Measuring sentiments
When you hear your name as you are being beckoned it is very hard not to respond. The tone and phrasing of a loved one’s voice, be they a child or a relative or a mate, is something we instinctively know to respond to. I imagine it’s probably conditioned into us from an earlier hunter/gatherer age when one of the tribe would send an alarm signal and a survival response kicked in forcing you to answer.
“Help!”
“You need help?”
“Yes. Quickly, please!”
“I (we, the tribe) am (are) on the way!”
Yes, I’m sure things like this took place and we became used to responding to the unique qualities of voice in our closest tribal members. Memories and associations imprinting their unique vocal reverberations into our group mind and causing a reply when ever certain chords or intonations are reached leading to a gathering of the group to investigate and respond.
None of that happens when my wife uses my full name.
“First name Last name! Can I see you in the kitchen, please?”
Nobody in the tribe/group wants to go into the kitchen. Even the stupidest dog in the world has now completely disappeared from under foot; his main residence for the last several years.
Nobody in the tribe thinks that there’s any value in helping the beckoning tribal mate wife in the kitchen at all. Not me, not the kid, and not the invisible fucking disappearing dog. Nobody wants to investigate any disturbance in there. Seems to go against the instinctive learned group mind that would tell you that something may be amiss in the kitchen and your spouse is exposed to it and you should go protect her, but you sit there anyway because when your wife uses your full name in that tone it’s better to just statue it up and become deaf stone marble concrete hewn. Those reverberations weren’t the-maiden in distress help I’ve been exposed to alien radiation and I need you to rush in here with your lead shield and save me-screeches.
No, these were the syllables of my name screamed as if one was annoucing the commencent of a hunt and signaling for the release of the hunting dogs and it is best to let them bellow at least twice before revealing your position.
“First name! Last name! I know you can hear me and I’d like to see you in the mild expletive kit-chen! Now, please!”
That’s two. Take a deep breath because this one has all the signs of going the distance.
I walked into the kitchen and my wife is holding a cup. It’s a measuring cup, but not the usual Oklahoma pan handle state shaped measuring cup. It’s skinny and tall, closer to a graduated cylinder made of really cheap plastic than anything else. I recognize it. I’ve used it many times. It’s one of those items you reach for when the normal everyday instrument isn’t around. It’s your second choice item. The sharp knife you grab to spread butter because all the butter knives are dirty. The spoon instead of the spatula. An old mismatched oversized lid. I’d used it to measure milk for my hollandaise sauce. I could think of no reason it should cause her to hold it so and stare at it.
It was for just that reason I hated it as soon as I realized it was her obsession. I had never suspected a mutiny from the baking instruments sector. I would have sworn those bastards were all loyal. Now I was wondering what the flour sifter knew and if anyone could find that old rolling pin I’d disposed of in the woods. Even if they had, I was better off with that pin’s rotting corpse than the stories it could have told, and that chuckle kicked me back to my measuring cup hating wife.
Did I say she held it and stared at it? I was being polite. She was studying it. Her eyes flickered over every detail as she slowly turned it in her hands. She seemed in awe of the measuring cup.
Now was one of those moments when I actually raced through the idea of taking control of the situation. For a fleeting moment I contemplated establishing some sort of upper hand. I’d ask her about the measuring cup and we’d quickly dismiss whatever was bothering her. Then we’d move upstairs for cocktails and witty banter while listening to the radio hits play in the parlour. I had an English accent in this daydream and I was more Thin Man than William Powell.
“What is it about this cup?”, she asked me. I’d missed my opportunity again because of a 1930’s black and white daydream. What is it about grainy film that causes me to romanticize so? Oh, yeah, the cup thing.
“I don’t know. What is it about the cup?”, I reply. I’d used it recently. Wasn’t the first time. I had cleaned it. What about the strong expletive cup? I wasn’t drawing a line in the sand. Somewhere I had already built a wall. She and the cup were on the outside. I was inside plotting defense strategies while exploring diplomatic, and yes, even emergency escape routes. The cup had snuck up on me, sure, but I had a few mortar rounds I could launch. I’d consider retreating and hiding in a cave after I distracted her with an offensive volley. I wasn’t going to die over a cup, after all.
“It’s been in the dish drainer for two weeks.”, she informed me. This statement was first blood and she had scored it. I knew now she was coming to her point. I could see that I was being encircled. I was stuck in the web and about to be sucked dry. I looked about for one of those “Pull In Case OF Emergency” red handled things, but we hadn’t bothered to install any in our home. Rotten luck that the previous owners hadn’t either, I guess. I would have settled for an emergency break glass thing, I suppose, but I’d have prefered a handle to pull.
“Yeah, so?”, I replied. You’ve all seen this same sort of reaction on the wildlife films. The predator thrashes, charges, leaps, yelps, spits or just about anything to flush out the prey. The prey acts glued to the spot and stays in concealment. Everyone pauses for a beat.
“It’s been in the dish drainer for two weeks because you keep using it and washing it and never ever putting it away. You don’t put it away because you don’t know where it goes, do you?”, she asks me. She’s got my scent. She’s in the hunt. I can feel it now. I still haven’t moved but I know that I can’t stay still any longer. I have to do something. I have to flee. I have to avoid. She’s coming.
“What? What are you talking about?”, I kick this up behind me as I bolt down the path. It’s an obvious path, and we’ve both run it many times.
“You know what. This measuring cup. Where does it go?”, she pursues me with practiced choreography and makes my deflections and misdirections look childlishly clumsy.
“In the cupboard.”, I said with hopefully more conviction than I had. I had no bloody idea where the thing went. I don’t give two thoughts to such things, I just throw them in the drawer. Or maybe the cupboard.
It was a realtively safe position to fall back to. We only had a few small drawers in the kitchen due to it’s design so most everything was in a ‘cupboard’. Aluminum foil, now that was your average guaranteed to be in a drawer in a kitchen item. The measuring cup might be as well, but I suspected it was actually only a distant relative of the live in a drawer family. Indeed, I hypothesize that this measuring cup was of the species that live in a cupboard and long ago evolved, perhaps even through genetic mutation, from the species of kitchen utensils that live in drawers.
It’s unknown at this time which cupboard exactly the measuring cup has inhabited, only that it makes its appearance at random intervals and was heretofore thought not to be a threat to mankind.
“In the cupboard?! Is that the best you can do? You have lived here for almost two years and you don’t even know where this measuring cup goes? Do you live here with us? Are you apart of this family? Do you even pay attention or do you just mentally show up when you want to?”, she fired off quickly.
It was obviously time to examine this measuring cup for clues. I doubted I would find a tag like the one we had to get the amazing disappearing inviso-dog every year. Maybe some indication of what it had resided by in the cupboard for the last two years. A tupperware stain or any sign of a recent baking pan collision might narrow things down. I went on examining the cup while she went on field dressing my carcass.
“And what about all this other stuff? You don’t know where any of it goes so you just pile it up on the dishdrainer and pretend it doesn’t exist!” she exploded. She went to the dish drainer and picked up an invisible something. She waved it in front of my nose. I could feel air moving. Slowly an item began to appear before my eyes. Some kind of utensil. A small wire basket on a stick.
I had no idea what it was or how it had materialized. I thought her a witch and made a warding sign.
She pointed at the dish drainer and now I could see all the rest of the items. Several were blades and parts from the Cuisinart vegetable chopping whirring thing. A couple were of Wok related origins. One thing looked good for mixing stuff but I don’t know what it might be called or even what the things it might mix would be called. I saw them as the misfit utensils, and I had given them Dish Drain island to live on.
I looked at the measuring cup that wasn’t a measuring cup like I’m used to and I looked at it again. There was a reason she had picked this one out of all the castaway utensils on Dish Drain island. Something about this one being discarded bothered her. It was for liquids, that’s a certain. Plastic. Cylandrical. Ounces and milliliters. What the heck would somebody use that for? It’s not a baking thing. It’s for more fairly precise measurements. Greater accuracy. More care. Careful measuring.
A baby.
Formula.
I shot a look back towards the dining room and the kid still parked there.
I realized instantly that the stupid dog was still nowhere around and had left me in my time of need again. Why did we even have a dog? Emergency rations in the event of some post-apocalyptic nuclear-related event was the only thing I could come up with at that moment.
I looked at the kid again. She was smiling back at me.
I turned to my wife and I hugged her. I told her that I would be more aware of which cabinet this meauring cup belonged and that I was a fool for not knowing in the first place. It was soon returned to its proper place in the kitchen cupboard.
I told her again how important our family was to me and how muched I loved everything about our life.
I crept out at midnight that evening and used the thing that looked like it would be good at mixing things to dig a hole in the backyard where I buried the Cuisinart bits and the Wok related items. Dish Drain island is now regularly patrolled for homeless and transient utensils.
“Help!”
“You need help?”
“Yes. Quickly, please!”
“I (we, the tribe) am (are) on the way!”
Yes, I’m sure things like this took place and we became used to responding to the unique qualities of voice in our closest tribal members. Memories and associations imprinting their unique vocal reverberations into our group mind and causing a reply when ever certain chords or intonations are reached leading to a gathering of the group to investigate and respond.
None of that happens when my wife uses my full name.
“First name Last name! Can I see you in the kitchen, please?”
Nobody in the tribe/group wants to go into the kitchen. Even the stupidest dog in the world has now completely disappeared from under foot; his main residence for the last several years.
Nobody in the tribe thinks that there’s any value in helping the beckoning tribal mate wife in the kitchen at all. Not me, not the kid, and not the invisible fucking disappearing dog. Nobody wants to investigate any disturbance in there. Seems to go against the instinctive learned group mind that would tell you that something may be amiss in the kitchen and your spouse is exposed to it and you should go protect her, but you sit there anyway because when your wife uses your full name in that tone it’s better to just statue it up and become deaf stone marble concrete hewn. Those reverberations weren’t the-maiden in distress help I’ve been exposed to alien radiation and I need you to rush in here with your lead shield and save me-screeches.
No, these were the syllables of my name screamed as if one was annoucing the commencent of a hunt and signaling for the release of the hunting dogs and it is best to let them bellow at least twice before revealing your position.
“First name! Last name! I know you can hear me and I’d like to see you in the mild expletive kit-chen! Now, please!”
That’s two. Take a deep breath because this one has all the signs of going the distance.
I walked into the kitchen and my wife is holding a cup. It’s a measuring cup, but not the usual Oklahoma pan handle state shaped measuring cup. It’s skinny and tall, closer to a graduated cylinder made of really cheap plastic than anything else. I recognize it. I’ve used it many times. It’s one of those items you reach for when the normal everyday instrument isn’t around. It’s your second choice item. The sharp knife you grab to spread butter because all the butter knives are dirty. The spoon instead of the spatula. An old mismatched oversized lid. I’d used it to measure milk for my hollandaise sauce. I could think of no reason it should cause her to hold it so and stare at it.
It was for just that reason I hated it as soon as I realized it was her obsession. I had never suspected a mutiny from the baking instruments sector. I would have sworn those bastards were all loyal. Now I was wondering what the flour sifter knew and if anyone could find that old rolling pin I’d disposed of in the woods. Even if they had, I was better off with that pin’s rotting corpse than the stories it could have told, and that chuckle kicked me back to my measuring cup hating wife.
Did I say she held it and stared at it? I was being polite. She was studying it. Her eyes flickered over every detail as she slowly turned it in her hands. She seemed in awe of the measuring cup.
Now was one of those moments when I actually raced through the idea of taking control of the situation. For a fleeting moment I contemplated establishing some sort of upper hand. I’d ask her about the measuring cup and we’d quickly dismiss whatever was bothering her. Then we’d move upstairs for cocktails and witty banter while listening to the radio hits play in the parlour. I had an English accent in this daydream and I was more Thin Man than William Powell.
“What is it about this cup?”, she asked me. I’d missed my opportunity again because of a 1930’s black and white daydream. What is it about grainy film that causes me to romanticize so? Oh, yeah, the cup thing.
“I don’t know. What is it about the cup?”, I reply. I’d used it recently. Wasn’t the first time. I had cleaned it. What about the strong expletive cup? I wasn’t drawing a line in the sand. Somewhere I had already built a wall. She and the cup were on the outside. I was inside plotting defense strategies while exploring diplomatic, and yes, even emergency escape routes. The cup had snuck up on me, sure, but I had a few mortar rounds I could launch. I’d consider retreating and hiding in a cave after I distracted her with an offensive volley. I wasn’t going to die over a cup, after all.
“It’s been in the dish drainer for two weeks.”, she informed me. This statement was first blood and she had scored it. I knew now she was coming to her point. I could see that I was being encircled. I was stuck in the web and about to be sucked dry. I looked about for one of those “Pull In Case OF Emergency” red handled things, but we hadn’t bothered to install any in our home. Rotten luck that the previous owners hadn’t either, I guess. I would have settled for an emergency break glass thing, I suppose, but I’d have prefered a handle to pull.
“Yeah, so?”, I replied. You’ve all seen this same sort of reaction on the wildlife films. The predator thrashes, charges, leaps, yelps, spits or just about anything to flush out the prey. The prey acts glued to the spot and stays in concealment. Everyone pauses for a beat.
“It’s been in the dish drainer for two weeks because you keep using it and washing it and never ever putting it away. You don’t put it away because you don’t know where it goes, do you?”, she asks me. She’s got my scent. She’s in the hunt. I can feel it now. I still haven’t moved but I know that I can’t stay still any longer. I have to do something. I have to flee. I have to avoid. She’s coming.
“What? What are you talking about?”, I kick this up behind me as I bolt down the path. It’s an obvious path, and we’ve both run it many times.
“You know what. This measuring cup. Where does it go?”, she pursues me with practiced choreography and makes my deflections and misdirections look childlishly clumsy.
“In the cupboard.”, I said with hopefully more conviction than I had. I had no bloody idea where the thing went. I don’t give two thoughts to such things, I just throw them in the drawer. Or maybe the cupboard.
It was a realtively safe position to fall back to. We only had a few small drawers in the kitchen due to it’s design so most everything was in a ‘cupboard’. Aluminum foil, now that was your average guaranteed to be in a drawer in a kitchen item. The measuring cup might be as well, but I suspected it was actually only a distant relative of the live in a drawer family. Indeed, I hypothesize that this measuring cup was of the species that live in a cupboard and long ago evolved, perhaps even through genetic mutation, from the species of kitchen utensils that live in drawers.
It’s unknown at this time which cupboard exactly the measuring cup has inhabited, only that it makes its appearance at random intervals and was heretofore thought not to be a threat to mankind.
“In the cupboard?! Is that the best you can do? You have lived here for almost two years and you don’t even know where this measuring cup goes? Do you live here with us? Are you apart of this family? Do you even pay attention or do you just mentally show up when you want to?”, she fired off quickly.
It was obviously time to examine this measuring cup for clues. I doubted I would find a tag like the one we had to get the amazing disappearing inviso-dog every year. Maybe some indication of what it had resided by in the cupboard for the last two years. A tupperware stain or any sign of a recent baking pan collision might narrow things down. I went on examining the cup while she went on field dressing my carcass.
“And what about all this other stuff? You don’t know where any of it goes so you just pile it up on the dishdrainer and pretend it doesn’t exist!” she exploded. She went to the dish drainer and picked up an invisible something. She waved it in front of my nose. I could feel air moving. Slowly an item began to appear before my eyes. Some kind of utensil. A small wire basket on a stick.
I had no idea what it was or how it had materialized. I thought her a witch and made a warding sign.
She pointed at the dish drainer and now I could see all the rest of the items. Several were blades and parts from the Cuisinart vegetable chopping whirring thing. A couple were of Wok related origins. One thing looked good for mixing stuff but I don’t know what it might be called or even what the things it might mix would be called. I saw them as the misfit utensils, and I had given them Dish Drain island to live on.
I looked at the measuring cup that wasn’t a measuring cup like I’m used to and I looked at it again. There was a reason she had picked this one out of all the castaway utensils on Dish Drain island. Something about this one being discarded bothered her. It was for liquids, that’s a certain. Plastic. Cylandrical. Ounces and milliliters. What the heck would somebody use that for? It’s not a baking thing. It’s for more fairly precise measurements. Greater accuracy. More care. Careful measuring.
A baby.
Formula.
I shot a look back towards the dining room and the kid still parked there.
I realized instantly that the stupid dog was still nowhere around and had left me in my time of need again. Why did we even have a dog? Emergency rations in the event of some post-apocalyptic nuclear-related event was the only thing I could come up with at that moment.
I looked at the kid again. She was smiling back at me.
I turned to my wife and I hugged her. I told her that I would be more aware of which cabinet this meauring cup belonged and that I was a fool for not knowing in the first place. It was soon returned to its proper place in the kitchen cupboard.
I told her again how important our family was to me and how muched I loved everything about our life.
I crept out at midnight that evening and used the thing that looked like it would be good at mixing things to dig a hole in the backyard where I buried the Cuisinart bits and the Wok related items. Dish Drain island is now regularly patrolled for homeless and transient utensils.