Not Funny at All

As the first order of business for his first day of summer vacation, JG made an appointment to switch from cable to satellite service in order to get high-definition service all the time instead of hoping for good weather and adjusting a giant antenna on our entertainment unit. Even though I was ecstatic about letting go of a bug-like presence in our living room, I pled to make sure that the dish wasn’t visible from the street, if at all possible.

JG called me at work to report on the progress:

JG: So, I just wanted to update you on what’s going on over here.
RA: Okay, cool.
JG: The guy came and had a look around. He climbed on the roof and stuff, but he feels like we have too many trees to put the dish on the roof.
RA: Oh.
JG: The only way he could do it was to put up an 8-foot pole in the middle of our yard. So, of course, I said, “Absolutely!”
RA: (sharp intake of breath)
JG: Hello?
RA: I suggest that we don’t joke about this.
JG: (quickly) Oh, sorry, joke over. I didn’t agree to it. We’re sticking with cable.
RA: Okay. No antenna on the TV?
JG: No antenna.
RA: Thank you.

Jokes are fine every once in a while, but if I was concerned about a little satellite dish on our roof, a pole sticking out of our yard is no laughing matter! Geez.

Contentment, Almost

Saturday really made me feel like I got a weekend. Sometimes, the two days are packed full of chores and bustle so I don’t feel a significant difference between Sunday’s rest and Monday’s routine.

When I think back, it’s not that JG and I did anything spectacular; we just did a few things with the right mixture of activity and rest. The morning was free and lazy. We drifted around in our pajamas, watched The Soup and Best Week Ever, and caught breakfast when we felt like it. JG mowed the lawn before we left to meet a friend at the climbing gym that afternoon and I was intent on recovering from my less-than-stellar workout on Tuesday. Let’s just say that the ratio of falling to climbing was so high as to inspire the term “high-gravity night.” Apparently, gravity had lessened its hold because I finished two long-standing projects and we all had a much improved day of climbing.

Later that evening, JG and I sat at a laminate table in a local Italian restaurant, one of those neighborhood joints with vinyl seats, metal pizza-pan holders on each table, and gigantic menus. After sharing an order of fried mushrooms (every restaurant in Kennett Square has them and they’re always good), we settled into our respective entrees: vegetable primavera for me and a cheese steak Stromboli for him. Quiet fell over the table – the sound of people simply not talking because they were busy enjoying their food.

“Today was a really good day,” I said slowly, breaking the silence.

JG nodded. “Yeah. I feel like we got a lot done, but it wasn’t rushed or anything.”

I nodded along. I had a serene feeling that I was in exactly the right place with exactly the right person. I wanted to wrap up the sensation and save it for another day.

JG continued, “I don’t know what could make this day any better. Except maybe a doggie…”

Ah, yes. JG’s campaign to add a furry friend to our home has not gone unnoticed. I have started to run out of excuses as to why we aren’t ready to accommodate a dog and our friends have gone out of their way to show me their dogs’ most favorable sides. The fact that JG’s concession of naming privileges represented a considerable bargaining chip is not lost on me. It’s a clear indicator that JG’s picture of happiness is incomplete without a dog curled up at his feet.

In other words, we’re getting a dog.

(JG is doing a happy shimmy in the background.)

Today is JG’s last day of the school year. Tomorrow, he will start to apply to shelters, propose dogs from PetFinder, and research electric fences. That serene feeling I wish I had saved is no longer with me. I’m three-quarters through Marley & Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog, so visions of chewed furniture, soiled carpet, and a backyard full of land mines dance through my head. I’m trying to distract myself by finding really good name candidates. After all the negotiation and discussion we’ve had, maybe we should be frank and name the dog Compromise.

City Longings

JG and I went to the climbing gym yesterday. The twenty-minute drive is very curvy, but best of all, scenic. Rolling over hills, I can see through the windshield wide expanses of cut grass, dotted with grazing cattle and fluffy sheep. There is an equestrian school at one point and it’s common to see young girls in jodhpurs putting their animals through their paces. Stony farmhouses and red barns mark land ownership and wooden rocking chairs tilt gently on open-air porches. The smells of hay, honeysuckle, and humus flow in through the open windows and I breathe deeply.

Most of the time, I love living in our small-town-almost-countryside community. People walk their dogs in the neighborhood, we know that our mechanic’s name is Chip, and we have quiet nights with starry skies. I make a daily commute to a small city, so coming home is like a breath of fresh air. My ears are clear of car alarms and I look forward to seeing the sun set.

But another part of me loves metropolis and everything it includes. I love to wander museums, listen to the orchestra, marvel at the ballet, and eat exotic food. I love not having to drive and, instead, relying on public transit maps that might be really confusing or hearing my shoes slap against the concrete sidewalk. I love knowing that I can do almost anything at any hour. I don’t think I could live in a city, but visiting is exhilarating.

Much to my chagrin, JG does not so much enjoy cities. He finds them loud and dirty. There’s too much going on and there aren’t enough trees. People are brusque and always in a rush. He doesn’t relish the theater or the ballet and his palate is not quite as expansive as mine. Rather than go out for dinner when they charge way too much money for not much food, JG would prefer to stay home and fire up the grill so that he can have a steak the way he likes it.

Sigh.

In a way, I understand. Our life and our home are comfortable and I am grateful for them. Lately, though, I’ve been clicking enviously through the pictures that college friends are taking on their two-week jaunt through Europe and it makes me feel oh-so sedentary. Despite undersized portions of foreign food, it’s nice to have a chance to be an adventurous city mouse.

Sunday Scribblings #61: Town & Country

The Plot Thickens

As if a weekend of fun with friends and ant massacre weren’t enough, I have set aside what I think is the most intriguing part. You see, there has been a proposal to amend the Dog Agreement.

It all started when I began petitioning to add Walter to our list of potential dog names. JG is against this name-listing because he is a firm believer that one can’t name a dog without seeing it first. I can understand that logic, but it doesn’t hurt to have a few names up my sleeve just in case. Am I right? Of course, I am.

I love Walter as a dog name because I think it can be good for any type. It conjures up all sorts of mental images for me: sensitive, literary Walter from Rilla of Ingleside; Walt Whitman; and – er – Walter Cronkite. Much to my chagrin, JG thinks that Walter is “only for a dumb, dopey dog, like a Basset hound.” What! So I started lobbying, only to find that the crowd was pretty evenly split along pro- and anti-Walter lines. Hmph.

On Sunday morning, JG and I were talking about our eventual dog ownership and the merits of certain names when he turned to me suddenly and said, “Would you agree to get a dog this year if I let you name the dog anything you want?”

I was stunned into silence.

“I could name it anything I want?”

“Well, I trust that you won’t name it anything stupid, like Mrs. Puffball.”

“Hey, that can be shortened to Puffy. Or Diddy, whichever we like better.”

During our discussion of the terms of this new proposal, we agreed verbally that all of the clauses from the original agreement would still be in place except the first, which required JG to finish his master’s degree before getting the dog. The new timeline would land the dog at our house in the July-ish realm. In practical matters, I conceded that I could handle feeding and a daily walk. JG agreed to buy a designated dog blanket for the couch (so as to minimize the shedding situation) and to refrain from holding this naming privilege over my head in the future. Baths and doctor visits would be shared responsibilities.

Normally, I wave off (the constant) pleas to get a dog sooner, but JG has thrown out a surprisingly large bargaining chip in giving up the ultimate naming power. I am not sure what my next move will be.

Our Standing Date

Tonight was sad and momentous. Tonight, JG and I watched the series finale of Gilmore Girls.

I know that the show has its enemies. Some can’t stand the rapid banter, the goody-two-shoes daughter, or the unlimited spending power of a single mother. I know this last season has lagged in action and sensible flow, but I stuck with it because I loved the characters and I cared about what happened to them. At the risk of sounding pathetic, Gilmore Girls was more than a television show to me; it was a commitment. It meant -

• Rushing home from lab to watch with my roommate during freshman year
• Debating whether Dean or Jess was better or worse for Rory
• Glorying at the fast-paced conversation
• Wondering how Lorelai and Rory ate so terribly and stayed so darn thin
• Nodding at how Mrs. Kim was the summation of every overbearing Asian mother I had the pleasure of meeting
• Commiserating with Lane because she was nervous about dating a white boy, nice as he might be
• Setting a tape (yes, an actual VHS tape) if I had to miss an episode for whatever reason
• Cheering for Luke and Lorelai, moaning at every time they just didn’t work out
• Wishing I could live in Stars Hollow and eat at Luke’s diner

But most of all, Gilmore Girls means watching it with JG. He’d like our friends to believe that he simply tolerates watching this show with me, but the truth is that he really enjoys it. Originally, Gilmore Girls was my show, but over time, the show’s charm won him over. JG holds his own in arguments about whether Logan was a good guy for Rory, even if I staunchly hold that Marty (a.k.a. the Naked Guy) was really the best choice. JG is a prime Gilmore Girls buddy and I love our standing date at 8pm on Tuesday nights.

My favorite part of watching with JG would take place in the first few minutes. I’d snuggle up next to JG and he and I would sing the theme song together. I can’t help but smile when the tune comes to mind. Gilmore Girls, I’ll miss you, but I’ll miss singing that theme song even more.

If you’re out on the road,
Feeling lonely and so cold,
All you have to do is call my name,
And I’ll be there on the next train.
Where you lead, I will follow
Anywhere that you tell me to.
If you need me to be with you,
I will follow where you lead.

The Dog Situation

In telling folks about my recent anxiety-ridden dog dream, I’ve garnered reactions of two general themes:

1. “Ooh, get a dog - you’ll love it!”
2. “Uh, maybe you shouldn’t get a dog.”

I also received the rare, “JG should really stop hassling you,” which I appreciate. Both of you have my hearty thanks.

While we agree on big issues – religion, politics, finance – we squabble about minor items that we view as integral to our lives. For example, JG squeezes the middle of the toothpaste tube, mangling it, but I go for the bottom and smooth it out. When we first got married, we had separate toothpastes because we just couldn’t stand the other’s preference. I’m proud to say that we now share a tube and I only smooth it out once a week or so. That’s what they call progress.

Dog ownership is one of these small, yet all-important issues and we come from completely different schools of thought:

• JG:
  - Loves dogs
  - Stops to pet passing dogs and chats up the owners
  - Believes strongly in adopting rescue dogs, not buying from a breeder
  - Has always had a dog
• RA:
  - Is afraid of dogs
  - Hides behind JG when dogs approach and avoids touching them
  - Wants to run away when a dog is off its leash
  - Has never had a pet of any kind

Pragmatically speaking, I feel like a dog is a big step up the pet hierarchy, since I have zero ownership experience. I can’t help but view a dog as a new set of chores rather than a nice companion. Here ends the logic.

When I was little, I “had a bad dog experience,” as I usually say. I was over at a friend’s house and their (gigantic) German shepherd put its paws on my (tiny, four-year-old) shoulders. I was face-to-face with a wolf-like animal and I vividly remember being paralyzed with fear as the (savage, toothy) dog stared me in the face. When I see a big dog now, I become that frightened pre-schooler again. I understand intellectually that the dog was “being friendly,” to employ a phrase so often used by trusting owners, but that feeling of panic and allover lack of safety was firmly impressed on my four-year-old consciousness. My hands have started shaking even as I type this memory. It is into this mindset that JG wants to introduce a dog.

Granted, he doesn’t want a German shepherd, thank goodness. JG prefers smaller dogs (20 pounds or so) just in case he might have to subdue it for whatever reason. He understands my fear, but only to a certain degree because he can empathize with dogs, never having had a negative experience with them. Even though the ideal situation for me would be to simply not get a dog, I know that JG would be pining for one in the back of his mind. So, like all of the marriage books recommend, we compromise, however begrudgingly.

I’ve asked for and JG has agreed to a few conditions for getting a dog:

1. JG has finished his master’s degree.
2. We have enough money to replace the carpet in the entire house.
3. The dog is cute, quiet, and small; non-shedding would be a plus.
4. I am open to loving the dog and I don’t hide it just to prove a point.
5. JG does not gloat when I inevitably love the dog.

Under these criteria, we’ll probably get a dog sometime during 2009. By then, I expect to be fully resigned to the idea and maybe even excited. From what I’ve seen on Animal Planet, I think the West Highland Terrier is the cutest (per Item #3). Luckily enough, there’s a Westie rescue group right near us, so we’ll see if we qualify for ownership when the time comes.

Anyway, we’re kind of in a holding pattern while my brain catches up to the plan and JG does his best to refrain from saying things like, “Wouldn’t it be cute if the dog was snuggling up to you right now?” I usually shudder and shake my head. In the meantime, he is working through his master’s program and we’re having fun dreaming up dog names. JG is gunning for a famous mathematician and I’m combing through my literary favorites. Just how nerdy can this dog be? Only time will tell.

Playing Hooky

March is a tough month for JG because he has to teach on all five weekdays for five weeks in a row. I am not very sympathetic. That’s what the rest of us call the majority of the year. At the same time, I’m not about to volunteer to supervise classrooms of kids who are straining toward spring break, so I suppose I see his point. This year, I suggested that we take a day off in March together so that we can spend a free day together, and so we did – today!

I suppose it’s somewhat inaccurate to call it “playing hooky,” but that’s what it feels like. We stayed up late last night and slept in this morning. The plan for the day consists of getting subs for lunch and renting a couple of movies. JG has heard a lot of great things about The Departed and I want to see The Notebook because I never have (gasps all around!). I figure we’ll each bear the other’s movie and it’ll be even overall. Most importantly, though, I’m looking forward to hanging out with JG for an entire day without jobs or errands in the way. I feel like the daily grind makes it difficult for me to be really present after work because I’m so dog-tired, and then I feel guilty. My irritation rises faster than makes sense because – don’t I want to be home? It’s not fair to JG and we both needed a break. This week, twenty percent less time at work plus a whole day with each other is just the cure for job-related doldrums.

This long weekend is a nice midpoint on the way to spring break, when I’ll use some vacation time to spend JG’s week off with him. Until then, I plan to savor my lazing around in comfy clothes, eating a yummy sub, and being a couch potato on a rare day of leisure.

Fun with Fondue

Much to JG’s chagrin, last night’s birthday-weekend dinner didn’t turn out to be a total surprise.

See, a few days earlier, I mentioned that Saturday would be kind of a sad day for me; I just didn’t want to JG to be all freaked out if I was crying for no apparent reason. He hugged me and said, “Sorry, dear. Is there anything I can do?”

I didn’t expect an opportunity like this. I had an internal ethical battle … for about a second. “What if you told me where we were going for dinner?”

“Fine,” he groaned. “We’re going to The Melting Pot.”

“Yes!” I crowed with victory and then backpedaled a bit. “I didn’t tell you about Saturday just to make you tell me…”

“Sure…”

For real! That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Anyway. We had never been to The Melting Pot before, but after hearing rave reviews from our friends, I asked JG if we could go there for an anniversary sometime in the future. As a birthday surprise, it was pretty hard to beat. For those who may live in one of the fifteen states without one of these restaurants, the idea behind The Melting Pot is that you get a multi-course meal of fondue:

• Appetizer: bread, vegetables, and apples dipped in cheese fondue
• Salad: okay, this course isn’t fondue
• Entrée: selection of raw meat cooked in a vegetable-broth-base
• Dessert: strawberries, cheesecake, and pound cake to dip in chocolate fondue

We mixed and matched the different types of fondue for a combination of a lager-based cheddar dip; a burgundy wine coq au vin cooking broth with lobster tail, ahi tuna, pot stickers, and shrimp; and a mixture of white and dark chocolate fondue. I have to say - oh, my goodness. Yum.

Our fantastic waiter whipped up the fondue courses in front of us, so it was entertaining as well as amazingly tasty. I was expecting a Cheez Whiz-type cheese fondue, but I was pleasantly surprised to have a garlicky, lager-tinged sauce. The apples seemed odd to me at first, but I enjoyed the hot and cold contrast. An added bonus was that the fruit and vegetables helped to minimize the fact that we were consuming the majority of a bowl of melted cheese.

After we ate our salads, our waiter set out platters of raw meat and vegetables, a double-boiler of cooking broth, and something like eight sauces for dipping. He gave us a quick tutorial on meat doneness and separating raw meat from the cooked stuff (which JG loved since he is Mr. Food Safety) and we went for it. There is something oddly satisfying about spearing pieces of meat, dunking them into a vat of bubbling liquid, and dipping them into melted butter, teriyaki sauce, or a spicy wasabi. The lobster was to die for and, just like our waiter said, the curry sauce really could go on anything. Seeing each other through the steam wafting up from the fondue pot, JG and I happily polished off the entrée, but we were careful to leave some room for dessert.

Are there many things much tastier than strawberries dipped in chocolate? Or chunks of cheesecake? Or marshmallows? We were already very full from the first three courses, but dessert pushed us over the edge onto a level of fullness that was on the verge of a food coma. It’s how I imagine bears might feel when they’re just about ready to hibernate for the winter. Mm …

Even though the element of surprise didn’t exactly work out, the dinner was a fantastic success. I had a bright raspberry martini, I dressed up and felt sassy, and JG and I had a wonderful night out together with amazing food. It was one of those rare occasions when I could not have thought of anything that would have made for a better time.

(Thanks, JG!)

Cold Outside, Warm Inside

We have harsh weather today. The neighborhood is blanketed with a quiet layer of snow, but pellets of ice are raining on the windows, as though someone is tossing small marbles against the house. Thankfully, I’m able to work at home, so I’m sitting in the living room, typing away on my laptop, wrapped in a blanket. There was no way I was going to brave those slippery roads just to sit at my desk in the office.

Even better, the school where JG teaches closed for today! Along with the excitement of the first snow day of this school year, it’s such a bonus that we’re home together and on Valentine’s Day. It’s certainly a far cry from last year, when we were apart for the entire day and only managed to have dessert together. Despite the icy, rattling weather, we’re making today a day for hot beverages, dark chocolate cupcakes, and gifts tied with red ribbons. Being snowed in has never had better timing.

Slapping My Forehead

This morning, I discovered that, in the midst of transferring documents in preparation for reformatting my hard drive, I somehow left out the folder that held all of the digital photos from the wedding. The ones from the photographer, our almost-photographer friend, and all the others that friends and family had sent us were sent to their doom in reformatting oblivion. To make matters worse, the carnage included a slideshow from the reception that was I compiled from photos from our childhood, dating relationship, and engagement. I planned on watching with JG for a significant anniversary, but that mood-lit plan faded as the realization took hold.

No. No!

It was a moment fit for a Homeric “d’oh” and a hefty chorus of “stupid, stupid, stupid!” I clacked away at a frazzled e-mail to JG:

So, I managed to delete all of the wedding photos. And the slideshow! I think we have backups of the photographer’s ones, but everything else is gone. I want to cry.

I was at work, so I couldn’t cry. Instead, my stomach developed a hollow that ached in a nagging, guilt-inducing way. I kept checking throughout the day to see if the folder had magically appeared, but of course, it didn’t. The computer only does what you tell it to do, which is not necessarily what you want it to do. It doesn’t intuit that you’d want to reserve a folder for the rare but significant times that you need some random item out of it. I’m irritated that I retained edited versions of a graphic that I used for the ceremony program but not the spreadsheet with people’s addresses. I am so stupid.

I feel somewhat sheepish that this has upset me so deeply because I wouldn’t assume that a loss of digital pictures would have that effect. The super-pragmatic imp in my brain says reasonably, “It’s not as though you lost something of value, you know. Like your car.” But, protests the rest of me, sentimental value is valuable! I can’t slap a price tag on it, but I’d still guard it carefully. I just didn’t realize that I had to, so I didn’t … now a lot of it is gone. Maybe that’s the point.

Thankfully, JG was understanding about everything and at least we found a backup of the expensive, professional photos, so it’s not all bad. I still feel like an idiot, though.

It Seemed So Real

This morning, over breakfast…

RA: So, last night, I had a dream that we got robbed. We were doing something here in the kitchen, and these two mean guys walked right in and started raiding the Tupperware cabinet.
JG: I think that says something about your protectiveness about the Tupperware.
RA: Oh, whatever. So then I’m all, “What’s going on here?” And one of the guys whipped out a gun! Then you whisked me away –
JG: Rrrr! (flexing motions)
RA: – and crammed me into a closet…
JG: Oh.
RA: And then the closet turned into a room!
JG: Um…
RA: Then I heard all this rumbling outside and you had wrangled up the two guys!
JG: Rrrr! (more flexing)
RA: And then you threw them into the room with me!
JG: Oh, sorry.
RA: One of them called me “sweetheart” and I felt dirty. And then I woke up.
JG: (pause) I’m amazed that you can remember how dreams made you feel.
RA: Well, I think it’s because I dream in first person. I never watch myself do anything. How do you dream?
JG: … I didn’t even know someone could ask that.

Tree Nostalgia

It’s a little bit strange to have a Christmas tree that’s not my parents’ artificial one, sitting in the back of the living room by the piano. It’s odd not to unwrap the old funky ornaments that I made in grade school or the ones with zigzaggy trim that my mom made when my parents were first married. I felt a little disoriented last year without my familiar Christmas surroundings. Now that it’s our second married Christmas, though, I enjoy the feeling that JG and I have started to establish our own little traditions, and it all started with the ornaments.

In the summers between semesters at college, JG and I worked at a summer camp as lifeguards and counselors, where one of the traditions is to have a staff reunion at the annual New Year’s Eve party. Every year, any engaged couples from the course of the year receive an ornament shower to furnish their first Christmas tree, and two years ago, JG and I were the recipients. I appreciated it so much because our tree features the ornaments we received that night and we may not have had many ornaments otherwise. Some of them are pretty generic, but that’s okay – not everyone knew us well. We really like the snowman made up of ice cubes and the Noah’s ark, but we don’t remember who gave them to us. Others are amazingly personal and I have loved unwrapping and hanging them on the tree.

• A miniature, scaled lifeguard chair that one of JG’s eventual groomsmen created just for us
• A chubby moose on skis, based on a joke that JG is a “fat moose”, when he is super-skinny in reality
• A bejeweled glass ornament crafted by a former camper who happens to be an art major
• A handmade collage of scenes from The Emperor’s New Groove, our favorite movie, which we forced our fellow staffers to watch several times
• An “Our First Christmas” picture frame ornament from the other engaged couple that year; we attended their wedding almost exactly a year after our own

With help from our parents, JG and I have supplemented our initial collection with sentimental ornaments from our childhood like JG’s “Baby’s First Christmas” ornament and my building block with my initials. We both love the patchwork tree where it’s all mixing and not really matching – not like those pre-planned trees that you see in catalogues. I like to think that it’s like a photo album that spans all of the years, and it’s always nice to flip through the pictures and recall the fun times.

Party Time!

What do Nostradamus and Patty Duke have in common with my husband? They were all born on December 14! Which is today!

After I race home from work, it’s an evening featuring some of JG’s favorite things for his birthday celebration:

• Eating Chinese takeout
• Opening presents
• Having chocolate chip cookie cake, with “lots of frosting”, per his request
• Watching Survivor and CSI

It’s a school night, so it won’t be too wild, but it’s all about him, and that’s what really matters, right?

Happy Birthday, JG!

Metal and Carbon

I look at my engagement and wedding rings a lot ... three times in an hour is probably a low estimate. I imagine that someone seeing the frequent gazes at my finger – maybe passing by my desk at work or standing behind me at the pharmacy – might think that I'm a brand-newlywed, but I'm okay with that.

The rings lure my eyes so easily but they're very simple. My wedding band is a plain, white-gold band and it sits snugly behind my engagement ring, which is a thin, white-gold band with a round-cut diamond. My sister commented that I had “gone way traditional” when she first saw it, but that’s what I think engagement rings look like. I don’t have a rock that will blind someone across the room, but I’m a small person, and I wanted something in proportion to me. When I look at it, I remember the first time I realized how amazingly reflective diamonds are. I was sitting at my computer and my hand drifted into the sunbeam that fell across my desk. Tiny points of light danced on my wall, and I moved my hand slightly, transfixed at the spots’ movements. I was stunned that the ring on my very own finger could create that much light and play. I still like to see how lamplight is reflected within and outside of the stone, but that’s a bit of the inner geek talking.

Sometimes, for just a few minutes, I take off my rings and wear one at a time. I feel like they embody different stages of my life. The engagement ring is anticipation: wearing it alone brings back the excitement of wedding planning, showers, and the pleasure of telling how JG proposed. The wedding ring is contentment; the solitary band is modest and symbolizes a long, strong commitment. It’s uncluttered and quiet, the way I’d like to be in the future. My rings give me aspirations of optimism and serenity and I like them together because of it.

Pragmatically, I know that these pieces of jewelry are just metal and carbon and these cold, hard materials do not intrinsically inspire affection and awe. What is it, then?

Ah, it’s the giver. Yes, I think of anticipation and contentment when I see them, but most of all, I think of JG. I remember him down on one knee and at the altar. I remember saying yes and saying vows. That’s a lot to handle, and somehow, all of it is compressed into these two rings. No wonder I look at them so often. Maybe I’ll be able to wrap my head around it one of these days.

Until then, I’m satisfied to look my rings periodically, and occasionally flutter them in front of JG and say, “Look how pretty!” as he shakes his head. He knows I love them and him, but not in that order.

Surrounded

When JG sees or experiences something that is just too happy for words, he makes this noise. Kind of a long, drawn-out “Haghhh” from the back of the throat. It rasps against the roof of the mouth. Think Darth Vader. What has the power to induce this dramatic exhale? Why, it’s ping pong on ESPN! Haghhh. HDTV! Haghhh.

Recently, we’ve welcomed in a new member of the family that brings on the most prolonged of breaths: The Almighty Surround Sound. Say it with me. Haghhh.

The surround sound was JG’s gift to himself when he received his paycheck for coaching volleyball over the fall and I admit that I wasn’t totally opposed to it. He chose a Consumer Reports' Best Buy and it was quite reasonable. And silver. And shiny. It matched our TV!

There were two conditions to JG’s purchase: 1) He couldn’t set up the back speakers with any visible wires and 2) He had to believe me when I thought the volume is too high. I was not looking forward to a perpetual game of “it’s too loud”/“no, it’s not”. JG agreed to the conditions, took the plunge and a nice FedEx man lurched to our door, grunting, with a 50-pound box in his grasp.

The installation process was a blur of Styrofoam, unplugging, and testing – oh, the testing. I watched as JG scurried around the living room, listening to every speaker. “Oh, we’re in business,” he muttered, “This bad boy’s good to go.” He tested the TV audio, a CD of Indian-inspired music – “That’ll sound awesome!” – and, of course, a movie. It had to be a movie that would take advantage of the full range of the surround system and the progressive scan DVD player (whatever that means) that came with it; the movie that immediately sprang to JG’s mind was none other than The Matrix 2, complete with whizzing bullets and motorcycles. I was not a fan, to say the least. I didn’t think it was impressive at all that the sound of a motorcycle zoomed from back to front to follow its path and I was all creeped out because I felt like there were, well, bullets flying past my head. I winced as JG sat next to me and whispered, “Oh, this is awesome. Haghhh.” Uh, right.

This past weekend, I took the system for a whirl with Finding Nemo, the least macho movie ever. When I got the full experience of hearing the fish splash all around with that swelling music and seeing it through crystal-clear progressive-scan-induced picture – well, I was won over. What can I say? Haghhh.

Hello, Nurse

At 2am this morning, JG woke up shivering and shortly thereafter, he sprinted to the bathroom and was violently ill. I sat halfway up as he staggered back and cranked up the heat. It was a wakeful night for both of us: JG had a routine of being sick every 35 minutes – eerily regular – and I snapped to attention whenever a chill ran through him or he got out of bed. Bile rose in my throat whenever I heard the proceedings and queasiness soon followed. Upon JG’s feeble requests, I fetched a thermometer (slight fever), water, and ice pops, to no avail.

That’s how we ended up, instead of grilling bratwurst in this amazingly warm weather in preparation for the UD vs. William and Mary game, sitting on the couch with College Gameday on TV. JG is huddled up in a blanket with a stainless steel bowl by his side. I ran out to get a fluorescent bottle of Gatorade because we’re both afraid that he’s becoming or already is dehydrated. The sight of food makes JG’s stomach turn and I’m watching him warily, waiting for the next onslaught. His pallor and weakness startle me.

The glossary of symptoms on WebMD unhelpfully turned up everything from the stomach flu to radiation treatment side effects. We make an educated guess that it’s food poisoning; according to the all-knowing Alton Brown, that’s usually the case with a so-called 24-hour bug. A quick search reveals symptoms that are close enough to what JG has, but after I read off the questions, he affirms that he does not have to go to the emergency room. And then I remember that I don’t know what the closest hospital is, and I make a panicked, mental note to figure that out. I think the plan is to try and keep him hydrated and wait out the 48 hours that food poisoning typically takes to clear out.

I feel uneasily useless in this situation. My weak stomach flips and flops at the hint of anything unsightly and I’ve warned JG that it will be very hard for me to clean up after him if he, uh, misses. He’s very understanding, but I’m terribly insufficient for this wife-turned-nurse phase. I’ve found yet another way in which I am too weak of heart to nurse a child; how do parents do it? I can’t even handle this gracefully when my patient is mobile, self-aware, and adept at expressing his symptoms. Gah.

JG’s asleep now. I’ll fix myself some lunch and keep an eye on him.

Open House-aversary

Today is our house-aversary!

Okay, I know that's a fake word. See, last year, on this date, an intrepid group of folks helped JG and me pack up our one-bedroom apartment and move into our new house: #716. After a quick rundown of my system (“Here’s the fragile room”, “This is stuff that can go on the bottom of piles”, etc.), they artfully packed up two pickups, two minivans, and several cars full of red Staples copy boxes and our paltry hand-me-down furniture. Due to our general lack of possessions, we started at 8am and finished in time to have lunch, which was provided by JG’s parents, bless them. I can’t look around this house without thinking about our friend who unloaded and sorted our many books; there’s also a very handy friend who changed our locks for us right after we pulled in the driveway. I am so grateful to have had that support when we were moving, and without those great people, that day would have been so very stressful. Instead, it was pretty fun and definitely memorable.

We never had a proper housewarming party because the first few months of home ownership were a blur of sorting through boxes and figuring out things like water and heat, so! Today, we tried to make up for it with a house-aversary party – an open house with lots of snacky foods, tours of rooms we’d painted, and stories of the past year.

Our fresh jack o’ lanterns welcomed our friends throughout the afternoon, and we enticed them into staying with mulled cider, taco dip, veggies, candy corn, and baked goods – chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and snickerdoodles, oh my! I gave a few tours of the house, making a point to emphasize the six (!) rooms that JG painted since April. Everyone murmured admiringly, especially regarding his cutting-in and taping expertise. Our friends’ young boys individually added to the entertainment value by thumping out a beat on JG’s klong yaw, discovering The Complete Calvin and Hobbes with a little hyperventilation, and wearing a Dalmatian costume for the entire time. My made-up holiday was such a great excuse to make a lot of food, invite friends over, and talk and laugh about the past year. Our friends couldn’t believe it had been that long already, and honestly, neither could I.

After the last guest had left, we’d blown out the candles in our pumpkins, and set the house back in order, I sat down on the couch with a leftover mug of mulled cider cupped in my hands. I sipped and reflected on how different the house looked in just twelve months, how automatic to me that the notion of home was equivalent to this little blue split-level in the middle of our street. It warmed me to know that people loved our house because I love it, too.

Happy House-aversary, #716!

Flipping the Calendar

The first of the month has always been special to me because JG and I started dating on a first of the month. Every time I flip over the calendar page, I shout out how many months it has been, like last month's exclamation of, “Happy 47 Months!” You see, four years ago, we started dating on the first of October.

We were sophomores in college at the time. During the previous summer, we worked at a camp together as lifeguards and program facilitators, and even though we had become best friends during the school year before, that summer drew us closer together than ever. I think that there’s a certain bond that exists between people who have scrubbed canoes together that doesn’t come out of normal dating. We spent a month just being friends at school, getting reacquainted with our other way of life; JG would ride his bike to my dorm and shout up to my window, and we’d go to brunch together on weekends. One night, in my room, JG whispered to me, “I can’t ask you to marry me now, but do you think you would be my girlfriend in the meantime?” And I was a big fan of that.

At first, I was pretty averse to the “girlfriend” term. It seemed so temporary, so fleeting, when I felt that what we had was solid and real. We didn’t hold hands as we walked around campus because I thought it somehow flaunted our together-ness. I was having a hard time getting used to being part of a package deal, but JG was patient with me. Eventually, I got over both of these hang-ups and I was happy to hold JG’s hand as I introduced myself as his girlfriend. What a thrill!

So here we are at 48 months, after getting engaged by month 23 and married by month 33. We used to give each other cards or a small token each time the 1^st came around, but nowadays, it’s more often an early-morning greeting in bed or an email at work to brighten up the daily grind. The real gift is that we get to be with each other everyday, and I’m so glad for the reminder when each new month comes around.

Just What I Needed

“How was your day?” he asked.

JG and I were catching up over the phone as he drove home. He’d been at school for 14 hours – classes, volleyball practice, and the bonus of Back to School Night – so it was the first time we’d really talked.

“Sucky,” I said.

I told him how the lack of an administrative assistant at work made me the default person for ordering supplies and lunch in addition to fielding voicemails and cleaning up common areas, and oh, right, doing my actual job. How trying to train a new employee resulted in a task taking three times as long as it would have taken me to do it myself, especially when he didn’t bother to read the instructions provided. How doing work outside of my normal responsibilities prevented me from meeting a deadline today, and I hate it when I can’t follow through on what I say I’ll do. How this bitterness built up to the point that I snapped at my co-workers and felt awful. How I tried to drown my sorrows in pasta before watching 4 straight hours of straight television, including three episodes of the gem that is Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team. How I sat huddled on the couch with my fingers in my ears as lightning lit up the silhouettes of our trees because I hate thunder so much and I was too scared to close blinds. How glad I was to finally talk to him, even if I did cry a little and it was so late.

And then JG agreed with me that I had had a rough day, that it was ridiculous how tasks fell to me without any acknowledgement, and that it was probably one of the worst days for him to have to stay at school all day. “I owe you a big hug when I get home,” he told me. That sounded okay to me.

I feel a little better now, but I can’t wait for him to come home.

Identity Crisis

For as long as I've known him, JG has always wanted to coach a volleyball team. I missed his glory days of playing, but I've come along on my share of siblings' tournaments. This semester, at the high school where he teaches math, JG is also the head coach of the girls’ volleyball team, and I get to go watch their matches today! I’m really looking forward to it. Whenever JG mentioned coaching a team someday, I was totally on board. I had images of baking cookies, making scarves for the seniors, and schmoozing with the girls’ parents dancing in my head. I was going to be The Supercool Coach’s Wife. JG saw my head drifting into the clouds when we talked about it recently and he quickly pulled me back to earth, saying, “I think I have to tell the girls to call you Mrs. Married Last Name.”

Come again?

His logic is sound and definitely the safe way to go. The girls have to call him Coach Last Name because he teaches at their school, and it doesn’t make a lot of sense for them to use my first name. The parents can call me by my first name, but it’s not appropriate for the players, from his standpoint. Okay, fine. I get that. “But,” I protested, preparing to jump headfirst into the cliché, “…that’s your mother! Or your grandmother!”

Ah, but in the past few months, I’ve finally grown accustomed to signing that name on my credit card receipts. That’s the name I say when I introduce myself to new work contacts. It’s what shows up when people get emails from me. Don’t get me wrong, I was all about having a new name when we got married because mine was annoying in some ways, with mispronunciation at the top of the list. (I was unaware at the time that this new name was equally difficult for strangers to say and twenty times harder for me to spell over the phone.) I guess I was startled by the idea that using my first name wasn’t okay. Even when we worked with our church’s youth group and were summer camp counselors, it was fine to use first names, but I guess we’ve crossed over into Adult World, or something. Being Mrs. Married Last Name just makes me feel older, and not in a sophisticated way. It's kind of like how I nearly fell over when my grocery store cashier called me "ma'am" for the first time.

Oh, well. JG reassured me that he gets called Mr. Initial at school sometimes (due to the mispronunciation issues), so maybe that will catch on. I’ll go to the game today and take tons of pictures, and we’ll see what happens. Ultimately, I know I have to get over it. JG is going to be a teacher and a coach for a long time, and coercing the players into calling me “Mrs. Coach” just isn’t going to happen. Because that is not supercool.