Tag Archives: Alan

Clearly this was a man’s idea.

20 Apr

Tuesday morning as Alan and I were getting ready to leave for work, he emerged from my guest bedroom with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Are those your new pants in the closet there?” he asked.

I confirmed that they were.

“Interesting label on them,” he paused. “I can’t believe they actually sell pants that are billed as ‘curvy with stretch.’ That’s clearly a euphamism.”

I would have glared at him, but I share the same opinion. I buy 90% of my wardrobe from Ann Taylor Loft. I love that I can grab clothes off the rack and know if they’ll fit without trying them on, but I think their sizing system is a bit, um, insulting.

They have three styles for all their pants, each named after a woman: there’s the Ann, Julie or Marissa cut. While I like the fit, I find the names stupid. Not to mention, when you have two names clearly rooted in the 70s, what is Marissa doing there? It’s like Barbie and Skipper suddenly having to drag Barbie’s younger sister Stacie along. Just a mismatched item.

So back to Alan. He wanted to know a) how a store actually turned a profit that had a product labeling women as fat, and (to his credit), wondering why I needed a pair of pants designed to be curvy and stretchy.

I explained that the Marissa cut is for straight, boy-cut bodies, so those clearly wouldn’t work for me (I have hips, yo!). And the Ann style is made for — I don’t know, I guess people whose belly buttons are located where most people have a sternum. Or perhaps they should be called the mom-cut, since the waistband is always about four inches above a person’s hips.

Whatever. With those as my other options, I’ll take the pants that are designed for someone with a distinct waist and hips with a different measurement. And even if they may have been named by a passive-aggressive man who wanted his wife to diet, I’m going to just think that the “stretchy” allows me to have an extra helping of dinner without sweating it.

Now that I think of it, I’m seeing the advantage to pants that have a waist band four inches above my actual waist. Sign me up for the Ann cut!

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Shuns: what ninjas use when they’re not performing stunts.

22 Mar

Let me start by claiming I’m a pretty decent cook. I’m curious about food. I read about food. I have a pretty good sense of what flavors complement each other, and what techniques best develop those flavors. And – most importantly – I spend a fair amount of time in the kitchen experimenting.

Knowing this, Alan has found it inexplicable that I stubbornly use a set of poor quality kitchen knives that I won via a contest back in the late 1990s. (Yes, let’s digest that for a moment: WON KNIVES IN A CONTEST. My life parallels the plot from “Glengarry Glen Ross” with surprising detail.)

Back to the knives. In my defense: they were sharp when I got them. I guess (like anything else) I’ve just adjusted as they gradually lost their edge.

This fall I finally confessed that I agreed with Alan’s assessment, that they were CRAPPY knives. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, he responded with, “Great. That’s what I’m getting you for Christmas: real knives.”

We finally went this weekend to Sur la Table so I could handle all of the knives and see what felt right. Forty minutes later, we walked out with a set of Shun Premier knives. Holy awesomeness.

I’ll admit, I was initially prejudiced against the Shuns based on appearance. As I told Alan, “If I didn’t know anything about knives and saw these in someone’s kitchen, I would assume they bought them at World Market for $50.” They just look a bit OVER THE TOP.

And by “over the top,” I mean they look like something a samurai should carry in sheath, not something for my urban kitchen. On the up-side, I figure if I ever have dinner guests and the conversation stalls out, I can whip out one of these knives and use it to segue into the story of my surviving a car accident due to my mad ninja moves.

“I realize these aren’t traditional knives,” I can imagine myself saying. “But ever since my ninja training saved my life, I feel a real affinity for all things Asian.”

Anyway, suffice it to say: if I chose the knife that I liked least on the basis of appearance, it must mean it did something pretty spectacular when I held it. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

I’ll admit, these knives are more than a little frightening. Having had a dull set for over a decade, I realize how easy it would be to cut myself. I’ve already told Alan it’s a foregone conclusion that it WILL happen, so he shouldn’t freak out when I tell him it has.

He just shook his head at that thought. I guess I’ve done a good job desensitizing him to random ER stints… as any good ninja should. Now bring me some tin cans so I can show you what these knives are really capable of!

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I didn’t know walking a dog could be ironic.

5 Mar

I’m dogsitting again. For those who don’t know, I love animals but have commitment issues, so I don’t own one. That, and I travel a lot for work, so it’s not exactly practical.

This is the Wonder Dog (aka “Shadow”) who is my friend while her parents are vacationing:

Yes, she’s as awesome as she looks. Except she’s getting up there in years, so her walks have diminished significantly since I first met her 5+ years ago. She used to easily handle an hour power walk, but now we’re lucky if she goes 20 minutes at a decent clip.

She’s been especially pokey and lethargic this week, so I was considering it an accomplishment if we could circle my (very small) block. Then Alan showed up.

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Just when you think you know someone…

3 Jan

…there’s a record scratch and you’re all, “What the hell?!”

At least, that’s how it played out this weekend in Berkeley Springs. We were walking down the main street (better known as Washington Street, in case you’re curious) when I spotted an SPCA poster with photos of animals through the window of a consignment shop.

“Alan!” I yelled. Kind of like this:

And a few minutes later, there we were, standing in front of a large  poster board display of cats and dogs needing adoption. I was studying the descriptions when I heard Alan say, “Do you think they planned this, or is this song a coincidence?”

I stepped back and listened, registering Sarah McLachlan’s song, “Angel.”

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So classy, we wore our matching hoodies.

2 Jan

For the second year running, Alan and I rang in the new year at the state lodge in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia.

Just because you’re probably expecting it, I’m not going to make any jokes about Deliverance. (I think I’m maturing: this trip I didn’t even harass Alan with remarks like, “You sure have a pretty mouth” when he’d leave me to go to the bathroom.)

But I will share a snippet from the drive on Saturday when, utterly hungover from New Year’s Eve, Alan and braved the curvy backroads to find a bar called “Hillbilly Heaven” where people assured us we would be able to watch the bowl games.

“Hillbilly Heaven. Any chance that’s what they tell all the city folks just to set us up if we have to stop and ask for directions?” I continued, “I mean, can you imagine pulling over and asking someone where Hillbilly Heaven is? Sounds kind of insulting.”

“The way this road is going, I’m wondering if they’re sending us to Hillbilly Hell,” Alan offered.

“Hmmm… Hillbilly Hell? So that would be all yuppie-like, where you definitely couldn’t find Pabst Blue Ribbon and where you’d actually need teeth to eat the food, right?”

Definitely going to hell of some sort for that one. Hillbilly or otherwise.

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