Airing My Dirty LaundryJackie Papandrew (192)    Jackie Papandrew   Jackie Papandrew The Grill GeneralPosted Wednesday, July 09, 2008 (60 days 7 hours ago.) Viewed 1,303 times. After 20 years of marriage, I've come to expect this annual transformation. The man who won't touch the stovetop in our kitchen for fear that it might infuse him with estrogen becomes overnight an expert on cooking in the great outdoors, where only testosterone is allowed to roam free. Woe to the woman who tries to tell him how to grill. Even though I know this, I usually cannot resist the temptation at the beginning of each summer to rile my king of the crackling cut of meat at least a little bit. I usually do this by suggesting that he needs to clean his grill. Due to an ever-thickening layer of black grunge encasing it, the grill is only recognizable as a grill because it smells like scorched underbrush and, in compliance with federal grilling law, it has the word "master" in its name. Still, my cleaning suggestion always seems to deeply annoy my husband. "Woman, do not tell me how to manage my grill," he grunts in true Patton fashion. After this, we fall into an unvarying routine. Whenever we are going to have a barbecue with friends, I buy the food. I prepare the salad, vegetables and baked beans. I fix a tasty dessert. I also prepare the meat for cooking, and place it on a tray with all the necessary utensils and sauces. Then I take it out to The General, who is lounging beside the grill, a beer in hand, mentally summoning his forces for the task ahead. He is also being counseled by the other beer-swilling men in his backyard brigade on the latest in meat-searing strategies. When he is ready, The General performs the most important part of the process, the act that only a member of the male species can competently pull off: HE PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL! The other men stand by, lavishing him with praise for his efforts. Old Blood and Guts receives their adulation as his due reward, his chest swelling with pride. Meanwhile, I go inside to set the table. Then I go back outside to inform my boss of broiling that the meat is burning, something that seems to have escaped the attention of all the grill groupies gathered around the fire. Maybe they were blinded by their beer cans. "Woman, I can see that for myself," The General growls, commanding me to bring him another beer to drink as he deals with the sizzling situation. Then he performs the next amazing feat: HE FLIPS THE BEEF OVER! His coterie of fellow fire-conquerors offers oohs and aaahs at his meat-turning prowess, and he nods and grunts at them, again acknowledging their rightful admiration. Upon my return with his second beer, he grandly announces that the grilling process is complete. Then he hands me the charred main dish, beaming with satisfaction. I bring all the food to the table and summon everyone to come and eat. During the meal, The General is congratulated by the other men on a job well done and thanked for all his hard work. Later, after I've washed the dishes, he asks me how I enjoyed my "night off." "Oh, I enjoyed it very much, General," I mutter sarcastically. "Huh?" "Never mind," I say. "Maybe you should go clean the grill." © Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved 
Permalink Comments (2) Oy, Vey!Posted Friday, May 16, 2008 (114 days 9 hours ago.) Viewed 2,150 times. I was in a public restroom the other day, doing what one does in such places, when I realized that civilization - even the fairly savage form of civilization that has existed since Janet Jackson's "wardrobe malfunction" at the Super Bowl - has officially ended. I didn't even see it coming. But I heard it, in the form of a woman chatting on her cell phone in the toilet stall next to mine. The words "chatting" and "toilet stall" should never even appear in the same sentence together, much less be joined in unholy alliance in real life. But that's exactly what happened. And based on my extensive personal research, I've learned it is happening every day. That's why I think the fat lady is probably warming up her vocals and getting ready to sing. If it ain't over, it's got to be pretty darn close. But let me backpedal to a couple of weeks ago when I was in the waiting room of an orthodontist's office. If you have a teenager who had the gall to be born with imperfect teeth, you know the waiting room of an orthodontist is like the anteroom of Solomon's legendary temple. You are supposed to sit there and purify yourself of all negative emotions (such as the desire to hold on to your money) before entering the holy of holies (the billing department) to happily sacrifice to the person who will straighten your child's teeth. This purification process requires silence. But silence is in short supply these days. As I was bracing myself to receive the braces bill, my ears were assaulted by the cell phone conversation of the teenage girl across from me. She was sitting next to her evidently comatose mother and recounting to her listener in excruciating detail an earlier discussion with a soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. Every word of this fascinating exchange was loudly relayed to her friend and then analyzed in-depth, along with the apparent involvement with said boyfriend of another girl who was referred to only as what I will call the B word. Unable to focus on the task at hand, I started glaring at the teenage talker with my most severe schoolmarm expression. This had absolutely no effect. Then I turned the look on the mother, thinking surely she'd tell her daughter to get off the phone. Nothing. The girl just kept talking, even dropping the "F bomb" with disturbing frequency. Finally, I spoke to the mother in that sugary-sweet tone civilized people use with strangers they'd actually like to strangle. "Do you think you could ask your daughter to lower her voice just a little?" I inquired ever so nicely. The woman had the nerve to glare back at me. "She's just talking," she replied in disgust. To borrow a favorite phrase of a friend of mine, Oy Vey. Now fast forward to that bathroom stall. I was sitting there (no, don't actually visualize it, that would be sick) and suddenly, I heard a woman's voice very nearby say "Hi!" Being a polite individual, I automatically responded, if a little hesitantly. "Hi." "What are you doing?" This is when I became uncomfortable. But, still a polite individual, I began to answer. "Uh...I'm..." "I've got to go," she said more loudly to be heard over the sound of flushing. "Some idiot next to me thinks I'm talking to her." Naturally, I stayed in my stall until I was sure the woman was gone. Then I went home and initiated the extensive personal research I mentioned earlier. I called a couple of friends and my mother, and I found out something similar had happened to each of them. That's when I realized that cell phones will probably be the end of civilization. We've certainly come a long way, baby. Oy vey! © Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved
Permalink Comments (16) Pull My FingerPosted Thursday, March 27, 2008 (164 days 7 hours ago.) Viewed 4,239 times. As a professional columnist who writes on matters of pressing national importance that frequently involve food-thieving dogs and sanity-stealing teenagers, I sometimes have to deal with difficult people. These people typically share a common trait - they openly admit to being men. © Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved
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