End of the road

I sat in the sterile waiting room, trying to read the newspaper to keep my mind from thinking the worst. Mostly crappy, light rock music played softly overhead. An innocent, happy child, oblivious to what was going on around her, made enough noise to make me wish the crappy, light rock music was playing louder.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a man approached me with a serious look on his face.

This is what 170,000 miles looks like on the inside.

This is going to cost me a lot of money, I thought.

"We just had to give it some more oil," he said.

"OK, great," I said calmly, while imagining myself doing the backstroke Scrooge McDuck-style in a swimming pool filled with all the money I just saved.

"The only way to permanently fix this, though, is to replace the engine," he said.

As my money-filled pool quickly emptied, I asked him how much more time I had with my car. Could I make it to the end of the year?

"Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem," he said.

And, just like that, my blue, two-door Civic had a terminal diagnosis.

I'm not sentimental over many material possessions, but my visit to the mechanic got me thinking about how my car is one of the longest relationships I've ever had. We met in the middle of my senior year of high school. I remember picking it up and driving right over to a friend's house for what was to be first and only meeting of the Franklin Gentleman's Club. My car would have been a topic for discussion except for, um, the business at hand. (Although the use of our hands was forbidden during the meeting.)

The Civic now has almost 170,000 miles on it, plus a few dents and spots with chipped paint. It has been filled to the brim as it moved me into two apartments, one condo and one house. It can practically drive itself to the beach. It has a knack for finding nails to run over, one time even getting a razor blade stuck in the tire tread, which impressed the guy at the tire shop. It has made countless runs to the grocery store and been a personal recording studio to countless songs, mostly sung off-key.

A lady friend (or four) has sat in the passenger seat over the years. There were awkward conversations and a few laughs, and that was just when I was alone in the car before or after a date. But the Civic is also where, after driving home from my first date with Belle, I could not wipe the smile from my face and thought she might be The One.

Speaking of wiping, few things make me happier than a clean car. I've spent many a weekend afternoon lathering, rinsing and vacuuming. And then I wash my car. Granted, it almost always rains after I'm done, but for those glorious, 27 minutes of sunshine, my Civic looks all shiny and new.

Memories might be priceless, but if I can get a couple thousand dollars for my car when I turn it in, I'll take it. That money will not go toward purchasing my new car, though, because that is already in our garage. I'll soon be driving Belle's Corolla, a silver four-door with some pep and a small spoiler so named because it spoils the view out of your rearview mirror.

Belle, in turn, will get a new car. Something a little bigger, something with a bit more room, something that can fit -- gulp -- car seats.

This is going to cost me a lot of money, I think.

A nightly production with produce

"Waiter, there's a scape in my pasta!"
(Salad also contains farm-share veggies)

I was upstairs in the bathroom, probably checking for new ear hairs, when I heard Belle yell from downstairs, "What is this?"

I immediately did what any good husband would do: I tried to figure out, based on the inflection in Belle's voice, what I was in for. A woman almost always knows what "this" is: the question is a gateway to a larger discussion inevitably leading to me apologizing.

There was no sense of urgency or fright in Belle's voice, so I knew there was no bug for me to kill. (Belle does not like bugs.) And I didn't detect any annoyance, either, so I was pretty sure I did not leave a mess in the kitchen or newspapers strewn about the living room.

Instead, I detected a hint of confusion in her tone, a hunch confirmed when she appeared holding large, green vegetable stalks that jutted in all different directions, like Medusa's hair with a bad dye job.

It turns out she was holding scapes, the latest special delivery from our farm share. Every Friday afternoon through October, we pick up fresh produce from a nearby farm. And every Friday night, we wonder how in the world we are going to eat all of this fresh produce in one week.

That I'm even part of a farm share surprises me. Three-and-a-half years ago, I would never have guessed I would be spending time wondering what to do with kohlrabi. In fact, I'm still not sure what kohlrabi is and I have them (it?) sitting in the fridge.

Enter Belle.

The woman has never met a vegetable she wouldn't bite into. To watch her select items in the produce section is to watch a judge crown a champion at the Westminster Kennel Club. I call her "The Watermelon Whisperer" for the way she can pick out a succulent one each time.

To say Belle has expanded my palette would be an understatement. Since we've been together, I've discovered the joy of kale chips and learned "arugula" is not a four-letter word. The only bad thing about this farm share to her has been the realization that, since the produce comes right from the ground, there might be bugs in our vegetables that need to be washed away. (Again, Belle really does not like bugs.)

Once we get our vegetables, Belle figures out a menu for the week. Since the majority of our items seem to be Greens That Look Like Lettuce But Probably Have Another Name I Don't Remember So I Just Call Them "Lettuce," we make lots of salads. Whenever we finish a new dish, Belle asks for my assessment. There have been times when I will rave about a meal and rare times when I say I did not like what we had. But, generally, the conversation goes like this:

Belle: What did you think?

Me: It was good.

Belle: Well, would you make it again?

Me [with a little more enthusiasm]: It was good.

Belle: So you're saying you wouldn't want to make it again.

Me [slightly confused]: No, I said it was good. We could make it again. I liked it.

Belle: It was good but I think it was a little [salty/sweet/sour/dry].

Me: Well, I think it was perfect, just the way it is. Like you.

Belle [rolls her eyes]:

And then that recipe is never used again.

It's probably for the better, though, because it gives Belle a chance to find new recipes to use for our produce. It's like my grandmother always said: When life gives you scapes, cut them into pieces and put them in a food processor to make a pesto.

Just check for bugs first.

In the shower, on the lamb

The following conversation with myself took place in the shower the other day.

Q. You look great.

A. Thanks, so do you.

Q. Is that a tan?

Photo: Eric Stocklin

A. Yes, yes it is. I just came back from my honeymoon in Cancun.

Q. Please share an unusual observation you made about the staff of the resort you stayed at. 

A. All of the men had great, slicked back hair that stayed perfect all day despite any heat or wind. We left Cancun with some ceramics and a few sunburns, but I would have liked to have taken back some of their hair products.

Q. A honeymoon means there must have been a wedding. How'd that go? 

A. If there weren't 53,981,421 photos from the evening, I wouldn't have believed it happened. I recommend everyone get married if only for the food tasting.

Q. I understand the food was a hit.

A. Specifically, a lamb chop appetizer. I insisted at the tasting we needed to serve hunks of meat, so it filled my heart with joy to hear people were stalking the servers carrying the lamb chops.


Q. And by "people," you mean "men", of course.

A. Of course. I know my audience.


Q. So how involved were you with the wedding planning?

A. You know how politicians will vote "present" sometimes to indicate they were there for the vote when they don't want to vote? I was "present" for almost all of our wedding appointments.

That's not to say I wasn't for whatever Belle wanted; I just didn't say much during our meetings. Here's an actual transcript of what I said when we met with the florist the first time:

-- "Yes."
-- "Five."
-- "Purple, nice."
-- "Don't forget my grandfather."
-- "That's right, lamb chops."

A word of advice to all of you guys out there thinking about getting married. First, man up and ask her. It's the best thing you'll ever do. Second, go to all of the appointments. Don't even wait for her to ask. A lot of it is fun.

It's also a win-win. She gets to brag to all her girlfriends about how involved you are in the wedding planning, and you might get the chance to watch that football game you really wanted to see.

Q. There was as an eight-week span in the fall where you were at Kleinfeld in New York more times (three) than Ravens' home games (two).

A. That's a great line.


Q. Thanks. You thought of it.

A. I saw some things in that basement fitting area no man should see. I still have nightmares about ruching.

Q.  Suspenders?

A. Always. There are few times a man feels comfortable in suspenders. His wedding day is one.

Q. You're starting to prune a little bit. Any parting words?

A. I'm usually one of those people never at a loss for words. Twice in 2012 I have been a blubbering, speechless fool: first, when I proposed; second, when I got married. It's an incredibly humbling, awe-inspiring feeling to be in a room filled with love with the love of my life. All things wedding-related took up the majority of my free time last year and I wouldn't change anything.

Q. You're going to be a good husband.

A. I really, really want to watch the Ravens' playoff game this weekend.

Failing the smell test

All of us, I think, are blessed with a gift the average person doesn't have. A human superpower, if you will.

My superpower, for example, is always getting stuck behind the person backing in to a spot in a parking garage. It's almost always a giant car or truck, too. There are only two scenarios where you should be backing in to a parking garage space: you're involved in a stakeout; or you are planning a quick getaway. Otherwise, stop with the 43-point turn and let me go on my way.

If I had to pick one superpower for Belle, I would say it's her sense of smell. She can quickly determine if food has gone bad and detect mold in a room. She knows when it's time to throw out the trash and when it's time for me to wash the shorts I wear around our place. Were we to travel to the French countryside, I'm sure she could find truffles.

Unfortunately for Belle, there are no truffles in our apartment. Just me.

It was either Plutarch or Bluto from "Animal House" who once said, "I am, therefore I fart." When guys live on their own or with other guys, this is not a problem and is, in many cases, a point of pride.

The flatus calculus changes significantly once a woman is brought into the equation. You try to hide it in the bathroom or under the cover of a kitchen appliance. ("That noise? Something must be wrong with the dishwasher.")

I knew Belle was the one for me after only a few months of dating. But I didn't really, really, REALLY feel comfortable until we'd lived together for a few months, if you know what I mean. I still try to keep my distance when my stomach is rumbling but no longer do I blame changes in barometric pressure. If a man can't toot in his castle, where can he toot?

(I just asked Belle about this. "You get gassy at random times," she said. "And every day." So there you have it.)

Belle and women in general have a secret weapon in their fight against farts. Our apartment has scented candles and high-powered air fresheners in every room. There are seasonal soaps next to every sink. And there are hand lotions galore, seemingly one for every day of the week.

I've written before about Bath & Body Works but I get it now. It's as much about helping women smell delightful as it is masking man stench. So keep on coming out with new scents and filling our home with a symphony of pleasant aromas.

Because, suddenly, I feel the barometric pressure rising.