When your best just isn't enough

As the astute reader will have determined from reading my previous three or so posts, I have begun a new job, and the transition has been a little on the stressful side. As a result, my neediness index has increased fairly significantly over the course of the past several days. I am fortunate, because I have quite an understanding wife who has put forth a heroic effort to provide love and comfort.

As I feel myself becoming more needy of my wife's encouraging words and warm hugs, I worry (irrationally, I tell myself) that I might wear out my welcome with her and that at some point she will tire of giving, giving, giving of herself so that I can feel reassured.

She was on her way out the door this afternoon to take Watson to the dog park when I asked her, "You're not going to get tired of me are you?"

"I'm gonna try my best," she said, joking.

"Try your best!?" I asked incredulously, insecurely. I had expected her to give full commitment that she would do more than "try her best"... that she would with certainty declare that, No, she would not become tired of me.

Before she left, I made her guarantee that she would definitively not tire of my neediness.

I was glad for the assurance.

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.

Three tips for relationship preservation in the New Year

Here's some unsolicited advice for Land of Yajeev readers to usher in the new year.

1. If you find yourself sitting with a group at a breakfast (or lunch or dinner) table and your spouse is discussing the recent home improvement projects he or she has recently undertaken without your assistance and he or she comments on the extensive effort and time invested in said projects... do not reply by saying, "Actually, it didn't take you that long," even if you meant to minimize the inconvenience rendered by his or her work and not to minimize his or her effort.
   
2. If you find yourself sitting with a group at a dinner (or breakfast or lunch) table and your spouse is retelling a humorous story or a joke that you may have heard once before... do not show off your impressive memory by interrupting said story or joke and reciting the punch line of the story or joke in question.
3. If you find yourself at a card table and you are playing euchre with your spouse against his or her parents and you have a really crummy hand and your team has already lost two of the five available tricks in the given round of said euchre game ... do not inspire false hope in your spouse by saying you are sure to pick up the last three tricks without making it abundantly clear that you are using the literary device known in some circles as sarcasm.

Follow these words of wisdom and you will go far... at the very least, you will find yourself far, far from the living in the doghouse or sleeping on the sofa.

I can't help (prat)falling in love with you

Mike at I Am Prepared to Give Up at Any Time wrote in a comment to one of his own recent posts about his inability to attain perpendicularity with a surfboard, “Lack of coordination is just universally endearing.”

For me, this is a good thing.

Mike’s failure to stand on a surfboard parallels the collective outdoorsy (and indoorsy) athletic failure of my life: I have at one time or another failed to thrive (by “thrive” I mean “maintain uprightness”) at snow skiing, water skiing, skateboarding, roller skating, ice skating, walking down stairs, walking up stairs, walking on flat surfaces, sitting on four-legged chairs… I have fallen face first and shaken my fists in frustration at snow, ice, concrete, and whatever it is roller rinks are made of.

But, if what Mike says is true and klutziness is in fact somehow attractive, my falling on skis, skates, blades, and shoes may have been the linchpin vital to the procurement of lifelong love and affection. Indeed, I have fallen in front of my wife more often than I care to admit. When we were in college, I tumbled to the ground at least three times in the first month of our dating relationship.

The first fall was the most spectacular. My now-wife (then-girlfriend) had been volunteering as a youth group leader at a local church, and she brought me to meet the high schoolers one Sunday morning. The church was a split-level structure. After passing through the stately doors, one could go upstairs or downstairs. When I walked in for the first time, the wife whispered to me, “Shhh. They’re praying.” Indeed, I looked down the stairs and saw a group of adolescents holding hands in a circle, eyes closed in fervent devotion to their Maker. I had barely whispered, “Ok, I’ll be quiet,” when I stepped forward to find empty space where I had expected there to be more floor. In the blink of an eye, I was hurtling down the steps, somersaulting twice before reaching the bottom of the stairs, landing on my back, head half protruding into the prayer circle. Youthful eyes popped open and jaws dropped. I stared back up. “Hi, I’m Yajeev,” I quipped, trying to be funny. They laughed, but not in a “What a funny quip” kind of way.

The second fall was the most heroic. The now-wife (then-girlfriend) and I had spent a lovely evening “studying” at Eat N’ Park. We elected to check our mail when we returned to campus. We walked into the building which housed the mail hall, and I gallantly offered to carry the wife’s laptop computer. It had been raining, so our shoes were wet, squeaking with every step. A large stairway led to the mail hall. I descended a few steps when the moisture between my shoe and the step compromised the frictional forces that typically (ok, sometimes) prevent me from slipping. My feet slipped out from under me, and I plunged straight down, rear first, to the step which should at that moment have been supporting my feet. The bruises on my buttocks might have been prevented if only I had attempted to grab the railing on my way down, but I could do no such thing: I held my wife’s computer in my hands. Instinctually, I thrust her computer high above my head, and my tush collided with one step, then another, then another, and so on. My ego may have been severely damaged, but her computer survived without a scratch.

The third fall was the most pathetic. It was freezing. The then-girlfriend (now-wife) had brought me to meet her mother (my now-mother-in-law) and grandmother (my now-grandmother-in-law). We arrived at Grandma’s house, exchanged pleasantries for a brief time in her living room, and decided to leave for dinner. My wife, followed by her mother and grandmother, walked out the front door onto the icy porch. I brought up the rear. Now-wife gingerly descended the ice-covered steps leading to the driveway. Then, Now-mother-in-law carefully walked down the steps. Next, Now-grandmother-in-law, chatting feverishly about her kitty cats, made her way down each frozen step: foot, foot, cane, foot, foot, cane, etc. After three generations of future female relatives had reached the car without incident, it was my turn. I stepped onto the first stair. That was it: my feet never found the other three stairs. I’m not sure how it happened, but one moment I was walking down the porch stairs, the next I was face-down in the snow.

Perhaps it was these moments and not my brains, charm, or good looks that endeared me to my wife. If Mike is right, it may have been my literally kissing the ground that Now-wife then walked on that inexplicably drew her to me. All those times I thought she was trying to kill me by snapping two elongated flat boards onto my feet and shoving two sticks into my hands before sending me careening down a snow-covered mountain or by affixing razor thin pieces of metal to the bottoms of my boots and asking me to travel in aimless circles on an indoor puddle of ice with throngs of other people with razor thin pieces of metal affixed to the bottoms of their boots, she might actually have been turned on by my pratfalls and encores of pratfalls.

The moment I truly won her heart must have been when I collapsed in front of a gaggle of preschool skiers and their ski instructor. I slid gracefully from the ski lift, glided a few yards, and delicately crumpled to the cold, cold ground. As I struggled unsuccessfully to return to my skis, the class of three- and four-year-olds (all infinitely more proficient on skis than me) gathered around me, staring at the floundering mess of a wannabe skier. The instructor helped me to my feet. The little ones giggled mercilessly, as did the wife. Much of the rest of my day was spent recovering from similar pratfalls.

All my life, I’ve labored to overcome my proneness to accidents of all varieties, when perhaps I should have been embracing it. It may be the bomp in the bomp-a-bomp-a-bomp that made my baby fall in love with me.

I am a paragon of gracelessness; this just might be my saving grace.

In the middle of the night

A wise person once counseled my wife and me that important conversations should not occur after 10:00 pm. We have done our best to abide by this general rule, knowing that the later in the evening a discussion is commenced, the more likely it is to be emotionally rather than intellectually driven.

That being said, some of our most interesting communication has undoubtedly happened after the bewitching hour of midnight.

In our marriage, it has often been the case that my wife has fallen asleep before me, sometimes by a matter of hours. When I worked as a college dormitory supervisor, it was my duty to patrol the halls and campus grounds well into the night; when I would return home from a hard day's night, she'd be fast asleep, snug as a bug in a rug. And now, as a graduate student, I often sit in bed late at night reading papers, working on assignments, or blogging; exciting as these tasks are, she is rarely able to maintain consciousness whilst I hammer away at the backlit keyboard. Indeed, basking in the warm dim glow of my laptop screen listening to my restfully deep-breathing sleeping wife is a favorite scenario of mine.

It is within this context that the aforementioned most interesting exchanges often occur. My wife typically claims to have no recollection of these conversations the mornings after, which leads me to conclude that she was likely in an altered state of consciousness when they occurred (i.e. talking in her sleep).

Recently, for instance, I had gotten up to use the restroom in the middle of the night. As I slipped back into bed as gingerly as my 260-pound five-foot eleven-and-a-half inch frame would allow, my wife turned toward me just a little and blurted, "Hey fifth grader!"

I replied, "Who, me?"

And she returned with a resounding "Yes, you!" She then proceeded to serenade me with the theme song to the Fox reality show, "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?"

When these nuggets of late-night conversational gold appear, I have the urge to find a pen and paper and jot down what she has said (or, in some cases, sung) to me. But, just as I do when I awake from a dream I'd like to record the contents of, I convince myself I'll remember her words in the morning. I rarely do. Today, I remembered the "fifth grader" bit, so I thought I'd make a permanent record of it here.

And, while I'm at it, I thought I'd share a few other interesting comments I can remember from the past five-and-a-half blissful years of sleepy time shenanigans before the memories fade into oblivion.

I can recall having worked outside at the college on one particularly cold evening. I returned home chilled to the bone and tucked myself into bed, snuggling next to my snoozing wife for body warmth. "Brrrrr!" she shouted. "You're an ice cube. I'm a heat cube." She rolled away from me, pulling all of the covers with her, muttering something about how ice cubes and heat cubes shouldn't touch.

It is clear, however, that in her sleep, she betrays her deepest thoughts about me. I've been called both a "maztoh ball head" and "a real fideller", which based on the preceding Cuban themed sleep talk conversation, I assume was a reference to Castro, but I can't be sure.

I have of course shared the joy and inanity of her late-night verbal outpourings with a few (hundred) friends and family. My brother wished to experience my wife’s nocturnal loquacity for himself, so he would visit our apartment to watch late-night movies, hoping my lovely bride would fall asleep on the couch. One evening, after watching the exhilarating French-subtitled film Manon des Sources, the little lady conked right out on the couch, and my brother wasted no time in attempting to egg her on to spoken absurdity. It didn’t take much for her to spout off something about being Big Bird in Sesame Street on Ice or some such incoherent gibberish. Little Brother laughed hysterically, asking her one question after the next, leading her further and further down the rabbit trail of nonsensical gobbledygook. Finally, his laughter was too much, and my wife was aroused from her slumber, a small bit perturbed that she had been so exploited for the amusement of others beside myself.

On more than one occasion, she has 'written' and sung lyrics to entire songs that did not exist before her head hit the pillow. These usually send me into riotous fits of merriment that wake her up after a stanza or two. The only song that I can remember and report the lyrics to was quite an ingenious little ditty about Singer Sewing Machines. What made this song quite amazing is that she had never really talked, much less thought, in great depth about this particular apparatus. The song was quite simple with the following verse repeated maybe twenty-ought times:

Sing ‘er a song about a Singer Sewing Machine… a singer sewing machine
Sing ‘er a song about a Singer Sewing Machine… a singer sewing machine

The first couple times she sang the verse she had been lying on her back, barely moving, but, as she repeated it a few more times, she started to feel the rhythm and began to move her shoulders to the beat. Finally, she became so emotionally moved by these lyrics, she bolted upright in bed and sang the song, eyes still closed but face contorted with emotion, in a loudish inside voice, such that I’m pretty sure our apartment neighbors were the recipients of a free chronically crescendoing midnight concert. It was amazing. She just kept singing and singing this verse over and over again. Finally, I felt it the merciful decision to wake her up so that she would not lose her voice as a result of her extended unconscious choral performance.

“Honey,” I said, gently shaking her shoulder. She did not flinch but continued to sing, with feeling.

Sing ‘er a song….

I gently shook her shoulder. “Dear, you’re sleepsinging.” No response.

…about a Singer Sewing Machine…

“You’re going to wake the neighbors, sweetheart.”

… a Singer Sewing Machine…

Finally, I grabbed both shoulders and shook firmly (but non-violently). She continued singing, but her eyes popped open. She continued repeating her verse, looking around the room, trying to figure out who and where she was. The words slowed down to a trickle.

Sing… her… a... song…

“Sweetheart, you’ve been singing in your sleep.

about… a... Singer… Sewing… Machine…

She stopped singing, looked at me as if I were crazy and said, “No I haven’t.”

“Dear,” I replied, defending my position, “you have been singing a song about a classic sewing contraption…” It was pointless to continue. She had already lied down again and closed her eyes. She mumbled something, but her murmurs faded into the nighttime silence.

The song had such a catchy tune that I still find myself humming it on occasion.

I leave you with perhaps my all-time favorite nighttime sleeping wife antic:

Attention all shoppers, attention all shoppers. Supermarket Sweep is about to begin!

Following this exclamation, my wife then described in the first person her dreamland experiences of running through the game show grocery store Bonus Sweep.

Now I’m running up and down the aisles… and now I’m looking for graham crackers… and now I found the graham crackers and I’m throwing it in my cart… and now I’m looking for a giant banana… and I found the giant banana… yippee!!! And now I’m looking for a turkey… and I found the turkey… oooh, the turkey’s heavy… and now I’m running back to the start… and… and… and… I win!!! I win!!! I win!!!

She’s so beautiful and peaceful when she sleeps.

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.

Dear Susie...

This blog entry is inspired by a blog entry I inspired at Velvet Sacks.

I thought she was the one.

I really liked the fourth grade. Fourth grade was when I got my first pouch (don’t call it a fanny pack!). Fourth grade was when I met the Eds: Edwin and Edward. And, fourth grade was when I first laid eyes on her. She. Was. Beautiful.

I knew I had to make her my girl. Problem was: I was the kid who thought the pouch around his waist was really cool (I mean, it was cool—where else could I store my hip shades and my pencils and baseball cards). Let me put it mildly: even at the ripe young age of 10, I was undoubtedly of the nerd persuasion… and she most certainly was not.

Day after day, I did all I could to muster the courage to talk to her. Day after day, I would approach her, look into her eyes and chicken out. Day after day, I walked past her without having said a single word, shoulders slumped in defeat.

One night I decided I’d had enough of my cowardice. I would be a man of action. I would write a letter—not just any letter, no—a love letter.

Perhaps most smitten fourth graders moved to draft such an epistle would have gathered some paper and a writing implement (pencil, marker, crayon?). I, however, went straight for my father’s electric typewriter.

I flipped up the paper guide and inserted a blank piece of white paper behind the roller. I rolled the paper into place and, looking both ways to ensure no one was watching, composed what was sure to become my magnum opus. The words poured forth, almost too fast for my then undersized digits. What follows is my best recollection of the content of the composition.

For the sake of maintaining anonymity, let’s call her Susie.

Dear Susie,

You are the most beautiful girl that I have ever seen. Your eyes sparkle like the stars. When you smile, I feel like I am in the clouds. I feel happy whenever I see your face or hear your voice. I like you so much. Would you like to be my girlfriend?

Love,

I got this far, and, for the first time since I had begun typing, was at a loss for words. How should I sign my name? First name only? First and last name? I clammed up and began to sweat. What was I doing? Could I really reveal my innermost sentiments? What if she laughed at me? What if she showed the letter to her friends and they all laughed at me?

I wrestled with how to conclude, when my mother walked into the room and asked me what I was typing. She probably assumed I was writing a story, as I would sometimes do on my father’s typewriter.

I hurriedly concluded:

Love,

Your secret admirer

Yes, I see the inconsistency. In the body of the letter, I asked Susie to be my girlfriend, yet I evaded self-revelation. I know: she couldn’t accept my offer if she wanted to. But, don’t worry—I was never in any danger of having missed my big chance for failing to identify myself.

I flipped up the paper guide and slid the paper out of the machine and promptly folded it into fourths and placed it in my pouch.

The next day at school, I waited for my opportunity. All day, I was a sweaty preadolescent shell of my normal self. Every few minutes, I would discreetly unzip my pouch and feel for the note just to make sure it was still there. At day's end, I still had not given her my letter.

Finally, my opportunity arrived. Our end-of-the-day routine was to put our chairs upside down on top of our desks so that the janitors could sweep the floor; we’d then line up for the bus. At the appropriate time, I promptly flipped my chair onto my desk and loitered a safe distance behind Susie’s desk. As she placed her chair on her desk and began walking for the line by the door, I followed closely behind, slipping the note between her desk and chair. My plan was for her to arrive at school the next day and find the note first thing in the morning.

The package placed, I headed straight for the line, feeling at once emboldened and terrified. My inner self-talk went a little something like this: “I did it! What have I just done?!” How I would wait an entire day to see her reaction I did not know. I hadn’t yet thought of a follow-up plan. I guess I would have to gauge her reaction. If she seemed intrigued, I’d reveal myself. If not, then—

Suddenly, Susie realized she had left something in her desk. She stepped out of line and sprinted to her desk. She reached in to grab her New Kids on the Block jumbo display pin when something caught her eye—a corner of white paper between her chair and desk.

She pulled it out and began to read it. I watched but tried not to look like I was watching, my heart pounding somewhere in the range of 300-400 beats per minute. I felt like I might pass out. She finished the letter. I tried to make out the expression on her face. Was it flattery? Was it excitement? No. It was definitely not flattery or excitement. Her reaction was most surprising. Susie instantly burst into tears, somehow seriously disturbed by the notion that a classmate of hers had a crush on her.

“What’s wrong, Susie?” my teacher asked.

“Th-this,” she said thrusting the note in front of her.

My teacher took the note from her hand. She read it and instantly looked at me. It was not difficult for her to guess who the secret admirer was who had written—nay, typed—this love letter. I had transitioned from subtle observation to outright gawking at the disaster unfolding before my very eyes.

Sweat was pouring down my face (it wasn’t the first or last time in my life I had sweat so profusely in response to stress). I knew that this relationship was over.

I never spoke another word to Susie. To be honest, I’m not sure if I ever did speak a word to her before the incident. This, however, definitely ended things between us. My crush lingered in painful suspended animation for the duration of the school year. It took summer vacation to fully recover.

I knew I had to get tough. This would merely be the first in a long line of rejections and misadventures I would have to endure until I found the one. The real one.

Will blog for food

It has been apocryphally fabled that my first words upon entering this world were: What's for dinner?

It has been non-apocryphally fabled that my first words upon entering the world of matrimony were: What's for dinner?

I have only missed dinner once. I was 5. Presumably, I became distracted by Hot Wheels and bathtime and had not noticed that supper had not been served. My mom put me to bed. I remember laying there, tossing and turning, with the strange, unsettling sensation that something was amiss. My stomach gurgled. Then I felt the pang. I bolted upright and yelled at the top of my lungs, announcing my mother's failure to provide for her child's nutritional needs to all the neighborhood: "MOM! YOU FORGOT TO FEED ME!"

Flash forward 22 years. My wife is in Connecticut where she is completing her pursuit of becoming a Master of Gifted Education. She left the dog and me to fend for ourselves at home.

Thus far, I've found subsistence in the form of Chinese leftovers and Hungry Man microwave tv dinners.

I've finished the Chinese food and have only 1 Hungry Man meal left and 10 days until Lisa comes home. I'm not sure what I'm going to do when the Hungry Men run out. I fear we'll be reduced to animals.

Scrounge for crumbs, I guess. Maybe share Watson's kibble. Pop over at the neighbors' at dinner time...

Perhaps the good Lord will send some (hungry) manna from heaven.

Lisa... come home soon... you forgot to feed me.



Originally Posted: Tuesday, June 27, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: soon to be hungry, i fear
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

He swears it was complimentary to all involved.

Rhonda, our lab manager, had organized the offers a product representative dropped off to show our boss.

Our boss arrived, saw the stack of "deals", and said: "Look at all those coupons. You're just like my wife."

He paused, shifted in his seat, then added, "But in a good way."



Originally Posted: Tuesday, May 22, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: working
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

Not for consumption

Today, Lisa made two deserts: a strawberry pie for our own consumption and a strawberry jello pretzel salad for her co-workers to enjoy during a birthday party at work on Monday.

Also, today, I went grocery shopping and returned home with a panoply of edibles (as is not uncommon for a shopper such as myself--see blog for November 30, 2006).

So the stage is set: a refrigerator filled to near overflowing with recent purchases and culinary creations. On the top shelf, among countless other items, are the strawberry pie (for our own consumption), milk, and salad dressing. The strawberry jello pretzel salad (for her co-workers to enjoy during a birthday party at work on Monday) can be found in the bottom shelf milieu of goods.

After dinner (a delicous shrimp fra diavolo, also prepared by Lisa), Lisa was kind enough to serve us both some desert: we each had a slice of strawberry pie (which had, of course, been created for the express purpose of our own consumption). Topped with a dollop of fat-free Cool Whip, it was an utterly delectable desert, so delightful, in fact, that I decided upon seconds. "No, honey," I said. "I'll get it myself." (Foreshadowing: I have since come to regret these words.)

I gracefully emerged from my recliner, approached the refrigerator wtih aplomp, opened the door, reached for the pie, and, in a rare spasm of dyskinesia, jostled the salad dressing while my hand was en route to the strawberry pie (created for own consumption).

The dressing wobbled, forward, then back. And, then, it took the fateful swivel and tilted sideways. The bottle moved in slow motion, yet it all happened to so fast. Before I could correct my error, the thousand islands teetered off the edge of the top shelf and plummeted. The plummeting ended with a muffled plop. Before the visual stimulus before me could traverse my optic chiasm, I knew what I had done. I had caused the dressing to fall from its perch next to the strawberry pie (which was for own consumption) into (not next to or in front of, but smack dab into the middle of) the strawberry jello pretzel salad (prepared for her co-workers to enjoy during a birthday party at work on Monday).

The strawberry jello pretzel salad (which had been intended for her co-workers to enjoy during a birthday party at work on Monday) could no longer be served to her co-workers to enjoy during a birthday party at work on Monday... and, disfigured (but still delicious) is now for our own consumption.

Lisa has graciously forgiven me. I feel just awful.

I'm going to get some more.



Originally Posted: Tuesday, May 19, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: full
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

I have a way with women.

Women seem to like to push the envelope with me.

Tonight, after recounting the details of my difficult week with my therapist, she asked me how I felt about it. I hesitated, and, as if to push the envelope, she said, "You're p*ssed off." She paused. "Aren't you?"

"Yeah, I guess I am." We continued our conversation for some time. As we talked about why my week had p*ssed me off, I began to wonder why she had used the phrase "p*ssed off". This was certainly the most brazen use of language in our sessions to date. I finally decided that she was just trying to provoke me, to get my goat, to catch my attention.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I had clearly relinquished control of this conversation. She was on top in this one, and I had to turn the tables. Again, she asked me how I felt. I was prepared with a reply: "like my work had gone to sh*t."

She was taken aback. That was the last curse word uttered in our session.

If I (or my health plan) am paying her to listen and advise, she can stick to the listening and advising. I'll cover the risque language, thank you very much.

After this killer therapy session, Lisa and I went out to eat at Domenico's. As we circled the parking lot, a little girl stopped in front of our car, made direct eye contact, and stuck her tongue out at me. Yes--there I was, face to face with a chubby little tongue protruding from her cherubic little face.

We drove away.

I was boiling on the inside. How dare this little girl affront me so? I nearly pulled into a parking space before the change of plans. I jerked out of the spot, sped around the lot, until the little girl and I were eye-to-eye again within our respective cars. She was still giggling, reveling in her facial assault, when I, as they say, fought fire with fire. With unmatched oral agility, I returned the favor and stuck my tongue out at her!

She drove away. Actually, the older man (presumably her father, but one never knows) drove away. I ducked... for two reasons: first, to avoid ocular connection with her male companion, and second, to ensure that I had the last word in this nonverbal war.

I always have the last laugh with the ladies.



Originally Posted: Tuesday, April 27, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: accomplished
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

Oh, brother, where art thou?

This entry may be unintelligible to non-MySpace members.

It may also be unintelligble to MySpace members. Oh, well. I tried.


More than just a brother, I have lost a (MySpace) friend.

All I ever wanted was my brother's support.

I told him about my blog, hoping he would read it and leave comments and kudos. After months of prodding, he finally told me he'd read it but couldn't leave any comments or kudos because only MySpace members can do any such thing.

So I did what any good brother would do: I created an account for him. I began accepting MySpace friends on his behalf and adorning his profile with cleverly captioned pictures. I did not just make him my MySpace friend, but I made him my TOP friend. I emailed him his new password and told him with a great sense of accomplishhment that he was now a member of a privileged, if not elite, online community who could comment on and kudo my blog posts.

Whenever someone requested him as a friend, I would email him and ask him if he wished to accept their offer of friendship. One day, a friend of my brother from yesteryear, Fred (names have been changed to protect the innocent), requested my brother's online friendship.

I emailed my brother and asked him: "Your friend Fred has requested that you become his friend. What do you want to do? Just say the word and I will accept or reject on your behalf."

His response was shocking: "I'm gonna have to ask you to cancel my account and I'll open my own when I'm good and ready."

I protested: "What?!?!?!? You can't cancel this one-- you've already got so many friends... like 4 of us: me, Ross, Bill, and Tom [only this last name has not been changed for protection of the innocents]. I've got--I mean--you've got so much invested in this. Look. Yes or no to Fred?"

My brother: "I'm sorry Yajeev -- I'm going to have to ask you to cancel..."

Me: "We'll talk."

Him: "terminate."

So, I did what any guy who had created a killer MySpace profile for his brother that he didn't want to see deleted because he secretly wished his brother would just read his blog and leave comments and kudos: I changed his password and assumed his identity.

This carried on for some time. But the pain festered. I would sign in with his MySpace ID and read my blogs from his account. I wanted to leave kudos on his behalf but I couldn't bring myself to commit that self-deceit. Finally, the facade became too much for me to maintain, so I relinquished his password.

A short time later, I received a note in my email inbox announcing that my brother had sent me a message from his MySpace account! Overjoyed that my brother had finally decided to bridge our technological devide and participate in the beauty that is the online social network of MySpace, I logged in to my account with great fervor to see what his message was. Maybe he wanted to tell me how much he loved my blogs... or perhaps he wanted to apologize for not being more enthusiastic and grateful for my efforts of setting up his awesome profile... I felt like the prodigal brother had returned. It was time for a party.

My giddiness quickly turned to sadness when I clicked on his message only to read the following: "This profile no longer exists." My heart sunk. He had chosen this cruel and unusual way to let me know my efforts were not appreciated and that he no longer wished to be my (MySpace) friend. He then emailed me: "Sorry, man...I need to have the solo thrill of creating my own account."

Whatever.

I remember my high school psychology well enough to know that I'm at the third stage of the DABDA grieving process (denial->anger->BITTERNESS->depression->acceptance). It may be the bitterness I now feel that compels me to air out my dirty laundry in this public forum... the public forum from which my brother has chosen to extricate himself.

That's ok. I know who my real (MySpace) friends are: you, my readers, commenters, kudoers. And especially Tom, who makes all of this possible. You are my (MySpace) friends, my (MySpace) brothers and (MySpace) sisters.

Originally Posted: Tuesday, March 10, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: Originally in denial, then angry, now just bitter
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

Meep meep!

I can't be sure, but I think my wife may be trying to kill me.

I have suffered too many near-death mishaps at her hands in the past two weeks for this to be a coincidence.

First, I was descending our staircase with a basket of laundry (which she must have known I would wash), my computer, and a bowl of dog food. On the penultimate stair was a well-placed grocery store bag filled with stuff she had been 'meaning' to take upstairs. My normally steady foot landed on the bag, and I slid as if on a banana peel. In the air flew towels, underwear, hundreds of kibbles, my computer, and my otherwise nimble body. And with a thud, both I and the computer fell to the tile floor, rained upon by a gentle shower of dog food. I survived, and so did my computer, but barely. This crash resulted in a $341 repair which may have been death for my wallet if not for myself.

Second, seven days later, she had us pulling up our carpet so that we could install laminate flooring. There I was, on my hands and knees, prying out staples from the underlying flooring so that we would have a nice, smooth surface on which to overlay the laminate planks. I looked up just in time to see our stand-alone corner dish cabinet falling towards my head. And, somehow, someway, I had the presence of mind to reach out my hands and stop the plummeting hazard mere inches from crushing my head like a melon. And, who was behind the cabinet? You guessed it. She claims she was just trying to move the piece of furniture to tear out what was the conveniently placed final piece of old carpet remaining on the floor.

Third, same day. On the shopping list she gave me was a pre-mixed bag of salad, which I compliantly purchased. I mentioned three days later, when she was cooking corn for herself for dinner, that we still had the salad. She replied that she could not eat it, but that I should. When I examined the sald bag I discovered that the salad had expired! I pointed this critical fact out to her, and she shrugged her shoulders, unphased. Look, I may not have a PhD in biochemistry or molecular genetics, but I am fully aware of the dangers lurking in leafy appetizers--E. coli, salmonella, ebola... and the risk must increase exponentially with each day after the expiration date. I did not eat the salad.

Finally, two days ago, after she claimed to have lost her cell phone, I found it that same night face down in the toilet, dead. The next day she was leading a field trip on which she simply had to have a cell phone. So, she borrowed mine. As my faithful and discerning readers will recognize, my cell phone represents more to me than the freedom to hear and be heard by millions on my nationwide network. My cell phone represents the addiction with which I struggle daily: cell phone Yahtzee Deluxe. And removing my phone for a full day at a time forces me to cease digital dice rolling cold turkey. The withdrawal symptoms were intense. Fortunately, I found a replacement phone for her last night. Were I forced to endure another Yahtzee Deluxe-free day, the tremors might well have done me in.

Ever vigilant, I will not succomb to her devices (though I may to crippling paranoia). Like Gloria Gayner (and Diana Ross after her), I will survive. I will be the Road Runner to her Wile E. Coyote. The Bugs Bunny to her Elmer Fudd. The Osama bin Laden to her American led multinational coalition of armed forces. I will dodge her blows and live to tell the stories. Probably in my blog.


Originally Posted: Tuesday, March 1, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: scared
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

Addiction

My name is Yajeev, and I'm addicted to cell phone Yahtzee Deluxe.

(Response: Hi, Yajeev.)

You may recall my recent discovery of cell phone Yahtzee Deluxe as an alternative and superior means of entertainment/occupation while using the toilet (see 9/27/06 entry).

What was once a sometimes amusement has since come to rule my life. I write this blog not out of pride, but in shame over the way I have allowed Yahtzee Deluxe to overtake every aspect of my life.

Had you confronted me two months ago as a well-meaning friend or relative, I would have denied, denied, denied... and would have insisted that YOU were the one with the problem, son. It's taken me a long time to admit that I have an addiction, but I know that this is the first step in overcoming it.

There has been no lack of warning signs... I have ignored them all. And yet, day by day, game by game, roll by ineluctable roll, Yahtzee Deluxe has consumed one facet of my existence after another.

It began when I would play Yahtzee Deluxe while sitting on the toilet. Before I knew it, I was extending my throne room visits, both in frequency and duration... I was sitting down for occasions I would have previously stood... I was visiting the restroom when there was no real need for elimination--I just craved an escape into my private sanctuary where I could satisfy what was fast becoming an unquenchable urge to roll five of a kind.

On my commutes to and from work, I have often found myself sitting in traffic. Before I knew it, I was whiling away my idle road time with Yahtzee Deluxe. When the road congestion cleared in the middle of a great game, however, I occasionally could not find the willpower to set my cell phone down and turn my attention to the road. Nay, one hand on the wheel, the other on the dice, I continued both pursuits simultaneously... usually managing to perform both tasks adequately. On one occasion, before my very eyes on the little color screen appeared "1 2 3 4 5." I yelled in exclamation, "Large straight!" when I heard a honk at my side. I looked up and realized that I had begun to swerve into the other lane. As if to explain myself and assuage the anger of the driver I nearly broadsided, I merely lifted my cell phone to the window and pointed at it, mouthing the words "Large straight." I felt sure he'd understand.

The urge comes upon me at all times--in the middle of the night, while reading for school, even in the middle of writing this blog I have played twice (scores: 199 and 224) and have barely resisted the urge to play more... I can do better than those scores--they're average at best.

Looking back, the warning signs of addiction have been so obvious... I've consulted addiction websites and found that I have exhibited several of the classic signs of addiction: denial of any problem, keeping secrets from family and friends (i.e. how much Yahtzee Deluxe I've been playing), problems with schoolwork (rolling the digital dice when I should have been reading), spending a lot of time figuring out how to satisfy my addiction, failed attempts to stop indulging, anxiety (you should see me sweat bullets when I've rolled four sixes and I'm going for the Yahtzee with one roll left), mood swings (highly score dependent), changes in sleeping habits (I've been playing in the middle of the night), feeling shaky or sick when trying to stop, weight gain (two pounds since Thanksgiving)...

And yet, it was only recently, while my wife and I were enjoying a romantic evening at the Olive Garden, when, during the slightest lull in an otherwise serious and stimulating conversation, I whipped out my cell phone, and pressed the memorized button sequence to open Yahtzee Deluxe and began rolling, that I realized something was amiss. I glanced up, and realized I had done something wrong.

"What are you doing?"

"Um, I'm playing Yahtzee Deluxe."

"Is our conversation not interesting enough?"

"Oh, sure it is." Pause. "Are you offended?"

"Slightly."

"Oh, sorry." I flipped my phone shut, and slid it into my pocket.

We continued our conversation. My wife, graceful as ever, has not brought up this incident again. But I know that I have offended.

Which brings me to the present. It's easy to overlook the indications of a problem… until you begin to hurt the ones you love.

I have vowed to make a change: No more Yahtzee Deluxe at the Olive Garden.

It may seem a small step, but I assure you, it will be no easy task. And, I call upon you, my friends, to help me, to hold me to my commitment. I know that without a support structure in place, my best-laid plans are but lofty pie-in-the-sky fantasies. Please, if ever you find yourself with me in an Olive Garden, and you see me reach for my pocket, have the courage and strength to help me find my own courage and strength to overcome the animal Yahtzee Deluxe urge that rages within.

Thank you.

(Response: polite, gentle applause)


Originally Posted: Tuesday, February 7, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: guilty
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev

Tears of...

Last night I found a curious message on my answering machine. It was a female crying for about 10 seconds before hanging up. I figured this blog was the perfect forum to get to the bottom of this mystery.

If this was you, please reveal yourself and let me know what I have done to break your heart.

...or what I have done to make you cry tears of joy.

I'm pretty sure they weren't tears of joy, though. I'm pretty good at telling those apart.

Originally Posted: Tuesday, July 19, 2006
(Then) Current Mood: mellow
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev





Today's post

Bloggity diggity doo.

Originally Posted: Tuesday, July 18, 2006
http://blog.myspace.com/yajeev