SH: I have no idea.

Me: She OWNS A BEAUTY SCHOOL!

SH: You don't have to look good to own a beauty school.

Me: I guess not!

Spain 13: Thwarted by saffron

2012-02-08T11:35:00.000-08:00

I didn't tell you about the Great Saffron Quest of '11. How could I have left that story out? It shows how difficult it is to make a decision in the lack of complete market information. It was my walk on the dark side with SH of We Must Evaluate Every Option Before Making A Decision as opposed to We Decide What We Want And Get It As Soon As We Find It, which is my usual strategy..

(See: The Bacon-Buying Excursion of 2010.)

(See: Buying Milk With SH and Why I Prefer To Shop Alone.)

Our friends Pete and Julie had asked us to pick up some saffron when we were in Spain. I checked LaTienda.com's prices before we left to get a good reference price.

I always do my research.

Except when I buy expensive Moroccan rugs. Then, I make an impulse decision despite Megan's warning NOT TO BUY A RUG IN FEZ OR YOU WILL PAY TOO MUCH.

I saw some saffron on the site for $15 a gram.

So we had to find a price better than $15 a gram to buy in Spain.

On our first day in Toledo, we started looking for saffron. It wasn't ubiquitous, but it was not hard to find. The first batch we saw was eight euros a gram, which is close to $15 but there wouldn't have been any shipping. As we wandered more and more through town, the prices dropped. We saw saffron in one store for three euros a gram.

"Toledo is a big tourist town," I said. "I'll be it will be even cheaper in Madrid. We can just get it from a grocery store. These are all tourist shops! The prices are higher here!"

SH agreed with me.

Which he shouldn't have done.

Why did he waste one of his rare instances of agreeing with me on a time when agreement was not the right thing to do?

When we got to Madrid, we went to the grocery store in the basement of El Corte Ingles.

We found the saffron.

It was six euros a gram.

Curses!

It was Christmas Eve. We still had to buy shoes. We didn't have time.

But six euros was too much. We didn't get it.

We did buy some cheese, because we don't get enough cheese at home. We had to use the rest of our little stash of cash because El Corte Ingles will not take a credit card unless you show ID and we had left out passports in the safe at the hotel.

That was a pain in the neck, although not as frustrating as when a store says they'll take a credit card but then the card reader won't read it because it's an American credit card. They won't key it in because they don't do that. Shrug. If you are the train ticket seller in Paris, what do you care if I can't buy a ticket with my credit card and haven't gotten any cash yet? Will you lose your job if you don't sell enough tickets? Will you lose your job if those Americans can't use their Mastercard even though your sign says you accept Mastercard? Nope.

When I complained to my credit card company about the hassle I had had with my Mastercard when we were in Paris, they shrugged and told me that the card was supposed to be accepted everywhere and we couldn't possibly have had a problem.

We looked for saffron at the airport, which was the act of truly desperate persons because who goes to the airport for a bargain?

Ten euros a gram. TEN. That's $13 a gram to you and moi.

So we didn't buy it.

We love our friends, but ten euros a gram is too much.

Instead, when we visited them for New Years, I gave them a bunch of the cheap saffron we got in Morocco. It's probably a mixture of a tiny bit of saffron and some daisies or some other orange flower. Which I guess would not be daisies. Zinnias, maybe? I have forgotten what flowers look like. All I see when I look outside is mud and snow. Mud is better than snow, but it's still not as good as flowers.

When Pete, Julie, SH, and I went to Marshall's in search of something, we browsed the food shelf. I always look at the food there because you never know. You might find the Spanish pimenton you got in Madrid that you thought was so special only here it is on the shelf at Marshall's or TJMaxx or wherever.

We saw saffron.

From Spain.

For $5 a gram.

Our inability to buy in Spain was rewarded.

Spain 14: The tragedy of the shoes

2012-02-07T07:19:00.000-08:00

Remember my beautiful leopard print shoes that I got in Madrid after lots of effort?

They are on sale.

For 30% less than I paid for them.

So are my boots.

And my high heels.

Is there any worse feeling than knowing you paid more than you had to for something?

I suppose not buying it in the first place hoping it would go on sale only to find that your size is gone once the sale starts, which is what always happens with 8.5 in the U.S., but Spanish women must have smaller feet than I do - they definitely have skinnier calves - so my size is still available.

At least here, if the store puts something on sale after you've bought it, you can get your price adjustment. SH spends Sunday mornings combing the Menards and Target ads, looking for things we have already bought so he can find the receipt in the Leaning Tower of Visa and get the price adjustment. He hasn't done this so much lately because of his Menards boycott and because we have been trying to buy less stuff.

I have to take a deep breath and remind myself that if I had waited for the sale in Madrid, I wouldn't have the shoes at all. And remember to go there in February next time instead of at Christmas.

Wisconsin 101:Of course they put macaroni in their chili doesn't everyone?

2012-02-06T04:56:00.000-08:00

SH and I went to the Milwaukee Chili Cookoff.

We try to do cultural things. Otherwise, we get boring. Life isn't all Season Three of Friday Night Lights and Fritos. Sometimes, you need meat.

Which is where I am going with this, or at least part of this.

Blesstheir hearts, there were some contestants who were serving vegetarian chili.

I'm surprised spellcheck didn't delete that phrase with the comment that there is no such thing as chili without meat.

No disrespect, vegetarians, but what you are eating and calling chili is not chili. It's vegetable soup.

And there's nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. But it's like calling a chocolate chip cookie made without chocolate chips - maybe with carob, maybe with TVP - a chocolate chip cookie.

It's just not the same. It's a regular cookie without chocolate. There is room in the universe for many kinds of cookies. Just call it what it is.

The East Side vegetarian restaurant was offering their vegetarian chili.

I will not use their name because I do not want to insult them to their face.

When we walked past their booth, the lady asked us if we wanted to try their chili.

We had only eight tickets each and there were dozens of booths, so we politely declined.

"Oh, just take some," she said as she handed us a little cup.

Blessherheart we figured out quickly why she was giving it away.

It was not my favorite.

While SH stood between me and the lady, I sneaked around to the trash can. As soon as I was sure she wasn't watching and couldn't see around SH, I threw it away.

My people, you know I do not waste food. Ever. Even the grilled sardines. I scraped the cooked guts out of those sardines and fed the meat to the cats. I do not waste food. I gasp in horror when I see people throwing away leftovers just because they're tired of them. So? Stick it in the freezer! You know it has to be bad for me to throw something away.

Fortunately, SH liked the bratwurst chili with the sauerkraut topping, so that didn't go to waste. I liked the sound of it but the execution not so much.

We paid an entrance fee and then got eight tickets each. "Each ticket gets us a three-ounce sample of chili," SH said. "That's an awful lot of chili."

I agreed.

"Maybe we should take some tupperware with us," he suggested.

I love this man. He gets me. If we are going to get 48 ounces total of chili, do we want to make ourselves sick eating it all in one hour or do we want to taste and test and move on, saving the rest for later?

We sampled. We tasted and then poured the remainder into the tupperwares.

Not one person gave us a second look.

Not one person laughed at us.

You know why?

Because I am with My People here. The city of Milwaukee actually ran a budget surplus during the Depression because Germans do not mess around with money. They do not waste. To them, it makes sense to take tupperware to a chili cookoff. One lady saw us and said, "What a great idea! I wish I'd thought of that."

I liked the tenderloin chili with the orange gremolata. We both laughed at the claim of "Milwaukee's spiciest chili," although perhaps the cook meant spicy in the sense of "lots of spice" as opposed to "picante." Who knows? We both loved the Indian chili.

But we agreed that the ten-pepper bacon chili was the best. We had three tickets remaining. We had three empty tupperwares yet. Two were full, one with bean chili, one without. You remember SH doesn't like beans unless they are black beans or sometimes white beans as long as they are not too mushy and Marilyn's hopping john with black eyed peas wasn't bad at all.

We took an empty tupperware - 10 oz - to the ten-pepper chili guy. "How many tickets to fill this?" we asked. "We like yours the best."

He smiled. "One," he said.

Well OK. We weren't about to argue, although we did just to be polite. But he insisted.

Then we used the other tickets for the Indian chilis. Now we have food for days. The end.

Marriage 401, Lecture 836: I vant to be alone

2012-02-05T15:16:00.000-08:00

SH: Do you want me to stop bugging you?

Me: Yes.

SH: Do you want me to leave you alone so you can write?

Me: Yes.

SH: Do you want me to go out?

Me: Yes.

SH: Do you want me to get a business trip so you'll have the house to yourself for three days?

Me: Oh yes.

Marriage 401, Lecture 120: Motion of the ocean, not the size of the ship

2012-02-04T10:17:00.000-08:00

Me: Here it is. The Magnum pepper mill. Six inches.

SH: That's not it. There's a bigger one.

Me: Yes, this one is nine inches. But the gift certificate is for $50 and the nine inch mill costs $49, so we'd have to pay for shipping.*

SH: Oh. But the nine inch one is bigger. Sometimes people prefer that.

Me: Is it 50% better?

SH: Sometimes, people like bigger.

* No, we are not in the habit of spending $50 on a pepper mill, but we are buying this as a gift to use a gift certificate we got to a store that has NOTHING, NOTHING we want, unless you consider an alligator-shaped server for stuffed jalapeno peppers to be desirable.

SH got this pepper mill as a gift a few years ago and likes it, so we thought we would give it as a gift to our friends who lack a pepper mill. Better than the cert going to waste.

Marriage 401, Lecture 210: For better or for hirsute

2012-02-03T10:03:00.000-08:00

Me: Feel this. It's been a week since I shaved my legs.

SH: Why?

Me: I'm on strike against the shower and the bathroom heater. And winter.

SH: Yep. Not shaved. I finally have that long leg hair hippie chick I've always wanted.

Wisconsin 101: Time and nothingness

2012-02-02T07:58:00.000-08:00

It's probably not a good idea to have a gun class at the same place where the music starts 90 minutes late - or where the music is cancelled 90 minutes after it was supposed to have started.

I am way less Type A than I used to be. Living in Chile for two years knocked it out of me. There is Latin time and then there is indigenous people time - I worked with a group of indigenous women, which is, "Ten o'clock? You mean while the sun is still in the sky."

I had to adapt or go crazy.

I thought when I moved to Wisconsin, the land of the Germans and the Scandinavians, that I would be among My People. Punctual. Early, even. My relatives are that way. Tell them 1:00 and they'll be at your house at 12:45. Which is fine as long as you know that's what's going on. Not so fine if you say, "One, one thirty" and they show up at 12:30 while you are still in the shower. Blesstheirhearts.

I thought I would be around people whose most annoying time problem was being too early. And I could live with that.

Then I discovered the subculture of bar/musician time.

And of St Pius time.

Believe it or not, the two are related.

I go to the church near my house. Depending on who is presiding that night, the service starts at 5:00, as 5:00 Mass should. Or at 5:10. Because we have to wait for the people who are late.

No! We don't! We don't have to wait for the people who are late! Do they not know what time church starts every single Saturday? Do they not know how long it takes to get from their house to the church?

My protest is that I walk in at 5:12. That way, I'm not early and I have the extra benefit of missing the part where you are supposed to introduce yourself to the people around you.

If I wanted to be touchy feely at church, I would not be Catholic. I just want to get in and get out with as little touching as possible.

So. Church starts late. (The Lutherans, however, start on time. What's that about?)

And music starts late.

If a band is supposed to start at 10:00, don't you think that's when they should start? If I have paid to watch a musician perform, shouldn't the musician honor her part of the contract by not making me wait 40 minutes past the designated start time to see her? I'm talking to you, Loretta Lynn at Summerfest 2011.

And if there is supposed to be a karaoke show that starts at 10:00, shouldn't that be when karaoke starts? Especially if the people in the bar are waiting to sing and paying for drinks and pizza while they wait?

SH thinks my stubborn adherence to the conventions of time is funny and unreasonable. "People come to bars to hang out!" he says.

"Not me," I replied. "The only reason I am here is to watch you sing. Otherwise, this is just a big fat waste of time."

"But you're supposed to hang out in a bar."

"I could be at home reading a book. How come nobody else is annoyed that the show hasn't started?"

"They don't read for fun," he said, "and they can DVR all the TV shows they like."

At 10:45, I finally surrendered and went home. The Nighttime Wife agreed to drop SH off on her way home.

When SH got home, I woke up because the cats were trying to get away so he couldn't put them in the basement for the night. They would rather sleep with us all night, which would be fine except for them, "all night" ends at 6:17 a.m.

"It's a good thing you went home," he said. "At 11:30, the bar owner said there wouldn't be any karaoke at all. You would have blown a gasket."

Yep. I would have.

Marriage 401, Lecture 892: Waste not, stink not

2012-02-01T10:12:00.000-08:00

Do any of you face this dilemma?

How do you throw away your husband's stuff without his going into the trash to get it?

I am not talking about the things I am dying to get my hands on and get rid of forever, like the box of phone bills from 1997 or his employee manual from when he worked at Apple in 1992 or whatever year it was - when the stock was not doing well or else we would be rolling in it - or the Beavis and Butthead masks, all of which I have promised not to touch while he is alive.

I am talking about things that anyone should have the authority to discard.

Like the empty deodorant containers.

Containers. Multiple.

SH claims they aren't empty yet. "Look!" he says. "All I have to do is bang it on the counter and more comes out!"

And then he demonstrates.

I tried last month to throw them out. There are two. I tried to throw away the two empty to the naked eye deodorant containers. I had tried to eke out more deodorant - remember, I am from the Tribe of We Who Do Not Waste, but there was none to be had by the normal means of screwing the bottom wheel to force the product out of the top. They were empty.

My mistake was that I put them in the bathroom trash instead of taking them outside and burying them under the kitty litter in the big trash bin.

Except he has been known to snatch junk mail back out of the recycling bin, claiming that I am withholding precious information about a Time Share Opportunity NOW! from him.

Later that day, after SH emerged from the shower, I heard a banging on the counter. He had retrieved the deodorant and was eking out the last sixteenth of a teaspoon.

That was a month ago. I heard the same banging yesterday. The deodorant still lives.

"I don't want to waste it!" he says.

OK. But then why does he feel compelled to rinse containers that are going into the trash? Not even the recycling, but the trash? Is that not a waste of water?

I won't even get into the waste of money that is beer and wine.

Next time, I put the deodorant in my purse and throw it away at the gym.

Marriage 401, Lecture 895: You're not doing it right #8,419

2012-01-31T07:08:00.000-08:00

SH: You know that if I'd put those sausages away, they'd be all lined up.

Marriage 401, Lecture 498: Once is enough

2012-01-30T07:52:00.000-08:00

SH: You're pretty trusting, letting me go out with a pretty girl (aka the Nighttime Wife, who is one of SH's singing buds).

Me: I know how old you are.

SH: Uh-huh.

Me: And I know what your [wxyz] capabilities are.

SH: Oh. I see.

Marriage 401, Lecture 863: It's like he doesn't know me at all

2012-01-29T04:09:00.000-08:00

SH: Hey! You've been using my toothpaste!

Me: I know.

SH: And squeezing it from the middle!

Me: I know.

SH: You have your own toothpaste. Why are you using mine?

Me: To annoy you.

Marriage 401, Lecture 958: Priorities

2012-01-28T04:07:00.000-08:00

SH: We could finish the movie.*

Me: Good.

SH: Or I could go running.

Me: Um-hmm.

SH: Or I could watch [some political thing].

Me: Oh that would be swell.

SH: Or we could [wxyz].

Me: If you really wanted [wxyz], you would have put it at the top of the list.

SH: What do you want to do?

Me: Watch the rest of the movie.

SH: So you don't want me to ignore you and go running and do political things?

Me: I don't care if you ignore me. Just do it after we watch the movie.

* We started the movie Rock Star last night. Yes, the story is a cliche. Yes, it's about a heavy metal band. But sometimes, there is a primitive appeal to heavy metal. Sometimes, it's fun to crank up AC/DC on the radio and roll down the window as you drive along the highway. There is a tiny little bit of rebellious teenage boy in all of us.

Marriage 401, Lecture 398: Cookie conundrum

2012-01-27T08:55:00.000-08:00

This happened two days after we ordered three boxes of Girl Scout cookies, which is highly unusual for us. We usually don't buy cookies of any sort except for the expensive Toledo cookies and look how that turned out. The only reason we bought these was because my friend at book club was telling us that she had taken her daughter door to door selling but the girls in the troop whose parents sell cookies at work for them sell way more than her daughter. My motto is if you ring my doorbell and ask me to buy your cookies, I will do it. It is a safe motto to have, as it seems that most Girl Scouts sell via their parents now.

My other motto is that I will be very annoyed - very - if I am forced to buy your child's products simply because you are my boss. Are you listening, Jim C? Bringing your kid's band candy bars to work and then asking me if I want to buy one is not fair. Am I supposed to say no to the person who controls whether I have a job or not? People. Don't ask your subordinates to buy your kid's candy bars or cookies or wrapping paper. Don't ask your co-workers. Or, at least, don't ask your childless co-workers. You parents can buy from each other - I bought yours so you have to buy mine - but leave those of us without children out of it. All we get is overpriced wrapping paper. No selling at work! That's what I'm saying.

So Julie brought her little girl to our house and SH and I pored over the cookie list and ordered three boxes, which is three more boxes of cookies than we really need in our house, especially when you consider that we still have a roll of HobNobs in the freezer from our last trip to England, which was in 2009, I think. Or 2007. I can't remember.*

And yet, SH complains.

SH: You know what don't have enough of around here?

Me: What?

SH: Cookies.

Me: Nope.

SH: Are you agreeing with me?

Me: Yep.

SH: Not enough cookies.

Me: Except there are those chocolate buckwheat and the cornmeal lemon cookies in the freezer.

SH: Not those. They're frozen.**

Me: What about the pizelle in the cupboard?

SH: Those are for with custard.

Me: So?

SH: The problem with cookies in this house is they take too much planning.

* First world problem or old age? You decide.

** And just how long does it take to thaw a cookie, really? Not very. I know, as I have eaten a cookie I have extracted from the freezer even before I have made it back up the stairs before.

*** Hiding cookies from myself in the freezer isn't necessarily the best strategy, although sometimes I forget they're there. Sometimes, I forget the Fritos are in the freezer, too, but when I remember, I want some RIGHT AWAY. NOW. Oh wouldn't they be good with the ranch dressing I made yesterday? Yes, they would. Or with the leftover Ro-Tel tomato dip from book club last week. Only half the group showed up, which was fine because that meant lots of leftover Ro-Tel dip and Memphis Junior League onion dip.

Wisconsin 101: Ice Station Zebra, the shower

2012-01-26T07:07:00.000-08:00

Here's the other thing I'm waiting for in addition for the snow to stop and for it to be warm enough to inflate the tire, although Sharon has informed me that the valve freezing thing might not be so.

I'm waiting for the bathroom, the bathtub, and my body to be warm enough that I can shave my legs without ripping the top of every follicle off with my razor. When you shave goosebumps, you end up with blood. Blood all over the place. The shower doesn't look as bad as it did the time I colored my hair Clairol #22 Cinnaberry, but a little bit of blood goes a long way. The shower curtain is still stained from the Cinnaberry, even though I've washed it since 2005.

I try to avoid blood in the shower these days. I am the person in charge of cleaning the shower and blood just complicates things.

I faced the shaving in the cold issue when I was a Peace Corps volunteer and renting a room. I thought I was renting the top floor, but then Maruja la Bruja crammed seven more people into that house, including the three men who would each shave in the bathroom in the morning and not rinse their whiskers down the sink. I complained to Maruja that she needed to keep the bathroom clean either herself or by hiring a maid, but she was unswayed. After nearly electrocuting* myself in the shower and then having to resort to heating water on the stove and taking a sponge bath every morning when Maruja refused to repair the shower, I finally moved.

The bedbugs did not help, either. Nor did the guy who rented the room next to mine who looked like a Chilean version of Woody Allen and I assure you in the strongest terms that I am not a fan of that man telling me that all I had to do was knock on the wall between our rooms if I ever got lonely in the night.

Faced with shaving in a cold bathroom (southern Chile, where I lived, is cold) standing in a tub with two kettles of hot water balanced on the piece of wood that I had laid across the front of the tub, with a razor that until I started taking it back to my room (I know, dumb) was being used by Maruja's husband to shave his thick, white whiskers - he denied using the razor, even though he was the only person in the house with hair that color, I decided to try waxing my legs instead.

There is a reason people pay a waxing professional to wax for them.

It's because the waxing professional cannot feel the pain that the waxee feels and hence is ruthless about ripping that wax off the leg.

I applied the warm wax to my calf. Let it cool and harden. Pulled. Hard. And through the tears that oozed from my eyes, watched blood ooze from my pores.

I stopped. It hurt too much. I decided there was no reason to have shaved legs in Chile, anyhow, as the only romantic attention I had gotten was from the married father of five on the train to Santiago one night. "Here's my card," he said. "Call if you want."

He had just told me about his family. I guess I was supposed to be OK with it.

Back to now. Now I have reason to keep my legs shaved - sort of. SH and I have been together for six years now and we have things down to a routine, if you know what I mean. Now I have a functioning shower in a heated bathroom without an old man using my razor. I have no excuse except it does use a lot of energy to heat the bathroom with the little wall heater and to get the tub warm enough - no point in having warm air if the tub itself is freezing cold.

So do I shave or not?

* The shower head had an electric heater attached to it and heated the water as it emerged from the pipe. A good idea in theory, but when you have to ask your friend who is also renting the top half of the house with you to stand at the fuse box to throw the switch every time the shower heater cuts the power, you start to seek alternative means of bathing.

Marriage 401, Lecture 416: No shortcuts

2012-01-25T06:51:00.000-08:00

As he is standing in the back door.

SH: Sweetie? Would you do me a huge favor?

Me: Sure. What?

SH: I know you don't support my political views -

Me: What do you want me to do?

SH: And that you don't agree--

Me: What?

SH: But I have snow all over my shoes --

Me: WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?

SH: And I don't want to track snow in the house.

Me: TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT.

SH: Would you get that [political] sign for me so I can put it up in the yard? It's in my office.

Me: Sure. But could you just once get to the point?

Wisconsin 101: Rules for the Y and a perfectly-toned nose

2012-01-24T06:34:00.000-08:00

I have some advice for you new-to-the-YMCA-ers.

That's great that your New Year's resolution is to get into shape.

But you're bugging the rest of us who have been coming to the gym for years.

Why?

Because you are breaking the rules.

Don't break the rules.

That's my advice.

Here are the rules I mean.

1. Have your card ready when you get to the front desk. Do not make me stand behind you while you take off your gloves, remove your sunglasses, chastise your child, and dig through your purse to find your wallet. You'll make me late and then I won't get the Good Spot in step aerobics.

2. Don't change your clothes in the upstairs restroom. Notice that there are a bunch of women at the Y in the morning and only two, yes, that is correct, only two toilet stalls in the ladies. That means that only two of us can pee at a time. Which means that the rest of us have to wait and heaven forbid that it be a school's out day and the teachers are taking all the little kids to the bathroom because then none of us will ever get a turn. Do not use the stall to change your clothes. There is 1. your house or 2. a locker room where you can compare your body to everyone else's and realize that hey, we're all in this together and nobody looks that great naked in real life.

3. If you knock over the stand holding all the exercise bands on your way back from picking up your hand weights, do not just leave it there on the floor with 100 exercise bands scattered next to it. Do not walk to the front of the class and ignore the mess you have made. Do not continue with the dead lifts. Do not wait for appalled Midwestern ladies to look at you, look at the mess, shake their heads, and drop their weights so they can clean it up. Be ashamed of leaving a mess for others. Be very, very ashamed. And don't even dare to return to class a few weeks later and then start yelling at the guy behind you. That's the only time I've ever regretted wearing earbuds and listening to the radio instead of that awful Les Mills Body Pump music. I couldn't hear what you were yelling but boy did I want to know.

I wrote an opinion piece for the local paper about going to the gym after the new year. I told people to stay away - that they would be wasting their money to join a gym in January. One commenter wrote,

tired of having gym rats with their perfect bodies look down their perfectly-toned noses at them with disdain. The same disdain that drips from Class Facotum's every word.

Obviously someone who has never seen me and who didn't understand that my main point was that these new people are taking up all the parking.

Wisconsin 101: Ice Station Zebra

2012-01-23T06:11:00.000-08:00

So here's what I'm doing. I'm waiting for the snow to stop or at least get to the right depth so I can shovel it. There is no point in shoveling it yet: the radar still has snow over eastern Minnesota coming our way and there is only an inch on the ground.

That's the big question with snow: when do you shovel? You don't want to let it get too deep because then you can't push a load all the way across the driveway. But you don't want to start too soon because then you are wasting shoveling effort. You want to get it just right - enough snow but not too much - to optimize (i.e., minimize) the shoveling effort.

Unless you like shoveling, which means you have a very different idea about what is fun and what is not and I probably would no get along with you.

The dilemma about the shoveling timing reaches back into other activities. If you have ever studied operations research, you learned about bottlenecks and critical paths. If you have to 1. shovel, 2. drink coffee and 3. take a shower all in the same day, how do you time these activities? Which one is the bottleneck?

It depends. It depends on what you are going to do when you are done shoveling.

If you drink too much coffee before you shovel, then you will be wasting time coming back into the house to pee. But if you don't have enough to drink, you'll be thirsty.

If you take your shower early, your hair will be dry by the time you have to shovel. But if you shower before you shovel, you'll get sweat all over your clean body. If you shower after you shovel, you get rid of the shoveling sweat but then your hair is wet and you want to go out for pizza and gallery night with your husband and have to use the hairdryer on your hair, which is not so good because your hair has finally rebelled against your frequent coloring of it.

If you wait long enough to shovel, you might get out of it - your neighbor with the snowblower might do your sidewalk. Then you can leave the driveway undone. Although SH is all, "No! We can't drive on the snow! It leaves those hard tracks and they turn into ice!"

I say, "Just walk carefully. It's not like our driveway isn't going to turn into an icy Driveway of Death anyhow."

The other thing I am waiting for is for it to get warm enough to put air in the tire that is low.

Yes, this is one of those things that I never would have needed to know if I hadn't been tricked into moving to Wisconsin. If it is too cold, you can't put air in your tire. Why? Because when it is one degree, with the wind chill of 15 below, it is possible for the valve to freeze open. Even if you fill the tire, by the time you drive from your house to the Y, the air will be gone. Which is not good for the rims.

I didn't know this until I took the car to the tire place down the street to see about inflating said tire before I went to the gym for the afternoon body step class.

When it is 20 below with the wind chill, I don't exercise outside.

SH was sure I would have to go to a gas station and pay for my air, but I said I was going to ask the Firestone guys, at least. Sometimes people are nice and put air in your tire for free.

I drove the two blocks to the store. I asked the mechanic if he would put air in the tire. He told me it was too cold.

Too cold to inflate a tire?

How could that be?

"Da valve freezes open and den you have a flat," he said.

Well crap. I had eaten cookies all day in anticipation of my gym visit.

I know. It takes about two cookies to fuel an hour of aerobics. I was fueled for 7 hours. But what if there were a blizzard and I couldn't get to the store? And the power went out? Wouldn't it be better to have some extra padding to keep me warm?

I asked if the tire was too low for me to drive to the gym. He peeked out the back window of the garage. Nope. I could drive on it.

Then I asked him about how much he would charge for the air and that's when I proved SH wrong because he (the Firestone guy) said he wouldn't charge anything because sometimes, that's how people roll. And now yesterday's post might make a little more sense. I have been lacking creativity and editing abilities lately. It's too cold to think.

Wisconsin 101: Free stuff

2012-01-22T07:26:00.000-08:00

Me: How much do you charge to fill a tire?

Mechanic at the tire place down the street: Oh we don't charge nuthin.

Me: You don't even have one of those machines that takes quarters?

Mechanic: Nope. You just bring it back and I'll take care of it for you.

Marriage 401, Lecture 947: The head cheese

2012-01-21T04:04:00.000-08:00

SH: Hey! The cheese drawer is all out of order!

Me: What do you mean?

SH: You're supposed to stack the nuts in the back, the soft cheeses on one side, and the hard cheeses on the other. You just tossed stuff in there without even looking!

Me: So?

SH: You need to be more careful.

Me: You are more than welcome to be the person in charge of the cheese drawer in this house.

SH: You're the one who has the time.

Me: And yet I haven't the inclination.

Marriage 401, Lecture 613: Saving the good stuff

2012-01-20T06:58:00.000-08:00

SH: I'm going to meet this guy for coffee on Monday at Cranky Al's.

Me: But they close at noon.

SH: I'm meeting him there at 8:30.

Me: In the morning?

SH: Yes.

Me: Up? And showered? And dressed?

SH: Yes.

Me: I guess I know where I rate.

SH: Yep. You get the everyday me who hasn't had a shower since yesterday.

Me: I'm so lucky.

Marriage 401, Lecture 898: Detail man

2012-01-19T06:25:00.000-08:00

SH: Oh - I forgot to turn out the garage lights.

Me: So?

SH: I didn't want to do it while I was out there. [He was grilling salmon - yes, SH grills in the winter - is that odd?]

[I think that's perfectly reasonable - I would leave the light on until I was in the house so I can see, but I suspect SH has a different reason.]

Me: Why didn't you turn them off out there?

SH: Because then the switch inside would be in the wrong position.

Spain 12: Buying the very expensive cookies

2012-01-18T03:16:00.000-08:00

In Toledo, we kept passing this elegant cookie and candy shop. We were cold and we like cookies, so we went into the shop. We had already browsed in some of the clothes stores on the main drag, but the stuff we could afford was made in China, so you know. Besides, we already have clothes.

We already have stuff. We don't buy souvenirs any more, unless you count cheese as a souvenir. I count is as Necessary for Life. We got our rugs in Morocco, but that was house accessorizing. I bought the coasters in Germany because I finally found some that would keep moisture off the table rather than just accumulating it in a puddle at the bottom of the coaster until it all ran out onto the wood surface.

Well, maybe we buy souvenirs. I suppose it depends on how you define "souvenir." We bought a folding pocket knife for the kid who feeds our cats. That's a souvenir - hopefully not a souvenir that will make his mom tell me he can never catsit for us again because we keep buying him inappropriate presents. He's 13. That's old enough for a knife, right?

What we mainly buy when we are traveling is food. We want to try the local foods. Our only non-tapas restaurant meal was at a small restaurant in Toledo where we had stuffed piquillo peppers, bean soup that was so good that even SH, who does not like beans, liked it, tortilla, and a local pork stew.

Almost everyone eating in the place was a tourist, but maybe that's because it was only 7:00 p.m. and only losers eat that early in Spain. SH and I were the only tourists who weren't wearing tennis shoes. We were almost the only ones who weren't wearing beat-up jackets that said "Harley" on the back. I guess I should have known that Harley Davidson had such an international reach, but to see a man with an English accent wearing a Harley jacket in the middle of Spain was a bit odd.

Yes, I am a snob about what people wear when they are traveling. Yes, I am the person who goes to the grocery store, the hardware store, Target, and the library in her gym clothes after her body pump class. I'm a hypocrite. Except that when I travel, I try not to look like a slob. I just don't care so much about looking like a slob at home because at home, I don't bear the burden of representing all Americans.

Where was I?

Oh. Right. Food. Food is our big thing when we travel. We have enough stuff in our house, except for cheese, and after trips to Spain and to Pittsburgh, we are actually good on cheese for a while. (Yes, I know. Cheese to Wisconsin, coals to Newcastle.) We always want to try something interesting.

So we thought we would try Spanish cookies. They smelled good and they were being sold by weight out of bins, which we all know means bargain.

There were about a dozen flavors, various combinations of chocolate, vanilla, and nut. The clerk offered us each a sample of a small, chocolate-filled cookie. It was good, with oozy chocolate in the middle.

Now we had to buy something. We had tried the sample. We were obligated.

I never feel that way at home, but apparently, many people do. Did you know sales increase 300% when you sample an item? I read that number somewhere so it must be true. Sometimes it is - sometimes I sample just because I am hungry and because eating is my main hobby, but occasionally, I will taste something really yummy and not horribly expensive, like the Sendik's crab dip, and buy it, even though I have never put "crab dip" on my grocery list my entire life.

"How many cookies in 100 grams?" SH asked the clerk.

"Oh, four or five," she told him.

One hundred grams cost three euros, we think. We just remember the shocking total.

If we had just done the math, we would have thought, "Hmm. Four dollars for three ounces of cookies. That seems rather expensive."

But we didn't.

We gathered our six cookies and threw in a few pieces of nougat (six euros for 100 grams ouch).

We had chosen these items. We had touched them with our plastic-glove encased fingers. We had to take them.

"Eleven euros," the clerk told us cheerfully. Actually, she said, "Once," but you know what I mean.

Eleven euros = fifteen dollars.

She handed us the very small bag containing six cookies and four pieces of nougat. SH looked at the receipt. The cookies had weighed 200 grams, not 100, which meant that instead of six cookies for 100 grams, we got three. These were some heavy cookies.

We couldn't give them back. We were too embarrassed and in too much shock over the price.

Fifteen dollars for six cookies and four pieces of nougat. About $1.50 apiece.

"That's not so expensive," I suggested as I swallowed hard.

"It's expensive," SH, the man who spends $$ on beer and wine, which is far more wasteful than spending it on baked goods.

"Not if you think about what you would pay for gourmet cookies at home," I said. Except we never buy gourmet cookies or indeed any cookies at home because store-bought cookies are not as good as homemade, especially my coffee chocolate chip shortbread cookies or my ginger bacon cookies.

SH and I are not big spenders on little things. It is hard for us to swallow spending $15 on cookies, even gourmet cookies. We should have bought two cookies and been done with it, but we thought it was a bargain and who wants not to take advantage of a bargain? Not us.

So our greed to get a Deal got the better of us. We got what we deserved, except for the part where the cookies weighed twice as much as the clerk told us and how are you going to argue about that? I have a hard enough time challenging that sort of thing in English, much less in Spanish.

We decided just to enjoy the cookies and be done with it. When we returned to the hotel, we sat down to eat some of our worth their weight in gold cookies.

They tasted like dust.

We turned to each other and gasped. "The sample cookie was a lie!" we said. We were disappointed: our fancy Spanish cookies were not all that. Fortunately, I had little Nutellas from the breakfast buffet, so all was not lost, but we learned not to judge a cookie by its sample. Next time, we'll stick with chocolate. That's always safe.

Spain 11: Getting a ticket refund with the clock ticking down

2012-01-17T01:37:00.000-08:00

When we arrived in Madrid, we went immediately to the train station and bought tickets to Toledo, where we planned to spend the first three nights of our six nights in Spain. We missed the 6:00 train to Toledo by only a few minutes. If I hadn't lost my glasses in Charles de Gaulle - I will never see them again - and spent all that time trying to find out how to get them back, we could have made that train, but we had to wait for the 7:00 train. Which was boring, even with the cup of cafe con leche we got at the little cafe.

But we bought our tickets at the snazzy train ticket machine, which, amazingly enough, accepted our credit card. So many times in Europe* our card has been rejected, even though the rule is supposed to be that if a merchant takes MasterCard, he takes it even if it's from the US and doesn't have the microchip in it that European cards have. The merchants we have encountered have not cared whether we bought from them or not.

"Oh ze card eet does not work," they shrug. "Tante pis."

I should amend that: the clerks we have encountered have not cared. I suspect the owners of the businesses would care. But clerks? They are paid whether you buy or not, which I had to remind myself of when I was a clerk at Macy's over Christmas several years ago after I was laid off. "No matter how rude someone is being to me," I would think, "I am still being paid." Although I would also think, "Is it worth nine dollars an hour before taxes to have someone be nasty to me?"

What was not obvious to us when we bought the tickets was that there was a financial advantage to buying a roundtrip ticket over two one-way tickets. We priced the trip both ways and the price appeared to be the same. As we were not sure which train we would be taking on the return trip, we thought, Well, we might as well wait.

We left Toledo Friday morning. Got to the train station at 10:00 for the 10:30 train, bought our tickets from the ticket seller - and I noticed something on the bottom of the ticket. I asked the ticket seller about it.

"That means you get a discount when you buy the ticket to come back here," he told me.

"But we're not coming back. We've already come here. We came on Tuesday."

"Then where's your ticket? I can give you a discount."

He glanced at the clock and then at a sign next to his booth. The sign said, "Ticket sales stop 15 minutes before departure time." It was 10:11. The train left at 10:30.

We stepped out of the line while we looked for the old tickets. I searched frantically for my ticket stub. SH went straight to the pocket of his computer bag, pulled out a handful of neatly-organized documents, thumbed through it, and pulled out his ticket.

I couldn't find mine, no matter how hard I looked through my purse and my book. (You mean you don't use boarding passes and ticket stubs as bookmarks?) It was the glasses all over again. Resigned, I stepped back in line. At least I could get one refund.

I got to the front of the line again. I handed the man SH's ticket stub and his new ticket. The ticket agent refunded half the previous sale, then sold me a new ticket at the discounted price, a savings of $3.

I took everything out to SH and started looking for my ticket stub again. A three-dollar return! Just for a two-minute transaction! That's a pretty good deal.

Yet I couldn't find my stub. "I don't think I left it on the train and I don't remember throwing it away," I told SH. "Where could it be? Why isn't it in my purse? Why would I throw away something that would save me money?"

It was 10:12.

"Is that the purse you were using when we got here?" SH asked.

I looked down. I was wearing my travel purse across my shoulder. It's small with a flap and a long strap. I don't need all my regular stuff when we are walking around town.

But on the plane, I wanted a bigger purse - a purse to hold my passport and tickets and three pairs of glasses (reading glasses, regular glasses, and RX sunglasses) and a snack and a water bottle and a book.

That purse was the one I had been using when we took the train to Toledo. It was now at the bottom of my suitcase.

I threw the suitcase to the floor, unzipped it, and dug through my jeans and sweaters and socks until I found it. I opened it. Alas, my lost glasses did not appear, but there was the ticket stub.

"Give me your credit card," I demanded. SH handed it to me and I ran back in line.

10:13.

I waited as the slowest people on earth bought their tickets. They were interrogating the ticket seller about every possible option, which was crazy because the only options in Toledo are to go to Madrid. Every hour, on the half hour. That's it. Pick your time. That's the only thing you can pick.

10:14.

People got in line behind me. Too bad. Show up at the station 16 minutes before your train and expect to buy your ticket right away? Not my problem.

My turn. I rushed to the counter. Plopped everything down. "Found it!" I exhaled.

The ticket agent did not smile to see me again, but to his credit, neither did he roll his eyes as I surely would have at someone who was going through so much trouble to save a mere $3.

"But that's the cost of an order of churros!" I would have protested, had he said something to me. "Plus it's the principle of the thing - never pay more than necessary!"

He probably thought what I thought when I was at Macy's: Bless her heart I'm being paid no matter what and she's just material for my blog about crazy customers.

At 10:16, he pushed the new ticket across the counter to me. I averted my eyes as I walked past the other people in line. Sometimes you have to break some eggs.

* First world problem

Marriage 401, Lecture 951: Backwards and in high heels

2012-01-16T08:14:00.000-08:00

SH promised me a few years ago that he would take dance lessons with me. He has tried to fulfill the promise, but we have encountered obstacles. The first salsa class we took in Madrid several years ago was allegedly 1. a beginners class 2. starting at 10:00 and 3.taught by Peladito, the short, bald guy who spoke English.

At 10:30, a tall, not-bald man showed up and started barking instructions in Spanish to the very advanced class.

SH freaked out. "I don't speak Spanish!" he said. "This is not a beginners class!"

I was annoyed but not freaking out because when someone tells me 10:00, I expect 10:00, not 10:30. You would think I would have known better after living in South America for two years. And I did, which is why I was merely annoyed instead of freaking out.

I asked the bartender for our money back. He looked confused. I explained patiently that we had been told that the class was a beginners class with an English-speaking instructor and that this was an advanced class in Spanish. He summoned the manager, who looked equally confused as I calmly repeated my statement and asked for our money back. He seemed disinclined, but I was firm. Polite but firm. We had been promised X and delivered Y.

I didn't mention the late start. What was the point of that?

He eventually returned our 20 euros to us and we were on our way.

The next time we tried taking dance classes was at a Saturday workshop at the community center. Mike and Betsy were teaching the three-hour beginner salsa class. The next Saturday would build on the beginner class.

If you've ever taken a dance class, you know that you can't go to just one. That you have to go to a few in a short time to really get it and for it to stick.

SH and I were both frustrated with Mike and Betsy because they spent way too much time talking about salsa theory instead of actually teaching us the steps. Then, at the end of the class, when I still had SH convinced that one more Saturday session would do it, Betsy announced they were cancelling the class the next week so they could go to a salsa competition in Chicago.

Leaving aside the professionalism of cancelling something that has been on the calendar for three months and for which two dozen people have enrolled and paid - OK, I won't leave it. That was horribly unprofessional. Cancel a professional obligation because you want to go to a contest? So so wrong.

Where was I? Oh. The class was cancelled. SH and I couldn't make the class held a few months later. I gave up for then.

It was a year later before I could get SH to go to another dance class. That was when we stumbled on the polka class at Polish Fest, the class where the old polka guy smiled and said, "Youse are generally doing pretty nice today."

SH was still convinced he couldn't dance and would never dance, but then groupon sold a coupon for two swing dance classes and Friday night dance at the Knights of Columbus hall in West Allis.

The groupon was about to expire, so we went to the class the other night.

The hall was rearranged from the fish fry set up and readied for dancing, with tables pushed against the wall and chairs placed facing the dance floor. The band was setting up in front.

We knew we were in trouble when other dancers walked in carrying bags with their dancing shoes. We had brought the shoes on our feet, me in cowboy boots because they are usually good for dancing and SH in his old leather-soled shoes that look like they belong on the feet of a man wearing a smoking jacket and an ascot. We thought our shoes would be fine. But we were already behind.

Some of these people were in serious swing dance mode, the men in suits and spectator wingtips, the women in dancing heels and twirly skirts. They looked great.

We were in jeans and t-shirts.

We were so behind.

The class started.

The teachers were two women, although it wasn't until the one of them introduced herself as Susan that we realized she was a woman. They were very careful to identify the dance roles as "leader" and "follower" instead of man and woman. Which I suppose is fine. I don't care. But I had never heard such a reference before, especially in a class of 30 male/female couples. Although I have seen women dancing with women at many weddings, so maybe it's not so far fetched. Sometimes you're the follower, sometimes you're the leader.

Their dancing and their speech were perfectly choreographed, just like the Sweeney sisters on Saturday Night Live. Susan would say, "The leader steps to the right" and Pam would say smoothly, "And the follower steps to the left."

SH started to panic when the teachers ordered the men to go to one side of the hall and the women to the other. Pam and Susan debated for a minute over whether the men were going to the west side or the south side. "Why not just say 'men over there, where the other men are'" I thought, but I didn't say it out loud because I am trying to leave my smart aleck days behind.

After we practiced a few basic steps, the teachers ordered us to partner up. Much to SH's relief, we were reunited.

We practiced for a minute, then the teachers ordered us to change partners.

"Followers, step one person to the left. Leaders, stay where you are."

SH's eyes flew open and his jaw dropped. Horror crossed his face. He shook his head as the next woman stepped up to him, then he apologized profusely to her for what he perceived to be his complete inability to dance. At a DANCE CLASS. As I moved further down the line to new partners and SH got new partners, he continued to apologize. Instead of dancing.

"Some of them actually knew how to dance!" he told me later. "And I was dragging them down!"

After half an hour, the class ended and the general dance began. I found SH.

"This is so stressful!" he moaned. "I can't do this!"

He sat down and had a sip of his beer.

Of course there is a bar at the K of C hall. Catholics, not Baptists. Plus this is Wisconsin. In the winter. What else is there to do?

I tried to encourage him. He really is better than he thinks. He has a strong sense of rhythm and has a lot of natural athletic ability.

"But I don't know how to lead! How do you know what step to do next? Why isn't there a formula for this?"

I tried some more to convince him that dancing was fun! and he could learn!

"If I can't do it right, I don't want to do it at all," he said firmly.

"But for you to be able to do it right, you have to learn and practice!" I said. "It's OK not to be perfect!"

"But I don't like not being perfect," he said.

"If you were perfect, I wouldn't be able to stand you," I said. "An imperfect dancer is fine with me."

He shook his head. "I don't know how to do this!"

Perhaps I could write a program in BASIC that choreographs a dance routine for engineers.

Marriage 401, Lecture 148: Leaning Pile of Visa

2012-01-15T10:10:00.000-08:00

Me: Hey! Quit moving my stuff! I can't find anything after you've hidden things.

SH: But we're having company for supper. The place needs to look good.

Me: Is that why you have this two-foot pile of old newspapers here?

SH: It's stacked neatly.

Spain 10 : A bad churros experience

2012-01-14T07:18:00.000-08:00

You guys, I am embarrassed to blog about this because it doesn't reflect well on me at all, but it is a story and perhaps someday, one of you will be spared our humiliation, mine self inflicted and SH's CF inflicted, because of what you learn from reading this.

Here's the deal: There are sometimes three sets of prices for cafes in Madrid. There is the standing at the bar price, the sitting inside price, and the sitting outside price. Which makes sense because that is just the cafe owners using market forces to their advantage and charging more for what is usually the more desirable real estate.

However. SH and I had forgotten about that. We hadn't done any outdoor eating since we had arrived in Spain because I hate to be cold. But it was a pretty day in Madrid and when we went into the churro shop in search of the perfect churro - we had not found such in Toledo, where we had two churro experiences, once with great, freshly-made churros but not so great dipping chocolate and the other time with fabulous chocolate but warmed on the grill previously and still a bit frozen churros,* we marched straight to the bar to order because it seemed like the fastest way to get our churros and take them outside to sit at the churro shop's tables.

"Are you going to want to eat outside?" the clerk asked.

But of course. It was nice weather. We live in Wisconsin. We take advantage of opportunities to be outside that do not involve shoveling snow.

"Then go out there and he will take your order." She nodded at a waiter.

We got a table and opened the menu. There were three sets of prices, with the highest prices double the lowest. As SH and I were arguing about what this meant and what it implied for our decisions, the waiter appeared.

Flustered, I told him: "One order of churros and chocolate."

"Do you want coffee?" I asked SH.

He didn't know. I wasn't going to order coffee on my own because I can't have an entire cup of caffeinated coffee any more and it seemed wasteful to order just a decaf. All I wanted was a few sips of SH's verboten coffee.

"Wait," I said to the waiter. "We don't know."

But he turned and went into the shop, returning in 90 seconds with the churros.

By then, after evaluating all the inside v outside prices and determining that there was at least a one-euro difference between the two, which sometimes was a mere 25% price increase and other times was a 50% price increase and a few times was a 100% price increase, and if there is anything you know about me by now it's that I always look for the arbitrage opportunity, that is, if there is a commodity (i.e., churros or a nice purse or jeans) that costs $X in one place and $2X in another, I am usually going to choose the $X option unless there is a compelling reason not to and part of the definition of commodity is that there is not a compelling reason, we decided it was not worth $3 extra to sit outside to consume a product that we could eat inside for less.

I suppose the inside/outside thing could be what makes the churros not a commodity - that the setting is what increases the value of the churros, but a churro at a cafe is a churro at a cafe is what I say.

I convinced SH to go inside.

Let me add here that moving was completely my idea and that SH was against it all along, not so much because he wanted to pay more but because he thought it would be embarrassing to move.

I am a sinverguenza. After living in South America for two years and breaking so many rules I didn't even know existed, I am immune. When you are a foreigner in a culture, you are going to do dumb things. You get over it after a while. And sometimes you even use it to your advantage.

You mean that in Germany, even if there is absolutely no traffic coming from either direction, you still wait for the crossing light? Who knew? Oh well I'm already on the other side.

Meanwhile, the old German guy who is still waiting for the light is scolding you in German, which you don't speak, so you just shrug, give him your "I'm just a dumb foreigner" look, and continue you on your merry way.

The waiter asked what was going on. "We want the inside price churros," I said, "so we are going to sit inside."

The waiter scowled. "You already placed the order!" he said.

"I told you to wait!" I answered.

He shook his head and waved the bill at me. "If you don't pay this, I eat it!"

I thought that was a little extreme. We weren't refusing to pay for our order. We just wanted the inside price.

I sat at the inside table. The waiter refused to bring us the churros.

We sat.

Nothing happened. It was a Spanish standoff.

SH said, "It's not worth it. Let's just go back outside."

Which we did, pretending that we had planned this all along, even though we were slinking past the rude waiter in shame.

Another waitress brought us our now-cold churros y chocolate. Our waiter pointedly ignored us.

We ate. "Should we leave a tip?" SH asked.

"He was really pissy to us," I said. "I get the idea that he is either not working for tips or doesn't care about pleasing us because we are tourists and probably won't be back."**

"You had already put in the order," SH noted.

I scowled. I hate to be wrong. I hate it when it's my fault.

"I told him to wait!" I protested.

"You had already given him the order."

"He didn't have to be so rude. We should have gotten just a little bit of gringo slack," I argued.

SH agreed with me that we should have gotten a bit of slack or at least not-pissy behavior. No tip. Which was very hard for SH to do as he is a 20 percenter for anything but horrible service.

Then we found out from Rubi that nobody tips in Spain anyhow - or they barely tip - so there was no satisfaction there.

Next time, I will tell the waiter to wait before I tell him what I want.

* The bartender gave us a double order for the regular price. When I asked if the servings were always so big, he answered, "Hoy si. Manana no." Today yes, tomorrow no.

** Which wasn't necessarily true. We have been to this churro place on each of our three trips to Spain. But I suppose $10 once every few years is not enough to inspire niceness. Let me note, though, that this was the only rudeness we encountered from a waiter or clerk during our entire trip and in the waiter's defense, we kind of asked for it.

Wisconsin 101: Early Bird karaoke

2012-01-13T06:06:00.000-08:00

You guys know that SH and I have a mixed marriage and that one of the mixes is bedtime, right? We disagree on other big issues, like politics and religion, but disagreeing on bedtime affects you every day, not just during an election or during Wisconsin 2011.

I would be happy with nine or ten hours of sleep a night, starting at 10:00 p.m. SH thinks that five should be enough for anyone. Isn't that what caffeine is for? And if he never saw daylight again, he wouldn't mind, especially now that he is taking megadoses of vitamin D to accompany his Eye of Newt and other daily potions. Were we living four hundred years ago, he would be stopping at the apothecary for a mixture of ground bat wings, dried beetles, and unicorn dung.

"It helps with the prostate, you know," he would tell me as I turned away in horror and returned to peeling my potatoes (they had potatoes by then, right? post-Columbus?) or threshing, winnowing, and grinding my wheat and rye to make bread and hoping that the rye hadn't gone bad and turned to LSD.

Yes, we are at the age where words like "prostate" come into our conversation occasionally, as do the laments about what to do about Ear Hair and Long Eyebrow hairs. (Don't pluck them. Trim them. That is what we have learned.) We reached a milestone a few months ago when he had to pull one of my chin hairs because I couldn't see it. The joys of being a nearsighted person who is developing farsightedness.

All of this is more information than you wanted, although I know some of you are nodding and saying, Preach, sister.

So. The staying up late thing. SH is perfectly happy to stay up until 2:00 a.m. I haven't done much of that since my immediate post-college years and that was when I could still sleep until noon the day after.

Now, my body has become a finely-tuned machine that wakes up with the sun and the cats, who start to whine as soon as they hear any movement from the bedroom, which means sneaking out to the bathroom and then back to bed is almost impossible unless you can sleep through a whining cat who is convinced she is going to starve to death despite all evidence to the contrary which I cannot, even with earplugs.

Not wanting to go out late has kept me from accompanying SH to karaoke. I love to hear him sing, but I don't want to have to stay out late to do it.

We found the perfect compromise.

Old People - and I say that with affection as we are joining the tribe - Karaoke.

Old People Karaoke (OPK) starts at 7:00 p.m.

Seven real people time, not 7:00 musician/SH/football time.

This is Wisconsin. People here get up early, you know.

We went to the Chinese restaurant that hosts the OPK - we didn't know it was OPK before we went - we thought it was just K - and discovered that we were the youngest people in the place and we're not exactly spring chickens.

The good thing about getting older is that you don't care what people think any more - in a good way, which means that if you like to sing then you're going to sing and so what? You got a problem with that?

Only of course no old Wisconsin person would ever be that aggressive as to say, "You gotta problem wit dat?" They would just shrug and say, "Well, you know. I like to sing." And the other person would say, "You betcha," which can be used sometimes as the northern equivalent of "Bless your heart."

The good thing about old people who are bad singers is that they still pick good songs. I would rather hear "After The Loving" sung badly than "You Gotta Fight For The Right To Party" sung well. That's something that Old Wisconsin People (OWP) and Madrilenos have in common: even at their karaoke worst, they still pick good songs. Young Wisconsin People, bless their hearts, sing some awful music, but OWP sing Frank Sinatra and Neil Diamond and Madrilenos sing old Spanish love songs that make everyone in the bar sentimental as they link arms and sing the chorus together.

SH, of course, knocked it out of the park with "Kiss and Say Goodbye," although his fake Southern accent at the beginning talking part of the song cracks me up every time. SH is not a Southern accent kind of guy, but he does get a nice, deep graveliness to his voice in that section before he jumps in with the falsetto start.

I was thrilled that we were out of there by 10:07, with SH having sung three songs. We heard the 90-year-old man in the suit and bow tie sing "My Way" and the guy with his own special karaoke shirt - emblazoned with "Acapella Al" on the back and adorned with flashing guitar-shaped buttons and a pin that ran the script "Thank a vet for his service" - sing "Okie from Muskogee." There was not one single rap song, not that rap is so bad, but it has to be executed properly and I think we can all agree that this was not the crowd to do it. Not one single heavy metal screaming song and I'm not even going to try to say anything nice about heavy metal - I mean the extreme stuff, not the guilty pleasure AC/DC songs. Not one whiny song. Just nice old songs, some well sung and some not so well sung but all sung with enthusiasm and happiness and isn't that a nice way to spend an evening? I think so.

Marriage 401, Lecture 142: Sinkhole

2012-01-12T02:50:00.000-08:00

Me: Would you please leave the dishwasher thingy on this side [the side where I wash dishes] of the sink instead of that one? [the side where I leave the compost bowl]

SH: I like to put it on that side.

Me: I hate having to look for it every time I wash dishes. Is there a specific reason that you want it on that side?

SH: Yes. After I wash dishes, I want the sink to be empty.

Me: So for esthetic reasons.

SH: Yes.

Me: Whereas I want it my way for practical reasons.

SH: So?

Me: My way should win.

Marriage 401, Lecture 982: Life on Downer Avenue

2012-01-11T02:30:00.000-08:00

SH: I'm depressed.

Me: So what are you going to do to get over it?

SH: What do you mean? Right now?

Me: Not necessarily. But what steps are you going to take to be not depressed? Or do you want to be miserable? If you're happier being miserable, then I guess there's nothing to do.

SH: I'm a whiner, not a problem solver.

Marriage 401, Lecture 157: Where is the "off" switch?

2012-01-10T05:53:00.000-08:00

SH: You listen to this station?

Me: Yes.

SH: But they are [not of your political beliefs].

Me: But the local hosts are good and they get good guests and they have interesting discussions.

SH: If you like listening to people talk about politics, why don't you like talking about it with me?

Me: I don't like arguing about politics.

SH: But why do you listen to talk radio and not want to talk to me?

Me: I can turn off the radio.

Marriage 401, Lecture 151: Compromising immunity

2012-01-09T06:49:00.000-08:00

After SH and I have already flown from Pittsburgh to Detroit and sat next to each other during the layover. We are fifteen minutes into the Detroit-Milwaukee flight. He has heard every sneeze and sniffle that I have made.

Me: I think I might be getting sick. [Big sneeze, sniffle, sniffle, reach for the handkerchief.]

SH [recoils in horror]: What! No!

Me: Maybe.

SH: When did you realize this?

Me: What did you mean?

SH: When did you realize you might be getting sick?

Me: I don't know.

SH: But YOU KISSED ME! ON THE TRAM TO THE GATE!

Me: Yes.

SH: What if you make me sick?

Me: If your immune system is OK, you should be fine.

SH: Did you know you were getting sick before you kissed me?

Me: I don't know.

SH: How can you not know?

Me: I don't know.

SH: When did you know?!

Me: Fine. I knew when I told you, OK? Now be quiet.

SH: If I get sick, I'll be annoying.

Long stare from me to him.

Me: You are already annoying.

SH: I'll be more annoying.

Me: That's not even possible. However, there's your answer: Would I deliberately cause myself the grief that your being sick brings with it? I would never kiss you thinking I might be infecting you. Unless I was about to leave town and wouldn't have to deal with you.

Spain 9: How to find your lost glasses

2012-01-08T10:36:00.000-08:00

I don't lose things.

You might laugh, Oh CF! You are such a joker! Everyone loses things!

I do not.

I have never lost my car keys. Or my wallet. Or my driver's license. I don't lose things. I am organized - my computer documents are in files - how do people who just save everything to their desktop or to their C drive ever find anything? I have a system of files set up and documents are in the files where they belong. Want a receipt from our 2009 taxes? In the Taxes/2009/Receipts file. Where it belongs.

I don't lose things.

So imagine my surprise and my distress when I sat down on the flight from Charles de Gaulle in Paris to Madrid and opened my purse to discover that my reading glasses - for which I had just gotten new lenses - were not there.

These are the glasses I have had for years and not abandoned because they are among the few frames I have ever owned that don't make me wince in pain when I see myself in the mirror. Usually, I remove my glasses before looking in a mirror - who needs that much detail? - but these glasses didn't bother me. I actually thought they were kind of cute.

The glasses weren't there.

We hadn't taken off yet. In a normal situation (i.e., not at CDG), I could have begged the flight attendant to let me run off the plane and to the lounge next to the gate where I remembered leaving them, but we had boarded the buses to the plane at Terminal 2F gate 25 and were now about 17 miles away at Terminal Middle of Nowhere. Because, as you will remember, the Madrid flights always board from 2F but the plane to Madrid was at the other terminal because the London flights always arrive at Terminal Middle of Nowhere and there is NO WAY TO CHANGE THAT.

I panicked.

Where were my glasses? How would I do anything on my computer without my glasses? Why had I brought the Good Reading Glasses on a trip instead of the Ugly Reading Glasses that were sitting under my computer at home? Those cost more, but I would gladly have lost them so as to have an excuse to replace them.

Yes, I have two pairs of reading glasses because I am very lazy and do not want to always be going from the bedroom to the kitchen to find where I had left those darn glasses.

I also keep a pair of glasses in the basement for watching TV.

If it's any consolation, these are old glasses. I only got new lenses in the Good Glasses because 1. my eyes are getting a wee bit worse and 2. we had money left in the FSA.

Where was I?

Oh. On the plane. No glasses. No way to go back to Terminal 2F and run into the lounge to grab them from the table where I left them.

I asked the flight attendant whom I would call to get my glasses back. She shrugged helplessly? The gate agent in Madrid? she suggested.

When we got off the plane, I asked the gate agent. "Lost and found," she said.

I tried protesting that I had not lost the glasses at Barajas, but she was unyielding.

Lost and Found told me that they did not handle items lost in other airports. Which I knew.

Back upstairs to Air France ticket agent. "Ask the supervisor," she said.

Supervisor shrugged. "I do not know."

We looked across the hall. There was the Air France business class office. The lady there looked and looked for a number. She called the lounge and handed the phone to me. It was a fax line.

She shrugged. "That is the only number I can find," she said. "But try this email." It was the email for Air France lost and found.

Yeah right.

I emailed Delta (our ticket was on Delta and they code-shared with Air France) customer service.

"You need to contact Air France lost and found," they said.

I sent an email and got this response:

Dear customer,
We duly received your mail concerning the lost item, and we will do our utmost to investigate. However, if you do not receive any reply from us within 8 days, the tracing has to be considered as negative.

Please do note that Air France is not liable in case of lost, partial reconstitution or deterioration of your property.

Regards,
Air France

Does that answer inspire confidence in you?

It sure doesn't give me any hope.

I wrote back to Delta, begging them to just give me a phone number if they wouldn't call themselves.

"I'm sorry you are disappointed in my response," the Delta lady said.

When we got back to Atlanta, I asked the man in the Delta lounge if he had a number for the Air France lounge. He did not, but suggested I go to the Air France office in Terminal E to talk to them.

SH and I had just walked from Terminal E - after going through the passport line with the slowest passport agent ever, a man who processed only six passengers in the time it took the other agents to process two dozen and who kept closing the passports and putting them on the desk so he could ask us about the weather in Milwaukee and was it better to fly into Milwaukee or Chicago and why were we taking cheese to Wisconsin anyhow and I was ready to scream but SH had already cautioned me against screaming or being a smart aleck to him so I just bit my lip instead - to the lounge in Terminal A. Now I was going to have to go all the way back.

But if I could get my glasses back, it would be worth it.

I took the tram to Terminal A. Had to ask four people before I found the Air France office. A man there looked up the AF lost and found and said there were no glasses listed, but suggested I go to the Air France gate to talk to Stephanie, who might have the number for the lounge.

I went to the gate. Stephanie was busy, but Sheri told me that Stephanie did not have the number but that I should file a claim in the baggage assistance when we got back to Milwaukee.

We went to baggage assistance in MKE and the woman there told me she had no idea what I was talking about.

I am tired. Maybe I should just give up.

Marriage 401, Lecture 989: He's not responsible

2012-01-07T05:49:00.000-08:00

After we pass through security on our way to Pittsburgh to Pete and Julie's.

SH: You have the sandwiches, right?*

Me: I thought you had them.

SH stops abruptly. Wheels around. Stares at me.

SH: What?!

Me: What do you mean, "What?"

SH: I wasn't in charge of them. I don't have them.

Me: But you always take them.

SH: Because you give them to me! I don't have them! And I'm hungry!

Me: Well, let's look at the cafe up there to see what our options are.

SH: No! We have to talk about this!

Me: What's there to talk about?

SH: It's not my fault! I'm not the one who was responsible!

Me: OK. I forgot the sandwiches. I'm sorry. Let's see what there is to eat.

SH: You're the one who made them and packed them. You're the one who's responsible.

Me: Fine. Whatever. Let's get something to eat.

SH: No! We have to deconstruct what happened and design a process to keep it from happening again!

Me: OK. How about this? You help me remember to take the sandwiches.

* The sandwiches I had made so we wouldn't be at the mercy of the airlines and the airport for food. Airport food is better now than it was 25 years ago, when the only option was Dobbs catering, at least in the Houston and Dallas airports, where I was stuck, but it's still not fabulous unless you are in Minneapolis or Miami. I would go to the Miami airport for La Carreta.

Spain 8: The drama of buying shoes

2012-01-06T03:47:00.000-08:00

This is how we buy shoes. In Spain. Which was our main Christmas present to ourselves after the trip itself. It is very hard to shop for SH because when he wants a bottle of wine or a CD, he buys it, and of course we are all aware of the Blue Shirt Situation. He doesn't shop for me because I need more stuff as much as he does, i.e., not at all. We are full of stuff.

Except shoes. Can you ever have enough shoes? I don't think so. Or, you can have enough but need to replace your black boots that are over ten years old and were made in China anyhow. And your black pumps, which you used to wear to work but are now 1. too high for your skinny feet - yes, we lose fat in our feet as we age. I didn't think it was possible to want to retain fat in many places on my body, but my feet are better served with their own Milwaukee Roll and 2. dried out with cracking leather.

So we decided that given our China boycott and the difficulty of finding nice shoes in the US that are not made in China and yet are within our non-Christian Laboutin budget, we would shop for shoes in Madrid.

Rubi helped. She identified a shoe store (Strover) she likes- recommended the shoes - and even showed me possibilities, i.e., the leopard shoes you see above. Those are mine. Those are not professional shoes. They belong to me.

We went to the store on Friday night after the Big Drama of Trying to Find Rubi and Victoria. They had the leopard shoes in my size, but there was a flaw in the only pair available. The clerk called another location to have them hold a pair there for me on Saturday.

Fast forward to Saturday, when SH and I slept until 11:30 a.m., which is something I thought I had left in my college days, but when there are blackout blinds and when one stays out until 1:00 a.m. at Madrid karaoke, and when there are no cats demanding to be fed at the crack of dawn, one can sleep very very late.

I need to check into getting some of those blinds for chez CF.

We woke up. The store was closing at 2:30. It was a metro ride plus one transfer away. Transferring on the metro in Madrid is not always easy. The night before, we had gotten onto the innocently-named Circle Line to go one single stop to transfer to our line. Easy as pie, we thought. Easy.

We got off at Cuatro Caminos and thought, We should jog to the transfer point because it is already 1:14 a.m. and the last train runs at 1:30. Jogging, however, hurt because we had spent two days walking in Toledo, including up the steps to the tower of a very old church built in the days when people were tall and a rise twice the rise one sees today was common. I felt as if I were in a step class from hell with the weird lady at the Y who puts three risers under her bench and does jumping jacks between routines because she JUST CAN'T STOP EXERCISING.

I agree with her that the class could move along just a little bit better, but I will take the chance to gossip with my Y friends rather than do any more work than I am paying the instructor to make me do.

So we jogged lightly despite the pain in our legs - no pain in my feet because for once, I brought ugly shoes on a trip - and it hurt so we had to stop but then we had to start again because we wanted to get to the stop. But every time we jogged up one impossibly long escalator, another appeared. It was like living in an Escher print.

Where was I? Oh, so because of all the hassle getting to the new stop and because we missed the penultimate train by THREE SECONDS and we would have sprinted had we known those three seconds were so important, we were really late getting back to the hotel and we were really tired.

So we slept late.

I had accepted before we went to bed that there was a possibility we might sleep too late to get to the shoe store and that the leopard shoes might never be mine. If that happens, I thought, it was just not meant to be.

But when we woke, I saw that there was time so I started to nag SH to hurry up hurry up there were shoes to be bought! Hurry!

He graciously agreed to wait until after we had picked up the shoes to go to lunch. Of course, neither of us were that hungry after our tapas feast with Rubi and Victoria the night before. We got showered and dressed and got ourselves to the store.

Only there were two Strover stores on the same street.

Just like in Best of Show with the Starbucks.

We stopped at the first. I asked for the shoes they were holding for my Spanish name - remember how in high school Spanish, we all had to pick a name? - and they didn't know what I was talking about.

Didn't matter - they had a pair anyhow.

I tried them on. Yes, still liked them. Bought them.

The store down the street half a block was the one that had men's shoes, which was our next objective. We trotted there and I was distracted immediately by the other women's shoes that I had not even noticed in my quest for the leopard. Boots! Heels! Black suede heels with alligator heels!

And none of them made in China.

I started picking out things to try. SH, too, was looking at shoes, but he has been buying shoes for years without my help so I thought he was fine now.

I handed my samples to the saleslady and waited eagerly. SH kept distracting me with men's shoes.

Men's shoes.

Boring.

I tried on my shoes and boots. Oh like.

"Hey!" SH said. "I need your help!"

I looked at him, bewildered. Surely he had bought shoes before and did not need me to tell him how to do so.

"I can't speak Spanish!" he said in exasperation.

You guys know SH is an engineer, right? And a perfectionist. I have no problems looking like an idiot in my attempts to speak a foreign language, but unless SH can speak a perfectly conjugated sentence with the perfect accent, he does not want words to leave his mouth.

I rolled my eyes. All he had to do was show the shoe to the guy and say his American size and the salesman would do the rest.

But SH didn't see it that way. I abandoned my boots and heels and settled in to help The Engineer optimize his shoe decision, which took half an hour. Which was pretty fast considering it takes him almost that long to buy bacon.

Then I turned back to my shoes, chose what I wanted, and voila. It was 2:25. The store was closing in a few minutes. It was Christmas Eve. People wanted to get home. I didn't want to be the one keeping them there on a holiday. I do not remember with fondness the customers who brought all their price checks and maybes to the cash register at midnight when I worked at Macy's.

The salesman ran SH's credit card.

Rejected.

"But we just used it at the other store!" we said.

Salesman ran it again.

Rejected.

Wait! said the saleslady. She pulled out another machine. "Try this one."

Rejected.

SH started to get mad. "I put a travel alert on that card!"

I was getting worried. My new boots and heels, so close and yet so far. And SH, with all the time he had invested in choosing one pair. What if he couldn't have them now?

Besides, the salespeople had spent an hour helping us. I wanted them to get their commissions.

SH turned to me. "What about your card?"

"I left it in the safe at the hotel," I admitted. Why do I need money if I'm with him?

He opened his wallet again.

I never thought I would be so grateful to see all the credit cards. I have only two credit cards and used to be a one-credit card woman. SH got an AmEx for me so I could get miles on his account, but I used to be strictly USAA. SH, however, believes in optimizing mileage and other award programs.

He looked at his AmEx and shook his head. "It will cost an arm and a leg in conversion fees," he said.

He tossed aside two other cards. "Fees too high," he said.

He sighed and took out his debit card. No points for the card, but it is with USAA, which means that we are not going to get screwed on the conversion.

We left the store at 2:40, the shoes clutched to our chests. OK, in bags hanging from our hands.

We went to Cien Montaditos to celebrate with coffee, beer and sandwiches. Then SH wore his shoes that night to Victoria's for our Christmas Eve serrano ham feast with Rubi and he admird them all night long. He loves his new shoes.

Spain 7: SH and Rubi sing at a Madrid karaoke bar

2012-01-05T01:01:00.000-08:00

After the drama of not being able to find Rubi right away because of the multiple metro exits and multiple El Corte Ingleses, which has become an empire that will soon battle Walmart and Macy's for domination of the world, a la Godzilla vs King Kong, we settled in for a lovely evening.

The first thing we did after introducing ourselves - it is not so hard to identify Americans in Madrid - and doing the two-cheek Spanish kiss with both Rubi and her friend Victoria, we had a beer. Well, SH had a cana and I had some water. SH decided to not be cranky and whiny.

Which was good, because the next stop of the evening was the shoe store where we were already supposed to have shopped for the leopard-print shoes that Rubi found for me last month when she bought the zebra version.

I tried on some boots that were too tight. "If you lost some weight in your legs," Victoria said, "they would be fine." Which shocked me for a second until I remembered that 1. oh yes, Latins tend to be a little more direct and 2. she was exactly right. Spanish women must have skinnier calves than American women. Oh well.

The shoes in my size had a flaw, but the saleslady called another store a few miles away that also had the shoes and had them hold them for me. I will tell you about that drama later.

Once the shoe shopping was done, we were on to the real point of the evening: eating and singing.

Victoria took us to a tapas place she likes. It was completely empty because who goes out at 8:00 on a Friday? The emptiness was to our advantage in being able to find a place to sit but to our disadvantage for the calamari that we ordered. "They're heating the oil," Rubi explained, "but I think they're really fishing for the squid."

Fortunately, our fried peppers arrived quickly and we devoured them. Hot, salty, slightly greasy little green peppers with the tiniest bite. We ate them all and Victoria and Rubi generously let SH and me have the lion's share. Those are the peppers in the first photo. Padron peppers, I believe. A cross between a jalapeno and a bell pepper and absolutely divine.

The calamari still hadn't arrived, so we ordered some pinxtos, little open-faced sandwiches with baby eels, tuna, cheese, peppers and salmon.

Victoria went to scold the bartender about the lack of calamari. It arrived, hot, fatty, and salty, which have become my new favorite flavors. I never thought sugar would fall from favor on my list, but I am becoming a salty snacks person in my dotage.

We took a short walk, then found another bar and ate some more. Pinxtos of oxtail, hake, cheese with roasted apples, and one more flavor I can't remember. Victoria, Rubi, and Chris had wine, I had a Schweppes lemon soda, which I had not had since we lived in Spain when I was a kid. I usually don't like soda - it's too sweet - but this was good. Also, when SH and I are overseas,* we usually get a real Coke made with cane sugar. It tastes completely different from the Coke made with corn sweetener here in the U.S.

These Madrilenos know how to live.

Then we went to another bar to say hi to Rubi's friend who owned the bar. The guys next to us had ordered a tortilla. "She makes the best tortilla in Madrid," Rubi said.

I looked longingly at the tortilla. One of the guys asked, "Are we in your way?" I guess my longing look = "get out of my way." Who knew?

"I'm just admiring your tortilla," I told him.

"Would you like to try some?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't," I protested.

"No, really!"

"Don't ask me again!" I warned him, "or I might say yes."

A minute later, he tapped me on the shoulder. "Here." He handed me a fork with a piece of tortilla.

What a great country.

And what a great tortilla.**

Victoria had left us, but Rubi, SH and I soldiered on. Next stop: Karaoke.

I don't like to go out to karaoke with SH at home because the bar is very loud, because many of the singers are bad, and because I have to wait 40 minutes between SH's songs. Forty minutes of boring.

But at the Madrid karaoke place, there were not very many singers. With the exception of the drunks who moved to the downstairs party shortly after we arrived, the singers were excellent. SH sang almost immediately.

Rubi had modestly classified herself as "advanced intermediate" karaoke.

She forgot to mention that she is an excellent singer. Both she and SH made people stop and listen.

While SH was singing his first song - Suspicious Minds, a white-haired Spanish man came up to me and gave me a thumbs-up and told me that SH's English was muy bueno. When I told him it was SH's native tongue and it better be bueno, he asked me if SH would sing a Kenny Rogers. Me encanta Kenny Rogers! he said.

SH declined, as he does not like to sing songs he does not know in a new place because he wants to show off the songs he does know and who can blame him? I will note that before he met me, SH would have looked with disdain on Elvis, Johnny Cash, Johnny Lee, Engelbert Humperdink, Tom Jones, Ronnie Milsap, Glen Campbell, Brooks and Dunn, and a host of others whom he now not only sings but owns their CDs. I have contributed, in my own modest way, to the enlargement of SH's world.***

And he to mine: I can appreciate some Britney Spears songs now.

Rubi rocked with her version of Killing Me Softly.

There was a six euro drink minimum at the bar, i.e., we were supposed to each spend $8 on drinks, which almost made my heart stop until I took a deep breath and realized that two beers at home cost that much and SH usually has two or three beers when he goes out.

"Sometimes I buy shots for people," he told me, which was information I could do without, as I think of spending money on alcohol only one step up from setting it on fire. At least shoes can be worn more than once.

However, Madrid is a big city and has big city prices on alcohol, so that six euros bought only one beer. I got one and SH carefully poured it into his glass and Rubi's glass while I sipped on a tiny little bit. Technically, I suppose we were cheating, although it was my beer and I drank part of it. If I hadn't shared it with Rubi and SH, then it would have gone undrunk and they wouldn't have bought any more.

SH and Rubi each sang a few songs, then sang Endless Love, which I think is a total cornball song but it is technically difficult and they did it well. It was also one of the few duets in English. They didn't even have Jackson, which is my favorite after I Got You Babe, which SH will not sing with me. Then we went back to the hotel. Which involved drama at the metro. The end.

* I know. First world name dropping. Trust me I understand just how lucky we are and am extremely grateful and very scared it could all go away any second, which is why I try to save as much money as possible by being the frugal person I am.

** Yes, Rubi, I know you don't like sentences that start with "and." I know it's against the rules. But if "gift" can become a verb, then there are no standards left.

*** SH was reared in a world where only classical music was acceptable, so even basic pop music - the Beatles - was quite a rebellion for him. One can understand. It's not like Paul McCartney is a good singer or composer or anything.

Marriage 401, Lecture 152: Optimizing the important things

2012-01-04T09:03:00.000-08:00

SH: Hey! Look! If you stack the tupperware this way - with the larger ones nested in the smaller ones - they all fit in the drawer!

Me: Uh huh.

SH: But now it all fits!

Me: Oh.

SH: Why aren't you more excited?

Me: I am so excited.

SH: This is a big deal!

Marriage 401, Lecture 629: Hide and seek

2012-01-03T00:09:00.000-08:00

Me: Do you want some nonpareils? [Of the 30 oz bag of Gittard nonpareils that his mom sent him for Christmas and that he asked me to hide from him after he ate a good portion of the bag between the box's arrival and my getting home from the gym]

SH: Last night, I looked for them. I thought you had put them someplace obvious downstairs.

Me: Nope.

SH: So I had to have Pringles instead. And now we're out.

PS I wrote this before Christmas, before we went on our trip. I hope I can remember where I hid them.

Spain 6: Getting lost, panicking, and being found

2012-01-02T02:21:00.000-08:00

The plan was to meet Rubi in front of El Corte Ingles at the subway exit at 6:30 for tapas and karaoke.

"If we're not there by 7, it's because we're dead," I joked to her when we were making the arrangements on the hotel phone that I dared not dial out because I couldn't find anything telling me how much a local call costs and if you have to ask, you can't afford it.

Plus I don't know how to dial a phone in Spain - I mean, I don't know which numbers you use and which you don't - and that is scary. Don't laugh. Like you are perfectly comfortable figuring out the phones in a foreign country.

Our first mistake was severely underestimating the amount of time it would take to 1. find the metro station and 2. get from Atocha to Goya.

At 6:50, SH and I were still on the train. As we looked anxiously at the map, a man standing next to us asked solicitously, "Ees there something I can help you weeth?"

"We're just trying to figure out how much longer to our stop," I said. "We're already 20 minutes late to meet our friend."

He waved his hand. "Bah. In Espain, 20 minutes ees not late."

We arrived at Goya. Climbed up the stairs. Looked for El Corte Ingles. Of which there were two and of which both were surrounded by throngs and throngs of people.

SH panicked. "Which El Corte Ingles? Which? We'll never find her!"

We started walking around, looking for a buxom blonde. Lots of morenas, no rubias. We checked the street names. We walked to each corner of the intersection, which took ten minutes because there was so much traffic and so many people.

"The day is ruined!" SH moaned. "Ruined! I was really looking to this! This was going to be our only fun night out. And now it's ruined and it can't be fixed!"

"We're not done looking," I told him.

"But you told her that we weren't coming after 7:00!"

"I'll bet that once she got here and saw the madness that she realized it might take a little longer."

He shook his head. "No, no, no. There is no way to fix this day. It's just awful."

I slapped him. "Stop being hysterical!"

OK. Not really. I do not hit my husband.

But I did roll my eyes.

"What's the backup plan?" he asked.

"We don't have one."

"How could you not have a backup plan?"

"Well, if we would have had a backup plan, it would have been to meet at the bar where she originally wanted us to meet but couldn't find the exact address."

I got out my notes and looked for the name of the bar. Cerveceria Santa Barbara, within view of the shoe store that had my leopard-print loafers.

"But why didn't we just meet at the bar?"

"Because I wanted an exact address, not just 'Cerveceria Santa Barbara near the shoe store!' Anyhow, that's the backup plan, so stop panicking."

"No, the backup plan when there is no backup plan is to panic!"

"There's the bar right there. Let's at least go inside before we give up."

We didn't even have to go in. When we were five feet from the door, the buxom blonde* emerged.

"You're here!" she said.

SH was incredulous. "But - but how did you know to wait at the bar for us? And wait past 7:00?"

"Because as soon as I saw how many people there were and that there was more than one El Corte Ingles, I realized that our original meeting place was a bad idea. I knew CF would figure it out."

And then we ate and drank and sang and I will tell you all about that in the next post.

* Who had not yet met me in person when she suggested I put my money and credit cards in my bra to foil pickpockets.

Spain: Before the trip

2012-01-01T02:56:00.000-08:00

Me: Why don't I pick out your underwear so we can start packing?

SH: No!!!!

Me: Why not? I'm just going to pull some out of the drawer while you lie there.

SH: No!! You can't pick my underwear!

Me: Why not?

SH: There are specific travel underwear. You don't know which ones.

Me: Travel underwear?

SH: Some of them are more compact. Then there's the polyester/cotton issue. You can't do it.

Spain 5: The wisdom of taxi drivers

2011-12-31T02:27:00.000-08:00

After asking the cabbie in Toledo why he didn't get to jump the line to exit the train station:

Cabbie: Because one must to respect the line!

Me: Not everyone thinks that.

Cabbie: That is how it is in Spain. One must respect the line.*

Me: We were just in Paris and there, they do not seem to respect the line. People were cutting like crazy.

Cabbie: The French.

Me: Yes.

Just then, a van cut the cabbie off as he was exiting the traffic circle.

Cabbie: That guy? He is French.

* May I note that respecting the line does not seem to be a universal human value.

Spain 4: The French optimize inefficiency

2011-12-30T02:26:00.000-08:00

Once you have made it through the nightmare that is security and that should cause a new French Revolution, go to the gate in F terminal. Wait in line. Wait for ten minutes with the line moving slowly, then wait ten more minutes with the line not moving at all. Wait for the new bus to arrive.

Yes, the bus. The bus is going to take you to your plane. Even though you are at a gate with a jetbridge, you are not going to get on the plane from that jetbridge. No, you are going to wait in line for the bus, then walk down the F terminal jetbridge to the very end, where you will descend two flights of stairs, walk past the young woman wearing her ground crew yellow vest who is busy smacking chewing gum and texting on her pink phone, and board the bus.

Stand near the back of the bus so nobody will have to push past you.

Move repeatedly as people shove past you. Move because you will actually make eye contact with people, unlike the man who is standing in the middle of the aisle and blocking passage with both his body and the huge red bag he has slung over his shoulder. Move as the guy makes eye contact with SH and uses the Latin America Lip Point to indicate his destination.

The secret is not to make eye contact. That's how the sidewalks work as well. The person who has acknowledged the presence of the oncoming person is the one who has to move, even if the oncoming person is way on the wrong side of the sidewalk. The secret is to look down and keep moving.

Wait and wait and wait for the very last person to board the bus, which will happen five minutes after the plane was supposed to have departed.

Drive for seven minutes to the E terminal, winding through other planes and jetbridges.

Get off the bus. Climb up two flights of stairs to the E terminal jetbridge. Walk down the jetbridge to the plane.

Converse with the flight attendant:

Me: Why is the plane at the E terminal? Why do we have to take the bus from F to E?

FA: Because the Spain flights leave from the F terminal.

Me: Then why isn’t the plane at the F terminal?

FA: Because this plane just came from London and the London flights arrive at the E terminal.

SH: And this way, there is a job for a bus driver.

Spain 3: Lack of solidarity

2011-12-29T04:15:00.000-08:00

I am not a fan of strikes when they inconvenience me and I don’t understand when people who are inconvenienced by a strike just lift their shoulders, purse their lips and say, “La greve.”

I have been struck by strikes at least three times now coming to France.* The first time was in the late 80s, when a friend and I went to Paris and London over Christmas. We flew into London, then took the train and ferry to Paris. On our return to London, we discovered that the trains were on strike. The trains that were going to get us back to the coast and the ferry. There were no cars available to rent. Indeed, the Avis clerk was a little bit snotty to us, although in France’s defense, she was the only person in Paris who was rude to us and that might have been because she was a teenager and we were actually trying to get her to work. We finally found a bus to Calais, but it was a stressful day.

The next time I was struck was when I went to France for a cooking school vacation and the guys who deliver the cash to the ATMs were striking. I have gotten to the point where I travel with minimal cash and my debit card. It’s nice not to have to worry about carrying a couple hundred dollars they way you used to have to in the old days. Remember when we used travelers checks and there were horrible fees to change them, so we changed a bunch at once to minimize the transaction fee/franc ratio? And then you had to worry about having all that cash?

Well, if you can’t get cash because there is no cash in the ATM, then life becomes rather uncomfortable.

And now, we are struck again. SH and I had to change planes in Paris at CDG, which I have decided is the worst airport in the world and I have flown through the Cuzco Peru airport and through Atlanta.

After we made our way through the funnel of hall to passport control to baggage claim – the goal of the CDG designers, who also design the cattle runs into the abattoir, seems to be to see how many people can be put into smaller and smaller spaces before they scream and we heard no screaming, we had to go through security again. Real security, as if we had not already passed through security on our originating flight.

On our way to the premium security line, which SH has won with his many many miles of flying and nights and weekends away from home, we heard an announcement: Flights delayed because of security strike.

How odd, we thought. Why would a security strike delay a flight? It’s not the security folks who fly the planes.

NB In the best of times, CDG is the most inefficient airport I have ever used and that includes Caracas, where it took the entire three hours for me to get from checkin onto the plane – I was in line the entire time. One time, I stood in line for the CDG emigration passport check for a good while. There were four passport counters open. From there, we all funneled into one security line. There were four security machines, but only one was open. It was open with four people working and another seven standing there looking bored.

That was without a strike.

We passed the regular security line, which snaked back and forth for five folds. The line was three persons wide. Whew! we thought. Thank goodness we get to use the premium line!

We arrived at the premium line. The bored guy checked our tickets. Waved us in. The line was only 20 yards long, two persons wide. We were next to the business class checkin. I noticed a Dude checking in. He was wearing baggy jeans with a belt that was strictly decorative, as he had to hold the pants up with one hand. His head was shaved on the sides, but the remaining hair was long and pulled back into a bun that he had secured with bobby pins.

We were only halfway through the line – when the Dude passed us on the left.

The bored security guy was letting other passengers cut. “They have a flight in ten minutes,” he explained.

Our jaws dropped. If you don’t get into the security line until ten minutes before your flight, is that my problem?

Then the bored security guy let a flight crew in, which is fine, but the line still wasn’t moving.

We got close enough to see: although there were two x-ray machines, only one was open. The guy manning it was checking everything before it was put on the belt. The guy controlling the belt was looking at everything very slowly.

The bored security guy started letting more people cut.

SH and I and the other two Americans started to speak about how this was a little bit ridiculous – that we all had a flight to catch and perhaps the line-cutting should stop.

It did not stop.

We realized that the value of waiting one’s turn is perhaps not universal.

I should have remembered. I have had to fight little old ladies to the counter in Italy. They will cut you.

We kept moving forward, but the closer we got to the x-ray machine, the slower things got: there were more cutters and the people who had been waiting were letting them cut.

Our complaining grew louder as we glared at the cutters. One man rushed to the front of the line. SH said, “Hey! You need to wait your turn!”

The man politely explained that his flight left in ten minutes and it was a connection. “We, too, have a flight!” we said. “We, too, are connecting.”

“Whatever the strikers want, I vote to not give to them and to actually cut something back,” I said.

A revolution was brewing. It wasn’t just the Americans who were complaining, although the French revolution consisted of some Gallic shrugs.

That’s when they finally opened the second x-ray line. But by now, we were invested in the first line. We should have moved to Line 2 and cut on the cutters, but we thought it would be faster to stay in our line. What we failed to take into account were the people to our side who said to us, “We have been waiting longer than you so we are next.”

Of course it was safe to say that to us. They knew we actually valued line fairness. But I wanted to shout at them, “Where have you been for the past half hour when all the other people have been cutting? Why didn’t you say something then?” They were free riders, letting SH and me and the other Americans grumble and foment revolution.

It took us 45 minutes to get through 20 yards of security line.

Next time I see a picket line, I’m crossing it.

Spain 2: The great overhead luggage bin altercation

2011-12-28T04:17:00.000-08:00

You guys know the airplane rules about armrests and overhead bins, right? You know that they belong to everyone and that we must share because we are all suffering back in coach together.

Some people do not know the rules.

I boarded the plane. SH was in the business class seat that he got with miles and I was in the coach seat that we had paid for. I insisted he sit in the business class seat because 1. he is six inches taller than I am and that extra space is a lot more important to him than to me and 2. he travels so much that he should get to be comfortable and 3. he wouldn't even have the miles to get a ticket if he hadn't spent many hours away from home.

I sat in my seat and the young woman beside me plopped her arm on the armrest.

The armrest and the possession thereof is a situation that must be addressed at the very beginning. You don't want to set a bad precedent. I was once at the start of a 12-hour bus ride through Guatemala or Costa Rica and the guy next to me was sprawled out and hogging the arm rest. Very politely, I said, " Would you mind sharing the arm rest with me? It's going to be a long ride."

He was so shocked that he sat up, removed his leg from MY HALF OF THE SPACE, which is something men do that annoys me so much - if I pull my leg in so I do not have to be touching yours, it is not an invitation for you to spread your legs even wider into MY HALF OF THE SPACE, and shifted his arm over. It ended up being a nice ride. He was a forestry student at the university. We had to get off the bus in the middle of the night for the drug check and then for the Mediterranean fruit fly spraying, so we had plenty of time to talk.

The young woman was hogging the armrest and I was trying to gently nudge my arm in there so she would know there was another person sitting there, but she was busy texting.

Almost everyone had boarded. The seat in front of me was empty. The late passenger came back. He was a thin, tall, stooped man in his late 20s carrying a smallish gym bag. He opened the bin over his seat and it was full. He opened a few more around us and they were all full.

"If you rearrange my things," I suggested, "you can probably fit your bag in there."

He smiled at me and opened the bin over his seat again. As he pulled out the roll of Christmas wrapping paper that someone had put in there, a woman three seats behind us jumped up and strode forward. "No!" she shouted. "Do not move those things!"

She was in her late 60s, dyed red hair,* very heavy dark eyebrows. She wagged her finger at him and scolded. "You cannot move those things! There is room up there!" She waved in the general direction of the front of the plane.

The young man dropped his hand, bewildered.

"He has a right to that space," I told her. "He has a right to move things around so he can put his things up there."

She glared at me. I glared back. A few years ago, I boarded a plane only to find no room in the bins. I finally found one with space, but I was going to have to rearrange things. As I pulled out the top item, a woman told me, "You can't move that! It's fragile!"

Instead of telling her, "Then you can hold it in your lap or put it under your seat," I said, "Oh," and stuffed my bag under my seat and had no room whatsoever for my short, sturdy legs.

This was payback.

"Someone put things in mine," she said defiantly.

"Then help him find room for his. If you won't let him touch your things, then you need to help him."

She glared at me some more, but then did as I asked. As she turned behind us to look, other passengers offered help, telling him he could move their things.

After he finally sat, the young woman next to me said, "That was a nice thing to do." She smiled and removed her arm from the armrest. She finally saw me.

When we got off the plane nine hours later, the old lady jumped up to get her things out of the bin before I could even move. I saw her take out the rolling paper, a small bag, and her coat. There would have been plenty of room for the young man's things. She was just mean.

* I have got to come up with my going gray strategy. Home hair coloring once you're on social security is probably not a good idea. At least, it won't be for me.

Spain 1: We decide to go to Madrid for Christmas

2011-12-27T04:14:00.000-08:00

I am only now posting the Spain 2011 series because I had a backlog of material and I am lazy.

But SH and I went to Spain for Christmas.

It was not my idea.* But it was fine once we got started.

Before Thanksgiving, SH was counting his frequent flyer miles and realized that he did not have enough miles to maintain his status for 2012. If you fly a lot for your job, you know what I am talking about.

"Let's go to Spain for Christmas," he said. "It would give me enough miles. Argentina is too expensive."

"Or we could stay home," I suggested.

"But - my status!"

I thought about how hard he works and how I get to stay at home, eating bonbons and watching Big Bang Theory, so grudgingly said yes.*

One suggestion was that Florida would be warmer and almost as festive as Madrid and we could rent the condo of someone's housekeeper.

That suggestion met with the appropriate response.

Then we started to plan and got all excited because Spain! At Christmas!

More importantly, churros! Serrano ham! Espanish shoes that will not violate our "not made in China" policy.

SH bought a ticket for himself, got one for me with miles, and secured all our hotels with hotel points.

You know me - the only thing that makes a trip better is if it is almost free.

We left the Monday before Christmas, taking the long way to Madrid via Detroit and Paris.

We got to Detroit, where we had a two hour layover.

Walking to our new gate, we passed a Christmas fundraiser: pay $5 to sing on stage there in concourse whatever it was.

I told SH he had to sing. Had to.

He was all, "Wooooo!" because he does not like surprises.

"But I have to go to the bathroom!" he protested.

I shook my head at him. "Not mutually exclusive activities," I said. "Hurry up."

He went to the bathroom and I paid the karaoke cares people so he couldn't back out, not that I thought he would.

I even picked a song for him, but he didn't want my song.

"It's Christmas," he said. "I'm singing a Christmas carol."

He got up on stage. Started to sing. And people stopped to listen. It was lovely. He sang "O Holy Night" and hit every note. My man, Engineer by day, crooner by night.

And then we went to the lounge, where we found these.

Tomorrow: The rude lady who tried to hog the overhead luggage bin on the plane to Paris.

* First world problem

Marriage 401, Lecture 697: Got a quarter? Call someone who cares

2011-12-26T09:01:00.000-08:00

SH: Hey! What are you doing? Stop!

Me: I'm just opening the mail.

SH: The purpose of a letter opener is to open an envelope neatly.

Me: No it isn't. It is just to open an envelope.

SH: Neatly!

Me: Who cares? The envelope is going to be thrown away anyhow.

SH: You're not doing it right!

Photo from the archives of The Big Factotum

Feliz

2011-12-25T04:36:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas Eve and Merry Christmas

2011-12-24T09:44:00.000-08:00

Wisconsin 101: Winter wardrobe

2011-12-23T04:07:00.000-08:00

According to my mom's info on this photo, this is my grandfather hauling ice. I cannot believe I share genes with that man. Something happened in those two generations.

When I was out "running" (as I like to call it, although a casual observer might call it "shuffling along like a little old lady who forgot her walker at home but is still determined to get some fresh air," no disrespect to little old ladies intended - I am in awe of the older people I see at my gym who walk around the track with canes and walkers and casts. They make me feel pathetic and whiny for skipping out of body pump before we do shoulders. I hate shoulders, but if that old lady can walk a mile with a cane, I guess I can spend four minutes lifting weights that are only a pound heavier than a full milk jug.)

Where was I?

Oh right. I was out running and saw a couple of kids walking home from school in shorts.

This is December. In Wisconsin.

Granted, there is no snow on the ground (if this be global warming that I have not had to shovel yet this year, then bring it), but it was only 22 degrees with the wind chill. I was wearing long tights, two long-sleeved t-shirts, a fleece, and a down vest. And my new fluffy mittens that I got at Kohls for only $4 after the $10 gift card they sent me. I hit the store the day the fluffy mittens were on half price sale. I might not have paid $28 for mittens - although the longer I spend in Wisconsin, the less I value my money and the more I value my warmth - but I was very willing to spend $4 on them. I don't know if I have ever paid full price at Kohls. But what can they expect? They're the ones who send me that $10 cards all the time.

I will never be as tough as these kids. I wanted to yell at them to put on more clothes, but they were walking, not lying huddled on the sidewalk, waiting for death to take them in her warm embrace.

Here is what I have learned about winter after moving here in 2008:

There is no such thing as "a" winter coat.

I had a coat and a pair of shoes when I was a kid. Maybe a pair or two of shoes - school shoes, play shoes, and church shoes.

But only one coat.

Before I moved here, I had a winter coat. That's all I needed in Memphis. One coat. One coat to rule them all.

Then I arrived. And discovered that a Memphis winter coat is not adequate for a Wisconsin winter.

Which is why I have a down vest, a long nice wool coat, a short nice wool coat, two spring coats, two jeans jackets, one plain, one striped, a windbreaker, a raincoat, and a big red puffy down coat that I bought for ten dollars at the First Presbyterian thrift shop in Cedar Rapids 13 years ago, even though I had no need of a down coat but it was such a good deal that I couldn't pass it up.

The down coat is the one I wear most often, as it is the warmest, and it is the perfect coat to use when I am selecting from the suite of snow removal equipment, because just as one does not have "a" winter coat in Wisconsin, one also does not have "a" shovel.

I am very ready to move back south.

Marriage 401, Lecture 331: Don't call me, I'll call you

2011-12-22T03:55:00.000-08:00

SH: Laverne is going to want to drink some of this egg-flavored water in this kettle.

Me: She likes flavored water.

SH: Wait. It's not even egg flavor. It's eggshell flavor. [Which it was - I had made a hardboiled egg to take to the gym for my between-class snack. Don't laugh. Hardboiled eggs are the perfect travel food and snack because they are easy to transport and eat and they are full of protein. I don't like eating sugar to sate hunger. I do like eating sugar, but as a hobby, not as a biological necessity.]

Me: As soon as you leave the sink and she thinks she can get away with it, she'll go for it.

Two minutes later, after SH has gone upstairs. Laverne jumps onto the counter, walks the narrow strip of counter next to the dish drainer, putting her right feet in the drainer, and balances herself on the edge of the sink so she can drink the eggshell flavored water.

I pick up my phone and call SH.

Oh like you wouldn't call someone in the same house? I know I am not the only lazy person in the world. I know you wouldn't actually get up and walk upstairs just to tell someone something.

I heard a deep, impatient sigh from his office before he picked up the phone.

"What?"

"Hey! I heard that."

"Heard what?"

"That deep sigh."

"Well, I was just down there! What do you want?"

"Laverne is drinking the eggshell flavored water."

He laughed. "OK, that was worth it."

Photo credit: The Big Factotum

Marriage 401, Lecture 468: Priorities

2011-12-21T06:21:00.000-08:00

Who gives drumsticks to a kindergartner? I didn't think my parents had enemies.

Me: So. [Wxyz] tonight?

SH: OK.

An hour later.

Me: Well?

SH: But - but it's already 8:00 and I want to go out and sing!

Me: Are you saying you want to skip [wxyz]?

SH: I haven't been out to sing in a week!

Me: When you were 20, would you have turned down [wxyz]?

SH: No way!

Me: Then why now?

SH: Back then, I would have thought it might be my only chance ever.

Photo credit: The Big Factotum

Ho-made Nutella

2011-12-20T06:49:00.000-08:00

Today is a day without sugar. Why? Because yesterday was the day of the Great Homemade Nutella Adventure.

You mean you've never had homemade Nutella?

It's time.

I thought storebought Nutella was good, but I used to think that a restaurant was the only place you could get mussels, fried calamari, bone marrow, or spring rolls. Now I know those secrets and I will never again pay retail for something that is 1. dirt cheap to make and 2. easy to make.

The moral: so far, I cannot think of anything that is not better when it is homemade, including Nutella.

But here's the catch: When you are making your homemade Nutella, do not sample too much. Or else you will feel sick to your stomach until you go to bed and you will vow never to eat sugar again. It's 12:38 p.m. and I have made it thus far without sugar, that's how strong my resolve is and how crummy I felt last night. Even though the homemade Nutella is in the fridge and even though I made three kinds of Christmas cookies on Sunday and have plenty of sugar opportunities.

Anyhow, one of my readers, Gaylin, posted this recipe on the Class Factotum facebook fan page. I tried it and it is yummy. She suggested substituting espresso for the water and I said well what about bacon fat for part of the butter? Is there anything that can't be made better with bacon? I don't think so.

Bon appetit.

Chocolate Hazelnut Butter

1 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 cup hot water
1 tsp vanilla
3/4 cup butter, softened
1 cup chopped toasted hazelnuts (I grind them in a small food processor)

In a small heavy saucepan, whisk together sugar, cocoa and water; cook over medium-low heat, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Bring to a boil and boil while whisking for one minute. Remove from heat and stir in vanilla.
Let cool to room temperature.

In a bowl, beat butter until light. Gradually beat in chocolate mixture until fluffy and light in colour. Fold in nuts.

Spoon in to container(s), cover and keep refrigerated.
Makes 2 1/2 cups.

PS I made half a recipe but it was far less than one cup once I finally put it away. A lot less. The moral of the story is don't eat 1/4 cup of fresh homemade Nutella.

Photo credit: The Big Factotum

Wisconsin 101: This is Wisconsin people here get up early

2011-12-19T06:50:00.000-08:00

It is rare that I get to complain about Wisconsinites acting badly. In my everyday life, I mean. I am staying out of politics on this blog. I mean it is rare that I encounter someone as I am going from the gym to the store to the library and back home who is rude or inconsiderate.

Which means I almost never have a chance to exercise valid righteous indignation.

Sometimes, though, we all want to rant indignantly. Don't we? Or is it just me? I did give up righteous indignation for Lent several years ago and noticed that nobody told me that they missed my rants. Maybe it's OK to want it. Not OK to do it so much.

But yesterday, I ran across clueless rudeness.

And I ranted about it. To the people who were being rude! That's rare - usually, I take my annoyance out on SH, which is not fair because it's not his fault. But he does the same thing to me - he cannot go through one story in the Sunday paper without sounding like a grumpy old man. The World is Going To Hell, he'll growl. Things Are Getting Worse. The Worst They've Ever Been - so we're even.

Yesterday, at 7:15 a.m., I noticed two men in our back yard. I went outside to see what was what.

The one with the baggy overalls and the ironic wool hat with the long ties took his cigarette out of his mouth* and said, "We're going to be working on the roof next door."

I shrugged. "OK."

"Would you move your car so we don't accidentally hit it?"

That seemed reasonable. I didn't want old roof shingles falling on SH's car. He is very protective of that car. We didn't want the Song of Something Bad Happened over a scratch.
I moved the car. An hour later, I left for the gym. I had to get one of the roofing guys off the truck from which they were unloading materials to direct me out of the driveway. The materials truck was blocking the driveway on one side and they had another truck on the other side. I did not want a repeat of last year's Light Bumping of the Fender.

When I returned home at noon, I discovered our driveway covered with tarp, which was OK because I did not want to find roof nails with my feet or the tires. I pulled into my neighbor's driveway, then went to her door to ask if I could park there while the workers were there.

I also discovered roofing supplies filling the back part of our driveway - the new part that we got last year instead of a vacation or an early retirement - and our yard.

I went inside. Found SH. "Did they ask if they could put their crap on our yard?" I asked him.

"No!" he fumed. "But I didn't know if they'd asked you!"

They had not.

We fumed together for a while, then I said, "I'm going to say something. Yes! I am!"

Saying something is Not My Way. My way, as you know, is to whine and complain to everyone but the person who is bugging me. What if I confronted the bugger and he got mad at me? Then what?

You see my dilemma.

But they had gone too far. I am a big believer in property rights. As in, if you want to use my property, you ask. No, I don't mean the neighbor boys running into our yard when they play baseball or frisbee, but grownups who should know better.

When we had our driveway done, I talked to my neighbor and apologized that there would be noise for a few days. "I know you're at home during the day," I said. "This is when we are scheduled to do it, but if those are bad days for you, then we'll try for the next week."

She waved me off. "Don't worry about it."

Which is what I would have done if someone had actually said, "Hey. They're going to be roofing and there might be noise and crap. I'm sorry about that."

I took a deep breath and walked outside. Cigarette Guy lumbered past. "Are you the one in charge?" I asked.

He shook his head and pointed to a man standing on top of the roof. He was too far to hear me.

I turned back to Cigarette Guy. "Tell him that you guys could have asked to put your junk in our yard," I directed.

He shrugged. "We can move it."

"That's not the point!" I said. "You should have asked!"

The boss moved to the edge of the roof. I shouted up at him, "You should have asked to put your stuff on our driveway and lawn!"

He shook his head. "I have to have room to work."

That made me mad. That's up there with "It's not my job" as an unacceptable answer from any working person.

"I know that! All you had to do was ask. IT'S ONLY POLITE!"

He turned away and returned to work. I was flabbergasted. Maybe he was from out of state.

I stomped inside and grabbed my phone. They had put a sign in the front yard with the company phone number. I called and explained the situation to the woman who answered.

"I can have them move it," she offered.

Lord have mercy had all these people lost their brains? Was there a brain-sucking ghoul traveling through the cold Wisconsin night?

I took a deep breathe. "Just tell them to ask first, OK?" I said through gritted teeth. "It's not that complicated."

I hope that is my annual encounter with clueless.

* If this were Hollywood, the cigarette would signify a Bad Guy. They are used now in lieu of black hats.

Photo credit: The Big Factotum

Wisconsin 101: Menards I wish I could quit you

2011-12-18T06:45:00.000-08:00

SH: It's getting more and more complicated. There are so many places I have to boycott.

Me: Good. We don't need any more stuff. You don't need to shop.

SH: I bought the tree at Menards.

Me: I thought you were boycotting Menards.

SH: I am.

Me: So?

SH: It was the only place with little trees.

Me: That's what it takes for you to violate your principles? A small Christmas tree?

SH: Well, the trees are grown in the US. It's a made in America product. I noticed that most of their items are, actually.

Me: What do you mean, you noticed? Did you go into the store?

SH: Yes. Just to look.

Me: And how was it?

SH [wistfully]: I miss Menards.

Photo credit: The Big Factotum

Marriage 401, Lecture 307: It's so fluffeh! part 2

2011-12-17T05:59:00.000-08:00

Me: I have to tell you a story!

SH: What?

Me: I was sitting in bed reading and all of a sudden, I started hearing this low rumbling. It would start and stop and start and stop.

SH: What was it?!

Me: I thought it might be the furnace - it had just kicked on.

SH: Oh no! What was it?!

Me: So I thought, I better go downstairs and make sure nothing's wrong with the furnace.

SH: TELL ME! Is something wrong?

Me: I got up and walked around the bed - and there was Laverne --

SH: OH NO! Was she OK?

Me: She was on the floor at the foot of the bed on top of the fluffy pants. They had fallen to the floor and she was standing on them, kneading them and purring the loudest I have ever heard her.

SH: Why did you put me through all this?

Me: You really don't like suspense, do you?

Photo credit: The Big Factotum

Chats du jour: The fluffy pants

2011-12-16T09:31:00.000-08:00

Shirley has a new love.

Wisconsin 101: You no eat meat?

2011-12-15T06:52:00.000-08:00

At the mechanic as I am dropping off the car to have the snow tires put on. The owner notices me glancing at an Aldi ad on the table.

Owner: Get the lamb.

Me: What?

Owner: The lamb. It's on sale. I got it and it was good.

Me: I'm not sure about lamb. I made lamb shanks a few weeks ago and realized after all the work that I really don't like mutton.

Owner: This lamb is not gamy. This is Wisconsin lamb. You might have had Australian lamb. That has a really strong flavor.

Owner's dad: Bah! Americans do not know how to eat lamb.

Owner: This lamb is good.

Owner's dad: You want good lamb? You come to festival. I make lamb. [He gets out his smartypants phone and shows me photos of roasting lamb.] See? I make you whole lamb. Here shish kebab. You want good lamb? You buy lamb, I make for you. One hundred forty dollars and you get 35 pounds of lamb.

Owner: That Aldi lamb is good and it's a good price.

Owner's dad: Bah! You no get good lamb cheap. When we have festival, we buy 1,000 pounds of lamb and get wholesale. Seven dollars.

Owner: The Aldi lamb is $6.50 a pound.

Owner's dad: Oh. That is good price.

Marriage 401, Lecture 615: Family affair

2011-12-14T02:04:00.000-08:00

Wild and crazy topless sister.

Me: Oh. That's interesting. My sister has a new boyfriend.

SH: What?!

Me: Well, she says here [in her email] that he put her on his companion pass for Southwest.

SH: So she just casually mentioned she had a boyfriend and hadn't told you yet? Wait - it's worse! She mentioned something about her boyfriend. But she hadn't even told you he existed! That's like telling you she's going to walk her dog and you didn't even know she had a dag!

Me: I didn't know.

SH: Are you asking her about him? Where did she meet him? Who is he? What does he do? Why hasn't she told you anything?

Me: I don't know! Here's what she wrote:

I just spent a few days in NYC with my boyfriend and loving life.

SH: YOU NEED TO FIND OUT!

Photo Credit: The Big Factotum

Marriage 401, Lecture 307: It's so fluffeh!

2011-12-13T05:21:00.000-08:00

SH: Wow. Those fluffy pants [that my mom gave me and that are shedding in solidarity with the cats] are really sexy.

Me: I know. They give me a fluffy butt.

SH: Hot!

SH: Hey! Stop! What are you doing?

Me: I was going to sit on your lap!

SH: No! You'll bump into things on the desk and then I'll have to straighten everything out again!

Me: I'm so glad to know where your priorities are.

Marriage 401, Lecture 496: The soaps

2011-12-12T02:43:00.000-08:00

SH: What soap did you use while I was gone?

Me: The soap that's in the shower.

SH: It's hardly worn.

Me: I don't know. That's what I used.

SH: How many showers did you take?

Me: It's not like I was going out in public or anything.

Photo credit: My mom, the Big Factotum

Of course The Big Factotum comes through

2011-12-11T10:10:00.000-08:00

This is the photo I referred to in the previous post. Moi with the octopus my mom made me in the PJs my mom made me in my own room. I didn't have to share for the first time in my life.

UPDATE: My mom says she didn't make the PJs. She did, however, make the flannel nightgown for me in 8th grade that I took to college and was subjected to a great deal of teasing for, as if nobody else in college has ever worn a flannel nightie with blue kittens on it.

Wisconsin 101: Lutheran ladies craft and bake sale

2011-12-11T05:56:00.000-08:00

Because I couldn't find the photo I wanted, I posted this one instead. From left to right, it's Curtis, one of my grandparents' seven foster children, my grandfather (on my mom's side), my sister, my brother, and me. My hair was so glossy and smooth back then. I miss my old hair. My old glossy, smooth, and naturally blonde hair.

There's a photo of me at age 7, sitting on my bed next to the octopus thingy my mom had made for me out of orange yarn and a Styrofoam ball. I can't find it - perhaps my mom will email it to me when she reads this? You know the one I mean - in the maid's room in Royal Oaks.

I thought of that little octopus thingy - you know what I mean! The yarn went over the Styrofoam and tied at the bottom of the ball. That was the octopus head. My mom sewed two buttons on the head and those were the octopus eyes. Then she divided the yarn into eight chunks and braided them into long octopus legs. She arranged the octopus on my bed with the legs artfully curved. I posed next to it in the flannel PJs she had made for me.

Martha Stewart? Has nothing on my mom. She probably made the clothes my sister and I are wearing in the photo above. She made almost all our clothes.

I thought of the octopus on Saturday night when SH and I went to his little Lutheran church for services and then for the arts and crafts and bake sale afterwards. The sale is the fundraiser that one of the women's groups organizes to support various charities in the area. We love the crafts sale because we always clean up. Lutheran ladies - and I hate to take advantage of them but hey they set the prices - charge way too little for their handmade hats and baby booties and scarves.

Maybe it's just a Wisconsin thing. When I was in Medford this summer, I stopped in at the shop run by the senior center. There is a retired woodworker who floods the store with beautiful, gorgeous handmade toys. I bought an 18 wheeler tractor-trailer with working wheels for our step-step grandson. I won't say how much it cost because I don't want Vanessa to read this and think I am cheap, which I am a little bit but I got the truck because it was beautiful and well made, not because it was inexpensive. I will tell you that I googled to find similar items and if you want to buy a handmade tractor-trailer online, you are going to pay over $100. Which is most definitely not what I paid.

Maybe handmade goods are underpriced here because everyone either knows how to make these things themselves or their grandparents or parents or aunts or uncles can make them. However, there are people outstate who are willing to pay a lot more for these things. Perhaps I should start buying everything and selling it online for a huge profit. Would that be morally wrong? To make a profit off charity sale goods? What if I gave some of the money back to the charity? Not all. Some.

At the same shop, I bought some Packers colors booties, only the lady who was volunteering at the cash box that day hadn't crocheted the little ties. She would have done it while I waited only she hadn't brought the right color of yarn. I asked if she would mail them to me if I left her money for postage and she said, Well sure you betcha.

And she did. I got them in time to take to California as a gift for Vanessa and Eric's baby, whom they always dress in Niners clothes. SH and I told them the Packers needed equal time. We gave them the booties and some Packers onesies from Kohls, one of the few stores SH is not boycotting.

At the church sale, they had little octopuses and Gary, it is octopuses, not octopii because it is a Greek word, not a Latin one. As soon as I saw them, I thought of my old orange octopus and how nice it is to have things that someone has made for you with love.

Not that I appreciated that sort of thing when I was a kid. No, our Christmas ritual was to start going through the pages of the Sears Christmas catalogue in the weeks before Christmas and circle everything we wanted. Then we wrote a letter to Santa explaining exactly what we wanted. What we wanted was store-bought things.

At school, in my Spanish class, we wrote to Los Tres Reyes, or the Three Kings, who delivered presents to Spanish children on the Feast of the Epiphany. One would assume that if Santa could refer to the Sears catalogue, so could Los Tres Reyes. I of course was hoping to double dip.

The other thing SH and I got from the Lutheran ladies was cookies. Those Lutheran ladies can bake. I had planned to make the coffee snaps from The Joy of Cooking (flour + sugar + butter 1/2 lb of butter + Kahlua and of course I throw in chocolate chips), but then we bought all these cookies and some little chocolate chocolate chip cakes, one of which is in the freezer waiting for dinner with Bonnie and Gary and if you guys decide there are too many carbs in it, that's fine that's just more for SH and me. I don't take offense.

Then this morning I woke up and thought, So what that I have all these Lutheran cookies. None of them are coffee snaps. So I got out half a pound of butter and the Patron XO Cafe because we are out of Kahlua and they didn't have it at Costco when I was there last week.

Costco did, however, have seven pounds of brown sugar for $4.90, which I should have bought because the brown sugar at my store is over $1 a pound, but I thought I was so clever, googling "brown sugar" on my smartypants phone and seeing a few hits for $0.69 a pound. Google must have been talking about Costco. That's what I get for not clicking through.

Sometimes having a smartypants phone isn't so great, not if you don't think, You know, $0.69 a pound for brown sugar seems like a really good deal and yes, this bag is kind of big, but you have an entire basement to store things, for crying out loud. Sometimes, you just have to use your head.

Now we have coffee snap cookie dough in the freezer, just waiting to be baked. I have already resisted the temptation to open the bag and unroll the dough from the waxed paper and eat some of it.

Oh like you have never eaten raw cookie dough. Baker, please.

But I had the package in my hand, the other hand on the door handle, and I thought, No. I can put this away. I can wait. Besides, there are Lutheran cookies in the cupboard.

Marriage 401, Lecture 699: The more the merrier

2011-12-10T11:34:00.000-08:00

SH: Maybe I should be a polygamist. Then I could have a different wife for everything I need.

Me: You already have a Nighttime Wife.

SH: But that doesn't seem fair. Women should be able to have more than one husband. Plus I've already had two wives. That's enough.

Me: Why would I want another husband? You're already enough for me.

SH: I thought you might want a husband who agrees with you sometimes.

Me: That would be nice.

Marriage 401, Lecture 516: Not lazy but really?

2011-12-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

This guy is not lazy. He is waiting for the saw to start. Which it won't for a while, because he is not stupid - he would not lean on a piece of machinery about to start.

After SH goes from the kitchen to the bathroom for a drink of water.

Me: There's water in the kitchen, you know.

SH: Yes, but the glass is already out in the bathroom.

Note: the cupboard containing SH's Lakefront Brewery tour glasses is 40 inches from the kitchen tap. As in, a normal person can stand in front of the tap and open the cabinet without moving. OK, with only leaning over a little bit.

Me: You'd rather walk through the hall and to the bathroom than open the cupboard?

SH: There's stuff in the sink.

Marriage 401, Lecture 417: Better to light a single candle

2011-12-08T07:26:00.000-08:00

At book club this week, my friend who shall go unnamed because I don't think she would want to be named was telling us about a woman she knows who is fairly straitlaced. As in when Straitlaced Woman visited My Friend in the hospital, the nurse thought she was a missionary.

"You mean dressed like 'Big Love?'" I asked. Those prairie dresses and Michelle Duggar hair blessherheart flatter no one.

"Nope, just - just - missionary," My Friend said. Then she found a photo on her smartypants phone and passed it around.

Yep. Missionary.

You guys know I am not that straitlaced. Oh sure I have my views on What's Right and What's Wrong and woe to anyone who crosses my path - lady, don't even THINK about getting into the express lane with 17 items or you will indeed feel the glare of my wrath as I stare pointedly, POINTEDLY, I say, at your overflowing basket - but you know that I talk about farts and [wxyz] here* and I want to tell you a story about the HBO show "Rome" and the naked slave who was adorned in a way I have never seen a man adorned if you know what I mean and about SH and the ideal proportions but I have to clear it with SH first.

But when my friend gave us an example of how straitlaced this woman was, I didn't think it was all that.

"She has three children. She knows what happens! But when she wants to initiate things with her husband, she lights a candle!"

"Oh," I said. "The [wxyz] candle! Doesn't everyone have one of those?"

Heads swiveled my way.

I shrugged.

Eyes rolled. Then the questions flew - to my friend, not to me.

"What happens if he doesn't feel like it?"

The consensus was that 1. men never don't feel like it.

Which is not true, but it is rare.

"How does he start it?"

We were stumped. Was she in complete control of the candle and the events? Or did he have any rights in this area at all. If the candle is lit, don't come knockin', but if the candle isn't lit, does that mean NO [WXYZ]! NONE! Or can he light the candle?

All we know is that candle has been lit three times.

* EVERYONE farts. And almost everyone has [wxyz]. I am seeking the universal human experiences here. This is deep literature.

People Who Aren't Doing It Right #872

2011-12-07T07:08:00.000-08:00

I know this guy would Do It Right.

Grrr. Every time I look at my microwave, I get so mad. The door is filthy and I cannot clean it. There is grease and tomato sauce on the inside of the window, inside the grill.

Why is there grease and tomato sauce on the inside of the window? Not because SH and I microwave food without covering it. Because we don't. We keep the microwave wax paper in there and use it until it is unusable.

But because

1. The man who renovated our house and installed the new appliances bought the appliances at the scratch and dent center, which is just fine, but he either did not think or did not bother to think that perhaps the full name of the scratch and dent center should really be the "Scratch, Dent, and Missing Pieces Center," for what is wrong with the microwave is that it is missing the piece of film that covers the honeycombed screen that keeps death rays from leaving the microwave and rendering my eyeballs infertile and also keeps grease and tomato sauce from penetrating the honeycomb screen and soldering themselves permanently to the glass. On the inside. Where one cannot clean even with a toothbrush. And no, I cannot remove the honeycomb screen. I have tried. If it won't pop out with the help of a screwdriver, it is not meant to pop out is my motto.

2. The man who sold us our house, a 27 year old bachelor who never once used the stove or so I surmise because it was sparkling clean and he was not a cleaner - can I say DISGUSTING BASEBOARDS?, but who sat shirtless every single night against the wall in his bedroom - not against the headboard but against the wall - and left back-shaped grease stains on the new green paint, which meant I had to re-paint that room before we moved in, cooked every single meal in the microwave and did not cover his food once. He had a diet rich in grease and tomato sauce.

People. I know none of you microwave food without covering it and I know none of you sit with your naked back on the wall. So I feel safe in stating that people who do this are Not Doing It Right and are Bad People. We can all agree on that, can't we?

Marriage 401, Lecture 868: Full of it

2011-12-06T08:16:00.000-08:00

SH: You lit the candle!

Me: Uh huh.

SH: Why?

Me: Ummm. Because.

SH: Hey! Did you fart?

Me: Maybe.

SH: That's the [wxyz] candle! You're not supposed to light it for farts!

Marriage 401, Lecture 715: Funny the penguin being there

2011-12-05T09:02:00.000-08:00

It's that time of the year. The time when SH tethers the Traditional Inflatable Christmas Penguin to the porch in an attempt to make our house the Tackiest House on the Block. Bless his heart, he comes from People Who Have Brass, Ceramic, and Glass Frogs All Over Their House, so how is he supposed to know better?

He mentioned something on Friday about getting a tree this weekend, but it rained on Saturday plus I didn't even pick him up from the airport until after lunch, and he stayed out late last night with his Nighttime Wife and he didn't get out of bed until 11:55 a.m., at which point he said he was STARVING, which shouldn't be a surprise as beer just doesn't stick with a person the way it should.

By the time he finishes making our mushroom*/cheese/steak omelettes, it will be Too Late to go out.

Actually, it won't be Too Late because SH is nocturnal and hates the sun but he probably won't feel like it, as he has been traveling for the past month, including Thanksgiving at an undisclosed location but I assure you it was not a restful week for him. Me? I stayed home, watched season 2 of The Good Wife, and ate Fritos. I had a GREAT Thanksgiving, unlike SH. Although at least no blood was drawn on this trip.

I suspect SH will want to spend today doing nothing. Nothing except installing the penguin. Maybe an episode of Friday Night Lights.

I noted that the place where we bought the tree last year is charging $45 for the smallest trees. "The trees are cheaper at Menards," SH noted. "But I'm boycotting them."

Long pause as he did the math in his head. "I might have to break my boycott. There is a Wal-Mart exception for car batteries. Maybe there can be a Menards exception for Christmas tress."

My principled hunk.

* We discovered - much to our lack of surprise - that Laverne likes mushrooms. She was licking the unwashed mushrooms I had put in the colander. I threw her into the basement so I could read the news in peace without having to guard the produce, but then when I was ready to wash and cut them up, I let her back in and gave her a tiny little bit in her dish and she ate it right up then asked for more. SH saw her trying to eat the mushroom stems I had left in another bowl, so grabbed the camera to document, but she saw him with the camera and jumped off the counter because she knows she is Not Allowed to Eat Food Off The Counter and only does it when nobody is watching, like in those split seconds when I turn my back from the cutting board to the sink and BAM! she is on that fish or beef or whatever.

Marriage 401, Lecture 725: Joyful reunion

2011-12-04T06:33:00.000-08:00

After SH has been gone for five days.

Me: Should I turn off the TV and the DVD player? [He gets all freaky when I leave them on, telling me that the DVD player gets hot.] [At my friend Lenore's recommendation, I am watching "Rome." Holy smoke. I don't think I've ever seen an HBO series before and let me tell you, the rules are completely different. I am getting quite an education.]

SH: I don't know.

Me: Well, will this [wxyz] take long?

SH: Probably not.

Marriage 401, Lecture 98: What the meaning of "a lot of money" is

2011-12-03T09:21:00.000-08:00

Let's contrast these two scenarios, shall we?

1. The incandescent light bulbs in the bathroom issue - read the story here.

2. The FSA issue, which is this.

SH: You only want to put $100 into the FSA for 2012?

Me: Yes.

SH: But that's almost nothing.

Me: I am not anticipating many medical expenses, especially now that I figured out that it was caffeine causing my headaches.*

SH: It's hardly worth it.

Me: $100 means at least $25 back.

SH: That's only $25.

Me: That's five beer units.

And had I been quicker, I would have known to remind SH that he freaked out at the idea of spending an extra six dollars a year on electricity.

And then there was the email I got from SH ten minutes after I wrote this post:

Friday Night Lights is $12.99 today! I'm ordering it.

Every season is $12.99 right now, so we could have saved about half of a beer unit on season 4 as well.

* I.e., there will be no $400 visits (co-pay $20) to the neurologist and no more $140 copay drugs that don't stop my headaches but do make me gain weight and lose hair, which is the opposite of what I would like. Now the only headache drama in the house is trying to get the timing right for SH's caffeinated coffee vs my decaf. Who gets the coffee maker on which day?

Marriage 401, Lecture 998: Noodling around

2011-12-02T05:55:00.000-08:00

SH: Hey! You put the leftovers in the container and they're still warm! [Of the chow fun noodles I made with the llama chops we got at Pinter's in Dorchester this summer. I am calculating how to have 40 lbs of them shipped to us in January. SO GOOD.]

Me: You be quiet.

SH: And it looks like the proportion of noodles is a lot higher in the container than in what's left in the pan.

Me: So rearrange. I don't care.

SH: There's a ton of this! Don't you think we should freeze some?

Me: I don't think it will freeze well.

SH: But I'm leaving on Sunday and that means I won't get my share.

Marriage 401, Lecture 829: Strategy

2011-12-01T08:41:00.000-08:00

He is also a superior bacon chooser.

SH: Most husbands don't do the dishes. I am a good dish doer. I work all day and then I still do the dishes.

Me: Yes, you are a good dish doer. You are a good husband.

SH: Of course the main reason I do the dishes is because I don't like how you do them.

Me: That works for me.

Marriage 401, Lecture 937: Never enough chocolate, or, Did somebody say, "Deal?"

2011-11-30T02:46:00.000-08:00

SH: World Market has Ghirardelli chocolate chips on sale for half off!

Me: We don't need any. There are six pounds of them in the freezer.*

SH: But they're on sale. For half off.

Me: Six. Pounds.

SH: Half. Off.

* I know this because I have a spreadsheet of the freezer inventory.

Marriage 401, Lecture 978: I don't care

2011-11-29T08:27:00.000-08:00

SH: Come in here!

Me: No!

SH: You don't care about togetherness.

Me: I don't want to sit in a dark bedroom while you doze. It's boring.

SH: But I've been gone all week. Don't you want to be with me?

Me: I'm in the same house, aren't I?

SH: My Nighttime Wife would lounge in bed with me.

Me: Then call her up.

SH: Come look at Shirley.

Me: I don't want to look at the cat.

SH: But she's cute!

Me: I don't care.

SH: Shirley loves me. She cares about togetherness. You don't care.

Me: Nope.

SH: Shirley missed me when I was gone. You didn't even miss me.

Me: I missed you until you started whining.

SH: I save all my whining for you.

Marriage 401, Lecture 295: Support for my life

2011-11-28T06:21:00.000-08:00

Rubiatonta asked if SH was the same kind of engineer that her stepdad was in being obsessed with "the just and equitable distribution of leftovers."

We agreed on certain engineer characteristics and she suggested a support group. I needed a name for the group. I picked the acronym: LOONS. I had the first letters - Loved Ones Of

Me: What's a synonym for engineer or scientist that starts with "N?"

SH: Nerd.

Me: That's it!

Marriage 401, Lecture 598: My wife I think I'll keep her

2011-11-27T06:05:00.000-08:00

SH: Wow! This is so good. Your cooking is a good argument for keeping you as my wife.

Me: Yeah.

SH: And the [wxyz].

Me: Yep.

SH: Food and [wxyz]. That's what this marriage is built on. Certainly not on the nightlife. There are so many things you do well, but going out to the bar and drinking is not one of them.

Marriage 401, Lecture 825: What's yours is mine

2011-11-26T05:52:00.000-08:00

SH: Hey! You're wearing my sweatshirt!

Me: Put on your Rice sweatshirt. [I am wearing the formerly forbidden Summerfest sweatshirt, but now that it is starting to wear out, I am allowed to sully it with my imperfection.]

SH: No! That's not a wearing sweatshirt. That's an Occasion Sweatshirt.

Me: What kind of occasion?

SH: I don't know. Other than Rice events, if I feel like displaying my blue and grey Rice spirit, that's OK. But to wear it just to wear it is not right. It's to be seen in. It only has a certain number of wearings in it and to waste it on being at home is just not right. You understand?

Wisconsin 101: The tribe of We Who Do Not Waste

2011-11-25T07:13:00.000-08:00

I saw this guy when I was out "running" (that's the word I like to use - others might call it "trudging slower than molasses") on Thanksgiving after a breakfast of blueberry pie and white truffle mushroom pizza and a snack of brownie sundae and Fritos.

Oh don't pretend like you don't mix your salties and your sweets. Fritos are the perfect foil for chocolate. Try Fritos and chocolate chips. You will not be disappointed.

So I was out running during the fourth quarter of the Packers-Lions game and would someone please explain to me why 1. I cannot listen to the game on an FM station or 2. they cannot make an mp3 player that gets AM? I wrote to the program manager at WTMJ and told him that it was his fault if I got fat and out of shape because I had to skip exercising to stay home to listen to the game.

So I saw this guy with a van full of pumpkins and I had to ask him what the heck was going on. He explained that he'd already picked up two truckloads of pumpkins and that Thanksgiving was a great day to go pumpkin hunting because people were discarding their pumpkins but they hadn't gone bad yet.

Yes, in Milwaukee we put our pumpkins on the curb along with our leaves for the rakeout.

He stopped because there were three perfect pumpkins right there behind the Lutheran Home. Not even carved. Perfect and intact.

"I scrape out the seeds and roast them," he said. "Last year, I got twenty pounds of seeds. My grandkids love 'em. People ask me all the time about them."

My people.

PS I was able to take the photo because I brought my smartypants phone with me so I could keep up with the game. Which the Pack won.

Marriage 401, Lecture 926: When I die, I may not go to Texas

2011-11-24T05:49:00.000-08:00

This is not Threadgill's chicken fried steak.

Me: I can make you a prosciutto sandwich for the flight.

SH: Hey! You opened that prosciutto while I was gone! You're not supposed to eat the good food while I'm gone!

Me: You ate at Taco Cabana and at Threadgill's [when he was in Austin last week]. I'm allowed to have prosciutto.

SH: No you're not.

Me: Why not?

SH: Because I'm the one who makes the money around here. You're just a gold digger.

Me: So who's the dumb one?

This is a Threadgill's chicken fried steak accompanied with broccoli casserole and okra and tomatoes.

Marriage 401, Lecture 925: Queuing theory

2011-11-23T03:02:00.000-08:00

Me: Put whatever you want washed down the chute.

SH: Wait!

Me: I'm washing darks tomorrow.

SH: But that's not how it works.

Me: If you have anything you want washed, put it down there.

SH: Are you washing my work shirts?

Me: I'd rather not. Put anything you want washed before you leave on Sunday [this was Friday] down the chute.

SH: But there are things I might want for after I get back.

Me: That's fine. I don't have to do them now. I'll do them next week. Just triage for me.

SH [holding up a pair of navy slacks]: OK. I'll want these work pants when I get back.

Me: Fine. Wait! No! Don't put them down the chute!

SH: But I want them washed.

Me: Not tomorrow. I told you to triage.

SH: I am triaging. I'm telling you what I want washed for Sunday and what I want washed for later.

Me: Not by telling me. I'm not going to memorize all your clothes.

SH: But it's not that hard!

Me: I don't care. I am not going to try to remember. Just put them on the floor by my bed.

SH: The cats will sit on them!*

Me: FINE! Put them in the dining room.**

* They will. Is there anything more appealing to a cat than an item of clothing that will attract, retain and show cat hair?

** Which is formallment interdit to les chats.

Marriage 401, Lecture 512: From a turnip

2011-11-22T08:03:00.000-08:00

SH: Oh! I left some bandages and the extra lancet on the bathroom counter. Would you put them away when you get home?

Me: I'll keep the bandages, but why would I keep a lancet?

SH: What if I need an extra one next year when I have to take the [cholesterol] test again?

Me: Didn't they send you two this year?

SH: Yes. I only used one. We should save the other one.

Me: But if they sent you two this time, wouldn't they send you two again next year?

SH: Maybe. In the instructions, it says that if you can't get enough blood--

Me: Stop talking about blood.

SH: But you just squeeze a few dr--

Me: Stop! You're making me queasy!

SH: You're a baby. Anyhow, if you don't do it right with the first lancet, you're supposed to call them and they will walk you through it with the second lancet.

Me: So you think there is a possibility that even though you got it in one try this year, you 1. might need three tries next year or 2. you would have some reason to draw blood before next year?

SH: Maybe not.

Chats du jour: Shattered

2011-11-21T02:16:00.000-08:00

I haven't talked about the cats much recently and I know you've missed that. There are some people, according to a completely unscientific survey, who read this blog only because of Laverne and Shirley.

And who can blame you? They are such cute cats. Obnoxious and demanding, but cute.

And not too bright. At least, Shirley isn't too bright, although she always gets what she wants, so maybe she is smarter than we think. She is the Dumb Blonde of cats. If Marilyn Monroe were a cat, she would be Shirley - dumb on the outside, smart on the inside.

But quick, she is not. This weekend, the chair you see in the photo above, which normally resides in our bedroom, was in the kitchen. We had company and needed an extra seat at the kitchen table.

Shirley was completely thrown off her game.

Her usual routine in the evening is to let Laverne whine until I feed them. Like the roosters I encountered in Latin America, who started their crowing at 2 a.m. because what if they didn't crow and then the sun didn't come up and everybody blamed them, Laverne starts whining at 3:30, an hour and a half before their suppertime. She has never been silent, but what if she were quiet and I FORGOT? Then it would be all her fault.

Laverne whines and Shirley watches Laverne whine. If I don't get moving fast enough for Shirley, then she will start to knock things off the counter, one at a time. Magazine, plop. Pen, plop. Grocery bag, plop. (Fabric grocery bags rolled up do plop when they hit the floor.) Battery, plop. Book, plop. Anything else we've been dumb enough to leave on the counter, plop.

Then I feed them, just to get Laverne to shut up and to get Shirley to stop destroying things.

Once they've eaten, Shirley goes downstairs to poop. Then she returns upstairs and sits on the cookbooks stacked behind me and watches me work on the computer.

Once I retire to the bedroom to read, she follows me.

And this is what she does.

She walks into the bedroom, which is not as simple as it sounds because sometimes the door is closed and opening doors is hard and she's not always sure about how to do it. Which side does she press? Or pull? Oh it's so complicated! Why won't Laverne open it for her?

Then she walks in. She does not push the door all the way open the way Laverne does. Laverne makes a grand entrance. She shoves the door to the wall and lets out all the heat that's built up from the space heater out of the bedroom. Thanks, Laverne.

But Shirley just glides in. Then she stands at the chair. This is one of the eight chairs I got from my granma after she moved into the nursing home and that SH and I loaded into his Passat and drove from northern Wisconsin all the way to Memphis, only to then move them back to Wisconsin a little bit later.

She stands at the chair.

And then she scratches it.

She loves to scratch that chair. It, along with the oak doorframes in the basement that replaced the pressed wood doorframes that were ruined in Basement Flood #1, is the only narrow wood item available to her for scratching.

I suppose I should be grateful that she limits her scratching to those two places (and to SH's formerly pristine basement speakers) and avoids the sofa.

She scratches the chair, then she jumps on it. Sits for a while. From there, she jumps to the dresser. Looks at herself in the mirror. Then she launches herself to the bed and finds the spot closest to the heater to curl up. The end.

She does this every single night.

But this weekend, she could not. There was no chair.

Rather than go straight to the dresser, she just sat. And stared. At the space where the chair should be.

This is where I must note that she had earlier that day scratched the chair in the kitchen. She knew it was the scratching chair. She had scratched it. But she did not remember that the chair was in the kitchen and that's why there was a space in the bedroom.

She sat, bewildered. She stared. Finally, she turned and walked away. She glared at me over her shoulder. Her day was ruined and it was all my fault.

Marriage 401, Lecture 897: Squeaky clean

2011-11-20T07:02:00.000-08:00

Me: Thanks for doing the dishes all weekend, sweetie.

SH: Well...

Me: What?

SH: I only did them because I knew you wouldn't do it right.

Me: You are full of crap. What are you talking about?

SH: You made that soup with the marrow bones and the kettle was oily. I had to wash it three times! I knew you wouldn't be that careful.

Me: And still my cooking and dishwashing haven't killed you yet.

PS And those are roasted marrow bones you see in the photo, along with chimichurri sauce and cheese grits. There was peach cobbler for dessert. SH complains we don't eat out enough, but would you complain about not getting restaurant food if I were making your meals?

PPS I made harira, a Moroccan chickpea soup, with the marrow bones to which SH referred. It was so good. Not as good as the soup we had in Marrakesh at the stall where the locals ate and nobody cussed at us for politely saying "No thanks" when they asked us to eat at their stall, but still pretty darn good. I got the recipe from The Food of Morocco, by Paula Wolfert. I am trying the semolina pancakes next:

Marriage 401, Lecture 125: Nutella, or, My shoe museum

2011-11-19T05:01:00.000-08:00

Me: Look at these shoes.

SH: Oh yuck.

Me: I know! And they're almost $500. But I like these [leopard print high heels].

SH: Why don't you ever wear your red heels any more?

You can tell this photo is old: I am wearing pantyhose and apparently, nobody does that any more.

Me: Because they hurt.

SH: How can they hurt?

Me: I am not used to wearing high heels anymore, plus I have lost fat from the bottom of my feet. (Apparently, one of only two places I actually want fat and guess what, it's the only place it disappears from.)

SH: Do you still have them?

Me: Yes.

SH: Why?

Me: I like them.

SH: But you're not wearing them. Shouldn't you give them to Goodwill?

Me: Asks the man who owns how many watches? [At least 20 - he collected watches before he married me.]

SH: That's not the same at all.

Me: Oh yes it is.

I love my shoes. I don't care if I can't wear them any more. I just want to look at them and remember that there was a time when I wore sleek, beautiful shoes. When I visited my godmother in the nursing home a few years ago - she was over 90 years old - her lament was that when her kids had cleaned out her house and moved her into the home, her daughter had given away her shoes. "I had the most beautiful silver dancing shoes," she sighed. "I loved those shoes."

This post obviously is not about Nutella, but it seems that putting the word "Nutella" in the title creates an awful lot of interest. I wanted to test my hypothesis. Although perhaps "Nutella" and "shoes" in the same title is a bad idea. Who knows if people want to read about the shoes or about the Nutella? I probably need to perform more tests.

Marriage 401, Lecture 913: The proper approach for sandwiches

2011-11-18T04:28:00.000-08:00

Me: Should I make a sandwich for you tomorrow for your flight?

SH: Yes.

Me: I don't know if there's enough bread left.

SH: Oh no! There are only small pieces left!

Me: What are you talking about?

The Song of Something Bad Happened

SH: You ate the big slices!

Me: Yeah. I had toast this morning.

SH: But I was saving the big slices! Why didn't you use the ends?

Me: It didn't even occur to me. Don't worry. There's more bread in the freezer.

SH: It's not the same!

Me: Oh be quiet.

SH: But how could you use the big slices?

Me: I grabbed the first slices I saw.

SH: But I had saved those for sandwiches!

Me: Whatever.

SH: But how could you not think to use the smaller pieces?

Me: I don't spend my life wondering, "Will SH want to make sandwiches? Should I avoid certain slices?" I just make toast.

SH: But I always think like that! I always make sure there are pairs of slices that are appropriate for what I want. I always think through the consequences of any task. You just jump into it.

Me: Which is why I actually get things done and you never do.

Chats du jour: Envy

2011-11-17T06:09:00.000-08:00

Me: Our cats are cuter than the cats in this ad.

SH: Let me see. Yes, they are.

Me: Our cats should do ads.

SH: Maybe they put average looking cats in ads on purpose.

Me: So most people will say that their cats look better?

SH: Or that their cats look like that.

Me: If we put our cats in ads, people would be jealous.

Marriage 401, Lecture 218: Is this a job for the Nighttime Wife?

2011-11-16T06:19:00.000-08:00

SH: You missed all the important political stuff I just posted.

Me: That's because I'm trying to write a bestselling novel so you can quit your job.

SH: I don't want to wait that long.

Me: Then find another job.

SH: I don't want to find another job. I'm tired of being taken advantage of by golddiggers.

Me: Then find another wife.

Chats du jour: I don't know if they're worth it

2011-11-15T06:19:00.000-08:00

Things I used to be able to do before I got cats:

1. Leave butter on the counter
2. Leave pears in a bowl on the counter
3. Leave peaches in a bowl on the counter
4. Leave dirty dishes in the sink
5. Leave any food out
6. Leave the living room door open
7. Leave the upstairs door open
8. Leave the house without brushing the cat hair off my clothes
9. Go to the bathroom without Laverne whining at the door, opening the door, and jumping into my lap, then jumping to the top of the tank so she can watch the water swirl down the toilet
10. Keep jewelry in the cute pottery bowl I got in Morocco
11. Leave my computer keyboard out
12. Leave my mp3 earbuds out
13. Go on vacation without hiring a catsitter
14. Throw cashmere sweaters on the bed and leave them there until I was ready to put them away
15. Go more than a week without vacuuming
16. Leave my dad's lucky shot glasses from Vietnam on the windowill
17. Leave the compost bowl open
18. Sleep past 8:00 a.m. without being rudely awakened by demanding meowing

What are your pre-pet fond reminiscences?

Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory

2011-11-14T04:42:00.000-08:00

I want to show you what the face of resigned acceptance looks like.

These are the faces of men who have been Rice football fans for decades. (Or so I assume because who else would go to a Rice game other than a Rice alum?)

Notice that they do not look happy.

They are unhappy because they are watching Northwestern trounce Rice. And because they paid $35 for the privilege.

Maybe 20 years ago, when the joke was I94, Northwestern 0, Rice could have had a shot at beating Northwestern, but on Saturday, a week after Northwestern beat Nebraska, which I have to assume is a big deal as even I, who am not a huge sports fan, know that "Nebraska" + "football" = Big Deal, Rice didn't have a chance.

Still, SH and I and my college friend Warren who has just moved back to Minneapolis after over a decade working in France*, paid $35 apiece - APIECE - for tickets to the game and drove to Chicago.

THIRTY FIVE DOLLARS. For a RICE GAME. Rice tickets used to sell for less than face value. Who would pay to see a team with such a rich losing tradition?

But we thought it would be fun to watch a game and perhaps see other Rice alum living in the frozen north, even though we had all experienced winter without snow, shoveling, and being cold and should know better.

It was sort of fun. The weather was perfect: sunny and cool. The fans were excited. The Northwestern fans, that is. The game was good for Rice in four second spots, but the good part was overshadowed by the bleak shadows of gross incompetence and the tragedy of playing a team where the other players weighed 40 pounds each more than the Rice players.

I surrendered to the inevitable: Rice was going to lose. It is our tradition.

Going to a school with a bad - or outclassed - football team prepares one for real life. Sometimes, no matter how hard you practice or how much talent you have, you are still going to lose. For almost all of us, there will be someone better or luckier out there. It's good to learn that lesson as a young person so you don't waste your life whining about fairness. When you learn that lesson young, you know that you still have to soldier on and that life goes on.

Now for a slight change in topic, as this post is not meant to be a sermon about Life and Loss.

What's the deal with the constant barrage of noise at a Northwestern football game? I have not gone to many college games in the past few years - just the Rice homecoming games - but have they all become like Northwestern? I know the Rice games were not like this. During every single bit of game downtime, either the band was playing or there was recorded music playing over the PA. I wouldn't mind the band, but they, too, were piped through the PA. Bands are loud enough that it is not necessary to amplify them.

If the band isn't playing, isn't a little bit of silence on a beautiful fall day OK? Why do they have to blare rap music over the PA?

When they weren't playing music, they were doing commercials: Every single thing in the game was sponsored, including the net behind the goalposts. Every little event was sponsored. I think there might have been more live commercials during the game than there would be during a televised game. Anyone have any comment on this? I found it to be highly annoying, especially as I had already paid THIRTY FIVE DOLLARS** for my ticket. For that much money, for an amateur sport, shouldn't I be able to enjoy just a game?

* He is looking for a job, so if anyone needs someone with these qualifications, let me know.
1. BSEE from Rice
2. MBA UCLA
3. 10+ years with HP in the US, Germany and France
4. Fluent in Spanish, German, and French. And English, of course.

** I could have bought a shoe with that. I could have bought the second shoe with SH's ticket money.

Marriage 401, Lecture 451: It's getting deeper and here I am without a shovel

2011-11-13T08:29:00.000-08:00

SH: You liked it here the first time you came and that was in December.

Me: Yeah, but you were in an apartment with covered parking and unlimited heat. And someone else did the shoveling.

SH: So you were tricked.

Me: Yes.

SH: You just don't have the right attitude toward shoveling.

Me: And what's that, person who does almost none of the shoveling around here?

SH: For every time you shovel, you get to skip a day at the gym.

Me: Yeah, I don't think so.

Marriage 401, Lecture 206: Call my union rep

2011-11-12T05:34:00.000-08:00

Me: Did you change their [the cats'] water?

SH: No. I just fed them.

Me: Why not?

SH: Because changing the water is your job. I just fed them as a favor to you.

Me: You fed them because you were awake first. Part of feeding them is also changing the water.

SH: Nope. I merely substituted for the feeding part. I did not assume the complete cat obligation.

Me: Change the water.

SH: Nope. Not my job.

Marriage 401, Lecture 211: The getting of Nutella

2011-11-11T07:08:00.000-08:00

This story goes with my facebook post. I wrote it 18 months ago.

February 2010 SH has to go to Germany for work. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It sounds good, but I have traveled with him before and here's how it goes: he gets up early, grabs something to eat from the hotel buffet, goes to the customer's office, spends all day there, then returns to the hotel and tries to get into his email so he can do all his regular work that has been accumulating while he has been gone.

Usually, the internet connection is bad so he has to go down to the front desk to complain and sometimes they have to put him in a different room because Oh dear, sir, guess what we put you in one of the three rooms with broken internet even though you're obviously a business traveler and we have plenty of rooms with working internet available.

Then he spends a few hours doing his email before he realizes that he needs to eat some supper but if he's stuck in a suburban hotel (most likely because he stays close to the customer offices), his easiest food option is the hotel food, which most people will admit is not the tastiest.

So. International travel for work. Not so glamorous. I will have to tell you about our trip to England together last summer and how that little adventure nearly ended our marriage. Let's just say for now that the combination of two control freaks, google maps, narrow English "highways" and left hand side of the road driving are not conducive to romance but make fabulous tinder for a blowout fight.

This trip, he is traveling alone. I don't want to spend five days in a suburban hotel while he is at work all day and we don't want to waste frequent flier miles on the trip.

On his way back, he calls me from the international lounge or whatever you call that place when you have an upgrade to business class and you get free internet and some cheese and grapes that are close to becoming raisins. Well, that's what you get in the US.

In Europe, you get really good food and free booze. Which would be great if either of us were heavy drinkers, but we are not. OK, Spain's business class lounge is not so fabulous - they have olives and potato chips for breakfast. For breakfast. But they also have booze for breakfast, so again, if this is your thing, you are fine.

But the German lounge?

They have yogurt and salami and pretzel rolls and candy and curry (yes, curry or at least some kind of Indian food) and sausage and fish and lots of other goodies that I do not remember.

And they have Nutella.

Which I do remember because when we took our trip to Germany last year, we went through this same lounge and I made about ten trips past the Nutella bin, grabbing two or three little Nutellas each time.

Oh yes it was tacky.

That's why I had to get only a few at a time - so nobody would see what I was doing.

Not that the businessmen busy on their computers or with their newspapers or their morning gin and tonics cared about what I was doing but what about the help? What about the Algerian buslady who was replenishing the breakfast buffet? I didn't want her to see me being so greedy.

So he calls me. "I'm in the lounge. Do you want me to get you some Nutella?"

Oh yes I want Nutella. I want it even though I still have about two dozen little Nutellas left from the last trip and even though I have three jars of Nutella-like substance from World Market sitting in the pantry. Unopened. I like the idea of Nutella. I can't control myself once the jar is opened,** but it is comforting to know that the Nutella is there should I have a Nutella emergency. The little Nutellas are better because once opened, there is only about a tablespoon of Nutella to eat. It's safer.

"How much?" he asks.

"As much as you can get!" I tell him.

"I can't keep going back to the bowl!" he exclaims, shocked.

I think about this. Nobody knows him there. Why does he care how he looks? Why does he care what the Algerian buslady thinks?

And then I think about the 400 pounds of Nutella in the basement pantry.

"Maybe not that much," I admit.

He returns with eight packets. Proof of love.

** I have the same problem with dulce de leche, also known as manjar, which is a spreadable caramel you get in South America. I asked my roommate in Chile not to bring any more manjar home because I was having a tough time not eating the entire jar at once. He started hiding it. Ha. As if he could hide manjar from me. I asked again. I came home to find a note on the table: "That Woman, I spit in the manjar." Did he really think a little bit of spit was going to stop me? I just scraped off the top layer and ate the rest. All the 140 calories/tablespoon rest.

Marriage 401, Lecture 256: Company clean

2011-11-11T02:15:00.000-08:00

SH [as I am cleaning the light fixtures in the bathroom*]: Wow. When you clean the house, you really clean.

Me: Of course.

SH: Shouldn't you just wait until things get dirty? That's how I did it.

Me: Nope.

SH: That or I was having company.

* Full disclosure: It was the first time I had cleaned the lights in months, although in my defense, I never wear my glasses in the bathroom, so it's not like I see a lot of dust.

Marriage 401, Lecture 109: Waiting and hoping

2011-11-10T06:48:00.000-08:00

SH: Uh oh. The knob came off that drawer.

Me: Yeah, I was tightening the screws and I guess it got stripped, so I--

SH: I'll have to--

Me: need to put some wood putt--

SH: fix it.

Me: y in it.

SH: What?

Me: I know how to fix it.

SH: You mean you're not one of those women who needs a man to do repairs?

Me: I lived alone until I married you, remember?

SH: But I could do it.

Me: I can't wait that long.

Marriage 401, Lecture 741: Talk to my union rep

2011-11-09T06:55:00.000-08:00

Me: Nope. It's too late.

SH: What? You agreed to [wxyz].

Me: That was at 8:00 when you said you would come to bed early.

SH: It's only 10:00.

Me: I lose interest after 9:30.

SH: Are you saying that this is a job for the Nighttime Wife?

Me: Yes. I'm off the clock.

SH: Are you getting overtime?

Me: I darn well should.

Marriage 401, Lecture 712: Sexy is as sexy does

2011-11-08T04:17:00.000-08:00

SH: I thought you took the polish off your nails.*

Me: I did. I repainted them myself.

SH: Oh. Yeah. You're not very good at that.

Me: It's my right hand. It looks bad because I'm right handed. Oh. Wait. My left hand looks bad, too. I guess I'm not very good at this.

SH: I wasn't looking for a glamor girl when I met you. Good thing.

Me: What were you looking for?

SH: I don't know.

Me: You probably weren't looking for me.

SH: Nope.

Me: So what happened?

SH: You were interesting and the [wxyz] was good.**

Me: And then you got stuck with me.

SH: Yep.

* From the birthday manicure I got with Kim in San Francisco.

** When my dad was dying, I asked him what had attracted him to my mom, thinking I would hear some deathbed wisdom. Instead, I got, "She was sexy."

Marriage 401, Lecture 258: Saving time

2011-11-07T07:22:00.000-08:00

SH: I want these clocks (the clock on the microwave and the clock on the oven) to match.

Me: Uh huh.

SH: That's why I pressed the buttons at the same time.

Me: You're nuts.

SH: I also want them to be a minute fast, but no more than a minute fast. But they could get less accurate.

Me: Uh huh. [Because I don't care. I am never late. People who try to fool themselves into being on time by setting their clocks ahead are still late. It just takes a commitment to being on time. No tricks.]

SH: Electric clocks may become less accurate. The frequency is 60 Hz but it's not constant. They force it to average 60 Hz. Electric companies may be allowed to let the frequency of the power vary slightly.The clocks could become slightly less accurate.

Me: How do you know this stuff?

Marriage 401, Lecture 74: These were Italian!

2011-11-06T07:58:00.000-08:00

SH wants to take a trip to Europe over Christmas so he can get enough miles to maintain his status. My ticket would be free on frequent flier miles and he has enough hotel points that we wouldn't have to pay for lodging. I do like that part. But I am not crazy about 1. traveling over Christmas and 2. going someplace cold.

SH: We could go to Spain.

Me: But it will still be cold there,

SH: Not as cold as here.

Me: What about if we go to Colombia? It would be warm. And guess what you could say?

SH: What?

Me: "Is this the bus to Cartagena?"

SH: But we could say that in Spain, too!

Photo source: http://blog.zap2it.com/frominsidethebox/2011/09/romancing-the-stone-tv-series-snuggles-up-to-nbc.html