Dear Child: You Might Want to Live With Them First

I was raised with a long list of conservative Dos and Don’ts of life.

I abided by most, that's who I am. The ones that made sense were easy to follow:

"Don’t let your lips touch the spigot when drinking from a public water fountain,”

The questionable ones, “Stay away from that girl/boy that always gets into trouble,” were a bit more challenging  because who doesn't love a spark of life from those around them once in awhile.

Then there was the no negotiating from my mother ones, that was, if you wanted to remain recognized by the family: "DO NOT LIVE WITH SOMEONE IF YOU’RE NOT MARRIED."

Most often spoken aloud at weddings, and just as often as a ferocious aside when she would relay her friends' domestic situations.

I never did live with anyone I wasn't married to. Not that I wasn’t asked.

The fear and the thought of the headache of deception kept me as a common law wife to many a roommate post college. Imagining being dead to my family kept me from co-signing any co-lease for cohabitating.

But, as is the case with most insights arrived at on our own in our lives, I am now of a different mindset due to the emotional and psychological duress that could have been avoided, nice girls do or don't, had I lived with my husband before marriage.

Today, I make the case for cohabitation before marriage certificate, based on our first married night at home together. The night when I dumped out the laundry basket full of our first shared comingled his and hers clothing, and I caught a flying shock of a view, fleeting, of something that had me hoping that what I was seeing, was a mistake.

“Mark, did you forget to empty out tissues from your pants pocket before throwing them in the laundry?” I asked while seeing before me what appeared to be shreds of tissue that had gone through the dryer.

“Nope,” he said without any thought.

And just like that, what could have been an arms entwined google eyed experience of what a metaphor of our coupling this laundry was; turned out, instead, to be a whispered shameful conversation at lunch with my best friend at work the next day.

“Oh my god, I just don't know," I tried to take a bite of my sandwich. I checked over both shoulders to make sure no one else was listening, “It's his underwear…” I stuttered. “It looked like a lace doily. Like the first ones ever made. I swear, the Smithsonian called asking for it.”

“Get.Out.,” my friend mouthed back, “like, how old do you think it was? ‘Cuz that’s just gross.”

“I know, I know,” I kept whispering. "I just couldn’t get the holey Swiss cheese memory of the backside of his boxers out of my mind, not even, you know, later…”

“You gotta tell him it’s just not right, and that you can afford new underwear. Like, make it fun, go shopping for new stuff together. He'll like that.”

“But what can I do in the meantime? What is seen, cannot be unseen. I brought it up… and he, he was almost proud of how old his boxers were. He bragged, ‘yup, had those babies since my fraternity days. Do you think it's memories?"

My single friend looked down before answering. "Maybe. Maybe you should have lived together first."

Ach. Straight to my Catholic upbringing soul. Why is life so difficult?

With her reaction in mind, I decided to keep what happened next, to myself.

When I saw my new husband lovingly double fold his tissue thin underwear, and as though delivering the golden tablets to Joseph Smith himself, place them on his side of our shared dresser drawer, right next to my honeymoon trousseau of days old satin underthings.

The man was neat, orderly, and folding his own laundry.

Sometimes you hit the jackpot, but if I had lived with him before, I would have come to value this, sooner.

Cohabitation, ask me 20 years later and I'll tell you: It's worth every risk of family disownment. And 15 Hail Marys said at bedtime.

 

* * *

On This Day

More than two decades ago, I was unaware that the man I had been dating for nine months was going to be the man I would marry.

We hadn't yet spoken of marriage, which suited us both fine. It did me, anyway. He had made no promises nor given any hints regarding a possible future together, so I couldn't claim to be misled or disappointed.

He was content with dating, as was I. He was an affable enough fellow that I continued to see him. He was employed, respected the practice of personal hygiene, and had no addictions. Given all that, continued dating with no end in sight would fit into my schedule.

It was my birthday and he had called to ask me out to dinner. At the time, he was traveling internationally, and our times, when together, were spent doing nice things at nice places with nice food.

I knew he would have a special dinner planned since he was home for just a few days. I was anticipating romance, attention, and perhaps a gift from abroad. He was coming to pick me up at 6:30 p.m. As I waited for him, I thought of how I was ready to sit, talk, be wined and dined, celebrated and toasted to.

He arrives, 6:50 p.m., and his face has a look of grief and concern, as if he's lost something. He is also unusually quiet. I ask if everything is all right, he answers yes, that it is, but nothing more. He is twenty minutes late, which is not like the punctual man he has been for over a year. But I don't want to start the night off on the wrong foot, so I say nothing. But, things feel odd and tense and he doesn't smile to see me. We go in his car, and I promise to not bring up being late unless it happens a second time. If there is a second time.

While he is driving, he looks straight ahead and makes no mention of his trip to Germany, though he was gone for ten days. I attempt conversation, but I feel as if I'm in the car with a coyote; all I hear is "yup. yup. yup." to any question I ask.

Well, perhaps he has jet lag, I think to myself. We drive along, but I don't know about this night, which is starting to feel like a duty he's fulfilling since it's my birthday. I'm hungry, I have to go to work the next day, and I've got a new dress that I've bought for tonight on. But he doesn't notice that red is my color, nor how the gold button earrings play up my dark hair. I decide I will enjoy this meal, be just as affable back, and celebrate being with someone on my birthday.

We arrive at the restaurant, he parks, and then asks me to wait--sitting in the car. He always hops over to my side of the car and opens the door. Now I know, this is the farewell wrong place, wrong time speech we're leading up to.

I oblige, count to sixty seconds, then step out of the car. I see him in the vestibule of the restaurant, fingers jostling in his front pockets and well, you don't want to know what this looks like to me.

He then steps toward me and I see him, with his lips pressed tight. He walks as stiff as a robot, and together with the furrowed brow leftover from when he first picked me up, I can't read a thing about him. Is it agitation? Is it avoidance? I let him catch up to me and we walk alongside. I slide my arm into his, and he jumps twenty feet in the air.

I withdraw and drop his arm like an electric wire. I take a deep breath. I do not want to bicker in a parking lot on my birthday with a new dress and a growling stomach. I can make it through this dinner, I'll order something light, like whitefish since anything else will sink like a rock. We enter the restaurant, and the hostess seems to know him. She places her mouth inches from his ear and I imagine her whispering, "Tonight. Dump her. Got it?"

His tone back to her is a nodding rushed yes. They are in deep communion. He turns to me and asks me AGAIN to wait a bit, this time in the front hallway. He and the hostess whisper back and forth again and we're shown to a table. He keeps his hand in his pocket, I attempt to reach for the one he has resting on the table, and he pulls back as if I've extended a lobster claw.

Without warning, he stands from his chair and says he needs to check something in the car. I have now entered "whatever" land. I can no longer enjoy my meal, and think, OK. nice guy and all, but I just can't see what is going on between us... I know I should try and read between the lines but there's a lot of lines to read here.

A few minutes pass and he returns, his hand still in the front pocket. We eat a silent dinner. I say it's time for me to get home early, I have to be at work at 7:30, and I saintly offer him an excuse of how he must have jet lag.

He looks at me, his eyes wide with shock. I think, This can't be good. I can't believe he is HAVING A GOOD TIME??? You're kidding, right? This is SOOOOOO not a good sign. All I can see is red flags. Red flags all over the place.

He tells me he wants to take a drive to the lakefront. I agree, thinking maybe we'll talk and he can come clean about the hostess taking my place. And it's the least I can do, because I already know this is the last time for me too.

We drive there, and I see a white horse and carriage waiting. I am jealous of the couple that will be celebrating their love to the romantic clip clop of horse's hooves, because I know it won't be us. Then, turning his body in an awkward broken movement, he takes my hand and walks toward the carriage. His other hand won't leave the front pants pocket. Now I'm the one with the furrowed brow, but mine is out of confusion. We climb into the white cab, I move to sit closer to him. I make the mistake of having hope and I reach for the dang hand in his pocket. But he's not having any of it and digs it back in deeper.

In one last moment of dreaming out loud, I convince myself his madness is jet lag or traveler's fever. I make up that last one because, how can I explain all that is going on like a poorly written screenplay. No continuity of thought! I want to shout.

But if he was protective of the hidden hand before, he's grown thrice that level now. I mentally steel myself for the coming weekend of me and two quarts of Ben & Jerry's Death by Chocolate. It's not like I haven't had practice with those kinds of weekends before. I know I'll be sad, but as always, like a phoenix I will rise.

We're sitting in a beautiful red velvet interior of a fairy tale carriage, and I can't immerse myself in any of it because he continues with his pocket patting fetish. I am ready to jump out of the horse cab by now, but it's moving too fast. It's also getting cold outside, dark... and I've got new black T-straps that match this new red dress. And so I sit.

I will finish this night, and I will cherish this buggy ride. I close my eyes, and I relish the sound of the horse's hooves on the quiet street.

And this is where it gets strange.

There is a five star hotel up ahead and the driver is pulling the horse to enter the circle drive. My date jerks his hand out of his pocket, I check it to see if he's been hiding a bandaged injury all night but instead of gauze and stay clips I see a small, white box.

My date's face is set like stone, locked and looking straight ahead with a determination for what, I don't know. He licks his lips and I wonder why he feels he needs to give me a goodbye present as he leaves me for the hostess. I take the little white box he offers and snap it open it to see what I'm Sorry jewelry looks like. But there is no consolation gift inside.

In the darkness of the cab, with the streetlight hitting it just right from behind, there is a miniature firework of sparkles sitting inside black velvet. A breathtaking diamond solitaire shoots light from the middle of a gold band. It is an engagement ring, where a pair of modestly priced gold earrings should be.

My mouth crowns open as everything begins to make sense. I begin to laugh, then cry, then I apologize for the way I was never going to see him again but he asks me to wait. I say, "pocket petting, scared, worried." I think of all the perverted pocket padding this poor man did to ensure the ring hadn't fallen out, all the up and down and walking ahead so he could check to be sure the ring was still in the pocket. The poor sweet man.

The rest of the evening splits into a surreal memory. I remember staring at the ring in the moonlight (really ... it was a full moonlit night) and being so very surprised. I marvel at the planning he did from abroad and the secrecy of the night and the chance that he took. We had never discussed marriage, I could have said no.

Later that night, as I finally held his long sought after hand, I asked him to tell me the reason he had decided to propose in that way, with me not suspecting a thing. He answered, "If you knew it was coming, where's the romance in that? I wanted you to remember, always, whether you said yes or no, I wanted you to be remember."

Which I do, in more than just receiving the ring, but in him, and who he was, and how he made this plan of marriage more than a proposal, but a gesture of showing what I meant to him.

And his reason is why the picture above exists, that shows me as a Mrs., when just hours earlier that birthday evening, I thought that he would be returning me home, vowing to stay a Ms.

*I post this annually. Because it's good to remember, and reflect. Happy birthday marriage day proposal to me.

 

* * *

When Movies are Real

Movies? I just don’t watch them, I live them.

Movies are my wine after a long week. My doobie that takes the edge off. My cold mug of microbrew when life has grated against every nerve. You get the picture.

Films are my way of forgetting about life 100 percent, I fall for them and into them harder than any book can rapture me. But two days ago, I was told that I turn into someone else during movies. Apparently, not every facet about me is a sparkling gem. There is something not found to be endearing about me when I sit in front of a Hollywood script, and it is about to drive this person reporting this to me, insane.

To put a not too fine a point in it, I am really bugging the crap out of my domestic partner. I suppose he couldn't keep it to himself any longer, I mean, 20 years with someone is enough to make you lose your mind as it is, but for my spouse, who lives in the other camp that until now I did not recognize as existing, I have a case of 'loud movie watching.'

 

Seems that there is this division among movie – goers: those who watch quietly and want those co-watching to do the same, and those like me: unable to distinguish between movie reality and real life .

The screen, up there, it's all real, right? Because for 90 minutes of it, they've convinced me it's my body getting chased by Russian agents.

I don't want to get defensive because these sedate movie watchers are important people in my life, but I feel I must go on record with speaking up for my kind: are we full on movie enjoyers that bad? Are we?

I mean, if I do the things reported below, am I still/not/moreorless/ unlovable?

◾So I yell at the girl on the screen to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE already. It's my job to let her know since obviously she can’t “sense” the way that I can that the bad guy coming up to the back door is a bad guy.

◾Is it my fault that calling out for everyone to be safe takes away the thrill for you?

◾If I fall asleep for two seconds (I work hard) at what you consider a crucial moment in the film, I can still catch up to the plot. Trust me, I'm quick, I've seen them all.

◾If you ask me what movie I’d like to see, I will give you an answer and believe you when you present the question as if it’s my choice. Yes, I will insist that we see that movie. Word to the wise: if you don't want me to pick a movie you don't like, don't ask me what movie I'd like.

◾If I choke in gasping, soul-ripping tears as if it's me up on that screen, then God love me if that's the worst thing I do. For the 90 minutes we’re in front of that screen, I am the woman stranded in that back room with only one match left.

◾When something unfathomable occurs, like talking Chihuahuas, I have to call it. “Yeah, right,” is the best way. Let me say it, and I'll be on my way. 

◾We all have to take a stand and make our feelings known on issues that strike at our moral fiber. If I see women portrayed as anything less than equal, I’m going to talk about it. Loud.

I see myself as providing endearing movie companionship to you, you say intolerable and unendurable movie accompaniment.

And painful, excruciating, agonizing, was also mentioned, but whatever. I just need you to sit there and watch along with me, use closed captioning for your understanding and comprehension. I exist, cerebrally, on a higher plain, I've been this way since I can remember. If things become too much again for you this Saturday night, balance out the scales by remembering who brings in the Twizzlers, who's the one who pops the popcorn and sprinkles it just right with butter, who's the one who always manages to have a chilled Gatorade in the fridge for the moment you need it.

You know who that is as well as I do. That would be me, the loud movie viewer that you sometimes forget you love so much.

So, let's strike a deal here, you can call me animated versus loud, and I'll refrain from asking to take your pulse next time we watch Jason Bourne.

We'll make it through this, because I love you.

 

Even when it's harder on movie nights.

 

* * *

Romance, Mystery, Intrigue

Lean in, and catch my words if you dare. Lean in, and hear about a middle aged woman whose life has been kept hidden from view. Sense her days that are ripe and luscious with romance, mystery, and intrigue.

Can you imagine being swept away by not having to ask someone to unload the dishwasher? Can you handle the imagery of  a moment such as that? Of wondering who it was that left you an almost half cup portion of coffee from that morning, even setting aside a close to teaspoonful of fat-free creamer?

If chills and goosebumps and a bouncing pulse are what arise from an enticing scene of seeing a kitchen counter that shows that the afternoon mail has already been brought in, then this post is for you. You don't have to scour the earth to dare revel in a life that you thought only existed in half off already discounted novels sold in value packs. You can have all this mature sexy marriage stuff and more, just by adjusting your life glasses.

Does your house feel crowded, or does it feel hot and cozy? Does seeing someone's underwear that's not yours hanging off bathroom doorknobs make you scream? Maybe it won't when you realize it means that someone was naked just five feet away from you. Does the glisten of sticky peach juice trailing across the kitchen sink set your head spinning? Perhaps not when you envision the sweet, dripping chin of the said pitted fruit consumer.

Maybe things aren't so rosy between you and your co-habitants this week and you're getting the cold shoulder for something you said. Being frozen out might hurt a little less if you feel it as a Benedictine monk's searing vow of silence.

Tonight I had a dinner from a frozen box of 20 chicken pot pies my husband picked up from a weekly warehouse shopping expedition. I'm sharing this delight of a meal with sips of Lemoncello that my sophisticated younger sister left behind from her visit here in June. Am I feeling sorry for myself?

No way, man. I've got the romance of a man who helps to make sure we are never without, I've got the mystery of how many diced pieces of chicken will be in my pot pie this time, and I've got the intrigue of a chilled out of budget imbibement that I wouldn't have in my life if it weren't for a visitor to my home.

Romance, Mystery, Intrigue: not for the faint of heart, but don't say I didn't warn you.

 

* * *

7 Date Night Ideas That Failed Us

To keep that love alive and the home fires burning, you need to date your mate. Date them and forget about the To Do list that hangs over your head even when it's out of sight. Make the time to forget about the 1,000 things you have to do before the month is over and especially do not discuss your kids when you're together. Like, pretend you don't even know them. Little Mark, Jr. who? If you follow this advice you will remember once again, just why you are together. A bottle of wine, no - two, will help bring back smoky memories of the carefree love you shared way back when.

We have been married 20 years, and we are so due for a date night that we'd need six months at a monk's retreat to silence these buzzing brains from trying to balance life. With this not-dating guilt in mind, I decided to give Date Night a try after an article I saw as I flipped through a magazine while waiting to get my prescription for dry eye syndrome.

The whole half page was glossy with exclamation marks for quick and easy love tips for the married crowd! *By the way, not today, but sometime soon, I'd like to talk about why only women's magazines are DATE NIGHT DATE NIGHT KEEP YOUR DATE HAPPY and men's magazines are "Get yourself this car, belt, shoes, vacation and you be you, dude."

Starting with Idea No. 1 and all the way to Idea No. 7, I felt a tingle of high hopes. Well not really, but I had a flash that at least one of these would be hot fun. Poke the flames, yannow?

Yeah no.

Here's what goes wrong when you're two decades into chronically unromantic:

Idea 1.) "Short on time or money? No problem! Here's a quick and easy way to stoke those embers! (am I the only one so far going ewwww... ) Pick a new board game to play!"

What actually happened: We brought out the game. Something called Othello. I got dizzy as soon as I saw all the black and white discs and the reversible board and the 10-page instruction booklet. I had to put my head down. Meanwhile, since my husband wanted to go to bed before sunrise, he became "order-y" and saw it as one more job to delegate.

Date Night Idea #1: a bust. Let's move on ...

Idea 2.) "Pick a theme! Have fun enjoying "Irish Night" or "French Night!" (again, pretty sure it's just me, but ewwww with fake accents)

I did all right with this one. And for future reference, I told my husband the only love language for me is Jalisco's Mexican take-out. With wilting Styrofoam containers opened up on our laps, we sat and watched Nacho Libre. Then we both fell asleep on the Costco chaise-o-lounger with salsa stains on our chests. Fun? I guess it was a bit of all right.

Idea 3.) "Pop in your wedding video, look at your honeymoon pictures!  Here's some exclamation marks to get you started!"

Oh my god oh my god oh my god. Idea #3 gets my vote for worst idea ever. THE WORST. What's hot about looking at my stomach so flat and my husband's hair so dark? We both got sad-eyed and gobsmacked about how we had no idea we looked so good that we wondered why the hell didn't we just walk around nekkid back then?

Dang, we were hot. (Me: He was lucky to get me. Him: She was lucky to get me)

Idea 4.) "Feed the kids an early dinner and put them to bed!"

Still laughing about this one. Since we don't believe in Benadryl for dessert, the only ones that would be going to bed after an early dinner would be me and Mark.

Idea 5.) "Slumber Party! Pile blankets on the floor along with throw pillows and have a sleep over!"

Ummm, we already do this. Substitute piles of newspapers for throw pillows and the book we're reading for a blanket, and pretty much, there's our *Slumber Party!*

Idea 6.) "1-2-3 Get artsy! Grab a canvas and brushes and co-paint a picture together!"

I'll tell you right here and now, if my husband wanted to grab a paintbrush then I'd have no need to work 2.5 part-time jobs so I could call Rob the Painter every two years for the past ten years to paint the walls in this house.

Idea 7.) "Make a platter of favorite snacks! Pop some kettle corn and cozy up for a movie!"

What?! Now I'm the one handing out exclamation marks.
Snacks and a movie? Why didn't you say so 7 steps back?! Turns out we've been date-nighting for the past 20 years!

It's just like this dang world to try and make us think we have to change what we've been doing when what we've been doing, is right all along.

xo

 

* * *

Wedding Vows From the 21-Year Other Side

We're just regular people. We sleep less than we should, we get on the treadmill when our waistbands start giving us dyspepsia, and we like our Orville Redenbacher.

Two run of the mill souls married 21 years with three children and a 27-year mortgage stretched out before us.

For our anniversary, my husband bought me a compression sleeve for my right knee so that I would have a matching set.

I bought him a warehouse box of sweet-n-salty microwave popcorn singles.

But our commitment to each other runs deeper than those thoughtful gifts. Deep enough that we were moved to re-write our original wedding vows. As I held the pen from the hearing aid evaluation center and with a suspenseful American Pickers marathon playing before us, we put our updated promises to paper:

 +++

I, Mark, take you, Alexandra, as you are. Make-up-less, and in pajamas until noon. I love you for who you are and not for how good you looked on the first day I met you in that navy blue dress with white piping and matching stockings, high heels for that monochromatic look, I mean, geez, who can remember, right? I love you.

I, Alexandra, take you, Mark, loving who you are now, cereal and soup slurper that that means, even if I have that disorder that was on Huffington Post about people who go crazy from hearing people eat and I for sure have that. I still take you.

I, take you, Alexandra, and who you are yet to become. I promise to listen to you and look up from the iPad when you talk. I promise to support you and mourn your losses when McSweeney's rejects you once again, as if the piece were my own. I will love you and have faith in your writing, because you are a very funny woman.

I, Alexandra, love your love for me, Mark. I vow to encourage you, trust you, and respect you, especially on the days where you do things that make no sense to me. I have never rolled my eyes at you and never will. I vow to work on the sighs.

I, Mark, promise you this: to respect our differences, and to try hard to remember how very different your Colombian life is. (It's so different, honey) I also promise to get the garage remote fixed for you for Christmas. And to drive at night with your encroaching night blindness.

I promise you, Mark, to be there every single time when you come to after your colonoscopies. And to let you have the downstairs bathroom to yourself the night before for your cleansing prep.

I promise you, Alexandra, to not give in to any laugh when we drive home from your cataract eye check and you're wearing your glaucoma glasses.

I promise you Mark to attempt an interest in aquaponics. I promise you, Mark to fairly divide the visit to the basement when I hear a strange noise.

 

I, Mark,  promise to investigate any noises you hear that you are positive are an animal in the house (It's never an animal)

 

Together, we vow to keep each other informed of any change in moles or bowel movements.

These things we promise, for better or for worse, in sickness and health, for richer or poorer.

For as long as we both shall live.

+++

We are simple. Two people married 21 years ago, whose eyes twinkled bright at the "for better" part that day at the altar, because "for better" is standing right in front of you. But grow humbled every season to the words we didn't catch the first time around. 

The unexpected clarity that comes with the “or for worse...” part.
------------------------

Engagement Story

Not all engagement stories are of bended knee at dawn on a beach. Mine had destiny nervous for a few moments. Today is my birthday, it's also the anniversary of the day my husband asked me to marry him. Here is the true to life story: 

+++

I was unaware that the man I had been seeing for close to a year was going to be the man I married. We hadn't yet spoken of marriage, which suited us both fine. He had made no promises nor given any hints regarding a possible future together, so I couldn't claim to be misled or disappointed.

He was content with casual dating, and he was an affable enough fellow that I saw no problem with continuing our friendship. He was employed, respected the practice of personal hygiene, and had no addictions. Given all that, and the fact that I wasn't 40 yet, continued dating with no end in sight fit into my schedule.

It was my birthday and he had called to ask me out to dinner. At the time, he was traveling internationally, and our times, when together, were spent doing nice things at nice places with nice food.

I knew he would have a special dinner planned since he was only going to be home for a few days. I was anticipating romance, attention, and perhaps a gift from abroad. He told me he'd be at my apartment at 6:30 p.m. While I waited for him, I thought of how I was ready to relax, talk, be wined and dined, celebrated, toasted to, with some borderline adoration.

He arrives, 6:50 p.m., 20 minutes late, and his face has a look of grief and concern, as if he's lost something. He is also unusually quiet. I ask if everything is all right, he answers yes, that it is, but adds nothing more. He has always been on time, and tonight's man is not the punctual man I have known since January. But I don't want to start the night off on the wrong foot, so I say nothing. But, things feel odd and tense and he doesn't smile when he sees me. We go in his car, and I promise myself I will not bring up a late arrival, without a phone call, until it happens a second time. If there is a second time.

While he drives, he looks straight ahead and makes no mention of his trip to Germany. He has been gone ten days, surely, he saw something of interest while across the ocean. I know nothing of Germany, but to my credit, I attempt conversation, but I might as well be in the car with a coyote because all I hear is "yup yup yup" to any question I ask.

Well, perhaps he has jet lag, I console myself. We drive along, but I don't know about this night, which is starting to feel like a duty he's fulfilling since it's my birthday. I'm hungry, I have to work the next day, and I've got on a new dress that I've bought for tonight. But he doesn't notice that fire engine red is my color, nor the way that my gold button earrings play up my dark hair. I decide I will enjoy this meal, be equally affable back, and celebrate having someone to be with on my birthday.

We arrive at the restaurant, he parks the car and then asks me to wait--in the car. He always hops over to my side of the car and opens the door. But tonight, it's a grunt to stay put. Now I know, he is working up to the wrong place, wrong time speech with my name in the opening sentence.

I oblige and remain seated, counting to sixty seconds, then I open my own door thank you, and step out of the car. I see him in the vestibule of the restaurant, fingers jostling deep in his front pockets and well, you don't want to know what this looks like to me.

He then steps toward me and I see him, with his lips pressed tight. He walks as stiff as a robot, and together with the furrowed brow leftover from when he first picked me up, I can't read a thing about him. Is it agitation? Is it avoidance? I let him catch up to me and we walk alongside. I slide my arm into his, and he jumps twenty feet in the air.

I withdraw and drop his arm like an electric wire. I take a deep breath. I do not want to bicker in a parking lot on my birthday with a new dress and a growling stomach. I can make it through this dinner, I'll order something light, like whitefish since anything else will sink like a rock. We enter the restaurant, and the hostess seems to know him. She places her mouth inches from his ear and I imagine her whispering, "Tonight. Dump her. Got it?"

His tone back to her is a nodding rushed yes. They are in deep communion. He turns to me and asks me AGAIN to wait a bit, this time in the front hallway. He and the hostess whisper back and forth once more and we're shown to a secluded table away from the main entrance. We sit down but he keeps his hand in his pocket. Trying to warm up to him, I attempt to reach for the hand he has resting on the table, but he pulls back as if I've extended a lobster claw.

Without warning, he stands from his chair and says he needs to check something in the car. And then he goes. I have now entered "whatever" land. I can no longer enjoy my meal, and think, OK. nice guy and all, but I just can't see what is going on between us... I know I should try and read between the lines but there's a lot of lines to read here.

A few minutes pass and he returns, his hand still in the front pocket. We eat a silent dinner. He does more of a stare into his plate what's life all about look. I finally decide to ask to go home early. Let's get on with this broken heart. I have to be at work at 7:30, and I saintly offer him the out of how he must have jet lag.

He looks up for the first time. His eyes wide with panic. I think, This can't be good. I can't believe he is HAVING A GOOD TIME??? You're kidding, right? This is SOOOOOO not a good sign. All I can see is red flags. Red flags all over the place.

He tells me he wants to take a drive to the lakefront. I agree, thinking maybe we'll talk and he can come clean about the hostess taking my place. And it's the least I can do, because I already know this is the last time I'll see him too.

We drive there, and I see a white horse and carriage sitting in the marina's parking lot. I am jealous of the couple that will be celebrating their love to the romantic background of horse's hooves, because I know it won't be us. Then, turning his body in an awkward broken movement, he takes my hand and leads us toward the carriage. I feel like a coerced Cinderella. His other hand still won't leave the front pants pocket. Now I'm the one with the furrowed brow, but mine is out of confusion. We climb into the waiting white cab, I move to sit closer to him. I make the mistake of having hope and I reach for the dang hand again. But he's not having any of it and digs it back in, deeper.

In one last clutch at a dream, I convince myself his madness is jet lag or traveler's fever. I make up that last one because how can I explain all this going on like a poorly written screenplay? No continuity of thought! I want to shout.

But if he was protective of the hidden hand before, he's grown thrice that level now. I mentally steel myself for the coming weekend of me and two quarts of Ben & Jerry's Death by Chocolate. It's not like I haven't had practice with those kinds of weekends before. I know I'll be sad, but as always, like a phoenix my heart will rise to beat again.

We're sitting in a beautiful red velvet interior of a fairy tale carriage, and I can't immerse myself in any of it because he continues with his pocket patting fetish. I am ready to jump out of the cab by now, but it's moving too fast. It's also getting cold outside, dark... and I've got new black  patent T-straps that match this new red dress. And so I sit.

I will finish this evening, and I will cherish this buggy ride. I close my eyes, and I relish the sound of the horse's hooves on a quiet fall night.

And this is where it gets strange.

There is a five star hotel up ahead and the driver begins to pull the horse to enter the circle drive. My date jerks his hand out of his pocket, I check it to see if he's been hiding a bandaged injury all night but instead of gauze and stay clips, I see a small, white box.

My date's face is set like stone, locked and looking straight ahead with a determination for what, I don't know. He licks his lips and I wonder why he feels he needs to give me a goodbye present as he leaves me for the hostess. I take the little white box he offers in his open palm and snap it open. I'm in a hurry to see what I'm Sorry jewelry looks like. But there is no consolation prize inside.

In the soft dark of the cab, with the streetlight hitting us right from behind, there is a miniature explosion of firework sitting inside black velvet. A breathtaking diamond solitaire shoots light from the middle of a gold band. It is an engagement ring, where a pair of modestly priced gold earrings should be.

My mouth crowns open as everything begins to make sense. I begin to laugh, then cry, then I apologize for the way I was never going to see him again but he asks me to not talk, to wait. I can't stop and have to get the words out, "pocket petting, scared, worried." I think of all the perverted front pocket padding this poor man did to ensure the ring hadn't fallen out, all the up and down and walking ahead and back, so he could check to be sure the ring was still in his pocket. The poor sweet man.

The rest of the evening splits into a surreal memory. I remember staring at the ring in the moonlight (really... it was a full moonlit night) and being so very surprised. I marvel at the planning he did from abroad and the secrecy of the night and the chance that he took. We had never discussed marriage, I could have said no.

Later that night, as we sat in the expensive hotel's bar, I finally held the long sought after hand. I asked him to tell me the reason he had decided to propose in that way, with me not suspecting a thing. He answered, "If you knew it was coming, where's the romance in that? I wanted you to remember tonight, always, whether you said yes or no, I wanted you to be remember me asking you to marry me."

Which I do, in more than just receiving the ring, but in him, and who he was, and how he made this plan of marriage more than a proposal, but a gesture of showing what I meant to him.

 My response, through grateful tears of relief, "Oh thank God I thought you were crazy." Which translates into, Yes.

* * *

Dear College Freshman Child

Yaaaaaasssss... perfect!

Dear Son:

You've been away at college for five nights now. We miss you but are thrilled for this new chapter in your life. I mean, we all knew you were ready for this step, busting at the seams of this parent/child role was something we all felt. We miss you 'round the clock and your siblings left back home really feel the loss of your presence, especially on family outings. They asked me to write you a letter so that you would know just how much life sucking fun you've been missing.

No need for us to go into the Costco trip you missed Friday morning when your dad came home with gas can sized containers of corn oil that we have piled up against the sink, I mean -- those are just incidental happenings.

No, your brothers want you to know about the #deeplife that is going on this Labor Day weekend. Like today.

Today was the day your dad decided to relive moments of his boyhood. Your brothers explained it to me this way, "You have your writing, mom, dad has his days of what once was." And so this is how it came to be that your dad piled us into the family van this morning and set up the GPS, whose directions he ignored most of the drive up (Ms. GPS no longer even pretends to be patient) and we drove the two hours your dad needed to, to get what was once for him the childhood marking of a summer's end.

We went to small town Wisconsin where today was "Cornival Day," so named because three! free ears of corn are promised to everyone in attendance at the Cornival. You know what's weird, Alec? Your dad never mentioned Cornival Day to me. Ev-er. Anyhow, in theory, since there were four of us in attendance (again, we miss you sorely) we could have brought our Trader Joe's canvas bags and had them filled with 12 ears of grilled corn, but since only your dad was interested in end-of-summer symbolic feeding, we just waited in line (like some kind of outer space aliens were feeding us from a truck, but that's just my opinion) for the three ears of the free corn, for him.

Your brother, Xavier, wants you to know that he volleyed back and forth about whether or not to purchase "chips" at a food stand because "chips" for sale on a sign with "chips" written in black marker "quotes" makes for an unsettling description, add to the fact that they came in "all kinds." He paid the 50 cents for the "chips" but ate them "tentatively."

We missed you today. Your father had a grand time reliving Cornival Days gone by, but the rest of us, the three of us, felt out of our realm. I say out of our realm, Auggie describes it as "unbearable air smelling of Spam." 

I was okay with your dad searching out his corn roast memories. Even the full lines at the drive-through liquor stores that we passed on the way into town didn't worry me. Today was an important family excursion for your dad and I think he needed to do this as a way of working through his feelings on you being up and flown. As your brothers said, I have my writing to work through life transitions. I can talk to you like an adult now, Alec, so I'm going to tell you, your dad was working through some shit.

Your brothers were rough on your dad, I'll admit. I knew he was going through some intense thoughtful moments, and maybe your brothers went too far in calling today a "crushed memories and broken corn cob dreams" family outing.

It wasn't that bad. I mean, yes... unfamiliar and something we're not used to. For example, the turkey  sandwiches we purchased were turkey porridge (Auggie called it brain soup for zombies) on store brand hamburger buns BUT all that can be tolerated by simply tossing the wet sandwich away and considering the $3.00 purchase price a donation toward the free cornfestivus corn. 

And there were some unexpected moments of delight -- like Magic Mark who performed magic tricks, silently -- though he wasn't in a mime outfit, while following along and interactively learning with the audience to the DVD Magic For You! that he had playing on a two foot thick TV on a TV tray to his right.

It's all perspective, I explained to your brothers.

Where else could we see Cornival clientele arguing with game booth workers over the number of balloons they popped with a dart, three chances for a dollar, and the size prize they felt they should have received rather than the one they did receive. Life can be a book, or a Twilight Zone episode, that you step into.

You would have enjoyed today's outing, Dear Son. If you talk to your brothers, it was close to but not as awful as they describe it. The "chips" were tolerable. With your dad paying no mind to the chattering of the GPS, we found our way home. Your family survived this Labor Day without you. More than anything, we missed you.

We made your dad happy today, though there was a moment that we caught him wistful -- almost as if he expected someone to recognize him from 40 years ago. But we returned home, no worse for wear.

Although Auggie says that today made him hate corn forever.

 

* * *

Holiday Packing!

Before I had children, 100 years ago, the word Vacation meant just that: rest, relax, unwind and feel that sand between your toes. Carefree days with a tropical breeze in your hair and a pina colada in your hand. Or two.

Oh, how we remember the lessons we learn the hard way. I can be as dense as a plank, and for that very reason, I never saw it coming until it hit me like a 2x4:  Children, Vacation. I do not think it means what you think it means.

When you are a mother, the word Vacation doesn't come along and take your status away. There is no vacation away from being Mother. Days spent out of your residential state don't take away days of responsible adult care taking of your children. Responsible means in charge of. Your sandals and lacy tank tops don't get thrown in a fancy carry on bag along with deep tanning accelerator, and voila! Hola Mexico! You are now and forever, the mother, the one who gets things ready for this quote on quote Vacation. Pack for yourself? Maybe after you pack for the others in your tribe.

What to take, what not to take, looking into the future for what needs there may be: Tylenol? Better bring it along. Which reminds me, throw in the ear thermometer, too. Maybe some Benadryl, oh, and then that itch cream should really come along too. Things to pack and things to do. Kids aren't really happy staying up late having umbrella drinks by the pool until 1 a.m. and then sleeping in with shades pulled until noon. That's not going to fly. So aside from packing, you now need an itinerary and activities! One that isn't comprised of wine tours.

I remember my first vacation as a mother and how all of this shocked the heck out of me. Why didn't I know? I don’t know. I surprise myself about a good amount of other things on a daily basis, too. I mean, who did I think was going to do all this Vacation packing when I became a mother? It all goes back to the vacations when I was a kid. Who got things ready then? It was some kind of magic. HA!

Magic as in the magic that comes from what must have been our mother staying up until 4 a.m. packing for six children and then somehow having everybody ready to go that morning. Wasn’t I watching back then? Didn’t I even think for a minute that someday, when I was a mother, I’d be packing up the house for the kids to head out for a week?

Why didn’t I realize the amount of serious work that lay ahead? Who the heck knows and that’s an issue for another day but in the meantime, my point here is HOLY COW is that first vacation as a mother a brutal awakening. I mean, here you are, finally going someplace after being a mother for the first time in your life and you couldn't be more excited about getting away until it dawns on you...  someone has to get things ready. Which basically means you pack up the house while you try to picture yourself wherever you’re going and crystal ball it for what you’ll need.

Our first vacation with our then 8-month-old baby was over Christmas, to my in-laws in California. I’m just going to tell you this as fast as I can because I feel my heart starting to pound faster already with the trauma trigger of this subject. We were living in Wisconsin and I didn’t want our baby to be *cold hot sweaty chilly shivery damp uncomfortable scared take your pick* while gone from home so I began thinking of everything I might need for California.

Not need but might need.

I began with emptying out the linen closet in our hallway of every thickness, weight, weave, and plushness of blanket. I didn’t stop until I had worked my way to the silverware drawer in the kitchen for small spoon, bigger spoon, medium spoon, spork? and emptied that drawer out, too. I continued on through the house acting pretty much like there weren't any stores in California. My husband, on the other hand, pulled out his itty bitty black carry-on, threw in his Bruce Springsteen T shirt, and a toothbrush. I think I may have seen a flash of his comb in there, too.

Dad with baby. Our first vacation as a family. See the small black bag hanging on his hip? That would be his suitcase.

After staying up all night packing as if we were going to a Himalayan Mountaintop Sherpa Convention instead of a condo in LaJolla, we drove to the airport with my eyes swirling red and white like a hypnotist ad from the back of a comic book. My husband had to talk me through boarding since a serious case of sleep deprivation psychosis was beginning to show its face. With our baby attached to my chest in the Bjorn carrier, he took my arm and led me to our seats. Half conscious, I shuffled down the aisle, muttering “I think I’ve got everything I hope I got everything I should have everything Do I have everything…”

Right before I passed out in my seat, [versus fell asleep, two very different things] I remember my husband saying, “Honey, RELAX. We’re going on vacation."

Vacation? I do not think that word means what you think it means.

* * *

Mega-itis

I love the feeling of plenty in the house but I hate how it turns my home into the next episode of  Hoarders. I love/hate bulk, I love/hate warehouse places. You enter needing a few pair of underwear, and you come out with two hundred.

It’s Mega-itis.

You think if a dozen of something is good, then five hundred must be better.

You like turkey chili? Good. Because now there are a thousand cans in the basement. My husband has this house so stocked with dry goods that we could survive any leveling of this planet.

Red Cross relief needed? Just call us.
Peace Corps Operation in need of supplies? Call us again.

When I hear the garage door open after my husband returns home from his four hour Apocalypse  preparation, that's my cue to move the kitchen table and chairs to the other side of the room so that we can begin to stock up our private community food pantry.

I call our sons, and together, we help carry in eight 2-packs of gallons of apple juice, boxes of oatmeal that would feed the Salvation Army, and enough toilet paper to serve the Duggar's during the worst flu season.  I just want to know, is there anything my husband says no to at these places?

He tells me, “Well, it's hard, I don't like to, but I had to turn down the guy with the twenty pound bag of mangoes. I felt so guilty, not buying his stuff after I took his samples.”

I watch my husband then go back out to the van and then walk back in and then walk back out, then in, as he unloads his *smart buys.* Ten trips in all, back and forth to the minivan, each time with no less than a fifty-pound portion of something.

“Hey,” I say, as I help him stack 59 rolls of single-ply sand toilet paper into a pyramid against the bathroom wall, “what’s with the fifteen boxes of Frosted Flakes? You were sitting right next to me when 60 Minutes had that Doctor on “Sugar Kills.”

“I know, but I took a couple of samples from this 80-year-old guy and I felt kinda bad not getting the cereal after that. You know, I could tell his hopes were up after I ate two cups worth.”

I know what drives my husband and I love him for it, it’s the comfort of feeling he’s provided for us, and at a good price, too. But what really frosts me is this. Why can’t he go all guilty and #BulkBuy from the woman at the BoxMart jewelry counter? Surely he feels bad about spending time among the laptops and tablets they've got locked up under her territory. He couldn't have been deaf to her hawking, "Sir, wouldn't the lucky woman in your life like this $13,000 sapphire ring, Just like Lady Di's?"

Exclusive Mega-itis Edition.

* * *

Pre-Marital Quiz - Can You Say "I Can" To This

There are a few things that will stretch a relationship's happiness zone-- how money is spent, style of living, basic morals and values, drinking drugging and sexual behavior. Important stuff, right?

But there lurks within, something so essential, the black and white of it all, the glue that will separate at the slightest variation of degree. And that's exactly what is at the crux of the union:

How do you both feel about degrees?

Warm, balmy degrees.
Invigorating blustery arctic degrees.
Degrees that require hermitude 300 days out of the year.
Splayed outside pretty close to bare nekkid for maximum square inch Vitamin D exposure degrees. 

Before saying "Yeah, I could do this with this person for the next 60 years," there's a quiz that needs to be brought out for a topic of discussion.

Point blank out and ask each other: How Do You Feel About Weather?

If someone is bow-and-arrow-struck-determined-to-have-you-as-their-mate, they might worm around your question by answering, "I love it! I love weather!" To find out the environment they really pine for, though, toss this printed sheet at them. Look them in the eye, firmly point a sharpened No. 2 pencil at them, and stand cross-armed behind then, while you watch them scribble in the dots. Take special note of shifty-eyed, brow-wiping responses.

The Only Pre-Shacking-Up Quiz That Counts:

1.  In the animal kingdom, how do you imagine yourself?

a.  Look at me! I'm an elephant! Squirting water all over myself with my own hose because I can't take the heat. Is that a cool mud pool over there?

b.  Sitting on this block of ice, with this snow flying in my face is my dream life and I am so happy I was born a polar bear. I can't feel my butt anymore and I love it.

c.  Just give me a scorching rock and some blazing sun you could fry eggs under. I may get blisters and die but it feels so good because I'm a lizard.

2.  When I think of spending time outdoors, I see myself:

a.  Indoors in one of those perfectly calibrated sub-zero environments that let you be outside, but still be inside, so you don't have to be outside in that pesky heat.

b.  Please tell me there's lots of snow to shovel! And frigid temperatures that leave my cheeks both burning and tingling like they're being stabbed with little ice picks! Please tell me!

c.  Was that sizzle I just heard breakfast bacon frying or is my skin on fire? Aaaah, pass that Banana Boat Tan Accelerator 50 this way, please.

3.  When considering placement of my SAD lamp, I:

a.  Placement? I welded handles on that flippin' thing and carry it with me like it's my newborn baby.

b.  I don't have one, but I think I know someone who has a cousin who needed one once that might still have it for me to borrow, if it ever happens that I have to get one.

c.  What's a SAD lamp?

4.  Cold weather makes me:

a.  Grateful for the invigorating change of seasons.

b.  Feel so alive!  

c.  Just bury my body there...


Total up your answers, and sit down for a discussion. Better to head problems off before you find yourselves at an impasse. If despite now knowing the truth, you still feel you can't live without each other, let me tell you: there's a lot of consolation that can be found while sitting under a pile of velour blankets that your partner carefully chose for you at Christmas in the middle of a sofa that your SO has tenderly placed right where you can catch the most midday sun, as he fetches you your third cup of hot cocoa sprinkled with mini marshmallows--just the way you like it.

There's also this--while you're in the bathroom crouching down next to the heater in there, smile as you think about what you're going to do tonight. It's what you do every night. Why let resentment build for having to live at this latitude and longitude--just *accidentally* let your ice slabs of feet slide right in between your lovely partner's cozy warm thighs. Oh, let's say, around 3;00 a.m.?

Love comes up with some divine payback.

* * *    

50 Shades Of Tell Me More About How Much You Saved

Know what sounds as sultry as "Santa Baby" to my husband around this time of year? Special talk, talk like "I saved half off and got buy one get one on the kids' shoes today." He low throats growls to "Chicken breasts were 4 dollars a pound so I bought and froze enough to last us through February."

Victoria Who? The only secrets my husband wants to know come from one of the three stores in town that has General Mills cereals 5 for 10 dollars this week.

That's my husband's sexy time talk: how much did I save him and did I go to the store on double coupon day. He is counting down the days until we get our Senior Sunday discount.

50 Shades of Money, that's the book he'd write. And I've got excerpts of the chapter outlines on my post this week, brought to you via Aiming Low; 50 shades of Pay.

What's Love Without The Memories?

While unpacking my Christmas boxes this weekend, I found the beautiful red leather gold leafed Christmas Memories book that my sister gave to my husband and me when we were first married. It struck my heart because this personalized diary was designed to store twenty Christmases and all their details.

Right on the shiny red cover, in swirly golden letters, alongside our new family name, it reads "Our Christmas Memories. 1994-2014." Gulp. When we first read the opening pages of this book 18 years ago, 2014 seemed like a century away. I ran my hand over the pages and it struck me hard, how we only have two more Christmases to fill in here.

I looked through all the Christmases that I've faithfully recorded on these pages, and thought about how reaching the book's end once seemed so ridiculously far away. There's a lot that's happened since 1994, all that's happened with almost twenty years of marriage. There are some wonderful memories that live in my mind. Our life together has pretty much played out the way it began: two unusual, not run of the mill people, finding each other and figuring out life one lesson at a time. I think back to a very telling, very representative indicator of what our life together was going to be like.

Indulge me, would you, while I tell you of the introduction to life with my husband. We begin at the very start: our honeymoon.

My husband and I married later in life, and we planned, executed, and delivered a wedding production on time and on budget (his exact words punctuated with much tones of pride.)

We brought the day together like the adults we were; we pulled it off and deserved a honeymoon with sun, water, food, drink, and each other.  That's what we worked for, that's the carrot that dangled in front of the cart but the story doesn't begin with a couple rolling around on a white sandy beaches.

Our honeymoon story begins with how I almost killed my husband on Day 3 of our new life together. The crime scene: idyllic Cozumel, Mexico.

I decided to marry my husband for many reasons. The biggest ones being his stability and level headedness. He is predictable in his moods, and emotionally even keeled. Just what an alarmist like me needs. He is the voice of reason after my WebMD search results of moles that look like India have me writing out my will.

I count on him pulling me in off the ledge. There could be a cobra viper anaconda strangler 5 feet from my face, ready to strike at 851 mph, on the most vulnerable part of my body, and he’d soothingly promise me, “I'll take care of it. Just, no sudden movements."

With my husband around, I can scream “the sky is falling!,” when the sump pump goes out after a heavy spring rain, and he'll tell me that's why he bought the back up pump.

The man would’ve come in handy at Woodstock.

Well, he--of  the permanent delta brain waves--and I--of brain waves they've yet to categorize--are sharing a resplendent open-air honeymoon suite in Cozumel. The cross breeze is to die for. Our room faces the ocean and just like a Hallmark commercial, the sheer white curtains are billowing in the wind. The hotel features an all-day buffet fit for a king, and we claim ourselves the royal couple. Grazing, all day long, and far into the evening. We relax, we spoil ourselves, we do a lot of nothing.

We spend the first two days doing my two favorite activities: eating and being lazy, but then we decide we should really visit a Mayan temple or something. So we sign up for a group sight seeing bus tour. We are going to see temples and ruins. We're so blissfully heady from food and wine that we don't take notice that this tour is All Day. We will leave by 7 a.m. and be back in time to catch the dinner buffet.

We don’t think to pack food … we’ve forgotten what hunger is like--we've been tended to as if we were demi-gods for only two days, but we got used to it fast. We set out at 7 a.m. Wednesday morning, taking nothing but our cameras. I think I may have remembered to grab some bottled waters.

It is a day long tour of walking, hot sun, walking, more hot sun. There is ancient ruin stair climbing involved, there is boarding and unboarding of the bus, there is a long day without food packed involved.

Do you know the signs and stages of  low blood sugar in another person?  I can tell you. I watched my husband fly through them at warp speed:

Stage 1: irritability. HIGH irritability 

Stage 2:  accompanying stupor 

Stage 3: full sentences disappear

Stage 4: every man for himself

I am no stranger to low blood sugar-–I have trained myself to overcome its effects and to push on through. I didn’t fit into my beaded lace princess seam wedding dress like a glove with just luck.

No, I know how to deal with the physical symptoms caused by long periods of no food. But, my new husband, my poor new husband: he had no idea what to do with the lightheadedness, the shakiness, the spots swimming before his eyes, the beads of sweat on his upper lip. He shifted into the most basic primal state: survival.

Never in my life had I imagined that I’d be able to write my own, real-life account of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  But I did on that day. My level headed Dr. Jekyll had become the raging, combative low blood sugar induced Mr. Hyde; his dark side running wild--grumbling at me to hurry up and decide on a seat on the bus already. Snarling at the poor, unsuspecting retired couple to quit holding up the bus by always getting lost.

Spencer Tracy himself couldn't be more Hydey.

The fear of what my future held with this man had me break down into tears. And Mr. Cool wasn’t there to bring me in off the ledge.

This was not the person I had said yes to spending eternal life with--is there a more panic stricken thought for a newlywed?  The bus ride home was made up of me thinking I had made a huge mistake–HUGE–and of him, pupils dilated, sweat soaked forehead, animalistically caring about only one thing: someone who would throw him a piece of meat like he was a lion at a zoo.

I was ready for him to take over the bus, commandeering it straight into the jungle, where he’d tear off his shirt, run wild, and then return like a crazed native with an ocelot hanging out of his blood-soaked mouth.

Yes, I was freaking out, and I needed his voice of reason. I knew he was this close to sacrificing me atop the ancient ruins we had just toured in exchange for someone’s saltine cracker. My only way to survive this? I’d have to kill him.

We endure the bus ride back to the hotel, with me stifling my wails and making a quick mental run through of annulment procedures. We pull up to our hotel and my husband forces the bus' doors open with his shoulder; he then heads--wild eyed and stumbling--straight for the buffet. He begins grabbing food off the buffet because who needs a plate, right? His Cro-Magnon brow receding and his grunting speech slowly returning to full sentences with every handful he shovels in. At meal's end, he is back to being Dr. Jekyll and we are left with a *funny* low blood sugar story.

But, I am not left the same. I've learned a life lesson.

Before we board a plane, train, or automobile, before we do anything else, I buy my husband two King Size Kit Kat bars. And I keep them accessible for the duration of the trip. He smiles and laughs now when he sees them poking out of my purse.

It’s a funny story. NOW, it’s a funny story--but it wasn't then.

My advice to any soon to be honeymooners: work in the Kit Kats, the Snickers, the Twix. You can spare yourself the scene of diamond rings flying past billowy balcony curtains, for just two bars, $5.00 plus tax.

Don't let the dimples fool you. The man's a RAGING MANIAC. But I won't know that till Wednesday. And then I'll cry.

***

*This post originally ran at the hilarious website, Gonna Kill Him. Do you know Erin? She writes some of the funniest stuff on the internet. You can find her brilliance here.

Hazards of Summer

My husband thinks he was born with a grilling spatula in his hand. He assumes there's nothing to barbequeing: any one can do it. A can of charcoal lighter, a Weber grill, some briquets, and there you go.


But life, the great teacher, has taught him to bow down and make room for another: a griller who respects the power of the untamed fire flame.

At Aiming Low today, Lessons Learned from a once cocky grill-meister.

Respect the CharBroil, y'all.

Maybe It's Not So Common Sense

It was 6:45 p.m. on Saturday night; my husband and three children would be walking in through that back door coming home from the pool -- starving -- within seconds. And I had no dinner on the table; not only no dinner but I wasn't even close to being ready for them to be home yet. After years of marriage, I automatically jumped into action. Quickly scooping out a teaspoonful of minced garlic in olive oil, I tossed it into a small pyrex bowl and started the microwave.

15 ... 10 ... 5 ... 0 ... bing. Voila! I open the microwave door and let the smells of what could be interpreted as someone hard at work in the kitchen fill the air. Next, I pull the kitchen stools up on top of the island to give a semblance of the floors having just been washed. Taking the vacuum cleaner out of the hallway closet, I set it in the middle of the living room--laying flat on the ground, as if I had been interrupted by say, someone walking in?

Common sense illusions, setting the stage like the famous Rice Krispies Treats Faker Mom commercial, showing how busy and dedicated I was all day while they were out. That's how you do it. Everyone knows this, don't they?

This past weekend, while zapping the garlic in the microwave, the thought occurred to me: maybe my fellow bloggers that I love so much DON'T know how it's done.

So I'm sharing with all of you today, because I love you:

Super fast tricks and stagings, to make it look like You are worth your weight in gold:

--Pull laundry out of the dryer and don't let it sit in the basket; instead spread it out on the front room floors and sofa, to show you were just working on it when they walked in.

--Always keep an 8-qt pot with water on the stove and a wooden spoon near by. At the first sound of a doorknob jiggling, run to the stove and start stirring. I swear, from behind you'll look exactly like you're making soup.

--Between the hours of 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., always have your hair pulled up in a work ponytail and an apron on your body. Looking dressed and ready for the job.

-- Keep some Windex, a roll of paper towels, a toilet scrub brush, and a bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles in a plastic shoebox container under every single sink in the house. When you hear someone come home, pull out the box and set it up outside of the bathroom door, looking like you're in the middle of scrubbing those stubborn hard water stains.

--At all times during the day, have a cutting board on the kitchen counter or island, a knife along side, and an onion or tomato chopped in half with a few wedges to the side. Looks like you are in the midst of something really good.

--Keep a notebook and pen in a handy place near the phone. If you have only a few seconds notice that someone is about to walk in, grab the notebook, pen, and phone; sit down in a chair, and play out an exasperating phone call to an insurance company. Rub your face with your hand and let them see you roll your eyes. Your significant other will be so grateful that you've saved them from these hell's fires that they'll blow you kisses as they walk past you.

--Never lay in the backyard hammock or chaise without your gardening gloves on, kneeling pad close by, and a paper bag with a few token weeds inside. The stage is set that; obviously, you're just taking a break from weeding, I mean: your gloves are on.

--And my most desperate ace in the back pocket that I save for when the day has been a total bust and it's only me to blame: I tie a scarf around my head with an ice pack underneath while wearing sunglasses in the house. The whole family knows the Migraine Get-Up, and no one dares ask "what did you do all day?" when they know it could get as ugly as a bear waking up early from hibernation. *note: it's not a lie if you don't ever say you have a migraine. I never say I have a migraine. This is one case where assume doesn't make an a** out of u or me.

Sneaky, yes. Worth it? You got it. Does it work? My husband and children reply with this, when describing me, "She works so hard for all of us. Really. She's always working. We hit the jackpot."

You know what they say about the best relationships; both sides feel like they got the better end of the deal.

And now I've got to get to bed: big plans tomorrow; Meg Ryan Marathon on TMC. Setting up the minced garlic as we speak.



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**An internet friend I've known for almost two years now, the wonderfully real Erin Margolin, is recovering from surgery. She's called in a few reinforcements to lighten the load for her while she recuperates. I am proud to be helping Erin heal, and I have a post there today, on something in my life I never anticipated.

I hope to see you there, and I know you'll love meeting Erin, from The Road To My Writer Roots.

The Hypochondriac's Guide To Life: Or Just Say No To Another ER Visit

At about 11 pm on a summer night last year, as I sat at the computer finishing up a post after spending two hours outside that day pulling up weeds trying to make this house look less like the only haunted house in the subdivision, I felt this lightning shot of twingey pain in the exact middle of  my chest.

Dang it. I thought. A freakin' heart attack. Great. I've got too much to do tomorrow to have a heart attack tonight.

I shut off the computer, ran upstairs and jostled my husband awake.  

Mark. Mark!

What??

Get up. I'm having a GD heart attack. SECONDS COUNT! We gotta get to the hospital before any major heart tissue is damaged.

What? What? What are you talking about?

Me. Now. I'm having a freakin' heart attack. Get out of bed. I have like four minutes to get there before it's too late and you have to spoon feed me for the rest of my life and that's if I live.

::flipping on the light and looking at me:: No offense, honey, but you look too good for having a heart attack. I remember this guy at work had one and it knocked him flat to the floor like he was struck down for some past sin or something ...

Mark. I do NOT have to prove to you that I'm having a damn heart attack. GET UP.

Don't go all crazy now when I ask you this, but, are you still having one?

::.....................................::

See, I think you're fine. Lay down. If it attacks you again, we'll go in. You can ask them for any tests you want. Just lay down. But promise me you won't tell the Doctors that they're wrong again when they try to discharge you. It's getting embarrassing.

I listen to my husband and change into my pajamas and lay down. And I fall asleep. And during the night, there is no left arm numbness or jaw tightness or nausea or breaking out in a cold sweat like my refrigerator magnet "KNOW THE SIGNS OF A HEART ATTACK!" warns. It never feels like there is an elephant sitting on my chest. In fact, I sleep like someone hit me over the head with a 2x4.

Life as a hypochondriac. It's not easy. I've taken myself in to the ER for imagined strokes, hemorrhages, blood clots, allergic reactions, asthma, and skin cancer.

Appendicitis visits deserve a mention of their own.

I was never like this until I had children. The root fear underneath all my imagined demises is that I don't want my children to lose their mother.

I think that if I get myself to the hospital on time the medical staff there will work their magisoso and keep me alive until the next systemic crash three weeks from now.

This is no way to live life, I realize this: panic punctuated with terror with momentary hysteria twice a month.

I decide I need to go see an "excessive health anxiety" therapist. Yes. That is a real specialty. After our sessions together, this amazing therapist's advice to me is something that has maintained our insurance premiums to something that no longer caps us out two months into a new year.

Her strategy is this: Test Your Reality. Examine the actual possibility of what you think is happening and then decide based on your symptoms  --  not your fears -- if you still need to take your eight minute short cut planned out route to your predetermined closest hospital. (surprise ... the one I actually thought would be closer is actually farther. Who says trial runs are a waste of time and gas.) 

This is no miracle cure, I still worry excessively about my health, but at least now I don't feel like I'm walking around waiting for a limb to fall off. I have points in my day where I don't think the pain in my head from when I bend over to pick up a three day old grape under the kitchen chair is the pain from a tumor pushing my brain tissue out of the way.

This Test Your Reality way of life has brought me a wonderful freeing existence. There is also the bonus of a surprise fringe benefit: added hours to my day that were once spent sitting in ER hospital waiting rooms.

Now I get to do what really needed to be done in the first place: find some good burial plots. Something nice in a quiet corner, with some shade ... 

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Avoiding Hoarders

I really don't have it too bad. My kids are pretty funny, listen to me forty percent of the time, and we have plenty to eat.

But it's that last one, the *having plenty to eat* that translates to my husband as me take good care of family.

Read how this well intentioned part of him may just have us up as the next episode of Hoarders.

Avoiding Hoarders, my post up today, at Aiming Low: where we strive for imperfection.

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You Can Blame Me

My husband is a good, decent man. Vice free. Dedicated to home and family. Wears his boxers till they look like lace doilies to keep food on the table.

Such a good man.

Being married to the last boy scout in America has made me realize I must set the record straight: any veering off the straight and narrow for this man is due.to.me.

I apologize (sort of) for what my husband's life has become. Here. At Aiming Low. Where we strive for the mediocre in parenting.

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The Truly True On Why Heidi's Walking

If you, like me, were left mouth opened agape at the news of Heidi walking down the runway of her house, leaving Seal behind, I think I may have pieced together the sad reason for it all.

If only Seal would just tell her...

My post up today, at Sprocket Ink...where news meets snark daily.

Hope to see you there.

This Might Give A Lesser Man A Stroke

My husband is a neat man. Organized in a way that you'd wonder a few things about him if it weren't for the fact that he has bits of normal here and there. Like occasionally leaving an empty coffee cup near the TV. But only when he gets interrupted from his morning's routine. Something unexpected happens, like a phone ringing, and yeah, a coffee mug may get left on a table. But it's a momentous occasion, and the kids will point and screech in surprise Dad! you left the coffee mug on the table! Mom! Dad left the coffee mug on the table! Meanwhile, Mom has left coffee cups on the stove, on the island, in the microwave, on the toilet tank, and that's before 10 a.m.

To him, there is only one way to load a dishwasher: efficiently. He feels that if you take note, and commit to memory the exact pattern of plate and glass and pot placement, you will get the most bang out of your dishwashing cycle. Why waste time and brain cells loading the dishwasher a different way every night, just follow the pattern, large to small, glasses on top...and stand back and enjoy the joys of your linear plate lip line up. He'll tell me, You can't just stick bowls with cups and plates and glasses and hope it all fits. The care of this dishwasher loading, well, thank goodness I'm not the jealous type because there is a questionable appliance relationship here. *not questionable if you ask him, questionable if you ask me*

When the kids and I do the laundry, we let him take care of his own. Our clothes finds their way off the floor and into drawers. He takes his socks and underwear, and performs advanced origami folds on them that would win him a 4-H blue ribbon. His dress socks are rolled differently than the athletic socks. Which he keeps apart from the socks he wears only for snow shoveling...which need to be kept separate from the socks he wears only for working in the yard. My teen son comes home from school, sees me, and peeks under my pants leg, Mom. Really? My socks again? I tell him they're the most comfortable.

He keeps his pajamas folded and at the edge of the bathroom counter. I will confess here that many times during the month, if my day's clothes are of the comfortable type? They will assume the magical role of tada becoming pajamas at the stroke of midnight.

He feels you should stop and fill up at the closest gas station when you see your car's dashboard signal you're low on gas. Attributable quote: Saying you're a little out of gas is like saying you're a little bit pregnant. I convinced him to take his car instead of the minivan to pick up the boys from swimming tonight because we're on empty, and I was going to get gas later tonight, but then it got too late, and then it got to be almost below zero outside, and for sure I will fill up first thing tomorrow morning.

The evening routine in our house ends with him polishing his shoes for the next day, and placing them side by side with shoe trees inside. (I think I kicked my boots off in the laundry room tonight, I can't remember, I hope so. I'll look tomorrow...)

He likes his shirts medium starched, for his slippers to be kept upstairs in the bathroom where he changes after work so he can step out of his shoes and straight into them, and he likes to open the mail before he sits down to eat. And the night always starts out on a better note if I remembered to bring the mail in.

It surprises me every time I flip the garbage disposal switch instead of the light switch. When he sees me jump, he shakes his head. It's always going to be the one on the right.

He loves order and routine, it makes him happy, he finds it soothing after being gone all day.

And while I'm in the midst of the January Crabs, the kind where just the sound of him clearing his throat makes me want to hurl a handful of Luden's at him, I stop and remind myself of how he likes his world. And how it's not, because of me, and I think, A lesser man would've had an aneurysm by now. 

 
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