Inaugural Post of the New Year

Happy New Year! I can’t believe it’s already 2010. I meant to write this a few (hundred) days ago, but you know how crazy things get after the first of the year. Thanks for standing by. My New Years Resolution is to post at least one entry per week for the duration of this calendar year. Here goes nothing.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I’ve spent the first three hundred sixty-two three hundred sixty-fifths of the New Year. I won’t bore you with all of the details, but here are a few highlights.

I’ve tweeted slightly more regularly than I blogged.

I consumed more than 10,000 calories over the course of three epic intra-departmental eating contests. I won two out of three (details to follow).

I went for several walks to the Connecticut River and back.

While my two fantasy football teams (The Fighting Fungi and The Hartford Wild Yeast) performed miserably, my little lady took home the virtual trophy after her Independent Variables won this weekend’s championship match-up. I’ve never been prouder.

Also, I’m caught up on Dexter.

That about sums it up, but the year is still young. I can’t wait to see what blessings and surprises 2010 has in store for me.

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.

Letter to Santa Paws

Dear Blogosphere (especially Santa, Mom and Dad, Grandparents, and anyone else who loves me)...

It's me, Watson, Yajeev's Dog. I have been snooping all over for my dad's password for his blogsite so I could post this note to my loyal and adoring fans in cyberspace. Turns out, he keeps his passwords to all his online accounts in a cryptically titled Word document called "Online_Passwords.doc". Who'da thunk it?

It has come to my attention that America is suffering something of an economic downturn, what the economists are calling a "recession". The talking heads on the cable news outlets claim that people are losing their jobs and houses. Worse yet, they're buying fewer Christmas presents. In fact, I've heard that some concerned individuals, in sensitivity to the financial struggles of their loved ones, are asking their friends and family members not to buy them holiday presents this year.

I just want to make it clear that, while I understand that we are in a crisis of historic proportions, I am not one of those aforementioned concerned individuals. I know that 'tis better to give than to receive, and I dare not rob the pleasure-- nay, blessing-- of those who wish to bestow upon me tidings of holiday cheer. Especially tidings that taste like bacon or squeak. Of course, if you could find a tiding that tasted like bacon and squeaked, that would be ideal. Some would call such a tiding a holiday miracle.

Please, feel free to spare no expense in your holiday expenditures on my behalf. We'll both be glad you did.

Sincerely,





Watson Steve

Land of Yajeev Announcement, 4/1/08

My subscribers and friends of the blog have just received the following disturbing email. The postscript was not included in the original text, but has been appended below for clarification.

Dear Friends of the Land of Yajeev,

It is with bittersweet sentiment that I announce to you that I have posted the final entry to the Land of Yajeev. I'm throwing in the towel. As I've long feared, I have finally exhausted my life's supply of bloggable material. I want to thank you for visiting the site, for leaving your comments, for providing blogworthy inspiration, and for sharing this experience with me. I am hanging up my blogging boots and will be focusing on other writing ventures: my dissertation and the great American novel.

Please visit the Land of Yajeev to read my final post--I think you'll find it quite meaningful. Even though I'll be retiring yajeev's pen, my posts will remain online for you to enjoy in reruns. Consider the Land of Yajeev to be Nick-at-Nite of the blogosphere. Good times, great oldies.

Sincerely,
your humble blogger,
yajeev

P.S. APRIL FOOLS! You didn't actually think my dissertation would take priority over the blog, now did you? It'll take a lot more than a doctoral dissertation committee to keep this voice down.





Speaking of foolery, this morning, my advisor made me the victim of a horrific April Fools Day prank. We recently published an article in the Journal of Biological Chemistry. The paper was the fruit of two years of hard labor/ indentured servitude and is, thus far, the crowning achievement of my scientific career. This morning I received this email from my advisor:

Yajeev,

I just got this intense letter from NIH [our funding source] saying that our last paper had been cited in a fraud investigation and we will have to produce all primary data. Lets talk when I get in.

- Advisor

When I read that, my heart just about stopped beating. My mind, already spread thin across about twelve different things, began to melt. That's it, I thought, my career is over. Even if we were cleared (which we eventually would have been, mind you), I didn't know how long this would take or how far a " fraud investigation" would follow me. I began compiling a mental checklist of where all of our "primary data" could be found. The sweat balls I encountered during last summer's job interview returned, beading at my forehead before gliding down my cheeks.

A few minutes after I read his note, my advisor entered the lab, holding a folded sheet of paper, bearing a grim expression on his face. He handed the paper to me, saying, "Here's the original message."

I unfolded the page. It took several seconds of staring at the words "APRIL FOOLS!!" typed in large print across the middle of the paper before I comprehended the hoax my advisor had perpetrated. Before I could experience a full measure of relief, a wave of anger overcame me, and I heard myself uttering some very unkind, unfiltered words to my advisor-- words of which, once the relief finally set in, I was very much ashamed. Fortunately, my advisor was quite amused with his prank. My response only confirmed to him the greatness of his deception.

St. Patrick's Day T-Shirt Design Contest

It should come as no surprise that the grand opening of the Land of Yajeev Megastore has been accompanied by wild success. We've been open for business a little over a single week, and already ones of satisfied customers have ordered and received their official Land of Yajeev merchandise.

With this overwhelming success as a backdrop, I would like to introduce a new t-shirt design contest that's sure to keep the interweb's airwaves buzzing with anticipation.

St. Patrick's Day (March 17) is nearly upon us, and I would like to commemorate the holiday with a special limited edition St. Patty's-themed Land of Yajeev t-shirt. This is where you, my creative readership, come in. I would like you to submit your design for the official Land of Yajeev St. Patrick's Day T-Shirt!

The winner of this exciting competition will receive a free (FREE IS GOOD!) t-shirt with their own design printed on the front, not to mention the fame and prestige that naturally would naturally accrue to such a skilled fashion designer.

The smallish print:

1. Email your image as an attachment to landofyajeev@hotmail.com.
2. Contest deadline is Wednesday, February 27, 2008 at 11:59:59 PM Eastern Standard Time.
3. Entries may be posted to the blog site as they are submitted.
4. Entries may not contain obscenities or other inappropriate material. Yajeev reserves the right to determine what constitutes inappropriate material. He'll know it when he sees it.
5. No otherwise trademarked or copyrighted material may be included in submitted images.
   
6. By virtue of your submission, you yield the rights of your image to Land of Yajeev.
7. While the opinions of others may be consulted, Yajeev will make the final decision.
8. In order to receive your prize, you must submit a valid United States mailing address to landofyajeev@hotmail.com after your design has been selected as the winning entry. If you are not comfortable with furnishing a snail mail address, the prize can be shipped to the United States charity of your choice.
9. When the winner is announced, the winner's identity will be as anonymous as he or she would like it to be. The winner will choose what name or nickname will be posted on the blogsite.
   
10. Yajeev reserves the rights to change these details at any time, though he probably won't. It just seems prudent to include such a disclaimer just in case.
11. You may submit any questions as comments to this entry or via email to landofyajeev@hotmail.com.
    

Get to it, folks! I can't wait to receive your entries!

Luck of the Irish be with ya, lads and ladies!

If you can't take the heat...

They say love begins in the kitchen. Fortunately for my wife and me, the origin of our besottedness long predates any of my adventures 'tween dishwasher, oven, and refrigerator.

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and the wife and I kept it fairly low-key. The little lady had a dentist appointment after work, and I returned home well before she did. As a V-Day surprise for my sweetie, I decided to have dinner ready for her when she came home.

I chose to make a few of her favorites: Chinese kung pao chicken and chocolate chip cookies. These should have been fairly simple tasks: the Chinese dinner came in a box kit with all the ingredients in little plastic baggies and explicit instructions, and the cookies were of the break-and-bake pre-made cookie dough variety. I've watched the wife prepare these items a million times--how hard could they be?

In a tactical decision my grandfather would have endorsed, I began with dessert. I pre-heated the oven, placed heaping teaspoon-sized dollops of cookie dough spaced two inches apart from each other per the Toll House protocol, and inserted the cookie sheet into the oven. The "recipe" called for an oven incubation time of nine to eleven minutes. When I'm working with a new experimental procedure in the laboratory that prescribes such a range of time, I nearly always choose the average. So, in this case, I set the timer for ten minutes, and shifted my attention to the main course.

Again, mimicking my laboratory habits, I read and re-read the instructions, neatly arranging the ingredients on the counter in the order that they would be required. Dinner preparation proceeded ominously smoothly. I boiled the rice and chopped the chicken breast to 3/4-inch modules. I had just moved all of the chicken breastlets to the frying pan when the intoxicating chocolate-chippity aroma suddenly morphed into the pungent bouquet of charred cookie. Just as I thought to myself, "Strange, the timer hasn't yet beeped," the timer beeped. I oven mitted up and extracted the metal sheet upon which the world's easiest-to-prepare cookies rested, nine shades browner than golden. The cookies were done.

My cookie options were limited. I had exhausted all of our dough (a recurring theme for us, of late), and the only cookies I am prepared to create from scratch are made on my three-in-one sandwich/waffle/pizzelle maker. I was still recovering from the batch I'd baked two months ago, and my time was limited. The wife would be home within twenty minutes. I quickly assembled a Valentine's Day Cookie arrangement (as if it had been the plan from the beginning), combining the freshly seared chocolate chip cookies with the three remaining sugar cookies we'd bought at the store last weekend, a few Oreo knock-offs, some low-fat 'Nilla Wafers, and the last of our frozen supply of Christmas pizzelles.

I was short on time, and had to abandon the cookie project to focus my will on the successful completion of kung pao chicken. Meticulously, I followed each step: frequently mixing the fried chicken until golden brown and no longer pink in the center, then stirring in peanuts, kung pao sauce, and hot water. The final task was to add the dried peppers to the chicken. The cooking instructions advised that, if an "extra kick" was desired, the dried peppers could be squeezed to release their seeds. I pondered this option. The wife and I both appreciate a little zest in our diets, and what was kung pao chicken if not spicy?

I turned the pepper baggie over in my hands and pinched the peppers. I tried to modulate the intensity of pinching such as to liberate an intermediate quantity of seeds. I opened the bag, dumped the peppers into the saucy, peanuty chicken mix. Almost instantly, I began to sneeze. My cell phone rang. I answered, sneezing.

"Hello?"

"Hi, I'm on my way home." It was the wife.

"Oh, great." "Dinner is just about ready. I have to let you go."

"OK, see you soon."

"Okayloveyoubye."

Within two minutes, watery eyes and irritated asthmatic lungs accompanied my sneezes. I looked into the frying pan to see a great multitude of seeds escaping from their former peppery abodes adding that "extra kick" to every bit of meat and each drop of sauce. Before I could throw open a window to release some of the capsaicin-saturated air, the front door opened. The wife was home, and by the time I could greet her at the front door, she was coughing and sneezing, unable to utter anything more than "Hi." The entire first floor was filled with a nose-and-eye-burning smoky haze.

"I made you dinner," I told her, ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, great, thank you," she replied sweetly, eyes tearing.

"I don't think you want to eat it."

"Sure I do," she assured me.

I took her at her word, prepared dinner plates with kung pao chicken and white rice. I watched nervously as she ate her first bite. She looked pleasantly surprised. She ate another bite. Then a third. As she slowly chewed her third bite, her demeanor transitioned from cautious to panic-stricken. "Milk," she whispered loudly.

"What?" I asked for clarification.

"MILK! NOW!" She clutched her throat with one hand and fanned her face with the other.

I ran upstairs to pour her a glass of milk, but she couldn't wait--she was right behind me and grabbed the glass out of my hand and rapidly chugged its contents.

She looked at me and I at her. I followed her as she returned to our dinner plates, tall glass of milk in hand. We muscled through the rest of our meal, barely speaking, heavily breathing, frequently sipping milk.

After the kung pao chicken inferno, the toasted chocolate chip cookies provided unanticipated sweet relief. Previous adventures in dinner preparation should have prepared me for such a fiery outcome.

The Valentine's Day Taste Bud Massacre of 2008 was an unanticipated testing ground for our relationship. That my wife was still sitting on the couch next to me bodes well for our future together.

For now, however, I will stay out of the kitchen.

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.)

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.

Hallowinners.

Tonight, we participated in the annual ghoulish ritual of distributing glucose, sucrose, and fructose to a disguised cohort of munchkins and preadolescents (and a few candy-grubbing high schoolers and one parent with a bag of his own!). As the evening progressed, the wife and I made multiple observations, each of which I considered transforming into a standalone blog entry. Instead, I have pooled them together for one uber-Halloween post. Enjoy.

Bwa ha ha ha!

*****************

Our neighbor’s grandchild was clearly new to this whole trick-or-treating business. At the tender age of four, she was costumed as a pretty, pretty princess: dress, tiara, pumpkin-shaped candy receiving container. When she arrived, her grandparents started her off with some seed candy from their stash. After some cautious hesitation on her part, her parents finally convinced her that it was time to branch out to other houses in the neighborhood. Ours was a natural first hit.

She took a few steps toward our house and froze in her tracks. My wife stood poised at the end of our sidewalk, smiling and Kit Kat bar in hand. Princess would not move. Her parents grabbed her hand and pulled her toward my wife. Her eyes filled with tears. “No,” she cried, resisting her urging parents.

“Walk up to her and say, ‘Trick or treat,’” her mother coaxed.

“No, she can’t have my candy,” the girl replied.

My wife, a little confused, replied, “I don’t want to take candy from you. I want to give candy to you.”

These words had a miraculous shyness-curing effect. Without further ado, Princess rushed to my wife and said the magic words, and my wife dropped the Kit Kat bar into her pumpkin basket.

The girl (newly enthused about her evening’s prospects) bounded ahead of her parents to the next doorstep. “Trick or treat!!!” she shouted.

As she sprinted down the street from one house to the next, the wife and I had a good chuckle at her naïve misunderstanding of the night’s proceedings. She had thought that the costume-clad kids were supposed to give their candy to the adults lining the streets...

...which, come to think of it, wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I would be supportive of a pilot trial of Reverse Halloween (call it Treat-or-Trick), whereby children march up and down the streets handing out candy (or cheeseburgers or money or McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces) to the adults in the neighborhood.

*****************

Watson, our pride and joy, suffers from an irrational fear of large men and small children. Nonetheless, we tortured him this evening by keeping him outside with us as parades of small children, sometimes accompanied by large men, passed by our front door, occasionally pausing for us to drop treats into their treat receptacles.

We’ve learned that Watson experiences an irrational and overriding affinity for terrifying masks, even when mounted on the heads of large men and small children. Turns out that if you are a large man or small child evoking great fear in the loins of our humble non-hypoallergenic faux labradoodle, all you need to do to win his affection is don a Frankenstein or blood-stained hockey mask.

*****************

One young man arrived at our doorstep, appearing uncostumed to my untrained eye. As a matter of principle, I feel it is incumbent upon me as a perpetuator of the Halloween tradition, to, at the very least, challenge those who presume to take my candy without going to the effort to amuse or horrify me with their get-up.

Me to kid: Where’s your costume?

Kid to me (pointing to his gold chain): Can’t you see my bling?

Me to kid: Of course. Have some candy.

*****************

Most of the kids who stopped by tonight were reasonably polite, initiating the exchange with a cordial “Trick or treat”. My wife or I would continue the pleasantries by commenting on their costumes or the weather or the rising price of crude. We'd then proceed to drop one or two (if I was the distributor) or three or four (if my wife was the distributor) pieces of candy in the child’s bag or basket or pillowcase or hollow leg. This would be followed by a (sometimes parent-induced) whiny “thank you” (the apparent whininess of the departing youngster may in fact be an artifact of the Doppler effect).

We encountered the occasional youth with an oversized sense of entitlement. One such charming and mature prepubescent Halloweener arrived at our doorstep and demanded that my wife “Put it in! Put it in!” My wife, taken aback by his demeanor, paused, and engaged the boy in a stare down. He, of course, had no times for such silly games. “Hurry!” he shouted. After some thought, my wife reluctantly complied (we didn’t want wake up tomorrow to find our cars decorated with toilet paper or worse), but she only gave him one piece of candy.

*****************

Finally, as the soon-to-be-sugar-comatose came and went, we saw some truly fun and impressive costumes. I considered taking pictures of my favorite costumes and posting them to this blog, when I realized that that the taking and online distribution of pictures of other people’s children would in fact be illegal and downright creepy.

Thus, what follows is a description of three of my four favorite costumes from tonight.

The biohazard scientist costume, of course, resonated quite profoundly with my own tragically clumsy scientific leanings. The child sported green hair and a lab coat mottled with bright, fluorescent green biohazardous waste stains. Just another day on the job for an average Joe such as myself.

Next, the seven (or so)-year-old dressed as a birthday party table—a clever variation on the birthday gift box costume. The waddling boy was encumbered by a giant cardboard box that was shorter than him by about a head-and-a-half. The box was decorated with birthday plates and napkins and a birthday cake, and the boy expended considerable energy traipsing from one house to the next (let alone around the block). He earned his candy.

I also appreciated the angel who had lost her wings. Her father walked immediately behind her, holding the detached wings to her back, flapping them occasionally.

As for my favorite costume… this one I can post online. I paid for it.

...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

April Fools

This morning, my family led a Pesach seder (Passover ceremony) for my parents' church.

Apparently impressed with my ability to read the traditional prayers, one congregant approached me and said: "That Hebrew--it's all Greek to me."

Funny, that's how I feel about Greek.



Originally Posted: Tuesday, April 1, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: relaxed
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

Chanukah Poem

Feel free to add your own verses of Jewish splendor... It'd be a real mitzvah.

'Twas the night before Chanukah, and on top of the table
Not an object was stirring, not even a dreidel.

The candles were placed in the menorah with care
In hopes that Chanukah Harry soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of potato latkes danced in their heads.

And Bubelah in her nightgown and I in my skullcap
Had just settled in for a long Kislev nap.

When outside of the bedroom I heard such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the kitchen, I ran a bit off kilter,
Where I found a sideburned man with his hands in the gefilte.

A little old man dressed in fancy blue rags
Putting out Chanukah gifts with Chanukah gift tags.

He lined all the presents 'round the Chanukah bush;
I nearly yelped for joy but he bade me to shush.

He asked me if we had any snacks kosher;
Having just watched Fargo, I replied, "Oh, sure."

After he'd eaten, he felt kind of heavy...
He gathered his things and jumped into his Chevy.

And as he prepared to speed out of sight,
he shouted:
Happy Chanukah to all--oy vey--and good night!


Originally Posted: Tuesday, December 13, 2006
(Then) Curent Mood: mildly creative
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

The Few, The Proud, The Elite

I needed something to read. As we prepared to board the plane to Orlando, we stepped inside the airport bookstore. I scanned the rows of paperback books for one I might like to read.

Uninterested at this corner, I next turned to the magazines. Certainly I could find one to occupy me for the duration of the flight.

Time... US News... no. Not likely to provide additional information or insight than Newsweek, to which we already subscribe.

Given my recent phase of patronage of ESPN talk radio, Sports Illustrated and The Sporting News were unlikely to go above or beyond what I'd already absorbed in the sporting realm.

I briefly considered, then rejected Reader's Digest and a book of crossword puzzles. Cosmo, Elle, US Weekly, Entertainment also not deemed viable options.

Finally, my attention turned to the rack I normally avoid... the row of magazines reserved for those far more intelligent and important than myself. Heart racing, in a fit of motivation to improve myself, I purposefully grabbed and purchased The New Yorker and Atlantic Monthly.

A bit of background. In my college days, there was one among our group of friends who rose above the lowbrow molecular biology and history textbooks to which the rest of us were accustomed. In addition to his sophisticated literature texts, he read The New Yorker (the first 'r' is silent). The rest of the group (excluding myself) chided him for thinking himself superior to the group. He faced the abuse head on, and I knew why... because he knew it was true... he was in fact superior to this mob, due in no small part, to his faithful reading of the New Yorker. I watched him, coolly composed, and the monkeys dancing around him, and I thought to myself, "I want what he has." But I still wasn't willing to endure his cross or scorn their shame.

Until now. In the relative anonymity of an airport bookstore, I summoned the courage to better myself.

Over the past several days, I have immersed myself in the wonderful elite world of those in the know and with the correct opinions about politics, music, the cinema, culture, and the sciences. As I made my wayward and twisted route from one cover to the other, I felt my sophistication and status rising with each page.

Inspired by my important and well-read college compatriot, The New Yorker was my Mt. Everest. I would scale the intellectual heights so that I could finally intelligibly communicate with him who was chastised by his ignorant counterparts.


Each evening, I have basked in the bubbling hot tub, glass of wine in one hand, intellectual sustenance in the other. I giggled knowingly at the cartoons, those visual puns, dotting the pages. I sighed reflectively as I perused the poetry. And, most importantly, I have absorbed the content, assimilating the opinions of the intelligentsia into my own cerebral framework, making the ideas of the elite my own.

I now know which movies to see and which to avoid. I rejoice giddily over the recent democratic electoral victory. I am aware of a charming fellow who talks to turkeys. I ponder the traditional storytelling methods of the Indian bhopas. I can wax eloquent on the effects of global warming on the planet's oceans. I can now authoritatively (and gleefully) describe the fall of Rumsfeld.

I have finished The New Yorker (and am just now beginning to approach The Atlantic). I feel as though I've acquired a heightened sense of awareness and importance. Yes, I am joining my college friend in the ranks of the elite... and I like it.

Inspirational, elite college compadre, you know who you are. I hope you will accept me into your caste of the knowing. I hope that I have not signed up too late.


Originally Posted: Tuesday, November 28, 2006
(Then) Curent Mood: smug
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

Thanksgiving reflections... please contribute!

In the spirit of the coming holiday, I'd like to open a forum for my readers to share what they are thankful for.

I'll start.

I am thankful that I am not water-soluble. That would make showering next to impossible.

What are you thankful for?


Originally Posted: Tuesday, November 20, 2006
(Then) Curent Mood: thankful
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

Thanksgiving Warning

Just thought I'd pass along this bit of advice I heard on the news today.

If you will be flying over the Thanksgiving holiday and if you will be carrying on a turkey, avoid wrapping your turkey in foil. The foil will set off the metal detector at the security checkpoint.

It could get messy.

(While themed for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, this advice certainly applies any time you'll be flying with turkey.)


Originally Posted: Tuesday, November 13, 2006
(Then) Curent Mood: helpful
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev