Meeting My Father-In-Law

So...it's done. I had my wedding, and I met my Father-In-Law. And much as I expected, it was an.....experience. For days, I was nervous. I had that same angst that you get before a hard workout, a race, or a roller coaster. You know, the type of anxiety that makes you want to pee yourself. Why didn't I pee myself? Likely because I was so dehydrated that my kidneys were shooting blanks. I won't say I had renal failure, but I will say that I was lucky not to.

Round 1:

As I arrived to the place that my In-Laws were staying, something weird hit me. I became calm. I became confident. As a 5'6" Jewish, white boy, this was a very new sensation. I had flashes of the movie 300, when that kid became Leonidas and killed the liger, but far less bad-ass. My wife met me right outside the door, gave me a look of shear terror, and took me by the hand. As we walked in, my wife's expression turned into that terrified smile. You know, when you are supposed to look happy, but you are praying that an elephant will charge through the wall will a platypus on its back, and that the platypus will somehow manage to kill you in a way that is worthy of an analogy for a terrified smile. 

There he is. Ba-ba. That's what I am supposed to call the man. The man with no smile. Have you ever seen a a bull-dog? He's a Chinese Bull-Dog. And that man is sitting at the dining table, like a great wall of China (allusion!!). I sit down on a diagonal to the man, with my wife between us. Some could say she was an interpreter. Others can say she was a human shield. All I know is that, when running from a bear, I only have to outrun the slowest person. Not saying I threw her under the bus, just that I don't speak Chinese. 

So there I am. There he is. There's my wife. And silence. I ask the man how his flight was. "Good." What does he do for work? "Hydro-power." After a solid 30 seconds of quiet, my wife turns to me and says that her hands and feet are going cold. I tell her that everything will be fine. She then tells me she wants to lay down and puke out. As I prepare to say something, my wife's eyes roll back into her head, and she proceeds to pass the fuck out. I mean, out. As she starts to slump in her chair, her father and I rush to her, and help her to the couch.

My wife beckons me to her, weakly. I know that this is a serious situation and all, but part of me was pretty glad her family saw it. I'm expecting my wife's cousin to help, since she is a doctor, but the poor girl looks like a deer in the headlights. I try to tell them to get a wet wash cloth, and suddenly realize that nobody speaks English, and the only one that does is halfway unconscious. I get up, show the doctor the rag and motion for water, and she suddenly runs away. I don't know what the fuck she's doing, so I get a glass of cold water. The doctor comes back with a rag, and we start reviving my wife. I remember the word for bread, butcher the pronounciation, but it is ennough to get my Mother-In-Law to grab some carbs. I want it to be noted that the Western White Devil responded better to his wife passing-out, than the Chinese doctor did. 'Merica.

Round 2:

After my wife has time to recover, I speak briefly with my Mother-in-Law, using primitive hand gestures and Google Translate (which sucks at translating to Chinese, by the way) to convey the cause. By the time I return, my wife is next to her father and translates for him. The man repeats that he doesn't care anything about who I am. That's fair. And he says that he only cares about his daughter. He mentions that she is the brightest, most beautiful girl in all of China, which makes sense. Then he mentions that all of his friends want to date her. Now, call me crazy, but that's gross. Up until then, I was doing well with having proper replies. I do not have a proper response to a father talking about his friends wanting to date his daughter. That's fucked up. I mean, wow. That man needs better friends. With that said, my wife later explained that he meant they wanted their sons to date her. That's less gross, but still. I cannot unsee things. I cannot unimagine them. My mind's eye is scarred.

Round 3:

My wife and I go for a walk, before returning to eat with my In-Laws. By now, we are talking loosely. I go for broke. I tell them that they cannot trust me if they do not know me, so ask whatever they want. I am ready. I am ready for them to ask why I am Jewish, did we kill Jesus, do I have a bank, why am I white, how's my sperm count, anything. Turns out, they couldn't give a damn about my background. It's Zero-Fuck Thirty in the house, tonight! After some more, tentative talking, they start toasting everyone. Evidently that is one thing Jews and Chinese have in common, is that you toast until the alcohol is gone. At least they went with wine, not vodka. 

Suddenly, the meal is over. I eat what I am supposed to, and my wife hurries us out the door to pick up people from the airport. Nevermind that it is a 30 minute drive to pick up people that are landing in 2 hours. And that's it. The night went exactly like I expected, with the awkward conversation, the "protect our daughter" conversation, and the "let's get to know each other" conversation. The part I did not expect was for my wife to pass the fuck out. I mean....damn. We were not ready. I expected someone to go down, but I presumed it would be me. 

Moral of the story: I do well in awkward and stressful moments. My wife will pass-out under too much stress. And the cousin doctor is not my first choice in an emergency. That last one will be chalked up to be stunned. Fortunately she still has some schooling left before becoming a cardiologist.

PS: I related my Father-In-Law to being a bulldog, bear, and great wall. Since this time, the man has loosened up with the tightest, most non-existent smile in history. But! It's a smile. 

Meatloaf Birthday Cake

Guess what day it is! Come on! You know the commercial! 

You know you love it!

In honor of this great day, I want to share the trauma of Hump Days Past. Wednesday is a very special day for me, because it is Game Night. That's right, my wife and I get together with other adults, drink all the things, and play all the board games. Not all board games. There are some card games. There's one game where you get to be Merlin. Because fuck you, I want to be Merlin. Aging in reverse and casting spells and shit, whaaat?!

But I digress. For this particular Game Night, we were celebrating Todd, the Buddy Formerly Known as Craig, and the fact that he was born. As you may remember, Todd does not eat carbs. Because of this, Todd cannot have nice things. Instead of a birthday cake, he got a birthday meatloaf. That's okay. He put a candle in it, melted the candle, ate some wax, it's all good. It was a small meat loaf, but a tasty one.

I would like to now introduce another friend of ours. he's from the Middle East, and I will call him Ahmed. His name is not actually Ahmed. But I want to protect his identity, and Muhammad seems likely to piss off the Arab/Muslim community. So he's Ahmed. And not the dead terrorist. Didn't even think about that until I just wrote it. Fuck it, he's Ahmed...the alive, Middle Eastern friend. 

Ahmed is a great guy, but he is very intense. To be fair, most Middle Eastern people I know are intense. But Ahmed is different. One, he is Atheist. He argues against G-d as much as a Southern Christian prays for my Jewish soul. And yes, a Jew and a Middle Eastern guy are friends. Fuck you, this is America. Anyway, Ahmed is intense in everything. He works hard, parties harder, and does not know the meaning of "pacing" himself. I say this, because you need to know that this guy is down to do anything. He lives in the "Fuck It" zone.  "Jump off a bridge? Fuck it, let's go. It'll be a good swim."

Now as you may or may not remember, Todd is a special type of drunk that may punch you, or try to kiss you, depending on the liquor. By the time Ahmed shows up, two things have happened. 1) The meatloaf has been eaten to the point that there is only one or two bites, and that is mostly crumbles. 2) Todd has reached the "Fuck it" stage of drunk. You know that stage. "Oh that terrible idea that may not work out? Fuck it, I'm in.". This stage is like renting a hotel in the Fuck It Zone. Just like a hotel, you end up sleeping in someone else's sheets, may or may not get someone else's diseases, and you have to check the next day that you have all of your worldly possessions. This is also known as the "Let's go" stage. "You talking shit about that cactus? Fuck it. Let's go! We'll kick some cactus ass!"

To have a drunk Todd, and a normal Ahmed in the same room, you know things are going to get interesting. Unfortunately for everyone, they got too interesting. And by that, I mean disturbing. Someone made a glib little comment that Ahmed should eat his meatloaf crumbs off of Todd's body. Ahmed, being Ahmed, said, "Fuck it, I'll do it!". Todd, being Todd, said, "You don't think I'll do it? Let's go mother fucker!". 

Before anyone has any chance to save themselves, Todd is on his back with his shirt pulled up to his neck. Bare in mind that Todd still has a bit of a jelly belly. His transformation is not yet complete. Suddenly, the meatloaf is on Todd's belly, and in his navel, and Ahmed is on his knees licking it up off of Todd. The worst was when Ahmed stuck a finger in Todd's navel to pull out the final bit of meat. Give Ahmed credit, he did it and ate all the meatloaf. And give Todd credit, he had his belly-button and belly hair cleaned. 

I cannot un-see that sight. I can't. It will haunt me. And because of that, I want it to haunt other people. I cannot un-see it, just as you cannot un-imagine it. So yes, I'm that asshole that proves misery loves company. The moral of the story: Birthday cake is better than birthday meatloaf. Also, if you have two people playing chicken in a game of meatloaf body shots, everybody loses. 

That Awkward Sweat

I would like to start by saying that I like Spring and Summer. The weather is beautiful, everyone is outside, you see sexy people showing it off, you see less than sexy people showing it off, it is a revolting good time. I would also like to state that I do not like the heat. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm a sweater. And not the attractive, "Oh look how sinewy my muscles are" or "I'm glistening" or "I'm glowing". No. I sweat. It's like Poseidon infiltrated into my body and said, "Here, now you're a slip and slide." It's gross. And what's worse, is I always sweat.  If the temperature is above 65 degrees Fahrenheit (18.3 degrees Celsius), you can be your sweet ass that mine is sweating.

In order to cope with this unfortunate situation, I rarely wear a shirt. I know what you're thinking, "But if you workout and look good, you just want to show off your muscles." One, I am far to white to show off any muscle. What definition I do have, is white-washed from the light reflecting off my skin, casting off the shadows. Two, I would go shirtless regardless of how I look. When I was younger, and had a right proper beer belly, I showed that pony keg off. Sun up, shirt off. I just feel bad for all the people who had to bear witness to that. 

Living in an area that also has high humidity, however, has exasperated this problem. I now have to strip down to my skivvies when I get home. Sometimes, I don't even make it into the door. I start taking my pants off as i walk back from the mail box. One leg gets caught on my foot, whipping around as a walk. I've killed many a trusted flower, with my pants flying around. "But why not wear shorts?" Because I'm a professional and that's frowned upon. I wore a kilt to work once. It was great. That has no relevance to the rest of this story, but it happened. I just hope it happens again. 

But as I was saying, I get nearly nekkid when I get home. Why? Because I sweat in the car and on the way from the car to the house. Have you ever tried to hug your significant other, when you are a sweat mess? And no, naughty safari does not count. If you ever have, you get one of two reactions. One, "Eeeewwww....gross!!" Two, your significant other squeezes you hard and you slip right through their arms like a lubed up banana. It's terrible. That's why I take my pants off at the door. 

I also train in my underwear. If I am going to sweat, I do not want to go through that much laundry. It only gets awkward when I am squatting in my speedo and someone has to spot me. Or I have to spot them. That how you know you've bonded with someone. That's also how you can hone your technique for awkward situations. That way, you're prepared for anything. Like when you are cleaning the house in your underwear, and your wife comes home and has her friend with her, but you don't know that she has her friend with her, and suddenly everyone can see you in your underwear. Especially when you remember that you have on underarmour, so everyone can see everything. And then you cover up with the stapler. Why a stapler? Because you are cleaning your library for when your father-in-law visits, and the shedding rug looks like bugs and you have to kill the bugs, and you use the stapler. 

Moral of the story: Always have a pair of gym shorts hidden in every room, in case company shows up unexpectedly.

Cleaning the Library

So I was going to post something yesterday, but I never got around to it. I wanted to share something with humor, but after cleaning a house for two days, you start to lose the joy. On a positive note, I managed to find space for a gargantuan desk, create a high shelf, relocate all other furniture, and moved a TV without herniating myself.

How did I do this? By shoving all the shit into boxes and hiding the boxes around the desk. Now when I say shit, I want to give you an idea of the stuff we have accumulated. First, there was all the trash. There was tremendous satisfaction in throwing away old papers, assignments, etc. that I will never need to look at again. Why won't I look at old assignments? Because I have finally stepped into the 1990's and embraced the internets. Not really. I am terrified of the internet and believe that a mix of The Matrix and Terminator will take place. 

("When the war against machines becomes real, will you be ready? Train to live off the grid! Hire me as a Personal Trainer! I can't teach you anything about survival, but I can make sure you look strong and sexy when the machines enslave you! [insert winky face]") 

That is not me in the picture. Anyway, in cleaning the library, I realized that we have accumulated a lot of random shit. Did you know that I have a wooden sculpture (small) of a walrus wearing a tuxedo? Neither did I. I also found out that we have more knives than most kitchens. Large knives, short knives, artistic knives, pocket knives, you name it.  If we ever need knives in the war against machines, I'm your one-stop shop. I even have an Olde Timey revolver that looks real, but is actually just a knife. The gunpowder barrel is a long needle. You know, in case you want a shish-kebab after your battle.In addition, I found a Hello, Kitty stuffed toy. Why do I have that? Because my parents have a twisted sense of humor. I'm just glad I met my wife before they gave me the stuffed toy. Otherwise, that would have been awkward. 

The room is full of random stuff like that. It's a lot like hoarders, or extreme antiquing, except that nothing is of significant financial value. There are treasured items, of course, but nothing worth billions (BILLIONS!) of dollars. 

I also learned that wool rugs shed. A lot. And those sheddings? They look like bugs. You know that feeling when you're working and you suddenly see a bug or spider? And next thing you know, you scream like a little girl and try to kill the bug with the nearest stapler? Well we now have staples all over the floor of the library. What's worse, I've inadvertently stapled the wool pieces to the floor.  Mr. Chi-City understands: 

Seriously, tens of tens of wool pieces. And I can't just pull those staples out or use a magic wipe to remove them. That would damage the carpet. I can't afford a new carpet. I have a wedding and in-laws coming to town. I need to save all the money I can, so that I can afford the amount of alcohol it will take for me to get through everything without going crazy. My liver is fucked, but my sanity will survive.

So that is the state of things. The moral of the story: If you're going to meet your father-in-law for the first time, make sure you start cleaning your shit early. Oh, and don't use a stapler to kill bugs. 

The Soundtrack to My Life?

So I was driving down the road to work today, and I started thinking about music. When I say driving down the road, I mean down the highway....for 35-40 minutes.....because I commute to work....because I adult so hard some days.

Anyway, I was thinking about music and realized that when I hear a song, it puts me into a very specific state of mind. Sometimes it's the beat, sometimes it's the lyrics, but I always start imagining myself in a movie about my life. Except it's not actually my life, but one that is far more exciting than my actual life. Case and point, when I listen to certain rock or metal songs. Anytime I hear the song "I'm Alive" by Disturbed, I immediately imagine myself charging into battle. Suddenly I am writing the shit out of an email. I'm using sentences like spears and trying to pillage some poor soul's inbox for my own.

Don't get me wrong though, I love all music. The problem is that not all songs have the same effect as I think the artist intended. Two songs came on the radio today, where I realized this. The first song was "Work from Home" by 5th Harmony.

I know what everyone is going to say. "That song is my jam!" "That song makes me want to put in work with my man!" "That song get's me worked up!". Do you know what I think about with that song? Netflix and Chill. The problem is I mean literally Netflix and Chill. I'm thinking popcorn, a little Daredevil, and then going to sleep. And what do we do when we go to sleep? Sleep! The lyrics talk about turning the bed into an ocean (sexy!), but then talks about having "nothing but sheets in between us". Do you know what that means? It means y'all are getting 8 hours of quality sleep and likely having some "tension" to deal with in the morning. You may be at the ocean, but the tide is high and someone is going to get crabby.

The other song that I get mixed up with all the time is "Hot in Herre" by Nelly. You know the one, "It's getting hot in herre....So Imma take off all my clothes..." First, nobody wants to see me take my clothes off. I am white. Like pasty white. If I am not white, I am red from a sunburn. I once had a tan, and it was because I had been doing field work and was covered in dirt. And that leads me to what I think of when I hear this song. I think of literally being hot. I imagine myself in the middle of a miserable field, with 80-90 degrees Fahrenheit (26-32 degrees Celsius) and approximately 80% humidity. Then add that you are walking around in the sun, carrying gear, and there is a smell coming from somewhere. Is it nearby manure? A stagnant pond? Who knows! It could be you, considering how hot and sweaty it is. And yes, that makes me want to take off my clothes. And no, that does not make me want to dance and party. It makes me feel sweaty and gross.

And so there you have it. There are songs that get me pumped up to party. There are songs that make me want to be very marital with my wife (insert winky face). There are songs for battle, work, fun, sadness, you name it. And now I leave you with a song that will forever remind me of my wife.