Always seems such a simple word. Forever, constant, continual: these are the meanings most of us consider. In a relationship what's more comforting or romantic than Whitney's "Iiiiiiiiiiii will always loooooove youuuuu?" Take a moment to consider some other meanings of the word: never-ending, ceaseless, feminine hygeine products. The danger of always nearly caught me this weekend and I don't mean an embarrassing trip to Walgreens for my wife.
Always catches us off-guard. The day will be bright with the tranquil twitter-chirp of birds lingering on the afternoon breeze. We'll be having a good time throwing some good-natured barbs at each other about one foible or other. Then suddenly one of us will do it.
"Well, I'd be more inclined to fill up the tank if you didn't always have the car on your days off."
A crackle of thunder pierces the air, a once-twittering bird flops mid twitter-chirp dead upon the ground nearby.
"What do you mean, Always? I spent all week cooped up here so you could have the stinkin' car and you still left me whiffin' fumes to make it to the 'burbs for gas this week."
Always brings the storm from there, a maelstrom of vitriol and hatred carries us away for the next however many hours. In the end, we're spent, a day is lost and there's a dead bird out there somewhere. Sorry, Tweety.
This Sunday I averted a misadventure of the Always kind. Because of my screwball work schedule, Sunday is our Date-night, Shopping day, Hang with Friends day, Relax together day, and Dinner-out night all in one. Due to our various self-inflicted dietary restrictions (Megan, a Vegetarian and me a Pickytarian), dinner-out choices for Sunday usually go something like this:
"What do you want for dinner, Megan?"
"I don't know, what do you want?"
"How about Melvin's House of Meat?"
"How about Tong's Temple of Southeast Asian Food that involves no Meat?"
Sometimes, however, one of us will toss out the other's favorite, or one of the few compromise places we both enjoy. Megan started off the game with that play.
"How about Cheesecake Factory?"
I don't know why, but I have a mental block against the Cheesecake Factory. I enjoy a number of dishes there. They have gratis bread (60% of my reason for liking a restaurant, by the way). They even are a place we both enjoy. For some reason I always do want to say no thanks. This week, however, always did not win. I stopped myself, considered the free bread, and went with my lady to a nice meal out that we both enjoyed. I wish everyone their level best to avoid the always trap too. After all, always left Whitney Houston a domestically abused crack-whore to Bobby Brown.
Love You, Love You Not
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Movie Night
Last night was Movie Night.
The movie in question was “Julie and Julia,” the new movie with Meryl Streep playing Julia Child and Amy Adams her willing disciple. I thought I would come out of the movie hungry. Instead I came out feeling uplifted, optimistic, and in dire need of a certain cookbook. This movie is more than one about food and where it takes us; it’s a movie about marriage: the good and the bad. But mostly the good.
We learn through both Julie and Julia the importance and joy of having someone in our lives to support and encourage us. Both real-life women had husbands that opened their wives’ eyes to new ideas that led to new dreams. Both real-life husbands were there to cheer on their wives, indulge their passion, and sing their praises. In turn, both women had to understand when to put their husbands first and consider their lives together. This story is one that shows all that marriage is and all that it can be.
I am reminded of a trip I took a few years ago, when Charles and I were engaged. I stayed with a couple friend of ours at one of their parents’ home. The mom is a professional quilter—something that I envy and aspire to be. We all went on a tour of her studio: my friends, the mom and her husband, and me. As we walked around her drool-worthy studio in the ground floor of their beautiful home, her husband interjected with anecdotes about the time they acquired the mondo spool of invisible thread, or on which trip abroad they had found a certain piece of fabric. “Did you see this?” or “Let me show you something,” he would say, leading me away to see an annex for batting, or a cabinet for nothing but family heirloom quilts.
Along the way, I saw the tiny corner of an office he inhabited. “You can see who gets the priority around here!” he said. “But, how much space do I really need? This way, we can work on our own things, but still yell across at each other.” I looked at this adorable man and saw all the love he had for his wife written on his face, the delight he took in her career/hobby and her aspirations plain as day shining through his eyes.
All I could think of was my Charles. My Charles, who’s made my dreams his dreams, found new ways for me to follow them, championed my successes, and supported me if I failed. I have pursued different dreams in our time together, and he got behind each and every one of them with the same zeal. I looked at this friend’s dad and saw my future with Charles. And it looked good.
It still looks good.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to someone about a certain cookbook.
The movie in question was “Julie and Julia,” the new movie with Meryl Streep playing Julia Child and Amy Adams her willing disciple. I thought I would come out of the movie hungry. Instead I came out feeling uplifted, optimistic, and in dire need of a certain cookbook. This movie is more than one about food and where it takes us; it’s a movie about marriage: the good and the bad. But mostly the good.
We learn through both Julie and Julia the importance and joy of having someone in our lives to support and encourage us. Both real-life women had husbands that opened their wives’ eyes to new ideas that led to new dreams. Both real-life husbands were there to cheer on their wives, indulge their passion, and sing their praises. In turn, both women had to understand when to put their husbands first and consider their lives together. This story is one that shows all that marriage is and all that it can be.
I am reminded of a trip I took a few years ago, when Charles and I were engaged. I stayed with a couple friend of ours at one of their parents’ home. The mom is a professional quilter—something that I envy and aspire to be. We all went on a tour of her studio: my friends, the mom and her husband, and me. As we walked around her drool-worthy studio in the ground floor of their beautiful home, her husband interjected with anecdotes about the time they acquired the mondo spool of invisible thread, or on which trip abroad they had found a certain piece of fabric. “Did you see this?” or “Let me show you something,” he would say, leading me away to see an annex for batting, or a cabinet for nothing but family heirloom quilts.
Along the way, I saw the tiny corner of an office he inhabited. “You can see who gets the priority around here!” he said. “But, how much space do I really need? This way, we can work on our own things, but still yell across at each other.” I looked at this adorable man and saw all the love he had for his wife written on his face, the delight he took in her career/hobby and her aspirations plain as day shining through his eyes.
All I could think of was my Charles. My Charles, who’s made my dreams his dreams, found new ways for me to follow them, championed my successes, and supported me if I failed. I have pursued different dreams in our time together, and he got behind each and every one of them with the same zeal. I looked at this friend’s dad and saw my future with Charles. And it looked good.
It still looks good.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to someone about a certain cookbook.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Grocery Night
In the dark recesses of our past lies a time of deprivation, confusion, and fear. A time when days and weeks of indecision led to despicable acts the like of which no one should have to witness. These horrors we have known were born from a single fact:
We were grocery-store poor.
Pretty soon after moving into our third-story condo we realized that parking near our new home was nearly impossible. It involved circling for ages before settling on a spot a half-mile from home. Rather than carry our bags back and forth that far, we tried idling in the alley and carrying the groceries up the back stairs.
In the process, we blocked a parking space for our building. Of course, the neighbor who needed the space came home while we were unloading our groceries. Rather than ask us to move so she could get in, she called the police and reported us. For the only time in known history, the police responded right away and issued a ticket.
The ordeal of unloading groceries under the watchful eyes of our neighbors kept us from the store. Weeks would pass by without nary a mention of the grocery store. The time in between trips stretched out like a food dessert. Toward the end of our sentence, food became scarce; take-out became the norm.
Until a thought dawned upon us. What if we made our grocery shopping night a weekly affair? We’d buy less food, increasing our likelihood of carrying it home in one trip. We’d spend less time there, decreasing our crankiness. The trip to the grocery store wouldn’t take up the entire night. And I’d always have a supply of fresh produce!
The first week of shopping this way was so blessed, it was as if our entrance in the store was heralded by angel song. We haven’t looked back since. Now, barring death, sickness, or out-of-townedness, every week has a grocery night—a night to start fresh, to wander the aisles and dream of meals to come. We travel the aisles together, free from the pressure of once-monthly shopping.
As old and married as it sounds, we look forward to grocery night. It’s an activity we do together; it builds camaraderie. He’s there for me when the Jewel is, once again, out of baby portabellas. I commiserate with him over the long line at the deli. Even though we are hunting and gathering different foods, we are a team.
We were grocery-store poor.
Pretty soon after moving into our third-story condo we realized that parking near our new home was nearly impossible. It involved circling for ages before settling on a spot a half-mile from home. Rather than carry our bags back and forth that far, we tried idling in the alley and carrying the groceries up the back stairs.
In the process, we blocked a parking space for our building. Of course, the neighbor who needed the space came home while we were unloading our groceries. Rather than ask us to move so she could get in, she called the police and reported us. For the only time in known history, the police responded right away and issued a ticket.
The ordeal of unloading groceries under the watchful eyes of our neighbors kept us from the store. Weeks would pass by without nary a mention of the grocery store. The time in between trips stretched out like a food dessert. Toward the end of our sentence, food became scarce; take-out became the norm.
Until a thought dawned upon us. What if we made our grocery shopping night a weekly affair? We’d buy less food, increasing our likelihood of carrying it home in one trip. We’d spend less time there, decreasing our crankiness. The trip to the grocery store wouldn’t take up the entire night. And I’d always have a supply of fresh produce!
The first week of shopping this way was so blessed, it was as if our entrance in the store was heralded by angel song. We haven’t looked back since. Now, barring death, sickness, or out-of-townedness, every week has a grocery night—a night to start fresh, to wander the aisles and dream of meals to come. We travel the aisles together, free from the pressure of once-monthly shopping.
As old and married as it sounds, we look forward to grocery night. It’s an activity we do together; it builds camaraderie. He’s there for me when the Jewel is, once again, out of baby portabellas. I commiserate with him over the long line at the deli. Even though we are hunting and gathering different foods, we are a team.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
The Ballad of Dirty-Sock Frito
Gather round, to hear the tale
Of a smelly black doggie with a fuzzy black tail
All through the day, and through the night
She whines and fusses and causes a sight
When she freaks she does exude
A smelly unseen cloud of noxious “ewwww”
That when my delicate nostrils meet
Smells like Fritos stored near a dirty bum’s feet
To this day I do not know
Why she whines and carries on so
On hearing other doggies speech
That from the alley-side does breach.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Pythagoras in the Bedroom
Everyone knows that sharing a bed with someone is a simple matter of geometry.
Everyone, that is, except for my husband.
When I sleep, I lie with my head at the headboard and my feet at the footboard. If you were to draw a straight line through the two, that line would be perpendicular to the headboard and footboard. This doesn’t mean that I sleep like I’m a board; my knees crook, my arms extend from my body, and I relax. But, in general, the line of my body forms right angles with the headboard and footboard.
When Charles has full reign of the bed, however, he does not observe this tendency toward geometric simplicity. The line of his body becomes a diagonal, forming angles with the headboard that are NOT right. (If something’s not right, that means it’s wrong.) Not only is he not in line perpendicularly, but his arms splay out in all directions so that somehow, this one man inhabits all of the space in our king-sized bed.
This approach does not alter when we share the bed. My line is perpendicular; his is not. This means that our lines intersect, usually somewhere around the legs. Intersecting lines may look all sexy on a graph, but in practice, create complications in bed. Limbs have to accommodate other limbs, certain bony knees dig into unsuspecting thighs. A long-range plan of comfort and relaxation depends on the two sleepers being parallel lines. As stated in one of those geometric theorems from long ago, parallel lines do NOT intersect.
They can however, run alongside one another, on and on, forever. Parallel lines have staying power. And spooning power. Spoons nestle into each other; they don’t intersect. So, to spoon successfully, you have to remember not to intersect; otherwise, you’re just forks.
Everyone, that is, except for my husband.
When I sleep, I lie with my head at the headboard and my feet at the footboard. If you were to draw a straight line through the two, that line would be perpendicular to the headboard and footboard. This doesn’t mean that I sleep like I’m a board; my knees crook, my arms extend from my body, and I relax. But, in general, the line of my body forms right angles with the headboard and footboard.
When Charles has full reign of the bed, however, he does not observe this tendency toward geometric simplicity. The line of his body becomes a diagonal, forming angles with the headboard that are NOT right. (If something’s not right, that means it’s wrong.) Not only is he not in line perpendicularly, but his arms splay out in all directions so that somehow, this one man inhabits all of the space in our king-sized bed.
This approach does not alter when we share the bed. My line is perpendicular; his is not. This means that our lines intersect, usually somewhere around the legs. Intersecting lines may look all sexy on a graph, but in practice, create complications in bed. Limbs have to accommodate other limbs, certain bony knees dig into unsuspecting thighs. A long-range plan of comfort and relaxation depends on the two sleepers being parallel lines. As stated in one of those geometric theorems from long ago, parallel lines do NOT intersect.
They can however, run alongside one another, on and on, forever. Parallel lines have staying power. And spooning power. Spoons nestle into each other; they don’t intersect. So, to spoon successfully, you have to remember not to intersect; otherwise, you’re just forks.
Monday, July 20, 2009
A Place to Put an Elbow
Relationships own silverware. There you find the fine china. A one night stand doesn't net you a set of fine spoons and forks like a relationship that's culminated in a wedding. A one night stand or occasional sex buddy may get you a fork now and then, but the spoons, they only come with someone more intimate. With the right relationship you get a whole plethora of implements useful for any situation. You can whip out the carving knife for a deadly assault or smooth something over with the pleasant panacea poised on your butter knife. You can even fork 'til you spoon. All the things you need are found in the kitchen drawers that come with a right proper relationship. It's with this in mind that I consider the endless battleground that is my bedtime.
If you've ever spent an hour on hold to an 800 number waiting to get an answer to a problem from a guy in India and wondered, "who does this guy call for help?" then wonder no more, it's me. Because of this, 3 days a week I stay up all night to babysit some servers, run a few backups, and solve problems for a bunch of very nice folks in Hyderabad. By and large, it's not a bad gig. The problem of such a gig, however, is the overwhelming monopoly it gives my wife on bedtime resources.
For 3 days my wife gets to engage in conquest the likes of which ancient gods would appreciate. The world of our king size bed becomes a surface unto which the might of MEGAN shall conquer. Pillows fall beneath her might. Entire comforters have become pulled into the war machine that are her arms. The frame itself has sometimes moved, seemingly in terror at her might. Then on the 4th day, I arrive.
My presence disturbs her Mitty-esque adventure. Instead of a pillow and cover devouring goddess, my wife finds herself a mere mortal in a tug-of-war for space. We bring ourselves back to the mundane world where you try to figure out if you should fork or spoon and how the heck do you spoon with this spare arm in the way? Apparently my back is a good place to store an elbow.
If you've ever spent an hour on hold to an 800 number waiting to get an answer to a problem from a guy in India and wondered, "who does this guy call for help?" then wonder no more, it's me. Because of this, 3 days a week I stay up all night to babysit some servers, run a few backups, and solve problems for a bunch of very nice folks in Hyderabad. By and large, it's not a bad gig. The problem of such a gig, however, is the overwhelming monopoly it gives my wife on bedtime resources.
For 3 days my wife gets to engage in conquest the likes of which ancient gods would appreciate. The world of our king size bed becomes a surface unto which the might of MEGAN shall conquer. Pillows fall beneath her might. Entire comforters have become pulled into the war machine that are her arms. The frame itself has sometimes moved, seemingly in terror at her might. Then on the 4th day, I arrive.
My presence disturbs her Mitty-esque adventure. Instead of a pillow and cover devouring goddess, my wife finds herself a mere mortal in a tug-of-war for space. We bring ourselves back to the mundane world where you try to figure out if you should fork or spoon and how the heck do you spoon with this spare arm in the way? Apparently my back is a good place to store an elbow.
Friday, July 10, 2009
I miss Scrabble.
There are a lot of folks out there doing a lot of important things. Doctor friends go to work saving lives every day. Scientist friends go to work to discover new things to make our lives better (unless they're one of those "green scientists" in which case they work on new ways to make our lives worse: I'm talkin' to you low-flow toilet and twisty lightbulb people). Lawyer friends go to work for an hour and a half each day to remind us that, yes, we too could have been rich beyond merit if we'd abdicated our soul in college in favor of law school. The rest of us cling to those things we do that, if not important, at least make us happy. For me, that happiness comes in the form of a well played game.
I grew up in a forest raised by manbearpigs. As such, without a daddy figure to lead me, I never quite grew into the role of a Chess master. This and this alone is the only thing that keeps me from being one of those jedi-master heroes that pop up in the occasional Hollywood movie. You know the one. He's the wizened genius, pulling off the ultimate smooth operator persona and gaming the system. The chess master runs a ring of super-thieves in some David Mamet-like screenplay with bad dialogue and fun but hole-filled plot. If only I'd learned chess, the world could have been mine in similar style. Instead, I've thrown my certified genius (thank you Acme University) in on the complex game of Scrabble.
That's right, Scrabble has nuances. This isn't just some game for word-wonks filled with the holy spirit of the Oxford English Dictionary. Much like Chess, this sucker can be used to eviscerate your enemy. You can trip up, box in, and stump your prey from even making a move. Scrabble, in the hands of the right intellect, becomes a game of chance, knowledge, and cunning. No, I daresay Scrabble becomes the scepter of a mighty latter-day demi-god!
The moral of the story, if you love playing Scrabble, don't make your wife cry by beating the tar out of her.
I grew up in a forest raised by manbearpigs. As such, without a daddy figure to lead me, I never quite grew into the role of a Chess master. This and this alone is the only thing that keeps me from being one of those jedi-master heroes that pop up in the occasional Hollywood movie. You know the one. He's the wizened genius, pulling off the ultimate smooth operator persona and gaming the system. The chess master runs a ring of super-thieves in some David Mamet-like screenplay with bad dialogue and fun but hole-filled plot. If only I'd learned chess, the world could have been mine in similar style. Instead, I've thrown my certified genius (thank you Acme University) in on the complex game of Scrabble.
That's right, Scrabble has nuances. This isn't just some game for word-wonks filled with the holy spirit of the Oxford English Dictionary. Much like Chess, this sucker can be used to eviscerate your enemy. You can trip up, box in, and stump your prey from even making a move. Scrabble, in the hands of the right intellect, becomes a game of chance, knowledge, and cunning. No, I daresay Scrabble becomes the scepter of a mighty latter-day demi-god!
The moral of the story, if you love playing Scrabble, don't make your wife cry by beating the tar out of her.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Marriage Mind Meld
The Mind Meld is a cognitive condition that affects more than just married couples. The root cause of this condition is significant amounts of time spent in close proximity with someone else. Symptoms include, but are not limited to the ability to complete each others’ sentences, near superpower abilities when playing Pictionary, or picking up the phone only to find the other person is calling you at the exact moment you intended to call him or her.
The Mind Meld can seem like a superhuman power. From a close connection with someone else grows an enhanced understanding of another person, his or her life experiences, and how that person thinks. A short-handed communication is born. Complete sentences aren’t always necessary to convey a point. Sometimes you don’t even need words.
What science has not yet proven about the Mind Meld is whether two people in the Meld just really understand the way the other one thinks, or whether they grow to think similarly to one another over time. Perhaps it’s both.
I have experienced such a condition with roommates. In a game of Taboo, my college roommate was able to elicit the response, “a rainbow!” from me by saying, “something you have never seen…” As one of the other players in this game pointed out, this clue could refer to any number of things I hadn’t seen, such as lions mating in the wild or Bono in concert. But I knew it was a rainbow because of the Mind Meld.
Charles and I have been Melded for years now, long before the wedding took place. When we team up for a game of Cranium, we are virtually unstoppable, unless in the presence of other strongly Mind-Melded couples. I know which grunt means he’s not satisfied with the answer to a question he received, and he knows when my sighs mean something more than just a sigh. Sometimes our very silence speaks volumes.
As wonderful a gift as the Mind Meld can be, it can go awry. Take yesterday, for example. Charles and I have been planning to attend the Irish American Heritage Festival ever since we learned that Eileen Ivers would be giving a concert there. However, we didn’t buy the tickets immediately. It was understood by both of us that we would cross that bridge after our trip to St. Louis at the end of June.
We’ve been back from our trip for a little over a week now, falling back into our daily routines. Yesterday, we decided to take action about the tickets. The deadline was coming up, after which ticket prices would double. I placed the order online while Charles was napping at home, deciding I should act on it while I was thinking about it. Charles placed the order after he woke up, after shooting an IM message that I didn’t immediately see. When I turned around and saw his message, I snatched up the phone to stop the inevitable disaster. He answered just as he hit the sent button to make the purchase.
The moral of our story is this: if you or anyone you know would like to attend the Irish American Heritage Festival this weekend, please let us know! We have tickets!
The Mind Meld can seem like a superhuman power. From a close connection with someone else grows an enhanced understanding of another person, his or her life experiences, and how that person thinks. A short-handed communication is born. Complete sentences aren’t always necessary to convey a point. Sometimes you don’t even need words.
What science has not yet proven about the Mind Meld is whether two people in the Meld just really understand the way the other one thinks, or whether they grow to think similarly to one another over time. Perhaps it’s both.
I have experienced such a condition with roommates. In a game of Taboo, my college roommate was able to elicit the response, “a rainbow!” from me by saying, “something you have never seen…” As one of the other players in this game pointed out, this clue could refer to any number of things I hadn’t seen, such as lions mating in the wild or Bono in concert. But I knew it was a rainbow because of the Mind Meld.
Charles and I have been Melded for years now, long before the wedding took place. When we team up for a game of Cranium, we are virtually unstoppable, unless in the presence of other strongly Mind-Melded couples. I know which grunt means he’s not satisfied with the answer to a question he received, and he knows when my sighs mean something more than just a sigh. Sometimes our very silence speaks volumes.
As wonderful a gift as the Mind Meld can be, it can go awry. Take yesterday, for example. Charles and I have been planning to attend the Irish American Heritage Festival ever since we learned that Eileen Ivers would be giving a concert there. However, we didn’t buy the tickets immediately. It was understood by both of us that we would cross that bridge after our trip to St. Louis at the end of June.
We’ve been back from our trip for a little over a week now, falling back into our daily routines. Yesterday, we decided to take action about the tickets. The deadline was coming up, after which ticket prices would double. I placed the order online while Charles was napping at home, deciding I should act on it while I was thinking about it. Charles placed the order after he woke up, after shooting an IM message that I didn’t immediately see. When I turned around and saw his message, I snatched up the phone to stop the inevitable disaster. He answered just as he hit the sent button to make the purchase.
The moral of our story is this: if you or anyone you know would like to attend the Irish American Heritage Festival this weekend, please let us know! We have tickets!
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
They will SUCK your BLOOD!
When it comes to matters of medical hokum pokum, I am what they call in the scientific community a Woosicus Rex. I cannot handle needles or any other form of invasion by a medical professional. My body has developed a handy response to such stresses to my body and psyche; the blood rushes from my head and I faint. I learned later in my life that this response is called Vasovagal Syncope—the very same physiological response that prompted our former president to faint after choking on a chunk of pretzel. (All things considered, I don’t think death by pretzel is a terrible way to go.)
I fainted for the first time in the fourth grade, when we were learning how bruises formed in Health class. In the fifth grade, during a D.A.R.E. class with our local police officer, Vasovagal Syncope struck again as we learned how some drug addicts shot up heroine underneath their fingernails and toenails to avoid detection. Needless to say, I never contemplated a life as a heroine addict. The class had its desired effect. During high school, I fainted at the ophthalmologist’s office when he stuck his fingers in my eyeballs to put in a fresh pair of contacts.
For years, with varying degrees of success, I have been trying to explain this to members of the medical community when they try to inject some ‘helpful’ chemical or antibody, or even worse, extract some of my blood for their nefarious purposes. The last time I had a blood test was enough for me to swear off needles for good. My veins eluded the nurse’s attempts to find them. She had me squeezing a ball, and she poked my right arm twice and my left arm once before finding a vein to give her blood. I made her take a break to let me slow down the hyperventilating.
Today, I had to return to the scene of the crime for another blood test. Needless to say, memories of my last bloodsucking experience haunted me all the way to the office. But, today, unlike that morning a couple years ago, I was armed with something that made all the difference: my husband.
Sure, this time I had a nurse much more adept at extracting my blood. Sure, I was more hydrated and my veins more visible. But, the lynch pin to help me through the troubling ordeal was my Charles, holding my hand and distracting me with talk of Diet Pepsi. It may not seem like much to anyone who can donate blood, but to me it meant all the difference to have him there distracting me and supporting me.
Am I strong enough to get through things like this on my own? Sure. Would I have made it without him today? Yes. But, it would have been much, much harder. Sharing your life with someone doesn’t make you weaker because you have someone to depend on in situations such as these. It makes both of you stronger, because support from someone you love makes it easier to buck up, face the music, and do what you must do.
I fainted for the first time in the fourth grade, when we were learning how bruises formed in Health class. In the fifth grade, during a D.A.R.E. class with our local police officer, Vasovagal Syncope struck again as we learned how some drug addicts shot up heroine underneath their fingernails and toenails to avoid detection. Needless to say, I never contemplated a life as a heroine addict. The class had its desired effect. During high school, I fainted at the ophthalmologist’s office when he stuck his fingers in my eyeballs to put in a fresh pair of contacts.
For years, with varying degrees of success, I have been trying to explain this to members of the medical community when they try to inject some ‘helpful’ chemical or antibody, or even worse, extract some of my blood for their nefarious purposes. The last time I had a blood test was enough for me to swear off needles for good. My veins eluded the nurse’s attempts to find them. She had me squeezing a ball, and she poked my right arm twice and my left arm once before finding a vein to give her blood. I made her take a break to let me slow down the hyperventilating.
Today, I had to return to the scene of the crime for another blood test. Needless to say, memories of my last bloodsucking experience haunted me all the way to the office. But, today, unlike that morning a couple years ago, I was armed with something that made all the difference: my husband.
Sure, this time I had a nurse much more adept at extracting my blood. Sure, I was more hydrated and my veins more visible. But, the lynch pin to help me through the troubling ordeal was my Charles, holding my hand and distracting me with talk of Diet Pepsi. It may not seem like much to anyone who can donate blood, but to me it meant all the difference to have him there distracting me and supporting me.
Am I strong enough to get through things like this on my own? Sure. Would I have made it without him today? Yes. But, it would have been much, much harder. Sharing your life with someone doesn’t make you weaker because you have someone to depend on in situations such as these. It makes both of you stronger, because support from someone you love makes it easier to buck up, face the music, and do what you must do.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Death in a saucebowl.
My ladylove and I have a pretty equitable system for chores. Not codified on paper anywhere, the rules have sort of evolved naturally over time. I'll even jump on the "green" fad and say it evolved "organically." How's that for using some lemming-like vernacular?
Since my wife's mutant power manifests in the form of Meganvision, a highly defined ability to see dust particles left behind by my mere mortal sweeping attempts, she gets to sweep. I generously fell on the garbage Seppuku sword since I prefer she not be hauling rotting garbage down 3 flights at night to a dumpster in an ill-lit city alley. We each wash our own clothes, asking nicely if we need to fill out a load if the other has some apparel they'd like to hitch a ride to cleantown. Cleaning the tub even has a ritual. I auger out the occasional hairball that breeds in the tub drain while she'll occasionally take care of the special cleaning our whirlpool tub requires. Overall our chore existence is pretty amicable. Now and again, however, evil strikes in the form of saucebowls.
Cleaning dishes has been the only area where we still have a back and forth relationship on who gets what and when. Generally we each keep up with loading our items into the dishwasher and running it. The real death to our matrimonial harmony comes when the saucebowls arrive. First you might see one or two. The lady will have some veggie potstickers and fill a side ramekin with some soy or other asiany-type sauce. I will maybe have some leftover chicken tenders and slam some BBQ sauce in a dipping bowl. Regardless of who starts the trend, we get overwhelmed by saucebowls. The things breed. Soon the sink has become a bio-weapons playground full of stagnant saucebowls all in varying stage of superflu petri-dish creation. Then the denial begins.
"I did dishes last."
"No, I did dishes last when I washed the thing near the thing after we went out to see the thing, remember?"
The argument starts off weak, then a few more days of fungal growth occurs in the dishes. Our yuck-pools have, by now, developed a latent early-evolutionary sentience and have begun plans for condo conquest. I'm not entirely certain if spores haven't been released into the air from the growths occuring in the sink, tainting our abilities to rationally just DO the damn dishes. Regardless of the cause, we begin to start targeting each other. Our dog becomes the intermediary for discussion as we refuse to directly tell the other person to do the dishes.
"Roxy, tell mommy it stinks in here from her stagnant saucebowls of death," I'll advise the dog.
"Roxy, tell daddy nothing smells worse than what comes out of his ass every 20 seconds," she'll inform the dog.
Eventually something snaps. Maybe the dog's boredom of our inanity does it. She'll go lick the floor somewhere more interesting. Maybe it's the fact that the other person disappears for a bit (usually the one who snaps does so when the other is working). Maybe God is a jester who has decided to get back to a normal show. Eventually one of us does the dishes. Someday, however, I know in my soul, the death of our marriage could lie in a saucebowl. This is why I'm plotting to accidentally drop all our saucebowls. It's for our love, honey!
Since my wife's mutant power manifests in the form of Meganvision, a highly defined ability to see dust particles left behind by my mere mortal sweeping attempts, she gets to sweep. I generously fell on the garbage Seppuku sword since I prefer she not be hauling rotting garbage down 3 flights at night to a dumpster in an ill-lit city alley. We each wash our own clothes, asking nicely if we need to fill out a load if the other has some apparel they'd like to hitch a ride to cleantown. Cleaning the tub even has a ritual. I auger out the occasional hairball that breeds in the tub drain while she'll occasionally take care of the special cleaning our whirlpool tub requires. Overall our chore existence is pretty amicable. Now and again, however, evil strikes in the form of saucebowls.
Cleaning dishes has been the only area where we still have a back and forth relationship on who gets what and when. Generally we each keep up with loading our items into the dishwasher and running it. The real death to our matrimonial harmony comes when the saucebowls arrive. First you might see one or two. The lady will have some veggie potstickers and fill a side ramekin with some soy or other asiany-type sauce. I will maybe have some leftover chicken tenders and slam some BBQ sauce in a dipping bowl. Regardless of who starts the trend, we get overwhelmed by saucebowls. The things breed. Soon the sink has become a bio-weapons playground full of stagnant saucebowls all in varying stage of superflu petri-dish creation. Then the denial begins.
"I did dishes last."
"No, I did dishes last when I washed the thing near the thing after we went out to see the thing, remember?"
The argument starts off weak, then a few more days of fungal growth occurs in the dishes. Our yuck-pools have, by now, developed a latent early-evolutionary sentience and have begun plans for condo conquest. I'm not entirely certain if spores haven't been released into the air from the growths occuring in the sink, tainting our abilities to rationally just DO the damn dishes. Regardless of the cause, we begin to start targeting each other. Our dog becomes the intermediary for discussion as we refuse to directly tell the other person to do the dishes.
"Roxy, tell mommy it stinks in here from her stagnant saucebowls of death," I'll advise the dog.
"Roxy, tell daddy nothing smells worse than what comes out of his ass every 20 seconds," she'll inform the dog.
Eventually something snaps. Maybe the dog's boredom of our inanity does it. She'll go lick the floor somewhere more interesting. Maybe it's the fact that the other person disappears for a bit (usually the one who snaps does so when the other is working). Maybe God is a jester who has decided to get back to a normal show. Eventually one of us does the dishes. Someday, however, I know in my soul, the death of our marriage could lie in a saucebowl. This is why I'm plotting to accidentally drop all our saucebowls. It's for our love, honey!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)