Mahschocolate

It has been a busy busy time in our house, which is new to all of us.  Pedram and I have been running around, both stressed with work and other commitments, and Rusby is trying to figure out what happen to the “lets all chill on the couch and rub dog’s belly” time that we used to dedicate at least 10 minutes a night before.  This week he barely gets any belly rubbing time and alot more “please-poop-already-I-am-going-to-be-late!” exasperation.  Poor puppy.  I plan to spend the entire weekend rubbing his belly and feeding him pig ears.

When we are both busy, we have to plan to do household chores and walk the dog separately, with one person leaving the house at dawn, and in exchange the other can work well into the night.   I am sure many people have experienced this with roommates, the feeling like you know someone else lives in your house, but only from a mysterious plate in the sink, or the surprising thrill of finding the toothpaste in the bathroom replaced.

The days are endless, but at the same time too short, and oh-so tiring.  Then droopy eyed and exhausted, we crawl into bed, often too riled to sleep, to anxious about remaining tasks, updating each other about our lives, rambling to-dos for the next day.  And sometimes with one eye half open, I notice that something I had been ignoring for the last month, trying to forget it exists, has now spurned into a full-on infraction.  I am too weary to begin a rant explaining my position, too drained to put up a fight or do something about it myself.   Spent of all energy, I mumble a small request.

“hey buddy, do you want to shave this month?”

This is not the man I married

I often spend a few minutes in the morning talking to one of my co-workers, who has two little boys and every conversation includes her boys in some sense or another.  She is one of those selfless mothers, the kind who would sacrifice her own well being so that the men in her life are happy.  She wakes up and makes them elaborate lunches, but forgets to eat herself.  She saves her vacation days for when her children will inevitably become sick during the year.  Every small change in their looks, every small sigh her children make before sleeping, every small noodle to fall out of their mouths is a morning headline to be shared with all.

On a side note, for being so devoted to other people’s well-being, she looks so amazing every morning.  Her outfits are perfectly put together, her hair and makeup, flawless.  I wish I was her.  Except without the selflessness and all the sacrifices.

One morning, I asked her how she was doing, and after listening to how the littlest one got a new sword and tried to impale her on it, I asked her, “don’t you wish you had a daughter?”  She replied that the two boys are already quite a handful, but she is ready for them to get married (ahem…they are 3 and 5), and their spouses will be her daughters.

We then had a conversation about how to raise little boys to be great men, wonderful husbands, and caring fathers.  We mostly shared stories about our own fathers, but eventually the conversation turned to our respective husbands.  She asked what attributes does my husband possess that she should pass on to her sons — and I thought of all the things I am grateful my mother-in-law taught Pedram.  He comes to my aid when spiders and centipedes are around, and then listens to my humanitarian rant and captures and releases them outdoors.  He takes out the garbage, and makes me tea in the mornings.  He is the most compassionate listener I have ever met.  He likes to going shopping with me.

A few hours later, she passed by my office on her way to the bathroom, and I remembered a very important one.

“He pees sitting down!”  I yelled out to the hallway.

Mothers, teach your sons to sit down when they pee.  Pedram’s mom once told me that when she realized that she was outnumbered by men in the household 3 to 1, she made that the golden rule in the house.  And I have, in the past, shared a bathroom with men who don’t sit, and leave the seat up, and forget to aim.  And eventhough that man was my brother, I was still considering sibling divorce.

I am grateful for alot of Pedram’s characteristics, and I often give thanks to his mom for teaching him well.  But this one is most important lesson he learned.

So please, teach your men to sit — it will make their future wives much much happier.

When Pedram got his Ph D., I would often call him Doctor, and then giggle for 10 minutes.  Sometimes I would introduce him as Dr. Pedram, and then burst into a fit of laughter.

But now Pedram is teaching a course at McGill, and the current joke is to refer to him as Professor, which just tickles me in every way possible.

The professor/doctor comes home from his class often frustrated by the mentality of current day-students.  “They are all unable to think for themselves!” he exclaims!  “They go to the internet for answers to simple questions.  They make simple mathematical calculation mistakes.”  Taking in account the generational gap between my husband and undergraduate students, as well as the cultural differences in education between Europe and North America, I thought I would give my two cents.  Cause I am both young and hip, and understand the educational systems between the continents.  Plus, the name of the class is “modeling” and I once watch Project Runway Marathon for an entire weekend and cut my bangs to look like Heidi Klum.

“Well”, Pedram states, “I asked the group about how much water is used by the city of Montreal each day.  The goal is to try to use your brain to come up with a target answer, but without or as little use of the internet as possible.”

My first thought is to go check wikipedia.  There must a person who already did this, and time is money, and I ain’t got time to re-invent the wheel.  But without my cheating tool at my fingertips, I have no idea where to go.  P encourages me to start by trying to mentally guesstimate how much water I use every time I flush the toilet.

One time, while I was studying in Senegal, we had an unexpected drought in my neighborhood, and it lasted much longer than I had anticipated.  My roommate and I would stare longingly at the fully flushing toilet at the University, and thought it would be a great idea to take some of the toilet water back home for a quick shower.  It was something like 10 cups.  Don’t judge me, I was definitely cleaner after that “shower”.  Ironically, the water came back that same night.

“10 cups!” I reply confidently.  “How do you know that?” Pedram asks.  I choose not to share my story.  He does not give me any points for my efforts.  I can see why he is annoyed.  His students have also not shared their methods of finding their answers.

“Gimme another one,”  I demand.  He asks me how many pairs of shoes can be made from one cow.  Although my leather collection of shoes is plenty, I do not have any experiences with cows from which I can pull from.  I have absolutely no idea.

He give me a hint.  “Start by thinking of the cow as a sphere.”  This hint confuses me, giving me endless bizarre images of cows in a barrel, or cows in the shape of a football.  We eventually start discussing the circumference of this spherical cow, and my lack of trigonometry skills frustrates him even more.  This type of modeling is definitely not for me.

So now I empathize with the students in his class, for having answers at their fingertips with google, but not being able to use them.  And for having to think of answers for such bizarre questions.  Although it would be cool to be one of those people who could calculate the number of dentists in the city of Montreal using nothing but long division as a tool, I am pretty sure that I would not perform well under the Professor.  (giggle giggle)