Spontaneous Combustion

‘Twas the night before Christmas many moons ago and on top of the coffee table, not an object was stirring except for a wildly flickering jelly candle… and next to the flickering jelly candle rested an artificial flower arrangement. As the flame turbulently twittered in every which direction, my family lounged, reveling in each other’s company and the holiday spirit. I had assumed my official holiday position, sprawled by myself across the loveseat which visibly bore the punishment of years of insubordination to my mother’s injunction against “plopping”. My parents shared the couch, and my brother and sister each occupied a comfy white armchair. We were engaged in some edifying holiday family togetherness… I think we were reading Dickens or eating plum pudding or (most likely) reciting Christmas Vacation lines to each other when the small undulating blaze emanating from the jelly candle licked the very tip of the lowest fabric leaf of the artificial flower arrangement.

Initially, no one noticed the dueling flames dancing atop the coffee table, but after a few moments, my sister pointed at the six-inch conflagration in the middle of the living room and sputtered, “F-- f--f--.” Try as she might, she could not get “ire” to follow the “f”.

“What is it, honey?” my dad asked.

“F--f--f--,” she stammered, still pointing.

I injected myself into the conversation. “Um, Dad… the flowers are on f-“

I did not stutter. Before the “ire” could pass over my tongue and through my lips, my dad had jumped to his feet and yelled, “FIRE!!!” He immediately transitioned from holiday to survival mode, leapt from the couch and, in one heroic sweep, scooped the burning arrangement into his hands.

The fireplace was four feet away.

Unfortunately, he did not deposit the fire into the fireplace.

The front door, leading to our snow-covered front walkway was six feet away.

Unfortunately, he did not pitch the miniature inferno through the front door to our snow-covered walkway.

Instead, Dad ran. His goal had been to run through the living room, through the dining room, through the kitchen, and through the garage to the driveway wherein he would drop the burning flowers, compose himself, and determine his next course of action.

Unfortunately, his scheme did not go as planned.

As he ran, the flames spread across the surface of the decoration in his hand. He attempted to blow them out but his breath only encouraged the fiery expansion. He made it to the cusp of the kitchen when the flames began to burn his hands, at which point Dad’s Plan B took effect.

Plan B was to dropkick the plant the length of the kitchen to the garage door… and… actually, that’s where Plan B ended. There was no clear exit strategy. Which did not matter, because what seemed to Dad at the time of its inception an infallible course of action turned out to be quite fallible after all.

Arms outstretched toward the garage door, Dad held the glowing orb of flames before his face and dropped it like a punter preparing to send a football flying down the field. He kicked the basket. Instead of catapulting forward (the typical result of having been kicked in a forwardly direction) the basket wobbled up and over and behind his head, barely missing his hair. It landed five feet behind Dad, still in the living room, the flames now two or three feet high.

The smoke alarm finally recognized the potential disaster under its nose and began warning us of impending doom, when Plan C took effect. My sister, finally breaking free of her “F-- f-- f--” paralysis, yelled, “Fire! I’ll go get some water!” She ran to the kitchen, filled a Dixie cup with water, returned to the fire, splashed the water on a Dixie cup-sized satellite flame about eight inches from the main flame (which, thanks to Sister, was almost extinguished), then repeated as necessary, incrementally diminishing the magnitude of our indoor brush fire. Roused from our Christmas perches, Little Bro and I stood by watching, helpful only in the respect that we were not making the problem any worse. Dad stood by with his hands on his head. Black smoke began to fill the living room.

Where, you might ask, was my mother during these escapades? She was nowhere to be seen. We all assumed that she had grabbed her most precious possessions and hit the road, leaving us to fend for ourselves. Turns out, we were wrong: she was readying Plan D. She coolly returned to the room with an old blanket and draped it over the former faux flower arrangement and extinguished the fire by smothering it.

In the midst of the black intoxicating smoke and shrill detector siren, my dad fell to his knees in despair in the aftermath of our Griswoldesque holiday disaster. Before him was an incinerated patch of once white carpet and the remains of his favorite fake flowers. The living room furniture was subsequently rearranged to hide what resembled the last vestiges of an (sub)atomic disaster. Since this nightmare before Christmas, my family has traded their air freshening candles for fragrance oils, and “fire” is a four-letter word around the holidays.



For other death-defying fiery posts, click here or here.

Christmas Canoedling

Not since the jelly-candle-artificial-floral-arrangement fire of 1997 (which deserves its own entry) has a Christmas come so close to being ruined (or generated such indelible memories)…

We had just finished opening presents and eating Christmas rolls when my father-in-law remarked that if it were just a few degrees warmer (it was 40°F), we’d be canoeing. I knew exactly what this meant: in a few hours, we’d be canoeing.

It is speculated that Father-in-Law emerged from his mother’s womb in a canoe and has been paddling ever since: it’s in his blood. While canoeing is not exactly how yajeev’s family of origin would celebrate Christmas (we’d be more likely to go to a movie theater/theatre for a double feature than canoe down an ice-cold river on December 25), I’m a modern traditional pluralist: my way is not the only (or best) way—it is just one way. I’m open to all varieties of yuletide observances—even canoeing.

We (by we, I mean Father-in-Law, Sister-in-Law, Sister-in-Law’s [or is it Sister’s-in-Law] Boyfriend) loaded the boats into the truck. Mother-in-Law recommended that we pack life preservers. As there were only two life vests and four boaters, Father-in-Law decided that none should wear them (a good non(anti?)utilitarian ethic: if not the safety of everyone, then let the safety of none be ensured—if it were me, I might’ve drawn straws for the vests or cut them in half and split them evenly among the four of us).

We (here, by we, I mean Father-in-Law, Mother-in-Law, Sister-in-Law, Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend, my wife, and myself) then piled into the truck and drove to a good launching spot. Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend carried their boat to water’s edge (theirs was a small, boxy boat with about eight inches of freeboard (height of boat wall not submerged by water). They boarded their watercraft and headed downstream. Father-in-Law and I got into our canoe and followed the others down the river. After their loved ones had safely (or so it seemed) embarked upon their aquatic Christmas pilgrimage, Mother-in-Law and Wife returned to the truck and drove downstream to meet us at the projected endpoint of our voyage.

Given that our canoe had a point at the tip and not a flat edge, it wasn’t long before our boat passed the other vessel. The typical routine quickly became as follows. Father-in-Law and I would naturally drift ahead of Sister-in-Law and her boyfriend, so we’d be the first to encounter each of a small litany of raging rapids. Father-in-law and I would investigate the trouble spots, determine a plan of attack, and navigate the frothy rapids. We’d then veer to the bank and wait just downstream of the turbulence for Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend to approach the given rapid to advise the duo with respect to the optimal strategy for each rocky, bubbly obstacle.

For the first three rapids, this worked just fine. The same cannot be said for the fourth rapid.

When Father-in-Law and I arrived at this particular juncture along the river, we appreciated that this would be the most challenging paddle in our journey so far. We paddled hard and headed straight into the mighty rushing mini-waterfall. Our canoe took a hard bounce against a crag protruding above the water level, sending Father-in-Law to the bottom of the boat (which, the astute reader will note, is far better than being sent out of the boat into water freshly cooled by melted snow). Our canoe turned and got caught on a rock hidden just below the surface. Ice-cold water ran over the edge of the boat and chilled our hands and feet. Vigorous bouncing and paddle maneuverations finally resulted in our liberation from the stony entrapment. Our canoe popped off of the rock, and we hurtled downstream. We flung ourselves toward the shore to wait patiently for Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend, whose blunt-fronted boat finally appeared as a pinpoint on the distant horizon. They gradually approached the hazard.

“What should we do!?” Sister-in-Law yelled down to us.

Our canoe was turned around and situated against the bank such that I in the front of our canoe and Father-in-Law behind me in the rear were both facing Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s-Boyfriend’s boat.

“What should we do!? she repeated.

At first I shrugged my shoulders, hoping that Father-in-Law would offer instruction. He did not, and Sister-in-Law once again reiterated her question: “What should we do!?”

Finally, I pointed with my paddle toward the portion of the waterfall down which we had just previously careered. What I hadn’t considered was perhaps (definitely) the most sensible option: advising them to steer their boat to a stretch of riverbank at which point the twosome could have disembarked, carried their boat on land beyond the treacherous rapids, and then re-embarked. This would have been a wise solution. I did not think of it (I’m no rocket scientist), Father-in-Law (judging by his non-response) also did not think of it, and Sister-in-Law and her boyfriend (who found themselves in the eye of the storm and at the worst vantage point to make such a determination) certainly did not think of it (or else this story would have had a much different, less bloggable ending).

Thus, their rectangular boat tentatively approached the recommended section of torrent and promptly found itself pinned by the rocks.

“Now what?!” Sister-in-Law yelled down to us.

I shrugged my shoulders exaggeratedly; I was out of answers. It was a cruel turn of events for Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend. They had been led into a tight spot by their trusted co-travelers. The bouncing and paddle maneuverations that had liberated Father-in-Law and me from the same tight spot did not prove similarly effectual for the occupants of the less hydrodyamic tub.

At first, I thought I heard laughter emerging from the square boat as it rattled and twisted, stuck among the rocks. The perceived laughter gradually gave way to screams. I initially believed these screams to be of the variety emitted from the mouths of pleasantly terrified roller-coaster riders. The more I listened and watched (I could barely make out facial expressions from our distance), I began to realize that these were not in fact shrieks of joy, but rather shrieks of dissatisfaction with one’s present situation (a present situation to which my poor guidance had significantly contributed).

After a terribly long period of screaming and failed bouncing, bumping, and grinding, the boat tipped forward and took on a lot of water. Sister-in-Law gracefully slipped out of the boat and found herself in freezing cold water at greater than waist-high depth. She, not sporting any life preservation device, slowly crept through the waterfall, first towards Father-in-Law and me, then turning toward the bank. She looked up at Father-in-Law and me, mostly dry in our canoe; her innocent facial expression revealed a sense of betrayal (how could we have led them into such calamity?). She inched toward the water’s edge, yelling, “Cold! Cold! Cold!”

Terrible visions of holiday tragedy flashed before my eyes as my sister-in-law fought the current. Sister-in-Law's Boyfriend struggled to right the ship, but his efforts were futile, and he too eventually opted to leave the boat to follow the ice-cold water trail blazed by his girlfriend moments earlier. Thanks to a heroic second effort by Sister-in-Law and her boyfriend, the abandoned boat, newly unencumbered by passengers, now easily wiggled free of the rocks that trapped it. The pair waded through the icy stream and clambered safely up the side of the riverbank toward higher ground.

As I watched this entire scene unfold, I fought a most inappropriate impulse: the urge to laugh. The prospect of Sister-in-Law or Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend suffering hypothermia or lost toes or worse was not then and is not now the remotest bit funny, but in much the same way one might laugh impulsively and inappropriately as an ice-skating friend (or mother-in-law) crashes concussively to the ice, I could not help but laugh aloud. I vainly fought to suppress the chortles, but hysterics could not be contained.

Sister-in-Law shouted (between shivers): “What do we do now?!”

Father-in-Law advised her to walk the “short” distance to where my wife and mother-in-law would be waiting to retrieve us. The “short” distance ended up being about a half-mile of soaking wet misery. “Take off you pants,” Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend advised her (he had already removed his soaking wet jeans and was marching along the riverside in his long-johns). She did not comply.

Father-in-Law and I paddled upstream to retrieve the vacant boat. Father-in-Law tied a rope to the empty boat, and we dragged it downstream, anticipating the horror of my wife and mother-in-law as only two of four un-life-vested paddlers would have completed the charted voyage. We ultimately reached the predetermined pick-up location, where Wife was waiting patiently for us. Mother-in-Law had already become (correctly) suspicious of our late arrival and commenced a search for her presumed missing family members. The sight of an empty boat was not a welcomed one.

Soaking wet, freezing cold, exhausted, and rightfully unhappy, Sister-in-Law and her boyfriend finally reached the planned reunion spot. We secured the canoes in the truck bed and packed ourselves into the truck. On the ride back to the house, I became acutely aware of the fact that my hands had gotten wet and were extremely cold. I bit my tongue, however, as I was able to appreciate how fortunate I was to have avoided total immersion.

My kinfolk spend holidays doing things like eating food, watching movies, opening presents, and eating food. My in-laws, on the other hand, spend holidays in an active attempt to “create memories.” My experience has been that many (if not most) of these memories created involve (extreme) canoe adventures.

So, thank you, in-laws for introducing new neural folds to my gray matter: this particular Christmas will never fade into the oblivion of merged memories of Christmases past. Like the Christmas influenza pandemic of 2003, Christmas 2007 will forever hold a special place in my heart. It will be perpetually remembered as the holiday that, due to my own failure to communicate effective advice, I nearly lost a sister-in-law and her boyfriend to the raging Indiana rapids and/or associated hypothermia.

(To Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend, my sincerest apologies for poor advice and for my most inopportune and inappropriate eruption of laughter.)

The pizzelles that almost were not

Saturday, I completed my quasi-annual holiday tradition: pizzelle making.

One of the very few items I personally selected on our wedding gift registry five and a half years ago (feels like it was just yesterday we were marching through the department store aiming the laser gun at items on our wish list) was a three-in-one sandwich/waffle/pizzelle maker. When I saw it, I knew that we had to have it. I couldn’t imagine married life without it.

How prescient I was. We’ve used each of the three functionalities, I’d say, on average 0.5 – 0.75 times per year. We’ve made waffles probably twice or thrice since we exchanged our vows… I’ve eaten maybe four sandwiches (toasted to perfection) grilled between the two hot metal bread-shaped molds (two were on Saturday) in the time spanning June 1, 2002 till now. But, most critically, during our first December of wedded bliss I decided that I would initiate an annual regimen of pizzelle making (the annualness not being strictly defined—prior to 2007, I have made pizzelles three of five Yuletide seasons).

You can imagine the horror, then, when in the course of refacing our kitchen cabinets, I heard my wife utter an “oops” (“oops”s in our relationship traditionally have emanated from my mouth, not hers) and I looked down to see the two halves of my pizzelle/ sandwich/ waffle/ book report maker resting on the floor in cracked outer casings and connected by a thin, exposed wire in the midst of the scattered contents formerly occupying our cabinet just beside our front window.

My disappointment was palpable. I mustered the most pitiful Eeyore response I could: “I guess I won’t be making my special Christmas pizzelles this year.”

My wife wanted to rectify her accident and buy me a new three-in-oner, but I told her it wasn’t worth the expense. Huddled masses of yearning family members would just have to make do with (my wife’s delicious) sugar cookies this year.

And then came my birthday, and what a happy one it was, for among the many lovely presents was one conspicuously large wrapped cuboid box which I eagerly unpackaged. The innards of said birthday present was none other than a replacement pizzelle/ waffle/ sandwich maker (thanks to the in-laws for that one—this blog post mightn’t have happened without them): crisis averted. Pizzelles a la yajeev would indeed come to pass to mark the birth of Christ Jesus.

This past Saturday was Christmas cookie day in the household of yajeev. The lovely wife prepared a multitude of sugar cookies of myriad shapes, colors, and sprinkle patterns and flavors, and I set about to prepare the pseudo-traditional pizzelles.

When I cook or bake or prepare food of any variety in the kitchen (which admittedly, happens, only slightly more frequently than my pizzelle making extravaganzas), the scientist in me requires a clear and detailed protocol. To be honest, the recipe I use from year-to-year varies; I will use whichever instructions are first listed after a google search for “pizzelle recipes”. So “yajeev’s pizzelles” do not necessarily match a particular protocol endorsed by yajeev, but rather are simply the pizzelles prepared by yajeev in strict accordance to a not entirely randomly procured internet pizzelle recipe protocol (I have to assume that the first listed recipe is so positioned for some good reason).

Saturday afternoon, I prepared my benchtop, er countertop, carefully placing each ingredient in the order it would be needed: three eggs, sugar, vanilla, lemon extract, flour, and baking powder (or was it soda?). Next, I turned on the holiday tunes (carefully avoiding Dominic the Donkey or Merry Christmas from the Chipmunks—these don’t go over so well with the little lady). Next, I arranged all the tools I’d be using: mixing bowl, measuring cups, measuring spoons… As I carefully lined each item up along the back wall, I asked my wife, “Honey, where’s the ¼-cup measuring cup?”

She, icing cookies, replied: “I don’t know.”

I: “What do you mean you don’t know? And where's the tablespoon measuring spoon?”

She: “I mean I don’t know where they are.”

I: “Well, they’ve got to be somewhere around here, right? Maybe in the dishwasher?”

They were not.

Improvise? Was she kidding? I have been trained to proceed with scientific accuracy, not senseless estimation. I mean, I don’t perform alkaline lysis bacterial plasmid mini preps with just any old pipette. I weighed my options. There was no time to go to the store: we were on a tight schedule. After cookie making, we had planned to wrap presents, eat dinner, and pack for our Christmas vacation: no time for frivolous measuring cup purchases. Make pizzelles with no regard for accuracy or no pizzelles at all. I chose the former, and with great trepidation, I christened the new pizzelle maker.

So how is this year’s batch? So far, they’re getting rave reviews from the dog (of course, he like poopsicles). The rest of the jury is still out.




(Eeyore picture accessed at wikipedia)

One more holiday gift idea...

... for the wi-fi poacher in your life.

Give the gift of early detection. This wearable sixth sense will enable your loved one to instantly detect and quantify wireless internet signals.

As the official website advertises:

The glowing bars on the front of the shirt dynamically change as the surrounding wi-fi signal strength fluctuates. Finally you can get the attention you deserve as others bow to you as their reverential wi-fi god, while geeky chicks swoon at your presence.

Look how happy this guy is. He has a strong signal and knows it. At any moment, he can whip out his computer and begin surfing, emailing, and chatting without fear of disconnection.

Last minute gift ideas

I realize this is coming a tad late for those who are of the Jewish persuasion, as this is the seventh night of Chanukah, but I wanted to provide my readership with some creative holiday gift ideas for the special ones in your lives.

One Christmas, an in-law (who shall remain nameless) gave the gift of influenza to her husband and daughter, who then opted to spread the joy to her other daughter. I was the sole family member who wasn't a beneficiary of the contagion. I felt left out; I was relegated to watching The Matrix, Zoolander, and Christmas Vacation while the others laid in bed, moaning feebly, occasionally ingesting small amounts of Jello. I determined that I was excluded from sharing in the blight due to my lack of blood status. I don't hold it against them. I had only been a family member for a few short months. I'm sure if it happened again, they'd share the virus with me.

If you've always wanted to give your loved one influenza (or HIV or gonorrhea or Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever) without the associated symptoms or stigma, today is your lucky day, for at your very fingertips, you have the opportunity to confer said maladies to your kith and kin without the icky rash. Consider bestowing BioBoxers gilded with the microorganisms closest to your heart to those on your holiday shopping list. Here's a staph infection to drape 'round their waists (keep away from open wounds).


If disease-laden underwear doesn't suit the personalities of those on your list, you can give some of these very same ailments in necktie form. For the Purdue alum in your life, why not give a Boilermaker black-and-gold West Nile Virus necktie (pictured at left)? Also available for the scruffs of those special someones are anthrax in black and red, chlamydia in burgundy and gray, and mad cow disease in a lovely burnt orange.



One final option for sharing diseases this winter are plush Giant Microbes. These lovely stuffed bugs provide a rare and cuddly glimpse of the friendly microorganisms at 1,000,000x magnification that afflict millions around the globe. I already own the non-pathogenic Saccharomyces cerevisiae (budding yeast), and you (or Santa Claus or Chanukah Harry) can transmit ebola virus, flesh-eating bacteria, or the black death (known in some circles as the plague) to family and friends. If you're giving a holiday present to that special someone this season, consider giving "Mono", the kissing disease (also known as the Epstein-Barr virus), shown here.

If diseases aren't your thing (or the things of your giftees), maybe gray matter is. What do you get for that thinker in your life who's always on the go? Give that walking brain a walking brain. Finally, a tangle of neurons to keep up with your favorite genius. For a video of the wind-up walking brain in action, click here. And the best part is that this mobile encephalon can be yours for less than the price of a triple Venti non-fat no-whip white chocolate peppermint mocha.





Finally, for the emasculated dogs in your lives, there are Neuticles (not pictured here). Nothing says "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Chanukah" to man's best neutered friend like implants, starting at a mere $73 a pair. The official website advertises a range of sizes; this is not a one-size-fits-all sort of product. The Neuticles website also sells a variety of merchandise that will please the whole family, including Neuticles t-shirts and hoodies, ball caps, aprons, bathrobes, beach towels, key chains, and necklaces... certainly enough paraphernalia for a themed holiday gift exchange. You can even buy an autographed copy of Going... Going... Nuts! The Story Had to Be Told... by Gregg Miller, the inventor and developer of Neuticles. (Under no circumstances should Neuticles be used in humans; the website makes this clear in the very fine print).

For the record, this is not a personal holiday wish-list. I am not trying to suggest (even subliminally) that my readers purchase these items for me (except for the walking brain).




To give credit where credit is due, I first learned about the microbe apparel here, walking brain here, and neuticles here.

Cashew later

I’ve been spilling a lot of beans on the family over the past several weeks. Tonight, I spill the nuts.

We were all so young. Little Bro was just 5. I was merely 9. Dad was only 45. A friend of Dad’s invited us to his Christmas party. Dad insisted that we be gracious guests and bring a present for the host. We had, in classic family-of-Yajeev fashion, been running severely late, so the present had to be a re-gifting. Dad frantically surveyed the house for a suitable token of appreciation for the kind invitation. Most of the hunt took place in the kitchen, enabling him to multitask; he could snack while searching. Finally, he spied an object that would satisfy both of his needs: a festive tin of mixed nuts already topped with a red Christmas bow. It had arrived in that day’s mail as a holiday present for our family.

“But, Daddy, that present is for us,” my brother pleaded, troubled by our father’s diversion of a gift meant to be consumed by our family.

“It’s okay,” Dad reasoned with Little Bro, removing the handwritten Christmas note from the original sender. “The person who gave it to us would want us to make someone else happy with these nuts,” he rationalized. I nodded, knowingly.

“No, Daddy, he wanted us to eat them.” Lil Bro felt a sharp pang of conscience, despite being allergic to nuts.

I don’t think it was to appease Little Bro’s pleading, but Dad decided that it would be appropriate if we ate just a few of the nuts. Dad hurriedly ushered us into the car. I sat in the front with Dad. Little Bro sat in the back holding the tin of cashews, walnuts, peanuts, and almonds. We had barely turned out of the driveway when Dad reached his arm behind his own seat, fumbling for the tub of nuts on Little Bro’s lap. “Honey, open the nuts.”

“But, Daddy…”

“It’s okay,” Dad repeated. “I just want two cashews.” Little Bro reluctantly snapped open the tin-o-nuts, and Dad groped air behind him with his right hand, erratically swerving the steering wheel with his left. Finally, his paw found the reservoir of protein-rich nutmeat. His hand swished through the nutty amalgam until he could retrieve the desired handful-sized quantity of cashews et al.

We had almost arrived at our friend’s house. “Just a few more nuts,” Dad said having finished his first fistful. He thrust his arm back into Little Bro’s personal space. Instead of finding his hand in an oasis of salty, dry proteinaceious goodness, his anatomical snuff box collided with the tin can, sending the mixture flying into the air. Nuts landed on the floor, on the seats, on Little Bro’s lap. Dad scooped a walnut off of Little Bro’s knee and popped it through his oral orifice.

Dad turned onto the street of the party and pulled the car to the side of the road. He jumped out of the car, and beckoned for me to do the same. “Quick, put the nuts back in the tub,” Dad instructed. The three of us engaged in a mad nut-scramble, picking almonds from the cracks between the seats and wiping hairs off of peanuts recovered from the floor before depositing them back into the decorative holiday tin. When all was said and done, with nuts lost to the hidden recesses of the car and of my father, we had filled the container to about two-thirds original capacity.

We piled back into the car, and Dad drove the rest of the way to the party. We were clearly the final guests to arrive. “I’m so glad you could make it,” the host greeted us, glancing at his watch. “Oh, you didn’t have to buy me a present,” he added, reaching for the tinseled tin.

“Actually, we didn’t buy—” Little Bro started before Dad put him in a playful faux headlock, effectively muffling the remainder of Little Bro’s sentence.

“Thanks for the nuts,” the host said, cracking the tin open and retrieving a few for a quick bite. “Delicious,” he uttered.

Little Bro couldn’t contain himself: “Those were the nuts we picked up off the floor of our car.”

Dad gently stepped on Little Bro’s foot. “No, those were the other nuts that we picked up off the floor. We threw those nuts—”*

“No, Daddy, those were the nuts that we got as a gift and that you spilled in the car when you were eating them. We picked them up off the floor and put them back into the container, Daddy. That container,” he concluded, pointing at the tin held by the host.

There was silence. Dad and the host stood in frozen smiles. I looked from face-to-face-to-face. I turned to Little Bro and warned him: “You are in so much trouble.”



* Please see footnote from previous post.

Yajeev got run over by a donkey.

I met my wife in the organic chemistry lab.

I proposed to my wife in the organic chemistry lab.

And, somewhere in between, I nearly lost my wife forever in the organic chemistry lab.

She was a chemistry student, I the charming and mature chemistry lab assistant. At the time we both were molecular biology majors and held as possible career plans practicing medicine in the third world. I remember our first conversation very clearly. She had described to me her desires to be a medical missionary and concluded, with a twinkle in her eye, "Now, I just need to find a husband who has the same vision." * Huh, I thought, she totally digs me.

There was chemistry from the very beginning, and our relationship progressed from week-to-week, as I, the older and wiser student, would impress her with my deep and wide knowledge of all things organically chemical as well as my ability to open really tightly closed chemical containers (some of which I may have pretightened for just such demonstrative feats of strength). Occasionally, I would surprise her with flowers or mix tapes in her lab drawer.

There were two lab assistants for this class: I mostly assisted the cute girl at the front bench; my partner assisted the other 15 students.

Our relationship progressed quite nicely until the last lab session of the semester. This session was dedicated to checking out-- students ensured their drawers were still appropriately stocked with lab materials, that their bench areas were clean, that they'd turned in all of the required assignments, etc.

My co-lab assistant (or lab co-assistant) and I had a brilliant idea. Since the check-out lab was less than two weeks before Christmas, we played our then-favorite Christmas carol: Dominic the (Italian Christmas) Donkey blared through the lab in a continuous loop. And we added one more required task to the mandatory end-of-term to-do list. In addition to cleaning bench tops and handing in lab reports, each student had to make the sound of a donkey before exiting the lab. It didn't have to be theatrical-- a spoken "heehaw" would suffice.

To the other lab assistant and myself, this made total sense. To most of the males in the class, this made total sense: they complied enthusiastically, some voluntarily getting on all fours** to more realistically emulate the donkey. To the professor in the class, this made partial sense: he appeared to be amused by the inanity. To most of the females in the class, this made little sense: they merely spoke or, in some cases, whispered "heehaw".

To my then-girlfriend, this made absolutely no sense whatsoever: the donkey noise requirement was downright assinine (sic).

My partner and I stood at the door, preventing anyone from leaving without meeting all of the requirements. My now-wife glared at me as she approached with her materials. I asked her as she neared, "What's the magic word?" She was not amused. She did not open her mouth, nor did she stop moving. In fact, she began walking more quickly towards me. I braced myself firmly in the doorway, arms extended. She ran straight into my arm (think: "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Yajeev's girlfriend right over"). Despite her best efforts to escape, my arms were rigid. "What's the magic word?" I repeated, Dominic blasting in the background for the 12th straight time. She did not respond. Instead, she struggled against me. She ducked to go beneath my arm, but I lowered it to block her.

Finally, as we engaged in a battle of wills, the angel on my shoulder asked me, "Yajeev, why are you doing this? What are you trying to prove? Wouldn't it be better to admit defeat and save your relationship?"

The demon on the other shoulder was quick to retort: "No, Yajeev. You must win! Relenting is tantamount to weakness." I can't be sure whether I listened to the angel or if she overpowered me, but before I had to time to rationally weigh the pros and cons of enforcing lab law, she had wriggled free and had escaped.

Instantly, I realized the complete extent of my foolishness (idiocy, my wife now corrects me as I write) of our game. As she walked down the hall away from the lab, I shouted, "Hey, I'll call you when everyone's checked out!" She did not reply or acknowledge me.

I returned to lab, turned down the stereo, and finished the check-out procedures, markedly subdued from when we had begun.

After the last student had turned in his assignments and enthusiastically heehawed, I rushed to my dorm room to call my girlfriend. She did not answer the phone. I hung up and called again. She still did not answer. I repeated again and again, until finally, she picked up. "Hey there," I said, as if I hadn't just embarrassed her in front of her classmates and been calling her room obsessively until she begrudgingly answered the phone. "Hey," she replied as if I had in fact just embarrassed her in front of her classmates and been calling her room obsessively until she begrudgingly answered the phone.

I had to make things right. Christmas break was around the corner, and I did not want to part ways on bad terms. "Wanna get some coffee?" I asked. There was silence. "C'mon. It'll be romantic." More silence. "Whaddya say?"

After a pause, "Okay. Pick me up?"

"No," I replied, "Let's walk. It'll be romantic." (I was big on romance.)

After another pause, "Okay."

A few minutes later, I met her at her dorm entrance. It was cold and wet. There was about six inches of snow on the ground, and the streets were filled with black, dirty, icy slush. The coffee shop was a half-mile away. I put her hand in mine. She did not resist, though she did not squeeze back. We began walking. No. We began trudging. Very quickly, I realized that the notion of walking being more romantic than driving may have been a gross miscalculation, but I had passed the point of no return. The wet snow covered our shoes and ice cold water seeped in through our socks. I tried to carry the conversation as we marched down the cold, wet romantic street, but I could tell I had not yet won her back.

Finally, we arrived at the coffee shop. I opened the door for her (because that's the kind of guy I am when I'm not barricading doors waiting for donkey sounds). We walked to the counter and placed our orders. We carried our hot beverages to a cozy little table against on the side of the shop, dimly lit by a small lamp affixed to the wall.

"My feet are freezing," she said matter-of-factly. "And soaking wet," she added.

"I'm really sorry about that," I replied, cognizant of the fact that I had not yet improved the situation or my standing within it. I tried to look into her eyes, but hers were diverted toward her hot cocoa. I turned my head and gazed blankly at the wall. Staring at the lamp burned my eyes, though this pain was no worse than the heartburn I was experiencing over my most recent relationship faux pas.

Suddenly, I had a brilliant idea, an idea that would surely impress my girlfriend and bring me back into her good graces. "Take off your shoes," I told her.

"What?" she asked, startled.

"And your socks. Give me your socks."

She looked at me like I was a lunatic (which, by now, reader, you too might believe to be true). "Just give me your socks. I have an idea." As an aside, and perhaps as a bit of foreshadowing, I must say that it is striking how often the words "I have an idea" are followed by really crummy results. At least when I say them. The same goes for "Hey, watch this!"

"Do it. You won't regret it," I importuned. After having been humiliated in front of her peers, having listened to her phone ring unceasingly for ten minutes, and having been coerced into tromping through the snow and slush, she had lost the will to fight. Inexplicably to those sitting around us and even to herself, she complied, removing her shoes and socks. She handed her socks to me across the table and rested her bare feet on a chair on the opposite side of the table (as the only viable alternative to placing them on the dirty floor).

I took her socks and draped them across the metal rods which suspended the light bulb in the middle of the lamp under the lampshade. "This'll warm them up and dry them out," I explained, pride brimming. She did not resist, but made no indication that she supported this effort.

We continued drinking and maintained a decent level of conversation. Things began to improve slightly. Every few minutes, I'd reach up under the lampshade to feel the socks. After several minutes, they remained cold and wet. We had nearly finished our drinks, and it seemed my brilliant sock-drying plan was not working. Accordingly, I made a minor adjustment: I moved the socks from the metal rods and laid them carefully across the bulb. The bulb was very hot, and I knew that this would speed the process dramatically; these socks would be toasty warm and dry in no time at all.

We refilled our drinks and resumed our conversation. I was feeling cautiously optimistic about my chances. I had at least managed to engage her in a meaningful verbal exchange, and I think she was genuinely touched by my efforts to provide warm, dry socks. Maybe it was the sugar and caffeine perfusing our neurons, but for a few moments, I felt like I could fix this situation and extricate myself from the bind in which I found myself.

I was reveling in the hero status I would have when her piggy toes were hot and snug when... something smelled funny... "Do you smell that?" I asked.

She sniffed. "Yeah, it smells like... like... like something is burning."

"I think you're right. I wonder what they've burnt," I replied.

I turned to look at the coffee bar when thin wisps of gray smoke floating above the wall lamp caught my eye. "Oh, shoot!" I let slip as I thrust my hands to the light bulb, oblivious to the heat it emitted, and pulled the socks to my lap.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing," I lied. My heart sank. I had gone from hero to zero in a matter of moments. All hopes of saving this strained relationship by the ingenious laundry drying-by-light-bulb approach had been dashed.

I slowly lifted her socks above the table for her to see. Where the heels had once been were now baseball-sized holes surrounded by a fringe of charred, black cotton. Her eyes were wide. I was sure this would be the end of me. As I mentally framed an apology for the atrocity I had committed to her socks, the unexpected occurred: the biggest smile I had seen all day appeared on her face as she broke into hysterical laughter. She grabbed the socks from my hand and examined them, still laughing. She slipped her socks onto her feet, heels protruding, then her shoes.

We plodded back to campus, hand-in-hand (this time, she squeezed back). By some miraculous twist of fate, my utter ineptitude had saved the day and endeared me to my now-wife. The same cannot be said of poor Dominic. She still hates the Italian Christmas Donkey. I still love him... and, against better judgment, am unable to refrain from turning up the radio volume when the song comes on. It's a miracle she's still with me.

---------------------------

* My wife remembers this conversation a little differently (i.e. incorrectly): She had described her desires to be a medical missionary. I interjected, she contends, with a twinkle in my eye, "Now you just need to find a husband who has the same vision." Huh, she thought, that's a funny thing to say.

** Under ordinary circumstances, it is not recommended to get on all fours in a chemistry lab, as there may be chemicals, shards of broken glass, or other hazardous material it would be unwise to crawl through. However, the compulsion to act out as a donkey is no ordinary circumstance.

...speaking of inappropriate...

After featuring the brilliant comment of the boss in my last entry ("you're just like my wife... but in a good way"), I have found a way to insert my very own hoof into my very own oral cavity.

Rhonda, a co-worker, is suffering from an antibiotic-resistant bacterial infection in her leg and is on bedrest at home for the week.

When she called the lab to give us a health status update, I asked to be put on the line so that I could deliver the following comic (or so I had thought) observation:

"Rhonda, have you seen A Christmas Story? Good. You know that leg lamp that the dad loves? Yeah, the one in the window. If you should happen to lose your leg in this whole ordeal, you should use it to assemble one of those leg lamps. They're really hard to find and go for like 200 bucks on EBay. You could really cash in on this thing."

The other co-workers in lab stood in stunned silence and later berated me for making light of the situation. "How could you?" one asked, shaking his head. "This is very serious."

Open mouth, insert infected foot.



Originally Posted: Tuesday, June 6, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: apologetic
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

63

Thank you, 63. As I unpackaged my most important Christmas present, the tag bearing your number gracefully slipped out and floated to the ground in a wisp of anonymity like the job you perform.

While I appreciate the DVD burner, cash, and Curb Your Enthusiasm Seasons 1 and 2 DVDs I received this season, it is the gift which you, 63, inspected that I will use the most. Thanks to your thorough examination of my shiny new boxer shorts, I don with confidence these cloths round my loins. I know full well that the barrier 'tween skin and pants is firmly established, that the elastic band snaps firmly 'round my waste, that the single button holds the slit securely in the closed position, that the seams are characterized by the utmost integrity.

63, if you're out there, thank you. I want you to know that your fine work is appreciated. These shorts fit perfectly. Your identity is a mystery, but your skills of scrutiny are not.


Originally Posted: Tuesday, January 4, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: grateful
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

Predator

A program to fill the stockings of underprivileged children is being sponsored by the school my friend Chris works at. It is called "Santa's Stocking."

A poster at the school has pictures of all the children receiving gifts in said program. Above the pictures are printed the words: "Santa's Stocking Kids."

Whenever another teacher is in earshot of Chris, Chris points at the poster and says, "He really shouldn't be doing that."

No one gets it. The only one who (partially) understood him corrected Chris: "That's not how it's spelled."


Originally Posted: Tuesday, December 19, 2006
(Then) Curent Mood: indescribable
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

You know your neighborhood's gone ghetto when...

...your neighbor's Christmas decorations look like this.

(Since I can't figure out how to actually embed images within my blog posts, I will have to direct you to "My Pics" from my main MySpace page. From there, please check out the image entitled "Winter Wonderland." You may have to be a MySpace member to view my pics. Sorry.)

While Lisa really appreciates their "Welcome Winter" snowman sign and hanging icicle lights, I just can't get over the kitchen sink and cupboards adorning their holiday lawnscape.

Originally Posted: Tuesday, December 16, 2006
(Then) Curent Mood: worried
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

Christmas music reflections

This blog contains a few thoughts on some different Christmas music...

While I was listening to the King's rendition of Here Comes Santa Claus on Now That's What I Call Christmas Volume 3, I think I finally figured out where Lisa got her childhood idea that God and Santa were best friends (but God was just a little bit more in charge).

This Christmas carol doubles as theological exposition. For example, a few of the lyrics:
"Santa knows we're all God's children, that makes everything right."
"Peace on earth will come to all if we just follow the light, so let's give thanks to the Lord above that Santa Claus comes tonight."

Some thank God for the coming of his son, our Lord and saviour Jesus Christ, but this song sets us straight.


I was also listening to Frosty the Snowman, and for the first time, I realized just how depressing this song is. If you've ever lost a pet and know how heartbreaking that is, imagine how awful it would be to watch your own hand-rolled sprung-to-life snowman playmate melt into oblivion. I nearly teared up.


Finally, a Christmas music recommendation. I have recently re-discovered a charming little album I thoroughly enjoyed in the days of my own youth: Merry Christmas from the Chipmunks. It drives my wife (and mother-in-law) crazy. I can remember sitting Indian style (is that politically correct?) on the floor as a small child in front of the cassette player, listening to this album over and over and over again (probably driving my own folks crazy). I am listening to it as I write this, and I can't help but be overcome by a minor fit of nostalgia... and a bit of a migraine.


Originally Posted: Tuesday, December 8, 2006
(Then) Curent Mood: reflective
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev