The Adventures of Lazy Boy and Pain Girl in Y-land

"What are 3 things that keep you from exercising?" Megan and I were half-way through our newbie member survey for the YMCA trainer we were to meet when this joke of a question came up. I knew answering this by listing things I'd rather be doing would give me too many results. If I had to list actual people or things stopping me I'd have none. Scrambling to come up with ideas I came up with the following: 1. I'm lazy. 2. It's boring. 3. I'm lazy. Megan's list was something to the effect that: 1. It's painful. 2. It's not fun. 3. It's painful. With this Lazy Boy and Pain Girl emerged to triumph over the evils of Y-land.

We've done the gym route before. My wife had substantial success with one of those giant corporate 24-hr SUPERGYMS (the best way to say that last word is through gritted teeth in more of a growl than a clear enunciation). I did not and in the end I think I ruined it for her. It started out ok, I signed up for a not-cheap package of a dozen trainer sessions combined with the monthly fee for membership. My thought was, I've never used these torture, I mean work-out, machines before so I better have someone teach me how to do it properly. I was assigned a decent enough seeming young fellow whose actual name I can no longer remember. His prompt goal seemed to be to put me on his regimen including supplements, fancy shakes, and god knows what kind of diet. Chief among these was something called MuscleMilk. MuscleMilk is an easier name to remember him by than whatever his name really was so that's what we'll call him.

MuscleMilk was a master of misestimation. He underestimated the tenacity of my stubbornness and overestimated the level of ability I possessed for lifting heavy things. So basically what this meant was that when I told him I had no desire to buy special supplements and such (even though I had dramatically altered my diet to avoid fast food and eat more healthy food) and I nearly passed out twice due to intense work-outs, he gave up. I would make appointments to meet with him for workouts at 7 a.m. and he'd no-call and no-show for half of them. It happened a half-dozen times or more. I never learned a basic level of mastery of working out to get started and quickly gave up, disgusted after dealing with the rudeness of the staff when I'd ask if they'd seen my trainer every time he no-call/no-showed. Eventually we bought a treadmill for the home since that's the only machine I felt confident using and what I wound up doing for an hour every time MuscleMilk stayed home to sleep off his club weekend hangover.

Fast forward a year and Lazy Boy and Pain Girl have decided to do this. We checked out the facilities, met with the staff, and got a good feeling about the functionality of the nearby YMCA to accommodate our needs. With our membership we get 4 visits with a trainer as well as enrollment into a software work-out system called Activetrax. So far the combination of those as well as the layout of the place has been perfect! The trainer was a sprightly wee lass whose name I never did get. She mentioned being a dancer herself and you could tell she had an idea of how to work out correctly. She pointed out things that both Megan and I were doing wrong, gave tips on how to proceed, and explained how to use the software program to generate work-outs we understood to progress. The online program has a searchable database of foods that you can easily use to help track your diet and monitor your caloric/fat/protein intake. Not only that, but the machines actually have diagrams showing you how to use them. It's been a month and Lazy Boy has already lost 6 of the 20 lbs he wanted to lose and Lazy Boy knows better than to ask any Girl about their weight, but we both seem to be rocking our goals in Y-land.

Scooter goes to dinner

My wife and I have a fictional child together. Fictional children are the best to have. They don't wet the bed. They don't cost you money. They don't even wait until they've decimated a dozen and a half years of your life to say "I hate you!" No, fictional children are awesome because their hypothetical existence only occurs when you have to consider how you, as a non-parent, would respond to situations parents face everyday. I encourage everyone to have a fictional child or 2. Rename the voices in your head if you must. Scooter is the name of our FC.

Recently Megan shot me a link on facebook about a restaurant that let their patrons know, unequivocally, that screaming children would not be tolerated. I figured everyone would champion the cause of the Olde Salty. I used to think that the best thing to add to my steak was the shrieking howl of some oblivious nearby parent's "precious." Over time, I have found that A-1 does enhance the flavor better, but still I get the shrieking howl. Wishing there was a place I could go that didn't serve the screaming was a dream I dared not dream until one brave little restaurant decided to make it a reality. We found out pretty fast that my desire for relaxation with my meal was an offensive assault to some.

Right off, people tried to make it a legal issue. "That's discrimination!" Choosing to eat out is discrimination. I am a discriminating person who knows he cannot cook and would like to pay a more talented person to do it for me in an inviting atmosphere. This place didn't say they wouldn't serve children, just that they wouldn't tolerate those who had the manners of a bum strung out on meth.

Then it became an attack on the restaurant and the owners. "They are a hellhole and I hope they choke on the feet of 1000 chickens." I've never eaten at the place and neither have you, so why go all Taliban on them?

I understand that children aren't always perfect. In public I often look the other way when they're acting out because that's what kids do. The problem for me is trying to understand why people take infants and small children who don't behave out to a public restaurant. My parents had a whole arsenal of ways to deal with it. They had the "guess who gets to stay over at grammas tonight!" problem avoidance approach. There was the "don't MAKE me take my belt off!" tabletop approach. A close companion to the last is the "just wait 'til we get home!" approach, accompanied with the maniacal smile that always brought my brother and I to silence. Last but not least there was the "where's my mom?" approach. The last was the one where my brother and I never saw our mother at a restaurant or movie because she was constantly taking the screaming/upset/tired child who acted out to the bathroom or outside until they calmed themselves. My mother never saw an entire movie in the late 80's to mid 90's, poor gal.

Megan and I aren't fools. We know Scooter, despite being the awesomest kid ever, would act up. Rather than get upset at others for wanting some peace and quiet with the meal they'd purchased, we just decided to use the wisdom of our elders to avoid the problem at the start. Scooter would either not go to dinner until he could behave or we'd stop him from ruining everyone else's experience. How hard is that, parents?

The Schaumburg Stroller Steam-Roller

My wife, Megan, has become a sports fan. It wasn't the crack of the bat on a muggy summer afternoon that brought her around. Nor did the swoosh of freshly shredded ice on a hockey arena bring her into athletic admiration. It wasn't even the world-craze of what we call soccer that gave her the sporty-spirit. No, it was the sweaty, bare-knuckled, brutish, home-grown sport of Rollerderby that brought out the "YEAH"edness of athletic joy!

Due to the ghoulish nature of my current after-hours employment situation, I have yet to witness this marvel. The rules (as best as I remember her describing them) are something like this:

First rule of Rollerderby: There is no Rollerderby....errr, I mean, there is no ball. Apparently in place of a ball, puck, or other ball-like object, they just have the main woman on each team that they call a "Jammer" and their job is to lap the rest of the team somehow on this small indoor enclosed track.

Second rule of Rollerderby: Knock the shit out of each other and keep going around in the track.

Third rule of Rollerderby: be a female with a name like Suzie Crotchrot or Kweefer Sutherland.

Fourth rule of Rollerderby: wear fishnets, skirts, short shorts, or some other manner of bizarre and eye-catching attire.

As far as I know, that's pretty much it. The idea of a bunch of badass, bawdy babes banking each other off the barriers of an indoor rink sounds like a pay-per-view event to me. In fact, I've even suggested Megan consider taking up the sport. I've even picked out her name!

The name, though, the name isn't something so easily told. It's something you have to understand. My little lady possesses the beauty, intelligence and understanding one can only hope to have of the best friend they'd want in life. However, put her in a crowd of people and as Dr. Banner once said, "you wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

I approach a crowd reticently. I tend to avoid them in the first place whenever possible. If I absolutely have to navigate a crowd my method of traversing them is subtle. I slide through a crowd like a deer through a densely packed tree-filled forest. I absolve the gawking mall-minions by considering them erratically moving-obstacles to be surpassed and not really intelligent human-beings, it's easier that way.

Megan has more trouble because she can't just forgive them for wasting her time, by dehumanizing them like I do. Since she still considers them rational human beings, but ones that are negatively impacting her day, she takes a simpler approach. If you're in the middle of the mall, sucker, you better MOVE! The Body Shop has things she needs and you Lady Stroller-who-has-all-day-to-stand-there-in-the-way-while-your-spawn-hurls-projectiles-out-the-side-like-it's-a-movable-artillery-piece, need to get GONE! When I watch her fearlessness as she violates the personal space of foolish dilly-dallyers in the mall, all the while huffing notably to get their attention, I wish I had popcorn because in itself it seems a sport to behold. For this reason, her Rollerderby name should be the Schaumburg Stroller Steam-Roller. Now she just needs the outfit.

To go ON vacation, not to vacation...

There are a class of people that view vacation as a verb. This class of people thinks the most relaxing thing to do away from their job is to exert themselves strenuously in exotic locations. They yearn for the opportunity to drip sweat in new and fabulous places. Fortunately, we have a name for these people, Insane.

On the far other spectrum, there are those that view vacation as a condition. This class of people thinks the most relaxing thing to do away from their job (or, more likely, retirement) is to completely avoid exerting themselves at all in exotic locations. They yearn for the opportunity to have their, quite likely large, posteriors hauled about in a motorized go-kart in new and fabulous places. We have a name for these people too, Senior Citizens.

Myself? I belong with the class of people that see vacation as a place. It's a place of exotic locations full of new bbq'd food I don't have to cook. This place can have a moderate amount of activity to let my heart know that blood pumps through it, but not enough so that I can experience a full-on Marine boot camp. Vacation is the place I'm going to imagine what the "good life" is for when I win the lottery or settle in full-time as my wife's kitchen-bitch. It's relaxing, full of fun things I choose to do, and enjoyable. Which brings me to our current conundrum, what to do on vacation?

My wife and I have had the desire to go to Italy for some time. While the global economic collapse has been slowly hastening the demise of the Euro, thus making our U.S. dollar worth something there, it ain't dead yet so the affordability meter pushes us outta that realm this year. Enter our next choice: Iceland! Iceland had everything my wife desired from a vacation. Some museums, pretty naturey stuff, and foremost, a non-tropical climate zone! We were set...until the Volcano gods spewed ash all over the place. They're fun to visit when they aren't exploding was my guess. Not to be defeated, I came up with the winner of this year's retreat: Alaska!

Alaska has everything. It has old-timesy cheesetacular costume-appareled guided tours regaling the hey-day of gold-panners and brothels. It has cultural tours, totem exhibits, and museums from some of the local tribes. It has puffins, and whales and grizzlies, oh my! Also, despite popular belief, the cfc's emitted from the 80's hair bands has not hastened the dissolution of the glaciers and, in fact, there are literally dozens of things you can do to/on/around them.

The problem comes with what to do. Being a vacation-is-a-place kinda guy, I like the ones where a helicopter flies you up on top of a glacier where you hike a little bit and then climb on the back of a sled and command your own dog-sled team. This, then, to my mind should be followed up by a nice excursion where you lounge on a Catamaran as it glides you out to climb on the back of whales for a photo shoot. A little bit of exertion and a little bit of being carried about is perfect to me. My wife, however, has a slightly different bent. She's a vacation-is-a-place kinda gal with a streak of vacation-as-a-verb kinda gal. The first one sounds grand to her, but then she wants to follow that up with the Muscle Milk Extreme! excursion where paramilitary ninjas suit you up, take you on top of a glacier, throw you off and demand that you climb the jagged sheer cliff of the glacier and hike through a blizzard wearing a hoodie to rendezvous for evac under a full moon at dawn. Also, the ninjas charge you a lot for making you do all the work, which is shady behavior even for ninjas. Pointing this out to my wife made her call me the Senior Citizen title which is unfair and, "HEY, kid, Get off the lawn!!"

A Morning Story

They say that opposites attract. What they don’t say is what happens then. Case in point: What happens when your spouse is a morning person, and you are, well, not.

Though he bristles under the characterization, I’m going to come out and say it. My man is downright chipper in the morning. He’s hopping around (yes, I mean literally hopping around), singing songs, and chittering away excitedly: about the day to come, the day past, this movie he saw, or that one time when he was ten. He wakes up this way. Almost immediately.

In stark contrast, I need to be eased into my day. When the alarm goes off, I spend 20-30 minutes laying in bed and staring at the ceiling. I use this valuable time to catalog dreams from the past night, think contemplatively on events from the previous day, and to look ahead to what I think will happen that day.

Then I spend about 30 minutes staring at the shower walls. I think about conversations I had, conversations I might have, and what I’m going to wear that day. Then I sit on the couch, eat breakfast, and stare at the television (on or not, it really doesn’t matter). At that point I’m pretty much just spacing out, trying not to think of the day ahead. The commute itself is another opportunity for me to space out or daydream, though I’m required to hold a little more focus as I’m driving or walking to the train.

By the time I arrive at work in the morning, I’m ready to interact with real people. I can do so without losing track of what they say, tuning them out in favor of replaying a particularly good dream, or grunting instead of using actual words as a reply.

I’m normally allowed the quiet contemplativeness of my own morning routine, as Charles has a completely opposite sleeping and work schedule from me. But a few months ago, Charles had the opportunity to work with me as a freelancer. Our morning routines were suddenly enmeshed, our commute to the same place, in the same vehicle.

I was no longer spared the sunniness of my husband’s disposition in the morning. Waking up together felt like walking out into blinding sunlight from the sweet darkness of a cool cave. When I wanted to stare at the ceiling over our bed, he wanted to tell me, "Good morning, sunshine!" Where I wanted to sit on the couch and stare into space, he wanted to talk or sing to me. I was expected to participate in these conversations. Or at least acknowledge them.

He held nothing back. He told me on the many occasions he would classify me as cranky. If I wasn’t cranky, he’d ask if I heard him, or what was wrong. If I didn’t react at all, or minimally, he would ask why I wasn’t cranky. I felt exposed, my every word, grunt, or mood under scrutiny. But I couldn’t help who I was in the morning.

One of the many times this was under discussion in our house, Charles came out with this gem, “Well, I’m sorry you’re not a fully fledged human being in the morning!”

“I know! I am, too. But there’s nothing I can do about it!”

“Ha! You admit it! You just said you’re not a fully fledged person in the morning!”

“Well, technically you said it and I agreed.”

“I’m saying.”

“That’s fine.”

“I’ll remember.”

Thing is, he did remember, enough to tell everyone we know about me not being a fully fledged person. But, it didn’t change the way the man approached me in the morning. He still sang. He still talked. He still hopped. He still expected me to be a fully fledged person.

Now his contract with my work has ended, and I have my mornings back. The first week Charles had off, he basked in the freedom of not having to be anywhere on his days off work. And I luxuriated in my silence, my ability to stare into space.

Bingo Buddy

There is one tradition in the world held sacred by old folks and young folks alike. It transcends space and time. It inhabits Catholic church halls and Indian reservations simultaneously. What tradition is this, you might ask? Why, bingo of course! For the second year, my wife signed up for the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writer's Month) kick-off shindig and to what did our eyes behold as we strolled into the pub-dark illumination of the "gourmet grilled cheese" restaurant that was this years venue? Bingo cards!

The NaNoWriMo event was started somewhere else (Megan could tell you the details but I'm more a general idea kinda guy, "Columbus sailed in sometime long ago to this place here," kinda thing). Chicago, however, has the most kicking participation in the world, literally, as would-be and currently-are writers gird themselves for a month-long writing marathon intended to produce 50,000 words of a novel from each participant. Knowing this, we were not surprised by the packed house that greeted us. Had we not known the venue was over-booked and that it was a bunch of writers and would-be writers hanging out, we might have thought this was the single coolest club in all of Chicago given the crowd. Instead, we knew and were amused to find bingo cards awaiting us.

This was no ordinary bingo. No, our bingo cards boxes weren't filled with the usual I-9 and B-4 numbers, they were filled with plot points. "Main character is a ninja," one proclaimed. "Is writing book with a spouse," another noted. Our research, which consisted of us asking the dude that handed us the card, found that your goal was to mingle about and have someone else initial a box that pertained to their story. Once you got a bingo, you won! Won something along the lines of a notepad, some stickers, and a candy bar in a gift bag, but you WON, man!

The true genius of this bingo was the effect. How do you get a group of people usually known for being watchers and recorders of human nature to interact? How do you get these people to talk about their ideas without fear of giving away too much, but enough to get themselves thinking? BINGO! It was here that I realized not only should my own novel have leprechauns, witches, werewolves and vampires, but that a ninja would actually fit too! Bingo rocks!

Danny

Once every ten months or so, we undergo a major condo reorganization project. Maybe, the reasoning goes, if we just use our space more efficiently, if we just rearrange this furniture, buy this shelf, we’ll feel like we have more room than we do. The planning phases of these projects all end in the same way: a trip to Ikea for organizational supplies.

Our latest endeavor, Project Kitchen Cabinets, brought us to a new place: The Container Store. Armed with schematic drawings and measurements, we were on a mission. Our mission: eradicate free-wheeling, pot-lid ridden, it’s-always-in-the-back cabinet conditions that often led to Angry Megan stomping around the kitchen and cursing.

I knew exactly what I was looking for: those platforms on wheely tracks that are installed on the bottom of a cabinet shelf. Charles didn’t know what I was talking about; so, naturally, he thought they didn’t exist. But, he decided to humor me and look for them in The Container Store. I believe the reasoning was that once I discovered that the magical organization tool was all in my head, we would be able to find something to meet our needs in this mecca of all things organization.

Only they did exist. Once we walked in the store, it wasn’t too long before someone asked if they could help us. I explained what we were looking for and we were directed to an entire aisle in the store full of nothing but the sliding cabinet organizers. To my credit, I didn’t gloat much beyond the indignant exclamation of, “I told you!”

We started in on deciding which of the options before us to buy. And then. Then. We spotted it. A shiny chrome organizer to hold nothing more or less than all of your pot lids, in ascending size order. The curves of this organizer gleamed under the fluorescent lights of the store. When we pulled on the front, it rolled smoothly and stealthily on its tracks. It was a thing of beauty. There were not two ways about it. I was in love.

Then, on the other side of the aisle, Charles found an alternative to the chrome organizer called the Lid Maid. This plastic system for organizing lids was narrower, so would possibly be more versatile in its cabinet placement. The big advantage, which appealed greatly to Charles’s man-logic, was the fact that it was about one third the price of the beautiful chrome organizer. But, it was made of dirty-white plastic. When you pulled on it, it moved haltingly and squeaked. Charles was pushing the Lid Maid option in its cheap plastic glory.

Was he kidding?

It was during this argument (“Function over form, Megan!” “But it squeaks!”) that Danny found us. Danny, the Container Store employee who may have been better served skipping over us in favor of customers with a little less baggage. Instead, he heard the distress call of a stalemate between mates.

“Can I help you two with anything?”

Could anyone help us?

With the last flicker of hope we had for our lives together, and a happy medium in the kitchen, we explained what we were trying to do.

Danny, in turn, listened to both sides of our lid organizer argument. “That certainly is the more economical option,” he agreed with Charles. “It should hold just as many lids, and it takes up almost no space.”

Then he found my side, “You know, you’re right. It does squeak. I guess that could be a little like fingernails down a chalkboard.”

In a flash of inspiration, Danny brought us to the aisle full of racks. Perhaps a compromise could be met? We could mount a rack on the wall to hold our lids. After all, how many lids could we have? Sweet, naïve Danny. If only he knew that we mysteriously have more lids than pots.

We debated the merits of these lid-storage alternatives, only to find we were firmly rooted in one of those first two alternatives: the Lid Maid, or the right choice.

Finally, Danny, our dear friend, stood by with a bemused smile as he witnessed our back and forth. After a well-placed argument on my part, “Who, exactly, spends more time cooking in the kitchen?” we arrived (begrudgingly, for one of us) at an agreement. We were taking home the gleaming chrome. (Megan: 1, Lid Maid: 0)

Danny breathed a sigh of relief as the lid organizer went into the cart, and we turned our attention to the remaining sliding organizers to fill out the cabinets. Why did I feel that we owed Danny a drink?

When in the throes of shopping that affects both of us, both Charles and I can each get very passionate and very attached to our own ideas. We honestly consider each other’s point of view, and we come to the same conclusion: our own idea is better than the other guy’s. Unless a magical compromise option comes into play, we can go back and forth on what each one of us is convinced is the only real option. Danny helped us focus, gave legitimacy to both our arguments, and kept things light and friendly.

He had been through the wringer with us, and had somehow managed to garner peace.

Here’s to you, Danny!

My imaginary son Scooter.

Few things can delight, inspire, agitate and confound all at once quite like a trip to the land of Hypothetical. Everyone's had that conversation around the water-cooler at work about what they'd do if they won the big lottery jackpot. The truly prepared among us have even cemented their zombie-apocalypse survival scenarios. The surreal joy comes when you find yourself in a horns-locking beast-battle of an argument with somebody over a scenario unlikely ever to unfold.

Megan and I tend to spend our Sunday afternoons or evenings huddled up in some cozy booth somewhere being catered to by a helpful wait-staff. This weekly ritual has become our time to let go and relax, catch up on the escapades that we each encountered on our respective weekends off (having an off-hours schedule for me means we sort of have our own weekends), share any interesting things we've read in the week before as well as strategize on the week ahead. The topic came around to a favorite rant for us; children at restaurants.

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, we're completely fine with kids of any age at a restaurant, that is, so long as they are seen and not heard. Nothing quite ruins a relaxing and expensive meal like hearing a toddler shrieking across the room as if it were a South American Howler Monkey being tortured by a logger. The topic started off this time thanks to a heated debate that went on the prior week on a blog we both follow. The blog, Etiquette Bitch, is a younger, hipper Miss Manners and it amazed me that when the author merely suggested that adults tend to their screaming children in public, she received some rather heated exchanges from some parents out there. How is it scandalous to expect parents to actually parent? We both pondered this as we set about scanning Fuddrucker's to see a number of families all with well-behaved kids. Parenting did seem possible without the drama.

It was on the way home we got to take our stroll down Hypothetical Lane.

"Megan, you'll love this. You know that family of four that came in before us?" I asked as I weaved my way through traffic towards the highway on-ramp.

"Yeah, what about them?"

"Well I was in the restroom stall next to them when I heard the dad and son come in. While the dad was using the urinal his kid was just jabbering at him and I heard the kid inform his dad that the woman's restroom had chairs and a couch and a fireplace!"

"Wow, they must have really remodeled since I last used it," she told me.

It was here I felt justified in explaining why I'd be a poor father and should never be allowed to procreate.

"Thank god we aren't having kids, because our kid would be either the most agile-minded or warped thing around. If that were my kid I'd have told him there were also gingerbread cookies in the woman's bathroom and a magical elf."

She was quick to note that this would neither make our child smart or warped it would just make the kid never trust daddy. I reflected on the victory this would be for me since Scooter (at this point I felt the kid deserved a name and why not one that would guarantee him a beating in school to give him character and harden him up) wouldn't come to me for help with homework. She took that in stride, but I couldn't help pondering further and worrying about Scooter's education.

"Of course, if you taught him, he wouldn't ever learn any history."

"I know history, you bastard!" she shot back.

A quick query on name of the 16th U.S. president vindicated my thoughts that this wasn't true, though she stuck by her guns that after I revealed the name she KNEW who the hell Lincoln was, thank me very much. Fortunately her good sense reigned in the novelty of the conversation-which-bordered-on-argument.

She asked, "Um, are we fighting over how we're going to raise our ridiculously named imaginary child we're never going to have?"

"I don't know," I countered. "Let's just agree hypothetically to never have kids."

"It's a deal."

A mix to build a dream on...

It's been said that music soothes the savage beast. In the cartoons or old movies the hero would play a lullaby to put the beast or monster to sleep. To me the original saying is right, but the meaning to it is that the beast becomes more deadly.

This year has been an emotional roller-coaster of jubilant joys and flummoxing financial failings. The fertile spring brought our friends and families numerous newborns. The summer brought vacation travel and rounds of lay-offs at not only my company, but also Megan's. We tried to accomplish a simple rate-reduction modification with our mortgage company and got a 4 month jerk-along with a final offer of over $10,000 just to save us a lousy percent on our note. Then came a debilitating $6,000 assessment from our Condo Association so that our roof doesn't collapse in on us. All in all the year has flown by us in a whirlwind of emotional speed.

In the midst of all this mayhem, come birthdays. Megan's birthday for the last few years has been a month-long gala celebration for me. It's a time when I gift her randomly on days leading up to her birthday with little gifts here and there, culminating in one usually really good present on the actual day thereof. In addition, I usually take the lady to a nice meal at a favorite restaurant, something on par with or even at The Melting Pot. This year, in the hub-bub of our vacation, I fell down on my duty. We went out for a nice meal at one point and I got her a gifty here and there, but it wasn't the concerted effort I can usually offer at that, most auspicious, time of year.

Given this, in the lead-up to my birthday when Megan would ask I'd just say "I don't need anything, really, don't worry about it especially since I failed you on your birthday." Much like when I wax poetic about a zombie movie, she didn't listen. The day rolls around and she made the famed Oreo Ice Cream cake (a home-made ice cream cake to which I finally did say "oooh if you HAVE to do something I'll take one of those") and hands me a present.

"What's this?"
"I told you I got you a little something."
"Yeah, you mentioned something about that but I told you really not to worry about it since I screwed up with your birthday this year."

While she assured me she was happy with her birthday and I plotted mentally to make up for it at Christmas, I opened the gift to find a set of mix cd's inside. I had been driving around with the same dozen cd's in my car for about a year and the salvation to this mind-numbing rut had just been delivered with a bow on it! The three discs were broken up into 2 categories. 2 of the discs were just mixes of cool songs she knew I liked and the final disk was primarily love songs and smooth songs.

The coolness of her thoughtful gift truly hit me the next week on my commute to work. As a background, for me, every time I leave our condo it's like entering one of Dante's previously unchronicled levels of hell. The absolute crush of humanity I encounter daily in a city as big as Chicago tends to unnerve me on a primal level. Whether it's dodging cyclists on the sidewalk or the street, dodging motorists on the sidewalk or the street, or wading through the masses at the deli counter at the store, I'm always some shade of edgy living here. My commute typically feels like a frenzied battle for dominance. So when I hit the road this Monday to the smooth stylings of Van Morrison, Louis Armstrong and Nina Simone, how could I have imagined the transformation my commute would become? Usually my stabs at traffic were the wild chops of a malarial-fevered Congo guide; frenzied, impatient, and borderline insane. That day with the pleas of One More Moondance and just a Simple Kiss to Build a Dream on, my traffic foray became the calm strokes of a top-notch board-certified surgeon; relaxed, precise and efficient.

Megan has given me a melodic center on which to cling. The beast is soothed on his daily travels. Though soothed, this beast does not sleep, he's merely more focused so beware A-holes that try to merge from the breakdown lane 2 miles after the signs warn you, I'm still not letting you over, I'll just do so with a relaxed smile on my face.

Puppy Hydration

One of our strengths, and also one continual topic of conversation for us is the division of labor for household chores. If I walk the dog in the morning, Charles walks the dog at night. If I’ve done dishes the last few times, Charles pitches in with a load or two. However, our finely tuned system is never impervious to renegotiation. Both of us are overly concerned with fairness, a concept that poses an ever-moving target. Each of us, it would seem, has the better end of the deal, according to the other's judgement. And each of us has the worst end of the deal, according to our own.

Consider the distribution of food and water for our dog’s needs. Poor Roxy has been at the center of many a disagreement, with regards to who has to feed or water her. Charles contends that, were it not for him, our dog would die of thirst. This isn’t true. When Charles is out of town, Roxy never wants for water. But the way I look at it, when Charles is so good at giving her water on a daily basis, who am I to interrupt a perfectly good routine?

This arrangement was not born out of mutual agreement, a fact that became quite apparent when years of resentment came to fruition. Charles’s complaint: How come we split the feeding duties, when Charles was the only one providing water?

Here is the true sign of my growth as part of a couple, as a wife, as a human being. I heard Charles’s argument on this point, and I agreed with him. Clearly, the system was only working for one of us. I certainly had no complaints. But, to make it work for both, I proposed an alternate plan. How about one of us feeds the dog and one of us takes care of her water? Done. So now, the hydration of little Roxy Puppyton lies solely in my capable hands. And you know what? She hasn’t gone thirsty yet.

Even if Charles has to remind me every now and again.