Halloween Memories

My favorite part of Halloween wasn’t trick or treating. It was sorting the candy afterward. I would dump my bag out on the living room floor and separate the chocolates from the suckers from the crappy Smarties or gum drops or those other lame, lame candies.

The part I really didn’t care much for was dressing up. It always seemed like too much effort for an hour of walking around the block. I never put much thought in it, not as a kid and definitely not as an adult.

While this isn’t a definitive list here is the general breakdown of my childhood outfits starting with the totally un-PC hobo.



Then I was a:
hobo, again
a doctor



then a dead doctor
and finally . . . a dead hobo!!!

Creative, huh.


A couple side notes: Yep, my brother dressed as the Domino's Pizza Noid, totally cool. And I want to thank my folks for finding these old photos for me. I've been laughing at them all day.

We’re Gonna Get Rich!

Leah and I have come up with a genius, I’m telling you GENIUS, plan to make loads and loads of cash.

Are you ready for this? We are going to write a cookbook.

I know what you’re thinking. There are hundreds of cookbooks. We have no publisher. And we really can’t cook. Ahh… But we do have a gimmick. Here is our working title — “Don’t Cook Book: Tips for Beginning Chefs from Beginning Chefs.”

We could explain how we liquefied chicken enchiladas, cooked french toast that was crispy on the outside and gooey in the inside and made a homemade macaroni and cheese that didn’t even taste like cheese.

In fact, I think we could create our own genre — “How Not To” books. We would entertain people with our own blunders and let them learn from those mistakes.

Our second project could be How Not To Fix a Car. I could explain how I tried to fix a radiator, when I didn’t even know what a radiator looked like. I ended up hooking the overflow hose into the fan, so the next time my car overheated, I shot antifreeze right into the fan motor. Brilliant! And totally embarrassing.

Think of all the possibilities. How Not to Iron Clothes. How Not To Rent a Quiet Apartment. How Not To Kill Bugs.

Don’t worry. I won’t be one of those guys who promises NOT to change when they become wealthy. I will become more arrogant, more elitist and generally more snotty. Then I will write How Not To Treat People When You Quickly Become Filthy Rich.

That book will be dedicated to all of you.

Borence

For the last year or two, Matt and I have been casually working our way through the American Film Institute's Greatest 100 American Movies of All Time. The AFI has several lists, from the greatest comedies to the greatest drug induced movies (OK, so they don't have that one yet.) We decided to start with the most pretentious sounding of the bunch.

Matt and I started by checking off the ones we've seen, which was a little less than half. Then it was time to choose our first film. "2001: A Space Odyssey" seemed like a good one. It was one we heard of and there are a lot of pop culture references to it, so we thought why not?

Well, after the first five minutes, we came up with the why nots. The first half hour has no dialogue. I suppose that's fine if something interesting is happening, however, I wouldn't classify men dressed as monkeys hopping around and scratching themselves as interesting. If I did, I'd probably like football.

That first film was a painful experience. We ended up fast forwarding through several scenes, including 10 of the last 11 minutes. The very last minute was especially confusing, and we had to turn to this Internet tutorial to make sense of it. I strongly advise this CliffsNotes version for the deepy details.

After" 2001", we decided to pick better, and for the most part we have. But there was a pesky one in the top five we've needed to check off but have been dreading…."Lawrence of Arabia" or as I now call it, "Borence." This nearly FOUR hour doozey is just as dull as it sounds. If you were about to run out and pick it up, allow me give you the CliffssNotes: Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Camel riders don't straddle. Obi-Won Kenobi is an Arab. And watch out for quicksand.

Borence was clearly the brussel sprout of this AFI meal so far. Here's hoping our next pick is the cake!!

Ralph Thinks Law School is Yummy

Pleaz Whiz!!!

For you, dear readers, Leah and I have devoured a whole bunch of cheesesteaks from all parts of this famous city. Consider it a not-so-scientific hunt for the perfect sandwich by some novices.

First, I will tell you what makes a great cheesesteak and then I will let you know where to get one.

The real key to a good cheesesteak is the bread. The best have a nice firm roll. Not one that you have to work to chew, but one loaded with taste that rips with each bite and doesn’t get soggy with a little grease.

Next comes the cheese. The most famous of places lean toward the Cheez Whiz, but many also offer provolone, pepper jack, swiss and ew, American. I’m partial to the Whiz. So is Leah. Good thing, because I would have had to kick her out of the house otherwise.

Then comes the steak itself. It appears the cheesesteak comes in two main varieties — the thin slice of steak or the finely chopped steak. Leah likes the chopped, because you don’t taste it as much. I really haven’t picked a favorite style of meat. Leah has also become a fan of the fauxsteak, which is chicken instead of beef.

The most famous steak places are in the Italian Market. The more flashy Geno’s on one corner and Pat’s on the other. Rocky Balboa liked Pat’s. And even though it pains me to say, we preferred Geno’s. Better steak, better roll.



Two other steak shops battle near our apartment. But fight ain't even close. Chubby’s stinks compared to a Dalessandro’s. They are both chopped steak places, though Dalessandro’s only does the provolone (They also have American, but we don’t count that).

The other competitor is Rick’s Steaks.


They have one at the market downtown and one near the ballpark. The bread is mediocre, but the steak isn’t bad.

OK, here is my list. Do with it what you will:
1. Geno’s
2. Dalessandro’s
3. Pat’s
4. Rick’s
And bringing up the rear — Chubby’s

A Meaty Confession

When Leah first told me we may move to Philadelphia, I had an immediate and completely irrational fear. It had nothing to do with crime rates, the East Coast or the horrible 76ers.

I feared the cheesesteak.



For those who know me well, this is probably a total shock. But it’s true. I may have been a founding member of Meat Club in high school; I may be the guy who would prefer two burgers instead of a burger and fries; but I’m also the guy who really doesn’t like bell peppers and who completely despises onions.

I knew if we moved here, people back home would ask about the cheesesteak and I would have to lie. What was I supposed to tell them? That I’m a lover of meat but I can’t stomach the signature food of my adopted home?

Shame. I felt deep shame, I tell ya.

Until we visited Philly. Then I just about danced in the streets.

Get this...in Philly, the PHILLY cheesesteak doesn’t come with onions or peppers. It is meat and cheese on bread. Nothing is as simple or as beautiful as that.

Sure, you could get onions if you want, you could slather the thing with peppers too. But ya gotta ask for it. You could also load it with sweet peppers, ketchup and marinara sauce but they are extras.

In Philly, you get what you ask for.

The real decision is where to go for your meatwich. And I will give you my thoughts on five of the most famous places tomorrow.

When “Oops” Just Doesn’t Cut It

She pulled the door closed, but Leah’s hand didn’t leave the knob. Instead her eyes grew large, she gritted her teeth and shook her head. At this moment the word “oops” would have sufficed, but she said something a little stronger.

Leah was standing just outside of our apartment. Her law books and computer in hand, her phone AND KEYS inside.

She tried to turn the knob but it was fruitless. She locked herself out.

And to tell you the truth, in this situation I wouldn’t have said “oops” either.

Now, I have no clue if this is exactly how it happened. I wasn’t there. On a normal day, Leah would tell you this sad tale herself, but she is cramming for an exam so instead you get some secondhand garbage from me (edited by her.)

Resourceful as ever, Leah asked the candy lady for help. The candy lady lives in the same building and she makes a mean butter toffee, but she couldn’t do much because she didn’t have a ladder. Leah found a handyman at a nearby apartment who not only climbed up to our window, but helped her get inside.

Slightly embarrassed, she got her things and made it to class. I bet she is more careful next time she checks the mail.

Really, the situation could have been worse. It could have been raining. She could have been in a robe. A pack of wild dogs could have tried to get her. She could have been in a robe in the rain running from a pack of wild dogs.

I told Leah this and I could instantly feel her patented “you are an idiot” look even though we were on the phone. At this moment, she could have said “yeah, you have a point,” instead she said something a little stronger.

Phugly Town

Philadelphia is blessed to be the home of the Constitution, the Liberty Bell and steak sandwiches. It is also inhabited by a bunch of fat uglies.

Surveys have found Philly to be one of the fattest places in the country and the least attractive. Washington, D.C. came in second in the ugly list.

Had we known, we would have been making phugly jokes for weeks instead of mere days.

So far we are comforted by our outsider status. We are recent arrivals who in this solitary instance, claim allegiance to Utah.

But we are afraid. We are very afraid. Will we improve (albeit slightly) the beauty of these places? Are we part of the problem? Or, what I fear the most, will we become uglier and fatter through assimilation?

I’m a little worried that this place has infected me. What do you think?

Me before Philly


Me now

The Dark Side of Frozen Pizza

No food is as insidious as a slab of pizza taken from the freezer. It pains me to criticize frozen pizza because it is a mixture of everything I love in a food — crust, sauce, cheese, convenience and cheese.

But for the 257th time in a row, I burned the roof of my mouth.

Why? Oh why can I not learn? Pizza out of the oven is hot, shoving it immediately in my mouth will burn and for the next few days I will tongue that dangling piece of seared flesh until it mysteriously disappears.

It’s the same every time. I’m like a puppy dog, running around the house panting, my tail wagging, my dumb face showing my delight. Yippy I get pizza, I GET PIZZA!

Leah takes the pie out of the oven and slam my face right into it. After that first bite, I act like it didn’t hurt and I keep eating. Then I mope for the rest of the night, promising never to make that mistake again.

But I do over and over and over.

And do you want to know what the scariest thing is? I got a freezer full of frozen pizza.

Forced Love

Now A Word From My Friendly Frienderson

Ready for a perfect case of residual laughter? I have a friend who also has a blog, one of those blogs that have a point. What a freak! Anyway, he wrote a post recently that I chuckled at. Later I laughed out loud when I told it to somebody and now I can’t get out of my head.

Linky Linkerson

Breaking News: Washington Post Finally Tells Me About Those Ugly Bugs!

I now have an answer to the question that has baffled hundreds (OK maybe dozens?) of you: What the hell was that nasty thing that invaded my D.C. apartment?

It wasn’t a spider. It was a camel cricket. Take a look at this newspaper shot of the big no-noise making, jumping, basement-loving bug that totally freaked me out.



Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had an unexpected house guest. The District is loaded with these freaky things because the area hasn’t received enough rain. In a drought, camel crickets seek moisture in basements.

Here is how the Washington Post described my nemesis: "The cricket, with arching hind legs, is typically a half-inch to an inch long. It feeds on just about anything but is said to have a particular appetite for clothing with food stains. Homeowners who don't see the bugs can find evidence of their presence on walls and joints, where they leave black smears of fecal matter. Although they can wander just about anywhere in a house, the bugs prefer dark, moist places such as garages and basements."

MMMM… Yummy.

Clark Hamilton, some dude from Alexandria, Va., said: “They look like a mutant version of aliens.”

I may have said they look like aliens. I may have said they look like mutants. It seems that Mr. Hamilton knows what aliens look like and these horrible bugs are uglier than aliens. They resemble MUTANT aliens. Doesn’t get worse than that, does it?

I never ever wanted to go home again after I had my showdown with the nasty-mutant-alien-jumping-bug-thing. That is until, Khan the Destroyer moved in.



She protects our place, though I still have to pick up the camel cricket guts she leaves behind.

Click here for the full Washington Post story. If that doesn’t work for ya, you can click here for more info.

You Have to Shave The Line Somewhere

I'm covered in arm hair, leg hair, chest hair, shoulder hair, knuckle hair, neck hair, toe hair and a little (for now) back hair.

But that's where I draw the line. I'm declaring war on all new hair and the fight starts with my ears.



At first we coexisted. The small blond hairs snuck on to my ear lobes but behaved. Nobody could see them. No problem.

But they have since become aggressive. Some now jut straight out in all directions. Some are turning brown. Based on their behavior in other areas, I’m convinced they want to take over and establish large colonies, turning my lobes into a furry disaster zone.

I have always been hairy. Always. But I’ve promised not to be THAT guy who has chest hair puffing out his shirt collar. Or the guy whose face might look nice, if you weren't so distracted by the ear and nose fur.

I didn’t think I would have to wage this battle so young, but I’m ready. Day in and day out, I vow to fight the little ear hairs with every reasonable means at my disposal.

Here is my current plan of attack. Warning: This image may be too graphic for some viewers:



For the uninitiated, that tool in my hand is called tweezers, my primary weapon. Leah is pushing me to go all the way and hire someone to shoot the hairs with a laser or something called electrolysis, but that sounds a little high-tech and a little expensive.

I’m going old school. Here is my arsenal, which should be self-explanatory.

Home Cookin’

Leah and I always fashioned ourselves as urbanites, feeding off the vibe of a metropolis, breathing in the culture and spirit of that concrete world.

Sometimes our self-perceptions are just that — perceptions.

We recently came to grips with the truth, even though we found it to be a bit painful. We are big chain lovin' suburbanites who want to live really really close to a city. We don’t want to spend our nights in a big apartment building. We don’t want to rely solely on trains or buses to go to work.

We enjoy the convenience of the burbs, even if we find it slightly embarrassing to say so publicly.

And when we are craving some home cookin, nothing tastes so good as Taco Bell. Except maybe Olive Garden, which we've had twice since moving here. We know it's pathetic that even though we now live in a city with hundreds of unique restaurant, the few times we have ventured out we have hit old reliable chains restaurants.

Damn. I never thought I was cool, but I also never thought I was this uncool.

Why Billy, why?

I love Billy Joel. In his catalog, there is a song for every mood I have. If I was on a desert island with one album, I would choose his Greatest Hits, vol. 3 ( I have the video too.) I'm also one of the 10 people who purchased his classical cd and he only WROTE it, some other guy is playing the piano.

I track his tours using Pollstar.com, hoping he'll come at least as close to Utah as Las Vegas so I can buy a $200 ticket on eBay and drive 6 hours to see him from really crappy seats at the back of the MGM Grand (that was the only time I've caught one of his shows and it was spectacular.) Obviously I'm devoted, and obviously he doesn't appreciate It. Because now that I am 2100 miles away, he is playing in Salt Lake on November 29th.

This isn't the first time he waited for me to leave Salt Lake. Back in 1998, my beloved Billy played the Delta Center while I had to go to Atlanta for a job I didn't end up having very long. Then I flew to Portland and he played there right after I left.

To add more insult to injury, I just received an email offering me first crack at seats for the concert in SLC because it's at the nuclear waste arena and Matt bought Jazz season tickets last year.

He has no plans to play in Philly, Delaware, New York, New Jersey, Maryland or Washington, D.C. any time soon. I'm sure someone must have tipped him off that I moved out this way.

I'm keepin' the faith, but my feelings are hurt.

If only . . .

In Salt Lake, our cats would glare out of the windows at birds and tell each other: "If only these damn humans would let us out for a few minutes, I would make that flying thing my lunch."

We have birds here too, but the squirrels are what catches their attention. Big, puffy-tailed squirrels that attack our garbage cans when we are gone and frolic outside the windows when we are home. And they drive the cats nuts.

SHHHHHH!!!!

Over time, every couple creates its own system to accomplish just about everything from doing the laundry, to the cooking, to the movie watching.

Oh, is that movie watching thing just Leah and me? Hmm… Well, you all are missing out. It makes going to the theater much more enjoyable. Let me explain why we developed our strategy and then I will let you in on the secret.

Leah and I used to go to the theater a lot and once she’s done with law school we hope to pick up this nice habit again. But we face a constant a two-pronged problem. One, we have no luck (not much to do about that) and two, we don’t have the ability to block out the chatter from the annoying people we always end up sitting next to.

I don’t know if you’ve picked up a pattern on this blog, but unwanted noise is kind of a pet peeve in this household.

Annoying moviegoers fit in just a few simple categories — loud eaters, narrators/commentators, comedians, in-movie text messagers and people who don’t understand the plot so they have to constantly ask the person next to them what is going on and when they get the answer they must make some stupid noise like “oooohhh.”

I will let you guess which one bugs me the most.

Before we had a plan of action, theater experiences used to end with us getting really annoyed, not having any fun and feeling like we wasted our money. But before the movie ended, we would run through the potential remedies. We would give the inconsiderate person "the over the shoulder look of annoyance." If that didn’t work, we would move to the frustrated stare, the shush, the double shush and finally the “Shut up or I will strike you with my fist.” Luckily I only got to that last one once and I didn’t have to follow through with the threat.

To save our sanity and avoid giving or receiving a black eye and a trip to county jail, we came up with a new system. I like to call it “double seating.” First, we carefully select our seats when we walk into the theater. Not the last row in the back, but close. Not too near anyone, especially groups of people who are being loud before the movie starts. That’s always a dead giveaway.

Right before the previews, we scan the remaining seats and pick backups. So when the annoying person decides to break out a burrito and some tortilla chips (yes, this happened once), Leah gives me the standard knee squeeze and we walk straight to the backup seats. So long, inconsiderate moviegoers!!!

A few ancillary rules must be followed to make this plan work.

1. You cannot be friends with people who talk or make noise during movies.

2. If you are related to any of these people, disown them. (Or don’t go to a movie with them, whatever you find is easiest.)

3. Try to avoid packed houses and opening weekends. That always makes it harder to find backups.

We have also thought of investing in a taser or hiring our own usher with a billy club, but that may be crossing the line. Hope these tips help you all as much as they have Leah and me. And if you have any other ideas, let us know.

Permanent Graffiti

I have a near uncontrollable urge to ruin perfection. More specifically, whenever I come across a piece of freshly laid concrete, I want to put my hand in it, I want to dance all over it, or maybe grab a stick and write something like “Matt was here” or “down with fat free salad dressing.”

This destructive desire is genetic I think. Yep, I’m blaming you guys. But it is also driven by the permanence of most concrete defacing. It would be there for years. A major political statement for all to see.

What would you scrawl into a sidewalk?

Here is a personal favorite, Leah and I found recently in Philly.

No End to the Noise

Sound can be smothering. Our neighbors — The Godzillas — regularly walk from the bedroom to the living room back to the bedroom then down the stairs to the garage and then back to the living room. We know. We can hear every single step.

But they didn’t know that. Weird, huh? They never hear us and had no clue that we could hear them.

We asked our landlord to place carpet over the hardwood in the upstairs place. He politely told us no. So as we wait for our lease to end, I decided to talk to The Godzillas with the hope that they can change some of their noisemaking ways.

We have no delusions that one conversation will mean much. When it comes down to it, the problem is structural. They still have to walk and talk and I’m not about to ask them to stop turning on their TV, but my thought was if I could just get his fiancée to stop wearing her heels in the morning it would help. If he would only open the garage door once in the morning instead of three times it would be something.

I waited for his football game to end. I knew it did because I heard him turn of the television, then I knocked on his door.

Godzilla appeared. This isn’t a mean Godzilla. In the Godzilla family, this would be the one who would still crushes the police cruiser as he strolled down the street, but it would be an accident. He has big feet, ya know, and he has to put them down somewhere.

I told him about our dilemma. Leah worried that his reaction would be angry or annoyed. That the conversation would lead to more noise. I expected a polite willingness to try to be quieter. Neither of us expected what we got. He looked totally shocked as he said he would try to help us out. And if I am not mistaken, a little uncomfortable by the whole thing.

In hindsight, who wouldn’t be? We know so much about his daily life and he knows nothing about ours. We know that he paces when he is on his cell phone and that he also uses that phone as an alarm that vibrates. Those vibrations travel through the walls and wake us up too.

We know when he gets up in the morning and when he leaves for work. We know he watches sports in the living room, while his fiancée watches sitcoms in the bedroom. We know when they sneeze or cough and we can hear some of their conversations.

All he knows is that we live downstairs — at least for a few more months.

One More Thing About That Carnival

This is my favorite image from the neighborhood carnival Leah and I ran into last weekend. The fries look so happy, so innocent, so tasty. Though, I don't understand what is up with Mr. Ketchup here.

Childhood Delights

At the end of the harvest, just as children are going back to school and the summer starts winding down, Brigham City, Utah shuts down for a big fruit-filled festival. They call it Peach Days and beyond some nice cobbler it also offers carnival rides in the street next to food vendors next to local artists trying to sell their creations.

Kids come to ride the rides, adults come to distract their kids and teenagers, well, let’s just say they come looking for trouble.

Leah loves Peach Days.

Growing up in Salt Lake City, my family didn’t have a nice local festival to go to. We hit the state fair from time to time, but the big thing was the amusement park Lagoon. We rode the rides all day and slept on the drive home.

Once I convinced my dad to take me on the Colossus. This coaster does a complete loop, which is a little intimidating when you fear heights like my dad does. We latched on to the safety bar with both hands and promised to keep our heads down and our eyes shut once the coaster hit the top of the ramp and started its rapid decent.

That was a promise we didn’t keep.

At the height of the loop, when we were hanging upside down, we lifted our heads and peaked. But we didn’t look at the park or the fields that surrounded it. We looked at each other.

This is childhood and for some obviously nostalgic reasons we are still drawn to it.

Leah and I passed a local carnival behind a school in Manayunk and we just couldn’t pass it up.



Our plan hit a snag. The carnival was really for 10 year olds and didn’t span much more than a little field. They didn’t even have freaky carny folks running the thing. Suffice it to say, we were a little bummed, but not deterred.

I told Leah my favorite carny food is a snow cone. In Philly, the closest thing they have is what they call “water ice.”



It isn’t nearly as good, but a cup of watermelon ice satisfied me. Leah’s favorite carnival food — Carmel apples. Good choice, huh? The carnival didn’t have this treat either, so we picked up the necessary ingredients at the grocery store.



We didn’t hit the tilt-o-whirl, the bumper cars or the Ferris Wheel (mostly because they didn’t have these things), but that didn’t stop Leah and I from having a thoroughly enjoyable evening.

A Sign of Boredom

Let me explain what you are looking at. This is a picture of an incredibly bored cat looking for something — ANYTHING — to entertain itself with. His normal activities include looking out the window at squirrels and sleeping next to that window. That is about it.

But that was before the blue string. Ralph loves the blue string. Loves it and wants to destroy it at the same time.



This is his favorite game as of late and his only real exercise, other than pouncing on Georgette. He has always liked that. But really, how long can a blue string hold a cats attention? But you combine that string with my sandal and you have Grade A cat entertainment.

Gooey + Nutty + Cinnamony = Yummy

I’ve already explained my food preferences, which I will sum up this way: I like cheese, cheese, fruit, meat and then cheese. Leah is slightly more nuanced, but she does regularly get what I call "super cravings."

When this craving on steroid attacks, it can not be satisfied in one day. She will want it again later, and then again the next week. That is, until she is totally sick of it and then we never get it again.

In Hawaii, it was dried mangoes. I don’t know how much we spent on dried mangoes there, but I do know she dragged me to Costco recently to get some more.

In Philly, her super craving is for some pecan sticky buns we found at a small Amish bakery in the Reading Terminal Market. She discovered this delight a few months back when we came here to check out the law school, and she has been totally enamored with them ever since.

While studying yesterday, her mind kept coming back to the sticky buns. Over and over again, until we rushed downtown and picked up two packages. One to freeze. She didn't even eat one yesterday but having them in the house meant she could have one whenever she wanted.

I have to admit, they are pretty tasty. When you come to visit us, we’ll make sure you get to try one.

Déjà vu (or My BlackBerry Existence)

This isn’t my first time working in Washington, D.C., going to the occasional White House briefing, sitting through long insufferable congressional hearings.

This isn’t my first time with a big clunky phone hanging off my hip either.

Back in 1999, my phone was far less stylish. I was actually teased fairly regularly for its bulk, my choice of ring tone (a computerized Beethoven selection) and my use of a belt holster.

But this isn’t 1999. We are living in the wireless age and I now spend a great deal of time in the BlackBerry capital of the world.

This is not an exaggeration. Everyone has one of these portable computers/phones/lifesuckers — even the interns and panhandlers. I think they hand them to tourists once they get off the plane.

People take “BlackBerry breaks” in the middle of conversation. Hey, in the five minutes of chatter, you might have missed the most important email ever.

When my company purchased mine, I promised to be different. But then the damn thing started buzzing. Cell phones have trained us. The slightest noise or vibration and my hand instinctively darts for the phone.

Most of the time it’s just spam.

My roommate in D.C. rigged my BlackBerry so it doesn’t vibrate every time I get an email. I guess I could have done that, but that would’ve required me to read the manual. If there is one thing my father instilled in me (other than a love of the Utah Jazz), it is an aversion to manuals or directions of any kind. In my family, we call them “destructions.”

My roommate’s kindness probably saved my sanity because I get three or four times the email I did back in Utah. If I checked my phone every time I received one I wouldn’t have time to do anything else.

Though, I have to say I’ve still turned into a junkie just like everyone else in the Beltway. Every down moment I instinctively pull the phone out of its holster. On elevators, waiting for stop lights, during TV commercials, Hell, I just checked it before I wrote this sentence.

Back in 1999, I felt a little like a telephone outcast. But now I‘m just part of the cult and I’m afraid I may never escape this time.

Like Bubba-Gump Is To Shrimp

There’s pizza, quesadillas, enchiladas, cheese burgers, cheese steaks, cheese sandwiches, string cheese, cheese curds, veggies with cheese, Cheez-Its and don’t forget Easy Cheese.

Me like cheese.

I’m telling you this because Leah and I had cheese with every meal this past weekend except for the muffin I had on the bus back to D.C. and even then she put some cheese slices in a bag for me to snack on.

Leah is a food person. She likes talking about how we could change a dish to make it just right. Maybe more spices. Maybe we should have cooked it longer. I just look at her and nod, because frankly I just don’t care that much. I eat because if I didn’t I wouldn’t have enough energy to watch sports.

OK, I have my preferences. Anything fried, anything greasy, anything that isn’t green. But I never get the same charge out of a good meal as she does, or I guess most people do.

And I turn into a whiny 5-year-old when we go to the grocery store. It might as well be a women’s clothing shop. She checks it out, compares prices, and I wander around hoping that we will get to leave soon. That is, until I see that wonderful island of foreign cheeses. I slowly walk around it, reading the great names and looking at the variety, some have nuts or even fruit locked in its moldy goodness. Then I look at the hefty price tags, slump my shoulders and walk away.

I asked Leah the other day what she would eat if she knew it was her last meal. She dodged the question by saying it depended on her cravings at the time. I know the answer.

A nice cheese plate. And maybe a really really big beer.

Stickin’ It To The Man (This Is Why Leah Will Be A Successful Lawyer, Part Two)

Remember that outrageous power bill Leah and I received a short time after moving to Philly? Remember how I told you about Leah’s thorough attempts to not only get an explanation but to get the power company to fix whatever they botched?

I’m pleased to report that we received our new power bill Monday and Leah got an apologetic phone call from the electric company this morning. Seems they totally screwed up, admitted they screwed up and promised not to screw up again.

Leah handled the call very professionally. If I would have answered it I probably would have screamed something like: “Damn straight, and if you ever EVER do it again, you won’t be hearing from me! No. You will be hearing from her.”

At which point the poor electric company employee would either burst into tears or run out of the building screaming.

Good thing she took the call.

August’s bill: $70 for eight days of use.
September’s bill: $100 for 30 days of use.

Twisted Driving Game

Don’t tell Leah, but I’m going to give you a glimpse into her sometimes morbid thoughts.

Remember this is a woman who already views strangers as potential criminals, hucksters and crazies (unless they are walking a dog, then they rock). Her views are amplified by her love of forensic and autopsy TV shows, mob movies and the latest celebrity crimes.

This also leads to our latest edition in Words Leah Has Made Up.

Body drop: A dense wooded area off the side of the road where a killer could drop a body and be reasonably assured that a passerby won’t find it for awhile.

Leah loves pointing out the “body drops” when we drive around town, like a kid pointing out slug bugs.

And Philly has its share, especially in our area. We live near a big BIG park. The Philly equivalent to Central Park, only much less central and much less cool.

It is surrounded by dense trees and meandering roads — a perfect place to throw that spare corpse.