James Bond had Q. I have QT.

Last night, I was working on a document outlining our team's goals for 2009.  The template I was using has one column for the goals and another for the Quarter (of the calendar year) in which it will be completed.

My wife started looking over my shoulder at the document, whose column headers were no longer visible.  

Quite simply she said, "Who is Q1? Is that you?"

When I smiled, she knew another L-ism had occurred.  She explained that she thought that the individuals from my four-member team were each represented by a different Q# and assigned to a goal.

This made me smile and laugh, so I agreed with her and offered to give her a Q-name of her own: QT.

My Right is Your Coffee Pot's Left

My wife says the cutest things.  Her use of the phrase "Snuggling the Rim" instead of "Hugging the Curve" while speeding along an exit ramp once has made me smile every time I think of it.

With her permission, I will be starting a non-consecutive series of posts dedicated to L-speak.  While waiting for said permission, I will risk an uncomfortable 24 hours (or more) by sharing the latest L-ism.

In our house, we make two pots of coffee; one flavored for her, one non-flavored for me.  Until I went away for a week, we had a robust and simple protocol.  Mine was on the right, while hers was on the left.  Apparently, this changed so that she could use the newer pot on the right during my absence.  This has led to some confusion since my return.  Yesterday, I drank flavored coffee by accident.  She also drank flavored coffee, but not by accident.  The ratio of non-flavored to flavored java had reached an uncomfortable level.

My short-term memory is so poor that, by the time I was ready to leave for work, I had already forgotten that the coffee maker on the right was flavored despite the earlier mishap.  I poured some into a travel mug and dumped the rest down the sink drain before tasting it.  When my wife went to pour her cup for the road, she realized my error and pointed it out.  At which point, she promptly dumped the non-flavored coffee down the sink drain. 

Unfortunately, I had already made mine sweet enough to make both L and my dentist cringe. We were both left without our precious last cup.  And everything counts. It was truly a lose-lose situation.

This morning, we were both cautious around the coffee counter.  I even considered setting the alarm to get up early to make big signs and color code the machines.  Instead, we decided that we simply needed more communication.  

"Which one is mine?" she asked.

"The one on the right," I replied.

"Which right? Your right?"

Since her right and mine were the same, it was clear that we were not alone.  I hadn't realized that while I was away, the coffee pots had taken on a life of their own.  They apparently now have their own unique perspective from which relative locations could be referenced.  This might be extremely useful for everyone were L's coffee pot to give mine some directions.  To me.

(Em)powered by a Battery

L: "What is that long gray thing next to your computer?"

Me: "What? This?"

L: "Yes. Is it a computer battery?"

Me:"No. Here, press that big square in the middle."

L presses.

L and I watch.

Me: "Did you feel anything?"

L: "No. Was I supposed to?"

Me: "No. Because it's a computer battery."

L is not a computer battery, but she is recharging right now.

An Amendment to the "No Throwing Indoors" Rule

I implemented a new house rule that I never could have predicted.  I was faced with a scenario in which I had to quickly create the following amendment to the "No Throwing Indoors" Rule.  

"A stinky diaper shall not be thrown at a man with both hands in his pockets."

This rule applies outdoors also and is directly aimed to prevent further incidents.  Due to the circumstances under which this was created, it applies directly to my wife who will be subjected to just punishment if said rule is violated.  Please note that the duration of a time-out is still calculated as one minute per years of age.

The Lure of Bug Sex, Of Course.

This is a story that begins many years ago.  My girlfriend-now-wife and I lived in Belmont, MA circa 2001 in a two-family house with an outdated kitchen.  We quickly discovered that we shared our apartment with the moths also known as "pantry pests."  

It didn't help that my wife had seen a news segment on pantry pests not long before we moved in. Upon realizing what we had, she explained to me (with terror in her eyes) what we were dealing with.

The moths find their way into bread and cereals, lay little eggs which hatch, giving birth to little worms that eventually turn into winged 'nasties' that eventually fly around our kitchen.  The moths can get around cabinets, boxes, bags, and into and out of the food.  In fact, the eggs may have been in the food before we even brought it home from the store.

How did we fix our immediate infestation?  The lure of bug sex, of course.  Traps designed to capture the pests are laced with moth pheromones.  

According to the advertisement, the pheromones attract the pests who then fly into the trap and stick to it's glue-covered sides.  When we bought a package of the traps and opened them nonchalantly in the kitchen, we were swarmed by a dozen pantry pests within minutes!  They came crawling out of whatever cabinet, box, and container in which they were hibernating with high hopes of bug intercourse.  Despite having other pests flying about looking for sex, they were still more interested in the promise of better sex in that contraption.  One by one, they stuck to the glue.  How stupid they must have felt, lying there aroused and surrounded by available moths yet hopelessly stuck to a wall covered in adhesive and synthetic hormones.

What if this worked on humans? A cop car could simply pull up to a house where a criminal was believed to be hiding.  The officer could open a package containing human pheromones and watch the thug come running out of his house and into the cruiser where they would stick to glue-covered seats.  Of course the whole neighborhood might show up and citations would most likely be given for public indecency.  

We left the traps out overnight and were pleased to find more pests caught in the trap. The problem was solved for the time being.  However, we occasionally saw a pest fly about and we would promptly get out the pheromones. "

We began to take preventative measures by keeping cereals and bread in Tupperware containers.  When pests continued to appear from our cabinets, we moved these items to the refrigerator.  Eventually we bought a new house and moved 50 miles away.  They surely won't find us there, we thought.  And we were right.  However, we continued to keep our flour-based foods in the refrigerator.  After several months, I suggested to my wife that we remove the cereals and snacks from the fridge.  

"No. What is more air tight than a fridge? We don't want the nasties to come back, ok?" 

"Ok."

Since then, our bread-like foods and grains have only tripled thanks to hungry little kids.  Unfortunately our new house did not have a walk-in "cold room", but rather a kitchen cubby hole that was designed to fit only the smallest fridge on the market.  The current inventory includes:

• Seven boxes of cereal including a village-sized (as in it takes a village to eat it before it expires) Honeycomb box.  It's big enough to create the illusion of a solar eclipse when placed too close to the kitchen windows.
• Four open bags of pretzels: thin fat-free, minis, pretzel sticks, and peanut butter sandwich pretzels.
• One open bag of Veggie Booty.
• Two open bags of Goldfish.
• Two partial loaves of bread.
• One open bag of Chex mix.
• Two open bags of cookies.
• One open bag of sugar.
• One open bag of flour.
• One partially eaten Apple Cake.

Add to that everything else that normal families keep in their refrigerator, and you have a fridge that is always full.  Getting anything out, typically results in a Kellogg's Avalanche.  The light bulb is useless given the amount of items on the top shelf.

Because salt looks like sugar and is white and granular like flour, we keep it in the fridge also.  As my neighbor mentioned while pointing and laughing at it's fridge door location, salt is a preservative.  That's should be enough to explain how far we haven't come.

It didn't help that a couple weeks ago, we accidentally ordered too much milk.  We order some of our groceries online so when it arrived one Saturday morning, we had to make it fit.  Stop for a moment and re-read the inventory above.  Add normal people fridge foods. Now add 8 gallons of milk. 

This scene wouldn't normally frustrate me.  I would usually just have a beer and laugh it off.  However, I can't reach the beer past the milk and cereals.  In fact, I can't even see the beer thanks to a useless light bulb and a solar eclipse that occurs every time I try to move the Honeycombs out of the way.

(photo credit)

Air Mommy

Yesterday, my kids were behaving so well at the grocery store that my wife and I decided to give them each a balloon.  While paying for the ingredients for our Potato Leek Soup, my wife made a joke about double-bagging the Leeks just in case....well you know.  Although she couldn't evoke a laugh out of the cashier, who probably thought they were mutant scallions, my Inner Humorist was pleased. 

While looking around to see if the joke was overheard, my son accidentally let go of his balloon.  Just as I turned, I noticed my wife leaping high into the air with arms outstretched in an attempt to catch it.  This quick-thinking mommy got major air.  I suspect that she put one foot on the bottom rack of the grocery cart and got more traction on the candy rack on her way up.  Or did she? 

Unfortunately, the balloon had different plans and floated to the rafters.  As my wife consoled our son, the cashier ordered another balloon (less helium this time).  All in a day's fun.

List from a List

My wife and I make the kids' lunch each night for the next day. Typically, we start by making a list that outlines the meals. The list is divided by "Morning", "Lunch", and "Afternoon." From there, the menu unfolds.

Tonight, after my wife made most of the lunch without me, I was handed a smaller list on a separate paper that read:
Hummus
Pancakes with Jam
Macaroni and Cheese

I was now working with a list from a list. Apparently, I need simplification so as to minimize the number of questions. So, before she left the room I asked:

"Hummus for each of them? Separate containers? How much? The new stuff with the chopped garlic on top or the smooth kind?"

"How much jam? Strawberry or Rasberry? How many pancakes? As mini sandwiches or free agents? In baggies or tupperware?"

"Kraft or Annie's? Macaroni, Pokemon, or Bunnies?"

Swing Out Sister

There are probably many writers that are dedicated to chronicling bad driving behavior, so I don't intentionally intend to join them. However, living and working near Boston provides an endless supply of bad driving stories. I have done a little searching online to determine if anyone has created a Who's Who by characterizing the various breeds of drivers. A Google search on this topic yielded results that included a lot of psychology-related journal articles and theses, accident liability law documents, and golf club analysis commentaries.

Therefore, I conclude that a book describing the people that evoke the road rage in each of us is in my future. In the meantime, I will describe one driving phenotype demonstrated by someone I drive with often: my wife.

While driving home from the mall yesterday, I noticed a car in front of us swing their car to the right just before turning left. At the top of the bad driver classification hierarchy, one of the first divisions is between "intentional" and "oblivious." The "Swing Out Sister" behavior is in the latter category. This maddens me, because it makes absolutely no sense why you would need to do this. I actually have a theory (perhaps detailed in one of the aforementioned journal articles) that sometimes drivers just mimic other drivers. Unless the turn is an acute angle (read: "hard right" or "hard left") or you are attempting to pass the lead car in Indianapolis, you don't need to steer your car in one direction to cut hard in another. This act is dangerous, especially for those of us that typically try to pass you on the swing side.

While complaining about this in the car, my wife confessed that she is one of those drivers. For once, a wish had come true. I could barely contain myself when I realized that I had a rare opportunity to talk to one of "them" and to finally get an explanation. When prompted, she claimed that she didn't know why she did it. Mimicking behavior, I thought.

After more questioning, she admitted that she swings out left to turn right because she doesn't want to cross the yellow line. Don't want to cross the yellow line? While turning left? From the right side of the road? In a 2-ton vehicle for which you are legally permitted to drive? On the road? I can't even make sense of this.

I'm at a loss for words in the moment. But my book, to be published soon, will have all names removed.

PoCO

My wife wants to start a movement in Framingham. And it's not the kind of movement the town desperately needs to reduce the number of Brazilian nail salons in the downtown area. Instead, she wants to promote a "Positive Costume Only" (PoCO) Halloween in which only happy and friendly costumes are worn by the children of the town. The acronym is by no means intended to minimize the magnitude of this initiative's potential impact.

This interest of hers was prompted by the frightened response by our children as they walked by the Halloween store at the mall. She hurried the kids past the zombies and goblins at the same pace I typically rush past the occasional Spencer's gift store. Or past the frequent "Can I ask you a question?" from beauty product kiosk vendors to whom I always respond with finality, "You just did."

Over dinner the other night, she explained that kids should not wear scary costumes. I asked her for an example of a more positive yet interesting costume. She promptly responded, "A Rubik's Cube." I now felt obligated to explain that one of the reasons that masks were historically worn at Halloween festivals was to scare away evil spirits. This was typically done at Harvest time, or in modern days, before eating candy harvested from strangers in costumes.

I explained that the Rubik's cube wasn't scary enough. But, then I hesitated. I realized that when I was of trick-or-treating age, I would have been terrified of a Rubik's cube. Especially, if the puzzle were to surprise ambush me in a cul-de-sac, screaming "Solve Me! Solve Me!" I definitely would have run home.

Therefore, I have successfully defeated the PoCO Halloween with at least one example of how a seemingly positive costume is always a disguise for something more evil and sometimes unexplainable. With a renewed excitement for the holiday, I will be making new costumes for my kids. Watch out residents of Framingham, because this year on All Hallow's Eve, you will meet Ms. Calculus and Mr. Driver That Always Blocks Intersections.

Pink Invasion

"Dude. They're pink." My friend interrupted me after several minutes of my own audible speculation that perhaps my khaki pants appeared to have a light red hue as the result of poor lighting or even my aging eyes. He was right - they were pink. Yet, I continued.

"You only think they are pink because I have biased y-" He interrupted again.

"Dude. Pink." In this case, Dude meant "Shut up while I'm being honest with you" and pink meant "pink." I trusted that my friend, a chemistry professor, knew his colors.

Earlier that day, I ran out of the apartment in my usual flurry of alarm-ignoring, coffee-making, email-reading, cat-feeding, coffee-drinking, bagel-eating, shower-singing, clothes-rummaging, teeth-brushing activity. I skipped down two flights of stairs and into the morning sunlight as I started my ten minute walk to the subway.

Given the speed at which I got ready for work that morning, I wasn't convinced that I had dressed properly for work. A quick self-examination revealed a red button-down shirt, khakis with slightly frayed pant legs and perma-crease from countless meetings with an iron, not-quite-khaki-enough brown socks, and scuffed up Timberlands. I stopped at the street corner.

Are my khakis pink?

They're pink. Or I am overdue for an eye exam? Or is the sunlight reflecting off of my red shirt, creating a pink illusion?

It's an illusion. A pink specter. On my pants.

Ten minutes later as I sat on the subway car, I started obsessing again. I called my girlfriend at the time.

"Did you wash my pants when you were visiting?" I asked.

"Yes, I hope you don't mind," she said cautiously.

I didn't mind, yet. "Did you wash it with anything red?"

"Maybe. After the first wash, it doesn't matter anyways," she said confidently.

"It matters."

"It does?" she queried, now in a tone less confident.

"Yep."

It was about 20 minutes later that I realized how much it mattered as I listened to my friend plainly state "Dude. Pink." It was a phrase that I said to myself all day as I worked in the lab, gave tours of the Center, and walked around the college campus where I worked.

I didn't realize how pertinent this experience was until many years later when the same girlfriend (now my wife) and I had our second child, a daughter. Her birth marked the beginning of an era that I fondly call "The Pink Invasion." Who knew there was enough pink dyes and fabrics in the world to make so many pink onesies, bonnets, and dollies?

Never again will I wear pink khakis, which is why there are now three laundry categories in my house: Whites, Colors, and Pinks. Occasionally, I will unload the washing machine to discover that a pink sock or red shirt had been smuggled in with the khakis. Fortunately, this has never again resulted in an unexpected khaki color transformation.

Please don't get me wrong: I do not mind the color pink and I do not color-discriminate. It's the ambush that causes me anxiety. I feel strongly that I should be able to grab a pair of pants from my dresser drawer and be confident that they are the same color that they were yesterday. But what I fear more than any surprise color change in my wardrobe is the sincerity yet finality of one particular phrase: "Dude. Pink."

Beans Before Bathtime

I once entered an essay contest to win a spa jacuzzi. They asked for 30 reasons why we should win a spa. Here is what they received from me:

"Description of 30 Reasons why you want a Caldera Spa:

1.Please accept this entry for a free portable CD player and stereo receiver with the additional bonus of a built-in spa!

2.This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to own a Caldera spa and, if I win, I will never take it for granted. I would be forever grateful and consider it a lifelong investment for both Caldera and my family.

3.*Why* would I like to own a Caldera spa? Comfort, performance, and style. I have learned a lot about your spas and am truly convinced of your company’s dedication to exceeding expectations in all of these areas.

4.My wife and I have celebrated our most special occasions by searching out hotels with nice spas, but we have only been successful a couple times. I want to make every day a special occasion worth celebrating with my family.

5.The Caldera “Spa Steps” that I got for my last birthday look silly without the spa. So does the Spa Enclosure.

6.My recent obsession with energy efficiency has resulted in the acquisition of as many energy efficient appliances and items as possible…it’s a building year….

7.The advertised “free brochure” on your website sounds interesting and I hope that this entry would increase my chances of winning one of those, too.

8.We entertain a lot and parties have been a bit dull since “the lawn dart incident” a few years ago.

9.We just bought a house and part of the deck was designed and built, by the forward-looking sellers, to accommodate for the addition of a future spa.

10.We are moving into our new house soon and we would like to give the neighbors something to talk about.

11.I believe that few things sell a good product than word-of-mouth and when I enjoy a product, I tell everyone.

12.I will give my Caldera spa the best 30th Anniversary party *ever*.

13.I am dying to know what exists in your website’s “Owner’s Corner.” I didn't think I could look yet.

14. Spas improve circulation in the body. That's a good thing, right?

15.My wife is an amazing wife, a wonderful mother, and a genuinely great person. I would love to surprise her with a gift that would be forever remembered.

16.On the rare occasions that we have been able to enjoy a spa, we have noticed the physical and mental health benefits. With the reliability and quality of Caldera workmanship, winning this spa offers us the amazing opportunity to experience these benefits for a lifetime.

17.Our family vehicles consist only of a station wagon and a minivan. Please help a guy out- at this rate, I will *never* again have the chance to experience surround sound. In all seriousness, the aforementioned house we bought is wired for surround sound in one room but sadly I had to cover the wire connections because our budget doesn’t have room for speakers, not even to mention ones that turn 360 degrees.

18.Hot Tub Circuit Therapy sounds amazing, truly relaxing, and unlike anything that I could experience with any other spa.

19.After many years of babies, college loans, and mortgages, my wife and I have not had much left over to treat ourselves to a vacation or indulge in any personal relaxation.

20.One word: EcstaSeat. The beauty of this feature will never be overlooked by this particular contestant.

21.You have one of the *best* websites I have EVER seen. And has anyone ever told you that shirt looks *great* on you? Humor aside, I have found that your website sells your product well and I have fallen in love with your spas.

22.My wife and I are expecting a second child in April and would love to have a daily retreat from a busy day with two infants. The only alternative is reality television in which most seasons often feature a hot tub scene. Please save us from this horrible fate.

23.I moved to Boston from Pennsylvania many years ago. It is finally time to prove to locals that a “Spa” is not a mini-mart nor the true pronunciation of “spar,” which is what they threaten to do when I make comments like that.

24.Your virtual showroom is so realistic that every time I log onto your website, I end up naked with a glass of wine and at least 10 friends “on their way over”. This has to end.

25.My wife and I need a spa to prepare for the next casting call for the role of the “Caldera Couple” in future promotional videos.

26.Spas with hot water and jets get my wife in the mood and a Utopia spa will probably be more seductive than our usual “Beans Before Bathtime” events.

27.As a manufacturing professional, I can genuinely recognize and appreciate the value of a reliable, high quality, and well-manufactured product.

28.A Caldera spa would be a wonderful addition to a wonderful home.

29.We do not deserve to win this spa more than any other qualified candidate. However, we will be forever thankful and our gratitude will show in our constant care, praise, and use of our Caldera spa.

30.I need more personal relaxation time, because lately I only have enough time to write 30 fragmented thoughts before my son sees me on the computer and starts to press the computer ke333lkj;wefa;ewjlpliwyoe[jjjjjjjjjjjwafiofwaieoaijfwa1118,,,s"