My Name in Print!

You may recall my self-congratulatory post earlier last year about my first paid illustration gig.  Well after weeks of sketches, color studies, full-bleed page spreads, corrupted files, late nights, long hours and maddening revisions, I finished my first book.  All 28 pages.  The client was a communications major who wanted a private commission for a portfolio diversifier.

Here are some of the highlights:

 

This was the first page I finished.  

It helped set the tone for the whole book as far as the level of detail,

 

design simplicity (it is a kids book after all),

 

and stylization of the main character.   

 

I had to keep in mind that there would be text on these pages, 

not just my images.  It took some getting used to,

 leaving large empty spaces in the pictures.

 As I find is often the case, the research for this job was the most fun.

Who doesn't love getting paid to study Star Wars?  

There is such a rich tapestry of characters,

 exotic planets,

 and futuristic tech, I had a great time 

recapturing the galaxy far, far away.

I don't expect to get famous over this, more than anything else, this was an extremely valuable learning opportunity for me.  I had no clue just how much time and effort goes into a book (those pages pile up quick on a deadline!)

I might put some samples up on my website (there I go again, shamelessly plugging my portfolio), but many of these pages will end up on tumblr for everyone's viewing pleasure.

If anyone was wondering, this is what swallowed up most of my holiday, which sheds some light on why I haven't posted anything in a while.  

Let me know what you think!  Comment, share, help me get the word out.

S

We in a Tight Spot!

I've mentioned before that B. and I love Zions National Park.  We've had epic dates there and the vast landscape of red rocks and towering boulders holds a lot of dear memories for us.

This one is less dear.

We went to St. George, Utah the last weekend of summer (for B. at least, my classes will start after Labor Day) to attend a wedding but also to escape town and get some semblance of a vacation in the few weeks between summer school and fall semester.  We were guests to my sister-in-law Jess and her husband.  They're both fantastic, and I think the time we got to spend with them really allowed us to get to know each other better.  Even better, we got to see our not-so-baby niece, too.  She's an adorable handful and we love every chance we get to see her.

Our first day there was a marathon of scrambling across town, getting wedding gifts, B. getting her hair done, seeing this family and that family and at long last visit my grandmother, my uncle and my aunt.  We took them out to one of our favorite restaurants down there and I had a great time talking with my grandmother as an adult rather than a little kid interested in candy, cartoons and not much else.

After such a hectic day, we blew off the hike we planned and postponed it til the next day.  We had a down day.  We cooked our classic staple polynesian chicken and introduced B.'s sister to its wonders.  B. finally saw one of my favorite movies, Rise of the Guardians, or as little niece calls it, "Jack Fwost movie." We slumped on the couch and enjoyed the air conditioned indoors and chatted with the sister-in-law I had never really gotten to know too well.  We talked about future plans, convinced her to jump on the Breaking Bad bandwagon, and enjoyed the hyperactive antics of her hilarious toddler.

That night we got all dolled up (B. looked fantastic in her 40s style polka dot dress) and went to a wedding.  Pardon, a weddin'.  The groom, the lucky man who won the heart of B.'s stepsister, wore a cowboy hat at the ceremony.  They really embraced the Southwestern cowpoke motif. (as well as the term "getting hitched") 

On the final day of our last hurrah before school hit, we set our alarm for 7:00 to make it out to the park early.  Well, I did.  B. it seemed, had other plans.  As did her sister.  They slept in while I dozed and fiddled on facebook.  We finally got ready to go and left around 11 am, planning to be back around 3pm.  4 at the latest.

Weather and fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Our plan was to got on a hike called the Narrows, a trail following the deep crevice worn into the red stone by the Virgin River.  Now, the full hike is a twenty-something mile trek that takes two days.  Our abbreviated version would only take a few hours.  We'd take a detour off into another branch of the canyon called Orderville Gulch and find a small but decent waterfall.  I'd kiss my wife in the waterfall, we'd take some snapshots and turn back, no problem.

But there was a problem.

The last few days had been a bit rainy (darn monsoon season) and a lot of silty runoff had accumulated in the canyon, giving the normally clear river through which we were to traverse a chalky brown consistency.  There were flash flood warnings up, but it hadn't rained in quite some time and we honestly weren't going too deep in, so we decided to try anyway (this was after all our last day of summer)

It took some getting used to, testing blindly with our river shoes for slippery footholds in the Willy Wonka river, but we established a pattern and I, the tallest was elected the guinea pig in testing depth.  We had dressed to get wet, so I didn't mind an unexpected swim.  We took some great photos, had a lot of laughs and stretched and hyperextended a lot of foot tendons in our numerous slips.  We would be sore in the morning.  At last we came to the long awaited waterfall, much shorter than expected but still taller than me and powerful enough to give it some real force.  I inched up to it, dipped my head in, and returned to where B. and her sister had oerched to eat granola bars and trail mix.  I sat down briefly and began munching, when suddenly we heard it.


A distant rumble in the sky.


All three of us locked eyes and knew.  B. voiced what we were all thinking:

Time to go!

As it started to sprinkle, I became a little concerned about flash floods.  At least until we broke out of the Orderville Gulch detour (a very narrow passageway).  But even if we were overtaken by a sudden current, we were all adults who could swim and the current would only speed us back to the trailhead.  Worst case scenario, we'd swim more than walk and the greatest challenge would be to stay together and stay afloat.  Once we reached the main, wider banks of the Virgin River, I wasn't too worried.

But I was the only one.  My poor sister-in-law was bawling.  She had a baby girl, she couldn't die here!  My poor asthmatic B. was having an anxiety attack as we splashed our way back.  I told both of them we would be fine, they only partly listened.  I held B. close for a second and urged them both to be fast but smart.  We couldn't see where we stepped, so it was best to move at a quick pace, but still move carefully.  A sprained ankle would only slow us down further.  I could carry one of them, both of them would be a challenge. We all held hands in a chain as we crossed from bank to bank, hurrying with the rising water level and quickening current.

Trying to lighten the mood, B. wondered aloud about the scene in Fellowship of the Ring where Arwen summons the watery horse-head waves to drown the Ringwraiths.  I love my wife; even in a panic attack she can pull Lord of the Rings references.  I laughed.  Jess just splashed ahead of us.

The rain picked up briefly, soundly soaking us and giving birth to new waterfalls along the trail.  We were rounding a corner as one spouted off of the edge of the canyon and splashed down next to us.  That did not help to ease the two hysterical women clinging to my arms in the middle of the river.  I couldn't help but laugh.  Not at them or their distress, but I just loved every moment of the trip, being caught up in the elements, drenched to the bone, witnessing the birth of waterfalls in one of the most beautiful places on earth.  I drank in the moment, even as we hurried back to dry land (well, high ground).

Obviously we made it back just fine.  Jess's knees were killing her, I had to carry her a little on the way back to the shuttle.  B. was a trooper - thank goodness she packed her inhaler.  We were all relatively damp if not dry as we left the shuttle and made our way to the car.  In the last fifty-foot stretch before we got to our car, the heavens opened up and dumped on us yet again.  We just had to get the car wet apparently.

Showered and changed back home, I rubbed my already tender and sore feet.  My metatarsals hand been warped and stretched in all sorts of nasty ways.  B. felt a million times better after a hot shower.  Jess, once in the cozy comfort of sweats at home, admitted that our situation might not have been as dire as she had originally thought.

I just smiled to myself, taking comfort in the fact that my marriage has taught me enough to know when to offer advice, when to offer facts, when to offer comfort, and when to just shut up and let women have their hormonal freakouts.  B., my headstrong feminist told me (and Jess) as we were scrambling our way back to the trailhead that she was glad they had a man around at that moment.  I don't quite know what to make of that, but it's good to hear from my woman.



Next time we'll go when the water's clear.



S

You Can't Make This Up

There are some stories in our lives that just seem too good to be true.

Our own "it was thiiiis big" fish tales that amuse the skeptical and delight those who want to believe.  It's as if for a brief moment in the mundane minutia of our day-to-day, we get a cosmic fifteen minutes of fame, like God rewrote the screenplay of our lives just to let us know He likes to laugh, too.




Quailman Glee.

In my senior year of high school I broke off from my usual electives and extracurriculars in band and tried two new classes: theater and choir.   Choir was fun, I had done informal rehearsals and stuff for church but I had never been graded.  I didn't think there was much to it.  If you screwed up, you could just blend your mistake in with the others singing beside you, right?  Oh no, the director was a cruel and strict taskmaster, you had to be in perfect synch with the other parts.  She emphasized proper technique, volume control, good breathing, and not to mention memorizing the lyrics (some of which were Latin or Italian).  We were nearing the end of the semester halfway through a grueling rehearsal in preparation for the End of Year Concert.  Our director had broken off to talk with our pianist.  We broke into various hushed conversations and shared complaints at the endless repetition and nitpicking of the rehearsal.

Suddenly some of the more rambunctious guys in the Bass line began doo-wopping, sidestepping and snapping, not to "My Girl" or some other Motown classic - but the opening theme song to the old 90s cartoon "Doug."  For those of you who know it, you know it builds from the bass line and other parts gradually join in until, after one round of all parts harmonizing, the song ends at last with a Bobby McFerrin-esque beatboxing denouement.

As the basses began their doo-wop, the tenors joined in at the next part, soon accompanied by the altos and finally the sopranos' descant.  For less than thirty seconds, we were all snapping and singing in an impromptu a capella rendition of a 90s cartoon theme.

It began suddenly. It ended too soon.  We all broke into laughter.

Even our stern director cracked a smile at our spontaneity.  This was random music, we didn't plan it, but the way we sang... you'd have thought we had.  She applauded our mini-perfomance before returning us to our Latin piece.

It was fun.  It was musical.  It was NOT Glee.  I cannot stress that enough.  Glee didn't exist then.  It doesn't apply, so don't you dare mention it. 




Hot Pocket.

I know this is going to seem very Niles Crane of me, but I carried a pocket watch when I was in 7th grade.

Before you shelf me as the weird kid who chose a briefcase in lieu of a backpack and wore a cravat on picture day, let me explain.  I don't normally prefer the antiquated over the modern (especially in middle school)  I had worn plenty of wristwatches, but my active lifestyle of wall ball, dodge ball, kick ball and other alternative sports had always left their faces scratched to the point of illegibility; fashion repeatedly vanquished by function.  So, one day at Wal-Mart I spied a cheap knock-off pocket watch spray-painted gold for six dollars.  That fit my meager budget, so I began carrying around my new timepiece in my pocket, clipping the chain to the denim belt loop of my jeans.

I know...

Anyway, the watch is only one ingredient in this little experiment.  One day I had stuffed in some new spare AA batteries into my pocket before leaving to catch the bus.  I had noticed my portable CD player had been running low the day earlier, so I snagged some backups so as not to be left tuneless on my ride home.  (kids, a CD player was something we used a long time ago before iPods, iPads and MP3s - we were a simple people)

One day in science class, ironically enough, I was starting to drift off during a lecture after lunch.  Digestive sleepies strike again.

I was suddenly shaken from my drowsy reverie, however, by a sharp burning sensation on my thigh.  Eager not to make a scene, I tried to cover my sudden leg spasm with a yawn and a stretch, surreptitiously trying to put out what felt like a fire on my leg.  The contents of my pocket shifted and the heat died away.  After a few moments I reached in said pocket to see what was burning me.

Nothing but my AA batteries and my pocket watch.

...and the watch's chain.

Some of you might be ahead of me now.

I remembered from a project we did on electricity in fourth grade that if you connect copper wire between a light bulb and both ends of a battery, the electrical current will travel between the battery's positive and negative ends, passing through the bulb and lighting the filament on its way.  As I massaged my burned thigh, I quickly surmised that my watch's chain had done just that; chain and batteries had entangled in such a way that a current was established, but with no bulb to light, the chain and the watch connected to it instead began rapidly heating up, giving me quite a hot shock.

I wasn't the most honest person all the time, but it seemed that fate had at last tried to set my pants on fire.




For Goodness Sake

This last one isn't from my own life, but it's so cute I just had to share.  My parents had taken the young kids still living at home to a church Christmas party.  Lots of games and activities for the children, plenty of candy and goodies, and of course, Santa visited.  Jolly old Nicholas invited all the eager young ones to hop up on his knee and make final revisions to their lists.

My youngest brother, then two years old, waited his turn in line for his chance to divulge his last minute desires and requests.  When his turn at last came he marched confidently up to Mr. Claus.

On his way, Santa proclaimed, "I know who this is. This is Dallin! Have you been a good boy this year?"

Poor Dal froze.  He hung his head despairingly and began to trudge away when Santa called him back and rewarded his honesty with a candy cane.

Whether it be a self-effacing toddler, an impromptu a capella cartoon sing-along, or a fire starter in your front pocket, there are certain moments of  humorous kismet, cosmic irony or comedic timing that leave atheists scratching their heads and the rest of us smiling to ourselves.




What are some of your "too good to be true" moments?


S

Movezilla, or My First "Win"

I'm really proud of my wife.

During our whole engagement/wedding-planning, she never broke down.  She never had a Bridezilla moment. It was a trying experience, throwing everything together in a matter of days.  B.'s mom had a ball planning the reception and it was really great just walking in to see everything set up; we had given her pretty free reign to do what she wanted.  We honestly just didn't care for much of the traditions.

She bought the first dress she tried on for under $200.  We got our own cake, our reception DJ was an iPod, and our "line" lasted maybe ten minutes.  People kind of lingered at our reception, it was a pretty relaxed party setting; we were both pretty ignorant/apathetic about wedding traditions.  She tossed her bouquet, but we snagged our then 1-year-old niece's headband to use as a garter.  Our slicing of the cake quickly escalated into a brief food fight.It was a fun day that could only have been improved by some granola bars in my suit pocket to sustain us during our photo ops after the ceremony.


But the wedding was the least of our concerns that week.

B.'s favorite number is five, so naturally we got married on May fifth (5/5).  On May fourth we moved her and all of her stuff into our new apartment, met with family and friends and got settled into our new quarters.  On May third B. had finals.

The days before that were a chaotic blur of keeping track of what boxes I had already driven up to the house with me from my last visit, her desperately cramming for finals while simultaneously babysitting the aforementioned adorable albeit high-energy niece.  B. was at the end of her rope.  And it showed in her texts.  I tried to be supportive; I've moved enough that I wasn't too stressed about it, I just wanted the wedding to go well.

She texted me about a book she couldn't find.  I found it in one of the boxes I had brought up and informed her.  She told me to put it in the car and take a picture of said book in said car as photographic proof I wouldn't forget it.

I never had a Bridezilla.  But moving brought out her panic.

And finals didn't help either.

In a culmination of stress and miscommunication, she discovered a small moleskine notebook containing journal entries, important memories, a treasured recipe as well as other vital information was nowhere to be found.  Trying to be the supportive fiancee in this her time of distress, I dutifully began emptying the handful of boxes I had stuffed into the car before returning home a week ago, diligently searching for the lost notebook.  I scoured each box, checked inside each one by one, sending her pictures on my phone of each book set out on our carpet.

Still no notebook. 

Now, her camel had been suffering numerous chiropractic issues lately, but this really did break the poor beast's back.

It all collapsed onto her.  She wouldn't pass her finals and would have to pay back her federal grant money, she'd lose all of her stuff in the move, she wouldn't transfer her credits to her new school successfully, she wouldn't find a new job in her new town, she wouldn't fit in her dress, the car would break down, the planets would align to her complete and utter ruin.

Movezilla.

I had had enough of this long distance crap, and I hated hearing her under such duress, unable to do anything myself except check the boxes a fourth time.  When at last I came down to pick her up, move all of her stuff into the moving truck and take her away, we began packing up the rest of her books and clothes.

While B. was in her closet taking down clothes to fit into boxes, I found some old boxes we had packed over a week earlier lined against her bedroom wall.  These I had left behind because I hadn't had room in our little sedan last time.

In a gloriously epiphanic moment, I tore away the lid of the produce box we had pilfered from a grocery store to carry her books.  And there it sat, comfortably nestled between a similar moleskine and a book on hiking.

"Aha!"  I declared triumphantly, snatching it from the box.

B. ran out to see me holding the recovered notebook victoriously over my head.  She had forgotten about those boxes and that they also had had books in them.  Her sheepish embarrassment at having put me through the ringer quickly turned to smothering me in apologetic kisses.  I, the gloating detective, the giddy fiancee, basked in what I remember as possibly my first "win."  Most of our disagreements are my fault.  But this was one where I wasn't in the wrong!  A rare instance indeed.

I don't blame B.  With the week she'd had, no one could.  I just enjoy recalling a moment in time where I wasn't the cause of a fight or a disaster or a misunderstanding.  She's much better than I am, but neither of us are perfect.

I can't really count something like this as a win.  If we're fighting, there is no winner or loser.  We both apologize, we both make up.  We both lose time wasted on fights.  I'm sure there are instances that have transformed me into an insufferable _______zilla.



What turns you into a ______-zilla?



S

You should be ashamed.

Guilty pleasures.

We all have 'em.

The first time I heard this term was when my mom was chuckling at the flaming antics on an episode of Will & Grace.  It's a silly show, she knew that.  It can be risque and stupid, she knew that, too.  But there are some things for which we abandon our usual snobbishness or high-minded preferences.

Let's be clear.  That we all have "guilty" foods is a given.  B. loves her brownies.  I indulge in crappy fast food every once in a while.  We know it's bad for us, but we ignore that fact and pig out.  I'm not talking so much about food here, though.  We all have something non-edible that for one reason or another, we just can't let go of.

What is it about that particular shamefully tasteless piece of junk that pervades our walls of classiness and strikes a chord with us?  It could be a Hank Williams, Jr. album, a Dixie Chicks poster left discarded under our bed, an old Aquaman comic book brought to light, those parachute pants left at the bottom of our drawer, the action figures/dolls we're suddenly too old/cool for... or so we claim.



I'll admit it, I have one.   A few, actually.


I know they look ratty.  I know they're faded and wafer thin.  I know they have holes everywhere and the edges are frayed.  I know I've had them since sophomore year of high school.  But I looooooooove my comfy jeans.  They're like an old friend, fitting the contours of my oddly shaped raptor legs and prominent calves perfectly.  They're baggy where they should be baggy, they fit snugly where I need them to.  It's a dance, it's teamwork.  I love them so.  B. has threatened to throw them out on more than one occasion.  I've thought about hiding them until I can patch them up and start wearing them in public again (they're my Saturday jeans, usually).  Everyone should have some comfy jeans, no matter what Stacey London or Clinton Kelly or Tim Gunn or... ok I'm out of fashion gurus, but no matter what anyone says I will always love those jeans.




I remember buying NSYNC's album No Strings Attached and bringing it to a friend's house.  We started rocking out to "Bye Bye Bye" (come on, who hasn't?) when my friend's older brother scorned us into submission.  The oldest myself, I was new to the "bully older brother" element.  His derision was enough to spoil our fun.

... Until the second track, during which all three of us sat around the kitchen belting along in cracked falsetto, "It's Gonna Be MEEE!"





I've never really watched any Fast or Furious films (it feels like there are enough now to rival the Land Before Time franchise).  I saw The Pacifier and nearly died laughing it was so bad.  XXX should have been nixed from production before ever hitting the box office.  Vin Diesel is a joke.  We all know it... but... Chronicles of Riddick is this weird, space-age acid trip for your eyes.  And there's Vinny, standing in all of his awkwardly stoic theatrical splendor.  But I don't hate it, dang it!  It's so stupid and so cool.  Maybe it's the conceptual design riddled through the film, maybe it appeals to my inner nine-year-old.

...a nine-year-old with a concussion.

I'm fully aware it's a weak movie.  Starring a weak actor who got hired for his biceps and chrome dome.  I know I shouldn't like it, but I do anyway.  Against my better judgement, I don't hate it.  Other guilty pleasure movies I wish I didn't secretly think are cool?  Hellboy.  League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Speed Racer.  Insert other franchise-less sci-fi/fantasy niche here, the list goes on.




Why can't we just enjoy what we like, unafraid of the judgement of others?  




My wife shocked me a few weeks ago by suggesting we go see Pacific Rim.  Even I had dismissed it as just a transparent conglomeration of Power Rangers, Transformers, and Godzilla.  We knew going in that it would be Independence Day underwater.  We didn't expect a moving script or a twisty, convoluted plot.  No depth, just big robots beating monsters senseless with their mechanical, rocket-powered fists.

And we got what we wanted.

We both loved it, ignoring the film critics looking down their noses at our enjoyment.


I think it helps having someone in which to share the burden of others' judgement.Geek out, embrace the corniness of your guilty pleasures, you might just find a kindred spirit in the process.




What are you ashamed to enjoy?  What's your guilty pleasure?

Come on, give.



S

Reruns

We were pulling into Starbucks one afternoon.  We were talking about the money wasted renting Oz the Great and Powerful the night before and how we'll never get those two hours back.  We talked about how most of the acting was ok, but James Franco just can't ever seem to be very convincing as anything but a stoner.

Then my brain went into auto-pilot.

"Did you know that James Franco was going to be cast as Peter Parker in the Spider-man movies until they found a much nerdier Tobey Maguire?"

My wife sat in hushed resignation, shook her head and sighed:

"Yup, you've told me that a couple of times."

...

Crap.


I have one factoid about James Franco; if the conversation for some reason turns to him, I vomit it out.  It used to be a great conversation piece when I was in middle school.  There was a time people found that an intriguing bit of info, I swear. 

Am I the only one who does this?  I have a limited repertoire of memorized pieces of tantalizing gossip or obscure but interesting anecdotes and statistics.  If I'm friends with you long enough, I'm going to repeat myself.

I'm sorry.

I can only be so interesting for so long, I think.  Now, a year ago, this would have really worried me.  What if I run out of material?  How will I keep B. entertained?  Humor is one of my few assets in this relationship - I know she didn't marry me for my looks - if I can't keep her laughing and engaged how will this relationship ever last?

Will my wife grow bored of me?

But now, I've learned the pleasure and comfort we find in repetition.  Ever read the same book twice?  Ever seen a movie again?  Right now we're working our way through the myriad 90s sitcoms on Netflix.  We own all of Seinfeld on DVD.  We went through Everybody Loves Raymond twice.  We're almost halfway through Frasier for the second time.  We like reruns.

Let me say that again.

We all like reruns.

We both tell each other stories the other has heard before.  We don't mind.  We like reliving them.  When people ask us how we met, we have rehearsed the telling so well it's like a scripted presentation.  But I'm not bored with it.  I love reliving those days and falling in love with her all over again.

If you are prone to repetition, don't worry, we all do it.  Not every moment of our lives is noteworthy, we can cap our story bank.

And if you get annoyed by us rerunners, just wait.  It'll happen to you soon enough.

Enjoy the predictability in those around you; it's a sign you know them well.


What are your reruns?


S

Checks and Balances

This morning I woke up at 5:20 am.

I'm an incurable morning person.

...But I can cure myself until my alarm at 6:15.  So I rolled over and dozed for an hour.

I got up early this morning and was immediately wide awake.  I love that feeling.  That aware, alertness, daring the world to bring it on.

I leaned over, kissed B. and got up to wash my face and throw on some clothes.  Almost immediately B. snatched my free pillow and snuggled up to it.  She says it smells like me, I think she just wants some free cushion.

I love our little morning routines.

I went out to the living room, found my shoes under scattered laundry and got ready to go.

Then, as I packed my leftovers for lunch I spotted it.

Exhibit A.

Evidence of our tenuous treaty as an imperfect couple.

My wife is lactose intolerant.  But she loooooves cereal.  Crispix especially.  And let's face it, if you have cereal, you MUST have milk with it.  So my wife bathes her cereal in milk and then scoops out the swimmers, leaving the liquid white pool behind in the bowl.  She then proceeds to leave the milk bowl out on the counter.  When we're both home, I have no problem finishing her milk for her.  We have no cat, so it's left to me to empty the saucer.  (what IS a saucer?  I just know cats drink milk from it)

But this bowl had been poured late last night, after I had brushed my teeth and was getting into bed.  But sweet B. didn't pour the milk out into the sink.  She left it out on the counter.  Again.  She always does this; if I'm not there to empty the bowl, it sits unemptied.

This used to bother me.  It used to reeeeally annoy me that (A) so much milk has gone to waste and (B) it is left to me to either pour it down the sink or, if there are enough of the little bottom-of-the-box cereal particulates floating around (she calls them "scooby snacks") that, to prevent drain cloggage (no disposal), I have to flush the milky mixture down the toilet.

It used to bother me.

Why, you ask, am I so benevolent and forgiving?


Because every relationship has checks and balances.


I have a little forgetful tendency that sends shivers down B.'s spine.

Actually, it usually gives her goosebumps too.

When we shower (hehe) she usually hops out first to get started on drying/straightening/curling her hair and I buckle down and focus on any missed patches while shaving.  After I've thoroughly inspected my freshly scraped face, I turn off the water, grab a towel, and make a Home Alone face in the mirror as I apply aftershave.

What I DON'T do is push down the shower valve.  This means that the next time someone (i.e., B.) turns on the water, rather than pouring from the bath faucet to test the temperature comfortably on her hand, the water left to cool overnight in the pipes sprays out of the shower head down her unsuspecting back.

Oops.

Exhibit B.

I swear, I don't do this on purpose.  I try to remember.  I try to be nice.  She tries to pour out her milk.

But sometimes we forget.

I love that we can check each other with our forgetfulness.  It's a good reminder that neither of us is perfect.  Besides, the day I don't come home to a bowl of milk left out will be a sad day indeed.


I'll probably have to just shower at the gym.


What's your check?  What do you tolerate in others?  What do they tolerate in you?


S