Monthly Archives: February 2012

The Day After

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I hate the day after.

The day after my girlfriend leaves. It means another wonderful visit has come and gone, and spells a return to a normal routine that no longer feels “normal” or “routine.” The realization that she was here less than twenty-four hours ago is hard to bear; it’s all still fresh, and often I’ll find myself thinking, yesterday at this time we were…{fill in the blank with whatever we were doing, and it doesn’t really matter what we were doing, the simple fact that we were together is enough}, my mind remembering every minute detail, my heart aching with the pain of separation.

I’m sentimental to a fault sometimes.

And I know, in the grand scheme of things, this is nothing. She keeps calling the past eight days her last visit here, for now the focus has turned to searching for a job. Once she finds one, she will move here, and we can begin a life together. She is optimistic it won’t take long, and lord knows she’s far less pickier than I am when it comes to work (this is a compliment). Still, every moment we’re apart stings a little now. It doesn’t help that we’re both impatient, or that there is no firm date for the next time we see each other, a first since we began dating back in September. There’s always been some concrete event to look forward to, and the countdown app on my phone has never before been void of days to tick down toward. I think it makes this time apart the roughest yet, and believe me, no goodbye has ever been easy. We’ve talked about meeting in Boise for a couple of days sometime between now and That Future Then When She’s Here For Good. We’ll see how everything goes.

And yet, I remain happier than I’ve been in years. The pain of separation speaks volumes about the depth of that joy. Soon, I tell myself. Very soon these goodbyes will be nothing but a memory. There will be no day after to contend with.

It’s all good in the hood, as they say. Or maybe nobody actually says that, but they should. It’s clever and it rhymes.

Anyhoo.

LONG PARAGRAPH WARNING!!!

The Days During were pretty stinkin’ good, as always. Hanging out with the kids last weekend was a blast; Tara and Audrey bonded on Sunday, shopping together and even getting manicures. I was impressed, as The Daughter has never been much of a girly girl (which explains the black nail polish, but I thought that was cool and loved the fact that Tara would go out of her way to do something special with Audrey). After dropping the kids off Sunday night, we got all gussied up and hit the town for a belated Valentine’s Day dinner at Jake’s Famous Crawfish, Portland’s oldest restaurant (dating back to 1892), and I introduced her to the wonder and joy that is Powell’s Books. The baked salmon stuffed with crab, shrimp and brie, and the seafood fettucine were excellent. These came from Jake’s, not Powell’s, in case you were wondering and the word “books” didn’t tip you off. Monday we relaxed around the house, partaking in the grilled cheese experiment and watching movies, before making a fantastic dinner of steaks, sauteed mushrooms, garlic bread, artichokes dipped in mayo (never had this before but man alive am I hooked), and margaritas. Since we’re both foodies, one thing we do enjoy together is the art of good eating! Tuesday, we were on the interstate by 9 AM, destination: The Emerald City. Seattle, not Oz (because somebody forgot to pack their ruby slippers this time around). We arrived shortly after noon, made a quick stop to say hi to her brother Eric, and then killed a couple of hours at Pike Place Market. I love it there! Picture acres of fresh produce and just-caught seafood, fish flying through the air, hot doughnuts fresh from the fryer, quirky shops, and a big brass pig. It’s such a cool place, and I hadn’t been in a few years. When we came up for the City Arts Festival in October we discovered a little hole in the wall Chinese restaurant called Genghis Khan, which served the most fantastic orange beef we’d ever had, so a return visit was in order, and since it was lunchtime, our timing was perfect. The beef (and sweet ‘n sour prawns) were every bit as good as we’d remembered. By mid-afternoon it was time to meet up with Tara’s mom, Tracy, in Bothell, so we left the market and parked the car at the park and ride station in Bothell, down the street from her home. She sort of surprised us by suddenly appearing in front of the car while we were in the middle of a rather intense make-out session…oopsie. Not quite in flagrante delicto, but let’s just say if the windows weren’t steamed up, they should’a been. I cooked us fried chicken that night, and Tracy made mashed potatoes and country gravy. Yummy stuff. Wednesday we mostly hung around the house; Tara and Tracy were throwing a baby shower for Eric’s girlfriend, Anne, that evening; when they left, Tracy’s boyfriend David and I kicked it at home and decided to watch a couple of movies. I’d never seen Gone With The Wind before and he urged me to check it out, so I did – and naturally, was quite impressed. It’s not considered a classic for nothin’, after all. We put on Urban Cowboy next, a different sort of classic film…if you’re fond of John Travolta, anyway. Which I am. So that was a nice and relaxing day. Thursday, Tara and I went out to breakfast and then – on a whim – decided to drive across Stevens Pass to Leavenworth, a quaint Bavarian village on the other side of the Cascades. I’d always wanted to go, and had no idea it was a mere 100 miles from Bothell. We had a fantastic time there, strolling hand-in-hand through town and stopping in at various shops – an olive oil and vinegar place, a hippie joint (pun intended), a Christmas store, an antique place, a taffy shop – and naturally, had to buy a big ol’ soft and warm German pretzel to share on our way back. That evening Tracy made a pork roast with garlic mashed potatoes, and Eric and Anne came over for dinner and Wii bowling. I was promised a lemon if I made a beer run with Eric, and eagerly took Tara up on that offer. (Inside joke. Very funny. Trust me). We then played cards before heading to bed. Friday we said our goodbyes and made the trek back home; we had my parents over for dinner, and Tara was sweet enough to cook for them, whipping up her chicken broccoli braid. It was a night of good conversation, the wine was flowing, and Frank Sinatra crooned to us over the iPod. Saturday sucked. But only because of that trip to the airport at 3:30. Before that, the day was just fine and dandy! So, all in all, an excellent visit.

It just makes me that much more eager to have her around all the time. It’s going to be amazing.

Our belated V-Day dinner.

The Chef's Special that night: baked salmon stuffed with shrimp, crab and brie. It was heavenly.

Because I'm a romantic bastard, remember?

The iconic sign at Pike Place Market.

Pike Place: It's like an indoor farmer's market on steroids.

A plate full of orange awesome and sweet 'n sour delicious!

View from near the summit - Stevens Pass, WA.

My sneaky girlfriend hiding a snowball, which was subsequently launched in my direction.

Leavenworth, WA.

Even the Starbucks in Leavenworth looks like it's in the middle of Germany.

The Great Grilled Cheese Experiment of 2012

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A few weeks ago, I wrote about grilled cheese sandwiches. The feedback was impressive; I received more comments on that post than any other. Go figure! And I have to say, you guys inspired me. There were so many creative suggestions for different types of grilled cheese I decided I’d have to give some of them a try. Thus, the Great Grilled Cheese Experiment of 2012 was born.

The truth is, I was itching for an excuse to do something fun like this. Over the years, I’ve taken a scientific approach to figuring out some of the mysteries of daily life. In fact, I sometimes think of myself as the unofficial third MythBuster. Adam, Jamie and Mark. Has a nice ring to it, no? (And yes, I get that there are other people on the show who could already lay claim to that title. Humor me here, okay?). In the past, I have tried to fry an egg on the sidewalk; held a blind ketchup taste test; and grown mold in the back of the refrigerator. That last one was unintentional, but whatever. With such a storied pedigree in my blood, the idea of whipping up a bunch of these sandwiches and seeing which one was best appealed to me. Once I mentioned it to Tara, she was on board, too. So I went to the store to stock up on a variety of different cheeses and breads, and on Monday the two of us prepared four different sandwiches, all taken from comments left on my blog post. The contenders were:

  • Pear and brie on rye, as mentioned by The Edmonton Tourist.
  • Havarti, swiss and brown mustard on wheat, as mentioned by my friend Jonna at Read Between The Whines.
  • Mild cheddar and colby on white bread and dipped in salsa, suggested by Tara’s mom, Tracy.
  • Mozzarella and sharp cheddar on rye, courtesy of a woman who goes by the moniker SoCalGal.

The sandwiches were all quite different from my go-to sharp cheddar on white, and Tara and I were eager to try them all. So, come lunch time, we fired up the Foreman Grill (a wonderful device for preparing grilled cheese – actually, that’s the only thing I ever use it for), and commenced to sampling the four varieties. Surprisingly (or maybe not, since we are so in tune with each other already and are quite the perfect match), she and I not only agreed on the winner, but also the exact order of the four sandwiches sampled.

Clockwise from top left: Jonna's sandwich, The Edmonton Tourist's, Tracy's, and SoCalGal's.

First up was the pear and brie on rye. The cheese was creamy and the sweetness of the pear perfectly contrasted it, as well as provided a nice crunch, giving it some much-needed textural variety. We found the rye to be a bit overpowering, however. Perhaps a different bread would work better?

Next up was the havarti, swiss and brown mustard on wheat. We were both somewhat leery of the mustard, not being fans of anything with the word “poupon” in it, but actually this condiment provided a nice tang, and the dual cheeses melted together perfectly. The sandwich was tasty, though the mustard did, indeed, claim dominance.

Our third sandwich was the mozzarella and sharp cheddar on rye. Again, the cheeses melted together beautifully and I’m already a sucker for sharp cheddar. And again, the rye bread was a little overwhelming.

Last up was Tracy’s mild cheddar and colby on white. A classic combination, made unique with the addition of a side of salsa. We did half cheddar, half colby jack, in order to try both. What can I say? Every bite was delicious.

So, who was the big winner? The plates speak for themselves…

The amount of sandwich left on each plate directly correlates with our enjoyment of each grilled cheese concoction.

Congratulations to Tracy for the winning sandwich! I was somewhat surprised with the result, figuring one of the more exotic combinations would take the prize (really, there is no prize other than bragging rights, to be technical), but wouldn’t you know it, the simple sandwich on white bread appealed to our taste buds the most. I especially enjoyed dipping it in the salsa; this gave it a nice, tangy kick that elevated the sandwich above the others.

Gooey, cheesy goodness!

Tara and I enjoyed the challenge so much, we’re thinking there may be another round in the future. We’ve already received suggestions for other grilled cheese sandwiches that sound good and worthy of sampling. Maybe we can turn this into a Sweet 16-style elimination tournament with one eventual grand prize winner. The things we do in the name of science, kids!

Have you ever had a similar food challenge? What tempts your palate and teases your taste buds most? And, for crying out loud, have you ever tried to fry an egg on the sidewalk and had success?? I’m 0 for 2 there.

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A Man’s Guide to Surviving the Bra Department

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36 hours into Tara’s visit, and we’re having a wonderful time! We went out for doughnuts yesterday with the kids (but no, it wasn’t Voodoo – we’ll save the maple bacon bar goodness for another time), drove to Woodland to visit the Cedar Creek Grist Mill, had lunch, ran some errands, and enjoyed a home cooked meal and drinks last night before we went to bed. Dinner was late, though – we didn’t sit down to eat until 9:00. Tara and I had gone to the mall that evening for a little fun I like to call bra shopping.

Because, well, that’s what it was. Bra shopping. For her, just to be perfectly clear.

As a guy, finding yourself in the bra section of a department store is both intimidating and a little bit embarrassing. You have to play it just right, otherwise you end up looking like a real boob.

Err…

Seriously, though. It takes nerves of steel to keep your composure while walking amongst racks full of lacy undergarments. Generally, I’ve found the best approach is to keep my eyes downcast. I feel weird actually looking at the bras. Let your eyes linger a little too long, and every woman in a 50-yard radius is going to think you’re some kind of lecherous pervert. Which may be the case anyway, but they don’t know that! Steady and cool wins the race. I have to admit though, it’s very difficult not to look. Bras are a big mystery to me! Like cup sizes, for instance. In school, if I got an A on an assignment, I was pretty happy, whereas a D was borderline failing. With bras, however, the opposite is true. Those poor women forced to buy bras with A cups generally look miserable, and often long for a nice C or D instead. Or maybe it’s just the poor men dating those poor women? I don’t know, I’m confused. Fortunately, let’s just say if this were high school Tara’s grades would be below average, but she can hold her head up high in the bra department!

So we’re in JC Penney looking at the racks…umm, poor phrasing there…looking through the racks, I should say. Or she was. I was wandering along behind her (but not too far behind – a man should never, ever venture into the bra section alone, for crying out loud, as that just screams “creep” or “cross-dresser” and I’d rather be known as neither). I was just close enough for people to know we were together, but not so close as to make it appear that I had anything more than a passing interest in the myriad assortment of undergarments. I aimed for a look somewhere between slight boredom and minor impatience (hoping to appear to be a guy in a hurry to get to the beer store, even though there is no beer store in the mall), while my eyes were secretly darting about, taking in the various bras in sweeping, two-second glances. I couldn’t help but wonder why anybody would choose a blandly boring white bra when there were lacy red ones and leopard-spotted ones and, be still my heart, bras with peace symbols in a rainbow of different colors! I had just arrived at the conclusion that, in terms of bras, my ideology is one that “less is more” when a saleslady appeared from out of nowhere and asked if we were finding everything okay.

I was so startled, I jumped. There is no “we” – it’s all her! She’s the one doing the shopping! I’m not looking at, I mean for, anything – I swear! I wanted to assure her. But, suave dude that I am, I simply let my girlfriend do the talking.

“Are you uncomfortable being here?” Tara asked.

“Nope,” I replied. Cool. As. A. Cucumber.

“Your face looks a little red,” she replied.

“Ahh, that. Well, you see, it’s a little warm in here,” I said. And made a big show out of rolling up the sleeves of my sweatshirt.

Never let ‘em smell fear. That’s another motto of mine.

The goal is to not look. Way easier said than done. (Courtesy of ilovemybra.com).

Tara found a suitable bra to try on, and went into the fitting room, which was fine. And by “fine” I mean, which would have been fine had I been allowed in to accompany her, but noooo. Somebody had to wait outside. Suddenly, to my consternation, I found myself stranded in the bra department, completely and utterly alone. I felt like a fighter pilot who had been forced to eject from his flaming, twisting, rapidly-losing-altitude-and-about-to-crash jet and had landed deep in the jungle in the midst of enemy territory, hoping and praying not to encounter a hostile army while awaiting eventual rescue. As long as nobody came along, I would be fine. I was leaning against the wall, arms crossed in a display of faux casualness, when two young women approached. CODE RED!! I wanted to scream, but there was nobody else around. Sure enough, they shot me strange glances as they passed, and one of them either smirked at me or giggled. Maybe both. I practically bolted at that point, but luckily Tara came out and, whew, I was no longer alone.

Finally, thankfully (and yet all too soon), Tara found what she was looking for. A bra that was so sophisticated, so versatile, that it could transform itself into a bunch of different bras. Strapless, regular, and some other combinations that I am not sure about. All I know is, it seemed pretty complex and sort of reminded me of the Transformers. The saleslady who had startled me previously remarked about what a good deal Tara was getting, as this was like buying five bras in one! I was impressed, but my sweetheart seemed nonplussed by such a bold claim. Maybe women are used to that sort of thing, but if I happened upon boxer shorts that turned into – I don’t know, socks? a t-shirt? a cape? – I’d be fairly enchanted, and would consider that purchase money well spent.

In the end, Tara got her bra, which will apparently come in handy for tonight’s belated Valentine’s dinner in Portland, somehow matching or complementing her dress. At least that was my assumption, until I found out she bought a bra that had to look like she wasn’t wearing a bra, something about hiding the straps because she’s wearing an off-the-shoulder outfit. At which point I asked her why she didn’t just forgo a bra entirely, an idea which seemed perfectly logical (and, let’s face it, sexy) to me, but which she seemed aghast over. Fine, honey. If you want to spend $22 on an undergarment only to pretend it’s not even there, be my guest.

I’ll be sure to keep you guys abreast of how our date goes!

Love Is In The Air. And Chowder, too.

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A few days ago I got a hankering for a really good cup of clam chowder, so I did what anybody would do to satisfy that craving: made a 240-mile round trip to go get me some.

What? You wouldn’t?!

One of the things that attracted me to Tara was the fact that she once drove 72 miles for a corn dog. Clearly, this is a woman after my own heart.

And okay, fine, there was more than just the clam chowder at the end of my destination. There was sand and surf and salt air. The ocean. Fun shops to browse through. And the world’s largest frying pan. I’d been longing to take a trip to Long Beach, Washington for some time now – and with a kid-free Saturday looming large, decent weather (meaning overcast and drizzly), and an iPod full of tunes, the open road beckoned this past weekend. I decided to hit the road at 9 AM sharp. I stopped in Astoria a couple of hours later to walk along the Columbia River for a bit, before proceeding across the 3.5-mile long bridge that connects Oregon and Washington. I arrived in Long Beach about 11:30.

The unique and cool thing about this place is, cars are allowed on the beach. If you’ve never done so before, let me tell you – driving across the sand is a blast! I had my window rolled down and the breeze in my hair made me giddy with excitement and the sense of adventure.

And cold, too. Brr. February on the Washington coast? A tad chilly. I quickly rolled the window back up.

But still, it was a great way to spend the day. I took a walk along a section of the world’s longest beach (yes, it really is) before retreating to my car to watch the waves crash to shore. I spent an hour or two reading and relaxing and enjoying the scenery. Back in town, I hit a few stores. And when 4:00 rolled around, I headed to a bar and grill called Castaways Seafood Grille for a couple of cocktails. And that clam chowder I had come so far to have. It was delicious, I’m happy to report. And then I added fish ‘n chips to go along with it. I always crave those when I’m at the coast. Properly full, I headed back to the beach, and fate smiled down upon me by providing just enough of a break in the overcast to surprise me with a sunset. It was unexpected, and magnificent.

I then made the long trek back home in the dark, arriving back at Casa Petruska eleven hours after I set out. It was pretty much the perfect day.

I say “pretty much” because Tara wasn’t with me, and she was the one missing ingredient. But while she wasn’t there physically she was there in spirit, and we texted and talked throughout the day, anyway. Next time I go, we will go.

I’m also a little sad that we aren’t together for Valentine’s Day, which is ironic because I never cared much for this day. I used to refer to it as a phony holiday invented by greeting card companies looking to make a fast buck, assuming there were kickbacks involved between the chocolate and flower industries, as well. God, I’m such a romantic. But I realized that this attitude only existed when I was single, or married to somebody who complained that the flowers I gave her weren’t nice enough or delivered to her work. Is it any wonder I greeted this day with cynicism?! I have since discovered that when you are in a relationship that makes you happy, you want to celebrate Valentine’s Day with the person you love. So, the distance between us feels greater than usual today. Add in the fact that today is our official five-month anniversary, and it’s even worse.

But.

Next year we’ll be celebrating together. And, Tara is coming up for another visit on Friday, and staying for eight days and nights. We’re celebrating VD a few days late with a dinner in Portland on Sunday. This helps soften the blow.

It’s going to be a fantastic visit, and brings us ever closer to the day when she moves in with me for good. Every day will feel like Valentine’s then.

Aww. What do you know? I am a romantic bastard, after all.

The Astoria-Megler Bridge spans the Columbia River and connects Oregon and Washington.

That there's the world's largest frying pan in the background.

Well worth the 240-mile roundtrip.

Don't know who these people are, but I don't care: I love this shot.

Mr. DeMille, I’m Ready for My Closeup

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My life has been unusually balanced lately.

In the past, it has seemed like there were hardly enough hours in the day to get everything accomplished – even being out of work. I’d felt like I was too busy online to watch any TV, too busy watching TV to read a book, too busy reading a book to sleep, too busy sleeping to get online. It was a vicious circle from which there was seemingly no escape. This dates back years, and it was worse when I had a job, because then I was too busy working to get anything done. For whatever reason though, lately it feels like I’ve been branching out and getting lots of things done without spreading myself too thin, leading to a strange but welcome sense of harmony. I feel all Zen-like and at peace, like no goal is too distant or out of reach. Like I can take on the world, even.

I feel like there is nothing I can’t try. Never heard the word “impossible.” This time, there’s no stopping me. I’m gonna do it!

Good lord, did I just channel the spirit of Laverne & Shirley?! Schlemeel, schlamazel indeed.

Anyway…..

Take yesterday, for example. I woke up after a solid eight hours of sleep. Brewed a pot of coffee, read the paper. Watched some TV. Made a killer sandwich for lunch. Applied for a whole bunch of jobs while listening to music. Put away dishes, cleaned the kitchen, topped off the aquarium, scooped the litterbox, watched a little more TV, headed to my parents’ house for dinner, came home, chatted with my girlfriend for more than two hours, read a couple of chapters of The Hunger Games (which I finally picked up and started the other day, and became instantly infatuated with), and then went to bed. That, my friends, is a full day. And very balanced.

Oh, and I also applied to be an extra on a TV show. That came right after dinner with my parents but before the phone call with my girlfriend, if you’re keeping track.

Earlier in the day, I’d checked out Grimm for the first time. It’s a drama on NBC centered around a homicide detective who learns he is a descendant of the brothers Grimm, whose dark and sinister fairy tale characters weren’t just figments of the imagination, but real-life creatures who have preyed on humanity for centuries. This guy can see through their disguises and must protect the citizens of present day Portland, Oregon from their maniacal plots. Pretty cool concept, though in truth I was drawn to it mainly because it is set in Portland. I enjoyed the first episode very much, and intend to get caught up since the rest of the season is available for viewing On Demand. My tastes in television have definitely evolved over the years; I’ve dropped a lot of reality TV and standard issue procedurals (like C.S.I.) in favor of darker and quirkier programming. Think The Walking Dead and Dexter and Breaking Bad and ABC’s new drama The River. So in that regard, Grimm is right up my alley.

Hey, I could be Random Dead Body #3! (Courtesy of poptower.com).

After finishing the show I got on Facebook and, coincidentally, there was a link from one of the local news stations – a story about how Grimm was putting out a casting call and looking for extras. They’re shooting episodes around Portland from now until April and are looking for a good mix of people to fill a variety of different roles, including stand-in, speaking, and non-speaking extras. The article went on to state that “ALL ages are welcome; ALL body types; ALL experience levels; and ALL roles are paid.” Well hell, I thought. Why not throw my hat in the ring? Might as well take advantage of this still-unemployed situation while I can.

Maybe it’ll lead to bigger and better things. Question: do they hand out Emmy awards for Random Guy Walking Down The Street? What if I’m a really convincing stroller?! I’m willing to practice, you know. I’m a firm believer in “method acting.” I’ll spend all day walking down the street if I have to, just so I can really nail the role. I can mix things up a little, too. Have a newspaper tucked beneath my arm in one scene. Maybe hold a Starbucks cup in another. And I’m willing to improvise. Whip out my phone and hold a fake conversation. Pretend to hail a taxi. Jump away from the curb in order to avoid being splashed by a bicyclist careening through a puddle. I can’t wait ’til they seat me next to Bryan Cranston at the awards ceremonies (I won’t let fame go to my head, I promise, but I’m going to insist on this arrangement; he is so fantastic on Breaking Bad that I’d like to pick his brain on future walking-down-the street ideas, like for instance, could I get away with skipping if the scene was in need of a little levity? What about impromptu hop-scotching?). I’ll do whatever I need to, because we actors take our craft very seriously.

I draw the line at nudity, though.

Unless it’s tastefully done and central to the plot, of course.

So, we’ll see what comes of this! The application process was straightforward and simple. I had to answer a few questions (height, weight, shoe size, make and  model of my car, do I own a dog and would I be willing to bring him on the set (okay, that one was a little odd, but aren’t those Hollywood folk a strange lot to begin with?)) and submit a couple of photos. Done, and done. Now I’ll just wait for the president of NBC to call me personally and tell me I’m hired.

Or, you know. Some assistant of an assistant to an assistant.

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Hasta La Vista, January

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I think I hit upon the perfect money-saving scheme, without even intentionally trying.

During the final waning days of December, I was in Nevada, so I didn’t have time to look for a 2012 calendar as I ordinarily would have. By the time I’d returned home and gotten around to the chore, the shelves were distressingly bare, limiting my choices to calendars with pictures of cats or Civil War heroes or the cast of Twilight. Can I get a big “no, thanks!” to each of these? I have no interest in staring at pictures of fuzzy Siamese kittens or Robert E. Lee or a shirtless Taylor Lautner for thirty-day stretches at a time. I questioned whether I even needed a calendar in the first place – my days all sort of blend together seamlessly anyway, and the mobile calendar widget on my smartphone does the trick just fine – but I suppose I’m a traditionalist. Besides, I have a decorative wooden calendar frame hanging in the bedroom. Something’s gotta go in there. I’m trying to class up the joint before Tara moves in, after all.

I realized that I could probably order a calendar online, so I went to the Lang calendars website (the brand I typically buy, and yes, I have my own favorite brand of calendar – these are just the right size and shape and feature decorative folk art by the likes of Thomas Kincade, and while the male in me would be happy to settle for the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar, see “classing up the joint” and “Tara moves in” above) and was happy to see they were marked down to $6.99 from their usual price of $15.99. It pays to shop for a calendar in mid-January, I quickly surmised.

Speaking of 88% off - she's about 12% clothed!

Only then I got sidetracked. There was another trip to Nevada, not to mention the minutiae of daily life, and suddenly it was February. I really need to find a calendar, I thought, and returned to the Lang website. This time, every last calendar in stock was marked down to $1.99. In other words, a savings of roughly 88%. I found one I liked and ordered it without hesitation, and while I had earlier come to the realization that it pays to shop for a calendar in mid-January, I knew now that it really pays to wait until the beginning of February to buy a calendar. I’m thinking I’m going to have to start doing this every year! I mean, is January really that important, anyway? The holidays are over. Winter is in full swing. The days are short. What are you going to be filling them with, other than resolution-inspired trips to the gym for three or four days before that lifestyle change peters out? You used to have the Super Bowl, but that’s been held in February for a decade now. There’s Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I suppose, but most people still have to work. We could probably get rid of the month of January and never even notice! Err…no offense, dad. I know it’s your birthday and all. But I don’t need a calendar to remember that. Besides, most calendars have a little miniature version of the preceding and next month in a box at the bottom. I can just leave December up an extra 31 days and if there’s something really important happening in January, I’ll squint.

Problem solved. Hasta la vista, January. Hello, 88% savings!

Didn't really want to stare at this guy for the next 12 months.

Speaking of the Super Bowl, yesterday was the Super Bowl. And while I didn’t have any real vested interest in the outcome of the game – my Broncos were defeated in the playoffs, sniff – I was sort of pulling for New England, because: A. They knocked Denver out of contention, and it’s an easier pill to swallow knowing your team was dethroned by the eventual Super Bowl champs; and 2. I made an ill-advised, last-minute bet with my dad on the outcome of the game. Granted, I only lost $5, but that negates the aforementioned calendar savings, doesn’t it? Damn! My dad hates the Patriots, so I figured I’d take advantage of his loathing and hopefully pocket an extra five bucks in the process. I should know better. The last time we bet on a Super Bowl game – two years ago, when the Saints beat the Colts – I ended up losing $20 to him, which means my dad is either some kind of football genius (who knew?) or really, really lucky. Or I suck at picking the winner.

Maybe a combination of the two.

In any case, I enjoyed the game as much as anybody watching alone can enjoy a game. The truth is, I missed Tara, and we were texting back and forth about how badly we longed to be together and how much fun next year’s Super Bowl is going to be. Which is true – it’s gonna rock! – but that did nothing to erase the fact that for one more year, I’d have to be content in watching it alone. The kids were supposed to be there, but ended up going back to their mom’s house a day early, which was kind of a bummer. Normally it’s a day custom made for snacking, but I didn’t feel like going to the trouble of preparing a bunch of snack foods just for myself, so I settled on cooking a batch of fried chicken, which – ha, I realize this now – is probably even more work than snack foods would have been. Nevertheless, it was a recipe Tara had found in Bon Apetit magazine, and despite a mishap with the salt (I doubled what the recipe called for because I didn’t read the directions all the way through in advance, oops), it turned out crispy on the outside, moist inside, and packed with flavor. So between the chicken and the bloody marys I’d been working on since 10 AM, I was pretty content. The game wasn’t bad, the half-time show felt lame in all its Material Girl lip-synced glory (can we please have some rock ‘n roll next year?!), and the commercials scored more touchdowns than either team. All in all though, a decent enough way to spend a Sunday afternoon. Bittersweet too, because this means no more football for six long months.

Boo.

I’m going to have to pencil in opening day on my new 88%-off calendar, once it arrives!

Tragedy on Wheat

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Last night, I was making one of those simple yet satisfying dinners the kids and I enjoy so much: grilled cheese sandwiches. With tomato soup, of course. Because you can’t have grilled cheese without tomato soup. I think our forefathers wrote that clause into the Constitution somewhere.

You also can’t have grilled cheese on anything but white bread. It’s the same thing with peanut butter. While I have nothing against wheat bread or multigrain bread or oat bread or rye bread or pumpernickel bread for other sandwiches, grilled cheese tastes best on plain ol’ white. Probably because the cheese is the star of the show, and a strong and assertive bread – much like an egotistical actor – will muscle its way into the limelight and demand your attention. This simply will not do.

I prepped dinner methodically because I’m an extremely anal organized individual, and I like to have all the ingredients set out and ready to go before I begin the actual cooking process. I had the tomato soup simmering on the stove and the cheese neatly sliced. All that was left was the bread (with both slices buttered on the outside, naturally), so I grabbed the loaf from the pantry – and let out a cry of dismay.

The bread was brown instead of white. I am not racist, but was I ever crestfallen.

How did this happen, I wondered? I had been to the grocery store a few days earlier, and had carefully selected a loaf of white bread. I remembered this clearly, because it was the store brand and on sale for 99 cents. Such a good bargain, in fact, that there had been but a single loaf left, buried in the far bottom corner of the otherwise empty shelf. I grabbed it triumphantly and stuck it in my baby cart, not realizing that I had, in fact, snatched a loaf of wheat bread by mistake – an oversight that would become glaringly obvious minutes before it was time to assemble the grilled cheese sandwiches.

In a panic, I did what any self-respecting person in this situation would: I posted a status update on Facebook bemoaning my lack of white bread.

The best grilled cheese sandwiches are always made with white bread...and served with tomato soup! (Courtesy of hspieces.com).

A few friends commented that I needed to get over it already, that the sandwich would be just fine on wheat, the type of bread doesn’t matter, yadda yadda. I scoffed at those people, the poor unfortunate and ill-informed folk who obviously, obviously, had never actually tried a grilled cheese sandwich on white bread and thereby could not be expected to know any better. There were others who agreed with me, though. Alice and Kandace, you two are my enlightened sisters, fellow grilled cheese gurus who grouse grievously and groan gravely when the white bread is gone. Your wisdom is an inspiration.

At that point, I considered my options. I could knock on my neighbor’s door and see if they had any white bread. I’ve done this before, borrowing both eggs and a cup of sugar (how cliche), and in case you’re wondering how one can “borrow” a food item, said neighbor did in fact knock on my door another time looking for a couple of eggs himself, so it all balances out in the end (even if the eggs they gave me were expensive, brown and probably came from cage-free and free-range chickens while mine were the cheapest dozen I could find). Oh, and his wife once showed up on my porch wearing a bath robe and begging for maple syrup. I was single at the time, she’s rather easy on the eyes, and let’s just say I was happy to give her something sweet. Err…anyway…I quickly discounted this borrowing-bread option because I would need a good dozen slices, and that’s like half a loaf, give or take. I was, therefore, forced to plunge ahead and use the wheat bread.

So I did, and the grilled cheese sandwiches were good, but I guarantee they would have been better had the bread been white. The saving grace was the cheese. I used Tillamook Extra Sharp Cheddar and, as Esther pointed out on Facebook, as long as you have good cheese, you’ll have a good sandwich. Sorry, Wisconsinites…umm, Wisconsinite (singular, and that would be you, Jess)…but Tillamook is the best. cheese. ever. And ice cream, and yogurt, and butter. Those Oregon cows squirt out some damn fine milk, trust me.

I am glad to have survived the Great Grilled Cheese Debacle of ’12 unscathed. It wasn’t quite the tragedy on wheat it might have turned out to be, I’m happy to report, but next time I’ll double check the pantry to make sure I’ve got white bread in there.

How do you make your grilled cheese sandwich? Is white bread a necessary component, or am I overstating its importance? Do you add anything extra to your sandwich, like tomatoes or pickles or bacon? Do you butter the outside of the bread, use something different, or skip that step entirely? And is tomato soup part of the routine? Inquiring minds want to know!

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Kids

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Just got back from the grocery store and it was a real adventure. What made this particular trip so fun? The constant, ear-splitting screams of a small child.

I assumed, at first, that a baby was crying. If so, she had quite the set of lungs. This continued, nonstop, for a good fifteen minutes, the kid never once pausing or coming up for air. Her cries echoed through the entire store, making for a very unpleasant shopping experience – I could see this on the faces of the other shoppers I passed. Eventually the cries drew closer, and I spotted the offender. Surprisingly, she was about three years old. Her cheeks were blazing, tears streamed down her face, and she continued to wail incessantly. Her dad blatantly ignored her, pushing the cart with a stoic look, while her mom walked alongside, ignoring her with equally stubborn indignation.

The whole thing was sadly pathetic – and completely unnecessary.

All they had to do was pick the child up. Hug her, pat her on the back, comfort her. I don’t know what the issue was, and I understand that it’s none of my business, but a battle of wills out in public should never be allowed to continue unabated for so long. Eventually, the dad did scoop her up, and what do you know – the crying stopped instantly. Nobody said parenting was easy – I know this from firsthand experience – but it certainly doesn’t need to be that difficult, either.

I’ve been reading a lot of old blog posts lately. The summer of 2006 was a difficult and contentious time in my life; my marriage completely fell apart, and I have the whole thing chronicled elsewhere. Every event that transpired, every emotion I felt, is captured for posterity. This was unintentional; I’d been blogging for years, and when bad things started to happen, I continued to write. If anything, I stepped up the pace. So, for better or worse, I’ve got this very difficult time in my life all written down for me to look back on whenever the mood strikes. It’s difficult reading, but invariably makes me feel pretty good about my life these days, because it gives me a better appreciation for the happiness that Tara has brought me.

One of the things that I’ve been reminded of, in reading those old posts, is how crucial a role my kids played in helping me to survive a very trying time.

Divorce is difficult on everybody, and my kids experienced firsthand the disintegration of their parents’ marriage. It must have been an awful thing to witness, and I felt horrible that they had to live through it. And yet, through it all, they remained strong and supportive. I refuse to point fingers and place any blame – we’ll just call it an unfortunate situation and leave it at that – but throughout that summer, more often than not, it was just me and the kids, morning, noon and night. I think I depended on them just as much as they depended on me – but I don’t think they know that. Or knew that, because last night – some five and a half years after the fact – I let them know how important they’d been to me that summer. In fact, I shared with Rusty a blurb I had written one day in August.

Rusty, by the way, is the only person in the whole world I feel I can truly count on…my son’s stock keeps rising in my eyes every day…I’ve got Rusty, thankfully. He’s been awesome through this. An eleven-year-old source of strength. I think I’ll keep him around…

Audrey, too, was wonderful throughout the whole ordeal. At six, she was younger, and it was more difficult for her to process what was going on – but she rarely complained, and weathered the storm admirably.

The point is, I wanted my kids to know how thankful I was to have them, and how important they’d been to me then. And, how important they are to me now. It’s true that they are older and more independent. That they fight with each other and don’t always do as they are told and sometimes get on my last nerve. But, they are good kids, and I’m lucky they have turned out the way they have. Considering what they have gone through, and the fact that they still rotate between two households with very different lifestyles, ending up someplace different every week, they are remarkably well-adjusted and pretty well behaved. My friends point this out often, and Tara – who was understandably nervous over meeting them initially – has truly taken to them (and vice-versa). It’s made what might have been an awkward transition pretty damn simple.

So, Rusty and Audrey, even though I sometimes snap at you guys and nitpick over little things, know that I’m proud of you, and glad that you guys are around. I can’t imagine life without you.

And no, I am not dying. I just thought I’d tell you that!

One of our many outings in the summer of 2006, proving that even in the midst of turmoil we still managed to have a rip-roaring, bloody good time!

The topic of kids, actually, is an interesting one. When we first divorced, I swore to myself that I would never again have another child. I felt like I’d paid my dues and, back then, had no interest in going through the whole process again. But over the years, my stance softened, and my attitude changed. The older my kids got, the more I missed those younger years (which is pretty ironic, because when they were babies I couldn’t wait until they were toddlers, and then when they were toddlers I couldn’t wait until they were in school…there was this never-ending cycle of wishing they were older and more independent, until suddenly they were. Then I was like hey, wait a minute…  Maybe this is something all parents experience?). Plus, if I had it to do all over again, I know I’d do a better job. The kid crying in the store is a perfect example. When I was younger I was less patient, and more apt to try to prove a point, never mind the fact that it is impossible to reason with anybody under the age of 7. With maturity comes wisdom. I’d never let my kid cry like that. And, knowing how fast kids grow up, I think I’d appreciate those younger years more. I wouldn’t be in such a rush for my kid  to turn older. There’s a lot to be said for cherishing the moment.

Mom and dad, you can breathe easy – I’m not trying to tell you anything here. I’m not ending this post with some big, surprising revelation. And I know I’m not getting any younger. If I ever did have another kid, I’d have to bring along an oxygen tank whenever I pushed the stroller, as I’m sure I’d end up winded from the exertion.

Actually, I kid. Tara told me the other day she has trouble keeping up with me sometimes. And I’ve got eight years on her. Maybe it’s the fact that I do have eight years on her that has me thinking this way? Dating a younger woman without children, the idea is bound to pop into your head at some point. At least the thought doesn’t have me running in the opposite direction, or even breaking a sweat. And that probably has a lot to do with how good Rusty and Audrey have been over the years.

So again, I thank you two. For being there then, and for being there now.

And no, really, I swear I don’t have some kind of terminal disease…