Athletes and Artists Are Not Character Role Models

Tiger Woods
Tim Tebow
Britney Spears
Lindsay Lohan
Michael Phelps

They're artists and athletes, not role models. While you can admire their drive, ambition, work ethic, singing ability, athleticism, guitar-playing, ball-throwing, etc, don't make the mistake of expecting perfection. Wouldn't kids be better served with a dose of reality? "Sure, she's beautiful and has a lucrative recording contract, but she's lonely, struggles with depression and drugs and makes bad decisions sometimes."

Phelps may be an Olympian, but all that proves is he can swim faster than other men in his age group. It doesn't mean he's a model of emotional stability and moral fortitude. We don't pay these people to teach us values, we pay them to perform. They have talents and they've worked hard to develop them, and, as a result, are financially successful. Doesn't make them a math whiz or a poet, or a particularly moral person. Celebrities demonstrate drive and discipline in one area of their life, and beyond entertainment value, their actions have no bearing on the rest of us.

Politicians are a different story. They are chosen by citizens, or appointed by our elected representatives to create, interpret and enforce laws and public policy. If they have the power to tell me what to do with my money, body and personal property, then they need to walk the talk.

Eliot Spitzer

John Edwards
Rod Blagojevich

Tom DeLay

Anthony Weiner

The above are just a few of the recent scandal perpetrators in public office. These guys sold us a bill of goods, and deserve to be punished. Regardless of where you stand on the violations in question - misusing campaign funds to cover up an affair and illegitimate child, frequenting prostitutes, violating ethics rules, bribery, or just outright lying and stealing, these activities were condemned by the very people who committed them. If one of us were caught doing the same they would lead the charge to lock us up and throw away the key.

So spare me the tirade against Tiger. I don't care what goes on between him and his wife. And tell Tim Tebow to keep his opinions on family planning to himself. But, please keep me informed if Tom DeLay wants to wash that grey right out of his white-collar, and I sure as Hell need to know if Rod Blagojevich puts a U. S. Senate seat on eBay.

The Greatest Non-Story Ever Told

What the hell is wrong with the Washington Post these days? I swear that paper is turning into a bunch of hacks! First we had Ruth Marcus' patronizing and naive take on the new TSA regulations "Don't touch my junk? Grow up, America."1 And now we have Ian Shapira's piece (of crap), "Telling a mother's story through her Facebook status updates."2

While Marcus' op-ed is offensive, because she is utterly dismissive of the public outcry over our government's violation of our Fourth Amendment rights, the Shapira piece sinks even lower, because it literally takes aim at the craft of journalism. It is, quite simply, one of the most ridiculous excuses for "writing" that I've read lately. It's certainly not news, and it falls so short of analysis that I can only assume he's having sex with his editor (and he must be really, really good). Otherwise, how else could this guy get his "work" (I'm taking liberties with the term) published in a national forum like the Post?

Now don't get me wrong, the circumstances unveiled via Shana Greatman Swers Facebook postings are tragic, and I certainly do not question the depth of her family's loss. Reading her thread reduced me to tears, and I challenge anyone to get through it without having a similar reaction. But to be brutally honest, there was nothing particularly special about this woman, or her family. Why were they singled out for national attention, when plenty of human tragedies unfold each day in cancer wards, domestic violence shelters, refugee camps, foster homes and other places where people go when there's nowhere else to turn for help?

Unfortunately the answer is simply that Ms. Swers' Facebook page was linked to Mr. Shapira's. He literally stumbled across her untimely death via his wife's Facebook news feed, decided to copy and past her status updates with a few annotations, and call it an article. The result being that Ms. Swers' story was catapulted to the national stage in one of the most crass examples of how "who you know" can make you famous.

Probably the saddest thing about this piece is that Shapira missed a terrific opportunity to use Ms. Swers' story as a platform to talk about a variety of larger issues, not the least of which being the disease which struck her down at such a young age. For those who can't stomach the read, Swers passed away roughly one month after the birth of her son from peripartum cardiomyopathy. As someone who just had a baby six months ago, I can relate to how frightening this is, and was surprised that I knew virtually nothing about the disease. I may have seen it mentioned somewhere in my various pregnancy books, but when I learned that it occurs in one out of every 1,300 - 4,000 deliveries, and is most common after age 30, I thought: "Holy cow! Why didn't anybody tell me about this one?!!"

Pregnant women are bombarded with information about what to eat, which activities to avoid, and the various risk factors for everything from drinking coffee and eating Brie to sitting in hot water for too long. Yet, this not-so-rare disease was relegated to the back burner. And why is that? Well, don't hold your breath for Mr. Shapira to tell you. He goes no deeper that to provide a link to the NIH website, as I have also done.

And if women's health is just not Shapira's cup of tea? Well, supposedly he specializes in covering the impact of technology on social communications. So I ask: how the hell did he miss this golden opportunity to explore the role of social media in the grieving process? I've often wondered what happens to a person's Facebook, Twitter, eBay, email, blog, and other online accounts after they die. Do the survivors simply delete the accounts, or leave them up as a memorial to the deceased? What if the next-of-kin doesn't have the password? Can a grieving relative have the accounts removed from the public Internet, but preserve the data, so as to sift through the digital effects of the departed's online life once the initial shock and pain of loss have lessened? Surely there is a larger story here about how Facebook impacts the grieving process - a story that might actually benefit the bereaved by giving them some anecdotes and concrete advice about how to go about handling or dismantling their loved ones' online persona.

Unfortunately for us, Mr. Shapira decided not to dig any deeper. That he then felt justified in participating in a self-congratulatory Q&A session about how he "wrote" (again taking liberties with word choice) the piece is beyond appalling to me. He seems to think what he's done is so cutting edge, but really it's just a copy and paste job. As someone who once aspired to enter the field of journalism, I can only say that Ian Shapira is proof-positive that talent plays a minimal role in the hiring process.

1) http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/11/23/AR2010112305163.html

2) http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/special/metro/facebook-story-mothers-joy-familys-sorrow.html?hpid=topnews

A Dish Tale

The sounds of a running tap, stacking plates and jangling flatware come from the kitchen. My husband is at it again. He's "cleaning up." And while this should fill me with pride, gratitude and a sense of calm, it tends to have the opposite effect.

I think a lot of people know what I mean when I say this. There are certainly many spouses, room mates and domestic partners who do an excellent job tidying up in the kitchen, but mine still needs some micro-management, er um, supervision.

As I sit in the living room, trapped by the nursing infant in my lap, my mind races through the possibilities. Is he hand-washing the good knives? Will he remember to wash the handles, or does he still think they "don't really get dirty?" Or maybe he's placing the non-stick surface of the frying pan against something sharp and abrasive? And what about those crystal champagne flutes? I picture them crushed under the iron weight of a dutch oven.

Suddenly I hear a sound that truly makes me shudder - the dishwasher being opened. No doubt I will find any number of atrocities the next time I peer inside. Delicate plastic containers, remnants of last night's clean-up efforts where a half cup of berries found themselves swimming in a six-cup Tupperware bowl and a drumstick was crammed into a far too narrow square box, will be carelessly placed on the lower rack, directly above the heating element. Forks and knives, un-rinsed and caked with thick, fatty sauces, all crammed into the same compartment of the silverware tray alongside nested spoons, stacked three deep. And my personal favorite: cereal-encrusted bowls, laid face down, so as to take up the maximum amount of precious top shelf real estate. I'll have to reorganize the entire load before I run it.

But seriously, what gives? How is it possible that a highly intelligent homo sapien with higher math skills far superior to my own can be so utterly lacking in spacial awareness? If I ask him what he was thinking when he used the entire top shelf for the three-piece food processor, his reply will be some sort of indignant grunt about efficiency and "not wanting to hand-wash." Never mind the fact that this little stroke of laziness, er um genius, will require an entire week's worth of coffee cups to sit idle in the sink.

So I wonder, if efficiency is the goal, what's next? Will I find the cactus wedged in between the dinner plates, so it can get "watered" during the rinse cycle? Picturing this makes me chuckle out loud, which gets my husband's attention.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

"Oh, I was just thinking about your bizarre dishwasher loading skills, and it made me realize that I wouldn't put it past you to stuff a houseplant in there with the dirty dishes."

"Why would I do that?" he asks with mock affront.

"Well, you know, so you can check 'watering the plants' off your list when you run a load of dishes."

"Hey! That's actually a really good idea! I wonder if it would work?"

Damn.

Note to self: Move all plants out of the kitchen. If they aren't in his line of sight, they should be safe. Better yet, buy one of those baby slings so I can get back to dish duty, stat!

Follow-up

Well, I am afraid I was too harsh on the local baby furniture purveyor that I blasted in my last posting. Their third-party delivery firm was prompt and courteous, and the order was filled without mistakes or complaints.

I was also too quick to judge about their payment policy. I wrongfully assumed that they were already protected by my having paid a deposit on the furniture. When I dug a little deeper, I learned that this particular store follows proper credit card consumer protection protocols by not keeping any record of cardholder data from previous transactions.

Having written about this very topic for one of my clients in the high-tech security sector, I should have known, or at least suspected, that this was the case. No merchant worth their salt would keep that kind of data laying around, because of the liability. Furthermore, the payment card providers (VISA, MasterCard, AmEx, etc) demand that merchants strictly adhere to this policy.

That said, I want to highly recommend Lullaby Baby (http://www.lullaby-baby.com/) in Columbia, MD. They have terrific merchandise, knowledgeable (and patient) staff, and are the antidote to tired superstores like Babies-R-Us. I'm also really enjoying my experience shopping online at The Natural Baby (http://www.thenaturalbaby.com). The owner is extremely helpful (and also patient, especially with aging parents), and knows the answer to just about everything you could think to ask about her product lines.

Retail Needs Therapy

I make an effort to support small businesses, rather than large, national corporations, and I'm willing to pay a little more for their products because, generally, independent companies offer higher quality and greater selection. In most cases they also offer better customer service, which is why I will continue to shop at Indoor Furniture in Columbia, MD. They get it. They also handle their own deliveries, so product does not get lost or damaged, and customers only deal with one merchant.

Unfortunately, what inspired me to bang out this rant was an experience with a local, independent baby furnishings store, which shall remain unnamed because I want to give them a chance to fix the situation. Back in December, we ordered a crib and dresser set, along with a painting and a nightlight for the baby's room. To-date we've only received the painting. I know that it takes time for things to come into stock, especially with the snow, so I have not been in a big hurry. However, when I got the message that the furniture had arrived, I promptly called back, expecting to schedule a date/time for delivery.

Instead, I was told that the store itself does not handle the actual delivery. This is done through a third party, and I would now need to wait for their call before I could actually schedule a time to receive my order. Then the clerk asked me when I would be available. I wasn't annoyed yet, so I gave her a range of days and times. The clerk proceeded to inform me that she could not guarantee that her delivery firm would honor any of my preferred delivery times, however, she was prepared to accept my final payment for the entire order. Eh?

When I stated that I expected to actually receive the goods before paying (they already had a deposit and my card number, so it's not like I wasn't committed), the clerk explained that, unfortunately, the furniture could not be delivered until the store received my payment in full. Oh, and by the way, she was very sorry, but the nightlight was still en route, because her supplier forgot to ship it.

I find this frustrating on several levels. First of all, in a two-part transaction I do not want to pay for something until I receive it. What if it's damaged, incorrect, or incomplete? If I've already paid-in-full, what is my recourse? Secondly, when you call me to schedule a delivery time, be prepared to actually schedule the delivery, especially if you want to get paid. Do not tell me that I have to coordinate the actual transaction with a third-party, and (yes, it gets worse) include a warning that your delivery firm might drop the ball and not call, so if I don't hear from them in the next two days I should call you back. Seriously? WTF?!

I realize that the world has bigger problems than these, but given the state of our economy, one would hope that customer service might take a higher priority. Sadly, that has not been the case for me when purchasing large items from area vendors.

The following is a list of purchases gone wrong in the past three years:

1. Bought a new bed from Mattress Discounters. Mattress arrived without the box spring. Good thing I took the entire day off work, because after arguing with the delivery personnel, and making multiple calls to the retailer, I had to wait six more hours for them to show up with both parts of the bed. Why this was so difficult, I cannot say. It seemed like a no-brainer to me, especially given that I had a receipt for a complete mattress set!
2. Pool table from the now-defunct Champion Billiards arrived with the wrong felt and wood finish. After much grumbling on behalf of the delivery folks, and more time off work for me, we received the correct table.
   
3. Booked the Clipper City Tall Ship for our wedding. They required a 50% deposit. We paid with a check. They went out of business, and we lost the entire deposit (over $3K).
   
4. Purchased a wedding dress from Columbia Bridal and Tuxedo. Dress shop called to schedule the final fitting three weeks before the wedding. I took a half day off work, only to be told that it was a "mix up" and my dress wasn't even in the store. Did I get a discount, or a break on the alternation charges? Heck no!
   
5. Furniture retailer, Scan, went out of business before filling our order. Fortunately, the manufacturer received partial payment prior to the bankruptcy, so they agreed to fill our order. Item arrived twelve weeks later, on top of the eight weeks we'd already waited.
6. Furniture manufacturer went out of business before filling our order. Fortunately, the retailer (Indoor Furniture) was happy to refund our money, and it worked out to be a no-harm, no-foul situation. I include this example, simply to illustrate how frequently, even under the best of circumstances, various elements of the supply chain fail to make good on their promises.
   

Cranky...and Scared

Now that the cat is out of the bag, meaning we've notified our families, I can speak freely about my current condition: Pregnant. That's right, you heard correctly. I am growing my very own human in my uterus. The baby started out as a mere blastocyst, but has graduated to fetal status, meaning that it now tumbles freely in the amniotic fluid, making faces, flexing its limbs and mainlining nutrients straight from my bloodstream.

So far this process hasn't been too difficult. A little queasiness and fatigue in the first trimester, some headaches that continue to bother me, especially in the evenings, and most recently, a stretching and pulling sensation in my pelvis. None of this surprises me. It was all explained in the myriad books and articles I read as soon as I realized my monthly cycle was suspended for the foreseeable future.

As far as I'm concerned, the pregnancy is the easy part. My body pretty much knows exactly what to do. Sure it takes a little longer for me to show, this being a first pregnancy and all, but I have faith that all those hormones (the ones standing around in hard-hats, puzzling over blue prints) will be able to figure out how to get my inflexible pelvic bones and my grumpy intestines and my uptight abdominal muscles to make way for the temporary new addition.

This baby was planned, in the sense that Cranky and I knew what we were doing when we stopped using "protection." That said, we have the usual concerns. Mainly about how parenthood will forever change our lives. Diapers, sleep-deprivation, crying, spit-up and breast-feeding, all packaged with what other parents have described to me as a total loss of independence and a constant sense of worry and, in some cases, even guilt. These things scare the living [expletive] out of me.

Certainly there will be tender moments, first words, steps and smiles, and brief respites of peace while the baby sleeps, and I've heard the experience can be incredibly rewarding, but for someone who gags at the sight and smell of human excrement the thought of being a mom is, well, daunting at best. Sometimes I wonder what exactly I was thinking.

There are generally two schools of thought on the cost-benefit analysis of human reproduction. The first one, (to which I admittedly have belonged for many years) is the hard-nosed, nobody-forces-you-to-become-a-parent, lack of sympathy route. Having kids is over-rated, given the state of the world today. Far better to work on developing oneself, live a fulfilling life, and possibly even give back in some manner. Besides, who needs the "Mommy Wars" when society still balks at extending full equality and civil rights to women, gays and minorities?

The second school of thought is the having-kids-is-the-most-important-thing-you-can-do approach. I've always had problems with this, because I personally felt like my child-free life was quite important (thank you very much), and certainly what could be more important than pursuing one's own happiness? Not to mention, my deep-seated belief that having kids is actually one of the more selfish things a person can do. Sure, nurturing a new life is a tremendous amount of work and sacrifice, and if you do your job well, you'll produce a polite, productive member of society. One who may even go on to greatness. But at the end of the day, the real drive behind human reproduction is to perpetuate the parents' DNA, and thus secure their success as biological organisms. Important to the individuals? Yes. But in terms of impact on society? Certainly no match for a spot on the Supreme Court, or finding a cure for cancer.

Compounding my ambivalence is my belief that the reality in which we live places far more value on career ambitions, personal achievement and the accumulation of wealth than on motherhood, primary education and homemaking. Basically, I've always been suspicious of motherhood. It seemed like a trap for women–a way of committing us to the janitorial, support role, rather than the leadership, decision-making role to which I'd always aspired.

Now, faced with the inevitable, I find that I have good days and bad days. Good days where I'm filled with an inexplicable inner peace. A sense that my life is unfolding perfectly, and that my little passenger is going to expand my world, rather than limit it. That Cranky and I will experience more love than we could possibly imagine, and that we're embarking upon an adventure which will give our lives new meaning and perspective. Then there are the bad days. Days where I feel helpless and filled with resentment, and every bit of well-meaning advice chafes like a painful reminder of the trap into which I've fallen.

What pulls me out of this funk is the realization that motherhood doesn't have to be a trap. All this time I've lived by my own rules. Adopted conventional norms when they fit, broke from tradition when it became oppressive. Why should this new role be any different? I chose a direction, arguably one that is traditional for women, but at the end of the day it's just a general heading and no two people ever reach the exact same destination in life. If I can trust my body to deliver a healthy baby, then why not trust myself to forge a path through motherhood uniquely suited to me?

Cash for Clunkers = Junk

I'm rather amused by the "Cash for Clunkers," or Car Allowance Rebate
System (CARS) program. It's already out of money, and representatives
from Michigan (on both sides of the aisle) are lobbying hard for more
funding. In case you are not familiar with this gem of an idea, CARS
provides consumers with vouchers worth thousands of dollars towards
the purchase of a new, more fuel efficient, car. It sounds good in
theory, right? Get the gas-guzzlers off the road, stimulate new car
sales, give the downtrodden American people a new toy, etc. But, like
most "incentive" programs, scratch beneath the surface and you will
find that this program is only designed to benefit one group: new car
manufacturers and dealers.

Basically, the program encourages consumers who have paid off their
car loans (because one must hold the title "free and clear" to
qualify) to hand over their perfectly functional vehicles (CARS
requires trade-ins to be in "drivable condition") for less than their
market value (trade-in value on the old car is limited to its scrap
value, since all "clunkers" must be destroyed). In return the consumer
gets to assume a new debt on a depreciating asset. Just what we should
all be doing in a down economy.

Then there's the "environmental" argument. CARS will help clean up the
air, and force American consumers to adopt greener transportation
technology. Well, there's a little phrase, popular in
conservation-minded circles, that goes "reduce, reuse, recycle." Note
that nowhere in this phrase are the words "buy new." Truth is, it's
far better for the environment to extend the life of manufactured
products. By scrapping all the trade-in vehicles, CARS is robbing the
marketplace of valuable used vehicles and components. This wastes
resources (just think of how much energy and raw materials are used in
the production of new cars), and robs consumers of affordable product.

And finally, what about all those small businesses who buy, sell and
repair used vehicles? There's an entire industry, called the
automotive aftermarket, which relies on used cars and car parts for
its bread and butter. The aftermarket industry employs thousands of
people, and is supported by a massive supply chain that includes
manufacturing and re-manufacturing, shipping and distribution and
retail infrastructure. Should all these businesses, and their
employees, wither on the vine so that the Big Three and their dealer
networks can blunder onward?

Old Chub: The Not-So-Silver Bullet

Some of you are already familiar with my writings on Old Chub Scottish Style Ale. If not, you may wish to read an earlier piece published by Gone magazine under an erroneous byline (due to the editor's inability to figure out WordPress).

Regardless, the legend of the Chub lives on aboard Kaleviopoeg, a 40' sloop (that's a single-masted sailboat for those who don't know) notorious for its role in off-shore adventures (see SpinSheet pg. 52). Before embarking upon this year's "Sailing Adventure" the skipper suggested an audition for potential new crew by way of a leisurely Sunday afternoon sailing excursion. Seeing as I have a proven track record aboard said vessel, my presence was requested to assist with the "evaluation" process.

As I packed my gear that morning I went down the list of required items: sailing gloves? check; sunglasses and hat? check; sunblock? check; water? check; beer? hmm. Captain Danger, or Cap'n D as we call him, usually lays in a 40-day supply of his favorite thirst-quencher, Coors Light. However it's always wise to bring a little something extra, so that one does not impede upon the captain's provisions...might need to stop at the liquor mart on the way.

Londontown Wine & Spirits, conveniently located a stone's throw from Edgewater, MD's famous Londontown Marina, is a well-appointed package store. They carry all the usual brands of swill, along with a fair selection of micro-brews. Nonetheless, I was quite surprised to find four six-packs of Old Chub lurking under a thick layer of dust on the middle shelf of the "American Exotics" section.

You want to test the mettle of your crew? Arrrgh! The Chub will separate the men from the boys, I chuckled to myself as I pulled out a sixer.

At the register, the cashier inspected my purchase with genuine wonder.

"I didn't know we sold this," she mused. "In fact, I don't think we've ever sold any of it. Is it any good?"

"Umm. Well...I wouldn't go that far," I said, coyly. "I'm not sure how your distributor got you to stock this stuff, but I wouldn't renew your order, if you know what I mean."

She gave me a grim, but appreciative, nod, and completed the transaction.

Ten minutes later we boarded Kalevipoeg, Chub wrapped in a brown paper bag and stashed deep in my backpack. As the skipper introduced the crew I gave them all the once-over to determine who should go first.

We cast off, and were soon under sail. Once things settled down, the captain handed up some cold Coors Light with sandwiches, and I seized the opportunity to slip down the hatch to the galley. Furtively, I extracted the six-pack from my bag and lifted the lid on the ice chest.

"What have you got there lassie?" queried Cap'n D.

"Well, it wouldn't be an audition without some Old Chub," I replied.

"Oh! The Chub! That's a fine idea," he agreed. "Why don't you put some of that right on top, where people can get to it."

We shared a mischievous grin, and arranged the cans in an appealing display. Sure enough, just as we finished, one of the new guys (we'll call him "Phil") climbed down the companionway.

"What have we got here?" Phil asked, peering at the cans, glistening atop a cascade of ice cubes.

"Oh, just some Old Chub that Blanche, here, was kind enough to bring," offered Cap'n D. "If you're nice to her, she just might share!"

Phil turned to me with a big grin. "Really? I can have one?"

"Why sure! I brought them for everyone, but you might want to let them cool down a bit," I said.

He nodded in agreement, and we all went top-side to wait until the magic moment when the Chub reached the perfect temperature.

Forty minutes later Phil had an icy can of Chub in his mitts. He was giddy with excitement and flush with gratitude as he took his first sip. We all stared at him in expectation.

"Umm. Not bad," Phil said cautiously.

"You know you have to finish that," intoned Cap'n D.

"Oh, I fully intend to," Phil replied, as he took another brave swig from the can.

Phil grimaced and set his beverage on the counter. "I'm going to have to drink that one a little more slowly, I think. It's awfully strong."

We nodded gravely, and gave him a look that let him know he wasn't off the hook.

"I'll just take it up with me and keep working on it," Phil assured us.

"Well, that's the test of a true sailor," Cap'n D stated resolutely. "The crew member who finishes his Old Chub. Yes, indeed."

About an hour later the wind picked up, and we were heeled over with the sails close-hauled. Our speed over ground was close to seven knots, and Phil was at the helm. He seemed to have forgotten all about his Old Chub. Unfortunately for him there are only four spaces in the cup holder on the binnacle, meaning one cannot leave a drink idle for long without someone asking about its status.

"Uh, Phil? I know you're driving and all, but what's going on with the Old Chub?" I implored. "Surely you don't mean to tell us that you don't like it?"

"Well, if someone will take the wheel I can try to finish it off," he said, still game for the experiment. "It is very good."

No one believed him, but Cap'n D's son, Evan, was more than happy to drive so that Phil could finish his beer. Phil took another slug of the Chub, and winced as he swallowed.

"Ok. You win. It's not very good. In fact, it's bloody awful," Phil conceded. "Can I pour it out now?"

I sighed. "I suppose you can, but it might well cost you your berth to Block Island."

Phil looked around, shrugged and tipped the can toward the drain. "I give up, nothing is worth drinking this swill. You people are crazy!"

"Arrrrgh, if you be suffering from the grog, you can't possibly stand the watches," growled Cap'n D.

"That's right! 12 hours on, 4 hours off. It's a grueling pace we keep aboard Kalevipoeg," I agreed.

Cap'n D and I shared a look of mirth, as Phil shook his head in a combination of confusion and disgust, and climbed back up the companionway. Needless to say, we never heard from Phil again.

Dr. No and the Sunken Sunglasses (or Where There's a Will, There's a Way)

The other day, while loitering at Edgewater, MD's famous Londontown Marina, I witnessed an amusing spectacle. One of the slip holders, a skipper we refer to as "Dr. No," was anxiously pacing his deck, and peering down at the murky waters of Glebe Bay.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I lost my $500 sunglasses over the side a minute ago. They just flew off my head and went in over there somewhere," he explained, looking hapless and pointing to a spot in the murk just to the left of where he was standing.

While Dr. No despaired over his glasses, Rosie, his fair (and incredibly tolerant) love interest, voiced her desire to "wrap up" for the day. The couple had just returned from a pleasant day sail on the lovely Chesapeake Bay, and Rosie, not being much for the great outdoors, was ready to head back to civilization and spend a quiet evening with the good doctor.

Little did she realize Dr. No does not give up that easily.

"Rosie! Hand me the net with the telescoping handle!" he ordered. "I bet if I drag it along the bottom I'll be able to scoop them up in no time."

"Do you think they sank right away, or could the current have carried them off?" I asked.

"Hmm. Good point. I hope not. Let's give it a try," he said, and dipped the net in as far as it would go. Sadly the handle was not long enough, and the net didn't reach the bottom.

"Damn it! I'm going to have to jump in," Dr. No proclaimed.

"Mike, this is foolish. I'll just buy you a new pair!" said Rosie, growing more impatient by the minute.

Dr. No, ignoring his gentle companion, began to strip down to his shorts. I turned away for a moment, and heard a splash as he went over the side.

"Oh! It's cold! And I can't reach the bottom," he sputtered, arms flailing as he attempted to tread water.

"Well, yeah. Your boat draws almost seven feet, so I assume the depth is somewhere around eight or nine..." I offered by way of explanation. Rosie and I exchanged a look.

"Good point. Maybe if I use the net now, I'll be able to get them...Rosie! Hand me the net again!"

Rosie, looking downright perturbed at this point, thrust the net over the side.

Dr. No began methodically dragging it back and forth across the bottom. Scrosh, scrosh, scrosh went the net, coming up empty each time.

Just then I noticed a sinister looking disturbance on the water, indicating a school of fish being pursued (and eaten) by a much larger fish, or fishes. The school was heading right for the fearless doctor, but he was so intent on his netting that he had no idea.

"Uh, Mike? There seems to be some activity coming your way," I warned.

Just as he turned to look, a large fin cut through the surface, sending smaller fish skittering in all directions with much flipping and splashing.

"What?! Oh shit!" he cried.

"Really Mike, this is insanity! Can we just go home now?" Rosie pleaded.

"No, no, not yet! I'm going to try to dive for them," Dr. No insisted. "Keep an eye on that activity for me, will you?" he said to me.

He flung the net back on board, raised his arms over his head and took a big gulp of air before submerging. A few seconds later he bobbed back up empty handed. The school of fish were moving away, but a quick look at Rosie's face was proof positive that Dr. No was far from safe.

Undaunted by Rosie's scowl, Dr. No continued to dive for the glasses, coming up at least three more times with nothing.

"Mike! Can we please give up this nonsense, and go home!" Rosie demanded.

"Hold on...just one more try, and then I promise we can leave," he said with conviction.

Dr. No took a big swallow of air, pumped his arms and legs to propell himself out of the water, and dove with all his might for the muddy bottom. He stayed down for awhile. Rosie and I exchanged looks of concern. Suddenly our hero shot to the surface with a triumphant grin...but no sunglasses.

"I touched them! I touched them! I know where they are!" he shouted with glee. "Come on, Rosie. This time I know I'll get them."

Rosie, recognizing the futility of arguing when he was this close to victory, resigned herself for the inevitable.

Once again Dr. No took a lungful of air and dove for the bottom. He emerged moments later with a big grin, clutching his sunglasses.

How to Weed out the Bad Ones

The Five Points of Success
A few years ago I examined my dating choices, and came to some conclusions about where I was going wrong. Amazingly, after applying these simple criteria, I found (and married) someone very special. This checklist can also help evaluate potential new friends and business partners.

1. Valid drivers' license. This state-issued, photo ID is the cornerstone of our society. Without it there is no bank account, no voting, no utility accounts, no entry to bars, and worst of all, no way for them to drive you home when you've had one too many (see below). Furthermore, the seizure or revocation of a valid drivers' license is often the result of an arrest, or worse, a criminal conviction.
   
   
2. Registered vehicle. Unless they are European, or living in Manhattan, there is no excuse for not having a functioning, street-legal vehicle.
   
   
3. Place to live that is not shared with a parent, sibling or ex. This one is very important, because, much like the vehicle, you do not want to get stuck carrying out the relationship exclusively on your own turf.
   
   
4. Full-time, or otherwise gainful, employment. If they can't hold down a job, how can they possibly commit to a partner? Then there's the whole money thing...
   
   
5. College degree. This one is optional, as there are many hardworking and intelligent folks who didn't make it through the ivory towers of academia. However, I do find it a good indicator of the person's ability to obtain the other four points.

The Five Points of Failure
Unfortunately, the Five Points of Success are not always foolproof. Many times you'll meet someone who outwardly appears normal, only to learn rather quickly that they are, in fact, broken on the inside. This list is intended to help expand your evaluation of an individual's fitness to be considered for a long-term romantic partnership. Note also that the inability to take responsibility for bad decisions, and a sense of entitlement when requesting help from others (sometimes referred to as "immaturity") are other indicators that one or more of the Five Points of Failure is likely present in the individual.

1. Substance Abuse. My criteria differs slightly from the standard definition given by orgs like AA, which I find to be far too restrictive and all-encompassing to the tune of "you drink (a lot) = you need help". I look for lying about drinking/drug use, dramatic personality changes during drinking/drug use, unwillingness to engage in activities without drinking/drug use, inability to stop when the situation calls for it...like going to work.
   
   
2. Emotional Problems. People who need multiple prescriptions to feel happy, or classes to keep their fists to themselves. If they are still in counseling, I'd assume they are not ready for a relationship.
   
   
3. Dishonesty. Enough said.
   
   
4. Unresolved Romantic Entanglements. If they are still in contact with the ex, and the situation is such that the ex cannot know about, or ever meet, you, run (don't walk) before you need to take out a restraining order.
   
   
5. Money Problems. Characterized by spending and living beyond their means, requests to borrow money which turn into guilt trips and/or resentment if they are denied, and massive piles of debt resulting from poor decisions. These types often express the desire to rush into co-habitation. Look for an eviction notice or a bounced rent check if you hear an ultimatum like "If you don't let me move in, then it's over, because you don't *really* love me."

Two More From the "Larder"

Orange Julius Martinis
Vanilla vodka
Fresh-squeezed juice of one orange (Valencias work best)
Splash of milk
Splash of Cointreau

Pour all of this over ice in a shaker. Shake, and pour into a martini glass. Sprinkle some nutmeg across the top, and serve!
PS - you can add spiced rum, too, if you think it needs a kick in the pants.

Tex-Mex Tofu Scramble
This little concoction makes for an excellent taco or burrito filling. I usually serve it in a flour tortilla with avocado slices, a dash of hot sauce and shredded cheese. If you like sour cream in your Tex-Mex, "Tofutti" brand vegan sour cream is tasty, and lasts a lot longer than its dairy-based cousin.

Tofu, coarsely chopped into bite-sized pieces (these will crumble as it cooks, so shape and uniformity don't really matter)
1-2 Bell peppers - red, yellow, orange, green - whatever. Julienne, or dice, depending upon how you like them
1-2 Hot peppers - jalapeno, poblano, cubanelle - personally, I like poblanos, because they impart a smoky taste without too much heat
1 small onion diced, or sliced, depending on whether you want the pieces to be fajita-style, or just blend into the mixture
1 ear of fresh corn - use a chef's knife to slice off the kernels
Garlic powder to taste
Fajita seasoning to taste (contains salt, so you don't need to add additional salt)
Mexican chili powder to taste

Heat some canola oil in a non-stick frying pan over medium-high heat. Add your onion, tofu and hot peppers. Season with spices, and saute until things start to brown. Toss the corn and the bell peppers into the pan, and continue to saute. If it's too juicy, turn up the heat a notch and let it simmer without stirring for 3 minutes. Check the bottom of the mixture to see if it's browning nicely. Once you get a little crispness on the bottom you can give it a stir to crisp up the other side.

When the tofu starts to brown it's time to transfer everything to a bowl. If you're making burritos or soft tacos, use the frying pan to heat your tortillas with some cheese sprinkled in the center. When the cheese starts to melt, but before the tortillas dry out (you don't want them to crack when you fold them), transfer to a plate and add your tofu mixture, avocado slices, sour cream and hot sauce. Fold up your burrito, or soft taco, and enjoy! This will work with crispy taco shells, too. Just follow the directions on the box to heat them, and add your fillings when they're ready to eat.

W Stands for "What a Terrible Film!"

Here in the mid-Atlantic we are buried in snow. The winter winds howl through the trees, scattering frost and banging the wind chimes against the house. For us, this spells Movie Time! Alas, we were unprepared, and had to choose something from the paltry HD offerings on Verizon FIOS' on-demand service. Fortunately, there was one film in the line up which caught our eye - Oliver Stone's "W."

We popped some corn, and snuggled under a blanket with high hopes for being entertained. "W" promised an embarrassing expose of our 43rd president. We were expecting to see all sorts of outrageous footage depicting his drunken debaucheries, financial failings and total lack of regard for the responsibilities facing him as commander-in-chief. We were also hoping for some juicy insights into his daughters' behavior...maybe some table-dancing and tequila shots, followed by an alcohol-fueled tantrum aimed at their loyal secret service detail.

Unfortunately, what followed was some of the worst movie making I've ever seen.

"W" glossed over all the good stuff, and left us confused as to what really happened in the White House for the past eight years. There was nothing in the film that I couldn't piece together on my own from previously-aired news conferences and media footage. The real reasons behind invading Iraq are merely hinted at, and the wordy subterfuge of W's closest advisers is overplayed.

His early life was what really interested us, and yet Stone's treatment of Bush, Jr.'s formative years is extraordinarily superficial. One minute George W. is offering a half-assed wedding proposal to a blonde in a Texas roadhouse, the next he's shown standing in the middle of a baseball field glowing with pride over his acquisition of the Texas Rangers. There's no mention of the girl again, until his father, George H. W., makes a passing swipe at his son about how he "knocked-up" some young woman, and Sr. had to clean up the mess to keep W on track.

On track for what, we still don't know. Every time we see W talking to his father, the conversation is focused on Jr.'s lack of ambition. Yet, George, Sr. is downright angry when his son decides to run for governor in Texas. Apparently the objections center around the logistical conflicts posed for the elder Bushs, who already have their hands full supporting Jeb's campaign in Florida.

Next thing you know, W is dating Laura Welch, and the only reference to his alcoholism is the morning he wakes up with a killer hangover and bemoans the difficulty of running three miles after a night of drinking. Cut to a scene of him at a Bible study. There's no indication of which faith it is, or of how the faith ties into his sobriety. The only clue that he's quit drinking comes by way of his pastor, who praises W for going six months without a drink.

Jump ahead, and George, Jr. is president of the U.S. of A. There's no mention of the election debacle, hanging chads, Katherine Harris or the Sore-Loserman campaign. The film even skips over 9/11. Suddenly we find ourselves in the War Room with Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Colin Powell, George Tenet, Tommy Franks and Condi Rice.

Powell makes the mistake of speaking out in favor of diplomacy at the initial "what to do about Iraq" meeting. You quickly see that the others are hell-bent on going to war, and Bush doesn't want anyone standing in their way. Why is Bush so keen on going to war with Iraq? Other than providing a vehicle for showing up his dear, old Dad, it's still not clear.

Tenet refuses to give his approval for use of the WMD "intelligence," but he quickly tires of the relentless schedule of speech writing revisions, and hands off responsibility to a deputy. This gives Bush's handlers the lack of scrutiny they need to run with whatever will win public support for an invasion.

Already knew all this? Yeah, us, too. This film doesn't give you anything new.

Bush's inner circle consists of Rove, Rummy, Cheney and Condi, and they constantly disguise their competence in order to avoid angering the president. Bush tells Cheney to "keep it quiet in meetings," but Cheney still manages to run the show. Rove is the image guy. The one who coaches W through his talking points and helps him stay on message, while perpetuating the illusion that W is in charge.

Rummy just seems to have a penchant for taking military action. He is portrayed as a mere puppet, and his dialog consists of convoluted declarations that leave room for retraction if they happen to land on the wrong side of the favored agenda. This isn't the Rummy I saw on the news during the early days of "Operation Freedom." There are a lot of bad things you can say about the guy, but approval-seeking and back-pedaling have never been his trademarks.

Questions that linger: why does Rummy push past the evidence showing flaws in the WMD intelligence? Why is he so gung-ho for mobilizing the troops? At least with Cheney, his oil-lust is on the table from the beginning.

Condi is another one whose identity remains obscured. She dials the phone when Bush needs to talk to foreign dignitaries, and listens quietly on the other line, never offering an opinion of her own. She also dutifully points out Iraq on the map, so the president doesn't look foolish in meetings. But at the end of the film, we still don't know who she is, or why Bush chose her for his inner circle.

The only consistent theme in the entire movie is the portrayal of Bush as intellectually lazy and incredibly insecure about his relationship with his father. Whether it's the oil rig job that he quits abruptly, or the relentless delegation of everything substantial on his plate, W is clearly not cut out for the mental challenges facing a leader. The daddy issues are just another manifestation of his inability to take responsibility for anything. Even George, Sr. can't figure out why his son is so defensive, and out-of-touch with reality.

"What about Katrina?" you might be wondering. Well, there's no mention of the greatest natural disaster our country faced in recent history in this film. Just like the election and 9/11, Katrina is not on the radar. Neither are the Bush daughters. It's as though they don't even exist.

"W" leaves us with many questions, and few answers. The film makes for a lousy, incomplete excuse for a biopic. It relies far too heavily on W's relationship with his father to explain away his shortcomings, instead of seeing the troubled relationship as the symptom of something larger. What is clear is the fact that Oliver Stone did not have access to the Bush family, or anyone in their close confidence, because he does not know "W" any better than we do.

Battle of the Bulge: A Dispatch From the Front Lines

I enjoy eating comfort foods, and frequently fall victim to inertia when it comes to fitness. Like most people, I am prone to rationalizing these behaviors.

"I just can't get motivated to work-out when it's this cold and gray outside; this is the perfect weather for curling up with a good book and cup of hot chocolate, or red wine, or..."

"So what if my last five meals were high-fat, meat, potato and dairy combos? It's winter, and you need a little extra meat on your bones to stay warm."

Rather than face the music when it comes time to put on street clothes, I disguise my figure in "fashionable" designer sweats, with elastic waistbands and drawstrings. A baggy top that hides my bulging gut completes the look. The sad thing is, I do make it to the gym at least three times per week, and I am mindful about what I eat...most of the time. I also prepare the majority of our meals at home, watch my fiber, fat and nutrient intake, and make an effort to get five servings of fresh fruits and vegetables each day. So what gives?

I can only surmise that I do all the right things on top of doing all the wrong ones. So for every 28 grams of fiber I ingest, there are 30 grams of fat. For every serving of fresh produce, there is a double-portion of carbohydrates. The thing is, when I look in the mirror I don't think I look all that bad! My legs are toned and muscular, my back is lean and strong, my arms are...well, my arms have some flab, but they're not terrible.

If it weren't for those pesky jeans that refuse to button, I would have no clue that I am being defeated by my gut. My gut = problem area. Despite doing crunches, sit-ups, core-intensive yoga and a myriad of other things (like a high-fiber diet) that should help, the bulge refuses to budge. So I've decided to declare a truce. I am going to stop fighting my body, and simply embrace the little things that make life worth living. Below are some "little" things that make a big difference in my personal happiness. (note that not all of them will lead down the path to obesity)

Leftover Coffee
Known in fancier circles as an "espresso martini" or a "coffee martini," this little cocktail is a great way to use that last cup of cold coffee lingering in the coffeemaker (a "healthy" alternative is to dump it into a houseplant, since coffee contains plant-friendly nutrients). The beauty of this cocktail is its versatility. You can use just about any type of booze - vodka (vanilla or espresso flavored, or plain...whatever you have on hand will do) OR rum (spiced rum is fun) OR bourbon (if you want to put hair on your chest). If you're feeling creative add your favorite liqueur (amaretto, Kahlua, chocolate or butterscotch schnapps). If you don't have any liqueur you can use flavored syrup (Torani, for example) or chocolate syrup or hot cocoa mix. I like milk in my coffee, so I definitely recommend adding milk to this concocation. As for sweetness, I only add sugar if I don't have liqueur, or flavoring syrup. Basically, you put ice in the shaker, and add your coffee and other ingredients to taste. Shake and pour into martini glasses. Add a dash of nutmeg or cinnamon for added effect.

Hot Coco-Cocoa
The other day I was enjoying a cup of hot cocoa, while chatting on the phone with a friend. She suggested I add coconut rum to my beverage. I did, and I highly recommend this approach to an old favorite.

A "Reece's" Moment
Remember the commercials for Reece's peanut butter cups back in the '70s? The collision between the hapless guy with the chocolate bar and the irritable guy with the jar of peanut butter? Yeah, well I took a bar of milk chocolate and spread some peanut butter on it, and voila! It tasted just like Reece's. No need to pay extra for a processed candy bar, when you've got the raw materials on hand right here at home!

Lemondrop Martinis
Easier to make than you might realize. Squeeze the juice of half a lemon into a martini shaker filled with ice. Add vodka and two teaspoons of sugar. Shake and pour. Using real lemon juice is a great way to get your vitamin C in the dark days of winter.

Bag o' Food
Trader Joe's and My Organic Market (MOM) carry some excellent skillet meals in their frozen food sections. I had an organic butternut squash and sage pasta Alfredo the other day that was to die-for. Only took ten minutes to prepare, and easily fed three adults when paired with a meat. I wish I could remember the brand, but I got it at MOM's...Generally, I avoid frozen meals that include meat. Side dishes are fine, and they've made great strides in preparing frozen french fries...those Organic Valley shoestrings are downright tasty, and Alexia foods makes good sweet potato fries. Other winners are any of the Asian-inspired frozen rice meals at Trader Joe's (just add meat or tofu), and the cheese and green chili tamales. An exception to the meatless rule is the Orange Glazed Chicken from Trader Joe's. It's a lot like General Tsao's chicken, and actually cooks up crispy in a wok, and you can always toss in whatever vegetables you have on hand, like broccoli, carrots or bell peppers. Best thing about frozen food, you can order carry-out or decide to eat in a restaurant at the last-minute, and your food waits patiently in freezer, instead of filling you with guilt as it rots before your eyes.

Motivated by Fish!
We are fortunate to have a very good seafood market right around the corner in Jessup, MD. Frank's Seafood has an amazing selection, is reasonably-priced and always fresh. The other day I got some grouper, which I then broiled and served with the aforementioned butternut squash and sage pasta Alfredo. Broiling is an excellent winter cooking method. It warms the house, and delivers grill-like results. The high, yet indirect, heat locks in the juices and adds a crispy finish to the exterior. I like to cook wild salmon, rockfish and grouper. Red snapper has too many bones. Season with the fresh-squeezed juice of half a lemon (use the other half for your lemondrop martini), a couple of pats of butter (browns and crisps the top of the fish nicely) and sprinkle with salt and pepper or Old Bay.

Vegetarian Cashew Chicken
This recipe will also work with thinly-sliced, boneless, skinless chicken breast, shrimp or scallops. Sometimes, however, I find it's just easier to cook with tofu. It has the consistency of scrambled eggs, or a soft, flavorless cheese that won't melt. It also keeps forever in the fridge (see note above about value of foods you can blow off for a restaurant meal without guilt), is relatively low-calorie and very low in fat content. Since this one is a real recipe, the ingredients are listed below:

5-6 hot, red, Thai chilies (available at Lotte market on 40) with stems cut off, no other chopping needed
2-3 cloves of garlic, chopped or minced
1/2-3/4 cup oyster-flavored sauce (available in Asian section at most grocery stores, but if you gotta go to Lotte for the chilies, pick it up there, as they have the most authentic brands)
1 cup cashews (prefer to use roasted, unsalted b/c the oyster sauce has lots of salt)
1 cup celery coarsely chopped crosswise; try to mimic the size of the cashews, so celery will cook at the same rate as the nuts
1 package of extra-firm tofu OR 1 lb. of chicken, shrimp or scallops
1 bunch green onions chopped any way you like
1/3 cup Canola oil (very important to use a vegetable oil that will not impart its own flavor on the dish)

The meal only takes about 10 minutes to cook once you have everything chopped, so I like to start the rice first, then prep my ingredients. When you're ready to stir-fry, heat oil in a large non-stick fry pan or wok. Add garlic and chili peppers, toss for 2-3 minutes before adding your tofu (or chicken, shrimp, etc). Keep tossing until browned, but keep an eye on the heat, as you don't want your garlic to burn. If things are taking too long, add a tablespoon of the oyster sauce to get the caramelizing effect going. When the tofu is starting to get a little color, add the cashews, celery and oyster sauce. Keep stirring over medium-high heat (can go down to medium, if things look like they might burn) until the ingredients are done, and you see the sugars in the oyster sauce starting to caramelize. Toss in the green onions, and stir to heat through; these guys get over-cooked easily, so you can even turn off the heat at this point. Serve over rice, and watch out for the red chilis.

Hard Times @ Home
Long before Pub Dog there was a Hard Times Cafe here in Columbia, MD. It was never very good (see our posting about the demise of the Columbia branch), so few tears were shed when it closed. However, the chili situation in our area is pretty dire. Fortunately Hard Times has a website (www.hardtimes.com), and they sell their seasoning kits, hot sauces and chili-infused malt vinegar online! I bought two of each, and set about re-creating the Hard Times experience at home. The results cannot be denied...delicious, hearty chili served over spaghetti with shredded cheese tastes just as good at home as it does in the restaurant.

Tips for Men

"What do women want?" It's the oldest question around, and virtually impossible to answer because women are unique, complicated and mercurial. All paranoia aside, I do have a few recommendations to help men avoid conflict with the women in their lives. I've been told by Cranky that men like lists, because they are straightforward and difficult to screw-up. Therefore, I have compiled my suggestions into a simple list:

1) Laundry - Do not do a woman's laundry for her. Women's clothing is exorbitantly expensive, and is generally made from unpractical fabrics like silk, wool, rayon and the ubitquitous and easily-shrunk "cotton blend." Nothing will get you into hot water (no pun intended) faster than having your wife, girlfriend, sister, mother, mother-in-law, etc find her brassiere and favorite (think $$$) blouse tangled into a shrunken, soaking pile at the bottom of the spin cycle. The only thing worse would be for her to retrieve these items from the dryer, after a 75 minute tumble on nuclear high. Unless you are familiar with the meaning of terms like "hand-wash, dry flat" and "line dry, cool iron", or my favorite, "dry-clean only," stay far, far away from a woman's soiled garments.

If you really want to help, extract your laundry, including any communal sheets and towels, from the pile and proceed through the steps of wash, dry and put away. Be sure not to leave your clothing in the dryer, or in a pile on the bed, as this will be perceived as only completing half the task, and therefore, not helpful.

2) Gifts - Chances are you have a special occasion coming up soon. Whether it's a birthday, an anniversary, a holiday or that dreaded made-up holiday we call "Valentine's Day," you do not want to be caught flat-footed. Always ask if there's something she wants. With any luck she'll provide a list (see note at top about the usefulness of lists), and all you'll have to do is fill her order. If she cannot, or will not, provide a list don't panic. Here are a few tried-and-true gift choices that will not fail:

1. Flowers and a card (very safe bet for new relationships; add a homemade mix CD to kick things up a notch).
   
2. Jewelry (do not give jewelry if you are not serious about the relationship, and/or are not willing to spend money on a quality piece).
   
3. Dinner at a nice restaurant (not Olive Garden, Famous Dave's or the Outback - think something downtown with cloth napkins, where reservations are recommended).
4. Tickets to see a show, a band or a game (only do the game or band if she is a fan; if she hates football, she'll see right through those Redskins tickets).
5. Make dinner for her (don't touch this one unless you know how to cook, and are prepared to do the shopping and the clean-up).
6. Take her on a picnic (have all the gear and food ready before you involve her).
   
7. If it's a birthday, call her friends and arrange for a surprise happy hour at a bar she likes.
8. TIP: For any of these suggestions that require travel, you are expected to provide transportation to and from the event. For those who are still confused, that means she drinks, you drive.
   

Here is a list of gifts NOT to give:

1. Scented candles, or other useless trinkets.
2. Household appliances (nothing kills the romance like a new vacuum cleaner with a set of refill bags).
3. Books or videos about diet and exercise (she'll wonder what are you trying to say).

Finally, there is another element to gift-giving which men often overlook. Selecting, purchasing and sending gifts for friends and family on the man's side of the social calendar. These are your responsibility, as are any thank-you notes for gifts received from your friends and family. Do not expect your woman to take care of these, unless she offers to do so, in which case she is entitled to a gift of gratitude selected from the list above.

3) Groceries - Have you ever gone to the store, list in hand, only to come home and get reamed out for buying the wrong things? Technically, it's not your fault. There's a little thing called "product labeling," awareness of which is the cornerstone of the savvy grocery consumer. Food marketers spend millions of dollars on packaging, for the sole purpose of confusing, misleading and essentially tricking the customer into buying the wrong thing. Generic brands mimic the brand leaders in an attempt to steal their market. Low-fat, low-cal, sugar-free, fat-free, all are tricks to get the diet-conscious consumer to pick their product. Often the product is loaded with preservatives, sugar and/or salt in an attempt to compensate for the lack of flavor which results when fat, sugar and calories are removed from food. You may be thinking that the obvious solution to this dilemma is to simply call your spouse and ask for clarification. While not a bad idea in theory, it's best to leave this option for a last-resort. Calling her from the store runs the risk of making her feel like it would have been easier to do the shopping herself. Better to ask for brand names, and a detailed description, before you leave for the store. Let's role-play:

Her: Can you pick up milk on your way home?

You: Sure. What kind of milk?

Her: What do you mean? [Note the tone of annoyance that implies "You idiot, it's just milk!"]

You: Well, there's six different brands of milk, and at least four types of milk under each brand. Can you please be more specific? Last time you gave away an entire gallon, because I bought the wrong type. [Add your own tone of irritation that says "Aha! Didn't think of that did you? Now who's the idiot?]

Her: [chastened] Oh, good point. Anything 2%, prefer the Organic Valley, but if they don't have that brand, just go for whatever in 2%.

Start insisting on this level of detail for all list items, and eventually you'll even begin to recognize your household's preferred brands. Now you can shop with confidence!

4) Her Friends - A woman's friends are her most prized possessions. If you are lucky, these friends do not include her mom, or her sister, as that creates the double-whammy of an in-law and an interloper who is privy to the most intimate details of your life. Generally, there are a couple of rules to follow with regard to her friends.

1. Always be a gracious gentleman in their presence. Nothing scores her points like having a good man. Nothing scores you points like making her look good in front of her peers.
2. Never hit on the "hot" friend. Inevitably, there is one friend in her group who is better-looking than your girl. If this person happens to be her sister, be extra careful about following this rule. If you find yourself wishing you had hooked up with her "hot" friend/sister instead of your partner, it might be time for a break-up. Trust me, women are keenly aware of where they fall in comparison to other women on the looks hierarchy. She's spent her whole life in the "hot" friend/sister's shadow, don't make her feel inadequate in her relationship.
3. Never, ever, ever try to force a friendship between your woman and your buddy's wife, your mother, your sister or some other female figure from your side of the social calendar. Women select their friends carefully. Each potential comrade is carefully chosen, vetted and bonded based upon a complex set of criteria. If she decides to befriend a woman from your side of the social calendar, be flattered as it is the supreme compliment. But be wary, as this friendship could be a strategic alliance formed for the sole purpose of intelligence gathering that will result in one or both parties gaining greater control over you and your actions. If you suspect this is the case, skip down to number six, and start planning your exit.
   

5) "Guy's Night Out" - This one is a sacred cow among menfolk, and for good reason. It affords men an opportunity to socialize with other men, where the conversation can be unfiltered, competition (if a game is involved) fierce and unapologetic and nobody orders a salad or discusses calories and weight-loss. A good woman will understand your need for this time. However she may envy you, and become annoyed if you make these nights of glory too frequent of an occurrence. This is especially true if she has recently relocated on your behalf, meaning her friends and family are far away and she hasn't seen anyone socially in several weeks. Same holds true if she is a stay-at-home mom, who has been on duty for the past 16 hours, and was looking forward to taking a shower without interruption when you get home from work. Then there is the condition that may render her incapable of understanding your need for time exclusively in the company of other men. This condition is called "lone-she-wolf syndrome." You'll know she suffers from this if she has ever uttered any of the following statement: "All my friends are guys," "Women are so boring, I hate talking about shopping, babies and diets," or my personal favorite, "Whenever I go out with the girls I get dirty looks if I have more than two cocktails." She doesn't bond well with her gender, and will not understand your need to do so with yours. Well, actually she understands all too well why you want to go out with the guys, and is hurt that you won't let her join you. The only solution to this is cohabitation. Once she has you (and your buddies) underfoot all the time, she will savor a night at home alone. If this fails, hope that she finds a hobby that involves drinking, or a group of tomboys that play roller derby.

6) Breaking-up...is hard to do. Bottom line: be a man about it. Don't be a douche and hide from her. This will just cause her to escalate her attempts to communicate with you. Be honest. Tell her that it's not working out for you. As in "I'm not in love with you, and I don't see the point in continuing things." Do not go into a litany about how annoying her voice is, or how much you hate her friends. If you have already met someone else, it's best to leave this detail out of your explanation. She does not need to know about the cute girl at your work who threw herself at you during sales week in Tampa, nor does she need to hear how hot the sex was, or how great the new girl looks in her thong. The exception being that this someone else is her best friend, and you guys are going to take things public. If this is the case, I suggest a politely written note (minus details of the hook-up) left for her on your way out of town. That's right, the only decent thing to do in this situation is relocate.

Got another one you'd like me to explore? Send it via the comments link, and I'll see if I can shed light into the mysterious cause behind the conflict in your relationship.

Choose Civility, Senility, Stupidity

Cranky has been busy lately, and hasn't had time to write about anything of substance, but the long Fourth-of-July weekend allowed Cranky to reflect on a few things.

The first being the wonders of the "Choose Civility" campaign that is sweeping Columbia by storm. It seems like every soccer mom, AARP member, and Baby Boomer is on board with this ineffectual grassroots civility message. Every time I get behind a Toyota Avalon in the fast lane going 35 in a 55-mph zone, or a mini-van cuts me off because they can't use their side mirrors, they invariably have a "Choose Civility" sticker on their bumper. It's almost a guarantee that anyone with one of these stickers is somehow going to "fail" at exercising common courtesy while driving in Columbia.

Cranky applauds the makers of the "Choose Civility" bumper stickers for helping him identify dangerous drivers in Howard County. Additionally Cranky applauds the makers of the "Choose Senility" sticker. See this for more information on this hilarious spoof.

If the makers of the "Choose Senility" modification read this blog, please contact Cranky, so I can donate to your campaign. Additionally, if at all possible, please create also create a "Choose Stupidity" sticker! :-)

Pony Attack, Part Deux

We made it through the gauntlet, and that was the last we saw of the ponies at our campsite for the remainder of the trip. Our friends, however, were not so lucky.

But first, a little background. The year before, their site was pillaged. Apparently, they left their food out in the open on the picnic table. The ponies came, ate and left a mess. This year, they had a plan. They bought big rubber bins with lids that made an authoritative "clunking" sound when snapped into place. I was impressed, and wondered if our groceries would have survived, had we adopted the same equipment.

Confident that no animal could break the seal on the food containers, our friends ate, drank and made merry well into the night. My parting gift was a rum punch that packed a punch. A "kick in the pants" I believe was the term Jeff used the next day to describe the *nightcap* I served.

The following afternoon we dragged our beach chairs and a few small coolers laden with cold beverages and sandwiches down to the beach. This was the best part of the trip. Two nights into the revelry, and everyone had hit their stride. Today was a day to simply enjoy the surroundings, and the company of good friends.

Sometime after lunch, but before dinner, the story came out; in the middle of the night our comrades awoke to the sound of Joker's hoof, pounding and scraping against the lid of their food containers. The two couples clamored out of their tents to see who/what was causing the commotion. Jeff, one of my *nightcap* victims, was so twisted he ran into the clearing completely naked, before he realized that he was not alone.

Quickly covering himself, Jeff shouted at Joker; just as I had done so early in the morning the day before. Meanwhile, Cinnamon figured out how to pry the lid off the food containers. She grabbed a pack of hamburger buns, and lifted them high over her head, shaking the bag triumphantly.

Jill, another brave camper, commissioned some crockery; banging the pieces together to create an awful racket.

"Oh no, you don't!" shouted Jill. She reached up, and snatched the bread bag right out of Cinnamon's greedy mouth.

That did the trick. Joker trotted off abruptly, mercifully Cinnamon followed without protest. And so ends the "Attack of the Hungry Ponies."

Attack of the Killer Ponies

Every year for the past three years Cranky and I have gone camping with a group of friends at Assateague Island National Seashore. This year we invested in some new gear to make our trip more comfortable. Most notable of this new gear was the "REI screen house", a roomy, breezy structure that promised to protect us from both sun and bugs.

One of the first things we did when we arrived at camp was to erect our new screen house, and marvel at its sturdy simplicity. Best of all, it has no floor, so you can pick it up and plop it right on top of your picnic table. Voila! Now we could enjoy bug-free dining and drinking, and it worked like a charm. Bugs stayed outside, people stayed inside. Plenty of room, plenty of fresh air, plenty of rum.

Lulled into a sense of superiority by the initial comfort and protection afforded by our screen house, we wrongly assumed that we were at the very *pinnacle* of the food chain on that little barrier island. This thinking led us to make our biggest camping mistake ever: putting the food in the screen house.

Looking back, I honestly do not remember what we did with our groceries on past trips. We must have locked them in the car, because we learned on this trip that even coolers and other types of sealed container are no guarantee of protection from the wildlife. At any rate, we never had any animal invade our tent, so we figured we could leave our grocery bags full of 'smores fixings, buns, chips, granola bars, etc...safely zipped in the screen house; which, after all, is really just a great, big tent.

Watching the embers die on the ocean-front campfire put the finishing touches on my exhaustion. We hobbled back to our site, and crawled into our sleeping bags. The sound of the waves breaking on the beach, coupled with an abundance of fresh, cool, ocean air, sent me to dreamland faster than you can say "Good night!"

However around 5:30 a.m., as dawn was creeping over the Atlantic, I heard a ripping sound, followed by the rustling of plastic bags and crunching. Lots of crunching.

Poking my head out for a closer look, I saw that the screen house had been breached...by ponies! I watched in horror, while one of them (I dubbed him "Joker," cause he was a paint) got tangled in the the screen siding and simply kicked his leg through the material. Meanwhile the other one (whom I named "Cinnamon," because of her chestnut color) grabbed the marshmallows, and proceed to consume the entire bag right before my very eyes.

"Get up! We have company!" I barked at my sleeping husband. I grabbed my hat (what presence of mind, considering the events that followed), and rushed over to the screen house, clapping my hands and shouting "Git! Git! Get outta there!"

My cries had no effect. The ponies on Assateague Island are protected wildlife, and they seem keenly aware of their status. Joker regarded me with a practiced eye, as he continued working his way through a bag of tortilla chips. Cinnamon seemed a tad distraught by my sudden appearance, but she still wasn't giving up on those marshmallows.

"Ha! Ha!" I shouted, and clapped my hands some more. The ponies ignored me, and kept eating. Now I was getting angry.

Cranky stumbled out of the tent, looking dazed and hungover. When he saw what the ponies were doing he laughed hysterically - in that crazed tone reserved for cartoon characters who have completely lost their mind.

"Shoo!" Cranky mumbled as he staggered toward the pony I called Joker. Joker didn't even blink. Cranky flung a handful of sand at Joker. The pony pushed his snout deeper into the bag, rooting around for more treats.

"Alright. I've got an idea. I'll distract them, while you grab the groceries and make a run for the car," I instructed the barely-awake Cranky.

Cranky reached for the bag, and Joker nipped at his hand.

"Ahh!" he yelped, jumping back in fear.

That did it for me. I grabbed one of the tent poles and shook the entire screen house, banging my hat against the side for added effect and yelling like I really meant it. This got Joker's attention. He raised his head from my tortilla chips, and looked at me with dark, angry eyes; giving Cranky just enough time to snatch three of the five grocery bags, and scurry towards the parking lot.

Not wanting to be left alone with the marauders, I ran behind him without a second thought. Once we stowed our provisions safely in the truck, we marched back to our campsite, still unsure of how to permanently remove the ponies. We saw that Joker hadn't budged from his position. In fact, he had done even more damage by punting our pineapple across the table onto the sand, and rustling through the remaining bags that held our plastic cutlery, paper plates and napkins. Meanwhile Cinnamon had torn her way through what was left of the door, and was assisting Joker with his inventory.

Feeling bold, Matt reached in and grabbed a bag right out from under Joker, causing him to back up and hip-check Cinnamon. Seeing an opportunity in the chaos, I tossed some sand and hollered at them to "Shoo!"

Instead, Cinnamon bit Joker in the flank, and snatched a box of graham crackers. I daringly reached for the box, but Joker reared up and charged me!

Fortunately, I had my big, floppy sun hat with me, which I waved above my head while jumping up and down and flailing my arms to look as big as possible. This spooked Joker, and finally convinced him to turn around and head over the dunes. Cinnamon remained, aggressively shaking the box of graham crackers in her teeth to open the plastic bag inside. Frustrated, she dropped the box on the ground and stomped it with her foreleg until the bag burst. She nosed through the crumbs, stomped the box a few more times to render it completely useless, and ambled away over the dunes in search of Joker.

We scraped up what was left of our supplies and trudged towards the car. As we rounded the dune that separated our site from the boardwalk to the parking lot we saw more ponies. Lots of ponies. They were spread out on either side of the boardwalk, creating a virtual gauntlet of equine threat.

"F*ck!" Cranky said.

"I dunno. What's worse, keeping this stuff at our site, and risking a repeat performance; or walking down the path of doom, and hoping nobody notices we have food," I said.

We opted for bravery. After all, the herd was grazing on grass. Perhaps these ponies had not be corrupted by high-fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated oils. To be continued...

My Fridge Is a Weapon

Every once in awhile I actually read the packaging for the food items I'm ingesting. This morning my wife brought Kraft "Mexican Style Four Cheese Finely Shredded Cheddar" to my attention. Apparently, I should be very afraid of this product.

From the package:

"Keep bag away from small children in case small slider should come loose from bag. Immediately discard any loose sliders. Young children may choke on loose sliders. For more safety tips on feeding young children visit http://kraftfoods.com/kf/HealthyLiving/FoodSafety"

This statement so intrigued me that I had to immediately browse to this URL, in the hopes of finding awful stencil art of kids and babies choking on something called a "slider". I was very disappointed as this URL is 404 "Not Found", thus forcing me to browse the Kraft website looking for the correct URL. I didn't find the kid safety link, but I did find some other interesting tips that I thought I should share with everyone.

First up is one of my favorites:

Q8. What's the meaning of the "Best When Used By" statement that appears on some product packaging?

The answer to this question is a long definition of what each word in quotes means in the English language. Which promoted me to wonder out loud, that if you don't know what these words mean, you most likely can't read the answer. Followed shortly thereafter by the immortal words of Samuel L. Jackson, "English Mother @#$%$% do you speak it?"

Next up was this excellent tip:

"Children under 4 should always be supervised while being fed. At this age, children do not have the ability to judge how to eat safely, and may engage in running, jumping and other inappropriate behaviors while eating. Make sure your child is seated at the table, or at least sitting down, when eating."

I thought this was awesome cause I always wanted to run, jump, fly, spin, or some other activity while eating a sandwich or hot dog. Additionally, I wondered why this was limited to 4-year-olds, as the news says most of the adult population attempts to eat while driving, and then acts puzzled when their car ends up in a ditch.

Finally, Kraft has a massive article on "Lunch Box Safety." The most notable quotes from this article are the following:

1. Tote Oscar Mayer Lunchables Brand Lunch Combinations in an insulated lunch bag with an ice pack.
2. Keep hot foods, like soups, stews or chilies, hot. In the morning, bring the food to a boil and then immediately pour into a hot, sterile vacuum bottle. (Sterilize the vacuum bottle with boiling water.)

This may not sound like much on the outside, but as you can see Kraft actually wants your child to be mistaken for a terrorist. If you can remember back to your lunch box (it was most likely made of metal), and then think about adding an ice pack, and full vacuum-sealed bottle of hot liquid. This is now a weapon, that I'm sure the TSA would confiscate from your child if he tried and get on an airplane. Your kid's food might be safe, but the rest of the kids in class are probably not.

Next week I'll be reviewing other highly entertaining warning labels and FAQs from other household items. Including the "Rock Band Guitar is not a real Guitar", and "WiiMote strap must be worn at all times, to prevent WiiMote from going airborne."

Pub Dog and Frisco Grill

Frisco Grill has excellent guacamole, decent margaritas and a fine mahi-mahi fish taco. They also have live music on weekends, and a low-key, neighborhood atmosphere. Their televisions leave something to be desired, but there are plenty of screens showing various games on any given night. They also do a fine job on nachos and chile con queso dip. Just don't order the vegetarian burrito. The tofu lacks flavor, and has a creamy texture that doesn't quite belong.

In the same shopping center is Pub Dog (http://www.dogpub.net/). It occupies the space once taken by the Hard Times Cafe. While I was sorry to see Hard Times go, the Columbia location was always the red-headed stepchild of the franchise. The food and service paled in comparison to the Northern VA and Bethesda locations. I was always baffled by how the Columbia Hard Times managed to screw up chili, onion rings and chicken wings.

Fortunately, the new Pub Dog (a Baltimore favorite that expanded to Columbia) is a solid establishment with excellent service, good deals and tasty microbrews. I could go on about how friendly the manager and servers are; it's the type of place where you can walk in alone, and have new friends by the end of the night. My only suggestion to Pub Dog is to add some greasy bar treats to the appetizer menu. While the personal pizzas are pretty good, I would love to be able to order some chicken wings, nachos or cheese fries to go with my 2-for-$4 beers.

Seriously...what's the deal?

I was driving to work the other day, and this crazy woman came up behind me in her Honda. She was right on my tail, and clearly angered by the fact that I was only willing to go the speed limit.

There was a car in the lane next to us, and the minute it sped up as if to overtake me, Ms. Road Rage whipped in behind it. My neighbor was merely matching my speed, and eventually fell behind a bit. This caused the nut-job in the Honda to get back on my tail. Guess she thought if she applied enough pressure I'd put the pedal to the metal. No dice.

Meanwhile the car next to me slowed enough to create a gap for the tail-gater to squeeze in between them and the car in front. Now Ms. Road Rage was right next to me, and hard on the heels of the car in front of them. Too bad they were coming up on some traffic and had to slow down. Sigh. Ms. Road Rage zipped in behind me...again.

This went on for several miles. Given the opportunity, I would have gladly gotten over so she could own the lane; but because she jumped in next to me the minute there was an open space, I had nowhere to go. It was amusing in a futile way, but also a fine example of what's wrong with drivers in this area: they are consumed with self-importance, anger and impatience.