-ocityishness :: eventually a suffix will get you there.

I'm never cooking again. Part 2.*

2010-03-04T19:34:00.001-06:00

Remember that one Thursday night when you tried to make a ham?

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

That's how it's going to go in about 3 days. For now, though, the other white meat is on my blacklist.

First of all, who makes meat that's the same color whether you buy it cooked or uncooked? Pork producers, listen up. Inject some White #4 in there or something, because pink is not the new cooked.

"So is it cooked or not?" the DNB asks, warily.

I shrug.

"Oh, it's bleeding," he says as he eyeballs it from all sides.

"Let's go with uncooked then," I reply. Fearing this, I've cut off some chunks from the massive, pink, bone-in, uncooked monstrosity I somehow thought would be a good idea. They're lying sadly in the oven. I've been basting them with brown sugar and honey every 15 minutes.

"I don't know how to tell if the chunks are done," I tell him, poking at them. They're the same color they were when I put them in an hour previously.

"Maybe a meat thermometer would have helped?"

I stare at him.

Eventually the meat is done, but the baked potatoes take another thousand hours.

"No really," the DNB says when we finally eat. "It's pretty good."

He pauses. "Really good!"

"I hate cooking."

* The DNB insisted that I title this "Part 2" because he's sure I've threatened this at least once before. Haha, sucker. It's been like 3 dozen times.

What's it like being a huge jerk?

2010-03-02T09:23:00.000-06:00

I peer at the DNB's face.

"What's it like having hair around your mouth?" I ask.

"Oh, I don't know..." he pauses. "Why don't you tell me?"

I smile sweetly as he cracks himself up.

"I'm smiling," I say slowly, "Because I'm thinking of all the horrible things I'm going to do to you when you're sleeping tonight."

In celebration of 9 years of together-ness.

2010-02-01T20:41:00.001-06:00

"What would you do if I died?" the DNB asks me.

"Figure out how to spend a million dollars," I reply, not joking. We're watching Hoarders. "If I died, would you have trouble getting rid of any of my stuff?"

"Totally. I'm very sentimental."

"What about the couch?"

"Are you kidding? It has TONS of memories. It was the first piece of furniture we bought together..." he sighs.

"What about my old kitchen table?"

"I couldn't get rid of that!" he insists.

"It wasn't even yours! You weren't even involved with that purchase."

"Yeah, but I remember sitting at it."

I roll my eyes. "Let's talk about what's really important. How about my shoes?"

"I'm trashing them all."

"Fine. Then with my million dollars I'm buying a brand new Louis Vuitton bag," I say. "And I'll tell everyone it's what you would have wanted."

Non Sequitur

2010-01-07T20:23:00.000-06:00

"So does the football not need to be touched by someone from the opposite team to make a kickoff a live ball?" I ask.

"I don't know..." the DNB says.

We continue watching the game. My mind wanders.

What I think is: I need to go to the gym this month. Hardcore. Like every day. Like twice a day. It's more fun to work out with a buddy. It would be awesome if the DNB had more time to go when I go.

What I say is: "I wish you would go to the gym."

"WHAT?" the DNB turns to me, his mouth full of deep dish pizza.

"Oh, I guess I should've finished that sentence. With me."

Everyone in my family is 3 years old.

2010-01-05T18:00:00.002-06:00

We return from our anniversary dinner to find my parents at the kitchen table, discussing something boring.

"Well, how was it?" my mother asks, smiling broadly.

"Oh great," I reply. "The food was amazing!"

Both parents stare at me with giant grins on their faces.

"So it was good?" my father says.

"Nothing was . . . uncomfortable about the evening? Nothing . . . awkward?" my mother chimes in.

"Ummm, no." My parents are totally losing it.

"Why don't you take off your coat?" my father suggests.

I do, and both of them start giggling. I twist around to find a clothespin attached to the back of my sweater.

My mother is about to pee herself. "I put that on you before you left!" she cackles.

"HONEY," I say pointedly to the DNB. "Remember how it's us against the world? You're supposed to watch for these things!" Then I pause, remembering. I let the host take my coat as we entered the restaurant. "So everyone in that very fancy dining establishment saw it. Probably they were all making fun of me."

"Yes," my father replies solemnly. "We've been getting calls . . ."

Still in Love 2009

2010-01-04T20:54:00.005-06:00

We celebrate our anniversary!

On the way home from dinner, we listen to our ipod's Anniversary playlist. Opinions differ as to when it was originally created, but theories suggest 2001 or 2007. Either way, it's a lovely mix of touching melodies: Ben Folds "The Luckiest," Nat King Cole "L-O-V-E," and Bloodhound Gang "Bad Touch."

When "Save Tonight" comes on for a little late-90's nostalgia, the DNB gets mushy. "When we were dating long-distance," he says, "this song used to make me long for the day when we could really be together; when we wouldn't have to say goodbye after only a day or two."

AWWWWWW.

He sighs, and I pat his hand lovingly. "It's so different now that we're married," he continues. "It's like . . . it's like you never leave."

Wherein things go from bad to worse.

2010-01-01T12:56:00.000-06:00

We play a family game!

We are visiting my family in Virginia, and the assembled crowd includes my parents, all 4 of my siblings, two spouses, an exchange student who's been living with my family for three years, and two of the three Buds.

The game, announces one of my sisters, plays like written Telephone. Each person gets a stack of paper. On the top sheet, we are to write a saying or a phrase. Then we each pass our stack to the left, and the next person interprets the phrase in a drawing. Another pass, and the third person must - looking only at the drawing - write what they think the original phrase was. And so on, until each stack has passed completely around the group.

Oh yes, hilarity ensues.

My brother selects as his phrase, "I have a dream..."

This gets passed to my father, who draws what appears to be someone lying in bed either dreaming or smoking. Just say no, kids.

Next, my sister interprets this as the following:

We'll ignore the fact that a delightful fluffy cloud of dream-smoke does not a nightmare make. She passes the stack to me, upon which the whole thing heads downhill.

In my zeal to make sure the "boy" part of the phrase is understood, I draw an anatomically correct stick figure. I also clarify the bad dream portion by including another stick figure being shot. Seemed straight forward enough to me.

APPARENTLY NOT because the DNB passes this bad boy on to my mother. "MORNING WOOD?" I shriek when we review the stack later. Leave it to us to ruin a perfectly nice family game.

"Well, it definitely looks like the person is dreaming about watching a porn shoot," he defends himself. "Imagine how I felt having to pass that phrase on to your mom!"

Fortunately, my mother is sweet and innocent, and interprets this in the nicest, mommish way possible: morning, with a neat pile of logs.

This she hands to my other sister, who does her best. Ah yes, the old "the rooster crows in the morning at the 3 logs" saying. It's a classic.

My brother-in-law interprets this beautifully, with a careful depiction of a rooster crowing at precisely three logs.

Our exchange student is the last to receive the stack. Maybe in Korea chickens comment instead of cluck? Even Asian animals are smart!

AHAHAHAHAHAHA.

2009-12-13T15:51:00.001-06:00

"Ok, so I found the perfect candidate for the MTV show 'Made,'" the DNB emails me during his last shift in the Emergency Department. "She needs to be made into NOT A TOTAL DORK."

He explains the situation the next morning. An 18-year-old girl comes into the ED in a wheelchair with her parents at 11:30pm on a weekend. Her chief complaint is back pain. The DNB examines her, and learns that a kid threw a rock at her.

This seems horrible at first. Except that it happened THREE DAYS AGO. Oh, and the ROCK HIT HER BACK PACK. IT DIDN'T EVEN HIT HER.

"Well, it touched my back when it rolled down," the girl explains to the cops her parents have called to investigate.

The DNB coughs and avoids making eye contact with anyone.

"So let's just think through the physics of this," the DNB says to me, interrupting his story. "Let's assume the girl had SOMETHING in her back pack. A notebook, a textbook, something between her delicate body and the rock. How big did that rock have to be in order to hit her back pack and still cause back pain three days later?"

"A small boulder?" I suggest. "Did it knock her down?"

"No! I promise, in my expert medical opinion, it did nothing to her!" the DNB shouts. "My guess is that her World of Warcraft connection went down and she had nothing better to do with her Friday night."

"OH!" he continues. "And then she has asthma. Of course she has asthma. She has to have asthma. And she wants a nebulizer to take home. I suggest that, for an 18-year-old, an inhaler will be just as effective and work much more quickly. She tells me she wants the neb because SHE'S NOT COORDINATED ENOUGH TO BREATHE AT THE RIGHT TIME AFTER SHE PUSHES THE INHALER. Are you serious? You can't figure out how to breathe? You've only been doing it every few seconds for the past 18 years!"

Yeah, if you thought doctors don't make fun of patients, let's just put that myth to rest.

"What do you think, is she a theater kid?" I ask.

"Nah, she's too timid for that. I'm guessing she played the clarinet in band her freshman year and then dropped out. Band is already full of people who are social rejects. If you get rejected by the social rejects, you may as well drown yourself."

"Yeah," I reply, "That wouldn't be too hard. Just tie a rock to your back pack..."

Oh, DNB.

2009-12-07T16:48:00.000-06:00

"How come both the driver and passenger seat warmers are always on after you drive my car?" I ask the DNB. "Granted, you have a giant ass for a dude, but still..."

"Well, here's how it is," the DNB replies. "Sometimes you have to get Taco Bell."

"Oh no you didn't."

"I DIDN'T WANT MY TACOS TO GET COLD!"

Lesson Four: Advanced English

2009-11-24T23:08:00.003-06:00

I draw a stick figure of Yoko!

I include her comfortable shoes, the Mario Kart wheel she used for the first time, her ever-present water bottle, and the purse she always carries diagonally across her chest.

Yoko is delighted. She begins to get out her camera to take a picture of it, and is very excited when I tell her she can have it.

"It's a caricature," the DNB explains. "Do you know caricature?"

I look at him. Are you kidding me?

"Um, caricature?" Yoko repeats. She puts the tips of her fingers under her jaw, which she does when she's thinking. "I don't know it."

"It's a drawing that emphasizes an easily-identifiable characteristic of a person." He speaks slowly, waving his hands in the air with his words.

Yoko stares blankly at him.

"Characteristic," he says again.

"Dude. Seriously." I step in. "She doesn't understand a thing you said."

"Yes she does!" the DNB insists. His basis for this is, nothing.

"Right, because every important word in that sentence had more than 4 syllables," I point out.

The DNB begins to protest.

"And the fact that you yelled it at her while gesturing wildly doesn't mean she understands."

He pauses. "You don't know..."

Lesson Three: Communication

2009-11-21T22:41:00.004-06:00

We go ice skating!

We are with a group of Yoko's Japanese classmates, and I am drafted to help them get their skates from the rental counter. I quickly figure out the rough conversions, as well as the fact that most of the boys have feet only slightly larger than my own. It's not like I thought I was a dainty flower or anything, but MAN UP, Japan.

One boy returns to the counter and holds his skates out to me. "Not right," he says.

"Oh, okay. Are they too long or too short?" I ask.

"Not right," he repeats. Yoko speaks English pretty well, but I know some of her classmates are not as advanced.

"Too long or too short?" I ask again, slowly and with hand gestures. I speak loudly on the off chance he can't understand me because he's going deaf. C'MON KID, WORK WITH ME.

"No," he insists, taking the skates back from me. He turns them upside down and shows me that he has been given two left feet. "See? Not right."

Lesson Two: Math

2009-11-20T12:19:00.002-06:00

We watch American TV!

I try to find something that will be easy for Yoko to understand. I forgo Cribs, and knowing how much the Japanese love their quiz shows, pick Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?

I quickly realize that I'm going to need to explain Jeff Foxworthy. "Do you know what a redneck is?" I start. "I think every country pretty much has them. Like they talk funny and don't have teeth? They have lots of cars in their yards? They've been married three times and still have the same in-laws?"

Yoko clearly isn't getting it, but she keeps saying, "Okay. Okay."

It's a lost cause, so I pause the show when the 5th grade math question appears on screen. "What is the cubed root of 8?" I read aloud.

Yoko looks at me questioningly. I draw the square root symbol with my finger, and her face lights up. "But it's the cubed root," I explain. "Cubed is like 3 of something."

Yoko does some math quickly out loud in Japanese, while I try to figure out what the root of 8 is so I can multiply it times 3.

"How do you figure out what the root is?" I ask no one in particular. I know what a square root is, but what's a plain root?

"Two," says Yoko. "Answer is two."

"Are you sure?" I reply. Seems unlikely that a foreigner who barely even understands the words in the problem would be able to do the calculation.

I press play. Jeff Foxworthy reveals that the 5th grader has gotten the question correct. So has the contestant. So has Yoko.

"Are you kidding me?" I shout. "Asians are now good at math in ANY LANGUAGE! I'm TOTALLY IMPRESSED."

Yoko beams.

Lesson One: Traditional American Male-Female Roles

2009-11-18T10:13:00.004-06:00

Our exchange student arrives!

To those of you wondering if there is ANY sort of host-family criteria/background check/mental health evaluation, the answer is: screw you. I am very nurturing and motherly, especially after I've been drinking.

Our student is in high school, and because even the DNB hates being mentioned on this blog, I'm going to omit any other particularly identifying information about her. The DNB can't for the life of him remember how to pronounce her name, so he's been privately referring to her as Yoko for months.

"Is that the only...?"

"The only Japanese name I can think of?" he interjects. "Yes."

We decide to have hamburgers for her first night in America. This is the DNB's specialty, so he grills while I sit at the table and try to get Yoko to sit also. She seems to do a lot of standing.

During dinner, I realize that because Kirby and Madeline are only a wish and a prayer in their grandparents' hearts, and because our lives really aren't that interesting, Yoko is basically the center of attention. Which is pretty much exactly the opposite of what she's comfortable with. I decide to break the ice with a pressing question.

"So, do you play Nintendo?" I ask.

She looks up from her potato salad. "No."

The DNB is horrified with me, as if calling her Yoko makes him any better. I wanted to know, I mouth at him.

"Other high school students play Wii," Yoko offers. "I can't. I'm too busy."

Everyone relaxes, faux pas avoided for the time being. We discuss her hobbies and the DNB's job. I tell her I work at home. After dinner, the DNB hops up to put the dishes in the dishwasher, while I put away the leftovers.

"What would you like to do tonight?" I ask.

"I'm tired," Yoko answers.

"Okay, well you can go to your room and settle in if you'd like, or we can play cards or chat," I tell her. "Whatever you'd like."

"Is it sleepytime?" she asks.

"Sure," I reply. There's a long pause, and no one moves. "Okay, well you can go to your room," I tell her.

She gathers her things and heads to the guest room.

"Did you just send her to bed?" the DNB hisses at me.

"I wasn't trying to! I wanted her to do whatever she wanted to!"

The next morning, I get up at 6:45am to pack her lunch and take her to school. I don't know how you moms do this every day, it's horrible. And the lunch thing has been weighing heavily on my mind. What do kids these days take for lunch?

"Is a Lunchable too, like, 7-year-old kid?" I ask the DNB.

"Um, YES," he says emphatically.

I call my mother to ask what my high school aged brother takes for lunch. She gives a long list of very specific food items.

No one is being the slightest bit helpful, so I make a chicken and ham sandwich on a roll and include a Nutri-Grain bar for good measure. Then I decide she needs dessert, so I pack Animal Crackers because they are delicious. Finally, I throw in some carrots because, I don't know, isn't that what people have in sack lunches? I wouldn't eat them, but I'm pretty sure some people do.

I am going to drop the DNB off at work after we take Yoko to school, so he climbs in the back seat and lets her take the front. I chatter on the way to school, and when we get there, she spots a fellow Japanese classmate and runs off.

The DNB and I take a deep breath as I drive off. "I wonder what she thinks of us," I say.

"Well, we're really screwing with her understanding of gender roles," the DNB comments.

"Oh-em-gee you're right," I reply, thinking back through the last 18 hours. The DNB cooked dinner and helped cleaned up, and we discussed his long work hours. Then I said I work at home. And I drove the car and the DNB sat in the back seat.

"Am I ..." I ask, "a kept woman or a dude?"

My dad is better than your dad.

2009-11-13T09:16:00.003-06:00

The DNB tells a story about his childhood!

"So, I was playing in the sandbox..."

"Wait, what kind of sandbox?" I interrupt. "In the ground or raised?"

"In the ground." He seems puzzled that there would be another type.

"Oh, because my dad made us a raised, child's-height sandbox with a top to keep the sand dry," I brag. That was an AWESOME sandbox.

"Oh, because my..."

"Also," I continue, "I'm pretty sure the sand was the purest sand from the Indian Ocean."

The DNB is not amused. "Yeah well my dad wanted to make sure I experienced the kind of sand that the neighborhood cats experienced. They played with their food, ate it, and then crapped in my sandbox."

The DNB's Illness Progression (TM)

2009-10-26T14:07:00.003-05:00

I think I have the flu.

That's why it's an excellent day to dedicate to discuss the stages of sickness the DNB manifests. Whenever I feel like I'm whining a little too much, or feeling a little too sorry for my sick-ass self, I just think of the DNB and remember that OH MY GOD HE IS SO MUCH WORSE THAN I AM.

The DNB's Illness Progression (TM)

Stage 1
The DNB thinks he might be getting a little sick. There are no physical manifestations at this stage, so he needs a way to justify his suspicions. So he takes his temperature obsessively, hoping for a low-grade fever. Usually by the 23rd try, he's worked himself up so much the thermometer will register somewhere in the neighborhood of a 99.8. Triumphant, he waves the thermometer in the face of everyone nearby.

Stage 2
Exhausted by the thermometer antics, and feeling justified, the DNB begins whining. "I don't feel well," he'll moan from the couch. "Can you get me a magazine and my slippers? Baby? BABY?! Can you hear me??? Are you ignoring me?? I NEED MY SLIPPERS!!"

Stage 3
The DNB's throat begins to get a little sore, and he thinks probably his head hurts too. This development amps up the whining considerably, since now he has something specific to whine about. He begins taking an arsenal of medicines, many of which he disparages in his normal, healthy life for lack of "clinical evidence."

Stage 4
The sore throat resolves, and now the DNB is left with an obnoxious, hacking cough. This cough will last for approximately 2 weeks, during which time the DNB will be made to sleep on the couch 4-5 times, and will consume 86 cough drops. His morning head-clearing ritual will make me want to punch him in the face approximately 3 times.

Stage 5
The DNB is now, technically, completely recovered. He will still mope around the house for a few more days, for good measure. It is this Stage at which I will begin feeling ill. The DNB, with a wave of his hand, will advise me to take some Tylenol, and will ask what I'm making for dinner.

Also, does anyone have a vat?

2009-10-20T10:24:00.002-05:00

I go to Sam's Club!

I am an avid couponer, but Sam's always has great prices on cheese, eggs, milk, and butter. I flash my business membership card, which entitles me to early entrance. I walk toward the refrigerator cases, but something feels off. It's definitely quieter without the huddled masses, but that's not it. Then I realize... no samples! Does anyone else rely on the samples for a solid meal? I was counting on them for my breakfast.

Dairy perishables in hand, I check out and head home. As I separate cheese into quart-sized bags for freezing, I notice that the butter looks a little funny. Somehow, I've managed to buy entire GIANT BRICKS of butter, instead of sticks.

Well played, Sam's Club. Well played.

I feel like both a giant idiot and a pioneer, for some reason, as I cut the first 4 bricks into sticks and wrap them in plastic. There's no way I'm chopping up the other 21 butter bricks, so I decide that I will be cooking in bulk for the next year or two. Anyone for 32 dozen cookies?

15 x 387 = 1 New Husband

2009-10-13T19:54:00.005-05:00

We discuss the space probe!

"Some dude totally thought that would be awesome," I say, as we eat dinner out at a local dining establishment.

"The NASA guys were sitting around drinking one night," the DNB supplies.

"Dudes, DUDES! You know what would be TOTALLY RAD? If we built something and then like, CRASHED IT INTO THE MOON! And $75 million later, here we are."

The DNB shakes his head.

"I mean, how many people are there in America?" I ask him.

"Maybe 275 million," he replies.

"Ok, so imagine if we took that $75 million and gave some to everyone in America." I do the math quickly in my head. "That's what, like $250,000 to each person?"

"You mean, a quarter?" the DNB asks.

"Yeah, a quarter of a million dollars," I say. "Imagine what people could do with that kind of money." Yes we can!

The DNB puts his head on the table, which I have learned is a TERRIBLE SIGN. I can see his shoulder shaking.

"A quarter of a million dollars?" he asks, making sure he's heard right.

"Well yeah. Because if there were 75 million dollars and 75 million people, there'd be a million for each of them."

"A MILLION FOR EACH OF THEM, BABY?" he asks in that incredulous way he does when he thinks I'm wrong and he's right.

"75 and 75 and then you add back the million," I reply, confidently.

"75 million divided by 75 million is ONE!" he nearly shouts.

"Right," I say. He looks relieved. "One million."

"NO! Just ONE!" He's getting more and more emphatic.

"You really need to be adding back that million."

"Is this how our national deficit got so big? Because Congress does math like you do? How did our debt get to be 987 trillion dollars? We thought it was $75 million!"

He pauses, thinking. "Okay, let's do it this way. Say Johnny is sent to the grocery store."

"This is a story about Johnny. His mother sent him out to buy bread," I sing. (As an aside, did anyone else have that record when they were little? Of course he didn't feel like walking because his mom should've gotten off her lazy ass and done the grocery shopping herself. How old was that kid? 5? Totally irresponsible.)

"Johnny goes to the grocery store. He has $75 million. He asks how much potatoes are. If the potatoes are $1 each, how many potatoes can he buy?"

"First of all, $75 million? Can we call him Bernie Madoff instead?"

"Fine. If Bernie Madoff has ripped off 100 people out of $100 each, how much has he ripped off of each person?"

"$100," I reply.

"NO!" the DNB shouts.

"What?! You just asked me if he rips off 100 people for $100 each, how much has he gotten from each person. That's a trick question."

"Dammit, I meant if he gets $100 total." He begins scribbling furiously on his to-go box:

"You're making this way too hard. $75 million and 75 million are equal. $1 million each."

The DNB sinks back in his chair. "I'll tell you what. Get out of my house, go to community college, and LEARN SOME MATH. Then come back, and knock on my door 1 million times divided by 1 million times. If you get the right answer, I'll open it. And I swear to God if you knock 1 million times, I'll open it and punch you in the face."

He breathes in deeply, then suddenly sits up in horror. "Oh my God, you do not do our taxes..."

This one is, unfortunately, about poo.

2009-10-08T08:00:00.000-05:00

I talk at the DNB!

I am probably, as usual, being long-winded and tiresome. Finally, the DNB glances up at me from where he is lying on the couch.

"Can I go poo now?" he asks plaintively. "I've been pinching."

I'm taken a little aback. "First, yes. Second, EW."

We have three full bathrooms - one on the main floor, mine upstairs, and his in the basement. The DNB grabs his laptop - so we all know this is going to be a lengthy situation - and heads toward the main floor bath.

"Not there!" I shriek. Good grief, I have to LIVE near that bathroom.

He shuffles back, clenching his butt cheeks for effect, and opens the door leading upstairs to our bedroom.

"MY BATHROOM?" I yell in horror.

He turns and makes for the basement. For HIS VERY OWN BATHROOM. "A man can't poop ANYWHERE in this house!" he complains loudly.

An Open Letter to the State of Minnesota

2009-10-07T08:41:00.000-05:00

Dear Great White Northern Land That Tries To Kill Its Inhabitants,

Really, Minnesota? Snow? I kind of hate you.

Frostily,
S

I may overreact, but I can put together a puzzle.

2009-10-05T17:04:00.004-05:00

I buy a puzzle at a thrift store!

It is maybe my worst idea ever. What do you think the chances are that the box contains even a quarter of its pieces? I'm also willing to bet there's at least one piece still wet from being gnawed on by a baby or a dog.

"Well, it is only 49 cents," says the woman at the thrift store. As if for 49 cents there is NO CHANCE that I will have all the pieces.

Optimistically, I begin fitting the edges together because unless you're a glutton for punishment, that's where you have to start with puzzles. The DNB joins me. I've taken on the yellow field portion; he's working on the sky. Other than sky and field, there are a lot of trees. And a German village.

"Why did I have to choose the puzzle of the ridiculously homogeneous German village?" I complain. I think we all learned the hard way that too much alike-ness isn't good for the Germans.

The DNB squints, concentrating hard. He's working quickly, and I think I see him glancing at my progress from time to time. I begin working faster. He peeks over at me again. Is he seriously racing me? You do not race me at puzzles. I am AWESOME at puzzles.

All the edge pieces as last used, we sit back and survey our handiwork. The field/tree section seems to be missing a few pieces. The sky does not.

"You must've put some of them together incorrectly," the DNB says, looking critically at my section.

"Put some together incorrectly?" I reply. "I think I'm old enough to know whether a piece fits or not."

The DNB regards me silently.

"I didn't force any pieces together!" I reiterate.

He eyes the field section suspiciously.

"Go ahead and check them, StupidHead," I say. "Because when you buy a puzzle from a thrift store it's more likely that your adult wife has no dexterity or hand-eye coordination than that a few pieces are sitting under the previous owner's sofa."

"You probably put a few wrong pieces from that side over on this side," he says haughtily.

"Fine, I'm not even doing this stupid puzzle anymore," I reply, getting up. "It's boring anyway."

Wherein the DNB ruins his chances.

2009-10-01T12:22:00.003-05:00

"I'd like for you and I to hook up later," the DNB tells me.

"Hook up? Hooking up is something you do with a skanky ho," I reply, offended.

"Yes, like I said. I'd like for us to hook up."

I mean, he did borrow my bike.

2009-09-21T07:00:00.000-05:00

"I am not a chauvinist," the DNB proclaims suddenly, as if he's been accused.

"Okay..." I reply.

"In fact," he says with a flourish, "I'm a feminist."

"Effeminate?" I ask.

"No, a feminist."

"I really think you mean effeminate."

Testing, testing.

2009-09-18T09:47:00.001-05:00

The DNB discovers a treasure!

It's a directional mic he hasn't used for at least 10 years.

His face lights up, and I can see the wheels turning. I have learned that this is NOT A GOOD THING. He disappears into the basement.

He reappears several minutes later, the Buds' e-collar attached to one end of the mic, and a pair of giant headphones attached to the other. He wanders around the house, listening intently.

I lean toward the contraption. "If you think this isn't going on the blog, you're a complete retard instead of just borderline," I tell him.

He waves the parabolic mic in a different direction.

"Wait, say that again. This thing may not be directional."

Oh, you mean this isn't the famous street in Hollywood?

2009-09-14T08:00:00.000-05:00

We go to the fair!

Some people don't like the fair, but I love it. All the crazies come out for it, are you kidding me? I wouldn't miss it for the world. Also, fried food.

"I think I need an enormous corn dog," the DNB says as we walk towards the large coliseum building where the high school rodeo is being held.

"It hasn't even been an hour since we last ate," I point out.

"Right, but I'm not uncomfortably full yet," he replies.

We take our seats and eagerly await the start of the rodeo. I've never been to one, but I watch TV, so I know it will involve tight Levis and lassos.

"WE'LL GET STARTED IN JUST ONE MORE SONG, FOLKS!" the Announcer shouts in an impossibly thick southern accent.

Since we're about as far north as you can get and still have running water, the accent totally throws me. Maybe all rodeo people have southern accents. You know, you wouldn't understand: it's a rodeo thing.

The anthem of rural America, "Cotton-Eyed Joe," ends, and the opening ceremony begins! The rodeo contestants are announced, and as they take their places around the arena, the Announcer introduces us to the reigning champion. She rides in on a horse, her blue sequined shirt shining under the lights. She carries an American flag. As she gallops in a circle, the Announcer speaks of freedom.

"The greatest part about being an American is freedom. Freedom of religion." He pauses dramatically. "That means that no matter what religion you are, you have the freedom to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ as your Savior."

The DNB and I glance at each other.

"Would you pray with me," the Announcer continues. I am so thoroughly confused. He prays for a long time. He thanks God for the gift of life and for the rodeo and for a lot of other things that seem unrelated to bucking broncos. He ends by inviting those who don't know the Lord Jesus Christ as their personal Savior to accept Him into their hearts.

And then he invites us to sing the National Anthem. God and country.

The formalities completed, the rodeo begins in earnest as a group of 7th graders line up to ride the bulls. They hang on for dear life until, one by one, they're bucked off and land heavily on the dirt.

"Is this really safe for kids to be doing?" I hiss at the DNB. "I mean, it's one thing to watch a professional bull rider getting gored, but these are just little guys."

"Oh I'm sure not that many of them get gored," he replies happily. He's really enjoying this.

Maybe this is why they start with prayer.

The Announcer, lacking the genteel nature of a true southerner, has no trouble lambasting the riders. "We haven't shown the talent," he drawls. "But we've got it!" Somehow, he's managing to be worse with kids than I am.

A boy gets thrown into the wall and grabs the railing, hanging on like a smashed bug. "Third best in the world!" the Announcer shouts. "He'll do better next time...."

While the calves are brought in for the roping portion of the evening, the Announcer plays "Jessie's Girl." "I'd like to remind you folks," he hollers over the music, "that tonight's rodeo champions will win a silver belt buckle!"

They're getting gored for a BELT BUCKLE? They're all ALREADY WEARING one.

The DNB isn't listening because he's distraught that there is no Rodeo Clown.

"But every rodeo needs a clown..." he notes sadly. Then he waves dismissively. "Let's just go."

Outside, we can still hear the Announcer. "Maybe our next rider will be the one to put up a good score...."

THIS is why I don't go to home improvement stores.

2009-09-07T16:20:00.003-05:00

I am allowed in Home Depot!

"But only because you promised not to whine," the DNB notes pointedly as we enter. I was banned from home improvement warehouses two years ago, and frankly, it's probably saved my marriage.

"I promised no such thing," I reply. Because I didn't. This is a trip of calculated risk all around - the DNB tolerating me because he wants the company, and my tolerating the store because my husband can't be trusted to choose the stain color for our bed.

"It'll be quick," he hisses as we head toward the paint department.

"As if any trip into this desolate labyrinth could be fast," I mutter.

He makes a throat slitting gesture at me, which is totally uncalled for.

We (I) choose a lovely mahogany stain, and because I'm already bored, the DNB leaves me standing at the end of an aisle while he tracks down the finishing rags. I thumb through Ty Pennington's magazine while I wait (he has a magazine? Is that really necessary?). When the DNB reappears, we head toward the self checkout lanes.

And this is when I enter the Twilight Zone. (To the tweens reading this, I'm referring to the 1980's science fiction series, not a Robert Pattison autograph event. Wiki it.)

I pull the first item from under my arm and scan it. It beeps, as EVERYTHING AT THE SELF-CHECK LANE DOES. "Please wait for assistance" flashes across the screen in front of us. I sigh loudly.

The Guardian of the Self-Checks, who looks exactly like Wayne Campbell, appears to help. He tries to rescan the item, then looks it up on another computer.

"Umm," he says when he returns, "I don't think we actually sell this."

That's when I finally take a good look at the item I scanned, the item I've been carrying around for presumably our entire shopping trip. It's a can of hideously ugly "natural" wood stain.

Wayne calls over another employee and they confer/party-on briefly. "Yeah, we definitely don't carry this brand," the other employee informs me.

The DNB, meanwhile, is only slightly more confused than I am.

"Well it's definitely not mine," I explain, trying to imply that it's a totally fugly color, and thank goodness I didn't allow the DNB to do this alone because he very well could have walked out of there with something similar.

Now the employees are just as confused as we are because why would I be carrying around a stain that they don't sell that also isn't mine? I KNOW.

We pay for the stain we actually *do* want, and as we walk to the car, the DNB finally speaks.

"How in the world did you ... ?"

"I don't even know, dude. I don't even know."