Rambling Rhodes

Taking Fights To The Next Level

My girlfriend and I have been going out now for over three years, and I generally have very few complaints. I'm sure she has more than a few complaints about me, but that's just tough. She picked me and now she has to live with her poor decision-making.

We do, however, have our occasional fights. They never amount to anything big, mind you; they're more like bicker-fests. An example:

GIRLFRIEND: Did you put your clothes in the dryer?

ME: No, not yet.

GIRLFRIEND: Well, I want to do some laundry, so go put your clothes in the
dryer.

ME: If you're going to do laundry, why don't you put my clothes in the dryer?

GIRLFRIEND: Because they're your clothes, not mine.

ME: But, you're going to be down in the basement anyway, right next to the washer and dryer, so is it really that big of a deal to put my clothes in the dryer for me?

GIRLFRIEND: That's not the point! The point is that they're your clothes, and you put them in the washer, so you should be the one to take them out.

ME: Tell you what: the next time I do laundry and I find your clothes in the washer, I'll put them in the dryer for you. We'll be even.

GIRLFRIEND: You'd probably just throw my clothes on the floor.

ME: It would cross my mind.

GIRLFRIEND: You need to buy a new washer and dryer!

ME: Where the heck did THAT come from?

GIRLFRIEND: You heard me!

ME: Well, yeah, I heard you, but I still don't know where that came from.

GIRLFRIEND: You're never going to buy a new washer and dryer, are you?!

ME: Fine! I'll go put my clothes in the dryer!

GIRLFRIEND: Oh, taking the easy way out, are you?! I can't believe you!

The thing about our bickering fights like this that bothers me most is just how completely unfulfilling they are. I mean, if we're going to dedicate ourselves to the effort of fighting, it seems to me that there should be more to them. Until last week, I was at a loss when it came to figuring out what's been missing from our fights. Thankfully, a Reuters news report out of Mexico City made me see how domestic squabbling should really play out.

According to the March 14 story, "a Mexican couple were recovering separately after a marital spat got out of control and saw them firing guns, throwing knives and hurling homemade bombs, Mexican daily Milenio said on Monday."

I'll pause for a moment so you can go back and read that paragraph a couple more times, because in my mind it's about the best thing written so far in 2006, if not in history. Let's examine it more closely. First off, we learn the couple is recovering separately, presumably because someone wisely ascertained that maybe, just maybe, putting them in the same recovery room together might be somehow. . . oh, I don't know. . . awkward?

Next, the altercation is referred to as "a marital spat" that "got out of control." I wonder, though, at what point it was officially considered out of control. Is knife-throwing covered under "marital spat" protection? Is gun play an indication that the spat has escalated? Surely the homemade bomb-hurling is considered out of control, but I just can't shake the feeling that it was probably out of control somewhat prior to that. But, don't let my speculation spoil this. I'll let the article speak for itself.

"Juan Espinosa and Irma Contreras fought until their house blew up in a homemade gasoline bomb explosion, Milenio said. Police called to the home in the indigenous Mayan Indian town of Oxkutzcab in the southeastern state of Yucatan arrested Espinosa. Contreras was taken to hospital with third-degree burns."

Now, here's a couple who knows how to squabble! If I had hurled a knife at my girlfriend when she asked me to do put my clothes in the dryer, things may have played out differently. And, honestly, if she had pointed a gun at me when I suggested she put my clothes in the dryer, she most likely would have gotten her way. And, if it all came down to a standoff with us wielding homemade bombs, I'm almost 100 percent certain I'd find myself at Menards, buying a new washer and dryer.

Yes sir, I think this should be how all our fights play out from this moment on!

"Espinosa told reporters he was glad his wife had suffered burns, while Contreras said she was only sorry she had not ‘hacked off his manhood' during the fight."

Then again. . . maybe not.

Ugh

Nothing follows a good morning migraine better than the scratchy throat and chills of a good late winter cold.

Today sucks.

newspaper Thoughts

So, I was just reading this, and this paragraph struck me:

First, I think I'd skip the "paper" part. I've visited a lot of newspaper offices, and many of them proudly display the printing presses that produce their product, just as older newsmen often glory in the title of "ink-stained wretch." But their product isn't paper (in fact, for those of us who recycle, the paper is a drawback, not a plus, at least until it's time to pack things for a move). Their product is information. Paper is just an increasingly obsolete delivery platform. It's expensive, and on the way out. Get rid of it, or start a new "paper" without it.

As a journalist by education and profession, I obviously don't entirely like the thought of newspapers dying on the vine. But. . .

Last week, my girlfriend opted to receive four free weeks of the Rochester Post-Bulletin. Now, I haven't received a paper in years, so I'd kind of forgotten what it's like, but after one week, here's what I think: what a complete waste. Although the cats enjoy playing underneath the paper, there's really no earthly reason for me to want to continue receiving a paper after the four weeks are up. I glance at the front page, peruse the letters-to-the-editor, breeze through the classifieds, and I'm done. Five minutes, tops. I already know, thanks to the Internet, all the national and international news, and local news just isn't all that interesting to me. So, I'm left with all this newspaper lying around that I have to dispose of before the next day's influx arrives. Seems to me like a colossal waste. And I used to work for newspapers, so that's saying something.

No sir, I don't need it.

Soup Talk

Ryan says: fuck this soup is hot.

Caroline says: Punctuation could make that sentence a game.

Caroline says: fuck this soup--is hot!

Ryan says: fuck this! Soup is hot!

Ryan says: fuck this soup is. . . hot?

Caroline says: fuck! This soup? Is hot!

Ryan says: fuck? This soup is. Hot!

I'm Passport Old

So, my girlfriend and I are scheduled to visit Japan in April, which means I had to update my passport. And oh my shit what a difference 14 years makes.

1992 passport photo:

2006 passport photo:

*sigh*

UPDATE: I just realized that I accidently had the original 1992 picture flipped incorrectly. I just now recified the error. I'm sure NOW you can see the resemblance between the two pictures. Right? Right?

It's a Monday

Ryan says: You know, I was just thinking. . . Sir Mix-a-Lot spoke a lot of wisdom.

Caroline says: Baby got back?

Ryan says: For example, my anaconda, too, don't want none unless you got buns, hun.

Caroline says: Deep.

Billboard Moment

This afternoon, my girlfriend and I went on a Joshua-type hike. We started out looking for open houses to walk through, and ended up going through a bunch of fields and shit. Which is fine, whatever, I grew up in a small town, so I'm used to that kind of thing, but I wished, like when I young, I had a B.B. Gun with me, because there were some pigeons just asking to be cacked. Yeah, I hate pigeons. Call me the anti-Bert.

Anyway, we eventually passed under a billboard for a Famous Dave's about a mile or so ahead. I looked at it, turned away, and then something fired in my brain. It was one of those "wait a minute" moments, one of those irony detectors, that just makes you say, "huh, that's kind of funny, in a sick sort of way, so that makes it even more funny." So, I looked back up. And that's when I realized, like, for the first time, the billboard was:

Now, maybe it's just me, but isn't there something twisted about a pig happily. . . no. . . in an antcipatory zealousness--with its tongue out and everything--waiting for the ribs of one of his own kind to satisfactorily cook?

Because, you know, he's not cooking it for someone else--the tongue lolling out of its mouth indicates that he's gonna eat those fuckers. That pig is all about the cannibalism. And its happy about it. BRING ON THE POR. . . ER. . . ME!

And, yes, my girlfriend and I ate at Famous Dave's tonight. We had the "Feast for Two." WITH LEFTOVERS!

The ribs were awesome.