Snapshots

Life With a Science Guy
A few days ago, George happened to be standing nearby as I made my lunch. A container of mesquite-smoked rotisserie chicken pieces sat on the counter, and I was selecting bits of it to go in my salad. After silently watching me pick several chunks of chicken from the dish, he spoke up. “Every time you put your fingers in that container, you inoculate the chicken.”
I grinned but said nothing for a few moments. We’ve been around this block, oh, maybe, eleventy-jillion times? “I’m only touching the pieces I’m using.”
“That’s what you think. Even leaving the lid off and exposing it to the air contaminates it.”
I laughed. “Well, George, if I don’t take the lid off, how am I supposed to get the chicken out?”
“I’m just saying.”
This from a guy who will happily engage in gag-inducing conversation over dinner if someone asks a biology-related question (which my kids used to do constantly when they lived at home. And people wonder how I stay so slim!) In spite of the chicken episode, I wouldn’t describe George as germ-phobic–although when we were undergrads and he studied the bacteria in the mouth, he developed an aversion to kissing. (He got over it.)
The same day George scrutinized my chicken-picking technique, I watched him eat a small pile of fresh blueberries with chop sticks. CHOP STICKS! Is that awesome, or what? I think a good Halloween prank would be to tie him down and make him watch a finger-food episode on the food channel.
The next day at lunch time I placed the chicken container on the counter, opened the lid exposing it to millions of contaminants, poised my fingers above the pieces and said, “Hey, George, check it out! I’m inoculating the chicken!”
I know. You wish you had a science guy.
Rumba: The Dance of Love
Unless this sentence is the first piece of my writing you’ve ever read, you probably know that a.) dancing is a big part of my life, and b.) I love it. George has always been a great sport about hitting the dance floor with me at wedding receptions or other events, but in general he could take it (rarely) or leave it (gladly).
We look pretty good on the floor and even receive compliments from strangers, but that’s because I whisper nonstop instructions. He just sort of sticks to basic movement and lets me add all the flourishes. I suppose it works, but we know we’re faking. I’ve always (not-so-secretly) wanted us to take ballroom dancing lessons together, so he would internalize the steps and get comfortable leading. We tried lessons briefly a few years back, but he said it required too much thinking and he wasn’t having fun. George insists that he’s good with his hands and bad with his feet. I don’t buy it, though. For example, he’s an ace racket-ball player. Sure, it’s a hand-eye coordination sport. But you have to be light on your feet and move all over the court. He also swims a mile three times a week. He may be focused on his arm strokes, but his feet are doing their job. If you ask me, I believe “too much thinking” is the problem here, not a lack of foot coordination. When he relaxes, he’s terrific.
Anyway, several couples in our church recently signed up for ballroom dance lessons, and they’re all basically beginners. In the name of spending time with friends, George agreed we could join the class. We’ve had one lesson so far: the two step and basic rumba. George did great! And I think he had fun. But even if he’s only doing this for me, that’s not so bad, is it? After all, the rumba is called the dance of love.
Political Message Number One, in which our heroine swoons and almost faints
The phone rang this morning. OMIGOSH, IT WAS A PERSONAL (recorded) MESSAGE FROM BARAK OBAMA!!! I felt pretty special until I tried to respond and he ignored me. Then later this afternoon, John McCain called, too. I guess Texans are popular right now. Haven’t heard from Hillary yet, but we’re not super-delegates, so there you go.
And that, folks, is the last you’ll hear about election ’08 on The View From Here. You’re welcome.
Croatia update
I leave in FIVE days! I should probably start packing.