Oh Cap'n! My Cap'n!

Dear Wife,

First, I would like to sincerely thank you for all of your hard work—your clothes laundering, dish washing, (really spicy) chili cooking, chocolate chip oatmeal cookie baking, dog-hair vacuuming, and grocery shopping. Your dedication to the smooth functioning of our household is very much appreciated and has not gone unnoticed.

There is something, however, I need to tell you. I am sorry to have to confront you in this venue, but I thought the blow might be softened if we were in the company of many anonymous and non-anonymous blog-reading friends.

There is one crucial fact of life that it is time for you to learn. I had hoped when we got married that your parents would have taught you, but I am prepared to take the helm of your educational development for this teaching moment. Sweet, dear, loving, warm, beautiful wife, there is something you need to know:

Peanut Butter Crunch is NOT the same as Cap’n Crunch.

Sure, they both have the Cap’n on the cereal box, but these two cereals are as fundamentally different as Rice Chex and Wheat Chex—two completely different animals. Cap’n Crunch consists of textured rectangular yellow bits of crisp sweetened corn goodness, while Peanut Butter Crunch bits are smooth, puffed spheres of peanut butter. I poured the cereal in the dark kitchen, and thus didn’t carefully inspect the packaging. Surely, you can imagine my surprise upon inserting that first spoonful into my mouth.

Listen, I don’t blame you for purchasing the wrong Crunch. If anything, I blame myself for assuming you knew the difference. I can certainly understand how such an error in judgment could befall a newbie Crunchaholic when confronted with the panoply of Crunches in the cereal aisle: Cap’n Crunch, Crunch Berries, Peanut Butter Crunch, Choco Crunch, Chocolatey Peanut Butter Crunch, and Christmas Crunch (not to mention the generic imitations). Your childhood was obviously a disadvantaged one, and I love you all the more for it. For my part, I commit to you that I will no longer take it for granted that you are as well-versed in the ins and outs of sugar cerealdom as I am when we write a shopping list.

Love forever,
Your husband


P.S. Please don’t return the Peanut Butter Crunch to the store. I’ll suffer through it.




* For an expansion upon this post's title, please click here.

Happy Wacky Wednesday!

Some posts just write themselves...

While I stayed up last night to watch the Twins lose in a one-game playoff against the White Sox, the wife went to bed early. When it finally came time for me to join her, she asked me, sounding alarmed, "Wait! What day is it?"

I responded matter-of-factly, "Tuesday."

"Do you know what that means?" she asked dramatically.

"No, what does it mean?" I asked.

"It means that tomorrow is Wacky Wednesday!" At this point, I realized that my wife was communicating from beyond the pale of sleep. My wife's impressive nocturnal communication skills have been previously noted (click here, for example); I was eager to continue in this conversation. "What happens on Wacky Wednesday, dear?"

"Everyone wears hats with googly eyes!" She giggled.

"What else?"

"And they might wear their overalls backwards!"

"Does anything else happen on Wacky Wednesday?"

"Yes--you wear shirts with little polka dots... and..."

She was fading. I didn't want to lose her. "What about the polka dots, honey?"

"The polka dots... they... talk..."

"What do they say?"

"They say, 'We're hungry. We want to eat donuts.' And then I give them little tiny donuts, and the polka dots are all happy." Her tone changed abruptly. "But the next day is Troubling Thursday." In her sleep, it seems, she believed Troubling Thursday to be as alliterative as Wacky Wednesday.

"What's so troubling about Thursday?" I prodded.

"I don't know what the trouble is... that's what's so troubling..."

She began to mumble, almost imperceptibly. I knew that I was losing her. I tried to revive her without actually waking her, but she was gone--lost to the deep, silent slumber that that follows RMM (rapid mouth movement) sleep.

I never learned what was so troubling about Thursday. I hope it doesn't involve nauseated polka dots. Godspeed to us all.

Looking for my marbles

Since moving to Connecticut, we have conformed to the hands-free cell phone driving laws by utilizing bluetooth earpieces... which I have begun to use beyond the confines of my automobile, perhaps against better judgment.

I had a minor victory this morning, but given how overwhelmed I have felt during this past week, a minor victory was a real high point. A small confidence-boosting experience would carry me a long way, or so I thought. I was so pleased with myself that I gave the wife a call to share with her the small, but significant, good news.

Invigorated, I called my wife to communicate the high-point of my nascent postdoctoral career. As we spoke telephonically via bluetooth earpiece, I walked back and forth across the inner quad next to the building in which I work; I had no idea that I was at that very moment supposed to be attending a lab meeting... a meeting at which all but one of my ten-or-so co-workers were waiting for me to join them... a meeting in a room with a view of the inner quad... the very same inner quad on which their newest labmate was at that very moment pacing back and forth gesticulating semi-wildly, speaking animatedly, as it appeared, to himself... or the voices in his head.

One of the lab members mercifully came to retrieve me and tell me about the meeting I was supposed to be attending. When I came to the meeting room and saw that the entire group had watched me apparently cracking up on the lawn, I nearly did for real.

I've decided to take it one hour at a time. A day is just a little too much to ask for.

I was just following orders

On nights like tonight , I wonder just how much my PhD can really be worth...

Tonight, on her way home, my wife asked if we could go out to eat. I was the bad guy, citing a heavy workload, but I offered to prepare a frozen pizza if she would walk me through the steps...

Set the oven to 400 degrees.

Check.

Remove the pizza from the plastic.

Check.

Put the pizza on the shelf 6-8 inches above the oven floor.

Check.

Set the timer for 20 minutes.

Check.



I know what you're thinking. She neglected to mention one of the most important steps: Remove the pizza from the cardboard tray. As in, DON'T COOK THE CARDBOARD.


She didn't tell me. Tonight we had four cheese corrugation. Delish.


(for my wife's account, click here)

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.

Going Public

The wife has finally decided to make her Journey public. Please check out her new blog.

I endorse the Olympic proposal outlined in her latest entry and commit to work tirelessly for its implementation if elected President.

From Keystone to Constitution

Two weeks ago, my wife, my dog, and I transported all of our worldly possessions from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Hartford, Connecticut in a high-speed (50ish mph) two-Honda Civic, one-Penske truck caravan across Pennsylvania, New York, and Connecticut.


With the help of an unexplainably high-spirited crew (including the wife's sister and brother-in-law-to-be, occasional blog commenter and devoted friend Andy, and two of the wife’s classmates (one current classmate, one former classmate accompanied by her husband—who graciously donated his time and strength to a couple of Pittsburghers he barely knew), we spent several hours dodging raindrops while lugging, maneuvering, forcing, wedging, wiggling, and finagling boxes, shelves, beds, dressers, couches, and televisions up two narrow, steep flights of stairs and through an unusually and frustratingly narrow front door to a then-un-air-conditioned third floor apartment. By the time all of our stuff had been forced through the entrance, the entire crew was thoroughly exhausted.

This was the easy part. We all went out to eat to celebrate the mass movement of stuff and got a good night’s sleep, and the next morning, Andy and I got into my car and returned to Pittsburgh, where I would attend the closing of the sale of our house, complete the microbiology course I taught at the community college, and officially submit the final version of my dissertation.

Stereotypical man that I am, I left the hard part (i.e. getting our new home in order) to the little lady, who was assisted for one more day by her sister and sister’s fiancé. (“No, dear, I insist: you stay in Connecticut with Watson and enjoy our new home, and I’ll work hard in Pittsburgh for one more week.”) The wife worked tirelessly for eight straight days of arranging, rearranging, cleaning, shopping, logisticating, assembling, while I spent my days working and nights and weekend, well, relaxing in a true yajeev-style vacation, chilling out, maxing, relaxing all cool and all shooting some b-ball outside of the school (minus the b-ball part).

The first four nights were spent with Andy, who treated me to dinner at a different fancy (or fancyish) restaurant each evening. At night, we watched movies on DVD, played video games, watched funny video clips on YouTube, and listened to some sweet tunes. As I write this, I’m imagining a split-screen movie with my wife working to exhaustion on one side of the screen and me lounging on Andy’s couch popping cheddar chex mix into my mouth, guzzling diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, and laughing at Stephen Colbert on the other. The wife is Cinderella, and I the gluttonous evil stepsister.

These four glorious nights were just the prelude to the indulgence of the weekend that followed: Saturday and Sunday were spent with my folks, and the entirety of my waking hours was spent in a rapid-fire alternation of large meals and movies. When I awoke on Saturday, I ate breakfast, which was soon followed by lunch (we had a movie to catch, so these first two meals had to be compressed—though, not combined to brunch). Pops and I drove to the theater for the first movie of the day (I had nachos with cheese), after which we met my mother at Outback Steakhouse (where there are very few rules) for a filling dinner. Immediately after finishing our steaks (mine was crowned with blue cheese), we zoomed to the cineplex to catch movie number 2. I abstained from snacking during the second movie, as I had caught wind of a rumor (which later proved to be true) of an after-movie stop at Pizza Hut, where my father and I each ate our own P’zone (contrary to what some might tell you, they are delectable) as my mother watched in horror. Exhausted by the exertions of the day, Dad and I retired to the house for a cinematic nightcap: we watched a third movie, this one on DVD from the comfort of my parents’ den.

Sunday, traditionally a day of rest, was accordingly lower-key—only two large meals and two movies—and a visit with Grandma. While I rested in the Midwest on Sunday afternoon, the wife struggled in New England for several hours to assemble a bathroom storage unit (which I broke yesterday in one of the myriad careless flashes of coordinational ineptitude that serve to connect the otherwise mundane moments of my life).

This past Monday morning, after an exhausting week of leisure, I tied up the few remaining loose ends of my life in Pittsburgh, completed my final round of goodbyes, and hit the road. I arrived in Connecticut late Monday night to what no man deserves: an apartment lovingly and meticulously assembled and cleaned and (best of all) a wife and dog excited to see me.

We’ve spent much of this week acquainting ourselves with our new surroundings: exploring the city parks, checking out a few of the tourist attractions, and, most importantly, systematically surveying the local dining landscape. In the past four days, we’ve eaten at The Pantry (a heavenly breakfast, lunch, and dinner greasy spoon situated within easy walking distance from our apartment), a charming BAEYOB (bring and exchange your own books) library/coffee shop called La Paloma Sabanera (which I think is Spanish for Starbucks), an incredibly cute Laotian/Thai diner (where I ate my third delicious serving of Pad Thai in less than five days and an out-of-this-world fried flour-shell-banana-mango dessert), an upscale downtown after-work martini (and APPETIZERS) bar for which my wife and I were shamelessly underdressed (but we enjoyed it just the same), pizza delivered from an upstart joint called Domino’s, the Red Rock Hartford Tavern (an independent bar and grille), a van parked by the capital building serving Chinese food, and a little place I like to call (pseudo) Mexican Heaven (Taco Bell--we've been there twice).

The most wonderful aspect of our new home is the plethora of Dunkin Donuts, apparently the primary source of nutrition of New England. En route to our closest Wal-Mart (less than two miles from our apartment), there are at least 4 Dunkin Donuts to choose from.


Lest you think my new Connecticutian life consists of one giant vat of donutty laze, I will have you know that I have contributed to the upkeep (if not the setup) of our new Hartford home: yesterday, I completed two loads of laundry and I washed the dishes—by hand—and I’ve checked the mail almost every day!

Tell me, Brother, can you quantify?

Last night, Little Brother and I spoke on the phone to catch up with each other's impressions of the most recent installments of three of our mutual loves: Lost (the sci-fi drama about hapless plane-wreck survivors stranded on a desert island), Survivor (the reality series about hapless game show contestants stranded on a desert island), and Gilligan's Island (the TV Land comedy about hapless three-hour-tourists stranded on a desert island).

(OK, not Gilligan's Island.)

In order to demonstrate to each other that we are both still serious fans of Lost and Survivor, at some point during the course of these exchanges, the conversation inevitably degenerates into some semblance of the following dialogue (which has been abridged for readability):

Little Bro: Are you liking Lost?

Yajeev: I like it.

Little Bro: Do you love it?

Yajeev: Yeah, I love it.

Little Bro: How much do you love it?

Yajeev: I love it a lot.

Little Bro: Yeah, but how much?

Yajeev: How can I quantify it?

Little Bro: Well, who's your favorite character right now?

Yajeev: Sawyer's probably my favorite character, but Michael Emerson is my favorite actor on the show.

Little Bro: How much do you love Sawyer?

Yajeev: Yeah, he's great, Bro.

Little Bro: How great are the things he says?

Yajeev: They're the best. I loved when he warned Locke about harming "just one curly hair on Hurley's head."

Little Bro: That was the best! How much did you love that line?

Yajeev: I just told you: it was a great line.

Little Bro: Yeah, but how much did you love it?

Yajeev: A lot. I loved it a lot. How can I answer these questions?!

A few minutes later, the conversation turned to our favorite contestants on past seasons of Survivor.

Little Bro: How much did you love Frank in Survivor: Africa?

Yajeev: He was great.

Little Bro: Yeah, but how much did you love him?

Yajeev: Brother, I loved him a lot.

Little Bro: How much?

Yajeev (searching for some frame of reference): I love Frank as a Survivor contestant almost as much as I love Lost as a show.

Little Bro: Right. (pause) How much is that?

Yajeev: Uhhhh...

Little Bro: Wait--let me ask you this. How much did you love how he didn't know the meaning of the word "brunch"?

Little Bro proceeded to recount verbatim the conversations that took place during a Survivor episode he'd seen only once, on its original airdate in late 2001.

Yajeev: Yeah, that was great.

Little Bro: How great?

And so on.



This conversation has made it clear that when it comes to how much I like something, I have no clear method of quantitation, which makes my descriptions of the degree of like/love I maintain for a given television show or character or Survivor contestant vague and devoid of real meaning.

By contrast, most important traits can be quantifiably determined and so communicated. The piquancy of a chicken wing drenched in Louisiana Lickers sauce (my poultry coating of choice) can be conveyed in Scoville Heat Units (SHU) (Louisiana Lickers wings are a zippy 1,220 SHU on a scale of 16,000,000). Likewise, when I visit the doctor tomorrow and step on the scales, I hope to weigh in at about a slug (not this kind of slug) less than I did four months ago. Similarly, when I wish to express to someone how much of the enzyme invertase a given yeast culture secretes under conditions of glucose scarcity, I can give a near exact value: 4o0 milli-units of invertase per 1 milliliter of cells at an optical density of 1.0 in light of 600 nanometer wavelength (mU/OD).

Towards the end of being able to specifically delineate the degree to which a person, place, or thing is liked, I hereby propose a new unit of fondness: The philiac.

Of course, before this term can be introduced to the public lexicon, the scale must be calibrated. In order for this new unit of fondness to be useful, we need to be clear on what a philiac is.

Below are a list of things and people that I like to varying degrees and their corresponding philiac values.

The wife: 1,000,000 philiacs = 1 megaphiliac (1 Mp)
Coffee: 50,000 philiacs = 50 kilophiliacs (50 kp)
Watson Steve: 10,000 philiacs = 1 kilophiliac (10 kp)
LOST: 1000 philiacs = 1 kilophiliac (1 kp)
Frank on Survivor: Africa: 950 philiacs (950 p)
Monte Cello's pepperoni pizza: 800 philiacs (800 p)
Pittsburgh Steelers: 700 philiacs (750 p)
Yeast genetics and biochemistry: 500 philiacs (100 p)
Minnesota Twins: 350 philiacs (350 p)
Tomato soup: 50 philiacs (50 p)
Mowing the lawn: 20 philiacs (20 p)
Clipping my fingernails: 1 philiac (1 p)
Walking uphill half a mile: 0.1 philiacs = 100 milliphiliacs (500 mp)
Removing splinters: 0.03 philiacs = 30 milliphiliacs (50 mp)
Gram staining bacterial isolates: 0.005 philiacs = 5 milliphiliacs (5 mp)
Preparing radioactive waste for removal: 0.00005 philiacs = 50 microphiliacs (50 μp)
Using gas station restrooms: 0.000001 philiacs = 1 microphiliac (1 μp)

I know that I am not the first to attempt to generate a numerical rating system. However, the advantage of the philiac is that, by virtue of its nearly limitless span, the philiac allows a far-greater range and much higher resolution than do the more commonly used five-star or two-thumb systems-- consider, for example, the trillion-fold difference in likedness of the wife (1 megaphiliac) with that of using gas station restrooms (1 microphiliac).

It is the hope of this bloggist that the philiac will facilitate and enhance communication among those who love to rate and rank.

Apt comparisons

The wife is currently en route to Atlanta to visit her sister and mother to take part in my sister-in-law's wedding pre-season (ie, shopping for dresses and doing other sorts of wedding planning stuff).

The little lady, bless her heart, selected the most inexpensive flight leaving today from Pittsburgh for Atlanta. It left at 6:45 am. Which meant she had to be at the airport at 4:45 am. Which meant we had to leave the house at 4:00 am. Which mean we had to get up at 3:00 am. THREE O' CLOCK AM. Which is basically the middle of the night.

The cloud's silver lining came, however, when I received the following brief text message from the wife just after she had boarded her plane (I added the punctuation and capitalization--those are tricky to do in text messages). This single sentence made waking up at 3 am worth it.

One guy got on [the plane and] said, "This is like a Greyhound bus on wheels."

Like the one in this picture?

It reminds me of a family friend, who, after arriving in the quaint Midwestern city of Chicago, Illinois (which is little more than a suburb of Indianapolis, really) remarked, "This city is almost as great as Columbus, Ohio!" Soon after making this comment, unfortunately, this friend, apparently unfamiliar with the operating protocols for revolving doors, became trapped in the circular entrance for one of the many stores along the Magnificent Mile. As if Chicago, recognizing and scorning its own inferiority to Columbus, Ohio, felt the need to exact petty revenge on the soul who dared speak such hurtful things.



If it meant reliably getting comments like these, I would gladly wake up at 3am every day (and then I would probably go back to sleep).

___________________________

Note added in proof: as I'm about to click "publish post", I just received another text message from the little lady. This is what it said (again, punctuation and capitalization contributed by me):

I made it. I love you.

This message is even better than the first.

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.)

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.

What can blue do for you?

My wife thinks I like to get to work early in order to get more accomplished in the course of my day, but in reality, the most significant perk of arriving at work at 6:00 am is getting first crack at the freshly cleaned toilets.

Few workplace sights are more welcomed to me than the cool blue of residual cleaning fluid in the toilet bowl. I don’t have to wipe the seat with toilet paper, and there’s no need to mess around with those tissue-paper seat covers (which always tear or stick to my legs). Thanks to our faithful and always pleasant janitor, Jeff, I know that my rear will contact only the cleanest of porcelain.

B-L-U-E: that’s how I spell relief.