Subaru redux

We made it up to the cabin this weekend right as the storm of the century was ending. It has actually been snowing all weekend so technically it hasn't ended. When we arrived at our house there was a four foot wall of snow blocking the driveway. Not the light pffftt snow as the Inuit would call it, but the hard packed wet oofah type. I am of course making up the Inuit names but they do have something like forty names for the various conditions. Luckily our neighbor had hired a snowplow and his driveway was clear so we parked there for the night. We dug a one shovel width path to our door and still had a foot of snow till earth.

Luckily our electric was still working when we got there so we were quite cozy for the night, that is until 3:30 AM when the power when out. I am nothing if not prepared and therefore had stocked the cabin with all the necessary camping gear to survive the pending nuclear winter. After a hearty breakfast of steel cut oats (they do taste better) made on the Coleman stove, we commenced the digging out of a parking spot for the Subaru. I do not think I would want any other car in this weather, except maybe a Humvee (with mounted 30 mm machine gun to protect the cabin from marauders during the aforementioned nuclear winter). A spot barely wide enough for me to open the driver side door twelve inches and squeeze out, and long enough so the plow wouldn't nick the rear bumper took us a good part of the morning to dig.

This topic is even boring me so I will end the post now. Everyone got crazy snow anyway so there are probably hundreds of thousands of online posts about it. This is exactly why I hate blogs, Twitter, Facebook, etc. Why don't we all go back to writing private diaries in little leather notebooks, like Anne Frank? If anybody really has any thing profound to say then it will be discovered when our heirs are cleaning out all the meaningless crap we have accumulated over the course of a lifetime. And as is only fitting, our thoughts can be published posthumously. Do you own a little leather notebook? They make a great gift, survive the worst of conditions (ask Meriweather Lewis), and project an air of gravitas. They also feel and smell good. Try caressing a Kindle.
Okay, now I am done.

Never was Mr Nice Guy

There is a certain imprimatur I can do without. Let it be noted that I do not want anyone to say that I was a nice guy during my funeral service. Nice is the province of mediocrity. If that is the best thing that can be said of a fellow then congeniality be damned.

What effort does it take to be agreeable? Oh, I imagine a certain degree of dexterity comes in handy to avoid tripping over your shoelaces while getting out of the way of the imperious. I will grant you that it requires a certain monastic sensibility to keep your mouth shut while acting supportive of those around us. And credit must be given to those who, in their desire to ameliorate the harm people inflict upon themselves by making chronically deleterious decisions, always find themselves choked by the collar of their comrade's misfortune.

I never the less often find myself wondering about the nature of niceness. Every time I have wandered unexpectedly into its embrace I come away missing some essential essence of myself. How did I let that happen I ask myself? How did I end up being the one with his finger in the dam? Oh yes, it is because I was being nice. The fine line between cordiality and complacency has always eluded me. I am jealous of successful, supposedly nice people but I admire principled people. They are rarely considered nice, because they don't easily compromise, but they are always respected. My departed father-in-law comes to mind. I did not often find myself agreeing with him but if you knew the rules and followed them while in his presence, he would lay down his sword for you.

What does this have to do with the Cabin in the Catskills? Nothing, but I rarely leave a challenge unanswered.

Guest Blogger: Venus and Mars in a Traffic Jam

Unable to go to the cabin this weekend since I am on call, we made plans to meet our favorite friends in Philly for dinner. After scurrying out of work as fast as possible, we hit traffic that was stopped dead at the bridge. The bridge had more lanes open to NJ since it was rush hour but the volume going to Philly was five times greater, obviously a sign that all of south Jersey was sick of the snow and was heading for a night out in the city. You'd think that after 27 years of driving together I would have been used to what ensued: "I'm turning around. Nothing is worth this. I told you to leave work earlier" complained Rich.

The NY driver in Rich seems to be genetically hardwired. The cussing and aggressive behavior sets in, even at a dead standstill. My stress level rises instantly as I cringe at every near miss on my car being sideswiped (we took my car since it is small so we figured we could park on the still snow covered streets of Philly). No one can hear Rich reaming out the other drivers except me of course (even when he opens my window thinking the lady to our right will hear him through her closed window).

I went to a fundraiser this week for the American Heart Association which has initiated a national movement, "Go Red for Women," to inspire women to make choices to prevent the number 1 killer in women, heart disease and stroke. A female physician spoke about the role of stress in weight gain in women. Her message about being a caregiver for yourself and adapting and adjusting was her prescription to ensure healthy food choices and fitness.

Adapt and adjust. . .

Back to the traffic jam. For 27 years, I have sat in traffic jams with Rich, either silently trying to be in a different place or trying to help him see that it is one of those things in life that you have to accept and can't control and that stressing out doesn't ever help the situation. Well, that just hasn't worked other than resulting in a fight in addition to the traffic jam. Adapt and adjust. So, I decided to join the fray; "You can't let that Design Lighting truck beat you out to the toll. He was five lengths behind you. That's just not right. Try cutting this guy off to the right since that lane is moving the fastest", I instructed Rich. As traffic started moving and we finally crossed the bridge, Rich said, "That was fun. You were really supportive."
Go figure. I'm glad I've prepared myself for summers on the Thruway, headed to the cabin every weekend. Tammy

Its a man's world. Otherwise who would fix it?

On first inspection this would seem to be a very chauvinistic title for this posting. I would respectively refer you to the "About Me" section before you post any nasty comments about my opinions. Thank you.

Fortunately for me, my cabin in the woods came fully furnished, well almost. There is a couch with a coffee table upon which to place your feet. There is also a matching reading chair but it lacked its companion piece, the ottoman. After a lengthy discussion in which I held that the feet must be elevated while in repose (to prevent DVT's) my wife agreed that we needed a $700.00 ottoman. I only mention the price for the gratuitous shock value. In all fairness to my expensive taste it has a storage compartment, so in reality it is a combination foot rest/junk drawer.

After a 6 week wait we went to pick it up on a frigid February day. The furnishings store is owned by a man and his wife, who was there alone on this day. She grabbed a key ring with at least fifty keys on it and I followed her out to the storage building to get the ottoman. While she proceeded to try every single key without actually knowing which was the right one, I stood there freezing my butt off dying to rip the keys out of her hand and open the lock myself. After literally 15 minutes of me gritting my teeth watching this, she blamed the freezing weather for jamming the lock. Her husband eventually showed up and when we went outside he immediately selected one key and opened the lock in two seconds. I just about peed in my pants laughing. "We shouldn't do that to them", he said when he saw my reaction. It's true that in general women don't have an interest in technical detail and mechanics, the left brained skills. Even 500 years from now, when we humans are fully evolved, I think it is likely that the chief engineer on the Starship Enterprise will be a guy named Scotty, not a woman named Uhuru.

One time, before the advent of CD's but after the invention of the RCA jack, I was taping an album, and when my wife walked in the room, I started a conversation with her. QUIET she admonished me, aren't you taping an album? She thought people still used a microphone to transfer music to a cassette tape and this was the late 1980's. Sometimes I wonder if she thinks you have to turn out the lights when downloading pictures to your computer. It's not that women aren't smarter than men, they are. It's just that given a choice, they would rather improve the world not with technology, but with psychology. So when your wife is assisting you in changing the leaky faucet cartridge and she hands you a wrench, when you specifically asked for pliers, just remember that she will understand when you start to cry.

A romantic stroll and candlelight dinner....Not.

Real women go on a 5.2 mile hike in the snow, uphill for 2.6 miles, and then go out for fajitas on Valentine's Day.
I am the luckiest man alive.

That's my business, or is it?

You know those towns that only exist on vacation? Every other store is an artisan's cooperative. The woman at the cashier is never one of the artists. "Is this your work", I always ask, ready with a pithy compliment like "Oh my, I have never seen glass beads and papier mache combined into such an unusual fruit bowl".
"Oh heavens no, I wish I were that talented but I'll pass your appreciation along to Zoe. She switched to mixed media after that nasty incident with the band saw.
The next store over is the coffee house with a name like "Get Beaned" and they sell the world's largest scones. "Come here, you gotta see these" I yell for my wife as I gaze admiringly into the pastry display. "Have you ever seen such big bear claws?"
One time in Hanalei, Hawaii, Tammy and I were strolling along the street and I saw the UPS truck making a delivery at one of these shoppes. I wonder if he feels lucky to live and work in Shangri La? "How's it feel to be the UPS guy in paradise?" I called out to him.
"It would be awesome if dental insurance came with the job."

I have visited and browsed in shoppes like this in every single state of the Union. Invariably, the husband is either following the wife around while she whispers words of admiration to him and he silently nods his head in approval, or he is waiting sullenly, outside, while she silently nods her own head in approval at all the whimsical creations in the shoppe. In any case, no one speaks above the hushed tones last heard at the library and certainly no one offers an opinion to the other patrons...... Except of course here in the Catskills. It's as if the old borscht belt crowd has morphed into the cafe breva belt crowd. No ones' verbalized opinions, no matter how quietly expressed, are to be left unanswered.
"That homemade soup sounds good" I whisper to my wife in the cafe.
"Oh, it's the best, you have to try it. They use all local ingredients" some lady behind me responds.
"Your sister would love this" I opine in the handcrafted clothing store.
"She could spend the afternoon here, the clothes are so unique" is the reply from the cashier whom I would have sworn was preoccupied reading her book.

I see a bewildered young man in the floral shoppe. He can't decide on the red roses or the yellow roses for his girlfriend on Valentines Day. "Get her an orchid instead", I offer without being asked. And I realize, I am home at last.

The brand of choice for soccer moms and drug dealers alike

I have been officially living in New Jersey for 25 years. In that time I have utilized my snow sports equipment maybe an average of 3 days each winter. I have worn my Gore Tex ski pants out of necessity maybe 3 times total in the 9 years I have owned them (to shovel snow). I have needed my LL Bean snow boots an average of one day each winter in New Jersey. So when I bought the cabin in the Catskills I logically moved all my winter stuff to there. Boots, skis (x country and downhill), snow shoes, favorite hats and gloves, GoreTex pants, and favorite winter coats (I have many).

So what happens this winter? We get 54 inches of snow so far in South Jersey and, oh I don't know, 16 inches in the mountains of New York. I hate being unprepared so when I was forced to clear my driveway and sidewalk of 28 inches of snow wearing cotton jeans, fine leather driving gloves, cashmere over coat, and angora scarf, I was none too pleased. My consternation was overcome only by the fact that I looked good, which as we all know, trumps everything. In fact, even though I live by the golden rule of "The proper tool for the proper job", I also have always believed that "if you can't be good, then at least you should look good". Fortunately for me, Gore Tex apparel can now be worn while dining on Ramen noodles sitting on a log in the wilderness or eating negahamachi sushi rolls at Budakkhan in Philly.

Of course one man's dream is also another man's nightmare and in this case it is the same man, me. As loyal readers (and there are two of you) of this blog know I am fully married to the fact that outdoorsy is as outdoorsy does. If you have never slept in a sleeping bag, in the cold, in the rain, and out of cell range, then you should not sport The North Face logo on your woolie. The argument can be made, I suppose, that it is way more dicey to navigate your way down the street in the 'hood than to route find on Mt Hood, so kudos to the marketing gurus at The North Face and Timberland for cornering this market. I have never camped at Broad and Allegheny so I can't say one way or another which is more disconcerting; icy footing on a treacherous route over the bergschrund or icy stares from the dealers on the corner.

In any event, if you engage in behavior of a precarious nature, or perform any activity which can be classified as not driving your kids to soccer practice, then I suppose you can make an argument for the need to shop at REI. As for me, it is now apparent that I need two of everything.

I actually save the crust for last

A few words of caution; Never buy a Philly cheesesteak (spell check says two words but it is wrong) outside of Philadelphia or the surrounding areas. Never eat New York "style" cheese cake. Never ever eat pizza west of the Appalachians, south of Philadelphia, or north of Boston. Don't order mussels if the airport is more than thirty minutes from the restaurant, or the ocean is more than a two hour flight away. And never ever ever ever never eat in Cracker Barrel. Not ever. I am begging you. Do not do it.

In high school, my friend and I wrote an article for the school newspaper rating all the pizza joints in town. Everyone has an opinion about the best pizza. I, for one, will never order from Dominoes, Papa Johns, or Little Caesar's. Maybe Pizza Hut once in while, but come to think of it not in the past few years. I do not eat pizza with a knife and fork. That is just plain weird. I eat it New York style, folded in half, with my hands. I am also quite put out by Chicago style pizza. What the hell does that even mean? I one time ate in a "Chicago Style Pizzeria". I sat with my back against the wall.

My current favorite pizza is served at a restaurant in Phoenicia and it is actually two restaurants in one. Brio's is the section that serves the wood stove fired pizza. They also serve breakfast and a variety of standards. The other part is called The Sportsman's Alamo Cantina. It is more like a bar that serves Tex-Mex. They are connected and when you are seated (if it is after 4pm) you get a menu from both restaurants. They also have separate phone numbers. I really don't understand the whole thing. But, man, the pizza is good. The two slices pictured above are a roasted eggplant and a Margherita. The crust on the pizza is the best part. It has sesame seeds and it is always just a bit burnt due to the wood fired oven. The burgers are also heavenly. They taste like your cousin just handed it to you at a Fourth of July picnic.

If you ever come to visit, this is where you will be taken to eat.

No one lives here, it's the model

The following account contains totally fictional dialogue. The entire episode may in fact be a figment of my imagination. Any harm or judgemental implications are solely the result of an ill- fated attempt at humor. Some of the prose in the bloggers opinion, however, was deemed too clever to pass up. One minor note: The bear hook does actually exist.


I was in a furniture store the other day and I walked over to check out the awesome looking stereo amplifier that was on display in the entertainment center they were selling. You know what happened next.....I leaned in real close and wha?? It was of course cardboard. Same with the books on the bookshelves and the microwave on the cart. Phone? Cardboard. Television? Cardboard. Husband? Cardboard. Tammy will love this! If it was up to my wife only the cat would actually inhabit the house. Everything else would be perfectly placed and never used.

The most recent onset of this conflict between pretense and pragmatism was over the newly acquired coat hook in our foyer. We had been searching for the perfect decorative hook for ( I mistakenly assumed) the convenient hanging of our wet and dirty coats. Up until now I have always had to hang my coats in the closet which involves many extra, unnecessary steps such as opening the closet door and taking out a hanger. Men hate unnecessary steps due to the fact that they are unnecessary. If we could eat with a spoon out of the pot we would. It's also why we leave our dirty clothes on the floor. Laundry basket? A totally redundant step.

So we get this wrought iron decorative piece that has a bear and four hooks. Perfect for the cabin, perfect for me (it has a bear and four hooks), and perfect for Tammy (it's decorative).
I get it hung, perfectly centered and perfectly level, with a minimum of excess holes in the sheet rock. Two hours later I am relaxing by the fire and Tammy asks "Is this coat going to hang here all day?"
"Hang where?" I innocently query back.
"On the coat hook."
"It is a coat hook."
"That's not the point. I don't want to have to look at a coat every time I walk in the house."
"Why? It might remind you that we actually live here?"
"We are having company."
"And they would be offended by the fact that we wear coats? Are they nudists?"
"Oh, and please don't leave the newspaper laying around either."
"Of course not. I wouldn't want to make our illiterate nudist guests feel awkward. And you're right, why should it appear that people actually live in the house?"