Tag Couples

And the Band Played On

Michael Leave a comment

Today is Monday.  That means yesterday was Sunday.  That means across most of America people watched football.  Regardless of which players did or didn’t play for whatever thing they did, and regardless of what companies did or didn’t advertise regardless of what players did play even though others didn’t for whatever they did, and regardless if outraged interviewees on television did or didn’t rage on about what should have happened to the players who did and didn’t play, across most of America people watched football.

Here’s something interesting about the days that led up to yesterday.  Whenever a player was questioned about what he or someone else did, the answer would have gotten anyone else fined, fired, jailed, or all the above.  Whether regarding domestic violence, child abuse, assault, driving under the influence, or possession of an illegal substance, the player almost always admitted guilt to the allegation but then went an extra step and said “but it’s not” whatever.  “Yes, I beat my wife but it’s not abuse.”  We’re sorry; did somebody change the English language?  Are the meanings of words different this month than last?  Doesn’t “yes” still mean “yes, I did it” and doesn’t “no” not mean “except in my case”?

We think those players really believe what they are saying.  They really don’t believe knocking a woman unconscious is assault.  They really don’t believe beating a small child is abuse.  It comes from the violence of the sport they play.  And the “players’ little helpers” that they take.  When the job is one of inflicting pain and incapacitating the competition it’s difficult to separate reality from reality.  And just in case that player can’t incapacitate the competition based on a somewhat normal body build, there are steroids to help. Of course they are illegal substances except for the professionals who take them.  After all, they are professionals used to declaring, and being believed when declaring, “Yes, except.”  And it gives them ‘roid rage as the standard excuse for all bad things that are done off the field.  It’s all very convenient.

Yet it’s all still very illegal.  Today, somewhere in America, a couple will have an argument.  They will say things they shouldn’t.  She will turn her back on him.  He will reach out and take her arm to try to encourage her to stay and talk it out.  She will call the police because he “laid hands on her” and he will spend the night in jail.  A far cry from punching her senseless but he doesn’t have the advantage of having thousands of fans cheering on violent behavior from him, perhaps even including his victim.  So violent or not, he gets an all expense stay at the Abusers Astoria while the football player gets people draping signs over the stadium fences declaring their undying devotion to the sot.

Fair?  Of course not.  Expected?  Well, yesterday was Sunday.

Now that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you.

 

Weddings Gone Wild . . . well, sort of.

Michael 1 Comment

Another June has gone.  Throughout the world there have been probably millions of women transformed into traditional June brides.  We’ve been fortunate enough to experience a few of their transformations.

Early in the month we attended a beautiful outdoors ceremony.  We think the ceremony might have been conducted by a Catholic priest but he might have been Episcopal.  The services are similar.  Had there been a complete mass we would have had a firmer grasp on it.  Whoever he was, he officiated over a beautiful ceremony for a beautiful young couple with as many blessings as one could extend in such setting.  We then walked through the garden to the reception, dinner, and dancing as we toasted the new couple.

At another June wedding we watched another couple joined by an Apache spiritual leader who was also licensed to perform weddings in a state some many hundreds of miles from where one traditionally thinks of when one thinks of traditional Apache holy men.  Again it was a beautiful ceremony and concluded with a traditional Apache blessing for the new couple who can claim native Americanism only because both were born in America.  We then moved from one room in the hotel to another for a cocktail reception, and then to another for dinner and dancing.

Some few days after that there was another wedding at a restaurant and after “I do” was uttered to bride and groom on the patio outside, everyone moved inside and stuck around for what restaurants are known and the couple hosted dinner for all.  Some time before that we were at another wedding performed by a judge in his courtroom.  It was appropriate since both bride and groom were (and still are) lawyers.  The party then crossed the street to move from courtroom to ballroom where the party got started.  Then there was the wedding in the park performed among the trees.  After the happy couple became an official couple the male part fired up the grill while the female part got the music going.

Throughout the world there have been probably millions of women transformed into traditional June brides.  These were a few of them.  We don’t think these were the traditional June wedding.  But then, traditions shift over time.  Traditions only become traditions because they are expected and are continued. Maybe we only have the expectation part left.  We thought we’d have seen at least one of our most recent weddings in a church with an organ and the long walk down a center aisle.

We don’t want to be preachy about it but maybe the preachers of the world better get on their sticks or next June we might not even notice.  We’ll always have the traditional June bride.  Just not the traditional June wedding.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

PS to all the June brides past, present, and future.  Don’t mind us poking a bit of fun.  At the end of the day if you’re married to the one you love, then the wedding was a success.  And that’s what we really think.  Really.

 

Shopping Without a List

Michael Leave a comment

It’s a Friday evening and we have to decide what to do with the weekend.  It’s not like we’re ever devoid of activity on the weekend.  We’re never devoid of activity on the weekend.  We’re never devoid on the weekend.  That’s the problem with our weekends.

We don’t live together and we both work full weeks during the week.  We know some lucky pups who work 10 or 12 hour days and get an extra day off every seven.  We don’t.  If we want to see each other on a day that doesn’t start with “S” we make a date.  Otherwise, it’s weekends are us.

Since we both run full households we need stuff.  Thus most weekends include shopping.  And shopping means multiple stores. We could probably do everything in a Walmart.  We understand most people can do everything in a WalMart.  In fact, we seem to recall a movie about doing everything in a Walmart.  But, believe it or not, our immediate environs are WalMart free.  And we wouldn’t have the discipline to do all day in a Walmart.  She of We once had an experience so bad at a WalMart tire center that we couldn’t even write about it.  He of We is convinced that local saboteurs scuttled the plans for a WalMart some 3 miles from his house and he worries every time he gets too close to one that landslides will bury him not unlike Vesuvius buried Pompeii.   So instead we go from store to store knowing the stops with the best buys on staples and the chances for better deals on surprises.

As we enter each store He of We asks the same question.  “Do we need a cart?”  Sometimes he gets an answer.  Sometimes he gets just a look.  Each time he pulls a cart from the line of them inside the entrance door.  We don’t shop with a list.  We shop with a purpose.  Although just different enough to be almost annoying, we each have a pattern of how to attack a store.  She of We does the up and down from right to left with the side spurs covered only if there is a known needed item or a clearance rack before getting to the end.  He of We moves in about the same manner except that every third or fourth aisle he gets distracted by shiny objects from a row over and detours toward it, usually pushing the cart leaving She of We to wait wherever he left her at the time.

Sometimes we stop and take note of what we’ve put into our cart.  Often we’ll think twice about an item or two and return it to its former shelf sitting space.  Usually these were the shiny objects previously mentioned.  Sometimes we get all the way to the checkout line and decide we’ve much more shopping to do and head back into the stacks.  Always, before we check out we prepare ourselves for the payment experience.

You’ll recall, we don’t live together.  Everything in that cart has to be delegated to an address.  He moves to the front of the cart, always goes first, pulling his shoppers card from the quick release clip on his key ring.  He offloads his items from the basket, from the child seat, from below, sometimes hanging off the side if it might be a shovel or shepherd’s hook.  While that is going on, She of We prepares herself and pulls her card from her purse. Noticing that He of We has completed his transaction she hands her items over to him and onto the counter they go.  As the cart empties of yet to be scanned purchases, bags of already paid for pieces replace them.  Slowly She, He, and the Cart of We move forward through the check-out lane until She of We’s purchases are totaled and she runs her debit card through the scanner.

A quick run to the car where the cart is unloaded in the rear of the vehicle of the week and it’s off to store number next. Yep, we shop with a purpose.

We really need a new past time.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Will the Real St. Valentine Please Stand Up

Michael Leave a comment

Sunday evening we were at home having our Valentine’s Day dinner.  (Steak au poivre, green beans sautéed in butter and olive oil with onions and mushrooms, baked potato with a pepper cream sauce, and a salad of mixed greens with strawberries, walnuts, and feta.  We never made it to dessert.) (Yes, we go out a lot but we still know how to cook and cook we do when it’s a truly special occasion.)  Work schedules and other conflicts forced us to hold our celebration off for a few days.  It happens.  And it was worth the wait.      

While we were dining we wondered what is it about this Valentine guy that has made greeting card companies, florists, jewelers, and for some, restaurants so much money around the globe and over the years.  The most common story is that of Valentine, priest and martyr of third century Rome during the reign of Claudius II, also known as Claudius the Cruel.  He believed that his army was not giving its all because the men were more attached to their wives and families than to their emperor.  To solve that little problem he banned marriages.  No marriages, no families, strong fighting men.  He didn’t count on Valentine still performing marriage ceremonies even under the ban.  Valentine was imprisoned and ordered to be executed.  While in prison Valentine became enamored with the daughter of his jailer and legend goes on to say that on his last day in prison he wrote her a farewell letter and signed it, “With Love, Your Valentine.”

We sort of like that story.  It has a love interest, a creepy villain, a secret plot twist (priests aren’t supposed to fall in love with women, even in the late 200’s), and a story that hangs around even after almost 1,750 years.  But there are other stories.  There were other Valentine’s, other Valentines who were priests, and other Valentines who were martyred and became saints.  We still like that story.  And it is St. Valentine of Rome whose feast day was set to the day of his execution, February 14.

But how did that get from there to a Hallmark moment?  Let’s fast forward some 1100 years from the 270’s to the 1370’s and to English poet Geoffrey Chaucer.  In the poem Parliament of Foules he wrote, “For this was sent on Seynt Valentyne’s day Whan every foul cometh ther to choose his mate” and thus linked February 14 as the day we go in search of our best link.  In fact, it was already becoming common in late 13th and 14th century England and France for lovers to exchange letters, poems, and gifts in mid-February as the weather lightened.

There are many Valentines who have been canonized by many Popes over many years. (There was even a Pope Valentine.  He served for only 40 days in 827.)  In all there are 12 St. Valentines, the most recent, St. Valentine Berrio-Ochoa, a Spaniard who served as bishop in Vietnam until his beheading in 1861, was elevated to sainthood by John Paul II in 1988.  Twelve Valentine’s, twelve months.  We didn’t do the research but you can probably find a St. Valentine Day almost any time of the year if you, like us, were busy on February 14.    

Then, when you have another one as special as we have in each other, every day can be a day to celebrate your love for each other, even if it isn’t the real Valentine’s Day.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Welcome to 2013. Now Go Away

Michael Leave a comment

Just because we don’t make resolutions until Spring is upon us (See Resolving to Keep it Real, Dec. 31, 2012) doesn’t mean we can’t be urged into encouraging others to change their behavior post haste.  We’ve gotten to experience some horrible behavior that could fill an entire year in only the first week.  And that behavior must stop.

We encountered the one that put us over the edge while we were coming out of the store and walking to our car, some 150 feet from the entrance.  As we approached it, the anything but a gentleman sitting in the car parked next to ours, started beeping his horn.  And then again.  Longer.  And then we saw why.  His certainly long-suffering wife was behind us trudging through the cold and the slush with their packages.  Apparently he felt it more prudent that he stay in the warm car while she goes into the store and buys his wares.  He also felt it more prudent that he sit in the warm car rather than picking her up at the entrance.  He knew she was done with their shopping.  He was honking the horn at her.  There was the extent of his chivalry.  He honked the horn so she didn’t have to wander throughout the lot looking for him.  Then to top things off, he let that car continue to sit in the parking space.  The one that had a snow bank just outside the passenger door.  When She of We said a bit too out loud, “He won’t even back out for her so she doesn’t have to climb through the snow,” the long-suffering wife said, “It’s ok. I’m used to it.”  She shouldn’t have to ever become used to such rude behavior.  So for 2013 he should resolve to figure out how to get along without her because eventually she’ll realize that also.

Other behavior we’d like to see not continued in 2013 is the media fascination with having to title all the news.  No longer are they happy reporting it.  Now they have to make up catch phrases to go along with it.  So please, take your fiscal cliff and go jump off of it.  Otherwise let’s at least have a little fun with it.  Since we’ve either avoided it or fallen off of it depending on what analyst is babbling, it should no longer be part of the evening news’ scripts.  But just in case it should sneak back into common parlance we propose the Fiscal Cliff Drinking Game.  Every time you hear that phrase you must drink a shot then call your congressman. 

Speaking of, and to, Congress, we’d like to see you go away.  You’re not doing anybody any good.  Make you’re next point of business for this session abandonment.  If you don’t have the decency to put yourself out of work, have the decency not to lie to the American people about the work you’re doing.  The “heroic” first vote to avoid the “fiscal cliff” saved the American worker about 20 cents for every $1,000 he or she makes in salary in what was supposed to be the temporary income tax increase.  It did not address the $2 per $1,000 increase in social security and other federal taxes and fees that will be withheld per month in 2013.  That means about $50 less per paycheck if your one of the average Americans getting paid every other week and if all those paychecks up add to $50,000 by the end of the year.

Finally for the fine men, women, and undecided in Washington please do not use 2013 to tell us how many jobs you’ve created.  Unless you also own a company that employs legal American workers you can’t create any.  Leave creating jobs to the business that actually hire, and pay, employees.  Intern and housekeeper positions don’t count.

Something else we’d like to see go away are all those special parking spaces around stores and restaurants.  We love our elder friends and neighbors.  We’ve often said that anybody over 80 can do whatever they feel like.  By then, they’ve earned it.  (See Entitlement Program, March 29, 2012.)  We’d like to see some of those parking spaces reserved for “Mothers to be and mothers of young children,” and for those picking up dinner to go, and even for those with Handicapped placards, turned into spaces for our Older Friends and Neighbors.  The eighty-somethings who are still driving do it well, and they aren’t the ones cajoling their doctors into signing HP applications for their high blood pressure.  Why should they have to walk 300 feet from the lot to the lobby?   Let’s face it, if you’re just running in for dinner, you can afford to run from a few yards away, or bring one of the kids to run inside while you circle the block.  So you’re a mother of young children.  Being parents of former young children from the days when there were no such preferred spots we can tell you our best shopping trips were those with the kids left at home.  Leave them at home.

Now that we are well into the 21st century, a time of unprecedented public protection against ourselves, we want to see the sale of sleds that cannot be steered or stopped stopped.  You can’t by an extra-large, sugary soft drink in New York City but you can put four 7-year-olds on a plastic sleeve, push them down a hill, and wish them luck knowing at the bottom is a 4 lane roadway separated from the top by a dozen 45 year old oak trees.  You can’t buy a lighter that takes at least three steps to ignite to start your grill for the safety of a child who may not understand that it isn’t a candy stick but you can buy an oversized Frisbee that sets the same child spinning uncontrollably on its downhill voyage over the same tree lined hillside.  We love winter sports.  Sledding, skiing, and skating make January and February bearable.  But let’s do it safely.  Nobody would ever put children on bicycles without brakes or a wheel that steers in April.  Let’s say goodbye to the winter version and stop making children headlines on the evening news.

Do we seem a little cranky today?  We’re sorry.  Usually we are quite upbeat and make the most of what we have.   Sometimes you have to take away to have better.  These are some things we like to see taken away.  Do you have others?  Would you like to see Black Friday not start on Thursday?  Is it time to make the baggage, premium seating, and boarding priority fees go away even if it does mean airfares go up?  Can we stop with gas prices that end in tenths of a cent per gallon?  Let us know.  We can be cranky together.  And then, that can go away too.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Game On!

Michael Leave a comment

Many people who are just acquainted with us are often shocked to ultimately find out that He and She of We are not married, or at the very least for the 21st century, not even living together.  We spend a lot of time together but we each have our own houses and spend more time in our own houses than we do at either’s others’ houses.  Of course there are evenings we’ll be found on one or another’s sofas usually in the glow of a televised sporting event or a demanded, if not on-demanded movie. 

Last weekend we were on He of We’s furniture, about 4 feet apart, rapturously engaged in a game of words.  No, not the grand-daddy of all games of words Scrabble, not the second cousin of word games without words, Charades.  No, we were sitting next to each other, letting our fingers do the walking through Words with Friends on our cell phones.  In the same house.  In the same room.  On the same couch.

Although both of our children are either young enough, or old enough depending on your point of view, to have discovered and to have played with PlayStation, Nintendo, and Wii, none of them became one of the electronic game junkies who walk around with fingers flailing over tiny controllers of hand-held versions of the gaming consoles that hold so many in mental hostage situations.   And all of them are familiar with games that involve fold-out boards, dice, tiles, poppers, timers, and a pad and pencil to keep score.  We’re pretty proud parents that our children made it into adulthood with having hand-held electronic games listed as dependents on their income tax forms.

So where did we go wrong for ourselves?  How did we manage to find ourselves phoning in our own recreation?  Don’t tell the children this but it is darned convenient having a game at your fingertips.  No boards to pull off shelves, no tables to clear.  No looking for the pieces that fall under the chairs, no pencil sharpeners to wonder if we even still have to look for.  No shaking up bags of tiles to pick from randomly, no wondering if that really is a word and will I look foolish if I challenge it.

So yes, we’ve succumbed to the dark side.  This time.  We’re willing to let a microprocessor randomly select letters and accurately add up scores.  We still get to use the best game piece – our minds.  Yep, of all the things we’ve lost – tile holders, letters, box tops, score cards – we’ve not yet lost our minds.  We’re pretty sure of that.  Yeah, pretty sure.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

If Only the ER Served Magaritas

Michael 1 Comment

We almost expected to hear Anthony Edwards, aka E. R. Dr. Mark Greene, shout “Clear!” and apply the defibrillator paddles to the piece of meat in front of him, grilling it to the perfect fajita filling.  The hustle and the bustle far exceeded that of most inner city emergency rooms on a Saturday night after the local team won its first (pick your favorite season) championship in over 50 years.

Ok, let’s catch you up so you can enjoy this tale also.  Last weekend we paid a visit to one of our favorite local eateries.  A very small authentic Mexican restaurant with no designs of growing larger.  On a lucky Saturday night we’ll be led to a quiet table for two tucked into a corner as far from the hostess stand as one can get in a room the size of a generous living room.  Here we’re treated to the basic three courses where we relish in the opportunity to be served by trained, professional waitpersons in our favorite quietly comfortable restaurant.  Good food.  Good service.  Good company.  Good time.

Last Saturday we headed to our dining quarry figuring to have a drink in the bar before dinner.  We’ve ventured into the bar, considerably smaller in scale to the rest of the operation just as another couple was called to their table.  We settled into their vacated seats at the far side of the square cornered horseshoe and decided that we were so comfortable, and since we never had there before, we would have dinner right there at the bar.

Eating at the bar is nothing unusual for us.  We do so quite often.  We’re low enough maintenance that the bartenders aren’t unduly burdened by having to play waitperson while already performing in the role of barperson.  Many of the places we’ve come to call home for dinner out have the bar in the middle of the room and thus in the middle of the action.  The ideal seat for people watching.  So with our history of bar dining and a new opportunity in front of us, we embarked on our first such supper at our favorite comfortably quiet restaurant.  Boy were we in for a shock!

“Clear!”  Well, how about “Smith!  Party of 4!  Jones!  Party of 2!”  Every 15 minutes or so the hostess, a little bitty thing, stood in the doorway of the smallish space and bellowed out a prospective diner like a conductor crying the stops of the local commuter train with a voice that would fill all outdoors.  “Behind you! Cold ice!” the bar back routinely called out with as much frequency as the people search.  And the people kept on coming.

They packed themselves in like they were filing into the afternoon rush hour subway.  Parties of 2, 4, 8.  Eyes slightly glazed after a long day of shopping? housework? painting?  We don’t know what the Saturday afternoon activities but whatever they were those activities led to a need for an adult beverage.  And soon.  Drinks were called for from the second row behind the stools. 

“Ford! Party of 6!”  “Margarita! No Salt!”  “Lincoln! Party of 4!”  “Dos Equis! Draft! Make it two!”  At one time we counted 38 people in the little room.  The fire marshal generously rated the space for occupancy by 50 people.  The designer squeezed 14 stools around the counter.  There wasn’t a time that the other 36 hadn’t conveyed their desperate need to soothe the fever that responded only to the medicine served in a chilled glass.   Ice when it wasn’t being poured into the holder 20 pounds at a time was transferred into quart sized mason jars then filled with tequila and the other makings for their specialty margarita and attached to the industrial blender that sounded like a second cousin to a turboprop airplane.  When at last their names were call, parties would leave for the dining room, clutching their chilled glasses like the secret remedy from the healer of the high desert. 

Standees took their vacated seats, new patients crowded in from the outer room.  “Nachos with queso!”  “Frozen or on the rocks!” “Heinz! Party of 6!” “More chips please!” “Rocks! No Salt!”  “More Ice!” “French! Party of 2!”

All around the conversations bubbled to the top, mixed with the televisions (two, about 20 feet apart, on different channels) and stirred into the bustling chatter of the staff, creating a confused sound track.  “Temperatures will be higher than…the upstairs really need to be…ordered last week and now they say…it’s the third meeting between them…when I said…do you want another…chilly night before…rebounding and that has to get better than… dark blue with gray trim.” 

One of our regular waiters spotted us from the service area waiting for his orders.  “Trying something new?” he shouted across the room.  “You know us, we have to try it all!” we answered.  Our attention divided between the bartenders going through tequila, ice, and chilled mason jars and the patrons going through tequila, ice, and chilled mason jars.  The bar persons whirling into high gear, resembling the blades spinning in the drink mixer.  The bar crowd shifting into lower gears as the cactus juice mellowed them in preparation for dinner.  Eventually.

And so they came, dazed, confused, smarting from spring cleaning, comatose from too much Saturday television, sore and achy, looking for healing in the emergency rooms of bars.  And a margarita.  Rocks.  No salt.  No glass.  Just a mason jar and one really big straw.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

You Get What You Pay For

Michael Leave a comment

Around here every summer there is a one day outdoor jazz festival and a weekend long blues festival.  Quite often there are on consecutive weekends.  This year they were on the same weekend.  We hate to miss either since jazz and blues are two of our three favorite genre, the third being almost everything else.  We also hate to miss either because they are free.  Sort of.  The jazz festival is free if you bring a donation for the local food bank.  The blues festival’s first night is also free with a donation to the same food bank.

Around here a lot is “free.”  Just in the past year we’ve gotten free discount coupon books (for a blood donation), had two free glasses of wine (for a donation to the local cancer society), had a free buffet (for a donation to a local hospital), saw a free movie (another blood donation), and sat through a free evening of songs by two of the best vocalists between the Atlantic and the Pacific (another donation to fight cancer).

Here’s the funny thing about these “free” events.  Somewhere between the giving and the getting, we found a great blues band, some excellent wine, a couple dynamite appetizer recipes, an up and coming jazz trumpeter,  a new passion for Saturday matinees, and two of the best vocalists between the Atlantic and the Pacific. 

There were even some truly “free” events we stumbled across.  Summer evening movie nights in the local park, big band concerts at the county park, free skate at an outdoor ice rink to celebrate the season, access to that 400+ mile bike path that rolls through 3 states and the District of Columbia, a drive along the back roads through the dappled sunshine in an open convertible.   Oh, one way or another we paid for these – from taxes to gasoline, nothing is really free.  Is it?  No matter how you look at it, if it didn’t involve the transfer of folding money from a pocket to an outstretched hand to us it’s free and free is a pretty good price.

Another thing free is, free is an opportunity to see more of the person you’re sharing free with.  You know that sometime during the event one of you will turn to the other and say, not too shabby … considering what we paid.  And from there a whole conversation ensues about the event, the venue, the surroundings, the other participants, the planners, the doers.  You soon find yourself quite engrossed in each other’s observations and each other’s opinions, and each other’s memories, and each other.  So engrossed you don’t really care why you are there, just that you are there.  And that “you” is plural.

Whether the beneficiaries were those who rely on the food bank to make it from meal to meal or us recharging our batteries joy riding from there to here, there’s a different word that describes all this free stuff. 

It’s not free.  It’s priceless.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?