My Singing Husband

There are those blessed with the gift of song, and those who are blessed with many other gifts instead. I am the former, while my husband is the latter.


I have about a dozen songs that I sing to entertain my daughters, most of which I made up off the top of my head and can only remember because my two year old demands that I sing them so often. My husband would rather entertain my daughters by roughhousing with them or teaching them how to make a lego tower architecturally sound.


There’s nothing wrong with my husband’s vocal cords. It’s just that he’s not confident he will sound good when he sings. When he knows a song really, really well, he might sing along to it. The list of songs in this category include James Bond themes and anything really catchy that has been used extensively as background music in Doctor Who.


There are even fewer songs that my husband will belt out unaccompanied, not to mention in order to do that he has to be in a sillier mood than usual, kind of a “everything is all right with the world so I must sing” kind of mood.


Twice I have captured this mood on a recording device. The first time was when we were engaged, and he called me while I was working and had to leave a voicemail. The manager came back to yell at me for squealing loudly and disrupting the dining room when I listened to the message: “Sweetheart, one thing before we part: a kiss to build a dream on!” The second time, I was secretly filming him as he sang along with the Jeeves and Wooster soundtrack in the car. I still have the video file, but for some reason only the audio works now. When I play it, I’m still able to hear him finish the song and demand a kiss after I laugh and tell him that I love it when he sings.


Our two year old daughter is completely unaware of my husband’s disinclination for vocal performance, so while they’re playing with blocks, she will order a song to be sung. “Sing ‘Baby Sister,’ Daddy!” she commanded the other day. “Daddy doesn’t know that one, Honey,” I told her, and they went back to playing. A few minutes later, she said, “Sing ‘ABCs,’ Daddy!” There was a moment of hesitation, and then I heard him: “A, B, C, D, E, F, G...”


There are a lot of things that my husband does for his family, some of them he enjoys (making us bacon wrapped shrimp for dinner), and some of them are less enjoyable (getting up early in the morning to go to work), but that was one of those moments when I could see how much he loves us. My daughters and I are so blessed to have the best husband and father in the world.


I love you so much, Husband. Thank you for everything you do. Happy Father’s Day.

Reader Baffled in Confusing Headline Scandal

George Takei is an actor, an activist, and for many people on facebook, a daily source of amusement. He posts amusing photos several times per day, having to do with Star Trek, gay marriage, or anything in the world one could possibly poke fun at.

Here are some of my favorites:

Today I was catching up on the stuff in my news feed when I saw this from George Takei:

I was amused, of course. “17 Remain Dead,” what else could they possibly be doing? That’d be a great headline: “17 Rise Again to Do Laundry After Being Killed...” etc. But then I looked a little closer and decided that I have no idea what this article could possibly be about.

“17 Remain Dead in Morgue Shooting Spree.” At first I thought that the 17 were Remaining Dead in the Morgue, but then I stared at it for a while and decided that the only possible thing that could have happened is that they died as a result of a Shooting Spree that took place in the Morgue.


I was determined to read the article to find out what had happened, so I rushed to the source of all information in the world: google. The dispenser of all knowledge informed me that I could find out more about this article in the pages of a book called Cruel and Unusual Idiots: Chronicles of Meanness and Stupidity, by Leland Gregory. I followed the trail. It led me to a quote of the headline in the middle of two other stories that had nothing to do with it. The only further clues it gave were the name of the paper (which you can already clearly see in the picture), and even better: the date it was published.


Go, go, gadget internet. Google ushered me to the website of The News & Observer of Raleigh, North Carolina. I was excited. Soon I would find out the mystery of the non-zombified victims of the Morgue Shooting Spree. The helpful search function informed me (when I searched “Sept 4 2001”) that I could find articles dating back to 1990. Perfect.


I utilized said search function. Rigorously. I even used the advanced search and put the specific dates in that I was looking for, made sure it knew that I wanted to find a headline, and tried searching different phrases from the title. I didn’t even mind that it was going to charge me $2.95 to read the article once I found it.


I found nothing. “0 Results,” it reported, and “No Articles Were Found.” It was driving me crazy. What could have happened? Why were they so insistent on reporting that the victims Remained Dead? Was there black magic involved? Is that why the Shooting Spree occurred in the Morgue itself?


The only conclusion I can come to, then, is that the paper has tried to engineer a coverup. Perhaps the 17 did not Remain Dead. Perhaps the 17 were the reason for the Shooting Spree: that is, because they did not Remain Dead, there had to be a Shooting Spree, or worse yet, a second Shooting Spree.


Or perhaps they are embarrassed that they allowed a copy editor working on too little sleep to do the headlines that day and that the headline itself passed under the nose of the apparently non-watchful editor. Even if we take out the ridiculous “Remain,” the headline is still confusing: “17 Dead in Morgue Shooting Spree.”


The moral of the story is this: commas are important, kids. Also: mistakes made in the public eye will be remembered (and made fun of) forever. Finally: If the zombie apocalypse does occur, let's hope it's not in North Carolina because the world will be instantly doomed; not only will they report it as "Cemetery Residents Seek Better Accommodation," but they will then remove the article from their website due to the embarrassment caused by the ridiculous headline.

OMGZEITGEIST

Zeitgeist is "the spirit of the times" or "the spirit of the age." Zeitgeist is the general cultural, intellectual, ethical, spiritual, or political climate within a nation or even specific groups, along with the general ambiance, morals, sociocultural direction, and mood associated with an era.The term is a loanword from German Zeit – "time" and Geist – "spirit" (cognate with English "ghost").

-"Zeitgeist" article on Wikipedia

I have never liked fads. I never had any pogs, never wore bell bottoms in middle school, and I don’t like Twilight. Lots of people have liked or do like these things, but they don’t interest me. One reason is that I could never see the point of scattering little pieces of cardboard around, I think bell bottoms are ugly, and I’m not into vampires. The other reason is that I generally tend to dislike anything that is currently considered “cool.”


What I have is sort of the opposite of a hipster’s “I liked it before it was cool.” I’m more of the “I liked it way way after it was cool” type. I couldn’t see the point of green nail polish when the popular girls were wearing it in middle school, but in college it was hard to find me without my fingernails painted a strange shade. I was disinterested in the early hullabaloo surrounding the Harry Potter series, and didn’t see any of the movies until at least five of them were out, and now I have seen all of them and have read the books through several times. I absolutely refused to join any social networking sites when they first became really popular, and now my computer is rarely on without being accompanied by facebook.

The only thing I have been on the bandwagon at the time for was the Lord of the Rings movies, and I think that mostly had to do with the fact that I was hanging out every day with a group of friends that were all into them too. Fangirling alone in your apartment is not as much fun as fangirling with a bunch of people. They call solo fangirling “stalking.”

Don’t get me wrong, I will enjoy something whether or not others enjoy it. Although I will usually try to share it with someone else if they will listen, and the one who falls victim to this most often is my poor husband: “So she didn’t want to tell him about it and asked her friends not to tell him, but then this other guy who knew about it tried to tell him so they all tried to make him be quiet and...” He is very sweet and just sits there and lets me talk, and eventually I realize I’ve been talking for ten minutes and he’s been mentally checked out for at least 7 of those minutes, and I finish up with “...but whatever, you don’t care anyway, go back to what you were doing,” and laugh at myself. (And he goes back to playing video games, breathing a sigh of relief that he’s not going to be quizzed on it later.)

I like to watch very popular television programs after they have reached the peak of their popularity and are on the down slope. I never watched Scrubs (until about a week ago), Bones (until the middle of season 5), or NCIS (until about season 6 or so) when other people were watching them. I love all these shows, but one thing I can’t stand is a cliffhanger. I will wait for six months to a year before catching up with them, and then watch everything that’s available except the last two or three episodes. I’m okay to be left hanging between regular episodes, but every single show on television likes to do a little “OH NO WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT” episode near the end of the season that makes every viewer hate summer.

And I like summer.

So I don’t watch TV like other people do. The exception to this rule is pretty much everything on USA Network (Burn Notice, White Collar, Royal Pains, etc.). The nice thing about USA Network is that instead of doing one season of shows beginning in the fall and ending in the spring, they break up the season into two chunks. Like, the first half of the season will show in the spring and the second half in the fall, or the first half in the summer and the second half in the winter. Then they stagger when the shows are on, so that there’s always something new showing, no matter what time of year it is. Of course, with a double dose of cliffhanger opportunities per season, there’s more “OH NO WHAT WILL HAPPEN” frustration, but since after one half season ends, another great show starts up again, I can’t be too sad about the disappointing ending of Covert Affairs because, ooh, Burn Notice!

I really enjoy reading a book series after the author is finished writing it. For some people, the anticipation makes the book even better, but for me it’s annoying; I just want to find out what happens! With things that I love, I don’t mind much, because every time a new book comes out is an excuse for me to read the whole series from the beginning again. But my friends have a hard time convincing me to pick up a new series sometimes.

Thankfully, I did not miss out on the works of Jim Butcher due to the persistence of our good friend JR. I was disinclined to start the Dresden Files series: he had made the mistake of telling me that not only was the author remotely close to finishing them but that they also predominantly featured vampires. I never really got excited about vampiry things before the universe got all “OMGZEITGEIST” about them, so now that they are a fad I’m even more disinterested.

JR baited me with Butcher’s finished series, The Codex Alera. The two things that drew me: no vampires, and JR’s description: “Somebody challenged him to write a story combining Ancient Rome and... Pokémon.” That description may turn some people off, so don’t worry, Butcher’s “furies” aren’t really anything like Pokémon. It is plenty Ancient Rome-y, though, and the history major in me was like, “YES PLEASE.”

After I shook JR down for his copies of every book in the series and read them twice, I figured that the Dresden Files would be okay to try, too, vampires and all. I shouldn’t have worried: Butcher’s vampires do not sparkle.

I don’t like popular things. I almost have to be forced to try something that everyone else in the world won’t shut up about. Usually I shrug and say no thank you, but on the rare occasion, I will regret not trying something sooner.

I’m too slow to catch up on what’s popular that I will never be a fashionista, but give me time and I will most likely come around and watch that movie or read that comic that you recommended. 

Unless it’s about vampires.

Driving Me Madden

You know you play a video game too much when you’ve memorized all of the little background noises. At that point, you have two options: stop playing the game forever, or just put the stupid TV/computer on mute.


My husband rides a stationery bike every night, and uses these video games to distract himself from the fact that he’s excersizing. I like to sit and make comments on the color commentary on Madden 12. The next version won’t be coming out for a couple of months, and my husband has had this version for almost a year, so I know the dialogue well.


“They’ll set up shop at the Twenty.” Oh, really? What kind of shop? A lemonade stand? A specialty jewelry store that takes custom orders? An Asian grocery?


“He fires a laser down the field!” That was a football. He threw a football down the field. I don’t think these guys know what they’re talking about.

They do a pretty good job of masking the fact that the dialogue isn’t spontaneous. The most obvious place is when the commentators say the players’ names: “...was his intended target.” “He was brought down by...” “...is ready to kick it away, here...” And the most hilarious part of that is when they try to announce the actions of a player whose name wasn’t pre-recorded. They always seem like they’re hesitating, almost like they’re trying to remember the person’s name before announcing what they did. “...Number 22... was there for the stop!”


My least favorite thing to hear recently is the commentators’ bewilderment about my husband’s desire to run up the points against the computer. “Why go for two up by this margin?” When the score is 3 to 98, there’s no reason not to take chances, so he orders his team to try for two points instead of kicking a field goal after every single touchdown, and after owning the game for so long, my husband knows all the tricks. “Not sure why they were tryin’ to go for two there, it just, uh, makes no sense.” The only challenge, for him, is to see if he can break his own record for points scored in a game, and it’s rare that he doesn’t get at least ten touchdowns per game. “Wow, it really seems that at this point, they are just trying to embarrass the opponents out there!”


Although the game bears his name, John Madden has not done the play-by-play and color commentary in a Madden game for several years. I have a theory that it was because he still wanted to be one of America’s beloved public figures: he didn’t want the families and friends of those who played his game incessantly to hate the sound of his voice.


The moral of our story is this: when you’ve played/watched something so often that you know what the next line is before it is spoken, do your family or roommates a favor and (a) put on some headphones so that only you can hear it, (b) mute it, or (c) play/watch something else. Your family/roommates will thank you.

Crazy Drive-Thru Lady

Last week after writing about the foods I crave but can’t have (as they can only be found in Nebraska), I decided that being able to have one out of three isn’t too bad, and attempted to seek out the Culver’s that is allegedly in Thornton, CO.


Saturday afternoon, after driving down to Aurora, I took a slight detour on the way home. My daughters were asleep in the backseat, and I was driving slowly down the street, rubbernecking around, trying to spot my destination. I knew it had to be close, but I wasn’t sure which side of the street it was on.


There was nothing interesting to the right, but on the other side of the street I spotted a Jack-in-the-Box (which did not interest me in the least; I’ve never eaten there, since it’s more of a West Coast place, and in fact there are none in Nebraska at all). Across the street from that, shining in the sunlight, was a Taco John’s. I hung a left immediately, the Hallelujah Chorus playing in my head.


I love Taco John’s. The reason I did not add it to my list of things I love and miss is because it would have been redundant, since it’s a Mexican fast food place, just like Amigos. Also, the closest Amigos is fourish hours away by car while the closest Taco John’s (that I knew of before Saturday) is an hour away. The other things that make Amigos more dear to my heart are that it is a place that I used to go all the time when I was a kid, and the Ranch. (Last November a Lincoln radio program had a heated debate about the best condiment in Lincoln. Amigos’ Ranch was a frontrunner.)


I was immensely excited to find a Taco John’s so close to where we live. Sure, 40 minutes is still a bit of a long drive for a craving, but since it’s between our place and my in-laws’ house, I can stop there on the way home from a visit without feeling too silly about having to drive all the way to Fort Morgan for a Meat & Potato Burrito.


I called my husband. “I found a Taco John’s!” I reported excitedly. “Who wants Culver’s when you can have Taco John’s?! Want me to bring you anything?” “Why would I want something from Taco John’s?” he asked in an annoyed tone. It did not deter my excitement. I pulled up into the drive-thru lane, and expressed the fact that I was thrilled to the guy on the other end of the speaker before I would let him take my order.


“I used to live in Nebraska where there are tons of awesome Mexican fast food places, and there are none here, so I’m so excited to find a Taco John’s here!” I babbled to him as he took my money. “Well, we’ll be here whenever you want to come,” he said, handing over my food. I did a little dance before I pulled out of the parking lot, my mouth full of Potato Olés.


I called my mother. She was more sympathetic to my excitement than my husband had been. “That’s great, honey!” “Nomnomnom,” I replied, disdaining a napkin in favor of brushing my hand on my jeans.


A little later as I debated whether it was a good idea to juggle driving and burrito chomping, I reflected on the impression I had made on the employees in the drive-thru. I used to work the drive-thru at Amigos (a task I enjoyed more than, say, doing the dishes), and in all my time there, I never had an experience quite like the Taco John’s employees had been through.


I had people come through the drive-thru that hadn’t had Amigos in a while and were glad to be back, but no one that was surprised to see an Amigos, unless it was surprise that there was one just down the street from the last one they’d passed: there are twenty-seven Amigos locations currently, with more than half of those in Lincoln.


Since Lincoln is a college town and college students like to drink and prowl about the city late into the night, almost all of the Amigos locations in Lincoln stay open until after the post-bar crawl food forage. I used to have tons of fun with the silly people that would come through the drive-thru late at night, laughing at their antics along with their designated driver. I can’t remember how many high fives I gave through the window.


One of my favorite drive-thru stories involves a brush with royalty. The management’s desire for their employees to connect with the customers has led to the company policy of asking for the customer’s name, which makes sense in the dining room since you can actually see the person and match their name with their face. I never understood asking for a person’s name in the drive-thru. It was just as ridiculous as if we had been ordered to ask what kind of car they were driving. So after a stern talking to by a manager who I knew agreed with me about the policy but had to enforce it anyway, I was manning the drive-thru register when a vehicle pulled up. “Welcome to Amigos/Kings Classic...” I paused to sigh, “...can I get a name for your ticket?” “Henry the Eighth!” the voice on the other end replied. I couldn’t help laughing: “What can I get for you, your Majesty?”


There were fun people, but there were crazy people, too. People that came through on their bicyles demanding to be served even though there were “NO BICYCLES” signs clearly posted on the windows and next to the menu signs; people that would demand more chicken on their salad, no matter how the manager tried to explain that the amount of chicken on their salad was the same as everyone got; and people that would try to talk us into giving us extra sides of Ranch for free, and would sit there until we threatened to call the cops because they were holding up the line.


As I chomped into the deliciousness of my burrito, I realized: I’m Crazy Drive-Thru Lady. I could just imagine the lunch crew telling the story of my visit to the manager coming in to cover the dinner shift: “She was just so excited, it was pretty hilarious,” one would say. “I saw her dancing after she pulled up to the second window,” another would add.


I paused to sip at my drink and decided that I do not mind being Crazy Drive-Thru Lady. There is no reason why I should not be excited at being able to have a taste of home that I miss so much. And today I discovered that there will soon be a new Taco John’s location opening just ten miles away in Longmont, CO. I will be excited to go there when it opens and to have it close enough to my house to cruise by and grab it whenever I have a craving for it. I look forward to becoming the regular who orders a #5 and always tells whoever’s in the drive-thru that she is so glad to have them nearby. Even if they think I’m crazy.

Hungry for Home

“Nothing starts the weekend off better than a hot, fresh pizza from Valentino’s. Happy Friday!” -Valentino’s Facebook status, 9:30ish this morning

Well, that’s nice. A reminder of something wonderful and delicious that I love and that I can’t have. The nearest Valentino’s is almost 200 miles away. Thanks, Facebook. Why don’t you toss in an ad for Amigos and dangle a Turkey Sourdough BLT from Culver’s in my face while you’re at it?


These things make up the list of stuff I love to eat when I go home to visit. The best is a Southwest Chicken Soft Taco from Amigos (don’t forget the Ranch), and a Special from Valentino’s.


There’s a Culver’s in Thornton (ten or so miles away), so I could go there pretty much whenever I wanted, but unfortunately, my favorite restaurants have recently decided that they hate joy (and me). The awful thing I discovered at Culver’s last time I was home was that they have decided to discontinue my favorite item, the Turkey Sourdough BLT. The kid manning the register was a bit weirded out, because I definitely almost cried. Then I remembered that there would always be Cheese Curds, so I ordered a Butterburger and quit whining.


I used to work at Amigos, and in the downtime I enjoyed experimenting with recipes. My favorite item to make for myself was sort of a mashup of a Southwest Chicken Soft Taco and a regular Soft Taco: Southwest Chicken and Pepperjack cheese from the Southwest Chicken Soft, meat and cheese from the Soft Taco, then lettuce (which both had), finished with a jackton (that’s a technical term) of Ranch, which was what the Southwest Chicken Soft had on it instead of sour cream, like the Soft Taco. The result was what I called the “SouthSoft,” which was almost as big as a Grande Burrito, and it didn’t even have unnecessary Mexi Fries in it. And it was delicious. Nomnomnom.


I had a similar shock at Amigos when I found out they had discontinued the Southwest Chicken Soft Taco, but it wasn’t a big deal; I just told them to give me a Southwest Rollup instead, hold the pico. I shed no tears, I just paid an extra dollar for an item with the same ingredients but a different tortilla. At least the Ranch is still free. That makes up for it.


I would probably demand a memorial service be held if Valentino’s ever went insane and decided to ditch the Special. I’ve never met someone who understands my love for Valentino’s who has not also grown up with it. It is the best pizza ever because not only is it delicious but it reheats better than any other. In fact, it’s almost better reheated. But maybe that’s just the added joy of “We still have Valentino’s left over?! Awesome!!”


Now I want Amigos for lunch. And maybe Valentino’s for dinner. But I’d accept Culver’s, since the other two would require driving 4+ hours to get.


Some people get homesick. I get homehungry. If you live in a place where you can get all of these things whenever you want, I hope you know I envy you. And I’d appreciate it if you tried not to rub it in my facebook.

Frustration = Motivation

When I’m frustrated, it's very hard for me to write. Especially when I’m frustrated because of writing. What my frustration fuels, however, is my ability to clean quickly.

I don’t mind household chores. I don’t jump up and down with excitement at the thought of doing laundry or mopping the floor, but those things have to be done. When I am frustrated, these things go by in a blur. I can do four loads of laundry, a load of dishes, shampoo the carpet in my daughter’s bedroom, and mop all the hard surfaces in the apartment in about two hours when I’m frustrated. Normally, at my leisurely chore-doing pace, all of that would take me several days.

My daughter helps. Not with the chores, but by fueling the frustration. “You made what kind of mess?"

The reason the chores get done so quickly is because I’ve got it in my head that if I don’t clean up a mess immediately that it will get exponentially worse the longer I leave it alone. This is usually true. It’s also the reason that I usually do normal household chores at a leisurely pace. A pile of laundry is going to grow if I don’t do it for a couple of days, but not exponentially, so it’s okay to leave it and do it when there’s a bigger pile. A puddle of milk on the floor, however, is going to spread across the floor as far as it can go, and then start to stink if it’s not cleaned up. And while I’m wiping up the floor, I might as well mop, and while I’m mopping that part of the floor, I might as well mop the rest of it.

It would not be generally surpising to find a home with a two year old in shambles because of the rambunctiousness of the little person: toys, books, and various other messes spread about. But in my house, having a two year old means that the place is cleaner.

Writing when I’m frustrated is like pulling teeth, but cleaning when I’m frustrated is like... brushing teeth. And thanks to my two year old, whom I will love no matter how many messes she makes, I’ll always have a clean house.