Category: My Husband Rocks

Waiting On a Moment

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I was tempted to call you. Is this how it went for you? Is this how it’s supposed to go? All of a sudden this search has become bigger than casual drive-bys and GoogleMaps. Having gone through it before you makes you the instant expert in my eyes and so I’m telling you now, prepare yourself for all the questions. Did you think yourself as crazy as I do me right now? Did you find a place on the very first try?

We met for coffee (even though he doesn’t drink it) just like you said we would. The atmosphere was calm and cool, just as you said it would be. Page by page, line by line, we were told our options. Ways to get out were just as many as ways to commit in. Did he use the cookie with you, too?

Prowling around our first house was a lesson in humor. Newlyweds I muttered. Or something he joked back. Opening cabinets, running faucets, flushing toilets. Freezing when the phone rang. We’re supposed to be here he reminded me. Oh yeah. Opening closets, flicking on lights, checking wires. Huh? one of us grunts when a switch doesn’t turn anything on or off. Weird, the other mutters. They have a dog. They need to do laundry. They have the biggest bed I have ever seen. It all seems so overly personal. Invasive.
We moved on to the next piece of property. Not so funny. I did all the squawking, “I’d be a slave in the kitchen!” “All alone” I wailed. “Look! The hall of doom.” “Nope, don’t like it.” “Who paints their bedroom sea-foam green?” “What’s with all the mirrors?” “How on earth do you get in the back yard?” “Do they have a horse or just like the horse gate?” When we started discussing chopping into load-bearing walls I shut down and closed my mind like a prison cell; clanking shut with just as little chance of it opening again. “Can we go back to the other house?” I almost whined.
You were right. I know what I like. I found what I like. I’m just waiting on the moment to say lets seal the deal. Have I gone mad?

Dare I Say It?

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dentedYou know that saying, the one about sh!t and the pot…? I felt that way about the home-buying experience. As a virgin in the last realm left for me-property – I was beginning to feel that sh!torgetoffthepot urgency. Weekend after weekend, checking out open houses with closed minds, week after week of reading and deleting property updates, thinking this could work, but knowing it wouldn’t. I was getting fed up with the process because it felt like spinning wheels and wasting gas. It wasn’t enough to see the potential in a house when the neighborhood was awful (or vise versa). What, exactly, were we waiting for? Christmas in July?

Then Kisa crashed my car. Well, more accurately, some woman plowed into him. Either way, my car took the hit and couldn’t go a mile further. Either way I was rendered transportationless. It was a mental thing. I didn’t need the wheels but suddenly when I was without them, I was missing them. Big time. Somehow, in some way, being powerless to motion spurred me into action. I called a real estate agent.

I called an honest to goodness, real, realtor. It’s as if I needed a proverbial chili dog to get me moving. Dare I say it? I’m staying on the pot.

November Is…

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Giant
November is completely out of whack – already! I posted a review and then realized I hadn’t even listed out everything I plan to read. Woops! Truth be known, I hadn’t really decided what I wanted to read this month (hence the silly delay). But, this is what November is: November is when I wanted to turn on the heat. It actually came on 10/24 (at 56 degrees), but maybe now I’ll turn it up…to 60. This November marks the first time in my life I am not planning anything for the holidays (watch me cave and change my mind in the next two weeks). November is a marriage forever stuck at 22. November is (hopefully) a month of music. November is also the attempt to get a lot of reading done since it is National Novel Writing Month. Here’s the list:

  • Behind the Scenes at the Museum by Kate Atkinson (in honor of first novels) -already finished and reviewed!
  • A Continent for the Taking by Howard W. French (in honor of the best time to visit Africa).
  • The Darling by Russell Banks (in honor of Transgender month*, but, conveniently, also about Africa).
  • Passionate Nomad by Jane Geniesse (in honor of National Travel Month – or one of them, at least!).

and if there is time:

  • As I Live and Breathe: Notes of a Patient Doctor by Jamie Weisman (in honor of National Healing Month).
  • Battle Cry of Freedom: the Civil War Era by James M. McPherson (in honor of November being the month the Civil War ended).

And a few “goals” such as they were: getting my car fixed & getting life as I know it back on track. Period.

*None of the books I will be reading in honor of Transgender Month actually are about people of transgender. Nancy Pearl has a chapter called “Men Channeling Women” in More Book Lust (p 166), but since National Men Channeling Women month doesn’t exist (yet), I thought this would be a good tongue-in-cheek substitute.

A Lesson in Patience

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Last night my street was crawling with children. Face painted, wigged out. Some grubby-greedy, some sweet. All yelling Trick or Treat in crazy costumes. I was prepared with the sugared, packaged, rot-your-teeth treats but that didn’t really matter. I don’t think any of them would have had the tricks if I didn’t. Adults banged drums (what’s up with that?) and talked loudly. Parents hung back while their children groped their way up my steps, their eyes wide and wanting. In the darkness I could just make out Batman and a ghost whispering. Everytime I opened my book the doorbell would ring. One little rabbit didn’t have a bag to put her candy into. She held out a paw with wistful eyes. Her mom showed me the ripped paperbag she was barely holding together. "It’s been a long night" she explained. Before she could protest I produced a cauldron for her little bunny (I tried not to think of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction ). I love this time of year. Love this wild night. You wouldn’t think it to hear me talk, but I love the costumes, the creativity of some of the parents. I love the kids who say thank you ever so politely and stare up at you wanting more. The kids! I like laughing at the ones who pause to check out the goods and compare. Two Patriots (Brady and Moss) traded candy bars before even getting off my porch. Lot and lots of kids carried Unicef boxes – wasn’t expecting that. Note to self: have the change jar close by to avoid cleaning out the wallet!
Speaking of cleaning out – I ran out of candy before kisa could come home with backup (working late again). I wasn’t all that prepared this year so I tried to make the goodies stretch by bagging them with plastic flies and glitter. Truth be known, I kinda wanted to be somewhere else this year.
Later, when kisa finally got home we walked around the neighborhood. Adults hung out on darkened, candlelit porches while kids continued to chase each other with loud shrieks of laughter. We let Manorabug Spuke glow until close to midnight. Maybe he’ll light the November night, too.

This morning after pancakes and coffee Halloween came down from my living room. All the ghosts, gargoyles, cats, owls, pumpkins, witches, monsters, skulls, spiders and bats. Each one carefully wrapped and packed. I’m leaving one pumpkin out to fill with change throughout the year. That will take care of the Unicef Trick or Treaters. After that, I’m off to find a new cauldron.

Meet Manorabug Spuke

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Manorabug is a spin-off of Windorabug. With his lid on, he is a man with hair. Without the lid he looks more like a bug. He belongs to the sky with his two stars and crescent moon tattoos. Mr. Spuke gets his last name from the family of spookies (came from Ireland in the 16th century). They later changed their name to Spuke to avoid detection every 10/31.

Better pics coming soon!

Look You in the Eye

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So small

I had a funny thoughtquestion yesterday. It came out of someone else acting tougher than need be. When is it okay to say you need? When is it okay to lean on someone else for support even though you know damn well you can do it all by yourself? If my father had his way for my life he wouldn’t have wanted me to need anyone for anything. “Figure it out for yourself” he would have said. Be tough, be strong. Be blahblahblah.
Wrong.
I have this friend. This amazing friend who I sometimes complain to, bitch to, vent to, rant to. She listens with every fiber of her being and then tells me what I already know. I need her in my life to keep me sane. I may think I’m having an insane moment; a very insane moment, but she’ll reel me back in and tell me what’s logical about my lunacy. I don’t need her yet I do.
I have this husband. This wise-azz, smart, sensible husband who I sometimes whine to, cry to. I ask him permission to buy spooky signs, giant pumpkins and haunted villages. I need him in my life to keep my budget grounded. I may think I can afford every ghost, cat, witch and skull that comes along but he’ll reel me back in and tell me what’s illogical about my yearnings. He tells me what I already know. I don’t need him yet I do.
I have this life. This funny, crazy, vulnerable life which I sometimes think isn’t worth bothering with. I see black clouds and glass-half-empties all the time and often I find myself asking what’s the point? It’s then that I realize I need this life just the way it is, just the way it turned out. I can look you in the eye and say it. I need you.

Pushing September Out

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I decided to push September out the door a little earlier than any calendar would suggest. Yeah, yeah. I have three more days, but who’s counting? Certainly not me. It’s been a hard month.

Truth be known I am always itching for October 1st. My Halloween has 31 days. My thrill time lasts all month. Better than Christmas. Don’t ask me why. I think it started when I was a kid. Mom would make these outrageous costumes (extremely elaborate, creative, funky…but on a frayed shoestring budget – we’re talking tinfoil and spray paint). My all-time favorite was a gigantic pumpkin made out of coat hangers, a bed sheet and lots of paint. I barely fit through doors, couldn’t sit down all that well and my face itched for days on end, but man! it was a cool costume. Another time sis and I were Miss Piggy and Kermit the frog. I remember being embarrassed by the ginormous breasts and blue eye shadow. We were a sight to see! Us kids would pile into the back of a pickup truck and bounce all over the island looking for treats while the older boys played tricks. Scary all the time they were worse on Halloween. Dusk brought eerie shadows to our faces as we tried to peer into plastic bags for goodies. Whoopie pies spilled from my mother’s kitchen as big as your fist. Apple cider simmering on the wood stove.

These days I don’t run around wearing orange and green paint pretending to be a vegetable from the patch. If I’m lucky I will get my kisa to take a walk among the trick or treaters so I can count the goblins. Every year someone on my block plays Nightmare Before Christmas on the side of his house. Candles glow from jack-o-lanterns on every stoop. Leaves crunch beneath our feet. There is some sort of magic in the air. I can’t really explain it. The sugar shacks start up their boils and put on breakfast feasts.
What I need to do now is find my way to the basement, locate the big box marked “Halloween”, drag it up to the living room, and unpack my spooky friends. Who cares if it’s still September? Who cares if I’m in the wrong month. It’s time to get back to the right state of mind.

But You Love Me Anyway

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Rock Love
New love has quirks that are considered cute and lovable. Those things that a new lover says and does that are oh so different and revealing and disregarded. Those things are even adorable for a little while. Then, reality bites. Hard. There comes that time after the dust of desire has settled and new love matures into you and me, not one without the other. A given that you and me will be together. That’s when quirky becomes quite something else. Confusing. Contradicting. Infuriating. How we deal with these things that were once so lovable is a good indication of new loves maturity into real love. For me, adding up the quirks and realizing you are still with me is how I know you still love me. Regardless.

I was on the phone with a friend so I couldn’t quite comprehend the conversation occuring without me. I heard something about shoes. Something about a wallet. You were laughing. I knew you could only be discussing my quirks. With my friends no less. Some of whom have a whole wealth of stories on their own. I brought this on myself. I know I did.

It started innocently enough. It was last week. I was cooking curry turkey burgers and had somehow put the buns together wrong. Top with a top, bottom with a bottom. Still edible in my mind – just not pretty to look at. I’ve done it a hundred times before. You came down the stairs in time to hear me swear, in time to watch me try to flip bottom bun for a top. I turned to you and hissed through gritted teeth, “I will always leave my shoes in the middle of the floor. I will always misplace my keys. And. I will ALWAYS put the wrong halves of the buns together! So. You’ll just have to deal with it!” Instead of taking the bait. Instead of picking the fight I was wanting to have, you smiled at me and said gently, “I know something else you will always do.” Forgetting to be angry I dropped the fight and stopped dead. “What?” I wanted to know. “I’ll give you a hint” you replied as you proceded to close every cabinet door in the kitchen. What can I say? I was cooking like a fiend and didn’t have time to close cabinets!

I like tallying the quirks. I like seeing the oddities add up. The longer the list, the more I know you love me. Despite it all you love me anyway.
For the record:

  • I take my shoes off wherever and just leave them for kisa to trip over
  • I leave cups of half finished coffee in odd places, fully intending to finish them later (until they mold)
  • I lose my wallet, keys and/or phone on a regular, sometimes daily, basis
  • I leave cabinet doors open
  • I cannot put burgers together correctly
  • I hand material objects to random people and won’t remember it later
  • I have to cover restaurant food with a napkin when I’m finished
  • I cannot open resealable bags without somehow ruining the ziplock

To the love of my life. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being my lover. Thank you for making me strive to be a better person. I may have my quirks but my life is perfect with you in it. Happy anniversary!
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

September is a Confession

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Golden Days End
Golden Days End

I am all messed up. Turned inside out and tired. Really, really tired. Here’s the deal. I went home with a reading plan in place. I knew everything I wanted to read and even the order in which I would do all this reading. I even made a big deal about lugging all that stuff home. It didn’t happen. I got to Maine and everything fell apart.

In a stream of excuses here’s what happened: I didn’t bring the right books. I didn’t bring enough to books. I chased my nephews around instead of turning pages. I scoped out the neighbor’s new porch. I gorged on blackberries and crab apples. I couldn’t make time for the library let alone the internet. I held hands with my husband. Hiked huge hills with great friends. Watched sunsets with a glass of pino between my knees. Ate savory and sweet scones from Sweet Bob. When I did pick up a book it wasn’t one on my list (Islands by Anne Rivers Siddon comes to mind).

So, here’s the deal. I just escaped paradise. I’m just back and I’m just out of sorts. I don’t want to take a shower for fear of washing away my island residue. Last night I slept with the light on because the silence on the street was not the silence of the ocean. For once, the cat wasn’t the compatible companion. I have no clue what books I am supposed to be reading for September. I have no clue and right now I don’t care.

So, September is: slogging through tons and tons of email. (Yahoo = 234, Google = 565, LibraryThing = 3, work = 199, RealEstate = 66). September is Rebecca Correia on the 12th. September is Sean Rowe’s new album. Otherwise, September is slow to start.

All in Shock

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My mother’s email read, “D died suddenly. All in shock.” No sh!t. Shock is an understatement. Kisa came to bed and said, “I think I know what happened. Yaz went into the hospital early this morning and D couldn’t take it.” Despite my self stunned state I smiled. He had a point and could possibly be right. No one loved the Red Sox more than D, except maybe his daughter.

I want to think that’s exactly what happened. Home is just too small of a place for mysteriously sudden passings. Things like that just don’t happen. We read about them in the news. We see them on television. They shock us yet we manage to shake our heads and say Glad that wasn’t here. But, but. But! In our little world when people die we usually see it coming from a long way off. Like a ship on the horizon we see the approach and brace ourselves for the arrival. We have time to think, time to prepare. Even my father sent us signs. Headaches, high blood pressure. We should have seen it coming a mile away yet we chose to be stunned.

“All in shock” is definitely an understatement.

Edited to add: Nothing could have prepared me for the passing of LeRoi Moore. It seems so unreal. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that a founding member of the Dave Matthews Band, just 46 years old, is dead. I have to blink my eyes and scratch my head. Three days of bad news. Is it September already?

My Day

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Kisa sent me a link today. Said it was my day for my kind. My Day. A day for Lefties. A day dedicated to 10% of the population…those being not right handed. Imagine that! Needless to say I automatically joined the club and then immediately questioned my qualifications. Even felt a little guilty about printing out the certificate…(but it’s a pretty certificate).

I’m not entirely all right brained. This dominate right hand world has taught me a little something about compromise. Think about it. Try using a computer mouse in your left hand. Try holding a pair of scissors upside down. It’s a little screwy. So, I adapted. Here’s more: I throw a ball equally as bad with my left as with my right. I play golf right handed. I zest lemon rind with my right. Nutmeg, too. Peel potatoes righty. Even pick my nose with the right. So, am I right to belong to a left-handed club? Hmmmm….

Nice Guys Never

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Power Hungry

I think I’ve said it a billion and one times. Today makes a billion and two. I always root for the underdog. That doesn’t mean I like the self-professed Homer/Family Guy; the guy who is proud to be life’s class clown fukc-up. Kisa, when I first met him said “I’m dumb.” But, that didn’t mean he was describing his whole IQ in a nutshell. He meant when it comes to meaningful relationships he’s not Mensa. I like that honesty, that soul-baring GiveMeAbreak mea culpa. I’ve Never Done This Before kind of virginity.

Let me clarify one thing. Underdog doesn’t mean under-confident, under-powered, under anything. Really.
I think I speak for every woman out there when I say tough is attractive. There’s a reason why the bad boy wins and nice guys finish last. Sometimes. Confidence is kickazz. Awkward is…well…awkward. Daring James Dean trumps goofy Gilligan every single time. Why am I saying this? Well, I’m tired of that guy saying he’ll never find someone. I know why. He knows why. He sells himself short. He takes pride in being a punching bag, the punchline to someone else’s joke. Meek is murder on meeting people. It’s frustrating when the personality has flat lined five minutes into the conversation. The underdog is scrappy, a fighter, a face to be reckoned with – not walked over. I was telling a friend about Kisa and she exclaimed, “but he’s such a nice guy!” Yeah, he’s nice, but not exactly innocent when it comes to trouble.

I came across someone’s Woe Is Me-ness the other day. If I had a remote I would have changed the channel. No, if I had a remote I would have hit the mute button. No, no, no! If I had a remote I would have shut the whole thing off. Here’s a tip, boyfriend: you are smart, you are funny, you are even cute to boot. Stop whining about what wasn’t or what was at one time and wonder what could be. Stop telling me how everything about your life falls short. Do something about it. Do something about you. Really. Be a man for fukc’s sake. Or, if you can’t be a man, be a bad boy.

Sunday Morning Routine

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We have settled into some semblance of a Sunday morning routine. Catching up on myself’s shows first thing in the morning. Awake but not getting out of bed, cheating morning and waking and thinking for another hour. The Food Network. Coffee. Hot and fresh brewed. I’m up but not.

Later. House hunting. We map each address in order of distance and time. Open houses. That one doesn’t start until 1pm. Let’s save it until last. Go here first. So it goes. So many questions. How is the neighborhood? Is it a hood? Can I walk the walk or will they send me running? How far from the street is it? How many cars can fit in the driveway? What if we actually (gasp) have people over? Garage? Kitchen? Counter space? Gas or electric? Can I socialize while stirring and sauteing? Will my butt hit the fridge while standing at the sink? Fireplace? Ceiling fans? Ranch? Colonial? Cape? WTF? Basements finished or frightening? Security system or do we get a dog? Closets walk in or full of skeletons? Porch, deck or patio? All three? Lawn to mow? Dude room? Workout room? Laundry room? Indiana room? Mudroom? Guest room? Gawd forbid we want someone to actually spend the night! Bathrooms 1, 1.5, or 2? Central air? Central vac? Central to work? Hardwood or wall to wall? Marble or laminate? Grand or gross?

We walk through old house after new house, roomy room after teeny-tiny room. Agents follow us with the details: one owner, built in —-, new roof, updated kitchen, close to schools…I take notes to show interest but have no intentions. No set plan. Everything has something. Nothing has nothing, well, except Sanders. Can’t decide. Don’t want to decide. Not now. No rush to move. Kisa brings up another house. I shut him down. Let’s not go there. Literally or figuratively. I’m done with the red house on the corner. We’ll keep on looking. Keep on searching.

And so next weekend we’ll watch tv in bed to wake up and catch up. Coffee and the paper. A map. More open houses. New emails. New agents. New addresses. Keeping with the new Sunday routine.
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Wasted on the Way

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Somewhere along the way I decided I wasn’t going to play the game anymore. Except, somewhere along the way I forgot to tell you. Consider this the open letter of I’m telling you now. I’m wasted enough to stop waiting.

I’m through with the games. We have been lying to each other for a while now. We play ping pong with promises. Bounce one to me and I’ll volley one back. But, really, they’re all lies. I have no intention of calling you. I have no intention of helping you out. The game is at the give up point and I’ve given all that I can. Now I’m just pretending. Now I’m just acting stupid because I can’t tell you how I really feel. Until now. I went from being your biggest fan favorite to feeling like the biggest fallout failure.

You used me to get somewhere else. That’s okay as long as you got where you needed to go. That’s only because I got something out of it, too. But now I’m done. There were too many other people involved and I can’t justify dragging them into this any longer. If there’s any dragging to be done it’ll be done by me – dragging my tail between my legs and admitting I was stupidstupidstupid.

Kisa has heard the rant. Time has heard the rant. I think everyone has heard the rant. The rant has turned me into a raving lunatic. Pass me the bottle. I want to poison myself enough to puke out everything vile, everything I thought I believed in. I need to get wasted to make you go away.