Hot Dog Thanksgiving

I'm not much of a "TV guy." If I'm in front of the tube, you can bet that I'm either watching a game, highlights of a game, or playing a game. I will occasionally enjoy some History Channel or an episode of Seinfeld, but certainly not the Food Channel.

Earlier this week, the beautiful Mrs. Mayfield and I had our lives changed forever.  We were laying in bed watching television.  Julie had tuned to a show called "Man Vs. Food."  I had heard about it, but I don't think I've ever seen it. The show was touring the East Coast.  There were some delicious pizzas of course, burgers and hot dogs.  Hot dogs.  I'm typically not a hot dog guy.  I like steaks and burgers mostly.  I find these two types of cow to be the most grillable.

I grill a lot. I mean a lot.  Last summer, I grilled every Sunday dinner except for three (I only missed those three days because of being out of town.) Despite the subject of smothered burgers and toasted buns, I wasn't paying much attention. I was mostly fantasizing about the pretty lady lying next to me, and planning my pick up line. Then I heard him mention bacon.  Bacon is God's gift to us humans.  Everything is better with bacon. Iwould eat bacon on dog food.  I would eat a bacon and hair sandwich. Suddenly, my focus shifted from my wife's short shorts to the sizzling swine on the screen. My eyes bulged and my mouth dropped open. The chef was adding bacon to a hot dog topped with barbecued pulled pork, cheddar cheese and an extra dab of barbecue sauce for good measure.  It was love at first sight, and the Lord answered my prayers.

(Yes, it's as good as it looks!)

Today, we were blessed the warmest day of the year 2010.  My wife saw it coming, and planned for me to fire up the grill.  She planned a hot dog bar complete with chopped onions, shredded cheese, cheddar cheese, sprouts, slaw, relish, salsa, guacamole, chili, sour cream, and of course ketchup and mustard.  She had researched some hot dog recipes online, and made sure that we had every ingredient for any conconction a person's heart could desire on a bun. Did I mention that I grilled the bacon?  The sound of bacon sizzling on the grill made me feel like I was hearing for the first time.  It was lovely.

(Faith's Macaroni Dog)

But not nearly as beautiful as the sight of two dogs smothered in pulled pork, grilled bacon and cheddar cheese. There was party in my mouth that could hardly be contained. I was truly enjoying the enjoyment. I found myself eating long after the feeling of fullness.  It was reminiscent of a Thanksgiving feast.  The need to sample some of everything left me euphorically stuffed.

(Onions+avocado+sprouts+salsa= The California)

As Duke gets ready to host North Carolina, I find that the previous four hot dogs are making room for more guests at the party.

Not A Tiger. Just A Man.

I just can't take anymore of the Tiger-bashing. I'm bored with all of this scrutinizing and inaccurate psychoanalysis.  The fact that Tiger Woods turned his back on his faith and had a previously-unfathomable amount of extra-marital affairs has been over emphasized.  The fact that his personal choices have damaged his earning power has also been overstated.  The recent topic of 'sex addiction' has pushed me to a point that all of these so-called professional journalists have to be put in their place.

Tiger doesn't have a sex addiction.  Personally, I don't believe there is such a thing.  An addiction would indicate that he is incapable of refusing sex.  Though a couple of Tiger's mistresses were less-than-appealing in my opinion, and there is an astounding amount of them, it seems as though he was somewhat selective.  I would argue that this presentation of evidence refutes addiction claim. How?  Not a one of them is black or Asian or Hispanic. He hand-selected these women.  Crackheads won't turn down a rock that isn't the 'right' color. They don't shy away from a dealer because the dude looks shady.  That's an addiction.

(A PB & rock sandwich. Is it 5 o'clock?)

What Tiger has is a complex. It's a complex borne of life-long success which has resulted in an addiction to the word 'yes.' This addiction to the affirmative is an affliction that many successful people encounter and struggle with. I'm not limiting this to world-class, nationally recognized people.  Anyone that has been a big fish in their pond could fall victim.  And the size of the pond doesn't matter. Big fish like to get their nibbles. For a long time, even I couldn't stand being told 'no.'  I was a spoiled kid, and a standout athlete.  I got used to getting what I wanted, when I wanted from someone.  A pair of shoes from my grandma. Wrestling tickets from my uncle. You think Tiger Woods got more or less first-class treatment than me?  Exactly. That's where this situation comes from.  He said it himself. 'I knew my actions were wrong. But I convinced myself that normal rules didn't apply. I never thought about who I was hurting. Instead, I thought only about myself.' 

Consider all of the politicians, movie stars and other athletes that have been caught with their hands in the cookie jar: Martin Luther King, Jr, Bill Clinton, Jesse Jackson, JFK, Michael Jordan, Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O'neal, Wesley Snipes, Hugh Grant, Charlie Sheen, even Tiger's dad! I could go on and on.  These men weren't necessarily unhappy with their wives. Nor were they ill with a sex sickness.  Ego was the problem.  These are highly competitive people with an aversion to being told no for anything, which probably began somewhere around grade school.  Money, power and fame clouded their judgement... but they all recovered.  Some got divorced. Some were able to stay married.  But their recoveries all began with an apology.

(Ladies' man.)

While I commend him for his apology's content, not missing a chance to acknowledge everyone affected by this (with the exception of any of the hussies that blew the whistle on him in the first place). The lack of true emotion leaves me with an odd feeling.  I realize that Tiger isn't as charismatic as many of the mega-endorsers happen to be, I'm sure he's human enough to be sorry and really mean it. I liked the fact that his press conference was limited to a lone statement by him, and not followed by questions. This ordeal doesn't need anymore circus-like media frenzy. Really, he doesn't owe any answers anyway.  Personal mistakes don't require public apology. However, if you ever find yourself on television apologizing for something you got caught doing three months ago, I suggest making your production believable. He came accross as robotic. I interpreted his apology as an apology for getting caught.

Tiger's gonna have to play a lot of golf over the next 30 years because
 Elin's taking his kids and a lot of his money with her. 

Situations like this frustrate me about our society. We're so quick to dismiss someone's shortcomings or flaws as illness.  I'm not saying that his persecution is unjust because I believe that it is, but I'm not onboard with trivializing his choices by classifying them as a glitch or minor imperfection or as something that can be cured. Tiger made bad choices because he wanted to make them.  In the back of his mind, he thought that he had enough money and fame to cure the evils he was subjecting himself to.  Life is about choices. The choices a person makes will shape their life, and there's no reset button.  If Tiger's truly sorry, then this personal hell he's created isn't going anywhere.

Not only does he have to re-invent himself, he has to prove himself all over again. He's going to have a line to walk for a while. When Tiger comes back to golf, he has to win.  If he wants his endorsements back, if he wants the media to relax, if he wants to off-set that child support and alimony, he has to win. A lot.

I'd Rather Be A Cat Uncle Than A Cat Daddy

17 months of marriage have taught me a lot of things. I've learned survival tips.  I've learned hair tips (more than just split-ends).  Maintaining a household is hard work.  Something always needs to be budgeted: time, money, energy. Many of these things I expected to learn over time. Before I took the oath, made the promise, and said goodbye to Single Craig, I had a pretty good idea that I was about to be whipped into shape.  I had no idea that I was gonna get tag-teamed by my wife, daughter and the pets. Yes, the pets. What makes it worse it that I hate pets.  Actually, I don't hate pets. I just don't like mine.

I am not an animal-hater.  Generally, I like animals.  That's not true. I don't really like animals, I just don't mind them. Although, I have to say that our animals are pretty well-behaved. My dog doesn't bark like crazy and disturb the neighbors.  The cat has had his front claws removed, so he's not tearing up stuff. I know my dog can't help being a dog, but I find myself loathing his canine instincts and behaviors (he licks everything). Or perhaps it's the combination of a dumb dog and a fat cat.

I didn't have too big of a problem with my wife's cat before we got married. After all, we didn't live together, so I was only around the cat for a few hours while at her apartment.  I wasn't a part of the vet bills, or litter box cleanings, or the incessant meowing at 3am.  I was only around during the fun part.  I never noticed the cat's hair coating half of every exposed surface in the house.  I didn't think much of the cat jumping up on counter tops, book shelves or tv stands.  I was the uncle that didn't see the problem with letting the kids eat an entire box of Nerds for lunch only to send the unlucky parents home with sugared-up brats.

Now I notice cat hair on my clothes and in my sandwich. I notice that he's tracked kitty litter to places where I don't want to think about what may have caused the litter to stick to his feet.  This is the same cat that managed to smear poop on me in my sleep once, so I have a pretty good idea why the litter has made it up the basement steps. He also nearly threw up on my face one sleepy night.  Needless to say, Max (the cat) and I haven't had a very trusting relationship.

(The cat was probably trying to steal her breath.)

My animal-related ignorance got me into deeper trouble when I opted to buy my daughter a puppy.  Yikes! What was I thinking? I brought it on myself.  I set myself up.  I gave my wife the impression that I wanted to be a pet owner. Hindsight tells me that I should've known better.  Of the 29 years of my life prior to marriage, I'd owned a pet for about three months. Less than 1% of my life had been spent caring for (and tolerating) an animal.  Though I did have a pretty cool fish tank for a few years, my experience with non-people is almost nil.

My wife on the other hand has always had pets.  To her, this is normal.  $400 for their flea medicine (our pets don't have fleas. I wonder how much it would cost me if they did), $250 to get the cat diagnosed with an allergy to grass? Comes with the territory.  Not for me.  It's just that the responsibility and expenses far outweigh the rewards of pet ownership for me. I see these expenses as few pairs of shoes I had to forgo.  Or that pair of designer jeans I couldn't have.  Plus, we still have to feed them.

And clean up after them.  I think this idiot dog gets a kick out of watching me gagging as I scoop his extractions in the back yard. I know Milo loves the fact that I've spent back-breaking hour after back-breaking hour replacing the abundance of plants from our home's previous owner with nice, green grass that he gets to dig up.  Now, instead of the Kentucky Blue I originally planted, we have crabgrass and other weed-like turf.  What a spiteful creature.  Having these pets is like having to do the dishes after a delicious dinner that I didn't get to eat.

(Did I mention that he gets beaten up by the cat?)

It doesn't help that my wife and daughter are ridiculously in love with animals. Not just our animals, but every furry, four-legged something-or-other on earth.  The prime example took place on my honeymoon. My wife  is so animal crazy that she was petting stray dogs in Mexico.  Stray dogs!  In Mexico! These were filthiest, mangiest things I'd ever seen and she was undeterred.  This, from a woman that complains about the germiness of kids at Chuck E. Cheese, was fondling filthy, foreign, orphan animals. Wow.

Now I'm stuck. Two animals that I don't like very much, stand to be members of my household for the next 14 or so years.  That's a long time to be miserable.  I've let my wife know that these are the last two pets I'll ever own.  If one of them scurries out into traffic tomorrow, I would like to dream that I'd be one step closer to pet-freedom.  I bet I'd like them more if they were your pets, not mine.

One Week To Go....

Today feels like December 18th.  December 18th is exactly seven days before Christmas. One week.  By this time, we're all so filled with the Christmas Spirit that our exuberance and giddiness begins to fade and morphs into fatigue and the crankiness of two-year-old before naptime.  I'm not talking about the last week before Christmas when you were a kid. I'm talking about the last week before Christmas as a parent. 

See this is the other side of the coin.  As a parent, it is our responsibility to bury the tree with presents but not mortgage even the slightest element of the lifestyle that we've all gotten used to.  Despite the fact that Jesus' birthday is right around the corner, we have to keep going to work, taking out the trash, paying bills and paying the same amount of attention to normal duties as always.

As a parent, your joy on Christmas day is the living cliche. You have to be happier to give than receive. You have to hope that your best effort produces big smiles, a few 'wow moments' and several 'thank you, daddies.'

Well in this case, it's a week before a big day for Daddy.  The anticipation is mounting.  Despite my anxiety, I have to keep up appearances.  I still have to work hard and pay attention to details at my job, I still have to keep up with reading and writing assignments for my classes, but my head isn't in it.  I'm still driving my mother-in-law's '99 Jimmy. I have to remind myself that I still have a life to live, and people counting on me.

I have to prepare for this event as diligently as I would anything else in my life, except it gets less attention than anything else. I still work eight or nine hours per day and I still have the semester's first round of exams coming up, yet this event could hold more rewards than both.

Maybe it's not like Christmas. Maybe it's my 'Super Bowl.' There is no next year. This is a one-shot deal. My Super Bowl happens the day after the NFL's version.  It has taken serious preparation to get to this point. I have given some big hits along the way, and I've certainly taken my lumps too. It's like the biggest game of my life, except I'm not happy to be here. I need to win. People are watching me. People are rooting for me. My wife is in the stands, and she's cheering the loudest. I'm going to compete with every ounce of my being. There's no consolation. It's not still a great season if I lose.

Men Don't Need Feelings, Just Opinions

So I've found out that many of the cliches regarding marriage are true. I love and respect my wife more and more each day. I have learned that a good marriage does take hardwork, but there's one in particular that also holds true. I don't remember who said it but I think it goes, 'Love is blind, but marriage is the eye-opener.'

My eyes have been opened to a few things.  One thing in particular has finally hit me like a bolt of lightening. My wife has been telling me about my subpar communication skills for a time, but I always kind of wrote off those comments as disgruntled reactions to whichever disagreement we were enduring at the time. I have come to realize that she was right. I'm a pretty rotten communicator.  By 'rotten' I mean male. By female standards, I am a below average communicator.  By wife standards, I'm downright lousy most of the time. I do take solace with the fact that mostly all men would fall into this category with me.  However, my wife isn't married to most men and she is not most women.  You can either get on her bandwagon, or get run over. Being a guy, an average guy who likes football and bloody steaks, is no excuse.

I thought I was fine before I got married.  I thought my interpersonal communication skills were above average, and more than adequate for any situation, setting or topic.  When I did have to communicate, I could mask it with sarcasm and charisma. I could flash a smile and that would be that.  I've had to learn many things about how to talk and convey a message during my time working at a car dealership.  I had grown to what I thought was a strong communicator, a wordsmith of sorts.  Well unfortunately, my wife isn't a buyer. I've almost had to re-learn the English language. I didn't have to share so many of my personal thoughts with such regularity. None of my relationships had so much riding on verbal communication.

One of the most important things I've learned about communication during my 16-month marriage journey actually goes against what many people advised me previously... Julie does NOT want me to share my feelings. Guys, sharing our feelings is the equivalent to singing in the shower. Our women want us to feel comfortable enough to do so, but they don't really want to hear those awful sounds.

When I do share my feelings, my good intentions commonly share the same result as a failed science experiment, I end up having to do more explaining than sharing. Instead of taking my words as I use them, my wife (like most women) tends to think that there is more to what I'm saying than what I'm actually saying like I'm speaking metaphorically or using some sort of code.

(Paraphrasing the need for pizza.)

My sharing then concludes with one of us being the victim and the other desperately fleeing the scene of the crime. But I suppose the confusion comes from the complexities of the female brain and the simplicity of the male's.

An opinion is an interpretation, basically one's take on a given topic. Opinions can be broken-down, discussed and debated. This is what women like: banter, discussion. Opinions are relative. Feelings, while it is possible to interpret a person's feelings, feelings cannot be debated. Feelings are absolute.

While I've realized that certain occurences, topics or issues absolutely require a true outpouring of my feelings, what my wife really wants is for me to share some sort of opinion. I've deduced that my opinion is actually what she's after, not my feelings. She wants to feel included in my life. She needs to know that we actually have a relationship, that we can communicate about things. She needs to know that I trust her with my thoughts. But it's not like handing over a spare house key as a symbol of trust to your best friend. It's a daily reaffirmation of love, value and trust.

I've had to figure out that verbal stimulation is a need for her. She has to talk, even on days when the last thing I want to do is to talk about anything. All of those thoughts cannot remain bottled inside her head. Some days I think simply inhaling and exhaling produces words to emit from my wife and daughter, who is has become quite the little chatterbox.  My simple brain can't process the verbal cues as quickly as they send them. It causes overload and shutdown.

I read some column once that discussed the disparities of male and female communication. The author stated that on the average, men use about 7000 words in a day compared to a woman's 20000. TWENTY THOUSAND WORDS. I think my jaw would cramp and lock up.   The conversation is a metaphor for the back-and-forth, give-and-take of the relationship. It takes two.  Actually, it takes one and a third, because fortunately I don't have to keep pace. I just have to engage, be a willing participant and toss in a word for every three.

No Thanks, My Unlucky Star

As you all know, the NFL has entered its '2nd Season.' The '2nd Season' is is a reference to the fact that the playoffs have started, and that win-loss records from the previous 16 games don't mean a thing. The playoffs actually started weeks ago, but I'm just now to the point that I have forgiven myself and can speak about the crime that I've committed against my team.


In actuality, I'm a much bigger college football fan than I am of pro football. I prefer the pageantry and dedication of the college game, as opposed to the contract disputes and shuffling of players between teams. I also like that each game is more important on the college level. One loss can end a team's chances at the national championship. Though I can't stand the fact that a college team can go 6-6 and make a bowl game. I don't believe in celebrating mediocrity. Being rewarded for only winning half of your games is like graduating from kindergarten in my opinion. Rewards for doing the minimum would be like getting a bonus just for showing up to work on time. When was the last time that happened?

Anyway, back to my confession and apology. To my fellow Dallas Cowboys fans: I'm sorry. I am the reason that our team got blasted by the Minnesota Vikings last week. Trust me, my intentions were good. I was merely showing my love and support. I sincerely apologize for contribution to the debacle that was the NFC Divisional Playoff Game. What did I do? I made a public display of my devotion to The Star; I wore a Cowboys t-shirt to church. But I can explain! I wore the shirt not only to display my loyalty, but also because my wife and daughter and I were planning to go to lunch at Maggiano's in Brentwood after church. Since wouldn't likely be able to watch the the game on TV, I needed the cosmic connection of sporting the team colors. You see, this shirt has been buried at the bottom of my drawer at different times during the season. So it hasn't been worn consistently enough to develop the positive mojo of a lucky shirt. But I didn't realize that. Until yesterday.

(I thought Cowboys shirt = Cowboys win.)

During these few tumultuous days since the lopsided loss, I've determined that this shirt has actually absorbed negative joojoo. I thought back to the fall of 2008 when I wore the very shirt to game versus the St Louis Rams - also a tragic, embarrassing loss.

So I have determined that donning this shirt on Sundays during the season is a no-no. However I like the shirt too much to completely retire it. Plus, this shirt is a sort of souvenir. I got it at the Dallas airport during the layover when my wife and I were coming back from our honeymoon in Mexico. Perhaps honeymoon souvenirs were never meant to be Game Day gear. The wedding mojo over powers Game Day mojo and pummels it into submission. And as we all know, wedding mojo can produce bad Game Day joojoo.

(Actually, Cowboys shirt = Cowboys loss.)

How does one develop good mojo? Good question. You see, competitive athletes develop habits. Those habits blossom into superstitions. I don't mean superstitions like the usual weirdo stuff, I mean sacred routines. Like eating the same meal on game day, or wearing the same pair of underwear because you had a good game last week. For example, I wore the same t shirt under my pads on game days for the last three years during high school football and track season. I felt comfortable in my routine, and this particular orange t shirt was a part of that routine. I'm not strange. I promise. Mostly all (that's more than most, but a little bit less than all) athletes, both current and former, have some sort of superstition. Ask anybody that played something competitively for a relatively lengthy amount of time. Heck, even your avid weekend warrior has some slightly odd aspect present in his or her preparation.

Since this shirt has developed a routine of costing my Cowboys wins, I'll have to begin the task of determining a lucky shirt. I have until August to fill the position.

Geriatric Idol

Welcome to 2010, ladies and gentlemen!  The 'Aughts' are over, and the new millenium is approaching its teen years.  Hopefully, we won't get any of the sort of smart-alecky backtalk for which my younger sister-in-law is known during these upcoming recession-recovery years.  For the past few Januaries, the New Year has brought us much enjoyment from the phenomenon that is American Idol.

Personally, I get more distress than anything.  It takes way too long to get to the good part of the show where the real talent is on display.  I can't stand the outtakes.  These blooper reels are just a waste of air time to me.  While I like the idea of displaying the diversity of contestants and wide range of talents during their prayerful run to stardom, I can't stand the staged, choreographed mockeries. This is what prevents me from 'getting into' the show early in the season.  This garbage is like the salad before the steak, or the NBA regular season compared to the playoffs.  I'll deal with it if you make me, but I'm not enjoying it at all.

A few years ago, it was William Hung and his broken-English, tone-deaf rendition of Ricky Martin's 'She Bangs.'  Though I think this guy was really trying, it's the producers of the show that are responsible for this travesty.

(What a slap in the face to people that really tried.  This dude got famous for being terrible.)

So here we are in season number nine, and the format of the show hasn't changed at all.  The producers have tried to switch it up by adding a few guest judges, but it's the same thing: cattle-call auditions that apparently are open to anyone willing to stand in line for a week.

However, according to contest rules, the winner can only be crowned if they between the ages of 16 and 28.  Thus eliminating this dignity and pride-free man:

(I've never seen a senior citizen do the splits and I see why.)

This guy hasn't been eligible to win since 1975. I'm talking age-wise. I'm not sure his talent would improve enough with another 35 years of practice to make it to Hollywood.

Why in the world would the producers even let this guy audition if he's not even eligible?  I guess they just want to help keep YouTube relevant. I do, however, agree with the message of the "song."  I thought sagging jeans stopped being cool when gangster rap and Starter jackets went out of style.

Since Mr. Larry Platt's 3 minutes with Simon went viral, it's been viewed tens of thousands of times. I hope Idol parlays this display of lyrical ingenius into a public service campaign.  Since people are subjecting themselves to this nonsense, at least the message could be emphasized.