12 years ago today

I was scrolling through Facebook tonight and saw a friend's post referencing how warm it was for December 9th.

I thought to myself, "what is it about this date that rings a bell?" It seemed so familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

Then I remembered it was my anniversary.

Even thought it's not a day I celebrate anymore, I was stunned that it had completely slipped my mind. I'm very calendar- and date-oriented. My sense of time is very visual - I see my days and weeks laid out on a grid. I keep a calendar with everything written down, but I also can see it in my head.

I can remember things like the date I first met an ex-boyfriend I dated years ago, or when I went to a particular football game a long time. I remember other peoples' birthdays and anniversaries. The dates others died.

And yet my own anniversary - a date that was obviously extremely significant in my life, as much as I look back on the event itself as a mistake - wasn't on my radar at all.

Sometimes the way my brain compartmentalizes amazes me. I look back on being married and I can barely remember what it was like.

Today I was taking Josie and Zeke and Josie's friend Annie to a jumping/parkour/gymnastics/ropes course place. It's seriously badass.

In the car on the way there, Annie said, "Wendy, are you ever going to get married again?"

She is not, shall we say, a shy girl.

"Probably not," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because I can't imagine why I would. I don't want to be married."

"But why?"

"I don't know. I don't like people in my face all the time. I don't want someone living in my house and spending my money and bothering me all the time. I like to see who I want to see when I want to see them, and then they can go home."

"Do you want a boyfriend?"

"I don't know. I guess. It's nice to date someone."

Josie said, "she dates lots of guys!"

I laughed. I wanted to clarify that I've been on lots of dates, but I doubt she would have cared about the distinction.

My kids are very encouraging in this regard.

A few weeks ago Josie said, "Mommy, I want a step-father."

"You're going to be waiting a while," I said. "Don't hold your breath."

I do know this, though - if I do meet someone and it turns into something, I will remember, years later, the date and day of the week we met.

Until my brain decides that it's better for me never to think of the entire episode altogether, and if I do think of it, it seems like it happened to someone else.

Working through the universal taboos, one at a time...

The other day the subject of marriage and weddings came up.  Since J and I got together, we have done an annual yearbook on Kodakgallery (or Shutterfly now, since they bought KG this year), so we have a nice series of photobooks chronicling our life together.  The kids love looking at them, especially pictures of themselves as babies, and pictures from our weddings.

Zeke and Josie were looking through the books and talking amongst themselves.  They then declared that they had an announcement to make.

"Mama," Zeke said, "when I grow up and Josie grows up and we're both grown-ups, I'm going to marry her."

"You're going to marry Josie?"  I asked.

"Yes.  I'm going to marry Josie."

"You can't marry Josie."

"Why not?"

"Because you can't marry your sister."

"Why?"

"You just can't.  It's against the law.  It's one of those things you just can't do.  Plus it's weird.  If you marry someone, you have to marry someone outside of your family."

We went back and forth about this for a while.  He seemed unconvinced.

Josie said, "OK, then I'll marry Juliette [one of the girls in her class].  Because she's tall."

"That sounds great.  If you get older and decide you want to marry Juliette, you can.  It'll probably be legal everywhere by then."

A couple of days later, J and Josie were sitting on the couch together, being snuggly and cute.  Josie said, "Mama, I don't want to marry Juliette anymore.  I want to marry Daddy."

I considered whether to base my response on the incest or the polygamy angle.  And then decided that no response was necessary.  She lives with the man and has seen how he eats, dresses and farts.  She'll change her mind soon enough.

How to throw the perfect wedding

STEP 1:  Have the groom be an absolute mensch with a wide circle of friends from all the various times of his life - college, business school, life in various cities.  A stand-up guy who on his worst day would be described as loyal, kind, generous, funny, intelligent, hard-working, honorable, cool.  A guy who, wherever he is, is the social chair, the cruise director, the one that everyone knows and loves and the glue that holds the group together.

STEP 2:  Have him get married for the first time relatively late in life, when he's in his early 40s.  Maybe he's had a series of relationships that didn't work out.  In other words, it's been a long time coming, and he's been looking his whole life for that elusive One.  And he's finally found her.

STEP 3:  Have the One be an extraordinarily smart, independent, elegant, stylish, wonderful woman.  Perhaps she's got her own story of living through and overcoming unspeakable tragedy, so that in marrying this incredible groom, they've found a happiness together that makes their union achingly poignant and perfect.  Throw in a couple of gorgeous kids who now can point to a complete, delightful family unit, and there isn't a dry eye in the house.  Hearts are bursting with joy for the four of them.

STEP 4:  Have people willing and eager to come from all over the country (and hell, all over the world), to celebrate the occasion.  This will be accomplished via Steps 1 and 3, by virtue of the bride and groom being such amazing people that their tribes will be thrilled to take part in the event, no matter how far they have to come.

STEP 5:  Make the setting for the rehearsal dinner, the wedding, and the reception, all be stunning.  Beautiful architecture, beautiful flowers, beautiful trees, beautiful weather.  Delicious food and drink. 

STEP 6: In the midst of all of this elegance and finery, include unique touches that point to the couple's sense of humor and whimsy. 

• Like an Alice in Wonderland-themed rehearsal dinner, the "Mad Hatter" portion of which includes having the guests stand up at various points in the evening and move three spaces to the left, so that they're now sitting in front of new people and making new friends. 
• Like having your wedding cake topper be custom-made bobblehead dolls of the couple and their gorgeous kids in their wedding clothes. 

• Like 1) surprising the guests with a live band that wears gold lame` suits and novelty afro wigs and specializes in 80s covers, AND 2) providing novelty wigs and glo-stick necklaces for the wedding goers.  So that the result is a bunch of Silicon Valley millionaires and Virginia horse country blue-bloods, mostly in their 40s and 50s, rocking out with blue or pink hair and generally acting like teenagers at a rave.
• Like having your party favors be engraved shot glasses, including providing the tequila, salt and limes for everyone to do shots with.

These factors are virtually impossible to combine.  It takes rare individuals, rare circumstances, and a little bit of luck to pull it all off. 

But when it happens, it's magical.

Congratulations, Bob, Christine, Christian and Chloe - I wish you every happiness.  You deserve it.

Six years ago today...

According to the interwebs, the traditional 6th anniversary gift is candy or iron.  Random. 

Or perhaps not.  Because after 6 years, marriage can be sweet, or it can be very, very hard.  Or both.

My (admittedly lame) excuse is that my defenses were down

The past week has been kind of a nightmare, with some points of light thrown in, in the form of my parents' visit and Zeke's birthday party.  To which I forgot to take my camera and thus got no pictures.  Pfft.

So last Wednesday I was in the middle of doing a workout and holding 25 pounds weights in each hand while bending forward at the waist.  It's a hamstring exercise - you keep your back flat and let your legs do all the work as you lift and lower your torso.  And I was maintaining proper form, not even letting my arms dangle, but rather keeping them slightly engaged so as not to pull on my back too much.  But then all of a sudden I felt a little pull right in the middle of my back on the left side, about level with the bottom of my shoulder blade, and then the rest of my torso started to spasm and I couldn't move without excruciating pain. 

I put my weights down and managed to find an ice pack in the freezer and lie down on it on the couch.  J brought me a bunch of Advil and an Aleve, so I took them and waited for the pain to subside while I worried about how I was going to function over the next couple of days. 

Finally the medicine kicked in and I was able to get around without doubling over in pain every few seconds, so I showered and dressed and got the kids off to school.

The next two days were spent at a big annual convention for all of the state special education directors.  I gave a speech on Thursday, which went fine, but Thursday night I started feeling a tickle in my throat and Friday my tonsils and my neck glands were definitely acting up.  I went to the conference for a little while, but by around 11 a.m. I was feeling really shitty and I didn't really need to stay, so I went home.

My parents arrived a couple of hours later, to spend Zeke's birthday weekend with us.  Unfortunately, I spend the bulk of the time feeling crappy and lying on the couch, nursing a virus that mimicked strep in every regard -- extremely painful sore throat, swollen glands, and fever -- but wasn't *actually* strep, meaning that the doctor wouldn't give me any antibiotics for it.  Plus my strained back muscle was still acting up, so I was a pathetic mess.  I felt well enough to make it to Zeke's party on Sunday morning, which was really fun -- we went to a little dinosaur museum over in Morrison that has great hands-on exhibits and activities for kids -- but by the end of the weekend I was spent.

Monday I stayed home from work and slept and caught up on my DVR'd shows.  J went to work, but also had a court date at 1:15 in Jefferson County because he got pulled over a couple of months ago for having expired tags - I thought he had renewed them and he thought I had.  No big deal, right?  All he had to do was show up with the renewed registration and maybe pay a little fine.

Now, I've mentioned in the past that Australians in general, and my husband in particular, are notorious practical jokers.  And I grew up in a family of bullshit artists, so I tend to be pretty good at ferreting out the nonsense. 

But I guess I was tired.  And in pain.  And grumpy. 

And thus obviously unprepared when I received this text message from J approximately 5 minutes after he was due in court:  "$1000 and 10 days jail"

Because I freaked. 

If someone were telling me a story like this about someone else, I would have been all, "Oh, ha ha, good one."

But J has a history of getting kicked around by law enforcement.  So my initial reaction was, "NO!  WHAT THE FUCK??  REALLY??"  followed by furious efforts to call him.  But he didn't pick up his phone and I got more and more worked up and finally I just called the court.

CLERK:  Hello, Jefferson County Court, Criminal and Traffic Division.

ME:  Yeah, hi.  Uh, my husband had a court date this morning for a traffic ticket and I was just trying to find out what was going on with his case. 

[I give her the ticket number.]

CLERK:  Yep, here it is.  Looks like the DA dismissed it.

ME:  Really?  I'm so confused.  I got a text from my husband saying that he was assessed a huge fine and jail time, and I don't get it because it doesn't seem like failing to renew your registration on time would be a jailable offense.

CLERK:  Ma'am, I think he was just messing with you.

Ya think??

Aussie Word of the Day: Motivational edition

**Just a little warning -- this is kind of a long one.  You might want to go pee or top off your coffee before you start reading.**

Pull your finger out:  Aussie for "get on with it; stop wasting time."*  Shortened form of "pull your finger out of your ass" (apparently, having your finger up your ass interferes with efficiency).

It's been an insane week.  Things are really busy at work and I'm doing this big 90 day push to grow my Beachbody business that involves weekly webinars and daily check-ins with an accountability partner (who is awesome -- hi Ferreh!!) and I'm trying to plan Zeke's birthday party and make it fun without being too too much and this weekend is Yom Kippur and next weekend we're going to a wedding reception and I've got a presentation that I'm doing at a big statewide conference and holy shit.

On the plus side, ski season starts in less than a month, and opening day at Copper Mountain coincides with a flex day, so I've got that to look forward to.

So yesterday at 6:15 in the morning I was in my room doing a workout -- I was in the middle of a set of pushups, to be exact -- when J walked in.  This was a bit of a shock, considering that he had left for work an hour before. 

He's been having some problems with one of the guys on the job -- a former friend (Greg) who was promoted to foreman and immediately turned into a raging asshole at the first whiff of power.  Screaming, yelling, swearing at people -- just generally being incredibly abusive and awful to the guys on the job, and given that the construction industry is notorious for treating guys like dog shit, it's saying something that this guy's behavior really went above and beyond.  Everybody hated him, everybody was miserable.  J would tell him to back off and watch his mouth, and Greg tended to tone it down somewhat with J, but he was still a major douchebag. 

Apparently, a couple of days ago, it got really, really bad.  Guys were completely up in arms, an apprentice was so mad he was throwing things, and the entire job site was tense and miserable.  So J went to have a talk with the head of the company.  In a very calm and rational way, he explained what was going on and that it was negatively impacting everyone, that if the yelling and screaming was meant to be some kind of motivational tool, it was having the opposite effect, and that if something didn't change, guys would be leaving en masse.  The boss, being an asshole himself, kind of blew it off and insinuated that J was being a pussy and just couldn't take the heat.

This is pretty much par for the course.  This company is awful -- they don't pay shit, they provide no benefits, they insist guys work overtime and then mysteriously have "payroll problems" that cause the overtime pay to be absent from paychecks.  They suck.  And in a non-union state like Colorado, there's very little recourse.  It's a tough economy, everyone's grateful to have a job, so the companies make the guys eat shit because they can -- they hold all the cards. 

Fight the power, yo.

So yesterday morning, J made the decision -- probably not so smart in hindsight -- to try to have a calm discussion with Greg and explain why his behavior was inappropriate and counterproductive.  Greg responded by yelling and screaming at J, getting up in his face.  J responded, "Fuck you."  Greg said, "you just quit."  So J came home.

Notice how Greg immediately framed it (and subsequently put it in an email to the boss) that J had quit, rather than been fired?  So as to set up a factual dispute that would make it harder for J to file an unemployment claim? 

Evil fuckers.

Anyway, I'm literally mid-pushup when J walks into the room.  And I'm continuing to do pushups while trying to talk to J to figure out what happened.  This is difficult enough, but J was so angry and shaking and freaked out that it was hard for him to even form a sentence, so I told him to go downstairs and make some coffee and calm down and I'd be there to talk to him in a few minutes after I finished my workout.

We sat in the living room. 

"So what happened?"

"I tried to talk to him, but he kept getting in my face and I just snapped.  I just can't take being treated like that anymore."

"Well, I know you hate it there, and I don't want to pile on, but we can't afford for you to be out of work right now.  We're operating on a razor-thin margin as it is."

"I know.  I know.  I'll find another job."

"Is there any way you can go back?"

"I can't.  I just can't."  He was practically in tears.

I nodded, took a deep breath and got up and went into the next room.  I got a pad of paper and a pen out of a drawer and brought them to him.

"OK.  Then here's what you're going to do.  Write down the name of every single person you can think of that might be able to help you find a new job.  Call Steve [the guy who has done a bunch of work on our house] -- maybe he knows somebody or needs some electrical work on some of his jobs.  Vicki manages a bunch of properties -- call her.  Joe manages a company that does residential electrical stuff -- give him a call.  Guys you've worked with.  That friend of my dad's.  That placement guy that keeps calling you. I'll put the word out to everyone I know and also see if anyone needs any odd jobs done."  He started writing and I continued to rattle off names, which then went on the list.  "Now start calling, texting, and emailing.  We need the money, so start hustling.  Everything's going to be fine, but you need to focus.  Pull your finger out and get it done."

And he did.  He made some calls and sent some texts.  We got the kids up and took them to school, and then he drove me to work.  By the time he dropped me off, he had already gotten the names of some companies that were hiring and had an interview lined up.  I was giving him a pep talk and helping him plan his day, and he was feeling much better.

"This is awesome.  You're really amazing," he told me.

"You married the right woman," I agreed, and I gave him a kiss, got out of the car and went up to my building. 

Within an hour, 6 people in my office had responded to an email I sent out, telling me that they had electrical work they needed done but didn't know anyone reputable to call.  By 10 in the morning, he had another job interview lined up and side jobs to take him through the weekend.  And this morning, he's already had two calls from companies that got his name from friends of his.  So we're thinking that he'll have something solid lined up soon.

In the meantime, he and I have been texting back and forth.  I've been trying to give him little e-pep talks.  At one point, he texted me back:  "Tony Robbins called.  He wanted me to tell you to to back the fuck off."

I don't know.  I may be on to something.
________________________________________________
* I know this expression isn't used only by Aussies, but I never really heard it used in great abundance until I married J.  In the U.S., people tend to use the entire phrase, i.e., "pull your finger out of your ass."  But Aussies feel compelled to abbreviate and shorten everything, so I feel like "pull your finger out" is the Aussie-fied version.

I didn't think I was *that* bad

Even though J is now working night shift, we've been able to maintain the weekday routine we've had established for awhile. 

He gets home at about 5:45 or 6 in the morning.  We both handle the morning routine with the kids, I go to work, he takes them to school and then comes home and sleeps.  He gets up, does whatever he does (works out, cleans, etc.) and then goes to get the kids at about 4:45 or 5, and then takes them to the park or to swim or something.  In the meantime, I get home from work, exercise, and then get dinner ready so that we can eat when J gets home with the kids.  We play, have bathtime, read books.  J goes to work at about 8:30 and I put the kids to bed and then wind down for the night.

I've gone through stages when I've regularly exercised in the morning, but it's been hard to do that lately because Josie's been getting up early and occasionally she'll wake up right when I'm in the middle of a workout.  And I enjoy exercising in the afternoon because the endorphin release makes me all happy and calm, so I'm feeling good and have tons more patience with the kids than I would otherwise have.

The weekend was really hectic and I had a hard time finding time to work out.  So by yesterday afternoon, it had been a couple of days and I was feeling kind of stressed and antsy. 

I was talking to J on the phone when I was getting ready to leave work.  He was lamenting that he didn't know what he was going to do with the kids in the afternoon because it was getting ready to thunderstorm.

"Well, figure something out, because I really need some time to exercise.  It's been a couple of days and I've got to exercise.  You know, I find that I'm much more patient and easy-going when I exercise.  So it benefits you, too."

Without missing a beat, he said, "no problem.  I'll be at the park with the kids for the next three hours."

Hmph.

How to have a healthy marriage, and why almond milk is good for you

About a year ago I was informed that this blog had been put on a list of the top 50 blogs for marriage advice.  Considering that you can't swing a virtual dead cat without hitting 100 other blogs just like this one, and that I ain't exactly Dooce when it comes to the level of my readership, I was (pleasantly) surprised and a bit befuddled.  Then a few months ago some guy who wrote a book about marriage, and particularly Jewish marriage, contacted me and asked me to do a post for his blog and also to read and review his book (I would provide a link to his blog but now I can't find the email).  Because I am constantly overestimating my ability to get anything done, I told him I would and then promptly didn't.  Not to be an asshole, but let's just say it's a task that joins many others on a very long list.

But the thought of being asked for marriage or relationship advice or insight popped into my head yesterday when I was poking around in the fridge looking for almond milk.  I drink almond milk, and particularly use it to make my daily Shakeology shakes, because it's very low in calories and has no sugar, so it's perfect for my low glycemic diet. 

The thing is, there are two kinds of almond milk -- sweetened and unsweetened.  And obviously, I need the unsweetened kind.

J is working on a big job at a local supermarket that's undergoing massive refurbishment, so he does a lot of our shopping these days.  Which is great, because it saves me a chore (at least during the week), because now that I'm taking the bus to work, I can't just pop in to the grocery store on my way home from work anymore. 

But it's also a problem, because he is about the worst grocery shopper on the planet.

For some reason, in our relationship it has become my job to keep track of the contents of our pantry and refrigerator.  And maybe it is just a function of how my brain works -- I have the ability to see in my mind a snapshot of the cupboards or fridge at any given time, so I can pretty much always tell you what we have and what we need.  Plus, I assume that if I am aware of the fact that we are out of soy sauce, everyone else is aware of that fact as well, so if they happen to be at the grocery store, they will know to pick up a bottle of soy sauce without me having to tell them.  Or that at least, if someone else is going to go to the store, they will let me know beforehand and say something like, "I'm going to the store.  I'm going to get cheese, pasta, pasta sauce and laundry detergent.  Is there anything else we need?"  And then I'll say, "don't forget the soy sauce."

But invariably, one of two things happens. 

• I will go to the store and replenish the soy sauce supply, and then J will go the store and ALSO buy more soy sauce, so we end up with an entire section of the fridge devoted to soy sauce; or
• J will do some shopping without telling me in advance, will be oblivious to the lack of soy sauce in the house (even though he's the only one who uses it) and will not buy any, and then the next time I make red Thai curry chicken, he will ask me for soy sauce and then be annoyed when I explain that we don't have any.

Actually, three things - I just thought of a third.

• I will say I'm going to the store and ask him if there's anything he can think of that we need.  He'll say "soy sauce," because he only glanced in the fridge for .38 seconds and didn't see the bottle of soy sauce hiding in plain sight next to the bottle of Newman's Own salad dressing.  I'll say, "don't we already have soy sauce?" because I have my mental picture.  J will say, "no."  I'll think to myself, I could have sworn we had some, but he's the one that uses it, so I guess he finished it without my realizing it.  Then I will buy soy sauce.  When I get home, I will be annoyed when I go to put it away when I find that we already had a full bottle sitting right under our noses.

J is also a bad grocery shopper because he doesn't pay attention to labels.  And I don't just mean the details of nutritional labels, like how many calories or fat grams are in anything.  I'm talking about the basics.  One time he said he was going to the store, so I asked him to pick up some shredded cheddar cheese because we were going to have chili for dinner.  He came home with fake, non-dairy soy cheese-type substance.  When I was getting dinner ready and grabbed the "cheese" and saw what it was, I asked, "what the hell is this?"  "Oh, I just grabbed it.  I didn't realize what it was."

Cue the eye roll.

So, back to the almond milk. 

Last week, when he told me he was going to do some grocery shopping, I asked him to pick up some almond milk.  I said, "make sure it's the unsweetened kind.  It will say 'unsweetened' on it.  If it doesn't say, 'unsweetened,' don't get it.  It's sweetened by default, so get the kind that says, 'unsweetened.'" 

I must have told him this 5 or 6 different times.  He "yeah yeah"-ed me.

He came home with the sweetened kind.

Then again, two nights ago he was going to do some grocery shopping.  I gave him a list.  On the list, I wrote "almond milk."  When I gave him the list, I said, "please make sure it's the unsweetened kind."  I said this repeatedly.  He "yeah yeah"-ed me.

So there I am yesterday, poking around in the fridge, looking for almond milk.  All I can find is the same carton of sweetened milk that I can't drink.

"I thought you were getting almond milk?  It was on the list."

"But we already have some, right there," he responded.

I took a deep breath and tried to keep my head from exploding.

You hear people talk about communication being the key to a healthy relationship.  And I wholeheartedly agree with that.  But I think I would focus on a different kind of communication than the kind talked about in every other article in women's magazines. 

Don't talk about your deep-down feelings or that kind of shit.  Really, most of the time, who the fuck cares? 

I'm talking about communicating -- both talking and listening -- about the basics.  Chores.  Laundry.  Grocery shopping.  Where you put the kids' shoes when you came home from the pool, so that the next time we go out I know where their shoes are.

The little things that make everyday life so tedious.  My feeling is, if you make those things smoother, everything is smoother.  Remove the small annoyances that build up into big annoyances and grumpiness.

If you're the only one that knows what's in the fridge, just accept that fact, make a list and keep it someplace conspicious.  And when your spouse says, "make sure you get the unsweetened almond milk," then get the motherfucking unsweetened almond milk.

But also, when you don't get what you want, take a deep breath and keep your head from exploding.  Because in the grand scheme of things, life goes on.

It's just almond milk.

Telepathy

We live right in town, so we've sacrificed acreage for location, meaning our back yard is teeny.  But it does have a brick patio and a patch of dirt for the kids to play, plus we live within a stone's throw of about five different public parks and one public pool, so we're not hurting for places to run around.

When we first moved into the house, the back yard was a mess.  All overgrown ground cover and stumpy trees and raggedy looking bushes and weeds and vines and rocks.  My big strapping husband, bless him, spent the better part of late April and early May out back with a pick-axe and shovel, clearing away the debris and pulling out the yucky trees and shit until we had a smooth dirt patch that was ready for sod.  Then he went online and found a sod farm out in the middle of nowhere that sells Kentucky bluegrass sod for 25 cents a square foot, so we were able to sod the entire thing for about $80.  He and I did it on a Saturday and it took us about 45 minutes.

So now we have a nice little yard.  We're still working on getting some chairs and maybe a patio table, plus we need to finish the fence on the side where our douchebag neighbor lives (he started building a fence and never finished it), but it's got a big crabapple tree and we've planted some flowers and herbs and a tomato plant and the kids can play out there and it's all very pleasant.


That tree in the lower left corner is no longer there and all the crap on the right has been cleared out.  And I have no idea why J hung a swing 5 feet off the ground, because no way in hell will either of the children use it.

The other night J and I were sitting outside while Josie played and climbed on the slide and splashed in puddles ("hi, water!") (Zeke was inside futzing around with the iPad).  I was inspecting my tomato plant and was pleasantly surprised by the number of tomatoes that are sprouting, given that I have the brownest thumb on the planet and am an absolutely hopeless gardener.

J asked, "what are you going to make with all the tomatoes?"

"I don't know.  I guess I'll figure it out when they're ripe and I'll see what I feel like."

"You should make that soup."

"Oh, right, I know what you're talking about.  What's it called again?"

"Ceviche.  The one with the fish."

"No, you're thinking of the other soup."  The name escaped me.

"No, I'm not.  I'm thinking of ceviche."

"But you don't really make ceviche with tomatoes.  I mean, you can put tomatoes in it, but it's not the primary ingredient, at least not the recipes I've used.  It's citrus and peppers and onions.  You're thinking of the other one.  The cold soup with tomatoes."

"No, I'm definitely thinking of ceviche."

"Gazpacho!   That's it!  I couldn't think of the name.  You're thinking of gazpacho.  Gazpacho is the one that you make with tomatoes and peppers and stuff.  That's what you were thinking of."

"No, I was actually thinking of ceviche.  *You* were thinking of gazpacho."

Hmph.  He was totally thinking of gazpacho.  Which my pretty tomatoes will be perfect for.

Helpless

Even though I know that the odds are in favor of it happening eventually, I am in total denial about the fact that one day, my parents will no longer be around.  I talk to my mother every day, often multiple times.  She is unquestionably my best friend.  The thought of something happening to her or to my dad makes me sick to my stomach.  I have a hard time processing the thought.

So it makes it hard to know how to help my husband.  His father is dying.

J came back from Australia having said his good-byes.  He said he was at peace with his dad and that he had said what he needed to say to him.

But really, there's no way it was that easy.  And in the back of his mind, there was a hope, a belief -- however unrealistic -- that maybe there was more time than there really is.

So we started talking about maybe going to Australia for a couple or three years.  J can make crazy money there, and I could get a job doing something, maybe working for an American law firm or something, and we could save money and get out of debt and spend Denis's last years with him.  He could get to know his grandchildren.  He's met Zeke only once and he's never met Josie at all.  It would provide J with some closure.  He could spend some time in his home and have precious time with his father.

But I don't think there's much time left.  Denis had a treatment that was sort of a last ditch effort.  It didn't work.  He can't walk unassisted anymore, the lesions on his brain are getting worse and his condition is deteriorating.  The doctors are going to try one last round of radiation, but if it doesn't work, that's it.

And honestly, I don't think it will.  And I think in his heart of hearts, J doesn't think so either.

If I were a betting woman, I would take odds that he's got maybe a month left.

I don't know what J wants to do if Denis dies.  If he still wants to go to Australia for a few years.  I don't have any particular desire to move again -- I feel like we're finally getting settled, my job is going really well, the kids are happy.  But if he really wants me to, if it's what he needs, I will.

He's just so sad.

Keeping the romance alive

We've gotten into a nice routine in the afternoons.  The weather has been so glorious -- upper 60s to mid 70s -- that J picks the kids up in the afternoon and takes them straight to the park.  I get home, exercise if I didn't manage to do it before work, and then get dinner ready.  J brings the kids home at about 6, dinner's ready and on the table by 6:30, and we have some nice family time.

Yesterday I did a weights workout that didn't cause me to break too much of a sweat, plus I knew that I would be doing a hard cardio workout this morning that would require a shower afterwards, so I cleaned up by running a washcloth over my face and pits (face first, natch). 

By the time J came home with the monkeys, the table was set and dinner was ready.  When I heard the car pull up, I went outside to meet them.

When J saw me, his eyes lit up, he gave me a kiss, and he said, with great enthusiasm, "that's my girl! All barefoot and sexy." 

There were some people walking by on the sidewalk, and he looked at them and did a, "eh? eh?  check out what I got!  That's what I'm talking about, baby!" 

They laughed.  I rolled my eyes and chuckled under my breath.

Oh, and the outfit that sparked his ardor?

A ratty white wifebeater, replete with grease spots from the burgers I had been preparing.  A ratty black sports bra underneath.  A pair of workout shorts that fit kind of like men's boxer briefs, only they're so old and abused by my wearing then when I was pregnant that the waistband is all stretched out.  And an knee-length apron decorated with pictures of herbs and flowers.  Hair in a scraggly ponytail, lop-sided from when I was lying on my back to do ab work.  A smudge of mascara under one eye.

Hot hot hot is how I roll.

Clearly, he needs to get out more.

The downside of regaining "hottie" status

I'm fortunate to be married to a man who has an awesome physique.  He's a surfer and a biker and an all-around great athlete, and it shows.

Generally.

After his hernia surgery, he couldn't do much but sit around and watch TV and eat.  And in the process, he put on a little bit of weight (and understandably so). 

It drove him crazy.  So as soon as he got the all-clear from the doctor, he started exercising again, and decided to do a round of P90X. 

The one benefit of starting work at 5 in the morning is that he gets off at 1:30 in the afternoon, and thus has time to work out for an hour when he gets home.  And he's been incredibly diligent, coming home every day and doing the workouts.

He's in the home stretch now, only a few more weeks to go, and he looks awesome.  He's lost a bunch of weight and has his abs back.  Rrowr.

Recently he was walking out to his car after work.  He's redoing wiring or whatever for a big grocery store, so he was walking out through a crowded parking lot.  His hands were full of tools and what-not and he had his tool belt on.

Which is heavy.  As he was walking, it was pushing down on his pants, which are loose because he's so much thinner now.

Because his hands were laden with big heavy things, he tried to wiggle and arch and reposition himself. 

But to no avail. 

Leaving him in the middle of a King Soopers parking lot with his tool belt and his pants around his ankles.  There were quite a few cheers and claps from the onlookers.

As he was telling me the story, I thought, thank goodness he was wearing underwear.  Also, lucky King Soopers shoppers.

In which I pitch up a softball and he hits it out of the park

We're sitting in our bed hanging out with Zeke before bedtime.  I'm reading to Zeke while J lies there and listens.  Zeke has had an awesome day -- great progress report at school, minimal fussing, happy and sweet and lovely to be around.  We're enjoying each others' company.

As we lie there snuggling and reading, J rips a series of outrageous farts.  With the first one, I give him a look, like, "seriously?"

With the second, I exclaim, "Jeeeeez, dude!"

"Oh, come on," he scoffs, as if to suggest that I'm somehow overreacting.

Without thinking for a second about the words coming out of my mouth, I respond, "Please!  Don't 'come on' me!"

His eyes widen, he bursts out laughing and without missing a beat yells, "THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!"*


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*As we sit there laughing hysterically, Zeke is grinning and looking back and forth between us, unclear of what the joke is.  "What's funny, Mama?" "Oh, uhhhh ....... we're laughing because Daddy tooted."  He proceeds to lose his shit laughing as well.  God, I love that kid.

The Wood Anniversary

For our fifth anniversary, for which the traditional gift is wood, we built ourselves a headboard.  We've had our bed for almost 4 years but have always just had it pushed against a wall.

Boring.

We had a fifth anniversary and a parent's night at the daycare.  Bingo.

J built the frame and cut the plywood while I was at work on Friday.

Heh.

While J took Zeke to a birthday party on Saturday, I bought upholstery foam, batting and fabric.  Saturday night, we assembled the headboard.

Putting the foam on the plywood.

Putting the batting over the foam.  And enjoying a little vino.

Dork.

Laying the fabric over the base.

Attaching the headboard to the frame.

Drill, baby, drill.

Getting ready to drill holes to attach the headboard frame to the bedframe.

Finished product.  And a riot of stripes

All those hours watching the DIY Network pay off. 

 Happy anniversary, us!

Five years ago today...

I remember the day so vividly.  The early morning nervousness allayed by a long trip to 24 Hour Fitness and some makeup shopping with my mom.  Losing my shit while getting ready because I couldn't find any of my hair accoutrements, so Michele found everything for me and talked me off the ledge and did my hair.  The ride in the pretty car up the mountain.  Losing my shit again right before the ceremony and being talked off the ledge by the marriage celebrant, this cool lady with bright hennaed hair who was the kind of person that wore caftans and was into new age-y stuff.

But then I calmed down and the rest of the day was lovely, if exhausting.  My mom and dad walked me down the aisle.

J and I said our vows, which we wrote ourselves.  I think the picture below was taken at the part when I vowed to always make sure the house was well-stocked with vegemite.

After the ceremony, we hiked through the bush to a rocky ledge for pictures.

When we went back to the reception and were "introduced" as a married couple, it was to the tune of "Eye of the Tiger."

We had cake.

J picked the cake out -- layers of german chocolate cake with strips of white chocolate around the edges, decorated with native Australian flowers and our surfing couple cake topper.



I sang some bluegrass.


My Australian father-in-law, who also happens to be a bluegrass enthusiast, surprised me by inviting some bluegrass musicians that I had met and played with when I visited J in Australia in 2004. Having these guys show up and play (and let me sing with them) was seriously one of the coolest parts of an already wonderful night. In the picture above, I'm singing Old Home Place, one of my favorite bluegrass songs.

We danced.

And then, when the night was over, we got on with our lives. 

Five years seems like forever ago, but also like yesterday.  It's been a jam-packed five years, that's for sure.  Sometimes I've loved being married, sometimes I've looked back with intense longing on the days when I was single and childless, with lots of time and disposeable income at my fingertips.  Some days J and I get along great, other days I could happily put him on a plane back to Australia and tell him to never come back. 

But we do love each other, we do take care of each other, we've produced two beautiful, sweet children, and we continue to build our life together, step by step and day by day.  I guess that's what it's all about.

A lesson for all of you out there who think that you'll never use what you learn in math class

We're getting really excited about the new house.  Friday night we started knocking down two walls to open some of the space up.  The previous owner had closed off the top of the stairs and a hallway under the stairs to create discrete upstairs and downstairs apartments, and it made the space all chopped up and awkward, so priority number one was to take the walls down before the new hardwood floors get put down next week.  J showed me how to use the sawzall and loaned me his work gloves and put me to work.  I pulled off door framing with the hammer and cut out squares of sheet rock and generally had a ball.  We did bits and pieces throughout the weekend, and finished up tonight.

With just two seemingly small-ish, insignificant walls gone, the space just flows so much better.  When the floors are installed, it's going to look beautiful. 

There's still much work to be done, though.  Both bathrooms are atrocious, and while functional, need to be redone.  And there are a couple of other walls that we want to either bring down or cut into, but they are load-bearing walls so we need to figure out exactly how it can be done without jeopardizing the structural integrity of the house.  While I am certainly handy with power tools and a paintbrush, that's as far as it goes.


This is where J impresses the shit out of me.  Because not only does he know how to do all of this stuff, he knows how to figure out how to do it.  If that makes any sense.

The narrative of our marriage, at least as far as he tells it, is that I'm this crazy-smart person full of book learning who is all brainy for a living, and he's the big lunk who is on the tools because his brain isn't worth a damn.  I reject this because it's simply not true.  He may not have the formal education I have, and my abstract reasoning skills may be better, but he is very intelligent and has an amazing ability to figure out complex problems of engineering that leave me baffled.* 

And let's face it, I had every opportunity.  I came from a loving, supportive home in which education was valued, my abilities were praised, and it was always assumed I would go on to college and some post-graduate degree.  J went from one abusive home to another, was discouraged from pursuing a career as a vet by people who told him he was too stupid, and finally escaped to go out on his own when he was 16 or so.  He had the discipline and resourcefulness to finish school and put himself through trade school so that he would always have a solid skill that would allow him to support himself.

As my dad always says, in our family of Deep Thinkers, J's the only one that actually knows how to do anything useful.

We were sitting tonight watching football and folding laundry after the kids were asleep, talking about the house.  He had been over there earlier in the evening to do some laundry (our washing machine in the rental house is on the fritz) and we were marveling at how great it's going to look with the space opened up.

"And baby, I was doing some calculations, and we can really do something with that wall between the dining room and the back hallway.  We could put a pillar here or cut it out like you were saying you wanted to....."

As he's talking he's gesturing with his hands and I am trying to follow but I can't visualize what he's describing.

".....and so if you put a stud there to support the floor joists and wah wah wah wah waaaaaah...."

I'm like Charlie Brown listening to the teacher.

"I don't understand,"  I say.  "How do you know it's possible to do what you're describing?  How do you know the upstairs structure can handle it?" 

"I told you, I did calculations." 

"I know, but how did you know how to do them?"

"Well, I had a calculator."  He huffs at me like I'm daft.  "I'll have to take you over there and show you."

"Dude.  I'm not talking about doing the actual math.  I know how to do math, too.  I finished two years of calculus before I was out of high school, ferchrissakes.  But which calculation?  How do you know what formula to use?  The Pythagorean theorem?  The quadratic equation?"

I give him my stern, confused look, and he looks back at me, and we both crack up.

"Should I be using SOHCAHTOA?" I demand.  We're wheezing now, tears squeaking out of our eyes because we're laughing so hard.

Finally he sighs and hangs his head as he shakes it.  Kind of a "don't worry your pretty little head" gesture.

Which is fine.  Everyone likes to feel smart and competent, and he's entitled to it in this situation.
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*Not that I couldn't figure it out given the time and a decent math textbook, but it's just not what I do on a regular basis.

Aussie word of the day: injury edition

Once again, I call my husband out on this blog, and I end up feeling like a putz.  Last time it was accusing him of being a pussy, and it turned out he had such a bad case of pneumonia they almost didn't let him leave the hospital because his oxygen levels were so low.  This time, I accuse him of being childish and saddling me with all of the family responsibilities, and it turns out he didn't come home the other night not because he was merely sore, as he told me, but because it turns out he has a cracked rib, a separated shoulder, and a sprained wrist.

"It was a pretty good stack, baby," he told me.

"Stack" is Aussie for "crash on the bike."

I separated my shoulder four years ago when I had a bad stack, and I couldn't really use my shoulder for a month.  At least J has some range of motion and isn't too terribly uncomfortable.

So when I leave for the airport in about 3 minutes to go spend the weekend with my family in Oregon (we're celebrating my aunt and uncle's 40th anniversary), he'll at least have the use of his arm when he's got the kids to himself for the next two days.

Have a nice weekend, honey!

Hindsight is 20/20

I don't often legitimately complain about my husband (at least not outside of the earshot of close friends), but I was doing it yesterday while on the phone with my father.  I was incredibly annoyed by the fact that J had decided that he wasn't going to come home last night, even though he stayed up in Vail the night before and thus should have had plenty of rest by virtue of not having to get up at 4 in the morning to drive 2 hours to go to work.

See, the night before he decided to go mountain biking with a bunch of the guys.  And being the fucking reckless 15-year-old that he is at heart, he was doing stupid shit, taking risks, and ended up tumbling down a steep incline on his bike.  So he was feeling a little beat up.  And decided that "he wouldn't be much use if he came home" because he was really sore and tired.

What-fucking-ever.  I had had a rough morning with the kids, and really needed the help of another adult around.  And I had been telling Zeke that Daddy would be coming home.

But Daddy was sore.

If I don't sound sympathetic, it's because I'm not.  I don't have the option of not coming home because I'm tired or sore or not in the mood.  And I was pissed that in addition to having another night of full-time kid duty, I had to disappoint Zeke by telling him that Daddy wouldn't be home after all.

All because Daddy is too stupid to show some regard for his own safety.

So I was complaining to my dad.  "Why do I have to be the grown-up all the goddamned time?  Why are boys so fucking stupid?"

"I don't know, honey.  But your mother's the same way.  She's the only one that's a grown-up in our house!"

"Hmph."

"Hell, I don't know why you women marry us.  I wouldn't marry one of us."

Well, shit.  It would have been nice if someone had warned me beforehand.

At least we made it a little further down Colfax...

Saturday was our monthly date night, courtesy of parents' night out at the daycare.

Again we dropped the kids off and walked up to Colfax, this time electing for steak at a local restaurant that seems to long for the days of the Rat Pack, as if, by keeping the doors open, Frank and Dino and Sammy will miraculously show up and ask for a drink.

But it was a lovely evening, so we sat on the patio and enjoyed our meals and shared a bottle of wine.  Of course, after spending a day at 10,000 feet, two glasses later we were ready to stumble over to City Park and cuddle up under a tree for a nap.

We managed to stay upright by grabbing coffee at Starbucks before heading up the street.  We sat in front of the fountain in the Esplanade in front of East High School, where our children will some day matriculate.

Colfax Avenue on a balmy, clear Saturday night

Sitting by the fountain clearly provided too much stimulation, so we decided to go across the street to the Tattered Cover and look at home renovation magazines for ideas on how to fix up our new house.

Whee!

We walked back through the neighborhood to get the kids, stopping to look at our new house and to peek in the windows of our neighbors along the way.  "Oooh, look at their cabinets!  Those are nice!"  "I like the way they did their ceilings."  "I'd love to do our porch like that."  "Those little sculptures they have in front of the house look like ass."

We picked up our children, went home, and went to bed.

All of you out there that knew me in my wild and crazy days in high school and college -- hard to believe, isn't it?  Who is this boring person, and what have you done with Wendy?

I'm not sure if it should be considered advice or a warning, but in any event, I'm honored

I received an email letting me know that this blog has been featured on a counseling website in an article about the 50 best blogs for marriage advice.

I don't know what it means for the state of your relationship if you're looking to me for advice, but at least I'm quirky and honest!  In any event, I'm gratified if I can provide any insight, information, or even just comfort for anyone looking for it.