Your Constant Input
Thank you so much for your constant input. I'm glad you feel comfortable sharing every tiny thought about what I am doing and how I could do it better.
For instance, the advice you gave me while I was driving--very helpful. You were correct that my hands should have been at 10 & 2. I was, indeed, signaling a bit too early. And, while I had seen the sign for the off ramp, it was nice having a backup scream as it approached.
Your incessant input was also appreciated at the conference hall. I hadn't realized my tie was ugly until you pointed it out. Good note. I'm sure everyone within earshot agreed. Also, I am more than happy to work on a "manlier" handshake.
You really are gifted at giving unrequested, unrelenting feedback. Not just to me, either. The wait staff during our business lunch—I’m sure they learned quite a bit about the quality of their croutons. If it weren't for you, our waitress might never have known she was "too tall." It's amazing how often you can find the opportunity to slip in those kinds of "teaching moments."
Thank you, too, for informing me how much nicer your hotel room was compared to mine. Next time I book a room, I’ll be sure to use your many, many helpful hints. The tip about faking deafness will prove especially helpful, I'm sure.
All in all, I'm just so grateful to have someone who assumes he's my mentor. I don't know what I would do without you. I can only constantly imagine.
The Birds and the Bees
If you think it's awkward telling your kids about the birds and the bees, just imagine what it was like having "the talk" with my wife about the bird and the bee and the other bee.
At first, she didn't know what I was saying. Had there been other bees? Was it the same bird? What does the second bee do while the bird about the first bee were doing birds-and-bees stuff?
So, I carefully explained that I had never done anything with another bee before. I had only watched a “documentary” on Cinemax about bees. I just thought an additional bee might be something fun to incorporate into our nest/hive. Would she be interested in that?
Turns out she was very interested. I guess my wife had been fantasizing about bird-on-bee-on-bee stuff for a while. She even had another bee in mind. Which was awesome. Then she told me who it was.
And I was like, "Whoa! Whoa whoa whoa. Bees in this scenario are lady bees. Why would a bee be her dance instructor, Hector? That doesn't make any sense." Then we got into a long argument about stingers, which I think shows a distressing literal-mindedness on her part.
Anyway, huge fight. Super late night, and we never ended up settling on the proper bird to bee ratio.
We did tentatively agree that next time the bird could flap his wings while the bee makes honey. I'm not exactly sure what that metaphor means, but knowing my wife, it's not going to be a dirty/fun as it sounds.
Away Message
I'm taking this week off from writing to go home for Cheese Days.
"What's Cheese Days?" you ask, "It sounds wonderful." Well, you're right; it is wonderful. To give you a taste of it, I'm including a video of my most recent Cheese Days below. (Be forewarned, the video is pretty treacly. I get emotionally bare when it comes to 14-year aged cheddar.)
But, until then, why don't you spend the week reading back on some of the best blog posts so far? Posts like:
My Grandmother's Secret Recipe
World's Greatest Wedding Dancer
... or just go back and read the entire blog, page by page. What else are you going to do? Work? Gross. Get over yourself, work.
Anyway, here's a video about Cheese Days. Enjoy.
Home for Cheese Days from Andy Ross on Vimeo.
Buying a Cowboy Hat
The first time you get fitted for a cowboy hat, Clem's gonna give you a hard time. Make you feel like a beetle caught under a mason jar. He does that to every first-timer. You've got two options:
1) You can give him the silent treatment right back. Clem is one of them stoic, craggly cowboys with a stare that'll peel the rust off a weather vane.
Some young bucks try to straighten their spine, loop a thumb in their belts, and glare right back. I'd advise against that.
The last guy who tried it ended up mid-air, flying across Main Street with a boot-shaped dent in his seat. Clem's not one for challenges.
2) Or, you could try what I did the first time Clem fitted me for a cowboy hat:
I pushed past his swinging screen door. Clem looked me up and down and sneered, "Highway's back the other way. I'd advise you get yer hat at the Banana Republic Outlet."
I stood my ground as he stepped out from behind the counter to show me the door. I did the only thing I knew--I gave him a big ol' bear hug.
Oh sure, he bucked. Tried to shake me loose for a minute or two. I just held tight and whispered, "Shh, it's okay. Just give in."
He reached for the bowie knife tucked behind his hip, but I caught his arm. "I know it hurts. My pa was a hard man, too. Distant." That's when Clem broke down and sobbed.
I ain't never seen a grown man blubber like that, but it was good for him. He'd led a hard cowboy's life, and he'd earned a long cry.
After a while, though, Clem started to hyperventilate. I tried rubbing his back to calm him down, but he was all worked up. I had to force some whiskey into him from the shelf in back before he finally settled.
We sat on the floorboards and had a long pow-wow about it being hard to cobble together a model of masculinity to follow. Then, we ordered some lo mein from Chen's Noodle Hut and watched an episode of Battlestar Galactica on the shop's laptop.
Finally, he sold me the hat you see right here.
So, them's your two options for dealing with Old Clem. It's worth it, though. Best-fitted hat I ever owned.
Favorite Parts of Dinner
Dear Darcy,
Thank you so much for having us over for the delicious dinner last night. I think my favorite part was the conversation, which was wonderful. My second favorite part was the food. Not that the food wasn’t great—it was. I just liked the conversation slightly more.
My third favorite part of the evening was the napkins. I loved that you went full out with linen. Real classy. I almost enjoyed the fancy napkins even more than the food. Again, not that the food was bad; it was delicious. I just really liked those napkins.
My fourth favorite part was the appetizers. Do those count as the food? If so, include them as a subsection of my second favorite part about last night. If not, then they were my fourth favorite part.
My fifth (or fourth depending on how things fell in the last paragraph) was the temperature. Really good job on the temperature, Darcy. A lot of people get that wrong.
My sixth favorite part was when I made that joke about lemons, and wine came out your cousin’s nose from laughing. That might sound like I’m bragging about how funny my joke was, but I’m not. Everybody knows how funny I am at dinner parties. That’s a given. I just really liked how everybody rushed to help clean wine off of your cousin. I liked it sixth best of all the things about last night.
My seventh favorite part was not having to help do dishes.
My eighth favorite part was when the smoke detector went off because of the oven, and Sean scrambled to get it down from the ceiling. The evening felt truly alive at that moment. I shall cherish that memory forever.
My ninth favorite part was the anticipation as we first walked up to your door. What would you serve for dinner? Turned out it was lentils. Which were delicious. (Not amazingly delicious, though. Just regular, really delicious. Just a touch more salt, and they would have shot past conversation in my order of favorites.)
I feel like maybe I’m implying that some parts of last night’s dinner were not as good as others. No no no. Everything was splendid. The margin of difference between all these favorites is very narrow. I would say the conversation just barely eked out first place in the end.
I could go on listing all my favorite parts of the meal (there are seven additional favorite parts), but I won’t. Everything was excellent. Some things slightly more excellent than others.
Can’t wait to have you over to our new place, where you can judge which aspects you like from best to least.
Thanks again for thinking of us,
Andy (& Colleen)
People I Won’t Lend To
What follows is a careful, annotated list of friends and acquaintances whom I will no longer lend things to. I call them “The Lendless,” sad souls wandering the earth without hope of borrowing any of my cool stuff. I’ve got a lot of cool stuff to lend—CDs, art books, a rubber horse mask, a hammock—tons of cool stuff. But, these people can never again borrow anything from me for the following reasons:
Brian B. – Borrowed my comb on picture day in the 5th Grade. Never returned it.
Peter – Lost my copy of the Scorpions’ The Best of Scorpions.
Stephanie O. – Returned a book with a chocolate thumbprint on the title page. I hope it was chocolate.
Greg F. – Inadequately grateful for my lending him a sleeping bag.
Paul W. – Tried to replace my hammer with a cheaper hammer and thought I wouldn’t notice. I noticed, Paul. I noticed.
Jenny R. – Returned my bicycle all wet on a day it didn’t rain. Super weird.
Jeff A. – Asked to wear one of my sweatshirts at my rooftop party. Got compliments on looking better in it than me.
Henry – Borrowed my car to drive his wife to the hospital. Allowed her to give birth in my car, staining the upholstery.
Carrie W. – Returned my mouse pad too quickly. What, is my mouse pad not good enough to keep?
Charlie H. – Borrowed a kitchen knife. Framed me for a series of murders.
Brian B. (again) – Turned an awesome caterpillar I lent him into a girly butterfly.
Alice – I lent her a college textbook. Months later, she punched me in the face for cheating on her.
Liam – Borrowed a pair of dress shoes for a job interview. Returned them filled with olives.
Nellie – I don’t like how she says “totally” too often.
Catherine S. – Borrowed a paintbrush. Framed me for a series of paintbrush-related murders.
Annie R. – Borrowed a cup of sugar and re-loaned it to a guy I don’t like. (Paul W.)
Richard P. – Wasted my bone marrow transplant by not pulling through.
Your Arm Might Be Broken
Honey, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m pretty sure your arm is broken. I know you think it’s not broken, but just weighing the evidence, it seems like it’s broken.
For one thing, it didn’t used to bend that way. It used to bend just at the elbow. And, then, only within a 180 degree limit. Also, before, when you gave “two thumbs up,” your thumbs would point in the same direction.
Secondly, I heard a distinct, loud crack when you fell. You said at the time it was the sound of the wicker chair you had been standing on. But, I’ve since examined the chair carefully, and it doesn’t appear broken. Your arm, though—that seems super broken.
I don’t remember much bone being visible before you fell. I could be mistaken, but I pretty sure all bone was safely on the inside your arm. Now, however, that bit of jaggedy stuff near your sleeve … I’m not a doctor, but that’s for sure bone.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m super grateful you got a head start hanging Halloween lights this year. And, I understand getting the ladder down from the garage takes much longer than simply setting a wicker chair on top of the picnic table. But, maybe get used to the idea that your arm might be broken.
No rush. It’s been a week. I’m sure whatever’s done is done by this point. Take some time to admit to yourself that you might need to see a doctor about it.
All I ask is that you sit out of this second round of flag football. You keep fainting from the pain, and it’s making everybody nervous.
C’mon Guys!
C’mon, gents, give me back my hat. Seriously, return my hat. No, don’t throw it back and forth. It’s not meant to be thrown around; it’s meant to be worn on my head. I’m beginning to think you two don’t know what hats are for.
I don’t understand why you’ve singled out me for your amusement. It can’t be because I snickered at your poor grammar. Nor could it be my insistence on calling you slack-jawed dolts. Ergo, it must be that you believe my hat is some sort of sporting equipment.
Well, it’s not. It is a fashion accessory made by a “hatter.” Ah, I see by your perplexed expressions that you assumed all hats were made by “milliners.” You see, a milliner specifically crafts women’s hats. I am a man; that is my hat; therefore, it was made by a hatter and sold to me by a haberdasher.
Clearly, you believe it to be some sort of playground toy. Your limited intellects must have deemed it—
Owe! Owe, my lip! You seem to have accidently struck me on the lip with your fist. Perhaps this is a part of whatever silly game you two are playing. Well, I shan’t be any part of any violent sport. Oof! That was my stomach. You, sir, have pummeled me in my stomach, and I demand an apology. Why I—
Gah, the face again. Please, stop hitting my face. Ouch! I implore you to cease. I will allow you to keep the hat if you will stop hitting my face, you wet-brained buffoons. Oof, I admit that was a poor choice of sobriquet on my part. Owe!
Alas, poor me and my refined sensibility … Ouch! Ooooooh!