These are working days. Days when we don't see each other until later at night. Days when our weekends don't match. For the past year we've worked for the same company at the same location. We carpooled together and had lunch together. We weren't just husband and wife, we were lunch buddies and commuters. And now I wander around his old kitchen looking for that face I never see. Rich was promoted last week and now he has his own kitchen in another town in a bigger city twenty miles north. This is a good thing for him and for our savings account, but for us it's taking some adjustment. I know this is the norm for every other couple, but I hate it. We kiss each each other goodbye to drive in different directions and spend most of our waking hours with people we don't completely know. Our days begin and end together and it's as though everything in the middle is just stuff we do to pass the time until we can be together again.
Even as I wonder if it's worth it, I know that it is. I can't change the situation, I can't change anything, really, except my attitude. So I am going to be the wife who wants more than her husband's familiar face. I'm going to be the wife who wants to see him succeed, even if it means I feel a little left behind. I'm going to be the wife who isn't selfish and needy. A lemonade kind of wife. I am speaking speaking these sentences aloud, trying to feel motivated instead of lonely.
But if I've learned anything it all, it's that we're not normal people. And I'm not sure if we're a normal couple, because I'm not the same without him. He's my best friend, my only friend if you want the truth, and I miss his face. Enough said.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Day 69: Truth or Love?
When I was a teacher, I used to ask my students what they valued more: love or truth. I explained to them that there are two types of world views- one dominated by love and one by truth. The one who values love will forgive a thousand sins to feel as though they matter. To make others feels valued. They will lie about bad haircuts and extra poundage. They will cheat and steal to save a hurting heart. I like these people, they are my friends. They make me good and kind, even when, perhaps, I am not. But the one who values truth is something altogether different. They are relentless. They will speak their mind regardless of the damage. They will tell you about jeans that really are too tight. They'll say that bangs just make your face look fat. I've never much cared for the truth-tellers of the world. And when asked what kind of person I am, I'll say it's love for me. Love til the end.
But here's the thing about love. Love isn't real unless it is paired with truth. True love- the love that goes past fuzzy feelings and pats on the back- is created and strengthened when we accept the truth of a person. When we're not afraid to want them the way that they are. And truth is nothing without a heart behind the voice. So today I am rethinking this concept of truth and beauty. I am saying that we're all a combination of the two and perhaps it's not how much you love, or how loud you can shout the truth - perhaps it's how completely you can marry truth and love. And just like any good marriage, pull out the best in each to strengthen to weak parts of the other.
But here's the thing about love. Love isn't real unless it is paired with truth. True love- the love that goes past fuzzy feelings and pats on the back- is created and strengthened when we accept the truth of a person. When we're not afraid to want them the way that they are. And truth is nothing without a heart behind the voice. So today I am rethinking this concept of truth and beauty. I am saying that we're all a combination of the two and perhaps it's not how much you love, or how loud you can shout the truth - perhaps it's how completely you can marry truth and love. And just like any good marriage, pull out the best in each to strengthen to weak parts of the other.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Day 68: The State of the Marriage
Tonight the president addresses Congress and the nation to tell us how we're doing. What we've accomplished, what we're working on and the struggles that lie ahead. This yearly tradition takes precedence and we wait to hear what we mostly already know.
But what if each of us decided to take a night and analyze our own relationships? To break down this past year and see where we are. It's a scary thing to look at yourself with the eyes of a critic and speak the truth. Tonight I address my marriage to declare it's state. To praise our victories and challenge our fallen nature. There's noone here to listen, but you and me and the dog. So let's begin.
This has been a year to remember. A year of hope and dissapointment. A year of growth. Our marriage stretched to the breaking point. First with the shock of five words spoken in the Spring in a muddy parking lot. He said, "my sperm count is zero." And there was no going back to the place we lived the moment before the words were spoken aloud. Instead, there was three months of silence and avoidance. And one particularly regretful afternoon when I told my mom I sometimes wondered what my life would be like without him. Dissapointment is hard to mask, especially when you're crying. We want to protect the ones we love. To keep them from feeling inadequate. And what man is not going to feel inadequate when the doctors tell him he's got nothing going on? So we avoided the issues and pulled into ourselves. But low points never last with us and we did manage to talk to out. One work weekend in Upstate NY, I was stacking wood with my father and he asked me how things were going, how we were dealing. I told him we were mostly avoiding the subject. Just saying those words aloud I realized how true they were. And I knew that if I didn't start speaking about the hard stuff, we might spend our lives in the quiet place. The place where avoidance is the only defense. So we talked. We talked about adoption. We talked about hormone treatment. We talked about living alone. We talked about all the possibilities and in the talking there was a bridge forged between us. The kind that's strengthed by hands that link together. And we went from being silent to being strong. So when the specialist confirmed everything we didn't want to hear, our marriage was still strong because we were already holding onto each other, rather than the idea of something that couldn't exist.
We may not be pregnant, but this year we have put down roots. Rich and I have always been a wandering couple. We've crossed the country twice in the same Chevy Pick Up Truck. Always searching for a community where we belonged, Rich and I have found it, not only in each other, but in the Southern Coast of Maine. And in our work. These kind faces that have come to be our family. They're our kind of people, these Mainiacs, and it feels good to know that this will be our home.
So the state of our marriage is strong. It's Day 68 and I'm thankful that we're here; in this country, on this coast, past the point of silence. We're here and we're going to be just fine. Better than fine, we're going to be incredible.
But what if each of us decided to take a night and analyze our own relationships? To break down this past year and see where we are. It's a scary thing to look at yourself with the eyes of a critic and speak the truth. Tonight I address my marriage to declare it's state. To praise our victories and challenge our fallen nature. There's noone here to listen, but you and me and the dog. So let's begin.
This has been a year to remember. A year of hope and dissapointment. A year of growth. Our marriage stretched to the breaking point. First with the shock of five words spoken in the Spring in a muddy parking lot. He said, "my sperm count is zero." And there was no going back to the place we lived the moment before the words were spoken aloud. Instead, there was three months of silence and avoidance. And one particularly regretful afternoon when I told my mom I sometimes wondered what my life would be like without him. Dissapointment is hard to mask, especially when you're crying. We want to protect the ones we love. To keep them from feeling inadequate. And what man is not going to feel inadequate when the doctors tell him he's got nothing going on? So we avoided the issues and pulled into ourselves. But low points never last with us and we did manage to talk to out. One work weekend in Upstate NY, I was stacking wood with my father and he asked me how things were going, how we were dealing. I told him we were mostly avoiding the subject. Just saying those words aloud I realized how true they were. And I knew that if I didn't start speaking about the hard stuff, we might spend our lives in the quiet place. The place where avoidance is the only defense. So we talked. We talked about adoption. We talked about hormone treatment. We talked about living alone. We talked about all the possibilities and in the talking there was a bridge forged between us. The kind that's strengthed by hands that link together. And we went from being silent to being strong. So when the specialist confirmed everything we didn't want to hear, our marriage was still strong because we were already holding onto each other, rather than the idea of something that couldn't exist.
We may not be pregnant, but this year we have put down roots. Rich and I have always been a wandering couple. We've crossed the country twice in the same Chevy Pick Up Truck. Always searching for a community where we belonged, Rich and I have found it, not only in each other, but in the Southern Coast of Maine. And in our work. These kind faces that have come to be our family. They're our kind of people, these Mainiacs, and it feels good to know that this will be our home.
So the state of our marriage is strong. It's Day 68 and I'm thankful that we're here; in this country, on this coast, past the point of silence. We're here and we're going to be just fine. Better than fine, we're going to be incredible.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Day 67: Losing Sense
The question is, if you had to let go one of your senses, which would you choose to lose? Your eyesight? Perhaps your hearing? What about smell? Would you let go of the ability to touch? Or maybe taste?
It's an assignment for Rich's psychology class and we're debating the different sides. He chooses to be deaf, says he couldn't really live without the others. He cooks for a living, so smell and taste are out of the question. To lose your eyes is to lose your independence, and even as he squints to clean his own spectacles, I know he thinks his eyes are as good as new. And touch, well touch is what gives harmony to our lives. It is the sense that adds rthymn, like his steady heart that bumps through his t-shirt when we're lying in the dark.
But I know the truth about his decision. It's the ear plugs all over again. To lose hearing is to lose the nagging voice beside you that says you're going seven miles over the speed limit. Not the voice inside your head, the voice that is your wife. The voice that corrects his english. The voice that challenges his anything. My husband would forsake his ears and in doing so allow himself a world of freedom.
What would you choose? If you had to lose some sense of yourself, of your five, what would you give up? I know these discussions are the stuff of philosophers and psychologists, but there's a truth behind each answer. His truth is my voice. And I'll try to pipe it down.
It's an assignment for Rich's psychology class and we're debating the different sides. He chooses to be deaf, says he couldn't really live without the others. He cooks for a living, so smell and taste are out of the question. To lose your eyes is to lose your independence, and even as he squints to clean his own spectacles, I know he thinks his eyes are as good as new. And touch, well touch is what gives harmony to our lives. It is the sense that adds rthymn, like his steady heart that bumps through his t-shirt when we're lying in the dark.
But I know the truth about his decision. It's the ear plugs all over again. To lose hearing is to lose the nagging voice beside you that says you're going seven miles over the speed limit. Not the voice inside your head, the voice that is your wife. The voice that corrects his english. The voice that challenges his anything. My husband would forsake his ears and in doing so allow himself a world of freedom.
What would you choose? If you had to lose some sense of yourself, of your five, what would you give up? I know these discussions are the stuff of philosophers and psychologists, but there's a truth behind each answer. His truth is my voice. And I'll try to pipe it down.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Day 66: Budgets and Marriage
Every prosperous organization must employ a wise accountant or two. Someone who oversees the books and pays the bills. The one who sets the budget and write the checks. In the Maynard's house, I am the accountant. Every month I erase our giant white board calendar and pencil in new bills and benchmarks for saving. And every month I am thrown these wild curve balls that threaten to derail my plan and our budget. Two thousand dollars for part on the ruck. The mechanic uses words like calipers and fuel tank. Shocks and drum brakes. But all I hear is the slow leak of our savings account and another monthly budget gone to pieces. The computer crashes. A certain husband downloaded a blinking advertisement that promised faster speeds in downloading and web browsing. It's a virus, of course. We could have bought a brand new system for what we paid to restore the old.
One of these months my budget will stick, I say to Rich. He says yeah, right and we both roll our eyes and laugh because we know that anything can happen. And usually does.
Sometimes I'm tempted to look at marriage like a budget. I want to plan out each step of our union, of our growth. A house within two years, a child within five. Then a business of our own. And it's so easy to get carried away planning for a tomorrow without living today. So it's the unexpected flips that keep me grounded. The way we end up having tickle wars in bed at 2am on a work night. Or how I stumble across him in the morning with his man mug of coffee as he listens to the high tide thunder against our shores. The long look he gives me when he comes home from work. I'm covered in flour and still in my pajamas. It's a look that says I love you, you're beautiful; even when I'm obviously not. These are the pieces of a marriage that cannot be contained or planned. The moments that remind me how good this marriage really is.
One of these months my budget will stick, I say to Rich. He says yeah, right and we both roll our eyes and laugh because we know that anything can happen. And usually does.
Sometimes I'm tempted to look at marriage like a budget. I want to plan out each step of our union, of our growth. A house within two years, a child within five. Then a business of our own. And it's so easy to get carried away planning for a tomorrow without living today. So it's the unexpected flips that keep me grounded. The way we end up having tickle wars in bed at 2am on a work night. Or how I stumble across him in the morning with his man mug of coffee as he listens to the high tide thunder against our shores. The long look he gives me when he comes home from work. I'm covered in flour and still in my pajamas. It's a look that says I love you, you're beautiful; even when I'm obviously not. These are the pieces of a marriage that cannot be contained or planned. The moments that remind me how good this marriage really is.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Day 65: Sourdough Lovin'
I've got a sourdough starter in my fridge and it's taking up half of the first shelf. This is quite significant, so let me explain. I'm not so good at schedule or promptness. I forget all kinds of things from birthdays to deadlines to menial tasks like watering plants. I live in a house of dried flowers, not because I particularly love potpourri, but because I'm so scattered and forgetful. Behind me there's a neat pile of Christmas gifts waiting to be mailed. And it's almost February. So it's a bit miraculous that this sourdough starter is alive and fermenting. For three months now, I weekly bring it to room temperature and feed it a bit of bread flour and warm water. The bubbly sour smell spreads throughout the kitchen and I peer into the over sized glass mixing bowl and marvel that what looks likes spoiled milk can add flavor and texture to a loaf of bread. And it does. I've just pulled a pair of loaves from the oven and I can heard their quiet crackle as they cool and set. I want to tear open a chunk, like communion Sunday, and sit in the quiet and taste the bread.
And love, of course, is just like sourdough. You have to wait it out. You have to let it sit. Love is like sourdough because when you feed it right it grows stronger with time. Not minutes. Not days. Love and sourdough need patient caretakers. People of faithfulness and integrity who will not skimp on nutrients. Spouses who will measure with care the flour and water and will wait for the bubbles before sealing and storing for another week. But most of all, love and sourdough need a partner who knows that something that appears to all the world to be spoiled, is actually the most precious concoction of all.
I want to be a sourdough wife. The kind who is marked by faithfulness. The kind who waits. The kind who sees her husband as the precious one he is.
And love, of course, is just like sourdough. You have to wait it out. You have to let it sit. Love is like sourdough because when you feed it right it grows stronger with time. Not minutes. Not days. Love and sourdough need patient caretakers. People of faithfulness and integrity who will not skimp on nutrients. Spouses who will measure with care the flour and water and will wait for the bubbles before sealing and storing for another week. But most of all, love and sourdough need a partner who knows that something that appears to all the world to be spoiled, is actually the most precious concoction of all.
I want to be a sourdough wife. The kind who is marked by faithfulness. The kind who waits. The kind who sees her husband as the precious one he is.
Day 64: Much Thanks
I'm not a kind person. I'm mostly selfish. When that scientist said that 95% of our time is spent thinking about ourselves, he was thinking about me. Or I was thinking that he was thinking about me, because almost everything thought that pushes through my brain is about myself. Am I hungry? Do I have enough money? Should I go back to school? Even now, I'm writing, but somewhere in the back of my head I'm shuffling through the cupboards and debating whether it's worth it to make a whole pot of coffee just for me.
And in the middle of my self-centered living, a colleague that I barely know tells me I am kind. That I am good. That I'm a blessing. I know I'm not these things, after all, I live inside my head. I know all about motivations and self-centered desires. But she says these words to me in a casual way, like she's stating the obvious. And It makes me want to be good. It makes me want to be kind. I wander through the rest of my afternoon trying to figure out way to be what she's said I already am.
There's an ad on TV tonight; a car commercial- a hybrid. It's very green; everyone is planting trees and kindergartners are recycling and it's all so acted with swirly music and earth love. But the idea is that people can make a difference, and I like that. I'm certainly not going to go out and buy a hybrid, but my mind is caught on this idea. That people really can make a difference. That love can make a difference. Through these 100 Days of Love, so many of you have sent encouraging e-mails and messages. They are good things and they make the swirly music in my head play louder. I want to say thank you.
And now I'm off to make that pot of coffee.
And in the middle of my self-centered living, a colleague that I barely know tells me I am kind. That I am good. That I'm a blessing. I know I'm not these things, after all, I live inside my head. I know all about motivations and self-centered desires. But she says these words to me in a casual way, like she's stating the obvious. And It makes me want to be good. It makes me want to be kind. I wander through the rest of my afternoon trying to figure out way to be what she's said I already am.
There's an ad on TV tonight; a car commercial- a hybrid. It's very green; everyone is planting trees and kindergartners are recycling and it's all so acted with swirly music and earth love. But the idea is that people can make a difference, and I like that. I'm certainly not going to go out and buy a hybrid, but my mind is caught on this idea. That people really can make a difference. That love can make a difference. Through these 100 Days of Love, so many of you have sent encouraging e-mails and messages. They are good things and they make the swirly music in my head play louder. I want to say thank you.
And now I'm off to make that pot of coffee.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Day 63: Genetics
There was a part of me that thought that by this time I would be announcing a pregnancy through this blog. That 100 Day of Love would slide into 9 Months of Love.
But we were never promised fertility. And the best stories never end the way you think they will.
The lab results came back today. They say the chances are slim to nil of conception unless we start a rigorous hormone therapy. Injections and Pills and monitored blood tests and maybe it will help and maybe it won’t. But the treatment is thousands of dollars that isn’t covered by insurance and the list of effects include words like cancer and depression. I want a child- I want half a dozen children, but I can’t risk losing my husband to force this. The cost is too high.
The good news is, it’s genetic. Our infertility is nothing he did or didn’t do in his crazy twenties. The guilt and the blame can slide away. And I believe that we’re created creatures, not randomly selected components of nature and science. We’re created and that means there’s a reason for every part of us that is different. I have to hold onto that. We have to hold onto that.
We believe in miracles and we believe in fate. And I know there are babies out there, little unborn lives who will need the forever love of our crazy family.
I once heard someone say that everything will be OK in the end. If things are not OK, it means it’s not the end. And so I’m not giving up. But I’m not fighting anymore, I’m not hoping the way I was three months ago. I’m letting go- we’re letting go and we’re waiting; like we should have been all along.
But we were never promised fertility. And the best stories never end the way you think they will.
The lab results came back today. They say the chances are slim to nil of conception unless we start a rigorous hormone therapy. Injections and Pills and monitored blood tests and maybe it will help and maybe it won’t. But the treatment is thousands of dollars that isn’t covered by insurance and the list of effects include words like cancer and depression. I want a child- I want half a dozen children, but I can’t risk losing my husband to force this. The cost is too high.
The good news is, it’s genetic. Our infertility is nothing he did or didn’t do in his crazy twenties. The guilt and the blame can slide away. And I believe that we’re created creatures, not randomly selected components of nature and science. We’re created and that means there’s a reason for every part of us that is different. I have to hold onto that. We have to hold onto that.
We believe in miracles and we believe in fate. And I know there are babies out there, little unborn lives who will need the forever love of our crazy family.
I once heard someone say that everything will be OK in the end. If things are not OK, it means it’s not the end. And so I’m not giving up. But I’m not fighting anymore, I’m not hoping the way I was three months ago. I’m letting go- we’re letting go and we’re waiting; like we should have been all along.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Day 62: Fixing Broken Things
Rich doesn't know a thing about cars. It's true and we both know it. But he's a guy and he thinks all guys are supposed to know about cars. This is how he ended up belly-up under the truck, covered in snow and tapping with a spatula at whatever pipes he could reach.
Our truck is broken down. Again. Two days after returning from the mechanic, I am sitting in a snowbank with an engine that won't turn over. It just winds and grinds, like Micky when he's not getting enough attention. I call Rich because it's his truck and it's he who insists that I drive his truck when there's even a dusting. Somehow this has got to be his fault. He comes to get me and I wait in the warm Toyota while Rich, armed with his infamous spatula is puttering around trying to knock something in place. He doesn't have a clue. I say this with love, but it's true. And somewhere mixed in my own stereotypes I can feel myself getting angry at him because he can't fix the truck with his bare hands.
Maybe it's because the other men in my life- my father, my brothers always found a way to figure out what was wrong with whatever beater I was driving and they always fixed it. Maybe it's because I actually believe that men are supposed to know how to fix cars. That you're less of a man if you can't. I practically say as much outloud, in my teasing voice that means I'm kinda serious. I say, "I can't believe we're gonna pay a man $200 dollars to clean spark plugs with a handerchief. How do you not know this stuff?"
But then he turns to me and says, "Remember honey, my dad died when I was still a kid!" His voice rising slightly, "I didn't have anyone to teach me these things." And I feel like a liver for making fun of his inabilities.
I wonder, why do we expect our partners to be filled with knowledge and expertise on things we ourselves know nothing about. Perhaps it's because together we are one whole unit. And I want our unit to be the best. But Love is not about what you know or don't know. Love is not about who can repair an engine or roast a turkey. Love is about looking at this other creature, this crazy man who is rolling in dirty snow and knocking his silly spatula against anything that will make noise. Love is looking at him and laughing out loud because he is this incredible creature who may not have a clue about cars, but who wants so badly to be the one who fixes my broken pieces.
And so I wipe the snow off his face and kiss him and tell him that he's my favorite. That I love him. And I do. Because a car is just a car, even when it's a truck. And there will always be someone to fix Spark Plugs. I'm just thankful I married the man who cares enough to jump start this old heart of mine. Even in the snow.
Our truck is broken down. Again. Two days after returning from the mechanic, I am sitting in a snowbank with an engine that won't turn over. It just winds and grinds, like Micky when he's not getting enough attention. I call Rich because it's his truck and it's he who insists that I drive his truck when there's even a dusting. Somehow this has got to be his fault. He comes to get me and I wait in the warm Toyota while Rich, armed with his infamous spatula is puttering around trying to knock something in place. He doesn't have a clue. I say this with love, but it's true. And somewhere mixed in my own stereotypes I can feel myself getting angry at him because he can't fix the truck with his bare hands.
Maybe it's because the other men in my life- my father, my brothers always found a way to figure out what was wrong with whatever beater I was driving and they always fixed it. Maybe it's because I actually believe that men are supposed to know how to fix cars. That you're less of a man if you can't. I practically say as much outloud, in my teasing voice that means I'm kinda serious. I say, "I can't believe we're gonna pay a man $200 dollars to clean spark plugs with a handerchief. How do you not know this stuff?"
But then he turns to me and says, "Remember honey, my dad died when I was still a kid!" His voice rising slightly, "I didn't have anyone to teach me these things." And I feel like a liver for making fun of his inabilities.
I wonder, why do we expect our partners to be filled with knowledge and expertise on things we ourselves know nothing about. Perhaps it's because together we are one whole unit. And I want our unit to be the best. But Love is not about what you know or don't know. Love is not about who can repair an engine or roast a turkey. Love is about looking at this other creature, this crazy man who is rolling in dirty snow and knocking his silly spatula against anything that will make noise. Love is looking at him and laughing out loud because he is this incredible creature who may not have a clue about cars, but who wants so badly to be the one who fixes my broken pieces.
And so I wipe the snow off his face and kiss him and tell him that he's my favorite. That I love him. And I do. Because a car is just a car, even when it's a truck. And there will always be someone to fix Spark Plugs. I'm just thankful I married the man who cares enough to jump start this old heart of mine. Even in the snow.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Day 61: Love and Lead Lights
We didn't have a television when I was a kid. That's not exactly true. We had a television, but it was tucked in my parents closet and only made appearances during the World Series. I didn't mind, except for a few uncomfortable moments in third grade when I heard one girl whisper to another It's true, they don't even have a TV at her house! My parents wanted us to be active and creative and productive and so we were.
We didn't have TV, but we certainly had radio. I remember holding the light for my dad as he worked on the car. He would have the Red Sox game buzzing on AM radio while he read through manuals and tinkered with whatever was going on under the hood. Usually my brothers were with him, but occasionally I would be outside holding the lead light, twisting it this way and that, while the socket cranked and the Sox inevitably lost another season. They were good nights. Unfortunately I never became the loyal Sox fan my father still is. I pretended to love the Yankees, mostly because it mean a good debate with my dad. Because he used to get so crazy defending the Red Sox, like they were his own. And I think, in a way, they were. But I learned something about love on those chilly autumn nights. Nights when I could have hung the lead light on a nail or hooked it to the hood. Nights when my dad couldn't see a thing anyway because I mostly shined the light into my own shadow. I learned that Dads will always work on cars, even if they have no idea what they're doing. That it's important for children to see their Dad working on a car and believe that he can fix it. Because he can fix anything. And I learned to stay. Even when I was cold and my arm was numb and I didn't know if Dad was mumbling at himself, the car or the Red Sox. Because when you love someone- when you're teaching someone what it means to love, you teach them to stay and to hold the light high. And there are times right now, when I want to hang it up and go back inside. When this whole love thing seems like more work than it's worth. But I know that even if my husband will never be a dad, he'll still be a fixer. We'll be fixers together and so I'm staying and I'm holding the light.
We didn't have TV, but we certainly had radio. I remember holding the light for my dad as he worked on the car. He would have the Red Sox game buzzing on AM radio while he read through manuals and tinkered with whatever was going on under the hood. Usually my brothers were with him, but occasionally I would be outside holding the lead light, twisting it this way and that, while the socket cranked and the Sox inevitably lost another season. They were good nights. Unfortunately I never became the loyal Sox fan my father still is. I pretended to love the Yankees, mostly because it mean a good debate with my dad. Because he used to get so crazy defending the Red Sox, like they were his own. And I think, in a way, they were. But I learned something about love on those chilly autumn nights. Nights when I could have hung the lead light on a nail or hooked it to the hood. Nights when my dad couldn't see a thing anyway because I mostly shined the light into my own shadow. I learned that Dads will always work on cars, even if they have no idea what they're doing. That it's important for children to see their Dad working on a car and believe that he can fix it. Because he can fix anything. And I learned to stay. Even when I was cold and my arm was numb and I didn't know if Dad was mumbling at himself, the car or the Red Sox. Because when you love someone- when you're teaching someone what it means to love, you teach them to stay and to hold the light high. And there are times right now, when I want to hang it up and go back inside. When this whole love thing seems like more work than it's worth. But I know that even if my husband will never be a dad, he'll still be a fixer. We'll be fixers together and so I'm staying and I'm holding the light.
Day 60: Love and Sugarcane
My mother is leaving for the Dominican Republic next month. A talented nurse, she is spending ten days assisting in surgeries and travelling to scattered towns and villages to administer primary health care. And dad is staying home. It's a matter of frozen pipes and such, but this mission of her reminds me of my own trip to Nicaragua nearly ten years ago.
I was young and in college and still convinced that I could save the world because I was American. And so I was miserable for the first week. Stuck twenty miles outside Managua, I was chipping at dirt with a pick ax, trying to clear a foundation for a basketball court. I know! A basketball court! I wanted to swoop over the valleys with my superwoman cape and eliminate poverty and violence with a glance and a flick. And instead I was working on the free-throw line.
After a week of hard labor we toured the city, on an ancient school bus that still had Cincinnati School District printed along it's yellow sides. I'll never forget the houses- row after row after row of gray squatted shacks that pressed up against the horizon. Children jumped onto the bumper of the bus, hanging onto the edges and sticking their fingers through windows. They were holding out for pennies or gum or whatever they could grab, I suppose.
We walked through a old man's home. It was one room that was split into two. The first was a store of sorts. One dusty glass bottle of coke. Two spoons. A string of beads. Tires that were shaped into flip flops, the pattern of tread still visible on one side. We walked into his backyard, an area smaller than my living room and filled with sugar cane. These stalks were rowed together and stretched as high as his house, maybe higher. Our interpreter explained that he lived off the profit of these two dozen sugarcane. And I'll never forget the way he didn't stop to hesitate but pulled out his machete and hacked off thirteen branches. One for each of us. It was about hospitality. It was about pride. It was about giving whatever you had to the ones who walked through your door. We sucked and chewed on the sugar cane out of respect, but I couldn't help feeling embarrassed and unworthy. That a man with so little could love a group of strangers so much to give them what he could not afford to give his own family.
Afterward we stopped at a Pizza Hut in the touristy part of the Capital and I remember gagging on the pizza- the way the cheese mixed with sugar cane in my mouth. The flavors of hospitality and greed. And I wonder, who loves more? Is it the white American who can pay to travel South and chop up dirt for two weeks, or is the Nicaraguan native, the man who gives more than he can afford to people who already have so much? All I know is Love is giving what you cannot bear to lose to another, even when they don't deserve it. Maybe it's your piece of sugar cane. Maybe it's your heart.
I was young and in college and still convinced that I could save the world because I was American. And so I was miserable for the first week. Stuck twenty miles outside Managua, I was chipping at dirt with a pick ax, trying to clear a foundation for a basketball court. I know! A basketball court! I wanted to swoop over the valleys with my superwoman cape and eliminate poverty and violence with a glance and a flick. And instead I was working on the free-throw line.
After a week of hard labor we toured the city, on an ancient school bus that still had Cincinnati School District printed along it's yellow sides. I'll never forget the houses- row after row after row of gray squatted shacks that pressed up against the horizon. Children jumped onto the bumper of the bus, hanging onto the edges and sticking their fingers through windows. They were holding out for pennies or gum or whatever they could grab, I suppose.
We walked through a old man's home. It was one room that was split into two. The first was a store of sorts. One dusty glass bottle of coke. Two spoons. A string of beads. Tires that were shaped into flip flops, the pattern of tread still visible on one side. We walked into his backyard, an area smaller than my living room and filled with sugar cane. These stalks were rowed together and stretched as high as his house, maybe higher. Our interpreter explained that he lived off the profit of these two dozen sugarcane. And I'll never forget the way he didn't stop to hesitate but pulled out his machete and hacked off thirteen branches. One for each of us. It was about hospitality. It was about pride. It was about giving whatever you had to the ones who walked through your door. We sucked and chewed on the sugar cane out of respect, but I couldn't help feeling embarrassed and unworthy. That a man with so little could love a group of strangers so much to give them what he could not afford to give his own family.
Afterward we stopped at a Pizza Hut in the touristy part of the Capital and I remember gagging on the pizza- the way the cheese mixed with sugar cane in my mouth. The flavors of hospitality and greed. And I wonder, who loves more? Is it the white American who can pay to travel South and chop up dirt for two weeks, or is the Nicaraguan native, the man who gives more than he can afford to people who already have so much? All I know is Love is giving what you cannot bear to lose to another, even when they don't deserve it. Maybe it's your piece of sugar cane. Maybe it's your heart.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Day 59: My Forever Friend
I remember asking my mom why she didn't have any girlfriends, like all my teachers had. Like everyone elses mom had. I was thirteen and girlfriends seemed very important at the time. She said, "What do I need girlfriends for? I have your dad." At the time I thought it was a poor excuse and I was afraid that my mom was a bit of a loser (sorry mom!), but now I get it. When your husband is your best friend, it's hard to make room for anyone else.
You would think by now that we would have other friends. Rich and I, we're not scary people. Our personalities are endearing and our lists of Facebook friends are as long as anyone elses. But the truth is, we're each other's only friend. I tell him he's my best friend, he says I'm his only.
Here's the thing, we don't really like people. I know how awful that sounds, but maybe it's just that we most appreciate people in small doses. I like the toll collector man who takes our dollar before we scoot onto the highway. And the Starbucks Barista who remembers my soy Cinnamon Dolce Latte. I like the mailman. Our new mechanic. And our new landlord, who I've never met. I like the woman who walks laps around the indoor track three days a week. We pass each other and smile good morning. But friends, real friends. It just seems like alot of work.
It wasn't always like this. When I was a teacher everything was about people. Especially in a tiny alternative school where three of us anchored the troubled lives of two dozen young people. We supported each other, which is a shiny way of saying that we met for drinks after work. To feel okay about the lousiness around us. I remember one afternoon that turned into night. They were waiting on a third pitcher of Margaritas while I was wondering what in the world I was doing in the middle of Oregon in a cheap Mexican bar while my husband was home alone. And I remember the relief when his old truck pulled up outside.
You see, we weren't made for parties or mixers. Rich and I were made for each other. And I know we come across as snobbish or aloof. But there's a joy and a freedom when you get to spend all your days with your forever friend. Call me crazy, call me a hermit, but I don't want to waste even a second of the days we've been given.
You would think by now that we would have other friends. Rich and I, we're not scary people. Our personalities are endearing and our lists of Facebook friends are as long as anyone elses. But the truth is, we're each other's only friend. I tell him he's my best friend, he says I'm his only.
Here's the thing, we don't really like people. I know how awful that sounds, but maybe it's just that we most appreciate people in small doses. I like the toll collector man who takes our dollar before we scoot onto the highway. And the Starbucks Barista who remembers my soy Cinnamon Dolce Latte. I like the mailman. Our new mechanic. And our new landlord, who I've never met. I like the woman who walks laps around the indoor track three days a week. We pass each other and smile good morning. But friends, real friends. It just seems like alot of work.
It wasn't always like this. When I was a teacher everything was about people. Especially in a tiny alternative school where three of us anchored the troubled lives of two dozen young people. We supported each other, which is a shiny way of saying that we met for drinks after work. To feel okay about the lousiness around us. I remember one afternoon that turned into night. They were waiting on a third pitcher of Margaritas while I was wondering what in the world I was doing in the middle of Oregon in a cheap Mexican bar while my husband was home alone. And I remember the relief when his old truck pulled up outside.
You see, we weren't made for parties or mixers. Rich and I were made for each other. And I know we come across as snobbish or aloof. But there's a joy and a freedom when you get to spend all your days with your forever friend. Call me crazy, call me a hermit, but I don't want to waste even a second of the days we've been given.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Day 58: An Organic Kind of Love
Love is not about the plans that we lay out, or how well we organize the dreams of our lives. Real love, true love, the kind of love that never ends, is about what we make with the day that is given us. Do we waste, do we invest, do we scrape by, or do we build with whatever stones we find around us?
My parents live in a house on a hill on a very busy road. A road that stretches right across this country. East to West. In fact, they were travelling this road nearly thirty years ago barely married a year with an infant and a Volkswagen. They were headed to Maine for a visit, or at least this is how I like to imagine the story. But the car broke down while they were here. My father got a job. And then another. Just out of the Coast Guard, he was picking apples and turning them to cider. He was scooping ice cream. They were taking care of each other and one infant turned to two, then three, soon four. She made her own everything, from clothes to jams to dolls for the girls. He turned down Cornell University to work full time and provide for his family. And one day they bought this tiny house on a hill on a very busy road that they once were passing through.
Today this home is a veritable fortress, surrounded by gardens and fruit trees. It's beautiful and we walk the property and talk about the time we built a village in the woods or raised a baby lamb in the kitchen. Sometimes I can't believe how much love surrounded us all those years. We were covered with the stuff, just saturated with the blessing of one man and one woman.
So when I think about what it means to love another, I'm always brought back to this image of my parents. Young and completely broke. But determined and flexible and organic enough to know that what they had between them was indeed enough.
My parents live in a house on a hill on a very busy road. A road that stretches right across this country. East to West. In fact, they were travelling this road nearly thirty years ago barely married a year with an infant and a Volkswagen. They were headed to Maine for a visit, or at least this is how I like to imagine the story. But the car broke down while they were here. My father got a job. And then another. Just out of the Coast Guard, he was picking apples and turning them to cider. He was scooping ice cream. They were taking care of each other and one infant turned to two, then three, soon four. She made her own everything, from clothes to jams to dolls for the girls. He turned down Cornell University to work full time and provide for his family. And one day they bought this tiny house on a hill on a very busy road that they once were passing through.
Today this home is a veritable fortress, surrounded by gardens and fruit trees. It's beautiful and we walk the property and talk about the time we built a village in the woods or raised a baby lamb in the kitchen. Sometimes I can't believe how much love surrounded us all those years. We were covered with the stuff, just saturated with the blessing of one man and one woman.
So when I think about what it means to love another, I'm always brought back to this image of my parents. Young and completely broke. But determined and flexible and organic enough to know that what they had between them was indeed enough.
Day 57: The Greatest Love Story
Confession: I love romantic movies. I loved them when I was a girl and I love them now. In fact, they're the only movies I care to see. When we go to the movies, like we just did, it's always to see something with romance all over it. Poor Rich, he never gets to see the latest action films. Instead he is dragged to a half-empty theatre with two dozen middle aged women and me. I butter him up with promised popcorn and so he muddles through another completely predictable plot while I am captured. I barely touch the popcorn. I don't even look his way. The film will be finished, the theatre emptied and we remain- me staring at a list of credits, still enamored by the music, by the happy ending. Him crunching on the unpopped kernels.
What is it about love stories that make a woman melt? From Pride and Prejudice to Beauty and the Beast, romance dazzles us in a way it never can a man. There's Elizabeth Bennett fighting with her pride even while her heart wants to be loved by Mr. Darcy. Or Juliet, the fourteen year old who lies unconscious in a morgue to wait for love. I mean, when Lucy Manette stands everyday for an hour on a street corner- in the midst of the French Revolution, no less- so that her imprisoned husband can catch a glimpse of her shadow from his cell in the Bastille, well, I just can't take it. I get all stirred up.
But you know, there is one love story better than the rest. It's the story that we live and I want to play it over and over again. Because the greatest love story is our own.
I hope you have a love story that's greater than any predictable piece you've paid to see. I hope it's brilliant and I hope you're captured right up until the end.
What is it about love stories that make a woman melt? From Pride and Prejudice to Beauty and the Beast, romance dazzles us in a way it never can a man. There's Elizabeth Bennett fighting with her pride even while her heart wants to be loved by Mr. Darcy. Or Juliet, the fourteen year old who lies unconscious in a morgue to wait for love. I mean, when Lucy Manette stands everyday for an hour on a street corner- in the midst of the French Revolution, no less- so that her imprisoned husband can catch a glimpse of her shadow from his cell in the Bastille, well, I just can't take it. I get all stirred up.
But you know, there is one love story better than the rest. It's the story that we live and I want to play it over and over again. Because the greatest love story is our own.
I hope you have a love story that's greater than any predictable piece you've paid to see. I hope it's brilliant and I hope you're captured right up until the end.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Day 56: That Point
“I thought we were at that point!” He’s defensive and I’m all silent fury.
It was a lazy Saturday a few weeks back and we were going shopping. I said I didn’t feel like doing my hair and makeup and did I look ok? He said, that actually I looked a little bit scary and why don’t I just fix myself up real quick. He would wait. “What?” He says as I ignore him for the next thirty minutes. “I thought we were at that point!”
Or last Christmas, when he bought me fuzzy white pajamas that made me look alarmingly similar to a polar bear. Micky growled and I shouted “I hope you kept the receipt.” He looked annoyed. “What?” I continued, “I thought we were at that point!”
But we’re never at that point, even when we are. That point is the place where you stop pretending. The place where you don’t hesitate to speak the truth. But who wants to live in a home where everything is stated. Where there’s no mystery, no internal cringing at the muscle shirt he wore on our first date. Where no one has to pretend the rice and beans are “very cultural,” (gulp) with “lots of flavor.”
I understand the whole point of marriage is for two people to become so tightly connected that the filters between them fall away. That love, in its truest form, is always brave enough (perhaps crazy enough) to speak the truth. And even though it doesn’t feel all that romantic, I’m learning that romance is about perception and feelings. Love is about who the person is after the candles have burned away.
So, yes, we’re at that point. The more-make-up-less-beans-save-all-your-receipts point, and not to feel bad about it, because it means we’re still in love.
It was a lazy Saturday a few weeks back and we were going shopping. I said I didn’t feel like doing my hair and makeup and did I look ok? He said, that actually I looked a little bit scary and why don’t I just fix myself up real quick. He would wait. “What?” He says as I ignore him for the next thirty minutes. “I thought we were at that point!”
Or last Christmas, when he bought me fuzzy white pajamas that made me look alarmingly similar to a polar bear. Micky growled and I shouted “I hope you kept the receipt.” He looked annoyed. “What?” I continued, “I thought we were at that point!”
But we’re never at that point, even when we are. That point is the place where you stop pretending. The place where you don’t hesitate to speak the truth. But who wants to live in a home where everything is stated. Where there’s no mystery, no internal cringing at the muscle shirt he wore on our first date. Where no one has to pretend the rice and beans are “very cultural,” (gulp) with “lots of flavor.”
I understand the whole point of marriage is for two people to become so tightly connected that the filters between them fall away. That love, in its truest form, is always brave enough (perhaps crazy enough) to speak the truth. And even though it doesn’t feel all that romantic, I’m learning that romance is about perception and feelings. Love is about who the person is after the candles have burned away.
So, yes, we’re at that point. The more-make-up-less-beans-save-all-your-receipts point, and not to feel bad about it, because it means we’re still in love.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Day 55: Love in Winter
It's cold. An artic freeze, the weather man says. No snow. Just cold dry air and days that quickly slide into night.
The warm glow of Christmas is gone, packed away for another eleven months of hibernation. Outside everything is contrast. The way hardened snow gives way to black pavement. The wood end of a shovel, sticking out of a plowed-up snow bank. The way my hands stiffen up in the cold as I start the car a full 20 minutes before we have to leave. The stairs are crusted with ice in the distinct shape of a bootprint and I slip, my slippers falling off as I clutch the pastic handle of a cheap metal door. A door that swings out leaving me stretched over the icy steps before I can scoot into the porch. This house was built for summers. It wasn't built for January and I can feel the heat escaping through cracks and single pane glass.
I love winter and I love the cold beside my husband. We're forced to snuggle into each other. My feet always find the warm spot behind his knees. I say I must be cold blooded; a phrase my mother always used, which essentially means the opposite of science. That our coldness is deep down in the blood.
Love in winter is different than any other kind of love. It's survival love. It's love that you can feel when you huddle closer and your skin moves from cold to warm. Rich says he's my furnace and I like to imagine his heart pumping out little flames to warm the air around us. I wonder how I ever stayed warm without him and hope I never have to find that out.
The warm glow of Christmas is gone, packed away for another eleven months of hibernation. Outside everything is contrast. The way hardened snow gives way to black pavement. The wood end of a shovel, sticking out of a plowed-up snow bank. The way my hands stiffen up in the cold as I start the car a full 20 minutes before we have to leave. The stairs are crusted with ice in the distinct shape of a bootprint and I slip, my slippers falling off as I clutch the pastic handle of a cheap metal door. A door that swings out leaving me stretched over the icy steps before I can scoot into the porch. This house was built for summers. It wasn't built for January and I can feel the heat escaping through cracks and single pane glass.
I love winter and I love the cold beside my husband. We're forced to snuggle into each other. My feet always find the warm spot behind his knees. I say I must be cold blooded; a phrase my mother always used, which essentially means the opposite of science. That our coldness is deep down in the blood.
Love in winter is different than any other kind of love. It's survival love. It's love that you can feel when you huddle closer and your skin moves from cold to warm. Rich says he's my furnace and I like to imagine his heart pumping out little flames to warm the air around us. I wonder how I ever stayed warm without him and hope I never have to find that out.
Day 54: Lab Work
"Do you live nearby?" I can hear the phlebotomist's friendly voice from the waiting area.
Yeah, we're like 10 minutes from here," Rich answers deadpan and quiet.
"Good. Because I don't really know what I'm doing, so if I mess this up they'll just have you come in again." I sit up straighter and laugh to myself because I know exactly what Rich is wanting to say right now. He's freaked out. He probably wants to get out of the chair and leave. I hope he doesn't say anything rude.
I hear her say, "I've never used THESE kinds of tubes before." And then, "Good thing I missed the bone because that would've really hurt!" At this point I drop the coats in a char and cross to the lab, just as she exits the room; a short roundish woman with a warm smile.
Rich is sitting, both arms outstretched and bandaged. I can see the simmer in his face. "She pricked me TWICE," he declares, "And she couldn't even get it!"
"Did it hurt?" Needles and blood make me squeamish and I eye the bandages with a nervous giggle.
"The 2nd one did! She totally missed my vein. She said she almost hit bone." He's furious. He wants to leave, go to his regular doctor. This is nuts, he says.
Soon the phlebotomist returns with another woman. "I don't know what Sharon's title is," she says, "But she is great at finding a vein." Rich's eyes widen to saucers and I turn away to stifle a laugh. She says I can stay, but I know my limits. Instead I head to the furthest corner of the waiting room and bury myself in last week's Hollywood Gossip. People I've never head of and shows I've never seen. Finally they're finished with him and we're on our way.
And soon he'll be laughing about the whole ordeal. Not today, but soon.
We have an unspoken code between us. If we can't change our situation, at least we can change our attitude. We can always choose to laugh. Most of our fights end in giggles. Throughout our marriage we've found ourselves in situations- running out of gas on the highway (twice...). Three viruses downloaded on the computer. Six new debit cards for Naphtali when she loses the others. And we laugh. We laugh at ourselves. We laugh at each other. We laugh at how happy we are, in the midst of frustration circumstances. And at how crazy contagious our love is. I hope we never stop laughing.
Yeah, we're like 10 minutes from here," Rich answers deadpan and quiet.
"Good. Because I don't really know what I'm doing, so if I mess this up they'll just have you come in again." I sit up straighter and laugh to myself because I know exactly what Rich is wanting to say right now. He's freaked out. He probably wants to get out of the chair and leave. I hope he doesn't say anything rude.
I hear her say, "I've never used THESE kinds of tubes before." And then, "Good thing I missed the bone because that would've really hurt!" At this point I drop the coats in a char and cross to the lab, just as she exits the room; a short roundish woman with a warm smile.
Rich is sitting, both arms outstretched and bandaged. I can see the simmer in his face. "She pricked me TWICE," he declares, "And she couldn't even get it!"
"Did it hurt?" Needles and blood make me squeamish and I eye the bandages with a nervous giggle.
"The 2nd one did! She totally missed my vein. She said she almost hit bone." He's furious. He wants to leave, go to his regular doctor. This is nuts, he says.
Soon the phlebotomist returns with another woman. "I don't know what Sharon's title is," she says, "But she is great at finding a vein." Rich's eyes widen to saucers and I turn away to stifle a laugh. She says I can stay, but I know my limits. Instead I head to the furthest corner of the waiting room and bury myself in last week's Hollywood Gossip. People I've never head of and shows I've never seen. Finally they're finished with him and we're on our way.
And soon he'll be laughing about the whole ordeal. Not today, but soon.
We have an unspoken code between us. If we can't change our situation, at least we can change our attitude. We can always choose to laugh. Most of our fights end in giggles. Throughout our marriage we've found ourselves in situations- running out of gas on the highway (twice...). Three viruses downloaded on the computer. Six new debit cards for Naphtali when she loses the others. And we laugh. We laugh at ourselves. We laugh at each other. We laugh at how happy we are, in the midst of frustration circumstances. And at how crazy contagious our love is. I hope we never stop laughing.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Day 53: Endocrinologists and such
Today is the day we've been waiting for. 2 PM in a doctor's office dotted with Pointsettas and last year's issues of People Magazine. We're meeting with an endocrinologist to pin point our fertility issues and figure out a plan. The wait isn't long and soon we're rehashing our history- medical and relational to a nurse who looks quite a bit like my mother. I answer for both of us, always giving an excess of information. Rich is silent and after she leaves he accuses me of steamrolling over him. I answer too quickly, he says. I talk right over him. And I'm not even the patient. This is true, so I gather our coats in my lap and listen quietly as the doctor reviews, in emotional detail, every experience from his childhood. From the days before there was me. He goes over drug use and my husbands past addition to pain killers. It's hard to talk about these things. The alleged pregnancy that ended in abortion; a past girlfriend from college. I think this girl made the whole thing up, but it's not my turn to speak, so I squeeze our coats tighter on my lap and listen.
Rich is twisting his winter hat in his hand as he talks- folding and stretching and wrapping his shaking fingers around the yarn I knit last winter. To keep him warm. Because he's mine to keep warm. But right now it doesn't feel like he's mine, it feels like he's a sum of deeds done in his early years. The cancer that claimed his father's life when Rich was fourteen years old and all the turmoil that followed. His voice shakes when he speaks and I run my fingertips along his sleeve- it's the most comfort I can offer.
We meet with the doctor and talk about possibilities. I have a thousand questions but there aren't many answers. He schedules more tests, talks about an MRI, but in the end we're shuffled through paperwork and secretaries and more appointments to take blood. To study the genetics of it all. And I feel like an idiot for believing today would be a new beginning. A place to start. That we would know something real. Instead we're all stirred up. They say that a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing, but for us it's just a lot of uncertainty and a touch of hope.
Rich is twisting his winter hat in his hand as he talks- folding and stretching and wrapping his shaking fingers around the yarn I knit last winter. To keep him warm. Because he's mine to keep warm. But right now it doesn't feel like he's mine, it feels like he's a sum of deeds done in his early years. The cancer that claimed his father's life when Rich was fourteen years old and all the turmoil that followed. His voice shakes when he speaks and I run my fingertips along his sleeve- it's the most comfort I can offer.
We meet with the doctor and talk about possibilities. I have a thousand questions but there aren't many answers. He schedules more tests, talks about an MRI, but in the end we're shuffled through paperwork and secretaries and more appointments to take blood. To study the genetics of it all. And I feel like an idiot for believing today would be a new beginning. A place to start. That we would know something real. Instead we're all stirred up. They say that a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing, but for us it's just a lot of uncertainty and a touch of hope.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Day 52: An Awful Diet
I'm on a diet. And it is awful. While I want to be eating thick slices of fresh bread with sharp cheddar cheese, instead I am grazing on 'superfood' snacks of carrots or four ounces of low-sodium V8. And not the splash kind either. Here's what happened: As a reward for editing his college essays, my thoughtful husband sent me a Borders Gift Card in the mail. It was a very sweet gesture. But I have such a hard time choosing between books, especially when I'm well-into one already. I picked up a dozen titles; a bestseller, a sequel to one I've just read, a cookbook, a study guide for the GREs (you never know...). But Rich landed on a health food manual that he wanted badly. And I couldn't say no. After all, it did promise a weight loss of ten pounds and two inches in two weeks. Besides, I know my husband, and he often loses interest in projects. We have a shelf full of books and one 'learn-how-to-draw' kit as evidence. So I didn't think much of it. But he read the book. And he created a menu. And it's not like I can jump ship now, after appearing so supportive. I mean, what kind of wife eats take-out while her husband crunches carrots and stares at her with that glazed look in his eyes. Not me. So I'm on the diet. Two weeks minus two days. I'm grumpy and hungry and the sound of my growling stomach has become background noise. But he wants to do this together, and that means something. Besides, together is good. And I do have as stash of oreos in my underwear drawer, just in case...
Day 51: Fighting Days
He said, "You know what you can get me the next you're at the store?"
I said, "No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."
He said, "Earplugs. So I can just put them in when I want to."
We've been on break for two weeks and the storm has moved from the coast to inside our house. He's angry because I keep forgetting to turn off the space heater in our living room. Says the electric bill will be through the roof. But we live in a one-story house, I point out, and the roof is not so high. Also, I continue to leave trails of flour and oats in the kitchen. I've made an excellent multi-grain bread, but the dishes are still resting in the sink. He starts wiping down counters, using phrases that I hate, like why can't you learn to "clean up after yourself," as if I am a child who's left her toys scattered everywhere. I remind him that my bread baking is a labor of love, that it is for him. I say this because I know it will make him feel bad. The way that I feel bad for leaving this kitchen a mess. Again.
This is our state of cohabitation. But it is still 100 Days of Love and so without wanting to, I find myself perched on the couch beside him. Apologizing and trying to talk it out and promise a better next time. When what I really want to do is yell a good swear word or two just to watch the shock on his face. So he knows I'm serious. I don't. We make up and hold this fragile truce between us, creeping through the house- me snagging dirty socks from under the coffee table, him cooking a savory soup for dinner.
And for now we are good. But next time I'm out, I just might pick up a pair of earplugs. For me, of course.
I said, "No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."
He said, "Earplugs. So I can just put them in when I want to."
We've been on break for two weeks and the storm has moved from the coast to inside our house. He's angry because I keep forgetting to turn off the space heater in our living room. Says the electric bill will be through the roof. But we live in a one-story house, I point out, and the roof is not so high. Also, I continue to leave trails of flour and oats in the kitchen. I've made an excellent multi-grain bread, but the dishes are still resting in the sink. He starts wiping down counters, using phrases that I hate, like why can't you learn to "clean up after yourself," as if I am a child who's left her toys scattered everywhere. I remind him that my bread baking is a labor of love, that it is for him. I say this because I know it will make him feel bad. The way that I feel bad for leaving this kitchen a mess. Again.
This is our state of cohabitation. But it is still 100 Days of Love and so without wanting to, I find myself perched on the couch beside him. Apologizing and trying to talk it out and promise a better next time. When what I really want to do is yell a good swear word or two just to watch the shock on his face. So he knows I'm serious. I don't. We make up and hold this fragile truce between us, creeping through the house- me snagging dirty socks from under the coffee table, him cooking a savory soup for dinner.
And for now we are good. But next time I'm out, I just might pick up a pair of earplugs. For me, of course.
Day 50: Making the News
Rich and I made the news this weekend. We live on the coast and a no'easter was whipping over Nova Scotia onto our land. Either brave or just a little bit foolish, we bundled up and headed to the beach at near high tide.
The local news station had a weather van parked outside our house, as they often do in stormy weather. But the waves weren't all the astronomical and we crept forward, until we were edged against the rocks. And then came a crasher. A real whale of a wave that sailed over the rocks at us. I spun around crying, "that was awesome!" my jacket wet and salty. But Rich, he was running. I didn't realize this until the footage aired on the six o'clock news, and then again on the National news, but he really took off. I make fun of him for it and groan about how I have a dog that will ditch me in a fire and a husband who will ditch me in a flood. But I wonder, when it comes down to it, who's protecting who? Or are we all just trying to keep ourselves alive? And how do you know if your people will stay beside you when the surf becomes astronomical?
I understand this principle of flight. I've dreamt a hundred times in my decade of adulthood of taking off. Just hitting the cruise control and heading north. Once, during a particularly disastrous relationship in my early 20's, I did just that- driving alone twenty one hours from Boston to the heart of Nova Scotia. Without telling anyone. At the time I thought I was displaying my great independence. But I understand now that there is a need, at least in some of us, to be chased like a treasure. Canada was cold, and the coffee was horrid, and I drove home without a single voicemail, feeling as empty as my gas tank. Maybe it's not normal, but I wanted to be followed. I wanted someone to think I was a little brave, even foolish. I still want that. I'll be married to this man forever, this I know. But I still want him to find me worth following.
The local news station had a weather van parked outside our house, as they often do in stormy weather. But the waves weren't all the astronomical and we crept forward, until we were edged against the rocks. And then came a crasher. A real whale of a wave that sailed over the rocks at us. I spun around crying, "that was awesome!" my jacket wet and salty. But Rich, he was running. I didn't realize this until the footage aired on the six o'clock news, and then again on the National news, but he really took off. I make fun of him for it and groan about how I have a dog that will ditch me in a fire and a husband who will ditch me in a flood. But I wonder, when it comes down to it, who's protecting who? Or are we all just trying to keep ourselves alive? And how do you know if your people will stay beside you when the surf becomes astronomical?
I understand this principle of flight. I've dreamt a hundred times in my decade of adulthood of taking off. Just hitting the cruise control and heading north. Once, during a particularly disastrous relationship in my early 20's, I did just that- driving alone twenty one hours from Boston to the heart of Nova Scotia. Without telling anyone. At the time I thought I was displaying my great independence. But I understand now that there is a need, at least in some of us, to be chased like a treasure. Canada was cold, and the coffee was horrid, and I drove home without a single voicemail, feeling as empty as my gas tank. Maybe it's not normal, but I wanted to be followed. I wanted someone to think I was a little brave, even foolish. I still want that. I'll be married to this man forever, this I know. But I still want him to find me worth following.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Day 49: Falling In and Out of Love... With a House
I've fallen in and out of love with a house this weekend and it reminds me very much of how easy it is to do the same with people. Here's what happened: We were browsing online, looking at various houses in our price range, mostly convinced there wasn't anything here we could afford. And then we saw it, like an attractive new person in a church of bored singles, this house grabbed our attention. It was built in 1830. It was set on over three acres and while the inside was small, it was all hardwood with an adorable fireplace. There was a tiny barn and woods. And best of all it rested nicely within our price range. Rich and I drove out to the place. We found it empty and abandoned but upon peering through the windows we discovered a fire burning in the wood stove. Charming. The wood floors gleamed, there was an open loft on the second floor and the back deck stretched out toward an open yard and woods. We left, completely enamored with the property. It was ours. It had to be, it just felt so right. We talked about how we would landscape and maybe we would open the kitchen to reposition the stove. Online, I scanned through everything I could find about the house until I came across a small PDF file- a seller's disclosure. Normal information like property lines and septic systems, except at the bottom of the page was a quick note, a quick sentences claiming alleged paranormal activity at the home. Ghosts. Weird. So I googled the address and it turns out the home was featured on some cable show where they hunt up ghosts. The woman who is selling the house refuses to go inside. The owners before her abandoned the house as well. Just as quickly as the excitement has come, it dies away. There was a reason this house was so cute and inexpensive. I don't know how I feel about ghosts and the idea that evil can live inside a house, but I don't want to take a mortgage to find out.
Within 48 hours I fell in and out of love. Granted, it was with a house, but I understand how it can happen with people. When we are alone and looking for someone within our range, it's easy to fall hard when we stumble across someone who seems perfect for us. We imagine happy endings with a man or woman we've only just met. And then we learn something about them- they're a republican or they're already married (perhaps both) and as quickly as it started, the dream is over. We're left to wonder what was real and what wasn't. Was it all excitement and emotions? And will we ever be able to recognize something real in the midst of our impulsive desires?
What is it about real love that lasts? Because let's face it, each of us eventually discovers something about our partner that feels like a deal breaker. But real love doesn't bail, the way we did on that haunted house. Because when love is real people stick. Their lives, their hearts, their arms and legs become so connected to this other person that when they learn they'll not have children, pulling away isn't an option. So what else can do but pull ourselves together and find strength in each other.
I've fallen in and out of love with a house this weekend and I know we may not have a house at all this year. But the cliched truth is that he is my home- now and forever.
Within 48 hours I fell in and out of love. Granted, it was with a house, but I understand how it can happen with people. When we are alone and looking for someone within our range, it's easy to fall hard when we stumble across someone who seems perfect for us. We imagine happy endings with a man or woman we've only just met. And then we learn something about them- they're a republican or they're already married (perhaps both) and as quickly as it started, the dream is over. We're left to wonder what was real and what wasn't. Was it all excitement and emotions? And will we ever be able to recognize something real in the midst of our impulsive desires?
What is it about real love that lasts? Because let's face it, each of us eventually discovers something about our partner that feels like a deal breaker. But real love doesn't bail, the way we did on that haunted house. Because when love is real people stick. Their lives, their hearts, their arms and legs become so connected to this other person that when they learn they'll not have children, pulling away isn't an option. So what else can do but pull ourselves together and find strength in each other.
I've fallen in and out of love with a house this weekend and I know we may not have a house at all this year. But the cliched truth is that he is my home- now and forever.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Day 48: Poor Credit
I have poor credit. Mostly due, it turns out, to youthful stupidity and poor decision making during my college years. Six years ago, I worked at Macy's. New to the world of retail, I soon learned that I could open charge accounts with nearly every major department store in the mall. With little more than a license and a payment of five dollars a month, I could buy hundreds of dollars worth of clothes that didn't fit me, outfits I would never wear. I opened five accounts in one weekend. I made minimum payments, usually late. And then I stopped paying altogether. Twenty one years old and I had little idea how far-reaching the effects would be. The accounts have been paid for years, but the consequences still last. Seven years, or so they say. I hate being defined by my mistakes. It makes me crazy- these black marks that define my value. I want to protest- say, this isn't who I am. Look closer. We're good people. I was just a kid, I didn't have a clue. But how do you argue with a number? And you can't challenge the truth, even if it was years ago.
With credit on my mind, I wonder, what would a marriage score look like? If we, the creditors, could score our partners, the consumers, what would we say? How long would we penalize them for forgetting our birthday? How much credit would we offer for their support during a particularly difficult week at work? I want to be a generous creditor of a wife. I want to forget the missed payments of compliments he never said. I want to dismiss the bad payments- the comments he made without thinking. I want to focus on the accounts in good standing. The coffee that is waiting for me when I wake up. The way he feeds and walks the dog each day, never asking me to take a turn. I don't want a marriage that is characterized by a trail of mistakes that linger for years, even after we've made good on old debts. I want a marriage that sees today as a new day. A perfect score.
Now, if only I could find a mortgage lender who agreed.
With credit on my mind, I wonder, what would a marriage score look like? If we, the creditors, could score our partners, the consumers, what would we say? How long would we penalize them for forgetting our birthday? How much credit would we offer for their support during a particularly difficult week at work? I want to be a generous creditor of a wife. I want to forget the missed payments of compliments he never said. I want to dismiss the bad payments- the comments he made without thinking. I want to focus on the accounts in good standing. The coffee that is waiting for me when I wake up. The way he feeds and walks the dog each day, never asking me to take a turn. I don't want a marriage that is characterized by a trail of mistakes that linger for years, even after we've made good on old debts. I want a marriage that sees today as a new day. A perfect score.
Now, if only I could find a mortgage lender who agreed.
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