A snow globe the size of my living room would also ensure that I'd be living heaven on earth. I can't imagine anything more important, or beautiful. Unless you are single and therefore can't enjoy any of that. If no one is there to kiss you at midnight on December 31 and it has nothing to do with herpes sores around your mouth, then Kay Jewelers doesn't recognize your existence.
I'm very lucky. I have a fantastic, truly FANTASTIC husband, but he's a lot of work. He can't help it, he's a man. He just naturally uses the bathroom like he is in a men's prison and the rival gang to his gang is the gang that cleans the bathroom. He's smart, funny, interesting, talented, cute and has a rare disorder that causes him to lose every food container we own. There's no cure for that, we just have to buy another set of pyrex. Tragic.
I can't remember what I did last new year's eve, but I have a great memory for the things my husband does wrong. I practically have a Dewey Decimalized card-catalogue in my brain for that stuff. One of my favorite Chinese writers refers to marriage as a fortress besieged because everyone inside wants to safely escape without their home going up in flames and everyone outside desperately wants in. No matter how much you love someone, after a while, it's really easy to rag your partner about everything they do wrong because you know they can't leave you. Don't worry, he's not a cowering wallflower, otherwise I'd have a lemur and we'd be in Argentina right now, plus he rags me, too. Like, a lot.
We're feeling festive and grateful these days. To lure Santa to our house, we painted the blood of elves on our door and have been eating cookies at every meal. That's how you get him to bring you stuff, right?
Happy Hanukkah!
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Monday, August 19, 2013
4 Trips To The DMV Later And We're Leaving The State
My husband swears the two aren't related, but at the end of the month, we're leaving Connecticut. We have this thing, he and I, where we like to get our major life changes planned and executed in about four weeks.
There are many things I'm excited about - I love big cities, the excitement of moving to a new locale and learning a new neighborhood. On the minus side, I've lived near family and friends for almost four years and I'm sad to leave them. My mom just moved back to town, too! Well, maybe I'd do the same thing if all of a sudden I lived ten minutes from my mother-in-law. As my friend Nina puts it, "mother-in-laws are a gift." Which is true, and nobody should have too much of a good thing because then it would be less special. Actually, my M-I-L is pretty great, except for that time last year when she sat me in front of a computer for two hours and made me pick a bunch of stuff I didn't want from Uncle Crate and Colonel Barrel for a wedding registry that I now have to pack and schlep to another State.
Who will police New Haven's sidewalks for illegal bicyclists? The frozen yogurt wars have only just begun in this city and I won't be here to pick a side! The local newspaper reported on the frozen yogurt wars a few days ago because there will now be 5 establishments serving the build-your-own froyo, so that is totally a valid regret. This does give me an opportunity to "gift" my '89 Honda Accord to a less fortunate family member, although I use the word gift loosely since giant plumes of white smoke have been billowing out of the hood recently. I asked my friend if that was normal and he said yes, that's how cars work when you're poor. Hah!
I'm trying to stay positive while still feeling very sorry for myself. People keep asking me what I'm going to do in my new location, since we're moving because of a job opportunity for my husband, and I've come up with a stock answer that nobody has laughed at yet: volunteer interpretive dance.
One thing I struggle with in marriage is no longer being the star of the show. It's times like this when I am relegated to the role of sidekick and maybe even a stereotype. I'll be doing some solo apartment hunting and I feel like I should be finding a place with a spare cubby where I can iron his ties.
There are many things I'm excited about - I love big cities, the excitement of moving to a new locale and learning a new neighborhood. On the minus side, I've lived near family and friends for almost four years and I'm sad to leave them. My mom just moved back to town, too! Well, maybe I'd do the same thing if all of a sudden I lived ten minutes from my mother-in-law. As my friend Nina puts it, "mother-in-laws are a gift." Which is true, and nobody should have too much of a good thing because then it would be less special. Actually, my M-I-L is pretty great, except for that time last year when she sat me in front of a computer for two hours and made me pick a bunch of stuff I didn't want from Uncle Crate and Colonel Barrel for a wedding registry that I now have to pack and schlep to another State.
Who will police New Haven's sidewalks for illegal bicyclists? The frozen yogurt wars have only just begun in this city and I won't be here to pick a side! The local newspaper reported on the frozen yogurt wars a few days ago because there will now be 5 establishments serving the build-your-own froyo, so that is totally a valid regret. This does give me an opportunity to "gift" my '89 Honda Accord to a less fortunate family member, although I use the word gift loosely since giant plumes of white smoke have been billowing out of the hood recently. I asked my friend if that was normal and he said yes, that's how cars work when you're poor. Hah!
I'm trying to stay positive while still feeling very sorry for myself. People keep asking me what I'm going to do in my new location, since we're moving because of a job opportunity for my husband, and I've come up with a stock answer that nobody has laughed at yet: volunteer interpretive dance.
One thing I struggle with in marriage is no longer being the star of the show. It's times like this when I am relegated to the role of sidekick and maybe even a stereotype. I'll be doing some solo apartment hunting and I feel like I should be finding a place with a spare cubby where I can iron his ties.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
How Come Nobody Shoots Up The Department of Motor Vehicle?
Mandatory visits to the DMV are the closest that the average American will ever come to experiencing what a 1980s Communist Soviet bread line was like. Everyone is bedraggled and needs something urgently, the wait is ungodly and the people in charge are dumb and mean. My husband and I wasted an entire Saturday morning there this past weekend because he still uses his home-State driver's license and car registration. For various reasons, including legality, it's time to make the transfer. He went bright and early, on his own, for their Saturday 8am opening time. Unfortunately, he didn't have the proper documents and was home by 10:15 in a huff, rustling around for his passport and some pieces of mail to prove he existed. The employees were rude to him, so he asked me to go with on round 2 for moral support and company. He's a bit of a stress cadette. I should've brought snacks.
It was packed. First step was to stand in line to get a number - called the "information line." This is an experience in which one is really mixing with the masses. Some of the people in this line are ex-cons that have business at the same bureaucracy that you do. Maybe they have asked to borrow your cell phone to make a quick call to their mother. You have pretended the battery was dead. Wandering around the hordes of needy citizens clutching dirty file folders is a security guard whom we will call "Paul Blart Mall Cop" for purposes of this story. He wants to keep everyone in line and really wants people to sit in chairs and not stand idly in walkways. The thing is, nobody listens to Paul Blart Mall Cop because the DMV is like urban Mexico: if you cut me in line, I will shiv you with the pen that used to be chained to the back counter and Paul Blart Mall Cop doesn't have a gun, therefore I don't have to do what he says. In this place, everybody hates everybody - especially the people that had to bring their kids in. Every kid in that joint was eating a small bag of the greasiest potato chips fifty cents can buy and then running around like an untrained monkey grabbing onto things and then promptly losing their grip because their tiny palms were so greased up from the potato chips. It's like when my dog steps in a puddle and leaves little paw prints behind her except significantly less cute because potato chip grease leaves stains and none of those kids were as cute as Truffles. . .
So the kids were greasy, did a lot of screaming and running around, and everyone was miserable. I lost 4 hours of my life on Saturday at the DMV. We waited in three lines and were about five minutes from my husband getting his new Connecticut State driving license when they demanded a vision test. My husband lost his glasses, that he rarely ever wears, and blew the vision test in about 25 seconds. They handed him a form, to be filled out by an eye doctor certifying that he's safe to drive, and kept his $40 after denying his application. If, at any point during our marriage, I'd worried that my husband would buckle under stress and just have a stroke - that moment pales in comparison to what I saw on his face when we left the DMV. I would like to preface the next part of this story by saying that I married one of the kindest, gentlest men I've ever met. He loves to help people, solve problems and do nice things for others. He was the kind of date that would say, once seated at a restaurant, "it looks like the sun is in your eyes, we should move or switch seats." He cared for an aggressive dog with poor potty training for over two years because he knew that the only alternative was to put her down. He's loyal and dedicated and considerate and I thought he was going to burn down that building.
For two hours or so after our departure from the DMV, when he was so upset I couldn't even let him drive home, my driving was actually the safest option, he was demanding that we move out of state immediately. So beside himself with rage, he couldn't walk in a straight line, I ushered him home and into our apartment to feed him something heavy, or sleeping pills, or chloroform him. I really and truly wish I could describe this time to you, but he's called marriage secret, a term we learned from our "pastor" ordained on the internet, about the whole incident and I can't write about it. Ultimately, it took a margarita, a plate of steak quesadillas, 3/4 of my tamale and my chicken enchilada to bring him back to sanity, but that was no joke, son.
It was packed. First step was to stand in line to get a number - called the "information line." This is an experience in which one is really mixing with the masses. Some of the people in this line are ex-cons that have business at the same bureaucracy that you do. Maybe they have asked to borrow your cell phone to make a quick call to their mother. You have pretended the battery was dead. Wandering around the hordes of needy citizens clutching dirty file folders is a security guard whom we will call "Paul Blart Mall Cop" for purposes of this story. He wants to keep everyone in line and really wants people to sit in chairs and not stand idly in walkways. The thing is, nobody listens to Paul Blart Mall Cop because the DMV is like urban Mexico: if you cut me in line, I will shiv you with the pen that used to be chained to the back counter and Paul Blart Mall Cop doesn't have a gun, therefore I don't have to do what he says. In this place, everybody hates everybody - especially the people that had to bring their kids in. Every kid in that joint was eating a small bag of the greasiest potato chips fifty cents can buy and then running around like an untrained monkey grabbing onto things and then promptly losing their grip because their tiny palms were so greased up from the potato chips. It's like when my dog steps in a puddle and leaves little paw prints behind her except significantly less cute because potato chip grease leaves stains and none of those kids were as cute as Truffles. . .
So the kids were greasy, did a lot of screaming and running around, and everyone was miserable. I lost 4 hours of my life on Saturday at the DMV. We waited in three lines and were about five minutes from my husband getting his new Connecticut State driving license when they demanded a vision test. My husband lost his glasses, that he rarely ever wears, and blew the vision test in about 25 seconds. They handed him a form, to be filled out by an eye doctor certifying that he's safe to drive, and kept his $40 after denying his application. If, at any point during our marriage, I'd worried that my husband would buckle under stress and just have a stroke - that moment pales in comparison to what I saw on his face when we left the DMV. I would like to preface the next part of this story by saying that I married one of the kindest, gentlest men I've ever met. He loves to help people, solve problems and do nice things for others. He was the kind of date that would say, once seated at a restaurant, "it looks like the sun is in your eyes, we should move or switch seats." He cared for an aggressive dog with poor potty training for over two years because he knew that the only alternative was to put her down. He's loyal and dedicated and considerate and I thought he was going to burn down that building.
For two hours or so after our departure from the DMV, when he was so upset I couldn't even let him drive home, my driving was actually the safest option, he was demanding that we move out of state immediately. So beside himself with rage, he couldn't walk in a straight line, I ushered him home and into our apartment to feed him something heavy, or sleeping pills, or chloroform him. I really and truly wish I could describe this time to you, but he's called marriage secret, a term we learned from our "pastor" ordained on the internet, about the whole incident and I can't write about it. Ultimately, it took a margarita, a plate of steak quesadillas, 3/4 of my tamale and my chicken enchilada to bring him back to sanity, but that was no joke, son.
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