It's Me or the Beard!

The men in my family are not an inherently hirsute bunch of people. My younger brother continues to struggle, at twenty-four, with the ability to produce more than a mere crustache above his upper lip and even that takes several weeks. Thus, he continues to be mistaken for a prepubescent youth at more frequent intervals that he would probably like. While my father did sport a decently well-developed mustache throughout my early years, I believe I was born after its inception and thus I cannot verify how long it took for that facial feature to reach its fullest state. Not to dig too deeply into my own psychosis, but perhaps due to a desire to live life on the edge or at least branch out from the men in my family, I chose to marry a man who claims to have begun shaving in late elementary school. Although my husband is prone to the occasionally, or frequent, exaggeration, I do believe there is a shred of credibility in this assertion.

It seems that my darling husband blossomed well before others his age stopped playing with G.I. Joes. According to lore, he also reached his current height and relative weight by middle school. No doubt this frightened off many a young lady whom he hoped to pursue or even more so their fathers who didn’t want a man-child taking their daughters to the eighth grade dance.

Nevertheless, since my significant other has been sporting a five o’clock shadow at about nine in the morning for many, many years, I can understand why shaving is a laborious and arduous task in which he does not necessarily want to engage everyday. Thus, I have been accustomed to the occasional goatee or beard during our relationship. Usually though, he needs to spruce up his appearance or simply gets bored with the facial overgrowth and shaves it off in a reasonable period of time. Unfortunately, this is apparently no longer the situation. My husband is now proclaiming, with great sincerity, that he is preparing to cultivate a beard well longer than socially acceptable standards for all those who are not members of ZZ Top or the Hell’s Angels.

Currently, I think my husband resembles Yukon Cornelius from the claymation version of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. His macho mask is clumpy and the Benetton of beards, displaying an array of colors from blond to red, lengths that vary from mere wisps to actual tresses, and textures that range from brillo pad to sandpaper. Supposedly the beard growth is in homage to his lacrosse team and will not be shaved until they win ten games. Not to espouse a negative attitude towards the team, but up until now, they have only managed to defeat one team in six years of existence. If he’s waiting for them to win ten games, he’s going to look more like Methuselah or the unabomber before it is time for a trim. Certainly, you can understand my concern. I realize that everyone has a right to adorn their body, whether in clothing or facial hair, as they so choose; however, when it looks like I’m out to dinner with a member of the witness protection program or someone who just needs a hot meal, I think I am entitled to voice my opinion.

Due to the overgrowth of his facial forest, I have tried a variety of tactics to coerce my beloved into abandoning this pursuit. First, I appealed to his fear of aging by pointing out the gray hairs that were sprouting from his follicular fleece. I explained that these hairs added at least fifteen years to his already overly mature visage. If he already felt like a pervert every time we went out and I got carded and he didn’t, this beard was definitely not going to make that issue go away. However, this was not enough of a reason to warrant removing the wiry whiskers.

Next, I employed the fright factor by asserting that bugs and other insects could lay larvae in his chin cloak. One day, I warned, he would wake up to find spiders crawling all over his face and into all of his orifices after they burst the egg sacks that were embedded in his beard. Knowing his irrational and extreme fear of bugs, I thought that surely this would dissuade him. Even after citing Internet evidence of the veracity of my statements, he still held firm on his quest for facial fur.

My final tactic involved appealing to his competitive coaching side. I fruitlessly hoped to convince my husband that he would have a hard time recruiting lacrosse players when he looked like every cult leader that made it onto the nightly news. Who was going to trust their children to him when he looked like Charles Manson or “Father” David Berg from the Children of God cult in L.A. in the late sixties? Would they really want a sip of what he was offering? I didn’t think so.

Unfortunately, none of my sound reasoning could shake my spouse’s conviction that beards are “cool”. When asked to cite “cool” men with beards, those that are habitual drug users were not permitted on the list, he weakly mentioned Bob Villa, Al (from Tool Time) Boreland, and the embodiment of sanity and citizenship, Joaquin Phoenix. The last time I checked, and I am no beacon of coolness myself, flannel shirts and psychosis were not the epitome of hip and trendy.

As the beard continues to grow, I have trouble overcoming some of my own misgivings and fears. Personally, I see it becoming a bacteria bush as germs from sneezes and coughs become trapped in his snot net, much the way cotton pieces get stuck on watch bands or dryer trays. I anticipate more frequent colds and flues developing as a result of my husbands’ latest endeavor to over-masculate himself. Plus, the thought of what might be caught in his facial wool is quite a deterrent when it comes to kissing or any other intimate gesture. Already I’ve caught him using it as a personal snack shack and picking crumbs out from earlier meals. I am almost afraid of what we will find in there in a few months if his pursuit of a jowl jacket continues. Therefore, if you see my husband around or talk to him on the phone and wish to reiterate any of my previously made points, without directly pointing the finger at me, I would greatly appreciate your assistance.

Fashion Faux Pas or Casually Comfortable?

Like many women, my husband owns more t-shirts than Imelda Marcos owns shoes. Unfortunately, it’s not only t-shirts that he owns in abundant supply, but an entire array of clothing that falls under the category of “I don’t want to be seen out in public with my husband wearing this.” I am talking about sweatshirts, including one with a built in front pouch for a beer can, like a kangaroo carrying its joey, sweatpants from every team he’s ever played on or coached, and some seriously color blind sport coat selections. While I have weathered the storm of the Goodwill t-shirts with holes in the armpits ready to disintegrate at the touch, and my husband has graduated to single-handedly keeping the Under Armor company in business, I still don’t feel as though we’ve made a whole lot of attire advancement in our seven years together.

Let me preface this article with the fact that I grew up in a household where you weren’t allowed to wear anything less than khakis on an airplane. While I did admire from afar those comfortable travelers in pajama bottoms, I felt a bit of dignity that I was dressed to a higher standard. This is not to say that my husband was not raised with similar standards, but there were just certain fashion expectations ingrained into me at an early age for various events and as a result I have developed some hang ups in this area that he did not. Convincing my husband about these unwritten clothing codes has not been so easy though. Comfort reigns supreme in his world and anything with buttons or zippers is usually shunned at all costs. If I’m lucky, a fancy night on the town might call for a hooded sweatshirt not turned inside out or a solid colored t-shirt.

Over the years, I have discovered that my husband has developed his own theories and principals about bedecking his body. Apparently once you become a college athletic coach, you are expected to look like one at every waking minute. Heaven forbid the man at the post office or the server at the nice Italian restaurant should coincidentally have a child seeking a scholarship to your college in your particular sport and you are caught unaware. He can’t take a chance at letting that one game changing recruit pass him by.

While the mafia might have a uniform of nylon tracksuits, pasta, and cannolis, my husband has matching colored sweat ensembles, a bottle of Gatorade, and a baseball cap. Never mind the fact that most people over the age of six have dismissed the practice of wearing the same color sweatpants and sweatshirt for fear of looking like a large bruise in blue or a gigantic grape in purple; my husband is clearly a man dedicated to his work and has thrown fashion sense to the wind in support of his cause.

My husband and I have also debated continuously over the years about the colors olive green and brown. While I believe I am able to discern between the two fairly accurately, there remains virtually no difference between the hues in my husband’s eyes and I’m pretty sure that he would fight me with his dying breath on this issue. As a result, when forced to wear adult clothes, he has concocted some rather unique outfits based on his inability to tell the two colors apart. While I might make my sentiments known about the eyesore that these garish garments create, I usually lose and am forced to ask for a table in the back, darkest part of a restaurant or walk a few steps ahead to avoid looking as if being stalked by someone from the asylum.

Then there is the issue of the outlet mall. For someone who throws money around on concert tickets and anything related to the Black Crowes like my husband does, that man loves a sale. I am a complete proponent of clearance items and am known for my miserly tendencies. However, I am of the ideology that just because it’s on sale, does not mean you have to buy it. Some clothing makes it to the sale rack for a legitimate reason: no one else will pay to wear it. My husband however is an outlet store’s dream as he is more than happy to take those less than hot ticket items off of their hands. Take the incident of the Christmas shorts, which I was too late to stop him from purchasing. If only I’d arrived at the Polo outlet five minutes sooner, I could have prevented the abomination that were the elf green and cardinal red khaki shorts. As I made rude comments about these hideous items, the less than perky salesman ringing up my husband glowered at me from behind the counter as if to say, “Please let him take these out of our store. We can’t give these shorts away.” Nevertheless, my husband vehemently extolled the many virtues of these garments and the myriad of uses they would fulfill. Needless to say, the first outing of the green shorts, the mildly less grotesque of the two pairs, drew far from rave reviews from others. On the plus side, the cherry red shorts have yet to have their public debut. Whether this resulted from the prior panning of the green shorts or simply his own realization that nothing he owned could possibly compliment this appalling acquisition, I am incredibly grateful.

To be fair, I realize my husband is a man, and according to him, a very macho one at that. While I heap on the praise when he puts on a nice pair of jeans and sweater, or better yet a suit, I am not unrealistic about his limitations. He is never going to be a metrosexual and that is fine with me, as I don’t think I could be with someone who spent that much time on his appearance or did that weird gel thing with his hair like those men in the picture books at the hair salon. My husband is a coach so there is really no need for him to ever wear anything other than a sweatsuit to work or beg for lacrosse socks in an array of colors at Christmas, no matter how pathetic I think it might be. Yet, if I could just keep the grandfather hats that make him look like an overgrown extra from Newsies and the sport coats with the arm felt or awful plaid out of his hands and off his body, I think I would be satisfied.

The Mystery of the "Man Room"

Over the past several years, I have noticed that the design of the American home is slowly evolving. While families used to gather in the den or living room to watch TV, a new phenomenon is slyly oozing into our homes and destroying these Norman Rockwell scenes of yesteryear. This architectural trend that is threatening to turn the typical family movie night on its ear and separate families based on viewing preference is called the “man room”, or “man cave” in some households.

It seems that with the invention of the massive sized television, which only men seem to truly appreciate, husbands, fathers, and boyfriends around the country have felt the need to enthrone these entertainment centers in their own special retreats. Thus, they are converting a room once designated for family togetherness into a temple singularly used for ESPN worship or action movie adoration. Now, a man’s retreat is no longer the porcelain palace, with a few magazines or a good book, but instead it is an entire room devoted to manly pursuits.

As if leaving his mark, like a bear around a tree, these rooms typically reek of machismo. Whether this is intentionally designed to keep intruders, such as significant others or young dependents, from messing with the carefully chosen program on TiVo or is simply a byproduct of a lack of hygiene and weeks of sweaty socks and gym shoes, remains unknown. Nevertheless, I believe that this odious obstacle is one tactic that residents of these chambers deploy in order to keep others out and maintain the sanctity of their lairs.

Over the years, my husband and I have lived in three successive homes that each had a living area specifically set aside for the pursuit of staring blankly for hours at whatever football game or ghost hunting show was available. After a few weeks, I would notice that our place setting and glassware cabinets were suffering a significant shortage. Sure enough, as I cautiously crept into my husband’s hideaway, I came upon a trove of missing items. Usually, they retained unidentifiable bits of former food crusted onto them or the residue of a beverage long since imbibed. Often times our dishwasher simply refused to clean these items. As much as those dishwashing detergent and their fancy scrubbing bubbles and degreasers might claim to get off the toughest messes, they were no match for the putrid plates and foul flatware extracted from our “man room”.

Another common technique utilized in discouraging others from entering a “man room” involves instilling fear about the complexity of the remote used to command the titanic television. With cable, dvr, DVD, and video game systems all synchronized onto one main controller that makes flying a space shuttle look easy, my husband made it very clear that he is the only one privileged to the secret codes and intricacies of this technological juggernaut. Usually, anyone without authorization that is espied in possession of, or worse, attempting to use the sacred device is often forced to endure a serious verbal tirade. This berating is meant to forever keep the offender from endeavoring such an outrageous entertainment coup in the future. On more than one occasion I have been chastised for failing to comprehend why hitting the “all power” button is the equivalent to opening Pandora’s box. Sure, it is in red, but why would they have put it on at all, if it was never to be used? I quickly learned to leave the TV on when my husband was not in the room, lest I mistakenly press one of the enigmatic buttons.

Additionally perplexing is the mysterious force field effect that makes the walls of “man caves” impervious to sound. In my experience, all occupants of “man caves” seem unable to hear noises and voices from those outside their bounds. While I might only be a few steps away or at the bottom of a slight stair case calling up to my husband, my efforts to gain his attention are usually in vain. I am pretty certain that I could be writhing and bleeding in agony on the floor outside of his man lair and he would only notice my crippled, tortured body if it blocked the path from his domain to the refrigerator. Dogs could be barking, space ships could be landing in our backyard and yet, while in the man room, my husband would remain oblivious to all. Maybe the obnoxiously large speakers on the television are partial responsible for this conundrum, but I truly believe there is more to this story.

Perhaps this need to maintain one’s own domain can be traced back to the time of cave men. I have noticed striking similarities between the way my husband lays out his “man room” and the way his ancient ancestors furnished their dwellings. First of all, there are always hangings on the walls to demonstrate involvement in manly pursuits. These hangings formerly consisted of the animal skins that men acquired after a successful hunt to demonstrate their strength and power. However, today, my husband hangs the flags of football teams that represent the athletic prowess of others while my husband assumes their strength presumably by television osmosis.

Secondly, food is prepared in both caves of yesteryear and today. In men dens of old, the meat belonging to the animal whose skin was displayed on the wall was cooked communally around a campfire. Today, food is delivered directly to man cave inhabitants who devour the victuals with as much rapidity as if they had in fact hunted for the food themselves.

Lastly, there is one true sign that my husband has not really evolved all that much since the time of mammoths and semi-erect postures. When comfortably established in their respective domiciles, both cave men and my husband fail to see the need for more than a very modest amount of clothing. Whether it is a loincloth or boxer shorts, these habitats seem to compel men to remove the majority of their clothes either to demonstrate their manly physiques or imply that they are in such control of their territory that they do not even need clothes to rule. Nevertheless, while my husband may not have influence over much in our household (i.e. finances, food in the refrigerator, type of toilet paper, etc.) when he is in the man room, he is truly king of the castle.

Digging for Gold

Disclaimer:  This post is a little more vulgar than my normal posts, but the conversation was so funny that I felt it needed to be shared anyway.

            There are some conversations that I have with my husband that really make me wonder whether I want to create a child with half of his gene pool.  The other day, as we were on a long car ride, just such a dialogue occurred.  The topic was nose picking.  My husband was recounting a delightful little tale about one of the lacrosse campers that he had worked with earlier in the week and the child’s proclivity for plunging his finger into his nasal cavity and eating any contents that were retrieved.  While I found this disgusting, it was far from the most nauseating story that my husband had ever told me and frankly, as a teacher, this was a youthful practice with which I was all too familiar. 

            However, then my husband innocently remarked that he had occasionally tasted his own nasal debris as a child.  He even defined the taste as slightly salty.  When he realized that I was no longer speaking and had a frozen fixed stare of complete and utter revulsion on my face, he quickly explained that this was an activity that he engaged in when he was only five or six years old, definitely not seven or eight.  As if that made a difference!  “What?  Didn’t you ever eat your boogers?” he inquired, as if this practice was commonplace among all children.  “No! I will concede to the occasional nose pick, but I never once had the urge to discover what the gooey things tasted like,” I replied.  “I can’t believe that you ate enough boogers to remember the flavor!” 

            This man, whom I had kissed on more than one occasion, was now nonchalantly proclaiming that through those lips he had voluntarily ingested the same items that our body hopes to rid itself of through sneezes and nose-blowing. I thought I was going to be sick.  Were we seriously talking about procreating?  I was no longer certain that I wanted the gene for nose scavenging and consuming to be passed along to future generations, especially my own.  I was pretty sure it had to be chromosomal because our taste buds were surely something that got donated by our parents, although I don’t think that either of my parents would claim to have anything to do with my vegetarianism.  I did not want to take the chance that the propensity for “digging for gold” was a recessive trait or only appeared on the Y chromosome. 

             I could barely look at my husband without feeling ill.  Rationally, I knew that more than a few little kids picked their nose and ate it, but did my husband really have to be one of those, let alone one of those who thought it was o.k?  I also realized that this was, thankfully, not a trait that he currently possessed or otherwise I’m sure our relationship would not have progressed this far.  Nevertheless, the words “sperm donor” did briefly flashed before my eyes as I imagined my poor, socially awkward child, standing alone on the playground, enjoying the pleasures of his proboscis, while other kids pointed at him from afar. 

            On the other hand, I was glad that we had this conversation before we had children. In the event that my child was one of “those” kids, at least I could be somewhat mentally prepared and maybe even develop some sort of small talk about the nastiness of the habit and preempt the entire phase from even occurring.  However, I now feel like we need to take a few more long car rides together to determine if there are any other sordid habits from my husband’s past of which I need to be aware, not just for my sake, but also for the sake of our unborn children and their future attempts at happiness.  

Grand Canyon Adventures

Long days of hiking through rocky terrain. Sleeping in a ridiculously small tent. Port-a-potties filled to the brim. For most people, these three experiences do not scream, romantic second anniversary trip, but then again, my husband and I are not most people. In seeking out this year’s excursion to celebrate our blessed union, we wanted to have an adventure, perhaps a final adventure for a while, before we possibly embark on the much grander escapade of producing children. Thus, since neither my husband nor I had ever been to the Grand Canyon, we chose a four-day, three night guided tour of the Havasu Falls area. While I’m certain that many other couples would be perfectly capable of going it alone into the canyon, I was traveling with the same man who once threw a complete conniption, I’m talking arms flailing, feet stomping meltdown, when I took him on a surprise trip and, in jest, told him to bring a towel and tooth brush. Why the meltdown? He feared that we would be camping. Although, he did consent to this trip and even professed to be excited, I was not taking any chances. In addition, I tend to walk abnormally fast and I wanted to make sure that there was someone to keep my spouse from being consumed by coyotes if he fell behind. If that isn’t true love, I don’t know what is.

After months of carefully accumulating all of our camping necessities and checking off each item on the list provided by the tour company, we were ready. We made certain to pull all of the tags off our new items and get a little dirt on our belongings, lest we seem as completely inexperienced as we actually were. Upon arrival in Phoenix, we boarded a long shuttle to Flagstaff. The trip was made interminable as we were seated in front of an old woman who continuously berated her equally elderly husband for the duration of the trip to the point that I think his lack of hearing was actually a finely honed act. I hoped that this was not a prophecy of what our marriage would look like in fifty years.

Later that evening, we met with our intrepid tour guides who went over a few last minute details and checked our gear. We also were introduced to the family who would be embarking on the journey with us. It turned out that they weren’t the creepy family in matching yellow t-shirts that I saw at the airport, but instead were a nice, down to earth couple from Kansas and their 15-year-old son. While the son did not appear as excited about our impending exploits as we all were, he seemed willing to be a good sport about it anyways.

Early the next morning, we’re talking 6:15 am, we were picked up at the hotel and began our drive to the Grand Canyon. Two hours later, we arrived at the very crowded parking lot where we would commence our journey. Mules, along with their loads and riders, and the pungent smell that these pack animal provided, as well as the cars of other travelers filled the area. With our shoes tied, water bladders full (that’s hiking lingo for those cool plastic water sacs that are attached to a straw-like tube that you clip on to your back pack), and daypacks stuffed with carbohydrate-rich snacks, we started our ten-mile descent.

I was a bit nervous about the distance that we would be traveling that day, not for myself, but for my significant other. Vivid memories of practice hikes flooded my mind. For the entire last mile of these treks, the repetition of the phrase, “Are we there yet?” like the whine of child on his way to a Disney vacation, was emitted from my husband’s mouth. Those hikes were only four miles long, thus I had no idea what to expect from a walk more than twice that distance. Surprisingly, and maybe it was due to the presence of other people and his desire to seem macho and rugged, I didn’t hear one negative, complaining statement out of my husband. He was a total trooper. Several hours later, and with relatively few blisters, we arrived at the campground.

Rather than get into the nitty-gritty, play-by-play details of the rest of the trip, I figured that I would simply describe some of the better highlights.

The Tent:

Being relatively new to this whole “roughing it” experience, we were not in possession of our own tent and, frankly, based on my husband’s previously professed aversion to camping, I wasn’t sure it was a wise investment. Thus, we asked the tour company to provide one for us. We were grateful that they were able to do this; however, they clearly chose our tent before they met my husband and me. The tent was more like a one-person tent for someone my husband’s size or a two-person tent for someone my size. Therefore, with both of us in there, it didn’t quite even out. My darling took up about three quarters of the tent, leaving me the slightest sliver, smashed up against the pea green, nylon wall.
That first night was long. According to my husband, the guides had set the tent up on a slant and that was why he repeatedly rolled over into my limited quarter of the tent in the middle of the night. In addition to the fact that my sleeping pad was little more than the equivalent of an airy yoga mat, I now had a 260-pound human shoving me into the tiny crevice of our camping casa. He claimed that due to the incline, which you would have thought was a forty-five degree angle based on the way he was carrying on, he simply couldn’t stay on his side of the tent. Sorry. Needless to say, we did reposition the tent the next night and, miraculously, the rolling ceased.

While sharing this tent was clearly going to test our marriage, watching my husband try to extract himself from this limited living space definitely put a positive spin on the situation. We referred to this time each day as the metamorphosis. This process began with my husband’s head poking itself out of our camping cocoon to look around and see if others were awake. Then, he would twist and wiggle in order to allow each broad shoulder ample room to emerge from the curved door flap. Next, he would unwind his torso and legs slowly until the rest of his body was able to stand up straight and step out into the world. For just a brief second it looked like he was wearing the tent on his butt, preparing to shed this final layer of skin. It was truly a sight to behold.

My second favorite activity involved watching my husband try and enter our two and a half foot high tent. This process was more like a swan dive through the door flap, but not nearly as graceful, more like a crow with a broken wing. He usually landed head first with feet still flailing outside. I learned early on to either scramble far into the corner of the tent before his arrival or remain outside in order to avoid getting inadvertently head butted or landed upon with the full force of his entry. While the hiking was amazing, some of our funniest moments involved simply getting in and out of the tent.  

The Creatures

One aspect of my husband’s personality that I discovered long ago is that if you provide him with too much information, it never does anyone any good. This attribute became all too evident as we were sitting around the picnic table after our first dinner at the campsite. Our knowledgeable guides whipped out some small pamphlets about the rock types and animals commonly found in the Grand Canyon. So, with nothing else to do before bed, we thumbed through the provided reading. As we made fun of certain animal and plant names, my husband innocently asked our leader about the scorpions. Rather than stating that we had nothing to worry about, our guide, who I learned later enjoyed making people nervous, nonchalantly explained that the scorpions like to hide in shoes and under tents. I immediately knew that this information, so breezily stated, would not be so easily forgotten.  

Sure enough as we wedged ourselves into our nylon nest that evening, my husband insisted that we put all of our shoes inside with us. When I asked him why, he vehemently reiterated the guide’s warning about scorpions in the shoes. While I tried to explain to him that if the scorpions were truly a serious issue the guide probably would have warned the others in our group, he simply didn’t want to hear it. Being the shorter occupant of the tent, of course the shoes were placed in my already scant section. Needless to say, we never encountered scorpions in our shoes; however, neither did any of the others who dared to leave their shoes exposed to the dangerous canyon critters.  

Picture Time
I am always jealous of those people that have pictures of every wedding they have ever been to or even those candid snapshots of nights out with friends. My husband and I are not those people. We usually bring our camera with us, but odds are good that it won’t ever take a single picture and we’ll be driving home realizing too late the opportunity that we missed to forever capture the event we just attended. As a result, when we take our yearly trip we are always determined to take as many pictures as possible.  

For example, our marriage almost did not make it past the honeymoon as my husband was so intent on taking a picture of every relic at the Vatican that he neglected to pay attention to his bride. He was constantly getting lost in the throng of tourists that threatened to trample him at every single photo opportunity. With some thinly and some not so thinly veiled threats, we managed to save our marriage even if it meant a few less pictures of Italy.  

Nevertheless, we knew that we certainly did not want to miss the chance to obtain pictures of this grand adventure of ours, but yet again, my husbands zeal for finding that perfect shot occasionally got the better of him.  

Since this was the Grand Canyon, there was a great deal of hiking and climbing involved in our daily activities, not always ideal for taking pictures. Yet, when we found a safe place to stand or were on solid ground, we usually attempted to grab a few scenic shots. However, one day, our tour guides decided to take us down a 200-foot cliff beside a waterfall. Our only sources of support were some metal poles, the occasional chain and two short ladders. The rest of our descent was composed of slippery rocks that we were to use as foot and hand holds. As the keeper of the camera, I was repeatedly asked during this perilous climb to pull it out and take a picture of my husband, who was scaling the wall just above me. It made me question what he valued more, my life or that shot of him climbing down a large canyon like he was Edmund Hillary on Mount Everest.

Throughout the journey, whether we were dangling precariously over a rushing stream trying to get to the other side or standing in the middle of rapidly moving water, my husband always seemed to decide that it was a prime moment for a photo op. Fortunately, as the custodian of the camera, I did retain final say over all photographic endeavors and was able to keep my husband’s picture passion under control for the safety of both of us.

Eating
Although my husband professed a strong desire to get in shape before our Grand Canyon escapade, and he actually could be seen walking on the inclined treadmill at the gym several times a week, those dastardly chicken wings and beer continued to thwart his earnest efforts. However, since we would be confined to the bottom of a canyon for four days without a beer tap in sight, and exercise would be our only form of activity, I figured my husband could not help but reap at least a few health benefits from this journey. I was mistaken.  

Incredibly, my husband managed to find a way to rationalize overeating even on this athletic, health conscious endeavor. Due to the intensity of our daily activities, our guides were constantly reminding us to take several carbohydrate-filled snacks with us to eat throughout our adventures. Needless to say, my husband took full advantage of this opportunity to consume. Every time I turned around, there he was, eating a granola bar, beard growing in creating a scruffy frame of his face like a true outdoorsman. In addition, each night at dinner, our leaders also reminded us to refuel, to which my husband excitedly exclaimed, “This is great! This is the only place where I’m encouraged to eat more!”  

I had finally discovered the secret trick to persuading my husband to go camping with me, food. I should have known. A few granola bars and food cooked over a gas flame and I’d have him eating out of the palm of my hand in the future, literally.

A Beautiful Mind

I’ve come to the conclusion that my husband’s mind makes that of Russell Crowe’s character in A Beautiful Mind appear simplistic. What goes on inside that massive head of his should be the subject of medical documentary series on TLC, like the man whose skin has turned to wood or the lady with the huge goiter on her leg. His brain is equally as intriguing and I’m sure that with the proper MRI, doctors would be mystified by the way each section of his brain lights up the scan in response to select stimulus. I know that personally, the connection between one thought and its aftermath has perplexed me on more than one occasion.

For example, one day, my husband and I carried on a perfectly logical discussion about the dogs’ needing haircuts. Nothing abnormal was stated, nothing to make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I left the discussion satisfied that I would schedule an appointment with the groomers in the near future. Thus, you can imagine my surprise when I returned home the next evening to find that my husband, with no prior experience in dog styling, other than lopping off one of Farrah’s toe nails in the clipping incident of 2003, had taken it upon himself to shave both dogs. Knowing we had no proper grooming tools in our possession, I was further horrified to learn that he had used his own electric shaver to complete the transformations. It is not as if our dogs already had short hair and this was a relatively small undertaking. No, our dogs are both long-haired beasts with thick undercoats. How he used a man’s electric razor was beyond my imagination.

However, the shock did not end with the realization that my husband had perilously attacked our dogs with a personal grooming device. While Farrah appeared to have endured the shearing unscathed and still resembling my beloved dog, Reggie was an entirely different story. In true male bonding fashion, my husband gave Reggie a mohawk. On his sides, his ebony black fur was now buzzed to reveal the pale pink skin beneath, but down the middle of his back, extending from his head to his tail, was a much thicker line of fur, making our dog look more like a hyena than the pitiful black lab/something mix that he was. All I could think about was what the neighbors would say as I walked my freak of a dog down the street. Sweet. Of course, my husband thought the mohawk was the best thing since sliced bread and was very paternally proud of his creation. His now otherwise wimpy dog with attachment issues was now cool enough to join a biker gang or at least hang with the pit bulls at the dog park. I guess I learned my lesson in this situation though: Don’t give your husband any ideas of which you might not like the consequences.

Unfortunately this mohawk style became a pattern around our house for a while. Soon after the dogs received their makeovers, I sent my husband out to mow our lawn. A short time later, too short a time, he was finished. “Are you done already?” I asked. “I have other things to do, I’ll finish the rest of the lawn when I get back,” he replied. Famous last words. As I peered out the window onto our lush green lawn, his handiwork again took me aback. He had proceeded to only mow the outer perimeter of our lawn, which was already beginning to resemble a jungle with tall grasses and an excessive amount of small wildlife seeking shelter in its shade. Inside this perimeter, the savannah still remained. Great, now both my lawn and my dog look like remnants from an ‘80s hair band, I mused. Needless to say, he did not return later to finish the lawn and we were those neighbors for a while. Fortunately, that was the end of the mohawk phase for a while.

Another incident where one innocent situation turned into a full-fledge mental subterfuge occurred on a recent trip to Nashville for a family event. Upon arrival my husband noticed that he had failed to pack an adequate number of socks for the festivities. As we discussed the predicament, I completely expected him to rewear a pair when necessary. Little did I know what he actually had in mind.

On the final day of our trip, after all of the socks had been worn, and my husband was still in need of a pair, he appeared to have a brainstorm, or a brain cloud like Tom Hanks in Joe Versus the Volcano. Either way, the next thing I knew my husband had mentally transported himself back to the 19th century to solve his problem. With the tap running, the mini bar of soap provided by the hotel in one hand and his white athletic socks in the other, he attempted to wash his footwear in the sink. For a man who struggles to put his own dishes in the dishwasher, the vision of him physically cleaning something made me a bit light-headed. However, he was quite proud of his idea. “We have to leave in 30 minutes. How are you going to dry those,” I asked, eyeing his soaking wet socks. As he squeezed excess water from his foot covers, he simply picked up the hairdryer attached to the wall in response. While I tried to explain to him the pitfalls of placing a water soaked item on top of an electrical device, he refused to listen.

Nevertheless, as soon as he placed the ankle of the sock over the front of the hair dryer, the machine immediately shorted out. Surprise! But my husband was not to be defeated by the properties of electric conduction. He simply squeezed out some more water, hit the reset button on the blower and tried again. This time his contraption worked for a bit longer and then cut out. With tunnel vision focus, my husband persisted with his work.

Finally, he was able to convince the dryer to work consistently with his sock firmly attached to the front, blowing like a kite in the wind. Confident that he was now successful, my husband walked away to finish getting dressed. Unfortunately, when he returned to check on his innovation, he discovered that he was now slowly burning a hole in his sock with the heat. He quickly removed the sock, but the damage had been done. Like a true man, he did not throw those socks out and wore them as planned that day. Every time he wears that specific pair, I can not help but giggle when I observe the brown burn mark on the ankle and remember my husband and his single minded belief that he could be his own Laundromat in the bathroom of our hotel room.

A final recent incident that made my mind swirl like a tornado in Kansas, involved the Passover holiday. Every year, I always stage a Seder to celebrate the event regardless of whether we have any Jewish friends of not. This year was not going to be an exception and as I gathered my recipes and made my grocery list, my husband decided that he wanted to have brisket this year. Being a vegetarian, brisket had not entered into our celebration in the past, thus I was surprised by his new suggestion. However, he was adamant. After he chastised me, “What kind of Jew are you that you don’t have brisket for Passover?” I’d had enough. “The vegetarian kind,” I responded. “I’ll make you chicken or fish, but I don’t do briskets.” As I had learned by then, once my husband had an idea in his head, there was nothing I could do to purge it.

“I’ll make a brisket then,” he announced. This was the same man who said that he didn’t make me dinner as a romantic gesture because he took me out instead. Other than the occasional grilled cheese sandwich and DiGiorno oven pizza, I didn’t think that I’d ever seen my husband cook an actual meal during or time together. A brisket seemed a bit more than his limited culinary skills could handle, but his mind was made up. So, he made the necessary inquiries on the internet and via a phone call to my mother and obtained a recipe. Sure enough, the next afternoon what appeared to be an entire side of goat or lamb or whatever brisket is made of, appeared in my fridge. For a vegetarian you can understand how a six pound slab of meat covering an entire shelf in my fridge was a bit disconcerting, but he was determined to have his brisket, so I wasn’t going to protest, too much. However, I did remind my husband that since the brisket was his Passover project, I bore no responsibility and would not offer any sort of assistance in his endeavor other than to pull out the fire extinguisher if necessary, and I was certain that it would be.

As the Passover preparations began, we took a closer look at the brisket recipe and it seemed to call for continuous supervision, something that my husband could not provide during his time at work. As previously stated, I refused to baste or rotate or saturate his meat product; besides, I had kugels and tzimmes and what felt like eight five apples to prepare for the rest of the meal. Fortunately, Lipton onion soup mix came through for us. Randomly, they provided an easy, stick-it-in-the-oven and let it cook recipe that allowed my husband to make his brisket and me to stay true to my word.

In the end, my husband had his Passover brisket and while it wasn’t like Nana used to make, it was edible and a few diners at our Seder even had seconds. I have now learned better than to intervene when my husband has an idea in his head, however ludicrous it sounds in the beginning, unless it threatens someone’s safety or national security. Will we have a brisket again next year? I hope not, but I wouldn’t count it out as a possibility.

Clearly, my husband is a man of Rainman like focus and persistence. Anyone who has ever seen the classroom-sized white board on the wall in our home office, with his lists and ideas all organized in different columns and differentiated by color, can attest to this. I am slowly discovering that it is better to go with the flow when he has one of his brainstorms as well as choose my words carefully because I never know how my husband will interpret what I have said. I am not sure that I want to entirely understand how my husband’s mind works, as I am certain that I would be a bit terrified at what I would find. Nevertheless, his ideas definitely keep my life interesting and for that I am grateful, even if I won’t admit it at the time.

Bonnie and Clyde? More Like Lucy and Desi

For the most part, I consider myself a fairly honest, moral, and upstanding human being. I am a teacher for goodness sake, shaping the lives of tomorrow’s youth. That is certainly not a job for the ethically corrupt (at least not for long). Perhaps the most morally ambiguous action in which I have ever partaken involved sneaking into the movie theater as a teenager, and really, at those prices, who could blame me? I hold doors for the elderly, let people with small purchases go in front of me in the grocery store, and I even bless strangers that sneeze in my vicinity.

However, this fairly squeaky clean, do-gooder attitude is exactly the reason why the events of a few nights ago have so appalled me and shaken my entire sense of self. Of course, I was not alone in the series of events that I am about to explain as my husband also participated in the succeeding act of delinquency. I should have known that, at some point, this man would get me in trouble with the law, maybe not to the extent of the Craigslist killer and his devoted fiancé, but maybe a car chase or parking violation at least. It was only a matter of time.

The evening of our impending wrongdoing started off very positively. We had purchased tickets to see Dane Cook live in Baltimore and since most of our exciting nights usually consist of going to dinner and then watching tv in separate rooms, this was a monumental night out. As we arrived at the parking garage near the arena, the lady in front informed us that we could either pay ten dollars then or use a credit card upon exiting. Like most members of our generation, we don’t carry cash and selected the latter option. We found a decent spot and headed in to enjoy the show.

After a night filled with laughter that sometimes brought us to tears, we contentedly made our way back to our vehicle. Then, the night began to take a turn for the worse. Immediately upon entering the car, my husband proceeded to get a violent nose bleed. Blood was everywhere and he looked about as competent at handling this situation as a three year old. He just sat there and let blood pour out of his nose like water from a faucet. It was disgusting and after I repeatedly explained the whole pinch your nose with the Kleenex procedure, he finally caught on. However, the damage to his wardrobe had been done. Now, instead of attending a comedy show, it appeared as though we had come to Baltimore, unfortunately like so many others, to participate in some sort of mass murder.

As the blood bath abated, he shed his outer button down shirt and was left with a slightly less bloody undershirt while I was left with a car full of scarlet paper products. At this point, I knew that our blissful rendez-vous had drawn to a close.

Finally, we were able to join the endless line of cars snaking down the parking structure. Twenty minutes later we had not edged any further toward the exit when we noticed that some automobiles were headed towards an alternate point of departure. Thank goodness. As we followed this new path, we observed a sign that read, “Credit Cards Only”. Perfect, I mused to myself, since that was our intended payment plan from the start of this evening. Unfortunately, I had counted my chickens before they hatched.

Upon pulling up to the gray ticket machine and sliding in first my parking ticket and then my credit card, the feeling of hope and promise that we would be leaving soon began to disintegrate. “Bad Credit Card” the machine stated. What does that mean? I tried the whole action again while behind me, cars continued to line up like anxious contestants for American Idol. Again, my credit card was denied. Now, I started to panic. There was no way out. I certainly couldn’t ask hundreds of people to back their cars up so I could find another route, and I couldn’t drive forward as the bright yellow and black electric arm stood blocking my path. I was trapped and I could tell that the people behind me were starting to get restless.

Now, I am normally the problem solver in our relationship, the calm, collected one who fixes mistakes and gets my husband out of trouble, so when I shouted “Get out of the car and lift up the arm,” in a tone resembling Zul the gatekeeper, I think he began to realize the gravity of the situation and the extent of my anxiety. However, his immediate response was less than I had hoped. “I’m not getting out of the car, I’m covered in blood,” he growled back angrily. But, as my voice increased in both volume and frequency and the intensity of my glare began to burn into his skin, he finally realized that I was serious. This was not a topic for discussion.

In my head, I envisioned my husband lifting up the mechanical arm so that I could drive my car underneath. However, he clearly had an alternate interpretation of events planned out in his own mind. As he raised the mechanical blockade, I started to drive my car forward, but my husband did not seem to be moving out of the way. Then, rather than step aside, he suddenly became the incredible hulk and bent the mechanical arm in half and tried to shove it out of the driving lane. Needless to say, mangling the device did not exactly solve the problem and probably created new ones. While the arm retracted at first, and my husband dove back into the car, it began to rebound as I drove forward, gently, lamely, hitting the windshield as I continued to make my escape.

Suddenly, we were Bonnie and Clyde, but not nearly as nonchalant about our criminal activity. The fact that Baltimore on a Friday night is ridden with cops due to its impressive crime rate did not help to ease our anxiety. “I can’t believe we just did that,” I wheezed, barely able to breath. My heart was beating with the speed of a snare drum. I could not even process the events of the previous few minutes. “Where there cameras?” My husband inquired frantically. “I didn’t see any, but I was busy trying not to pass out from fear, so maybe,” I replied, now realizing the implication of having driven my vehicle to the concert. While my husband was observed by the throng of cars behind us dressed like a serial killer, any images on video would be of my license plate.

As reality set in and we hurriedly tried to maneuver our way out of Baltimore, we quickly called my husband’s best friend and the only lawyer we knew. We needed to determine the severity of our actions. While I was pretty sure we could make a good case for having to go through the ticket area without paying, I was fairly certain that massacring the mechanical arm would require a bit more explanation. Fortunately, our friend was able to reassure us that the consequences of our actions, if there were any, would be minimal and we wouldn’t lose our jobs or chances for future employment. Nevertheless, each police siren nearly sent us into catatonic states of shock. We couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being followed and it was only a matter of time before the long arm of the law found us.

So far, we have managed to elude the police, probably since Baltimore has greater issues than a couple of parking garage payment violators. Although our quiet evenings of separate television viewing originally seemed monotonous, perhaps we were safer on our couches than attempting to venture out into the real world. The previous time we traveled outside for a night on the town, we went to an ‘80s cover band concert and ended up being pulled over dressed like Madonna and Don Johnson. Apparently, nightlife is just not for us. I have come to the realization that I would much rather be watching an episode of Law and Order than becoming one.