Last month I went up to Seattle for a few days with my grandparents. Joosh (tm Rypinski) was not able to go due to work obligations and the substantiated rumor that we might be renting a tiny little hotel suite or 1-bedroom flat for all of us (I actually have an entire post about this, half finished, as so many things are around here, but it will have to wait). But mostly it was the whole work obligation thing.
As we were getting ready to hit the road, Grandma asked if Joosh would be okay by himself. I wasn't sure what she meant exactly, so she went on to ask if he could, you know, cook for himself, or would he (what, starve? eat cold cereal and uncooked ramen noodles for four days?) have to eat out every day. I laughed and said that no, he's very good in the kitchen, can make lots of good stuff, and even does the dishes. Don't worry, I said, he definitely knows how to fend for himself.
That's very good, she said. It's great that he can batch it.
Quoi? I was confused. Is that some sort of old-timey word for "cut it" or "make it" or slang for survival or something?
No no, she said, "bach" it, like bachelor.
Oh. Duh.
It was so cute how she said it, how matter of fact and proud she sounded: "It's great that he can bach it". The stories she then told about different husbands of various friends of hers, men who couldn't boil water for themselves, who would be utterly lost whenever their women went away, were totally hilarious. One gal received a phone call from her fella asking why the macaroni wasn't getting soft in the bowl when he microwaved it. Without water.
Grandma guffawed at the ineptitude of these many sorry saps and their poor beleaguered wives, and talked about Grandpa's cooking and that it's so important to know how to take care of yourself, etc etc. It was a surprisingly lengthy sermon on the independence mountain, I must say. But very cute.
Well as proud of J as she was (and me, by virtue of having chosen such an apparent rarity), let me tell you, she would be absolutely appalled at me this week. J is in the VTA and I am, ahem, Bach'ing It Up here in Bridgetown. And I am disgusting. First of all this whole working at home thing is awesome, but the utter busyness of late and the lack of anyone to make fun of me for wearing my pj's all day means that I am doing just that. Second, I'm never so much into doing dishes on the slowest of days, so those are piling up rather nastily (especially since my "dishwashing" usually consists of filling the basin with hot water and soap to pre-soak the intended washees, but then totally forgetting about it until the next day when what is left is a chilly, unsoapy, crud-filled, scum-surfaced pond of yuck in the sink that I usually can't bear to attack for at least another day). Also, I put a fan in the window of the living room that at some point blew hard enough (apparently of its own accord) to scatter a bunch of receipts and loose mail from the coffee table (also known as My Office) all over the living room. That was Wednesday. The fan is still on. The scattered items are still that, but perhaps more widely spread around the room.
I ate rice pudding for breakfast. I haven't had coffee in days. My main meal today was chips, black beans with garlic (god, do I admit this? that were still on the stove from the night before.... don't judge) and mango salsa. People, it's bad.
I've decided that it's really not me, it's work - I'm stressing about a project that is going to go live two weeks from today (and will involve my flying to Iowa for two days after Labor Day to train call-center answerers, how random is that?) and not only are there a million little pieces to take care of/keep track of, I just can't seem to let go of all the loose threads and dangly bits hanging out here and there not getting done by others or Indians (ah, outsourcing), and all over which I have absolutely no control. It really could be work. But in my heart of hearts, I know that really it's because I'm just not very good at bach'ing it anymore.
Don't tell Grandma.
As we were getting ready to hit the road, Grandma asked if Joosh would be okay by himself. I wasn't sure what she meant exactly, so she went on to ask if he could, you know, cook for himself, or would he (what, starve? eat cold cereal and uncooked ramen noodles for four days?) have to eat out every day. I laughed and said that no, he's very good in the kitchen, can make lots of good stuff, and even does the dishes. Don't worry, I said, he definitely knows how to fend for himself.
That's very good, she said. It's great that he can batch it.
Quoi? I was confused. Is that some sort of old-timey word for "cut it" or "make it" or slang for survival or something?
No no, she said, "bach" it, like bachelor.
Oh. Duh.
It was so cute how she said it, how matter of fact and proud she sounded: "It's great that he can bach it". The stories she then told about different husbands of various friends of hers, men who couldn't boil water for themselves, who would be utterly lost whenever their women went away, were totally hilarious. One gal received a phone call from her fella asking why the macaroni wasn't getting soft in the bowl when he microwaved it. Without water.
Grandma guffawed at the ineptitude of these many sorry saps and their poor beleaguered wives, and talked about Grandpa's cooking and that it's so important to know how to take care of yourself, etc etc. It was a surprisingly lengthy sermon on the independence mountain, I must say. But very cute.
Well as proud of J as she was (and me, by virtue of having chosen such an apparent rarity), let me tell you, she would be absolutely appalled at me this week. J is in the VTA and I am, ahem, Bach'ing It Up here in Bridgetown. And I am disgusting. First of all this whole working at home thing is awesome, but the utter busyness of late and the lack of anyone to make fun of me for wearing my pj's all day means that I am doing just that. Second, I'm never so much into doing dishes on the slowest of days, so those are piling up rather nastily (especially since my "dishwashing" usually consists of filling the basin with hot water and soap to pre-soak the intended washees, but then totally forgetting about it until the next day when what is left is a chilly, unsoapy, crud-filled, scum-surfaced pond of yuck in the sink that I usually can't bear to attack for at least another day). Also, I put a fan in the window of the living room that at some point blew hard enough (apparently of its own accord) to scatter a bunch of receipts and loose mail from the coffee table (also known as My Office) all over the living room. That was Wednesday. The fan is still on. The scattered items are still that, but perhaps more widely spread around the room.
I ate rice pudding for breakfast. I haven't had coffee in days. My main meal today was chips, black beans with garlic (god, do I admit this? that were still on the stove from the night before.... don't judge) and mango salsa. People, it's bad.
I've decided that it's really not me, it's work - I'm stressing about a project that is going to go live two weeks from today (and will involve my flying to Iowa for two days after Labor Day to train call-center answerers, how random is that?) and not only are there a million little pieces to take care of/keep track of, I just can't seem to let go of all the loose threads and dangly bits hanging out here and there not getting done by others or Indians (ah, outsourcing), and all over which I have absolutely no control. It really could be work. But in my heart of hearts, I know that really it's because I'm just not very good at bach'ing it anymore.
Don't tell Grandma.
Am and Gram at the (gorgeous) Japanese Garden in Seattle.
1 comment:
You are too funny - grandma is cute with the lingo: "Bach" it - I likes it!
I will have to admit that cleaning is now my procrastination method of choice. And I hear you about dishes piling up in the sink. You have to get dishwashing gloves in order to stomach the thought of putting your hands and arms into a sink of cold, slimy dishwater. That is the first step.
But it's good to know that Joosh can help motivate you - I know my cat is a major motivator for keeping things clean and organized. And, the cooking: I realize now that I have to eat healthy in order to stave off migraines... so, at least I have some major pressure-y stuff to keep me in check. Without those things, yeah: I'd be living like Brad Pitt in "True Romance."
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