U-Pick: Spineless*

On Saturday night, I made fish for dinner. Well, I made the salsa that went on top of the fish, and when Tiffany got home, together we slathered olive oil on the fillets, dusted them with salt and pepper, and put them in the broiler with a chunk of onion on top. In the process, we set the fire alarm off a few times and ran around the apartment opening all four of our windows and our front door.

Anyway, the fish had a lot of bones in it. One piece had more than the other, so Tiffany said she would take it. She knows I have a slight fear of fish bones. When I was about six, I choked on a bone in a restaurant in Florida and had to have an emergency room doctor reach down my throat with what looked like a long pair of tweezers. I boycotted fish for eight years.

After we took our fish out of the broiler and discarded the charred onion slices, we sat down to eat. I chewed each bite 164 times, just to be sure. Half-way through dinner, the edge of my plate was lined with the near-translucent spines.

"Man, this fish does have a lot of bones," I said.

Tiffany looked at her plate. Then, she looked at mine.

"Oh no!" she said. "I gave you the wrong plate! That was supposed to be my piece! I haven't found a single bone!"

"That's okay," I said, "one of us has to have the one with a lot of bones."

"I know, but I didn't want it to be you."

That's the kind of thing Tiffany does (or tries to do) all the time, and it made me smile. But only for a second. I had to keep chewing.

*This final January U-Pick brought to you by Tiffany, who suggested I write a post in which she does not look obsessive-compulsive (see here and all posts under the label "Tiffany's Favorite Task"), grumpy (see here) or nerdy (see the title of my blog). I don't think she's any one of those things more than any other human on the planet, including me (in fact, I think she's those things far less than most humans on the planet, including me), but I see her point. Still, as anyone with half a brain can understand, it is only because Tiffany is so wonderful that I get to write about those things at all.

U-Pick: In the Front Yard*

When I was little, I used to get my brother a pair of goalie gloves or a "Calvin and Hobbes" book every year for Christmas. One or the other. And then I'd be furious when he guessed my present by the shape of the wrapping. But I knew I couldn't go wrong with those gifts. He loved "Calvin and Hobbes," and we loved soccer. Our favorite thing was to practice break-aways against each other in the front yard.

Neither one of us was a goalie. And we didn't have a goal, per se. We had a short, squat green electrical box with a sticker that said "DO NOT DIG!" and a good-sized rock that we moved behind the box when we mowed the lawn. Our goal was not regulation size. It was about eight feet across, I'd say. Small enough to give us a chance at stopping each other's shots and big enough to let some of our shots go through, making the game fun for both of us. No net. We shot toward our neighbors' house, and, bless them, they never once complained when our balls bounced off their windows or banged against their cars, which they eventually began to park in the street.

"And here comes Rebecca, on a break-away... all by herself toward the goal... she shoots... she misses! She blows it, folks... she blows the world cup! Brandon has done it again!" my brother would commentate as I came down the length of our front yard.

"That went in!" I'd shriek. "Just inside the rock!"

"No way," he'd laugh, spitting on the gloves. "Wide right."

"Gross!" I'd scream. "I have to wear those too!"

And off I'd go, chasing my own ball. The rules were simple: you missed, you chased; you scored, goalie chased. Five shots each, then we switched. Sometimes we shot from a set point, like a penalty kick, and other times we started farther back and dribbled in.

We could play like that for hours. My dad often came home from work to find us there, shooting and saving in the dusk long after we could see the ball coming clearly. He and my mom sometimes sat on the front stoop to watch until it was time for dinner. Then, we'd file in after them with grass-stained knees, bickering over close-calls or celebrating each other's best shots.

Because I'm four years younger, our front yard games helped me more than my brother. Still, on a real field, in a real game, with a real goal, I was never very good at penalty shots. I found the goal intimidatingly big, which made me all the more terrified to miss. And, more terrified, I did miss, many times.

But on a breakaway--dribbling full speed with my brother's voice in my head and the memory of the rock--well, that was just pure jubilation.

*This post brought to you by my brother, who suggested I write about my favorite soccer coach. Though I had many other excellent (and real) coaches--including a couple who occasionally read this blog--he was the most fun and infuriating. To find out how you can suggest a blog topic for one more day, click here.

Warning: Irritability Ahead

It happened on the stairs, somewhere between the fourth step and the fifth step. Right after I asked Tiffany if I could help her with the six bags she was trying to carry and just before one of those bags dropped from her clutches.

"Okay, I just got really irritated," Tiffany said.

I glanced up at her, as I tried to untangle a couple of the bags from her fingers and thumbs. She didn't look irritated. In fact, she was sort of smiling.

"Not at me," I ventured.

"No, not at you," she said.

I laughed.

"I don't know what happened; I can't explain it, but I wouldn't laugh too hard," she said. "Otherwise, I might get irritated at you."

I followed her up the stairs, swallowing my chuckle.

"I'm laughing, but that's only because I can't do what I want to do, which is scream and punch someone," she said.

I dropped back ever-so-slightly.

"You have the keys," she reminded me.

I hurried around her to open the door. By this time, we were both laughing, for real. All irritability and potential irritability had passed.

Usually when Tiffany and I get irritated, we don't warn each other that we're getting irritated. And usually when one of us gets irritated, the other gets irritated as a defense mechanism. So we might go from loving each other to not being able to stand the sight of each other in an instant.

One morning, for instance, I planned to sleep in a little bit instead of going to the gym before work. I wanted to have a leisurely breakfast and also to write some. But Tiffany came home between clients.

"Good morning!" she called as she opened the door.

"What are you doing here," I said, grumpily.

I explained why I was being mean but only after I had been mean. By that time, she already wanted to be mean back. We barely recovered before I had to leave for work.

But, occasionally, sometimes, once-in-a-blue-moon, like the other day on the stairs, we are able to pull off that miracle of couple-dom: communication.

And it never fails to surprise us that it actually works.

You Want to Put that Where?

Yesterday Tiffany actually had one-quarter of a weekend because she finished up her first chemistry class. One month down, three to go (don't worry, the blog will continue... under the same name too, even when she moves on to biomechanics or physics or American history or whatever's next...I mean, this is really a study of couple-dom and couple-dom is all about chemistry, right?).

Anyway. Guess what Tiffany wanted to do with that time off... organize. That's right. Nothing makes Tiffany happier than rolling up her sleeves and moving sh*t around. Well, almost nothing. I have to say, it was fun. We actually hung some pictures on the walls, which, in Tiffany's mind, means we now live in the apartment we've been occupying for five months. And we hung some Turkish lamps that my mom bought us and put little tea candles inside them. They look really pretty.

After a few minutes, though, the apartment began to look like we were moving out, which is sometimes what happens when an over-excited organizer bites off more than she can chew. We emptied out one closet and half of another, and then filled them back up with the same stuff, switched.

"You know, some things are actually okay where they are," I suggested as I reached for a box she was handing me from off a shelf.

"Huh?" she said.

"Never mind."

It was her day, after all.

"I was thinking I'd put your filing cabinets up here," she said. "When you need to get in them, you can use a stool."

"Filing cabinets" is a euphemism for the plastic Tupperware bins we bought when the filing cabinet we were sharing became too small for all the paper we're accumulating as we get older and more complicated.

"Up there?" I said. "But I file stuff in there! They need to be easier to reach, like they were on the floor in the corner."

"How often do you file stuff?" she asked.

"Twice a month!"

She burst out laughing.

"So, twice a month, climb up on a stool and file," she said.

"Okay," I said.

After a while, I left her to her bliss and went to work on notes I'd been meaning to put in the mail to people (Yes, I still mail actual mail.)

But every so often, she'd call out to me with a question from the corner of one of the closets and I'd respond without any expectation that she'd do anything other than exactly what she wanted to do.* Which is fine. Her day and all.

"I'm about to throw this Christmas wrapping paper away," she said, holding up the "Ho Ho Ho" paper we'd used three years in a row. The red and green paper barely made it around the cardboard tube anymore and hung in tattered rectangles from where I'd cut around presents.

"But we use that!" I cried.

She waited.

"Once a year," I finished.

*Tiffany's organizational skills, as I've noted on this blog before, are superb. Our apartment is much improved.

U-Pick: The Wheels on the Bus...*

As I've chronicled here before, Tiffany and I are very thrifty (read: cheap). If there's a deal to be had, we will have it. If it requires bargaining, that means I have to walk away and let Tiffany work her magic because I absolutely cannot haggle. Here's how I haggle:

"Oooh, what a pretty scarf!"

"$20."

"Okay."

But some deals are simply choices you make. And, when they turn out to be terrible, no-good, very bad choices, you can always return to that moment when you might have chosen something else. This is what we call self-torture. Here's a choice Tiffany and I made in Vietnam:

For maximum efficiency, we liked to travel at night and on trains. Although it took longer, it was cheaper than a plane and it meant we didn't have to pay for the cost of a hotel.

Then we discovered the overnight bus.

The man in Hanoi who helped us book our travel and let us use his bathroom and stand in front of his fans (when the electricity was working) told us an overnight train from Hanoi to Hue would cost us about $40 each. The overnight bus? $14.

Tiffany and I looked at each other, then at the picture of the overnight bus our travel agent held up. It showed a sleek traveling machine with two rows of seats that reclined fully. The seats had clean white pillows and blankets that had been turned down neatly.

"The drivers here..." Tiffany began, about to point out that the Vietnamese didn't seem to follow any discernible traffic laws. And we hadn't even seen a highway yet.

"I know," I said, "but we can save $25 bucks each! That's four nights in a hotel."

"Bus!" we told our friend, handing over the cash.

The bus didn't leave until 7 p.m. that night. We made our way to the proper street corner with a bag of fresh pineapple and two loaves of french bread to enjoy as we reclined.

"That's not our bus," I said as we arrived, eyeing a rickety-looking thing that was emitting frightening noises as it idled.

I tried to peer around the bus for the sleek traveling machine I'd seen in the picture. There were no other buses.

"That's not our bus, right?" I asked, my voice starting to rise.

Tiffany, sensing my panic, already had made herself calm and brave. This is one of many things I love about my girlfriend. At the time, of course, I had no appreciation for her stoicism.

"Tiffany," I pleaded, as other nervous-looking tourists began to board.

We got in line. I took one step up onto the bus and stopped. This bus didn't have two rows of spacious, sturdy seats. It had three rows of narrow, grimy looking seats. And each row had a top and bottom bunk.** My palms started to sweat.

Tiffany tried to nudge me on but my arms shot out and gripped the sides of the door. I literally could not move forward. The line of tourists started to back up behind us.

"I can't," I said. "I can't get on this. It's like a death trap."

"Do you want to skip it?" Tiffany asked. "Go try to catch a train?"

I thought of the sunk cost and shook my head.

"Pick a top bunk, that way it's not so claustrophobic," she whispered.

The only top bunk left was in the back of the bus. Unlike the rest of the bunks, which were divided into three rows, the back top and bottom bunks had room for five people. I took the "seat" closest to the window, leaving Tiffany to fend for herself against her Vietnamese neighbor, a teenage girl who seemed to have no qualms about spending 14 hours next to the god-only-knows-how-old engine of a bus being driven far too fast on far too narrow roads.

"Do you see an emergency exit!?" I hissed. "I mean, in case we, like, tip over?"

Tiffany shook her head.

"Where's the bathroom?" she asked.

A fellow tourist pointed halfway up the bus. We peered, and saw a door for little people. I closed my eyes and began shutting down all my mental and bodily functions.

Tiffany reached for a piece of pineapple. I decided to shut down her bodily functions too.

"Nope," I said, stuffing the fruit, the bread and our waters into my backpack. "We are not eating or drinking anything. We are not using that bathroom."

And we didn't. Fourteen hours later, when we stopped for breakfast (we still had two hours to go), Tiffany and I slipped carefully down from our bunk and made our way to the door, stepping over the Vietnamese people we had picked up throughout the night who were sleeping in the aisles. Our bodily functions were functioning again. We followed the signs for the toilet.

It was, like all the other public bathrooms we had seen, a hole in the ground.

But you know what?

We were still alive to see it.

*This post brought to you by Courtney, Tiffany's childhood friend who reads my blog even though she's never met me (thank you!) and suggested I write about our worst travel experience. To find out how you can suggest a post topic, click here.

**The picture shown here is the view from our rear top bunk.

Conquering the Chip that is Not a Chip

"Just bite through it," I said to Tiffany, as I watched her struggle to tear through a baked kale chip.

"I'm trying," she said, "but I feel like a cow."

She meant she felt like a cow because we were chewing stems and leaves, obviously, not because she was over-eating. It's not possible, I think, to over-indulge on kale, no matter how you cook it.

Last night, we put our kale in the oven, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with salt. We baked the leaves for 15-minutes: kale chips.

These chips we served on the side of our turkey burger. Yes, we've hit a new low--or high, depending on your point of view: turning our greens into crispy snacks.

"There's got to be a better way," Tiffany said, as she hunched over her plate.

I was hunched over my plate too, trying to sever the stem of a kale chip with my left incisor without letting all my leaves--the crunchiest, tastiest part!--crumble off.

"Yes," I answered through the side of my mouth, "cut the leaves into bite-sized pieces before you bake them like I said."

"You don't like them," she said sadly in between crunches.

(The kale chips were her idea.)

"Actually, I do."

(I really did.)

I licked my fingers and blocked the ghost of french fries past from my mind. Not that we don't eat french fries anymore. It's just, french fries are a Saturday-Sunday food (turkey burgers normally are too, but we needed a protein). We had kale in our fridge on Tuesday. Baking it seemed inspired.

The biggest downside we discovered later.

"Oh my god," Tiffany exclaimed as she tore a piece of floss and looked at her teeth in the mirror. "Why didn't you tell me I had kale in every tooth?"

"I didn't notice..." I said, pushing her out of the way to smile at myself. "Oh wow. Me too."

In other words, don't serve kale chips at a dinner party unless you serve them with a side of floss.

U-Pick: Lost in Translation*

When Tiffany and I arrived in Siem Reap, Cambodia last June, we were two and a half weeks into a three week vacation. Having spent the early part of our trip traveling down the coast of Vietnam, we had grown accustomed to the mostly- smiling-but-very-aggressive touts selling their wares. Samet, the tuk-tuk driver who picked us up outside the Siem Reap airport was no different. On the spot, he offered to motor us around his country's famous temples for the duration of our stay. Tiffany and I nodded, non-committal, and gulped the bottled water he handed us from a little cooler in his carriage. It was hot, and we didn't have any idea where we were staying that night. We weren't ready to think about tomorrow.

"I take you to river of 1,000 peenies," he said, smiling broadly. "With a waterfall!"

Tiffany and I looked at each other. We had no idea what he was talking about, but any kind of river sounded lovely in the Cambodian heat.

"Pennies?" I asked. "Like shiny coins?"

He nodded, but his smile faded a bit and he looked confused.

"Sure," we said.

When Samet dropped us off, he wrote his number on a scrap of paper and made us promise to call him. For our first full day, though, we hired an English-speaking guide to show us some of the beautiful Angkor Wat temples. On our second day, exhausted by the long dissertations our guide provided--helpful as they were--we decided to forgo the background noise. We called Samet to take us to see the sights and threw our guide book into our backpack so we could read about them ourselves.

About half-way through the day, Samet pulled into a turn-off, parked his tuk-tuk in the shade and waved his hand toward a steep rocky path.

"River of 1,000 peenies," he said, before ambling off to sit with some other drivers.

Tiffany and I made our way to a sign at the base of the path, which informed us we had about a mile climb. We looked down at our flip flops, shrugged and started up. The thought of a river to splash around in was heavenly-I didn't even care about the pennies anymore. We hadn't stopped sweating since we touched down in Vietnam.

The path, which cut through a jungle, was wide in some places and narrow in others. There were butterflies everywhere, and they landed on Tiffany's feet every time we stopped to take a drink of water. No matter how still I stood, they wouldn't come near mine.

"I wonder why the pennies are here?" I asked as we climbed, picturing a wishing-well. "Seems strange, doesn't it?"

Tiffany shrugged, picking her way around a pile of rocks.

Finally, we reached the top. Sticky and stinky, we made our way to where a handful of people were milling about, looking down. We looked down too. The rock was carved with people, animals and, everywhere we looked, pedestal-like shapes.

"Ohh, pretty," I whispered to Tiffany, reaching for our guide book. "But where are the pennies?"

In fact, there weren't any pennies. What there were, according to the book, were 1,000 of the pedestal-like carvings, called lingas--a Hindu symbol of the phallus.

"Penis!" I said. "It's a river of 1,000 penises not pennies!"

The people around us stopped admiring the penises to stare. I closed the book.

Tiffany covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

We spent a few minutes walking around the lingas, which were carved onto the bottom of what would have been the river Samet had promised but for the fact we had arrived just before Cambodia's rainy season. The waterfall, too, was a disappointment--little more than a trickle.

But who could complain? The climb was beautiful, there were butterflies and, although I can't speak from experience, I've heard peenies sometimes do fail to deliver.

*This post brought to you by Nana, my 86-year-old grandmother who reads my blogs after they've been printed out in large font on actual paper and suggested I write about Vietnam and Cambodia (sorry, Nana! It was the first story that came to mind!). To find out how you can suggest a post topic, click here.

On Walnuts*

During winters when I was growing up, my mom always kept nuts--mostly pecans and walnuts--in a bowl with a set of crackers on our coffee table. If you've ever had the pleasure of visiting a house my mom lives in, you've probably seen the nuts or even cracked and eaten a few yourself. If you've never had the pleasure of visiting a house my mom lives in, well, I just feel sorry for you. My mom can make any house a home.

Anyway, I was at the farmers' market last week and one of the stands was selling whole walnuts in their shell. Without thinking, I scooped a bunch into a bag and paid 75 cents to take them home. A few Christmas' ago, my mom sent Tiffany and me a bag of mixed nuts and a set of crackers, so when I got home, I put the nuts in a bowl and put the crackers on top.

When Tiffany got home that night, I told her my favorite walnut story. Actually, it's probably my only walnut story (except for all the stories about living in a house on Walnut St., where my mom lived for several years). My walnut story goes like this: once, when I was seven or eight and my brother was 11 or 12, he cracked a walnut perfectly--right along its ridged seam--and tied the halves together with a piece of string. On one half, he taped his school picture, and he gave the walnut-locket to me as a gift. Now, I don't know if my brother planned to give that walnut-locket to a girlfriend and chickened out and gave it to me instead--I loved it, and I didn't ask questions. I still have the walnut-locket, packed away in a box, somewhere underneath the house my mom lives in now.

Last night when I came home from work, I walked into the kitchen with our mail. There, on the counter, were the two perfect halves of a walnut Tiffany had cracked.

I smiled by myself in the apartment and felt... I don't know... like I'd made a big circle and come home.

*No, no one suggested I write about walnuts. But to find out how you can suggest a blog topic through the month of January, click here.

--

U-Pick x 2: In Pursuit of Passion... on the Dance Floor*

After Tiffany and I had been dating about two years, we signed up for a salsa dancing class in pursuit of a little passion. Actually, if I'm being honest, more in pursuit of some dance floor equilibrium--to see if my white-girl hips could be taught to move like Tiffany's Latin hips.

Our first mistake may have been where we signed up for the classes. Because we're uber-budget, we decided to take them at the Los Angeles community college. We had high hopes for a sexy L.A-ish environment--you know, a gorgeous teacher, hardwood floors, surround-sound. But those hopes were dashed when we arrived on the dimly lit campus and followed the handwritten SALSA! signs to a basement classroom where a dozen or so other pursuers of passion were milling about on the linoleum.

Then our teacher walked in. She was Asian, about 55-years-old and wearing grey stretch pants with stirrups. She clapped her hands to start class and arranged us all in a circle. After a brief demonstration of some simple steps, she went around to give one-on-one attention to the couples.

"Who's going to lead?" she asked Tiffany and me.

"I will," we both answered.

Tiffany gave me a look.

"She will," I said, acknowledging her superior skills.

We were the only same-sex couple in the classroom although this didn't seem to put us at any disadvantage. Tiffany was a fine leader. The problem? I couldn't seem to follow.

"Okay, you try leading then," Tiffany said after I continued to try to anticipate her move so I could make it before she did.

"No, no," our stirrup-ed teacher said, giving us both a look. She pointed at Tiffany.

The class was every Saturday night for about a month and a half. During the week, Tiffany and I would push our furniture aside to practice, but the carpet in the living room really slowed us down. We moved our rehearsals to our galley kitchen where we navigated the three feet of space between our stove and our sink. Tiffany tried to help me learn how to follow without counting out loud.

We didn't go to our salsa class graduation party. But a few weeks later, when Tiffany's mom was in town, we took her to a tapas bar with live salsa dancing. When the professionals took a break, Tiffany pulled me onto the dance floor. And guess what we found?

We could, in our own way, dance.

*This post brought to by Chris, who suggested I write about the pursuit of passion, and Jessie, who suggested I write about dancing. To find out how you can suggest a post topic, click here.

U-Pick: A Recipe*

Chicken Soup with Noodles...Dumplings...Noodles...okay, FINE! Dumplings

Tiffany and I made this recipe Wednesday night. You will need:

-1 sick girlfriend (Tiffany) who wanted chicken soup with dumplings because she'd never had dumplings

-1 thoughtful girlfriend (me) who wanted chicken soup with noodles because I was nervous about the dumplings, having only made them once for chicken-and-dumplings

-1 onion

-a few breasts or thighs of boneless skinless chicken, uncooked

-a parsnip (which you may be surprised to find looks exactly like a white carrot; in fact, after inquiring after the parsnip at the farmer's market, I realized Tiffany and I had been buying parsnips and thinking they were a special white carrot for some time)

-celery

-actual carrots

-chard (If you've never had chicken soup with chard, you're not alone--but some health-conscious sick people prefer to go with greens where no greens have gone just to have greens. Appease them. You love them.)

-chicken stock

Thoughtful girlfriend: Consult three recipes and try to please all of them.

Sick girlfriend: Briefly consult one of the recipes and dismiss it as mildly helpful but not important. Remind thoughtful girlfriend of this fact more than once.

Slice some of the carrot, some of the parsnip, some of the celery and some of the onion and throw it in a pot with chicken stock, water and the raw chicken. Bring it to a boil and simmer 40 minutes. Discard the now-mushy veggies, take out the chicken, shred it and throw it back into the broth (try not to splash thoughtful girlfriend).

Slice up new slices of the carrot, parsnip, celery and onion and add it to the broth and chicken.

For the Dumplings:

flour

baking powder

salt

butter

egg

milk

Thoughtful girlfriend: worry about when to make the dumplings the entire time the chicken is cooking in the stock. Start making them too early because you've worried yourself into a state and don't know what else to do. Mix the dry ingredients. Whisk the egg and milk together. Ignore sick girlfriend's criticism of your whisking technique. It is fine. Send sick girlfriend to the shower. Add the egg and milk to the dry ingredients. Smush it all together with your hands. Realize all of a sudden that you should have put flour on your hands. Panic. Wish you had not sent sick girlfriend to shower. Turn on faucet with elbows, wash hands thoroughly. Start over smushing. Knead. Roll out. Realize you have indeed made your dumpling dough way too early, just as you thought you would, and now it will likely dry out. Ponder this fact about yourself for precisely one minute. Have a brilliant idea--act on it: cover the rolled-out dough with a damp cool paper towel (you are a GENIUS!) Kindly wait for sick girlfriend to get out of the shower to cut the dough into piece-of-gum-sized strips even though it's your favorite part. Don't be offended when sick girlfriend also wants to make some ugly dumpling balls. Let her. She's sick, after all. Plus, you love her.

Bring your broth with chicken and vegetables to a boil, throw in the dumpling shapes one-by-one. Realize you've underestimated how puffy they get and overestimated how many dumplings to make. Decide to throw all the dumplings in anyway--who doesn't love dumplings? Add your controversial chard. Simmer (not you--the soup) 20 minutes.

Serve and enjoy!

*This post brought to you on a suggestion by Gladys, 1/2 of the world's greatest neighbor-couple, who, despite reading some of my other posts about foods (here, here and here, for starters and you can check out the handy "food" label on the sidebar for more), suggested I blog a recipe. To find out how you can suggest a post topic, click here.

U-Pick: The Six-Month Plan*

Tiffany and I don't fight about money. We both generally agree that we should save more than we spend; better yet, that's something--for the most part--we are capable of doing. We don't fight about kids because we don't have any. We don't fight about old girlfriends because we don't have any of those either.

But of all the things Tiffany and I don't fight about, where we're going to move is the biggest and most controversial.

For the last four years, Tiffany and I have been planning to move. Go ahead, ask any of our friends. They know because they're always asking us.

"So when's the big move date?" they asked us four years ago.

"Oh, in six months or so," we answered.

"So when's the big move date?" they asked us three-and-a-half years ago.

"Oh, in six months or so," we answered.

"So when's the big move date..."

And on and on and on. Tiffany and I are on what we call a rolling- six-month plan. We know we want to live somewhere else eventually. The problem? We can't decide where.

I want to live near my family, and Austin, Texas is the best place to do that. Tiffany wants to live near her family, and Boston, Massachusetts (where we met and went to college) is the best place to do that. But I also want to live near Tiffany's family and Tiffany also wants to live near mine. You can see our dilemma.

It's a delicate subject, and so we tiptoe around it. We make a point of not fighting about it. That is not to say we don't discuss it. In fact, we do. All. The. Time. But we talk about it carefully, politely and with our listening ears. In other words, we talk and talk and talk and never decide anything. Or we decide that we're moving one place and then talk and talk and talk some more and decide we really still can't decide.

We've polled our couple-friends (who, lucky dogs, mostly live near both their families). We've made pro-and-con lists on Southwest Airlines napkins after family visits and on the inside covers of paperback books (which we've then--accidentally--loaned to members of our family--whoops!).

We've flipped and re-flipped coins. We've played paper-scissors-rock. We've looked for--and found--signs. There are literal signs, like the Austin St. sign that's not too far from our apartment. There are funny signs, like when we're talking about moving to Boston in the car and "Dirty Water" comes on the radio. Then there are more ambiguous signs, like the time we sat down to watch back-to-back episodes of "Property Virgins" and the episodes were set in... yep, Austin and Boston.

It's a little running joke between us that when we do finally decide where we're going to settle down and buy all the things on our Someday List, we'll call our families and say,

"Guess what? We're moving to 'stin!"

or

"Guess what? We're moving to 'ston!"

and they won't be able to hear whether it's an "i" or an "o," and we'll hang up and just appear in whichever place we chose.

Other times, when we're really feeling stuck between a great place and a great place, we consider splitting the difference. In our road atlas, there are 11 inches between Austin and Boston.

Five-and-a-half inches puts us in Bowling Green, Kentucky.

Look for us there... in about six months.

*This U-Pick post brought to you on a suggestion by John, who thinks we should live in Boston, even though he didn't post his suggestion as a comment on my blog the way he was supposed to :). To find out how you can suggest a post topic, click here.

The Crying Game

My tear ducts have been acting up. That's what my eye doctor said recently when I went in complaining of uncomfortably dry eyes. He didn't seem worried, so I am trying not to be either, but I will say it's no fun feeling like your eyelids are sticking to your eyeballs.

Tiffany wasn't sympathetic about my tear duct issue.

"That's what you get for not using them," Tiffany said.

It's true; I don't cry much. Not over things that happen in real life or things that happen in movies (unless it's an animal movie, and then I for sure get a lump in my throat and sometimes squeeze out a tear).

Tiffany, on the other hand, cries a lot--both happy and sad tears. She cries sometimes when we fight; she cries when we make up; she cries at all kinds of movies and even some TV shows.

"Don't look at me, blackheart!" she'll yell if I catch her crying next to me on the couch while watching an episode of "The Biggest Loser."

Last weekend she opened up my Christmas present to her. It was a toy Southwest Airlines plane--a coupon of sorts for a getaway once she's finished with her weekend chemistry classes. She started crying--at my thoughtfulness or the thought of four months of weekend classes, I'm not sure. That one could go either way.

Anyway, my doctor gave me some drops that are supposed to trick my tear ducts into working again. I'm not asking for smeary-faced sobs; just a little moisture to make my blinking smooth again.

Until then, I'm all dried up. It's no laughing matter. If it was, that would be fine because I laugh a lot. I think I'll rent "Old Yeller" and see if that does the trick.

*"Congratulations, you've just read a U-Pick blog post! If you know me (as most of my readers do), thank you for reading and feel free to suggest something you'd like me to blog about. If you don't know me, thank you for reading of your own free will and not out of a sense of obligation! Even though you're a stranger, feel free to suggest a topic, perhaps something you'd like to hear more about that you've read on my blog before. All suggestions must be made as comments on my blog (not on Facebook for those of you who find my blog via Facebook). I'll pick my favorite suggestion each week and blog on it within a few days."

How (Not) to Fry An Egg

It takes a certain courage to flip an egg. At least, if you're me it does.

I made eggs and bacon this morning and, as usual, messed my eggs up. First of all, when I crack an egg into a hot skillet I can never make the white stay where it's supposed to. And then when I usher the white back around the yellow, I inevitably break the yellow. To top it off, I'm terrified of the flip, sliding my spatula hesitantly around the imperfect circle until, finally--more terrified now that my egg will burn--I inexpertly turn my wrist sending the egg in a sort of somersault onto itself. What I end up with, a few minutes later, is an ugly egg-over-hard when what I wanted all along was an egg-over-medium.

By any measure, I am a novice in the kitchen. I make a mess, and I panic, hence my egg failures. But I do try. In fact, I love to try, even with the panicky mess.

Yesterday--Day 1 of Tiffany's infamous weekend chemistry class--I made my first batch of black-eyed peas, cooking them slow so they were ready when Tiffany walked in the door (in fact she could smell them in the hallway!). We had cabbage and cornbread too--the Southerner's start to the New Year. (I started the New Year a bit differently for lunch with a coke, potato chips and french onion dip... hey, when the trainer-girlfriend is away...)

"Mmmm," Tiffany said when she tried my peas, which I'd cooked with bacon. "Did you put onion in this?"

"Yep," I said.

"Was it on the recipe?" she asked.

"Nope," I said.

"Way to go!" she said.

Indeed, it's no small feat for me to venture off the printed page, but I cheated somewhat with the peas. I actually worked from a couple different recipes and then threw in the onions and some tomatoes for good measure because I thought both recipes were wrong to leave them out.

Acting without a thought for the recipes' integrity was a big step for me, but I've still got a long way to go. Friday night we made salmon and had planned to cook it with fresh dill because that's the way Tiffany's mom cooks it. But when I got to the store, they were all out of fresh dill.

"Why didn't you pick up another fresh herb?" Tiffany asked.

Well, as it turns out, that hadn't occurred to me at all. Only "dill" was on my list. "Or another fresh herb" was not.

When we went out to get our new dishes later that night, we realized I'd forgotten the lemon for the salmon, so we stopped at a tiny Asian market to pick one up. I grabbed one--the biggest lemon I'd ever seen. It smelled delicious.

"I wonder where they get their produce?" I said as I climbed into the car.

Later, Tiffany squeezed the lemon onto our fish.

"Wow," she said. "It smells... almost sweet."

We both bit into a piece.

It was a grapefruit.

*"Congratulations, you've just read a U-Pick blog post! If you know me (as most of my readers do), thank you for reading and feel free to suggest something you'd like me to blog about. If you don't know me, thank you for reading of your own free will and not out of a sense of obligation! Even though you're a stranger, feel free to suggest a topic, perhaps something you'd like to hear more about that you've read on my blog before. All suggestions must be made as comments on my blog (not on Facebook for those of you who find my blog via Facebook). I'll pick my favorite suggestion each week and blog on it within a few days."

January Special--U-Pick Posting!

To spice things up a bit (and encourage people to read and comment on my blog), I've got a sweepstakes of sorts for the month of January.

At the end of each post this month (including the first 2011 post immediately preceding this notice), you'll see this:

"Congratulations, you've just read a U-Pick blog post! If you know me (as most of my readers do), thank you for reading and feel free to suggest something you'd like me to blog about. If you don't know me, thank you for reading of your own free will and not out of a sense of obligation! Even though you're a stranger, feel free to suggest a topic, perhaps something you'd like to hear more about that you've read on my blog before. All suggestions must be made as comments on my blog (not on Facebook for those of you who find my blog via Facebook). I'll pick my favorite suggestion each week and blog on it within a few days."

Anyway, I hope you'll suggest freely. Or, if you don't care to suggest but particularly enjoy a post, comment on that. If you do not enjoy a post, kindly close your browser and go on about your day.

Happy New Year! Don't forget to follow me, bookmark me, link to me and email me* whenever you feel so moved! Most of all, keep reading. Over 7,000 page views so far :)

*I've even come up with a handy form-letter for you to share my blog with others:

Dear (fill in your acquaintance's name):

I'm sending along this blog by (choose one: my best friend; my token lesbian friend; this random girl on the Internet; my former neighbor; my old roommate; my little sister; my sister's girlfriend; my most amazing partner; my daughter; my daughter's girlfriend; my one-time teammate) about (choose another: dumb sh*t that happens in relationships; funny sh*t that happens in relationships; well, I don't really know what it's about) because (choose again: I love it!; it's fantastic!; it's genius!; it's something to read while you're bored)

Love,

(You)

A New (Dishes) Year*

Tiffany and I still haven't hung anything on the walls of our new apartment. We moved in five months ago. Also, we're still not satisfied with the way some of our very old stuff looks in our new place. In Tiffany's view, we are "not settled." In my view, we are "still settling."

In any case, Tiffany, as I've mentioned, loves to organize. To deal with not being settled, she sometimes just reorganizes everything to see if she can trick herself into feeling settled. Or she talks about buying new things. Very rarely--given my inherent resistance to buying new things--we actually buy new things.

Last night, we bought new dishes. Now, there was nothing wrong with our old dishes, per se. Tiffany's mom Patty gave them to us when we first moved in together. Still, after six years, they've begun to show a little wear-and-tear (but come on, after six years, what relationship... I mean, dish set... hasn't?) Anyway, the coffee mugs have rings around them, and not the red rings that circle the ceramic as part of the dish set's design. I'm talking about brown coffee-stain-rings. Even I could agree it was time to replace them.

So we bought our new dishes, brought them home, and promptly started bickering about what to do with the old ones.

"Okay," Tiffany said, dragging a stool over to the cabinet. "So we'll put these old ones up here, just in case."

"What?" I laughed. "We've never had just-in-case dishes before! Why would we all of a sudden need them now?"

"I don't know," she answered. "How could I know? That's what just in case means."

I stared, incredulous, as she balanced on the stool and raised our old, coffee-stained dishes--the ones she had been complaining about for months--to an empty space at the top of our cabinet.

I laughed again (at her).

"Babe," I said. "Now you've just taken up space we could use for something else. I thought the point of getting new dishes was to get rid of the old dishes."

"What are we going to use this space for?" she returned. "We've never used it before."

"It's just-in-case space!" I said.

Well, we made up--much faster than usual for, by my count, three excellent reasons. First, Tiffany started her weekend chemistry classes today. Which means we won't see each other except in the mornings and evenings every day for the next four months. No time to waste in a fight. Also, we were cooking a really lovely dinner (salmon, polenta and goat cheese salad), which we served on our nice new plates.

Finally, we made up because, guess what, it's a New Year. Let's start over. With new dishes.

And old ones.

Just in case.

*"Congratulations, you've just read a U-Pick blog post! If you know me (as most of my readers do), thank you for reading and feel free to suggest something you'd like me to blog about. If you don't know me, thank you for reading of your own free will and not out of a sense of obligation! Even though you're a stranger, feel free to suggest a topic, perhaps something you'd like to hear more about that you've read on my blog before. All suggestions must be made as comments on my blog (not on Facebook for those of you who find my blog via Facebook). I'll pick my favorite suggestion each week and blog on it within a few days."