Tag Archives: Seinfeld

Turning Into My Girlfriend

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Slowly but surely, I am turning into my girlfriend.

I suppose this is natural in any relationship. Spend enough time around your significant other, and you start to absorb some of their traits. It’s not like I’m suddenly wearing heels and carrying a purse – at least not in public – but there are little things I’ve picked up here and there. Habits and phrases and the like. And I believe she’s done the same. After all, she was a football fan when we met, and now she’s a Denver Broncos fan, which probably has something to do with my longstanding allegiance to the team. Either that, or she’s suddenly developed excellent sports tastes.

(As an aside, there was a brief time when I did carry a purse. Well, not really. But I did strap on a fanny pack a few times in the late 80s, until I actually got a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized that doing so was wrong on about a hundred different levels. Oh, the shame. I worked in a luggage store and they were all the rage. Luckily, I never succumbed to the whole “man bag” craze despite an episode of Seinfeld (greatest sitcom ever!) in which Elaine convinces Jerry to carry a purse. But I digress).

Anyway. This became evident to me yesterday, when I was shopping for groceries and picked up a tube of squeezable minced garlic.

When I visited, Tara had a tube of squeezable minced garlic in her fridge, and I sort of made fun of that. In a lovable way, of course. Because there is nothing like freshly minced garlic, am I right or am I right? Especially when you’ve got a fancy garlic press (thanks, Ikea!) that makes it simple to mince garlic to your heart’s content. I couldn’t understand why somebody would pay $3 for a tube of garlic when you can buy a whole clove for 33-cents.

And then I tried it.

I was cooking her dinner that Tuesday after Christmas. Chicken cacciatore. The recipe calls for garlic, and because all she had was that squeezable tube, I grabbed it from the refrigerator and squirted a dash into the pan.

Wow, I thought. That was easy. And really convenient. There was no garlic to peel, no garlic press to disassemble and wash, no garlic residue on my fingers. And the dish did not suffer from a lack of fresh garlic. The dish, it turned out, had no idea I’d made a fourth-quarter substitution.

Which is why I forked over $3 for a tube of squeezable garlic yesterday.

But that’s a little thing. One bigger change I’ve noticed is a sudden interest in being sociable.

Not that I was ever a hermit or anything. Growing up an Air Force brat, all my childhood friends are scattered across the globe, so there is nobody I keep in touch with. I have been unable to locate my best friend from high school, despite repeated attempts utilizing the resources of the world wide web. And the friends I made from work are all married or partnered up. It’s tough being the proverbial third wheel. Because of these factors, more often than not I found myself alone when I didn’t have the kids. This didn’t bother me; I’m the guy who took a solo road trip across the country, remember? But there was definitely something missing from my life. I would look to my parents, who always have friends to invite over or hang out with, and wonder how they made it all seem so effortless. I think a big part of it was a mental block on my part.

Turns out I enjoy hosting dinner parties!

And then I met Tara. My first trip to Ely, she had her friend Ray join us for dinner one night. I was a little surprised to learn he was coming over, but we had a good time together. In October, when we visited her mom in Seattle, there was a night spent playing cards and drinking wine with her brother’s girlfriend, Anne. Again, a highlight of the trip. I was beginning to realize I enjoyed the company of others – the laughter, the camaraderie, the stories. So when she and I threw a dinner party the Friday before New Year’s, I was actually excited to play co-host, and had a great time.

So, when I had friends from Sacramento in town over the weekend, the logical thing to do was to invite them over for dinner. We’d already had plans to meet up in Portland on Saturday, but I figured, why not have everybody over to my house in the evening, as well? That way we could have a nice, relaxing dinner, drink some wine, play some cards, listen to music, let the conversation flow. I floated the idea out there, and it was met with enthusiasm. It was a spontaneous move on my part, and totally inspired by Tara, but I was excited to have people over and entertain ‘em. Besides, once I’d sent the text to Chris, I couldn’t very well back down!

Earlier in the day we’d met up at Powell’s Books in the funky, eclectic Hawthorne District of southeast Portland. My friend Chris (from Portland Book Review) and her daughter Ruthie, and Heidi and her daughter Jordan, who had flown up from Sacramento. I first met Heidi in person last June, when I lost my car in the parking garage (another Seinfeldian moment in my life), though I’ve known her through blogging – and as a business associate – for years. We walked around Hawthorne, stopping in a bunch of cool shops and taking a break for lunch at a Mexican restaurant before parting ways. I had a dinner to prepare, after all, and even though spaghetti is fairly simple, it still required a few hours to cook.

Anybody wanna guess why I ended up on the kitchen counter?

They showed up at 5 PM and the five of us – plus my kids – spent the next several hours eating, drinking, talking, listening to records, and playing Phase 10, the card game that I have really gotten hooked on these past few months. It turned out to be a great evening, much more comfortable (and less expensive) than if we’d been out on the town. I enjoyed having everybody over, though it definitely would have been even better if Tara had been there. That’s one thing we’ve talked about – the dinners we’ll host and the parties we’ll have when she’s living here. I can’t wait for those!

And I thank her for bringing me out of my shell and introducing me to a whole new world, one which I find quite appealing.

Dude, Where’s My Car?

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There’s a Seinfeld episode called “The Parking Garage” where our intrepid foursome vainly search for Kramer’s car in a parking garage, but can’t remember where he parked it. Kramer is lugging around a heavy air conditioner, Elaine has a bag of goldfish that will die soon, George has to meet his parents by 6:15 to take them out for a celebratory anniversary dinner, and Jerry has to go to the bathroom very badly. Hours pass before they finally locate the car, and both Jerry and George end up arrested for public urination while Elaine’s goldfish die. And then the car won’t start. (Side note: Seinfeld was brilliant. I miss it). In an example of life imitating art, I found myself in a similar situation yesterday.

I had met up with some friends-slash-business-associates at Powell’s Books that morning. Heidi and Ross, from Sacramento Book Review, were in town to meet up with Chris from Portland Book Review and to take a mini-vacation. Though I’ve worked with Heidi and Ross for years, having originally gotten to know Heidi through her online diary/blog, this was the first time we’d met. The power of the internet never ceases to amaze me; through her writing, I felt like I knew Heidi intimately, and we hugged each other and chatted away like old friends the moment we were introduced. I have been blogging, in one form or another, on and off for ten years now, and have met a handful of people in real life. (Literally: there have been five). These folks have become friends, confidantes, business partners, and lovers. (Not all of them fall into every category, of course). I have found that friendships forged online and maintained over the years are every bit as strong as those that develop in a more traditional manner. Growing up an Air Force “brat” and moving around every few years, I never made lasting friends with anybody from my childhood. It’s made me somewhat of a loner in my adult life, so I value and cherish the friendships I have collected in recent years.

We talked for a good long while in Powell’s, browsed for a bit, and left. I’d arrived before anybody else, so I grabbed a paperback off the shelf – something to thumb through while waiting for the others in the in-store coffee shop – and got so engrossed in the book (T.C. Boyle’s Talk, Talk) that I ended up buying it, continuing a longstanding tradition of never leaving Powell’s without making a purchase of some sort.

A couple of cool things about Powell’s Books, which I mention frequently here because it’s my favorite Portland hangout: it used to be a car dealership, and you can still see evidence of that amidst the books.

Powell's Books

The Blue Room in Powell's used to contain used cars.

And, the men’s bathrooms have upscale, literate graffiti lining the grout between the tiles. I call it groutffiti. I first noticed it years ago, and always get a chuckle out of it. Here’s just one example. Others include “Grout at the devil,” “The Grout Gatsby,” “Grout of Africa,” etc.

Powell's Books

Groutffiti at Powell's.

After Powell’s, we headed to the Deschutes Brewery for lunch. I was intrigued enough to try their daily special – a grown-up version of a Sloppy Joe, served open-faced on Texas toast and topped with grated cheese and crispy onion straws. There was a bottle of Secret Aardvark Habanero Sauce to dip my fries into, and since I don’t like “real” beer, I opted for the “root” version. Great meal, great conversation, and Ross picked up the tab. Thanks, buddy. From there we proceeded to Voodoo Doughnut, another Portland institution I’ve mentioned before. When we walked the nine blocks or so to get there, it was like that scene out of National Lampoon’s Vacation where Clark Griswold and family arrive at Wally World after a long cross-country trek, only to find out the park is closed. Voodoo is undergoing an expansion and remodel and, even though their website had indicated it would reopen by May 30, was in fact nowhere even close to being ready for business as the interior was gutted. So we took Ross’s rental car and drove to the east side location, Voodoo Too. Waited in line thirty minutes for doughnuts, but it was totally worth it. I took a box home for my kids and parents, and later enjoyed a Maple Blazer Blunt, a sugar doughnut made to resemble a lit joint. Great message I was sending the kids, eh?

Voodoo Doughnut, Maple Blazer Blunt

In which I attempt to win the coveted Father of the Year award.

But back to the parking garage.

After leaving Voodoo Too, Ross and Heidi dropped me off next to Powell’s, and I walked a block or two to the garage where I had parked my car. I remembered that I was on Level P3, but that was about it. I had exited across the street from a piano store, but I wandered around for quite awhile, unable to find that store. You have to understand, the underground parking garage is enormous, and Portland’s street blocks are small, so there are entrances and exits to the same garage all over the place, in seemingly random spots, doorways leading to the underground labyrinth sandwiched between shops in a three- or four-block radius. I gave up on finding the door from which I had exited, and decided instead to enter the garage from where I had driven in, figuring I could just descend to level three and find my car from there.

Only, level three is massive, as I quickly learned. I wasn’t armed with an air conditioner or about-to-expire fish, but I was carting around a big pink box of doughnuts and the book I had purchased from Powell’s. And I was dressed in layers. And it was really warm. Every time I turned a corner, expecting to find my car, I’d come up empty. I walked around blindly for a good fifteen minutes, wondering how many freakin’ corners there could possibly be in the garage. I’d travel a good distance, stop, look around, decide that somehow I must have missed my car, and then retrace my steps, turning left at this particular juncture rather than right. This place was like the maze in Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, and though I wasn’t being pursued by a hatchet-wielding madman, my heart did start to beat rather frantically as I realized that I was never, ever going to find my damn car and a sense of panic set in. Much like George, I had to be somewhere at a certain time in order to pick up my kids. And worse, like Jerry, I wouldn’t have minded happening upon a restroom at that point. Seconds away from unleashing that most primal of instincts – hot, salty tears – I rounded yet another corner and there she was, the ol’ ride. Salvation. I have never been so happy in my life to see a Hyundai, let me tell you. Fortunately, when I turned the key, she roared to life.

“Anybody ever lose their car down here?” I asked the attendant as I was paying. I figured it was probably something that happened all the time. They must have some emergency plan in place to assist those who had forgotten the whereabouts of their vehicles.

“Never,” she said.

Which made me feel pretty stupid.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that…

Late To The Party

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Last night’s season premiere of Lost was typically mind-blowing. For weeks – actually, months (come to think of it, pretty much since the closing credits of the Season 5 finale last May were scrolling across the screen) – I have been eagerly awaiting the return of John, Jack and company. There has never been a show like Lost before – it is wildly inventive, original, creative, and completely unpredictable. How JJ Abrams ever pitched the idea to ABC, and sold them on it, is beyond me.

My excitement over the drama is sort of funny in a way, though. Because as much as I love it now and consider it the quintessential definition of Must-See TV, I can’t claim to have been a fan from the start. As a matter of fact, I didn’t catch my first episode until Season 3 was winding down. Positive word-of-mouth and a burning curiosity (not to mention a Netflix subscription) drove me to seek out what I’d missed during the summer doldrums of 2007, and by the time I’d gotten all caught up, I considered myself a hardcore fan.

I should have been into Lost from the start. I’m a sci-fi junkie with an interest in concepts like time travel, ghosts, alternate realities, and life after death. It’s almost like the show was written just for me. In my defense, I didn’t know it would contain all those plot elements when it first came out. Plane crashes on an island, there are survivors. Interesting, but hardly original. And where was Wilson, the volleyball? I’d already watched Tom Hanks lose a ton of weight and grow a long, scraggly beard. Wasn’t sure I wanted to watch a whole season’s worth of that (or many seasons, as it turned out). So sue me, I was wrong.

It’s not the first time I’ve become a huge fan of a show after it’s already achieved mainstream popularity, or at the least, a dedicated cult following. Take Dexter, for instance. I love it, and think it’s one of the best shows on TV, hands down. I subscribe to Showtime every year for three months just to catch it, and then promptly cancel my subscription after. I’ve even taken to dressing like Dexter at work, appropriating his casual attire and making it my “look.” Obsess much, Mark? It’s right up my alley – the concept of a sympathetic serial killer only offing the bad guys, and how human (or inhuman) he appears in his interactions with others. Love it to death (ha). The show is killer (okay, stretching for the laugh now). And yet, I didn’t discover it until the second season.

And then there’s my favorite sitcom, The Office. This one I did watch right from the start! But…only the first two episodes. And then I gave up on it (I’ve been asking myself why ever since), until the following season, when a coworker waxed enthusiastically over it every Friday. I picked it up again, and nowadays, would be lost without my weekly Michael Scott fix.

True Blood is my most recent example of showing up late to the party. The hype over season one intrigued me enough to catch up on Netflix. At least this time I was only twelve episodes behind. There are other shows, like Mad Men and 30 Rock, that I feel I should be watching, but honestly, I can’t afford another emotional television investment these days – my dance card is full enough already.

To be fair, once or twice I have actually been ahead of the game. I eagerly queued up for a brand new sitcom in the late 80s, a little show about nothing called Seinfeld, because I was a fan of Jerry-the-comedian and the premise looked intriguing. I am proud to say I walked around that entire first season, extolling its virtues to everybody within earshot, while the show languished and ratings were in the toilet. Eventually, of course, it caught on and became a pop-culture phenomenon. And I could proudly say that I was there right from the start.

That hasn’t happened since, and it may never occur again. But that’s neither here nor there.

It’s hard to predict what’s going to be big and what isn’t. I was on board with a drama called Journeyman right from the start. Loved it…but America didn’t. Cue the cancellation music. Same with Swingtown. And Pushing Daisies wasn’t initially on my radar, but there was lots of hype so I jumped on board that bandwagon a week after the premiere…only to see the show pushing up its own daisies soon after. Oh, well. I tried.

I think the real takeaway from all of this is…I watch too damn much television!