Lesson Learned: Don’t Ever Say The Chicago Blackhawks “Made a Point!”

Marovich and I played our first round of tennis last night for this season. It felt so good. We decided to serve and volley for the cardio, rather than play out actual points…except that Marovich couldn’t stick to the script…she cannot resist abruptly ending a great back-and-forth volley with one of her decisive killer shots. Sadly, in neither racquetball nor tennis is my 1.5″ height advantage over her 5’4″ Mighty Mouse physique any advantage at all.

Tennis Bitches

Tennis Bitches–We belong on a Wheaties box!

Post-tennis, Marovich tried schooling me on hockey, since our Chicago Blackhawks are once again in the Stanley Cup play-offs, and we were watching the game. “They made a point!” I squealed, caught up in the excitement of the last minutes of the tight game. Marovich’s head whipped around faster than Regan in The Exorcist, scowling at me in disgust and shaking her head. “Promise me you will never utter those words again. They scored a goal.” My sports vernacular is sorely lacking, but at least I didn’t ask “How many quarters are there in a game?” like her brother Joe once did, which I brought up right away, attempting to make myself look like less of an idiot. It feels like for the past several months the Blackhawks been in some form of play-offs, and every time I specifically asked, “So when do they actually play for the Stanley Cup???” Marovich would deliver this long-winded explanation of all of the play-off games and series they’d have to complete…with my ADD, it was forming this confusing, infinite M.C. Escher painting in my mind’s eye, and sounding a lot like Charlie Brown’s muffled teacher…I think there was something in there about having to sacrifice albino virgins during high tide in a harvest moon. I know nothing about hockey, but I did have my Blackhawks brush with greatness back in the early ’90s when the Hawks were playing for the Stanley Cup. Blackhawks player Chris Chelios lived in the same Oak Brook neighborhood where I was working out of Jan Gabriel‘s home, writing and producing motorsports TV series, “The Super Chargers.” Jan even shared the same cleaning lady, so I knew which house was Chelios’. (She steadfastly refused my requests to steal a pair of his boxers.) The morning after they lost the Stanley Cup, I drove past Chelios’ home and there was this guy passed out on his front porch. I was actually concerned he might be dead, so I pulled over, got out of my car, and poked at his unconscious body with my foot. He stirred a little, and I recognized who he was, and that he was just drunk. I rolled him over so he wouldn’t aspirate on his own vomit (Hey, with my anxieties, SPINAL TAP is a cautionary tale).  The snoring carbon life form was one of Chelios’ Blackhawks team mates, who shall remain nameless. I didn’t follow the Blackhawks too closely after that, but perhaps my random act of kindness was some sort of tipping point, like George Bailey saving his brother from drowning, or preventing the grieving pharmacist Gower from that deadly pill prescription error in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I’ll never know… and I’ll never know sports speak without the benefit of Marovich’s incessant, stern coaching.


Happy Fourth of July! Who Needs Some Delicious A.D.D. Potato Salad?

Loves Me Some Captain America!

Loves Me Some Captain America!

We got a fun, impromptu invite this a.m. to go hang out with some of our favorite people tonight, whom I lovingly refer to as“The Sister Wives.” Dave just rolls his eyes whenever I say that, but they are my Sister Wives, minus the fundamentalist Mormon benefits. Our kids have grown up together, and we’ve shared the trials and tribulations of private school insanity. It’s nothing short of a miracle that we’re not all alcoholics.

Dave’s favorite part of any holiday is my homemade potato salad, which is nothing complicated. It’s a dozen eggs, a dozen small red potatoes, a large sweet onion and four stalks of finely chopped celery, mixed with Kraft mayo. It used to be Hellman’s, my preference, but Dave insists on Kraft. Frankly, Dave prefers doing most of the work, cutting up the potatoes, celery, eggs, and onions. All I do is mix everything together. So when Dave calls it “Denise’s Homemade Potato Salad” he’s being laughably generous with the screen credits. I also get paprika duty, but Dave thinks I go a little overboard.

I forgot my A.D.D. pill this morning. Not a big deal on most days, but today I was slightly waylaid in following Dave’s instructions to turn off the buzzer on the stove when the dozen eggs were done boiling. To be fair, my aging parents live in the walk-out basement apartment of our home, and I was verifying with my mom that Jack still had zero awareness that my dad’s caregiver drowned eight gophers from my mom’s garden. Gross! Jack no longer believes in Santa or the Tooth Fairy, but he still believes his grandparents are releasing the gophers in a local forest preserve. Phew! I eventually turned off the buzzer, and then the new PEOPLE magazine cover caught my eye:This week's PEOPLE magazine cover.

This week’s PEOPLE magazine cover. The Joan Lunden brave breast cancer battle story captivated me.

An hour later, I sauntered past the stove to pour myself more Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and discovered a water-less pan, filled with steaming hot eggs, and a brown coating on the bottom of the pan. I panicked and dumped them into the sink, rinsing them vigorously, all the while hoping against hope that Dave wouldn’t notice and there was still something salvageable. But Dave doesn’t miss a trick. Dave has the olfactory receptors of a bloodhound. Soon the phone was ringing. It was Dave, calling me from the depths of his studio. “Did you forget the eggs?!?” What could I do but ‘fess up?

The next thing I knew, urgent footsteps were racing down the stairs. Dave assessed the massacre d’oeuvres, deeming the eggs D.O.A. His last words as he headed out to the store were, “I’m setting the timer. Will you please remember to take the eggs off of the stove this time?” Only Dave can say something so seemingly insulting in a manner that comes off as patient and pleasant. Twenty minutes later, the buzzer rang and I pulled myself off of a work project to rescue the eggs. And then I got the second phone call of the morning. It was Dave. At the grocery store. Reminding me. Again. I ask you: Who needs A.D.D. pills when you’re married to Dave Dorman?

Happy Independence Day, everybody! If you have a moment, do read Dave’s blog today – it’s filled with his new news: