I Can Hear Again

So, how did I end up Jonesing for a cup of coffee in the heart of Paris without a Euro to my name?  As with most things in my life, it was the The Boss’ fault. Well, at least the being in Paris part. It all started with a casual comment she dropped at work when she overheard a co-worker mention that names were being submitted for a symposium in France. She said, “France? Put my name in. I want a piece of that action!” Apparently, someone did. 

Fast forward a few weeks and the phone rang one Tuesday afternoon.  My congenial “Hello?” was instantly drowned out by screaming. 

“I’mgoingtoFrance!I’mgoingtoFrance!Ican’tbelievetheypickedme!I’MGOINGTOFRANCE!” 

I didn’t hear the rest. At that point all the cochlear hairs in my right ear fainted. I think I muttered a bewildered “congratulations.” The news was good. The Boss works hard at her job. Being chosen to present a briefing at the symposium in France was recognition of her hard work.  Traveling to Europe has always been one of her goals. The extra per diem money wouldn’t hurt our budget, either.

The phone rang a few hours later on that same Tuesday afternoon.  My congenial “Hello?” was instantly drowned out by more screaming. 

“You’regoingtoFrance!You’regoingtoFrance!Igetotakesomeonewithmeandthatmeansyou!WE’REGOINGTOFRANCE!”

My left ear quit, too.  

Over the course of the next two months, every spare minute of The Boss’ time was spent online researching travel arrangements, hotels, places to visit, sites to see for a ten day excursion through Europe after the symposium ended, and which colors the folders should be to hold all the important documents for each country. France was green, Poland was pink, Germany was purple, and anything work related went into the blue folder. These were important decisions.

I had other concerns. Who would watch the kids? Who would take care of the house? Who would take care of the dogs? How would we pay for this? And then there was the slightly less rational but still present concern of how would we get to and from France without becoming the next pile of terrorist debris? The March bombing of the Brussels airport did nothing to calm my mind. Suffice it to say, I was less than thrilled. These concerns kept me awake at night, in particular the child care question. 

General Mayhem is now 19, and about to move out of the house. Major Havoc is a 13 year old boy. Need I say more? Captain Chaos is 12 and still charging through life at 100 M.P.H. without concern for the carnage she leaves in her wake. 18 days is a looooong time. And then there was this surprising struggle…

I’ve been a stay-at-home dad since June of 2001. Since then, I have not been away from all three of children for more than a day or two at a time. When I was, they were with their mother. The longest gap away from them has been a week when I took one or both boys to summer camp. My home is my domain. My children, their education, and their care is my life. And while I love my best friend dearly and knew that once we had feet on the ground in Europe that I’d be fine and we would have fun, the idea of leaving my children for that long was uncomfortable, to say the least. The 13 year old proved to be our biggest challenge. He simply could not resist poking at his older brother while we were away, and could not handle the reaction when he did. 

Everything worked out. The proof is in the 15,000 pictures that The Boss is determined to post on Facebook. The trip was quite the adventure, and hopefully not of the once-in-a-lifetime type. During the first week, I was able to explore Paris and Toulon (a town on the French Mediterranean coast) by myself during the day while Melissa worked. Together we explored Warsaw and Cracow with friends Tom & Katie, and Leipzig and Nuremberg on our own. 

 

And I think my hearing is finally back to normal.

The Next Time I Travel I'm Packing A Barista

There are moments in life when you just have to stop and ask yourself, “How did I end up here?”  My most recent “What were you thinking?!” moment hit one Monday afternoon in Paris, France, while I stood alone at the intersection of Rue Auber and rue the day I stepped onto that airplane because it was two o’clock in the afternoon and I still hadn’t located a decent cup of coffee and I couldn’t speak enough French to ask where I could find one. There were rumors of a McDonald’s in France. I had seen the advertisements. I couldn’t find a pair of golden arches anywhere.

Coffee.  I just needed one decent cup of coffee. Just one. Was that too much to ask?

All my life I’ve been told that Americans are culinary Neanderthals. I'm not buying it. Europeans think they have coffee.   Espresso, essentially tar in a tiny cup (and only half a cup at that), is a delicacy to be sipped and enjoyed.  The only alternative to this heart stopping caffeine bomb that tastes like the sole of my shoe is Nescafe. Seriously.  Nescafe.  It’s the used-car lot of instant coffees. Any self-respecting caffeine addict would rather have DT’s than drink that sludge.  It was in every hotel room and on every breakfast table.  There wasn’t a middle ground.

I know that I should have been enjoying the stunning architecture of the Place de l'Opéra, which was right in front of me. And at some level, I did.  It’s a big, old, building with lots of “gilded galvanoplastic bronze busts,” (I stole that line from Wikipedia) but quite young by European standards, having only been built in the 1860’s. At that moment I had bigger issues, one being my long delayed breakfast beverage and the other being I had no idea where I was or where I was going and had long since given up hope of finding my anchor landmark, that one iconic French structure that told me the general direction of my hotel.  The Eiffel Tower is shorter than you’d think.  So if you decide to use a landmark as your base of reference for travels, pick a tall one. Paris, I quickly realized, is uniformly seven stories tall with winding streets, which made locating the tower nearly impossible if you wandered more than fifty feet away from its base.

I experienced a moment of almost spiritual ecstasy when three miles to the east later I saw a Starbucks. My inability to speak the language took a second seat to the knowledge that I could get my fix.  I mustered all my courage desperation and entered the store, knowing that a few basic rules could get me to my goal. First and foremost, it is important in France to acknowledge the person who is waiting to serve you by looking them in the eye and saying, “Bonjour!” That’s easy enough.  Show them respect as a human being by saying “hello.” Americans could practice this more often.  The second rule is to end the transaction with “merci.”  Since the average non-French speaking American is completely at their mercy when conducting business as important as getting your first decent cup of coffee for the day, saying “thank you” is a good thing.  It’s also shorter and easier than asking Google to translate into French, “Oh thank you, dear Jesus, for providing this life-giving nectar of Colombian goodness and the sweet barista who provided this joy. Mademoiselle, will you marry me?”

I stood back and watched a few people in line just to get the ebb and flow of the place before I stepped up and ordered. I had been practicing, muttering my order over and over until it was my turn.

“Bonjour!” I smiled at the barista. 

“Bonjour,” she replied. 

“Un venti café, S'il vous plaît.” One venti-sized coffee, please. But my pleasure at ordering in French was short-lived. I was at Starbucks, where any order that doesn’t have 17 steps just simply cannot be believed.  

The lady behind the counter looked at me and asked in heavily accented English laced with disbelief, “Just black coffee?” 

“YES!” I shouted gleefully.  Several customers turned and stared.  There weren’t a lot of raised voices in France.  Outside of a moment of sheer terror when it looked like the Citi issued credit card would not work (I have a LOT to say about dealing with Citi) and I didn’t have a Euro to my name, the remainder of my suddenly well-caffeinated day of exploration was enjoyable. I meandered through the streets of Paris indulging in every architectural sight that caught my eye until I was completely lost.  It was fun.

Yes, Arby went to Europe, where every day felt like it was man against the world. It was an eighteen day adventure with the The Boss, a cell phone, a few friends, and our wits.  And if you want, you can read all about it here. I’ve decided that it is time to Return to Bedlam.

Oh, Not Again!

Do you remember what happened the last time the Boss went out of town?

Anyone?

Yep. That was the week I discovered that washing your checkbook in a clothes washer is not a good idea.

Guess where the Boss is this week?

Anyone?

Yep. She’s out of town.

Did I ever tell you that for Mother’s Day last May we bought the Boss a set of 800 thread count sheets? They’re not cheap. They’re really comfortable. She really likes them. She’s very protective of them.

So, as frequently happens when the Boss is out of town, I found myself in bed last night with both Captain Chaos and Major Havoc. All night. It’s not very comfortable, what with all the nocturnal gymnastics taking place.

And the bloody nose.

To look at the pillow case, the expensive 800 thread count pillow case, the Captain should have bled to death. She actually woke up in a cheerful yet slightly unsightly mood.

Why do these things always happen to me? Why do these things always happen when the Boss is on a business trip?

I discovered something this morning. I discovered that if you strip the bed immediately upon waking, pour laundry detergent directly on the blood stains, and wash the sheets in hot water, 800 thread count sheets will shed all remnants of a bloody nose. Nary a mark. I’ve never been able to do that with 100 and 200 thread count sheets. There’s something to be said for the extra expense.

And if the Boss doesn’t read this post, she’ll never know how close she came to killing me.

Happy New Year!

Nothing says “Happy New Year!” like hanging drywall, which is exactly how I spent New Years Day. We know how to party like rock stars here in Kansas.

Like sheet rock stars.

This isn't the large, 12 X 35 X 8 room that we finished last summer.  This is a smaller room in the basement that was finished, but developed a leaky pipe behind the sheet rock and had to be demolished and repaired.  It will be completed soon.  I installed can lighting, an outlet, hung the sheet rock, and began mudding last weekend. I'll be sure to post a picture of the finished product. 

Since it is Monday, I have to release the results of my “Should I Change the Boss’ Name?” poll. I knew that Crossview was only joking when she suggested last Monday that I should call the Boss “the Saint” for everything that she puts up with here at home, but I thought a poll would be fun and maybe there’d be some witty comments from readers.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

The reaction was more like shock and appall. I guess after two and half years of “the Boss,” a name kind of sticks. I never had any intention of changing her name because, well, let’s face it, I know her deep, dark, ugly secrets. This is the woman who went to the store and purchased a can of Va-Va-Voom to paint the chicken coop, leading to the Best Little Chicken Coop in Kansas. She’s the woman who removed the exhaust hood from over the stove while it was still connected to a live electrical circuit, only to dump the device into my hands when she discovered a dead bird inside the exhaust duct before bolting to the other end of the house. This is the woman who bypasses all of the cold Diet Cokes in the refrigerator and drinks a warm Diet Coke from the case in the trunk of her car because a warm Diet Coke served over ice melts the ice while a cold Diet Coke doesn’t melt the ice and it is a matter of great importance to her that the ice in her Diet Coke melts. Occasionally she hugs my perfectly cold pillow when we climb into bed and doesn’t return it until it is warm all over and unsuitable for sleeping.

And she’s a Packer fan.

I may have to spend a week and write a tribute to the Boss, resurrecting old Arby’s Archives posts about this woman I am in love with and who never fails to keep my life…interesting.

Fourteen people voted. The results were 12-2 against changing her name. Add to that the fact that the Boss was the very first person to vote in the poll, and she voted to retain her blog moniker. Since she is the Boss, that sort of ended the poll right there.

But thank you to everyone who played along.

The Saint?

I was trying to cook dinner. I was attempting to place a hot meal on the table when the Boss arrived home from work. She arrived ten minutes before the meal was completed. That was the perfect amount of time, she decided, to make one of her favorite Christmas cookies. In my kitchen. As I was finishing dinner.

The cookie wasn’t that complicated. Place square pretzels on a cookie sheet. Place one unwrapped Hershey’s Kiss on each pretzel. Bake until they are soft but retain their form. Remove them from the oven and place one M & M on top of each Kiss, smushing down the tip. Allow to cool. Eat until satiated or your teeth feel fuzzy, whichever comes first.

Simple, right?

Yes, if you had twenty minutes with nothing better to do. But the Boss got it in her head that she needed to use the oven as soon as the garlic bread was removed so as to not waste the preheated oven and turn it back on later in the evening. That meant that while I was in need of my corner of the kitchen, the corner with the most counter space (next to the utensil drawer and the pots & pans cabinet and the stove and the sink), she decided to unwrap a bag of kisses and place them on the pretzels. This is my corner, you understand, where I get the majority of my cooking and meal prep completed. Honestly, if I wanted any chance of getting my meal on the table while the food was hot, I had to speed unwrap a bag of kisses for her while she placed them on the pretzels. I did. We finished that task in five minutes. It’s harder than you think when you’re in a rush. We baked them in a 425 degree oven for a minute or two and then placed the smaller candies on top.

The Boss wheedled her way into my corner with a charm offensive that needs to be seen to be appreciated. It was the same charm that my daughter uses against me when she wants something. It’s that charm that causes women to say, “Oh, she’s got daddy wrapped around her finger.” Guys, we do this to ourselves. We allow our daughters to perfect cute smiles and little giggles on us when they are young, and then we unleash them on the poor unsuspecting fool that they marry. These guys have no chance. They’re beaten before they start. What’s worse, they don’t even know it!

But, I digress.

This is the woman whom Crossview suggested I should call “the Saint” instead of “the Boss” in the comments section of yesterday’s blog, because she tolerates situations like the topic of yesterday’s blog and the fact that I share them here. Crossview may have a point, but the Boss is the leader of the Sock Commandos, an elite squad of four bandits who remove their socks the moment they enter our house and toss them…everywhere. You’d be shocked to learn where I’ve found dirty, balled-up socks. Their piggies really like their freedom. There are other sides to “the Saint.”

I could go on, but for the sake of a happy marriage, I will simply direct your attention to the poll on my sidebar. Each reader gets one vote. Should I change the Boss’ name to the Saint? I’ll leave the poll up for a week and share the results next Monday.