Dental Hygiene Tips

I'm not much of one for dental care.  I despise it.

This mostly comes from my father repeatedly telling me the story of how, at 25 years old, his dentist told him he had horrible teeth and would lose them all by the time he was 30.  But he was super-committed and vigilant and would not have that gummy destiny forced upon him by some jerk with a supposed "medical degree".  So he brushed 7 times a day, flossed by the hour, bought every new waterpik technology as soon as it emerged on the market, and used mouthwash like other people use gin.  I swear he kept a flask in his back pocket and the aroma of minty freshness clung to him like cheap cologne on a Jersey Shore dude.

So, being a contrary soul, even to the point of stupidity, I refuse to do more than brush my teeth two or three times a day.  I never go to the dentist if I can help it.

But there was a brief period about 5 years ago where I decided to reform my ways and get my teeth checked out.  Being low on cash, especially with impending nuptials approaching, I began attending the University of Pennsylvania Dental Clinic.  It is run for the education of the dental students and the care is... reflective of that.

Anyways, I could go through the litany of dental students who reviewed my teeth with pimply faced excitement, recommending more complex procedures to carve, cut and clean each time, but that would take years of explanation.

My final procedure there took place when I received the recommendation of a graduating senior to have a gum retraction.  I won't gross you out with the grizzly details, but it involved showing up for a surgery where they would cut the roof of my mouth open while I was awake and graft some pig bone to my jawline.  No joke. 

I replied that there was no way I could afford it, even at the clinic's reduced rates, as I was getting married in a few months and was saving for the honeymoon.  Neema, my "dentist" thought for a moment and then replied, "Ok, well, I'll give it to you as a wedding present.  You just have to let me photograph the procedure for my thesis project."  We had tried putting something similar on our wedding registry at Bed Bath and Your Mom but were stymied by the comparative shipping costs, so I took him up on his offer.

Sufficed to say, it was an experience.  In a particularly shady abandoned cubicle farm in a basement of an unfindable academic building, Neema and his two assistants prepped me for surgery.  So, to do the math, that's six hands working on my mouth.  But was it enough?  No, Neema stops at one point and says, "Dave, I can't really get a good photo with one hand.  Would you mind holding your own gum retractors?"  I obliged, only to begin cracking up at the ridonkulousness of my situation, chortling with laughter, high as a kite on pain killers.

This may be part of the reason why my stitches started coming out later that night.  Still doped up beyond sanity, the tickling in the back of my throat drove me to madness.  I proceeded to find some scissors and a butter knife to cut the offending strands out myself.  Fortunately, my long suffering fiancee (now the Mrs) and her two roommates thought this unwise.  None of them particularly medically inclined nor happy about icky stuff, they jumped me.  While my wife pinned me down by sitting on my chest, her sister held the flashlight, and her roommate reached in and cut my stitches for me.  I could only assume that she has had some similar experiences growing up in Uganda and handled herself with aplomb.

All this is to say, if you can avoid such an experience through proper dental maintenance and if you're less rigidly contrary than I, it is well worth your effort.  That's why this cool set of a year's worth of toothbrushes from Anthropologie, while silly, still grabbed my eye and deserved a blog post:

They're marked with the three month time limit for which you're supposed to use them prior to discarding.  If like me, you're inclined to keep a toothbrush until it is no longer useful for anything but grout cleaning, this could be beneficial.

Sheet Straps for the Sleep Talkin' Man

I've recently discovered the blog, Sleep Talkin' Man which is among my new favorites.  In the morning, the Mrs and I have a brief moment to sit down while she finishes her breakfast and I sip my coffee and we log in to discover what Adam, the Sleep Talkin' Man said last night in his sleep.

 This morning's gem?

"Put those finger-toes away. Put them away! Freak of f***ing nature. Ugh. Finger-toes, don't you pick things up with them! Ew. That's just not right. You start using them like hands, I'll chop your f***ing arms off. Then you'll be stuck with them. That'll teach ya ."

You can listen to the audio of that particular beauty here.

It also frequently reminds my wife of the things I said in my sleep the previous night.  Now, we haven't taken to recording them, but according to her, I'm often as colorful although probably not with the sheer volume and lucidity with which Adam seems to speak.  Last night apparantly I declared:

"Nobody puts Baby in a Corner"

Let me start by making it perfectly clear that I am no fan of "Dirty Dancing".  I had to watch it once for... I can't believe I'm saying this... a ballroom dancing class that I took in college.  Embarrassing:  Both the movie and the admission of what I took to fill a athletics requirement at PSU more than 10 years ago.  The one upside is that I know how to Meringue, Foxtrot, Waltz, Swing, Rumba, and Tango which has served me well at really odd times in my life.

(Like when my entire family went on an abominable cruise last year and in a drunken craze decided to take over the Latin club on the Lido deck at 1 AM.  Of the whitest dancers ever to grace the "Criterion Lounge" dancefloor, at least I knew enough steps to look marginally matched with my wife who is steeped in Latin culture.)

So why I would quote "Dirty Dancing" on this particular evening is a mystery. 

But every since I started on a new round of prescription mood altering drugs, I've been talking even more animatedly in my sleep.  Tossing and turning, shouting, sitting up in bed, thrashing through the covers at the foot of the bed for unseen assailants, unwanted swinger parties, dogs, and bees.  (Seriously, I'm not exaggerating about any of those.)  My wife is blessed by God with deafness in one ear, so she can just sleep with her good ear down in the pillow to ignore me.  If that's not an indicator that we were meant to be together, I don't know what is.

But lots of people struggle with this.  At a recent dinner party, we broached the subject and discovered of the 5 couples there, 4 had an identical situation.  A loud animated sleep talker married to a long suffering spouse. 

One of the MANY disadvantages of a sleep talker, is that in their animated thrashing and spinning and tossing and turning, they often pull the fitted sheet off the bed.  Which is a self perpetuating cycle, because then, caught up in the elastic binding and trapped between the mattress and fitted sheet, their dreams turn to being tortured as a CIA member, being buried alive, being forced to wear an ascot,  whatever.  And the trashing gets even more spastic.

Plus, it makes it harder to have a pretty bed every morning.

So, for those of you who fall in the 4 out of 10 Americans with vivid dreams and corresponding night calisthenics, go invest in some of these:

They work.  And your bedmate will thank you.  Adam, the Sleep Talkin' Man, if you happen to stumble across my blog, I would suggest you DON'T buy these.  We at The House Rules don't want anything to interfere with the natural progress of your dreams and the bòn móts they produce.

Living the Good Life Instead

Not that blogging isn't tremendous fun.  But its been a while since we've posted here at the House Rules.  Mostly due to our vacation time away from the computer.  We're almost inclined not to tell our readers the name of the location because it was so epically perfect and we don't want the secret to get out.  But, alas, we're givers.  We cannot help ourselves.

We spent a little more than a week traveling down south to Beaufort, South Carolina.  Beaufort, (Bee-you-fort), South Carolina as opposed to Beaufort (Bow-fort), North Carolina.  Located about halfway between Charleston, SC and Savannah, GA on the coast, Beaufort is the perfect mix of town & country, history & modern culture, wildlife & nightlife.

We'll have more for you shortly.  Including a post filled with judgey judgey thoughts about Southern front porches (What NOT to do, mostly).  But for now, we wanted to explain our absence.  Once you go on a vacation this awesome, its hard to get out of this mode:

In-Wall Sink- COVET!!!!

Oh, if we were only redoing our tiny tiny tiny basement bathroom now... we had an offer of a medicine cabinet this weekend, and then I just stumbled on this thing online today:

According to the ReStore blog, (a Philadelphia architectural salvage clearinghouse store), it was made by Angelo Colonna of Philadelphia.  I can't find any more info on him or the sink online, but how sweet is that?  And they're selling it for only $300. 

I don't know if it works or what the limitations are, but somebody who's doing a bathroom, (or wetbar) renovation needs to get over to ReStore ASAP and scoop this puppy up.  To pull this thing out of the wall whilst making a dirty martini would elevate the drink's status to Franklin Mortgage and Investment Company heights, even if you were using six month old vermouth and Banker's club Gin.

Plus, ReStore accommodated my friends' band and let them shoot their video there.   The song/video is by Turning Violet Violet. And the cinemetography was shot by our bud Murphy who's going to be our new roommate for a month before he moves out to Colorado with his family.



(He doesn't have a full time gig out there yet, so if we have any readers from the Rocky Mountain State who are in need of some kick ass video work, let us know...)  And hell, you all could buy the sink too.  Shipping and Handling not included.

Lost Camera... Again

I went back to the final location where we thought I might have lost our camera... I've checked everywhere else, but this is the second camera we've I've lost in three months.


Unfortunately, it might be under this pile of dirt.

So I just ordered a new one from ebay.  Until next week, all photos courtesy of my sister.

Everything but the...

While we're talking about kitchens, let's discuss the kitchen sink.  Of all the places in my house, the kitchen sink work station is one where being a tall man comes at an extreme disadvantage.  Kitchen counters are unfortunately set at an industry standard 36 inches high.  If you're a tall person, say 6'-0" or taller, this causes you to lean over the counter ever so slightly to get close to what you're doing.   The kitchen sink tends to be one place where you stand for a prolonged period of time, doing all those frakking dishes.  At an average of 8" deep, that puts the bottom of the sink at 28", AKA just above the knee*.  Back aches and cramps ensue. (My wife would site that if I just cooked less elaborate meals, I wouldn't be washing so many dishes.)  One can get taller cabinets made, theoretically, but that'd be mighty expensive and who knows if the next buyer of your home is also going to have an antelopish dude who likes to cook?

So in my research on kitchen sinks today, I stumbled across this beauty from Kohler**...

Now without seeing it in context, or downloading the specifications and measurements, you might not realize that this puppy sits on top of the counter.  Its still the average 8" deep, which is less than I prefer, but the top lip sits 4 inches above your countertop surface, bringing the base of the sink to 32" AKA mid-thigh*.  A tall man's dream sink.

It is listed as an apron sink, which is another thing to discuss.  I've never really understood this fascination with apron or farmhouse sinks that is going around right now.  Other than the ability to hang a dishtowel on the edge and not get the front edge of your cabinets wet, what's the appeal?  Is it really just fashion?  It seems like there are a lot disadvantages for an apron front, including how they work with standard cabinet sizes, if its just a fashion statement.  Clue me in here.

But then, it occured to me that one half of my client is a little less than tall.  The apron sink does give one benefit of dropping the sink base by an inch and a half (similar to an undermount sink)  but bringing the basin the whole way out to the edge of the counter so that she can wash the dishes without the inverse of the problem I have.

So, I found this sink for her from Sheffield.  I'm questioning whether it will be helpul or not.  Your thoughts?  What functional benefits or disadvantages do you see in a sink like this?  Leave it in the comments...

Footnotes:

*I was going to use other relative length/height descriptors but this is a family blog.

**Can we discuss why Kohler would choose to have a picture of old people bathing together on the front page of their site?  Ew.  Old people shouldn't bathe.  That way their smell becomes a primary indicator that there's one in the next room and everyone can be on their guard against impending inevitable crotchetyness.


***All this discussion of short people makes me want to link "Shorty is an Eenie Meenie Mo Lover".  Enjoy the Biebs, y'all..

Sit. Good chromosomes.

I took Makai over to my sister's house on Thursday. My niece Blair just had half of her teeth pulled out so it was a good opportunity to cheer her up. Not sure how much that happened due to the fact that I was chasing the puppy around the house most of the afternoon to keep him from peeing on anything. Hopefully she at least enjoyed watching that.

But putting him together with Petey, their full bred poodle was just hilarious. Petey's in his teens but Makai brought the puppy out in him. And the fact that they look that much alike (Makai is on the left) is just weird.

They even sit the same exact way.

Of course as I get older, I find myself arranging my body in the same weird contortions that I always thought looked so uncomfortable on my dad. So I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Genetics are strong.

For My Birthday, I want to give Shoutouts... and be a ______.

Yesterday, I did my three of my favorite things for my birthday, which is today...

A. Recreational Deceit and Prevarication
B. Talk to a Good Friend Across the World
C. Laugh Heartily

It went down this way...


My friend Jessie is in Bethlehem (the original) with her husband Trey doing Racial and Cultural Reconciliation between Israelis and Palestinians. Despite this obviously demanding task that requires them to be away from friends and family in a somewhat hostile and definitely stressful environment, she remembered, as she does every year, to wish me a Happy Birthday. Yesterday, she IM'ed me from across the Atlantic, saying "Happy Birthday One Day Early!"

Being the _____ (insert appropriate derogatory title here), that I am, I decided to give her a hard time and tell her "Thanks so much. My birthday was Monday the 6th, but thank you." Lying through my teeth. And she saw right through it. She knows me well enough to know that this is the kind of stuff I try to pull all the time. She didn't believe a word of it.

So after going back and forth for a while and arguing that she must have me confused with Bill or Amy or other folks she's got in her Google Calendar who are born in October, I finally feigned indignation and told her that I would go back in my emails and find proof that she had been wishing me Happy Birthdays for years on the "correct" date of the 6th.

I searched my inbox, found an email, changed the dates and the content of the message to back up my story. She bit, hook, line, and sinker. I convinced her.

When I finally revealed my lie, and graciously admitted that she was correct in wishing me a Happy Birthday for the 8th, she was so mad she started IM swearing at me in an amalgam of Arabic/Yiddish/English. The tirade was completely indecipherable and I laughed and laughed and laughed. Good times.

Anyways, I don't feel bad, because I'm a _______ (insert even more appropriately derogatory title now that you've read the story). But her being concientious enough to remember my birthday all these years did remind me of how awesome she is and how great the work that she and her husband are doing.

So, for my birthday, loyal readers, go check out their blogs:

The Middle of Nowhere

and

O Little Town of Bethlehem

Let them know how incredible they are. Let them know how much you miss them. Or if you don't know them from Adam, just let them know that what they're doing matters. They're both so ridiculously friendly and open that you'll probably make a life-long friend.

And of course, watch Jessie stick her hand up a Goat's vagina.

Updates and Ice Cream Sodas

Buckle up...

We've narrowed our dog names down to two, neither of which are on the poll above, but we're not going to reveal the pick until a few days before the puppy is brought home so that the vetting process (get it? vetting?) can be complete and we don't accidentally pick a name that means "I hate people with special needs" in Swahili or something which would be highly unfortunate because we've spent a lot of time debating various names with family and friends which of course has lead to many a discussion of children's names which we're simultaneously not ready for and also have picked out much to the chagrin of people who kept trying to recommend names for our dog that we've already pre-reserved for our hypothetically dreaded children (and please don't get all huffy, a lot of married people fear children because kids are like a nylon leash which yes, comes in a multitude of exciting primary colors, but ultimately restricts your movement) WHICH brings us back to dogs and the naming conversation which reminds me that whenever we talked about a dog name starting with "J", I of course had to nix it because of my speech impediment which would invariably bring about my sister's response of "I wanted to name a daughter Hannah, but then I married a guy from Rochester, who pronounces it "Heeanah" so that was out the window and we named our daughter Blair" which frankly I thought was kind of awkward given that Blair was sitting right there and is certainly going to have an identity complex now, but as a result, I'm definitely imagining it'd be a good weekend to be a fly on the wall at their house because Hurricane "Heeana" is currently bearing down on the east coast, which if we weren't going away tonight and going to an awesome Ben Folds with Full Orchestra concert tomorrow (make sure to listen to the Hiroshima clip, you'll be singing "OH-OH-OH-OHHHH" for the rest of your life), would mean that we would sit around watching our last disc of Scrubs Season 3 and doing Dr. Cox impersonations (which is what this rambling run-on post is supposed to sound like, or at least should sound like in your head there, Katrina (see what I did there? since Cox calls JD by girls' names) while drinking Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Sodas, which surprisingly few people know about, but trust me, they're awesome.

Ma Barker's Ice Cream Sodas:

BIG glass
3 Tbs. Choc. Syrup
3 Tbs. 1/2 and 1/2
Vanilla Ice Cream
Seltzer Water

In the bottom of your BIG glass, mix together chocolate syrup, 1/2 and 1/2, and a splash of seltzer water, making sure to get all those chocolatey bits off the bottom. Add several scoops of ice cream until you're just 1/2" inch below the top of the glass. Fill with Seltzer water, giver her a good stir, top off with a hair more seltzer and maybe a drizzle of chocolate syrup on top.

Enjoy.

Poobrador

Well, we reserved our pup last night... I won't go into all the details, but for everyone who is very concerned about puppy mills and buying a good dog, rest assured we're doing our homework and checking everything we can.

In the end, three facts remain:
1. Rach and I are WAY overthinkers anyways, so we're not likely to skimp on the details.
2. There's no way to foresee everything that could ever go wrong in your life so at some point you just have to relax.
3. We will love this guy, but he's also just a dog, not our human child. And I don't plan on rejecting a human child who has hip dysplasia so we might as well prepare ourselves for whatever may come.

Anyways, here's some pics for you visual folk who aren't swayed by pedigree certificates, F1B stats, and wordy descriptions of healthy looking nether-regions.






No name yet, but I'm trying to convince Rach to go for something nautical sounding since poodles and labs are both water dogs... here's a list from wikipedia, feel free to leave suggestions from there or elsewhere.

And I'm thinking we're going to start teaching him sign language after reading The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. (GREAT BOOK! Especially if you liked Hamlet and Owen Meany.) I can just see him sitting on Peddler's Knob (Lake George) or Pumpkin Knob (Peaks) where I'll signal "Duck" to him from across the channel and just like that we've got a tasty canard dinner.

Sweet.

Why We've been Gone

Before you go getting your panties/boxers/briefs/thongs/commando-ness in a bunch, let me explain...

Literally thousands of letters and comments have poured in to "The House Rules" wondering what has happened to us since March. I've deleted all of them from the blog simply because I'm not the type to publish my fame and critical adoration for the world to see. But here's a sampling of some of the more poignant letters we've received:

"Where the frack did you go? Your blog is like crack. You get us addicted with your incredibly intelligent writing and witty subject choices and then leave us to go through a shaky sweating withdrawal? What's that abouoot?" -Carolyn S., reader from Philadelphia (previously Canada)

"I love your blog. I read it to all the neighbors between tear gassings. And generally it brings everyone together despite the longstanding racial and political divisiveness of the region."- Trey H., reader from Jerusalem (previously the Hooka Bar).

"I'm bored without your blog. Give me something in this semi-charmed life since I don't really have much to do in the studio right now."-Stephen J. from Los Angeles (previously Billboard's Top 40)

"I'm a creepy minion of Satan. But my dad and I still really like to read your blog between routines. Keep it up!"- Nastia L. from Beijing (previously the 5th circle of hell)

"I WILL EAT YOUR BABIES, B#$%H, IF YOU DON'T SPREAD MY MESSAGE OF DOOM AND DESTRUCTION"- Orblokz, Destroyer of Worlds (previously of the planet Yormomiter).

Anyways, here's what happened basically... in March we went to Florida for a nice relaxing spring break. We were staying at Rach's aunt and uncles place in Miami, hangin' in the chickee hut (Yep, its a real thing, more on that later.) having a Dark and Stormy Night at 11:00 in the morning. The weather was amazing, we were relaxed, it was perfection.

And I brought my computer to try and get some blogging done. I was planning on introducing a new feature, "Conversations with Your House" (more on that later too) which is destined to get me in a buttload of trouble with the neighbors but will inevitably be rolicking good fun for you gentle reader.

Anyways, I powered on my computer and was just taking my last sip of the DSN before typing when THIS crazy ass orchid/bean/tentaclebeast of hell thing comes tendriling around the edge of the hut. I didn't think plants (?) could move that quickly, but in one deft move it had entwined my computer, ripped it from my grasp, and retreated into the suburban jungle from whence it came. Fortunately Rach snapped a picture before it grabbed the computer.

Scary for sure. Someone should probably have done a study or expedition or at least started a "Save the Crazy Ass Orchid/Bean/Tentaclebeast from Hell" campaign, but in a sunburned DSN stupor, I shook my head in disbelief, and just decided to go on with our vacation.

So I've been with out a computer for the last 6 months. That's the reason you haven't seen a blog posting. I couldn't blog from work obviously because that would be unethical and cut into my nap time.

Well, this morning, Aunt Janet came to Philly from Miami, and lo and behold, she brought my computer. It had been found 3 miles from their house next to a waste water management reservoir in the Target shopping complex. Everyone's best guess is that the Crazy Ass Orchid/Bean/Tentaclebeast from Hell had more of a taste for Big Macs and thought better of the effect of my PC on its digestive tract.

Sufficed to say, we fortunately have a lot of stories to tell, and we'll be bringing them to you now commercial free.

*Some names and exact circumstances of events have been changed to protect the innocent and the hopelessly lazy.

My Memory of John

My brother John passed away a year ago today. John was an amazing man whose testimony and voice shouted louder and reached farther than many who don't have a crippled body or the inability to speak. My parents asked people to write out their memories of John. If you'll indulge my sentimentality, here's my memories of him...

There was so much time that I didn’t know John. I didn’t grow up with him, not in the traditional sense. Not in the way that everyone else did, where they pulled him out of his chair for adventures and for hide and seek. Not in the sense that everyone else did, where he would go for walks and go drinking with them and their friends.

John and I were housemates. He was in the house and I was in the house but we were miles apart due to our age. We grew up as brothers, but he as a young man and me as a toddler made us little more.

But as I grew up, went to college, and came home an adult of sorts, a newer bond was formed between John and me. Being brothers didn’t matter nearly as much as being outsiders. We were bachelors on the periphery of a spinning mass of parents, spouses, children, in-laws, and dogs. A loud whirlwind that generally spun us a little to the edge where it hurt and we felt a little empty. But it was comforting to have someone else there on the outside with you. And John and I found each other in that. And we reveled in it. We even discovered a certain superiority, whether real or manufactured, in being the ones who stood outside and could rationally look at the whirling dervish for what it was. Other people’s memories are fine and good but I prefer to remember John as that outsider because that’s what we had together.

And so my best memories with John are not marked by words or events, but by the looks he gave me from across the opposite side of the smoky kitchen chaos. While everything else was screaming and laughing, John would give me a look that said, “I see you. I know. You see me. You know.” Or as I drew inward, feeling alone among so many people, he would stare at me until I saw him, and he would give me a glare that would say, “Your self pity isn’t getting you anywhere. I should know.” Or in the moments where the arguments would turn ridiculous and we teetered on the edge of getting angry, John would turn his head my way and roll his eyes, saying, “We are so ABOVE this.” Or he would give me the faintest bit of a smile, one that no one else would see, just to make sure that we were in on the same joke, and that everyone else was on the outside. My greatest memories with a brother who longed to use words but couldn’t were all about the volumes he could speak in silent looks.

I don’t know whether John would have gotten over me abandoning him. When Rachael came into my life, I became so obsessed with being on the inside with her and pulling her into the center of the fray, that I ignored John. Though he still stared at me, though he still rolled his eyes and smiled, I didn’t want to be an outsider anymore. He usually had to resort to yelling at me and at best I sympathized with his outside condition but I could no longer empathize because I was rapidly more and more inside. I regret so much that we didn’t have more time to find a new footing for our brotherhood to stand on. I don’t know what it might have been.

But I have to keep reminding myself that for John, he’s no longer alienated and marginalized. I’m sure he’s having a great time with his legs, but I usually imagine him packed into a group of people so tightly that legs are irrelevant. I always picture him in the middle of an all black, all female, bouncy gospel choir just going off clapping and singing, “Forever God is Faithful”. Or in the middle of a impossibly dense throng of blindingly white robed saints with his arms raised up singing “Holy, Holy, Holy!” to the even brighter Lamb on a throne that is so vividly close. Wherever I picture him, he’s in the center of whatever is happening. So I kind of don’t imagine John running up to meet me at the gates of heaven. In the midst of everything he’s got going on now, he’s way too busy and overjoyed to look back out to the edges. So I look forward more to just randomly bumping into him when we both get caught up in the massive heavenly mosh pit.

Christmas Decorations... (AKA Whitman's Electrical Fire Hazard Sampler)

There's a lot of blogs out there that like to show you "before and after" pictures. SO Boring... I mean, linear timelines and sequential representations have always been the mainstays of the oppressive majority regime.

But if there's one thing we here at The House Rules are all about, it's bucking convention, progressive thought, and liberty from social conformism. (Actually, at the moment, there's a couple things we are all about but they fall under the Leftover Dessert and Serial Television on DVD categories. But excluding those, we're all about the convention bucking.)

So, we bring you our Christmas Decorations... well after the fact. And we successfully staged some photos of the assembly and dissassembly so that you'd have no idea what stage in the process you're looking at.

















"Yeah, Christopher Nolan, director of Memento, you're MY bi-atch now!"

But I digress... As usual, one of the more successful motifs was the front window Christmas Baubles.

Now, in the interest of preserving my manhood while writing about Christmas Decorating "motifs", it should be noted that every night when we came home from work, we'd immediately plug in the front window lights while I made varying references to "My Balls" often with accompanying song lyrics set to the tune of classic Christmas Hymns from the Trinity Hymnal. I guess technically this actually preserved my obnoxious adolescent boyhood rather than my manhood, but either way its still MALE so I'll take what I can get.




Damn It! I digressed again. The point is, my parents gave us my Grandmother's old Christmas lights which had been on the family tree at the farm for as long as I can remember. Unfortunately, when my Grandmother got them, it must have been a Depression year and they must not have had copper or Intelligent Electrical Engineers.** Because the bulb sockets don't have any threads. So its a very loose form of friction that holds the bulb in place and the contacts making the circuit complete leave something to be desired. The bulbs are always going out... not burning out, just going out.

So every year, there was a standing rule in the family that every time you passed the tree you had to scan the entire tree and find at least 3 bulbs to push back in so they'd light up. If you do the math, 5 kids X 3 bulbs X 25 trips past the tree per day each = BUTTLOADS of bulb pushing.

So, It really isn't convenient to use these strings but I guess Nostalgia has reared its ugly head and made me ITS bi-atch. (Which by proxy makes Christopher Nolan into NOSTALGIA's bi-atch as well.) I wrapped all the strings of bulbs (plus a few extra from the Home Despot) around a foam ball and made these Christmas Baubles... AKA My Balls.

In conclusion, as this closeup photo shows, there is doubtless a huge fire safety issue in the way these things are wrapped around themselves. Especially when you consider that I had to connect 4 to 5 successive extension cords to power the lights from my ungrounded outlet with no coverplate in the front entry. But now that smell of overheating PVC insulated wiring will forever remind me of Christmas...

Footnote**: True story... Almost all Intelligent Electrical Engineers disappeared around the time of the Depression. I'm pretty sure they're still hiding in Uzbekistan somewhere leaving the building electrical system design industry to their dumbass inbred cousins. True Story.

Stink Bug Eradication Techniques

So last night, at a family event, my tiny little awesome cousin/nephew Ben discovered a Brown Marmorated Stink Bug (Halyomorpha halys) on the game he was playing with. He was not pleased. Neither is anyone else on the Eastern Seaboard...

Since being introduced from Asia almost 10 years ago, the slow moving Stink Bug population has exploded, especially this year when a mild winter prevented their yearly natural extermination. They meander their way into our homes, as many can attest. They lazily infested the air conditioning unit in the loft of my mother-in-law's home where my wife and I stayed while between houses this summer. They slowly crawl all over the exterior walls of my sister's house, twitching and feeling, twitching and feeling. Their dead accumulate in light fixtures, cereal bowls, and sock drawers.

Several papers have covered the infestation (here and here), and while various sites do insist that the bug is harmless to humans and has not even proven (yet) to be detrimental to crop growth, no one has suggested much of a means to get rid of these nuisance critters.

That's where I (and you) come in. After previous experimentation on this topic, I crushed the offending stink bug between my fingers last night to enlighten my family to the fact that the Brown Marmolated Stink Bug, in fact, doesn't really stink. It smells like Cilantro. After a rousing game of "Smell My Finger", I had about half of the audience convinced. To the other half, I submit the following evidence. A whopping 6% of registered users on Ihatecilantro.com cite Stink Bugs as the flavor/smell that most closely resembles Cilantro.

Okay, okay, not very overwhelming. But if you look at the other articles linked throughout this posting, you'll see that I'm not alone. Lots of folks link the smell of stinkbugs and cilantro... not just the cilantro haters. (You've got to love devotion to a cause like that... Ihatecilantro.com? Come ON!)

The biggest problem with this invasive species is a lack of natural predators. Many birds, amphibians, etc either don't like the cilantro-esqe taste, or haven't discovered that these stink bugs are edible yet.

Now whether you believe in Global Warming or not, one has to admit that a natural predator would be a preferable method of population control to saturating our every living surface, interior and exterior, with your fave Insecticide. (What's yours? Mine is YardGuard, because it can be easily said with a Pirate inflection: "Avast, gimme the Yaaaarrd-Guaaaarrd, ye landlubbing bunghole!")

So, in the interest of Environmental Activism, why not introduce ourselves as natural predators for the Brown Stink Bug? Only 2000 or so fanatics really don't like Cilantro, so I think the rest of us can make a big dent in the population. Various regions of Mexico already eat other species of Stink Bugs Tacos. (Seriously.) And I found this delightful recipe for Stink Bug Pate online.

And so, dear readers, I urge you to experiment and then submit your favorite Stink Bug Recipes. Yes, especially you, Carolyn. Not only because this post is in your honor, (for being the only unwilling participant in the "Smell My Finger" game.) But because you're the only member of the family who has a formal culinary education. If any body can swallow their cultural stereotypes and down experimental Stink Bug recipe after experimental Stink Bug recipe, its you...

Cheers!

Schmancy Dinner

Previously on the-house-rules, we had a LOT of people to help us move in... It was great, because several of the ladies* unpacked most of our kitchen into the cabinets and pantry. Plates here, cups there, pot holders under there, etc. And the best part about it is that it was all WRONG.

Now, this is no judgment on the aforementioned ladies*. They placed things according to their own logic structure and our snippets of input. And it most likely made a lot of sense for their collective kitchen consciousness. But each person has their own way of organizing things and this wasn't ours.

But having things put in the "wrong" way makes it easier to identify what the "right" way is. We spent evenings of this past week, after work, organizing the kitchen from one end of the galley to another. Somewhat of a mise-en-place as Escoffier would say. (I don't really know what that means, but I know its related to food prep and it sounds schmancy right?)

We start with cutlery/prep/wash at one end, move to cook/serve, and to wait/bar station progressively down one side of the kitchen. On the other side there's pantry/fridge/supplies and a special confection/pastry corner for my wife the baker. (I only do savory/stove top for the most part.)

Anways, we got this done just in time for our first dinner party with our friend Meredith on Friday night. Mostly, the dinner was pretty tame. Pasta with a bottle of sauce plus my spinach mushroom additions. But I'm very proud of my salad: Frisee greens with Walnuts, Apples, and Parmesan cheese tossed in a lemon mustard dressing. I owned that mother.

Also, we had a bottle of Merlot from Rex Goliath 40 lb Rooster, one of our favorite wines, recommended to us by my brother and his wife. They live in Wisconsin, so typically one would question their Midwestern taste, but it was a recent (and sad) move from the east coast, so you can trust them... Implicitly. Unless we're talking about gun control, in which case don't put stock in anything they say. (Get it! Stock?!?)




*Footnote: Ladies is not a pejorative term. The setting up of the kitchen simply happened to be done by a group of women. Don't accuse me of sexism. I mean, if a dude who gets all hot and bothered by a frisee salad can't simply state the facts without his readers getting all feminist activist on his ass, what hope does the world have?

Moving Day: Inconveniaphobia

Here's a complex I have. I'm ridiculously over-concerned about inconveniencing other people. You know, in one of those unhealthy [makes me sweat, swear, and swallow the ever increasing amounts of bile that I'm throwing up when I think about the delays I may be causing the general public] ways. I hate being the guy that everyone else is cursing silently or audibly.

I think it actually comes living with my my Dad and my late brother John. John had severe cerebral palsy and as a result couldn't walk or talk or do anything that most of us take for granted. The only muscles he could control were his neck and eyes. But he was a genius... literally. IQ of somewhere above 150. (The number seems to change a little bit every time Dad tells it, but sufficed to say, John was smart.)

So, imagine you have a child who's totally "there" upstairs, but can't take part in ANYTHING his siblings, peers, or even nieces and nephews do every moment, every day, every year. Dad did what any AMAZING parent would do and just plowed right through all civility and convention to make sure John got as many opportunities as possible. If this meant holding up a line so that John could cast a vote for himself, he did it. If it meant driving extremely slow so that John could take in all the sights of the city, he did it. You get the drift...

Disclosure: It should be noted that I think my Dad was particularly gifted with plowing through civility and convention. It may very well have been the reason God put him on earth. But we've no time for theological discussions right now.

Anyways, as a child and then teenager in this unique family situation, I grew to LOATHE the inconvenience that we were imposing on others. I was mortified about 95% of the time, not by John, but by Dad. I know, I know, what teenager isn't mortified by his parent? But from this specific phenomenon grew my "inconveniaphobia". I've even built a worldview around this concept, which has varying degrees of biblical accuracy during the day. Am I loving my neighbor by driving slowly? Am I doing it for their good or for my good? The ethical vertigo is getting to me...

So, imagine if you will, my feelings about moving:



Exhibit A: I rent a moving truck. A 25 foot long, 13 foot high moving truck. Which has to be driven slowly. And somewhat down the middle of the road as I am unfamiliar with its size and do not want to sideswipe every parked car. Also the sky is pouring buckets of rain, so visibility sucks.

Exhibit B: There's no where to park said moving truck on my new house block. And, let me clarify, not buckets, but we've escalated to bushels of rain, so every possession we're moving is going to be destroyed.

Exhibit C: I refuse to double park under almost any situation. Especially on this, my new house block. Double parking is the height of self-importance. "My time is more valuable than your time. Therefore, I claim the right to obstruct traffic with my vehicle so I can just make a quick stop. Which, we all know will actually take 30 minutes."

Exhibit D: The block is frequented by Septa's Route 18 bus, a behemoth of a vehicle herself, piloted by less than reliable automotons known as Septa employees. So pulling "a little" off the road is not an option.

Exhibit E: The only viable option is to pull onto the grassy median strip of this boulevard block, thereby shredding up the pretty green grass that all my new neighbors front on. See above notes about rain which I now amend to a desription of buttloads of rain. Trash public property/viewshed...? Check.

Exhibit F: The aforementioned Dad is standing on the steps of my new house as I pull up, shouting instructions as to where I should park on the the grassy median strip. I mean, like directing me from 50 yards away as I drive a 25 foot diesel engine through the city. Also present are 2 to 3 other guys with different perspectives on the situation yelling different directions. ALSO PRESENT: A line of 3 to 4 cars and a bus behind me, waiting for me to MAKE UP MY F****ING MIND AND PARK!!!!

Which I did. Successfully. Thankfully. With God granting me the grace to only swear at my family, whom I love, like 6 times and mostly inaudibly. The biggest part of the ordeal was over.

After that, moving was a breeze. We had lots of people. My mom made sloppy joes. My wife survived the stress whirlwind. No one broke anything. We returned the truck on time. Everybody was awesome. We had beer and cigars. We're in! No more moving trucks for several years!

And my ulcer has mostly gone away.