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Triple Word Score

If you're like me, you like to party.

Hard.

By playing Scrabble.

Ain't no party like a Scrabble party, cause a Scrabble party don't stop. Until you run out of letters to play. Then it stops. But you can always shuffle the tiles and play again. All night long.

And tonight, on New Year's Eve - the biggest party night of the year - you'll know where I'll be: Sitting on the living room rug, Scrabble board on the coffee table, and Dick Clark on the telly. And there will be some snacks.

Oh yes, there will be snacks.

There was a time - not so long ago - when New Year's Eve meant dancing and drinking, music and celebrating. But my wife's 30 now. That's like 108 in cool people years. So despite my pleas to the contrary, she wants to stay in. And play board games. Like senior citizens in a long term care facility.

But that's okay. Because I am the world's greatest Scrabble player. And I love to beat my wife (at Scrabble; don't take that out of context).

I am unbeatable at Scrabble. She takes me to task at remedial games like Sorry or Connect Four, but when it comes to an alphagramized rack of jumbled letters, I'm a savant.

I'm like the Bobby Fisher of Scrabble. Except I'm not an dead ex-pat anti-American recluse who hates Jews. Other than that, I'm just like Bobby Fisher. That is, if Bobby Fisher played Scrabble instead of chess. But he didn't. So I guess we'll just leave Bobby Fisher out of this. But you get the point. Maybe.

And because I am a sore loser, I cheat mercilessly. I use proper names, acronyms, Spanish obscenities, abbreviations, slang, words with no vowels, I'll hide tiles or flip them over and use them as blanks - I'm ruthless in my no-holds-barred Scrabble play. If I'm challenged, I pout and quit. It's an effective strategy. If I find myself losing, I spill Diet Coke on the playing board or "accidentally" sweep all the tiles off with my sleeve. Fistfights are not uncommon.

It's Contact Scrabble, really.
So tonight, while you're ringing in 2009 with noisemakers and merriment, clinking champagne glasses and singing Auld Lang Syne, we'll be recalling the list of words which have a Q but no U and racing for the dictionary.

But either way, we'll all be bidding adieu to 2008 and hoping for a glorious 2009. And that's a good thing.

Because 2008 has - to use a 58-point word - SUCKED.

I'm Dreaming of a Pink Christmas

I have a general rule that I don't blog about my family. Although the material is often times priceless (see: incident in which my dad pooped in the woods at a local golf course), I would hate it if they got their feelings hurt. Because then they would stop paying on my undergraduate loans.
But seeing as how I don't technically consider my sister family, she's fair game. And so our story begins.
With only hours to go before my parents' Christmas Eve celebration - an epic event of foosball, sparkling cider and awkward small talk - the little sister Carly calls and relays some troubling news: She has pink eye.
Okay, that's gross, I say. So I guess you're not coming tonight, right?
No, she tells me. I still have food to make for the party.
A little background on this holiday get-together: For my folks, life is basically the annual Christmas Eve party interuppted by the other 364 days of the year. They spend weeks on the planning, invitations and cooking. It's a big deal.
But long ago, Mom abandoned the kitchen and left my sister in charge of the food. Well, it's not so much food as a series of experimental hors d'oeuvres and desserts - lots of them. Every year she spends the days and weeks before the party cooking and fussing over the food. So when Carly tells me the day of an event that she's come down with conjunctivitis after preparing a meal for dozens of people, I get a little grossed out.
You see, she's a kindergarten teacher, which means she's a walking inoculant. With little kids sneezing, coughing and snotting all over her each day, she carries more communicable diseases than a Detroit prostitute.
And she's making me dinner.
Apparently in her world, bacterial infections are a way of life. But I don't want her nasty pus all over my prosciutto, purulent discharge on my bruschetta, or crusty eye mucus in my tapas.
So as she's rubbing her eyes and setting out the silverware this evening, as her airborne pathogens contaminate Mom's good china, and as her swollen eyelids drip infected tears all over the finger food, I'll be returning her Christmas present for an economy-sized bottle of Visene, a bottle of Purell and some latex gloves. And maybe - just maybe - a court order for isolation and quarantine.
And hey Carly, don't be surprised if I show up tonight with an extra large Papa John's pizza and encouraging people to eat that instead.
Because I'll just be looking out for the health of our guests.
And you'll just be dirty.

Nutcracker

We keep our Christmas decorations in the attic.
There is nowhere in the world I hate more than the attic.
At the top of a set of rickety pull-down stairs on a plywood floor in dozens of Rubbermaid bins are scores of ornaments and lights, wreaths, garland, Nativity scenes, bells, stockings and reams of wrapping paper.

Each year after Thanksgiving, I am instructed to trudge up those wooden pull-down stairs and haul all of that gaudy stuff down from above the garage. Inevitably, I miss a step and turn my ankle, or scrape my knuckles squeezing a bin through the doorframe, or throw out my back lifting the unreasonably heavy tree box. Usually I'll get poked with an ornament hook or cut my finger on a shattered bauble. I'll get sick on wassail and cheeseball and end up reaking of peppermint well into the new year.

Growing up, my mother turned our home into a winter landscape that would rival even the most spirited of department store displays. She would meticulously place untold numbers of Santa and snowmen figurines, wooden sleighs, wise men, bells, candles, angels and reindeer. Each were wrapped with tissue paper and boxed carefully making decorating an all-day affair. It was all kept in either the attic or the crawlspace and it was up to yours truly to fetch it.

After I'd retrieved the goods, she would put on a Perry Como holiday album and a garish Christmas sweater and force me to stage the crèche while shouting orders from under mounds of plastic pine branches, ribbon and fake snow.

Therefore I came to dread the holiday season because I am:

A.) Unapologetically lazy; and

B.) See A.

My wife chose to continue my yuletide misery by hoarding a collection of Christmas decorations of her own. No matter how much I protest, each year the stack of Rubbermaid bins gets larger, the ornaments more plentiful, and the outdoor lights more elaborate. And guess whose job it was to schlep it all out? And then after having to stare at it until January, I'd have to box it back up and carry it back into the attic where it would take up space for another year.

However, this year the tables have turned. As she headed out of town for two weeks in early December, the decorating was left unfinished. When she returned from overseas, nary a mistletoe adorned our doorway, not a poinsettia in sight, no tinsel to be found. No one would ever guess a couple of Gentiles lived here.

Bah Humbug, and to all a good night!

But as December 25th rounded the corner and our mantle had nothing to show for it but a gathering of dust, even I of the Dickensian Scrooge-ness became a bit wistful over the lack of at least a rudimentary tannenbaum.

So we took a trip to Menards and purchased decorations the Tortfeezor way:

Two $0.88 12-inch fake trees.

Two $1.39 strands of lights.

One $0.99 box of discount baubles.

We used bent paper clips for hooks and three small ornaments that my grandparents gave us as early Christmas gifts at Thanksgiving. If you're keeping track, after tax, we spent a total of $5.86 and ten minutes on decorating this year.

Now this was a win-win for all involved. She got to decorate (albeit minimally) and I didn't have to go into the attic.

Christmas miracles, it turns out, really do come true after all.

Happy Holidays everyone!

My Evening with Fancy Muppets

I got into a little bit of trouble the other night. I attended a stage musical of the animated film The Lion King with my wife. She was very much anticipating this production. I nodded off several times during the performance. Therefore I am an inconsiderate jerk. Hear me roar.

Here's the thing, though. I'm a 29-year-old grown man. Maudlin puppet shows adapted from Disney cartoons are not really my thing. I enjoy heavy metal rock music. Football. Red meat. Yard work. Action movies.

So perhaps you can see how I don't feel that it's completely unreasonable to doze during a conversation between a talking baboon and and a gay meerkat. My wife, however, does not find me a reasonable man.

Elaborate animal constuming, Elton John power ballads spontaneously breaking out during spoken dialogue, and cute anthromorphic lion cubs in love. What's a dude not to love, right?

Hakuna Matata!

I thought I was being a good sport about it. We went with two other couples and I did my very best not to complain or show my dismay over being subjected to a three hour cuddle fest on stage. In fact, from the reviews I read, I kind of anticipated a glorious spectacle of majestic performing arts. What I got instead was a bunch of fart jokes by a purple warthog with a highly publicized worry-free philosophy.

And my favorite football team was playing that evening as well. As a diehard fan, I never miss a game. So I bought a new Blackberry with Internet capabilities last week for the sole purpose of streaming it live over my phone during the performance. Unfortunately, it was a dark theater and the bright backlighting of the phone made viewing completely impracticable, so I had to merely check scores during intermission.

But Sunday night, my wife was incensed as to how I could possibly fall asleep during the Battle for Pride Rock. I, however, was equally incensed as to how the Battle for Pride Rock was interrupting my nap.

When I was courting my wife back in college, I bought her tickets to a touring production of Les Miserables. Now listen - no straight man would ever go see a French musical about a disenfranchised tree pruner. But when a boy loves his girl, he'd do just about anything to please her. Even if it means sitting through the worst form of entertainment ever produced. But that doesn't mean he has to like it.

But here's what my clumsy chauvinistic attitude can't quite seem to convey: I don't mind going to these things as long as we're together. There was a time not so long ago, we weren't sure how much time we'd have left together. Well, now that everyone's healthy, it's easy to slip back into old habits of taking each other for granted.

So I very much enjoyed an evening out on the town with my wife.

But I didn't enjoy the stage performance of dancing, singing, personified Disney safari creatures.

Because it was stupid.

This Sedentary Life

Since we last spoke, I left you word of an embarrassing incident in which I threw up in the middle of a trial and spent approximately a week on the couch. I'm fully recovered, but it's seemed to sap all of the energy from my very being.
To add to my malaise, my wife is in England for work for a couple weeks and has left me to my own devices. Since she's been gone, I've rented every new release from the movie store, eaten through every scrap of food in the kitchen, played countless hours of video games, cleared out the Tivo, organized my iPod, re-alphabetized my CDs, and generally driven myself (and the dog) absolutely crazy. I'm bored out of my mind.
I would post more blog entries, but that would require energy and creativity. Right now those are in short supply. I totally missed the one-year anniversary of this blog as well as the milestone five-thousandth visitor.
It's cold and rainy. I immediately change into elastic waistband sweatpants when I get home from work and stare at the TV screen until 8:30 p.m. when, I have rationalized, is the minimum appropriate time to turn in for the night. I did go to a party Saturday, but I was so melancholy I left at 11.
I need to break out of this rut ASAP. I usually don't solicit comments, but I'd appreciate any suggestions.
Until then, I'll be on my couch - shirtless - with the remote control, a jar of Jiffy and a half a loaf of Wonder Bread. I know that sounds weird, but it's all I have left.

Witness this Sickness

Out of nowhere, the nausea struck halfway through my case-in-chief.
I had to ask the judge for a recess so I could run to the bathroom and lose my strawberry toaster pastry and Coke Zero.
Rallying quickly and holding the rest down for the next thirty minutes, I triumphantly finished the trial, cross-examined a witness and made a closing statement. By the time I had packed up and was ready to go, I found myself dry heaving into a trash can.
I was five hours away in some far-flung Amish county where I had to stop every 20 minutes to ralph on the side of the road. I left a little bit of myself at nearly every 30th mile marker on Highway 31. I blacked out for 45 minutes in an Episcopalian church parking lot and another half hour at a full-service Clark station. By the time I made it home I was hallucinating and had nothing in my stomach but bile, and trace amounts of Pepto Bismo and ginger ale.
This happened Wednesday. They call it a 24-hour flu, but the effects are still lingering. I'm back at work today, but I look like death warmed over. Puffy eyes, blotchy cheeks, dried vomit on my sportcoat. I'm a walking zombie, but I'm here. I just successfully negotiated my way through a relatively important meeting and can't remember a word of what I said, but apparently I gave sage legal advice.
Or not. Whatever.
I hope to be back at full strength by the beginning of the week, when I'll have more time and energy to blog about a new gadget that I bought that will no doubt change my life. See this previous post for a similar device.
Have a good weekend folks. Stay healthy.

More Notes on Sandwiches

If you know me personally (and all three of you do), it is well documented that I eat sandwiches and nothing but. Maybe soup as well, but only accompanied by at least a half-sandwich in some sort of 'pick-two' combo meal situation.
Because Earl is already taken, I am dubbing myself the Duke of Sandwich. The following is the Duke’s Treatise of Sandwiching. I will take suggestions for amendments; however, the process is quite cumbersome and it is not guaranteed that your suggestion will be considered. It’s a dictatorship, not a democracy. In other words: what I say goes.

1. Hamburgers, hot dogs, wraps, Lunchables, pitas, and open-face items are not considered sandwiches for the purposes of this discussion and are therefore not under the Duke’s jurisdiction at this time. The Duke reserves the right for annexation of these ‘pseudo-sandwiches’. Schawarma lovers should not get their hopes up, however.

2. Pickles are a garnish, not a fixin’. They DO NOT belong on sandwiches in any circumstance.

3. Sandwiches au jus are a crime against nature and will not be tolerated. Ever.

4. There is a reason for the trade embargo with our communist neighbors to the south. It’s not Fidel Castro and his fascist policies. It’s Cuban sandwiches. Cubans have nothing else to offer except cigars. As excellent as hand-rolled Cohibas are, they only serve to cancel out the Cuban Sandwich in the fair trade paradigm. The embargo shall remain. They do not belong in America. Send them back like Elián González . On an important side-note, chorizo is banned throughout the Dukedom because chorizo is gross.

5. Tuna, egg and chicken salads are just that – salads. They are side items to be served stand-alone or on crackers. You can put anything between two slices of bread and call it a sandwich, but just because you can doesn’t mean you should. It’s cheating. And you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking otherwise.

6. Grilled cheese sandwiches, PBJs, BLTs, Fluffernutters (or any marshmallow crème variation thereof), etc., fall squarely at the bottom of the sandwich food chain. This is non-negotiable. The Duke declares said sandwiches unequivocally delicious, however, due to the often-slapdash nature of making these sandwiches, they should be considered ‘snack’ sandwiches only.

7. Lunch meat/deli tray sandwiches can become transcendent and rise above their base qualities if embellished with the appropriate fixins’. Otherwise it’s just meat and bread. Boring. You’re better than that.

8. The sandwich cookie. See Oreo, Nutterbutters, ice cream sandwiches, et. al.. Not technically a sandwich, per se, but I’m the Duke and I’m breakin’ all the rules. Except Hydrox or E.L. Fudge. They're made by elves.

9. The Sloppy Joe. Great going in. Quick coming out. Still worth it.

10. Club sandwiches are wildly unpredictable and should be regarded with caution. Points will be awarded based on height of stacking and necessity of frilly cocktail toothpicks. Must be served with chips in all circumstances. Pickle spears are permitted for this entrée.

11. Submarines, grinders, heroes, and hoagies will all be considered the same for these purposes. Their ranking can fluctuate based on variation. Meatball subs and Philly Cheesesteaks are two superior examples of long sandwiches. Fast-food subs like Blimpie, Jimmy Johns or Quiznos drag down the category. But they’ll do for the on-the-go crowd.

12. Monte Cristo. Deep-fried sandwich. ‘Nuff said.

13. Paninis, melts and other toasted sandwiches are excellent if done right. Sogginess is an omnipresent danger with such sandwiches and should be monitored accordingly during preparation. But a well done melt is delightful and delicious.

14. The Reuben. Sandwich perfection. Meaty, salty, and ever-so satisfying. This is the kind of sandwich where you’re stuffed full halfway through, but you just have to finish. Even if it means knee-buckling diarrhea cramps. This sandwich openly defies the law of diminishing returns. I’ll eat one for breakfast, lunch, dinner and midnight snack. It’s that good.

15. The Leftover Sandwich. The pinnacle of all sandwiches. The summit. The zenith. The apex. Seriously, is there anything better than lunch on the Friday afternoon after Thanksgiving? Bring out the Wonder Bread, Hellmann’s and dark meat turkey – it’s Sandwich Time! Also see: Meatloaf Sandwich and cold Pork Roast Sandwich.

On the Other Hand

In spite of yesterday's post, I will wholeheartedly acknowledge how cool it is that the United States has progressed to the point that we elected a man whose race was once relegated to the back of the bus and seperate water fountains. It's pretty awe-inspiring to have this happen in our lifetime. Even a cynic like me gets a little emotional thinking that our generations were responsible for such a monumental race-relations coup.
I'm as proud as ever to be an American.
But I still can't stand Oprah.

Hey Kool-Aid!

Once again, I shamefully have to admit that I voted.

But only because Krispy Kreme was giving away free donuts to anyone with an 'I Voted' sticker. Personally, I think that voting should only be offered to folks with an 'I Ate A Krispy Kreme Donut' sticker, but whatever.

The experience itself was miserable. After an excruciatingly long wait (three minutes), I was forced into a polling booth armed with a touch screen stylus that very nearly gave me writer's cramp. I was presented with a list of names I did not know with party affiliations I did not like. They would not let me wear my iPod while voting. Intolerable.

Let me make one thing clear: Based upon my observations this morning, I am the one person on the face of Planet Earth who is neither disappointed nor joyful at the outcome of the election.

I am passionately and enthusiastically indifferent.

I will confess that my candidate of choice did not prevail. I also know in the minds of my peers that my political preference implicitly labels me a racisit bigot (I'm not) - someone who is stuck in the past and therefore vehemently opposed to any kind of progressive change (by progressive change, of course, I mean willy-nilly government spending and regulation). And therefore I must also hate Oprah Winfrey (I do hate Oprah Winfrey).

My point is this - when it comes down to it, these days, admitting you voted for someone not named Obama has the same cultural stigma as being a registered sex offender.

So I guess I am disappointed this morning. Not that the guy I voted for lost, because I couldn't care less about him. I didn't vote for John McCain, but against the pied piper's followers. I'm a little let down that our society has sold out to someone who has absolutely nothing going for him other than an eloquent speaking presence. Even his catchphrase gives away the fact that he's a Yes Man.

But the bigger issue is that I dread going to work these days. Not because I dislike work. Everyone hates work. No, I dread going in to the office because my co-workers will strut around gloating all day, reveling in their novel principals and revolutionary choice. They love to spout off clips and buzzwords from Internet articles and act like they know what they're talking about. But they think they're so regal and forward-thinking. They're so mezmorized by Obama and his even-keeled style and speechifying. They talk about his ability to unify the nation, but in their minds, anyone who may be hesitant about him is a right-wing extremist whose dogmatic philosophies will never reconcile with hope and optimism and change and blah, blah, blah.

Sheep.

But I hope I'm wrong. I hope that his seemingly shallow promises and empty high-minded rhetoric turn out to be solid plans for conscientious change. I hope he doesn't pull the rug out from under our troops. I hope that he coordinates a responsible implementation of his health care plan. I hope he's proactive in regard to the environment and natural resources without compromising our economy. If my taxes are raised, I hope their allocated appropriately.

But we'll see.

I mean, surely 56 million Oprah fans can't be wrong. Right?