Category: My Husband Rocks

What You Owe Me

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What you owe me is an apology. An apology for being so fukcing insensitive. An apology for thinking we are close enough for that elbow-in-the-ribs-just kidding-hardy-har-har sh!t. Didn’t you notice the silence that followed? The slow, drawn out, dripping with barely contained sarcasm when he replied, “riiiighhht….” Was the tension thick enough or did you move right through it oblivious (as usual)?
This is a public rant so filled with anger you might want to turn your heads. Someone touch a nerve you ask? Not hardly. This wound is so raw, so tired of people poking at it, never giving it time to heal that it has bled dry. Nothing left to give. It gets tiring, always making excuses, pretending to be brazen and beyond it all. Well, not anymore.
DINK. Dual Income No Kids. Also stands for Didn’t I Not Know? Here’s what you don’t know. I’ll break it down for you:
Dual Income – yes because neither one of us is in it for the money we need both incomes to live the life we want. Neither of us has the luxury of being a stay at home anythings. Dual income because we love the work we do. Wouldn’t change a thing even though it means working for nuts and peanuts.

No Kids – Here’s where I gnash teeth and spit nails because you have no clue what you are talking about. Did you ever consider this: Clinically infertile. Barren. Irrevocable damaged goods. WhatE-v-e-r you want to call it. No natural born killers kids. No. Maybe there was a kid and now he’s gone and nothing can replace him? One shot deal. Adoption is a laughable gesture. Who in their right mind wants to hand over a kid to someone who has lost a mind; been to the funny farm? Has a shrink on speed dial? Has tried to commit suicide more than once? Has mental moments on an almost daily basis? Give me a fukcing break.
There comes a time when you know something just wasn’t meant to be. Seriously. You don’t pine away. You don’t cry over spilt sperm. You pick your azz up and carry on. Last but not least, you don’t take too kindly to the nickname dink.
So, back to what you owe me. Dink.

Lost Without It

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Me without my right hand ring is like not having a right hand at all. Friday night seemed normal enough. Nothing out of the ordinary. Exchanged texts with a friend and laughed about his upcoming gigs. Worked out. Took a cold bath but washed my hair standing over the tub, bent under the faucet. Later, I read a chapter in bed, a cool sheet draped over my knees. Coming into the home stretch of a really good book I got sleepy. When kisa came to bed I curled around his hip, grateful for the sleep that was coming fast & easy.

I couldn’t tell you what made me notice; what made me panic, but all of a sudden I felt my thumb ring was gone. For nearly 7 years this silver band with cod worn smooth swimming clockwise has not left my right hand. It’s my symbolic home away from home and suddenly it was missing. A strip of pale white skin marked where the ring should have been. Wide awake with panic I jumped out of bed. Kisa frantically asking “what? What? What’s wrong?” but I couldn’t answer him. It all seemed too stupid. This piece of metal was an extension of my, myself & moi. How could I explain that without it I was completely lost? Even now I don’t expect anyone to understand this whatsoever.

Like a madwoman I retraced my steps. Back to where I lifted. Did I fling it off mid tricep kickback? Wouldn’t I feel something like that? Back to where I undressed for the bath…back to the…bath. Oh no. With dread I remembered standing over the drain, my soapy hands scrubbing my scalp, the force of water when I rinsed (Why did we have to have such great, rushing water pressure?!), the open drain….I pictured the ring slipping off oh so easily and sliding down the drain to be lost forever. It was the only logical explanation. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. That had to be it. Kisa lured me back to bed and with the sulk of a child I went.

By 4:30am I was awake again and crawling around the living room on my hands and knees searching under the couch and in the folds of the fabric. I pictured calling my sister and asking her for the phone number to the shop where I got the ring 7 years earlier. I was getting desperate enough to have another one shipped to me although in my heart of hearts I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Not finding anything downstairs I was drawn back to the bath. Hypnotized by the thought of the ring going down the drain I tested my theory…with my wedding ring. My $1,000+ wedding ring. Holding it tightly I tried to push it down the drain and discovered…it wouldn’t fit. There was hope my ring of fishes didn’t fit either. 

In the end it was tangled in a tank top I had taken off earlier. Somehow it had lodged itself in the built-in bra and didn’t come loose even after I shook the shirt. I think Kisa was relieved I was happy again. I was happy I found my sanity.

Way Nicer Everything

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When we checked into the Long Beach motel the first thing I noticed were the signs everywhere alerting us to the fact that the management doesn’t care about our belongings. “Not responsible for lost or stolen personal items” was posted in at least three different places in our room. It made me think the maids had sticky fingers, a habit of “accidentally” walking away with things. This was the hotel “management’s” way of shrugging it off. The attitude didn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling about being a guest. Neither did their attitude about their treadmill, but that’s another blog. It’s ironic that this is where we left behind our camera charger & cell phone charger. Like they said (more than once): not responsible!

Then, there was something about the Mission Valley hotel in San Diego that rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was the broken phone when we first arrived. Maybe it was the lack of elbow room. But, but, but I’m betting it was the rude sign we encountered in the bathroom. I don’t know why I couldn’t see this as humorous. Instead of getting a chuckle out of it I felt accosted, confronted, accused of something I wouldn’t even think of doing. Sarcasm was in the ink of that sign.

Rude

When we finally got to Ontario we discovered way nicer everything. Larger pool with lax hours of operations (when we asked, the desk manager said it closed “around 10pm..ish”). Free breakfast. Nice huge room with flat screen tv. Way bigger bathroom. More luxurious toiletries. Best of all. No rude signs. Nothing warning us the maids steal. Nothing asking us not to, either.

Aquarium on the Hill

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In awe

I like the tucked away adventures. Everyone knows the Bronx Zoo, Sea World, Disney, Grand Canyon… Those are the things people expect you to visit while you are visiting. Locals and I’veBeenTheres will add their two cents, “Oh! Ya gotta go see blahblahblah.” I perk up whenever I hear the word “aquarium.” Doesn’t take much to get me there. Doesn’t matter how big (or small) it is, I’m there. While visiting a friend in D.C. I heard of an aquarium in a basement. We went.
Such was the case in Long Beach and La Jolla. My aunt urged us to see Birch Aquarium & swore we wouldn’t be disappointed. We weren’t.

I admit we arrived a little late. 90 minutes before closing. I worried that wouldn’t be enough time & promised myself I wouldn’t spend too much time in from of the leafies…if they had them. A little background: Birch Aquarium has been around since 1905 and have chosen the butterfly fish as its endearing mascot. One side of the aquarium is dedicated to ever changing, ever thought provoking educational exhibits. When we went the showcase was how species hide (Can you spot the…?) and the tragic effects of global warming on coral reefs. Really devastating to see. The other half of the aquarium is dedicated to permanent displays like the Tide Pool Plaza, an area they allows the young (and young at heart, like me) to touch creatures. It was closed by the time we got there. Most spectacular (of course) is the great hall of fishes with the grand finale being a 70,000 gallon tank complete with kelp forest. It truly is beautiful.

One of the oddest displays was a tank with two eels, a pacific lobster and some kind of crab. I couldn’t tell the species of crab because it was dead. Dead! The eels were minding their own business, looking grim while the lobster…munched on the crab. It was in part fascinating because I had forgotten how complex nature could be, how violent – survival of the fittest and all that. But, here’s the other thing I couldn’t get out of my head: the display was eating the display! Woops. We stood and stared. Mesmerized by the lobster’s untiring efforts to break open the armor of the crab carcass.

Finally, it was closing time and Kisa and I reluctantly moved towards the exits. I bought a shirt to remember the experience. As we were getting in our car a woman stopped us, “Is this the aquarium?” she leaned out of her minivan to ask. “yes, but they are closing” I replied, “come back tomorrow because it’s worth every second.”

Tallest SeahorseIMG_2449IMG_2410

May We Be Excused

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Sometimes, and it doesn’t matter how old you are, you feel like a kid at the adults’ table. At least, that’s what it felt like to me when Kisa and I finally escaped to explore San Diego by ourselves. We were leaving that afternoon to visit La Jolla, Ontario & Upland but wanted to get in a little time in SD before we said goodbye. As the song goes, who knows when we would pass this way again?

My aunt and uncle had raved about the harbor tour they had taken the day before (“best thing we ever did” they vowed) and suddenly it was all I wanted to do, too. I had boat envy. I wanted to be on the water in the worst way. So, we picked a tour and went. We opted for the deluxe version – two hours, both sides of the harbor. It turned out to be a sparkling fantabulous day – like the day before and the day before and the day before. Thanks to Tom, we reached the marina in plenty of time to park, buy tickets, use the restrooms and find front row seats in the bow. It felt like running away.

For two hours we toured San Diego’s harbor, north and south. At times I could barely hear the guide over the wind in my hair and fellow passengers around me. I didn’t mind missing out on the spiel. To me, it started to drone anyway. Instead I enjoyed the military ships, the brown pelicans, hefty sea lions, fellow boaters speeding by, splashing green water, white foam spray and dazzling sunshine.

Maybe You Should Drive

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The name of a Barenaked Ladies album (my favorite as a matter of fact)…or what Kisa heard the night of the wedding. Both, actually.

Kisa had been king driver since day one. He got us from Vegas to Long Beach; from Long Beach to San Diego; from our hotel to anywhere we wanted to go. All without complaint. All without a single utterance of “maybe you should drive.” He drew the line at mall chauffeuring, though. He got us there but refused to sit in a parking lot. It was our last full day in Diego, after all. He wasn’t about to wander a mall no different from the ones we have at home. “Call me when you need a pick-up” he cheerfully offered as we piled out of the car. “Okay.” I was equally as cheerful even though I knew my last day in Diego was going to be spent shopping (I’ve come to the conclusion if you’ve seen one Michaels, you’ve seen them all).

Later that evening Kisa confided to me that he’d had enough of driving. He was looking forward to cutting back on chaffeuring and cutting loose at the wedding. How many times had the groom told him he had a special beer for him? I wasn’t confident it would work out. In a family of drinkers sober drivers are really hard to come by.
Somehow we managed to hitch a ride with an aunt. No driving for kisa. So far so good. Maybe he would get to enjoy himself after all. I know what you are thinking. What about you? Couldn’t you drive? For those of you who don’t know me I don’t drink a drop and get behind the wheel of a car. Ever. Not one sip. Kisa is too kind to deny me a glass of wine at my cousin’s wedding. Having me escort was out of the question.

So, back to the party. The reception was raging. People dancing. People laughing. The music was rocking. We were having a great time. Kisa was on his third or fourth beer of the night. A drop compared to what others can put away. There we were, staring at the black harbor, enjoying the gentle rocking of yachts in the marina. A full glass of beer in Kisa’s hand. We had come out for a breath of fresh air. All of a sudden he feels a tap on his shoulder…”Say,” says a voice, “are you driving us back? Hint, hint.” I could feel Kisa’s defeat as he exclaimed “yeah, sure” and dumped out his full beer. I felt awful (as I was working on wine #2). As word spread “Drink up! J’s driving us home!” people began to approach Kisa to confirm. Each time he responded his speech became more slurred and giggly. He was just messing with them, but it was funny to see their eyes grow wide. You could almost hear their brains working, “is he really okay to drive?”

Of course he was. Kisa always drives.

Tom Took Me There

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Tom Took Me There or Which Way to the Zoo?

Balboa Park

Our TomTom is great. Plug in an address and turn by turn, mile by mile, Tom will get you where you want to go. It’s a combination of listening to what he says, watching his display screen and computing what comes up ahead. The line I heard over and over while in California was “ahead keep left; then stay on the left lane.” We heard that a lot. Basically, it was Tom reminding us to stay on 5 every time a new highway was introduced. Or something like that.
We used Tom everywhere we went and only once did he steer us wrong…errr…but really he was right. We wanted the San Diego zoo. We asked Tom for directions to the zoo. Simple enough. He gave us options for “zoo management offices” and something called a wild animal park. Well, in the zoo pamphlet I had picked up from the hotel it mentioned this wild animal park. Thinking it was a section of the zoo (like the wild safari is a part of Six Flags) I told Kisa “pick that one.” We certainly didn’t want to visit the management offices (unless it was run by a bunch of cute monkeys). Tom calculated the miles as my family piled into the car (Kisa was chauffeur for 90% of all outings, I should add. More on that later…). Soon we were off, passing wineries, ostrich farms, palm tree nurseries, fruit orchards, lots of interesting things. 30 minutes later Tom announced, “you have reached your destination” as we paid for parking.
Once we started walking around we realized we weren’t at the right place. The wild animal park was part of the zoo but in a completely different location. Something wasn’t right. Sooo…Back in the car we went; traveled the 30 minutes back to where we started and eventually, finally, found the right zoo. Monkeys and all.

 
Stalker

Lost One of the Nine

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On the way from Long Beach, California to San Diego I gave up one of my nine lives. I was going to call this blog I Hate Penske Trucks but decided against slamming an innocent company when really, it’s their reckless drivers I should be blaming.
We were somewhere between here and there and traffic was heavy. Kisa was driving (of course). Tom was his copilot and I served as a hood ornament for all my uselessness. There we were, in the farthest left lane (in other words, what should have been the fastest), when all of a sudden we came upon a Penske truck. Traveling in our lane. Hazards on. Going at least 15 mph slower than everyone else. For awhile Kisa hung out behind Penske, careful not to tailgate. But, no matter how hard he tried he continuously crept close to Penske. Too close for me. Until finally I, the backseat driver that I am, blurted out, “go around him!” Moving over one lane didn’t offer us much comfort. To the right of us, behind us and directly in front were three large 18-wheelers all chugging along at a comfortable 80mph. We felt like a HHR sandwich. Penske (still flashing hazards) sped up and continued to hang to the left of us. We were surrounded by size on all sides. And going 80 miles an hour.
That’s when it happened. Without warning Penske started to drift into our lane. We couldn’t speed up, slow down or move over to accommodate this moving truck that seemed determined to move into our lane. Kisa leaned on the horn. I yelled. Penske swerved, sped up and somehow got in front of us, then on the other side of us. The driver waving frantically “sorry, sorry!” Sorry my azz. You just made me give up a life!
It’s not Penske’s fault but I will always growl when I see one of their trucks!

Kobe Pizza

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We won

It’s hard to be a Laker fan around my husband. Especially during the finals. Especially when it’s the do or die game for Kobe and the gang. Unfortunately for Jason’s aunt she’s not only a Laker fan, she had to watch the Celtics demolish the Lakers…in front of Kisa. She was a good sport, though. She didn’t have to be – it was her house. She could have kicked us out. Instead, she donned her Red Sox gear and yelled at the tv almost as loud as her nephew. Whenever the Celtics scored she yelled, “Go Red Sox!” cracking everyone up. But, that didn’t last long. As soon as it was obvious the Lakers were giving up the fight she was cursing Kobe instead. We had pizza and alcohol and the Lakers for dinner. I can’t say much for the Lakers, but when it comes to food Californians are different. Californians are cool about their cuisine. Their pizza comes on whole wheat crust with a fresh, lovely green, healthy salad on the side. Yummy.

The Celtics had the Lakers for dinner, but I had something better. I will miss California pizza!

Get a Room

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There is something illicit about hotel rooms. Anonymous and secretive. I don’t know what it is. When I was a kid I used to give myself chills thinking how far away from home I was, how disconnected I was from everything “safe.” I used to look at the people around me and think it a small thrill that no one I knew knew them. Yet, here I was, with them. I felt like I was getting away with something; that my life was in danger in a happy way.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s what it’s like to have an affair. Kisa and I were at our second hotel. He wanted to swim and I was chapters deep in my book. I agreed to read by the pool to keep him company. That really wasn’t necessary because frolicking in the deep end was a rather loud, giggly couple. It was obvious they were in the mood for more than a swim, but rude enough to stay where they were. Discretion be damned. Later, kisa told me he thought the man was married to someone else. It was the way the man explained things to his chirping companion as if they had just met, yet he wore a wedding band. Was this man really renting a room for romance? Did he really have a patiently ignorant someone at home?
It didn’t matter to me. All I wanted them to do was use the room they paid for.

Big Mouth Shut

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ESPN
Game four. We had to be somewhere for game four. I was thinking “errr…what’s wrong with the hotel? It has a big flat screen tv….” But, I know this as well as any sports fan. You can’t watch a high stakes game (of any kind) in your hotel room. Alone. You have to go somewhere loud. Somewhere where you can place bets and you might get heckled. Somewhere where the air conditioning is up too high and people yell to be heard over the pounding music. Somewhere where every plate of food that goes by smells delicious and the beer flows freely. That place was ESPN Zone in New York New York. It was loud. The A/C was up too high. The food was great. The beer flowed Fat Tire. And yes, my husband got heckled. How could he not? He was the only Celtics fan in our corner of the restaurant. He was the only one wearing green, yelling at the refs, complaining about bad calls. And, yes, the Celtics were losing.
That doesn’t mean there weren’t other Celtics fans in the restaurant. In fact there was a good sized crowd of them bellied up at the bar. Problem was, Kisa was nowhere near the bar. His cheers for the Celtics were like a lone explorer at the North Pole – helllllooooooo? Surrounded by Laker fans they soon zeroed in on the guy in green. Words were exchanged. Insults akin to “yo mama” only sports related were tossed around. My basketball player can beat up your basketball player. You don’t wanna come to Boston. I think someone paid off the ref. It’s all over now, baby blue.
When it was all over and the Celtics really did lose my Kisa got up to approach the opposing table. A couple next to me jerked their thumbs and rolled their eyes at his retreating back. “Is he really going over there?” a woman asked me, concern in her voice but merriment in her eyes. Everyone loves a good fight. “Guess so.” I muttered. All I wanted was a warm bed and to never hear the name Kobe again. I could have slept standing up.
In the end, kisa and the Laker fans shook hands. But, as he turned to leave kisa had one more parting shot: We’ll see what happens in Boston.

July Is…

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July is a ton of things. Musically, it is Sean Rowe & Mickey Hart. It’s also the theater. It’s Kisa’s birthday (yay yay yay). It’s a few anniversaries as well (past and present).
For the BookLust Challenge it’s:

  • Bilgewater by Jane Garam (to celebrate Jane’s birth month)
  • Blackwater by Kerstin Ekman (to celebrate the best time to visit Sweden)
  • Citizen of the Galaxy by Robert Heinlein (to celebrate Robert’s birth month)
  • Finding Caruso by Kim Barnes (to celebrate Idaho becomming a state)
  • Friend of My Youth: Stories by Alice Munro (to celebrate Alice’s birth month)

I’m not planning any huge get-aways so I should be able to finish this list…

June Was…

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June was a night of Sean Rowe music with some great women. June was one hell of a trip. June was the kick in the pants I needed. June was the “get off the pot” month. For BookLust Challenge it was:

  • Ninety-Two in the Shade by Thomas McGuane (fishing month)
  • An Academic Question by Barbara Pym (Ms. Pym’s birthday)
  • Act of the Damned by Antonio Lobo Antunes (family month)
  • The Amateur Marriage by Anne Tyler (best month to get married)
  • The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffennegger (Ms. Niffennegger’s birth month)
  • The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (Father’s Day)
  • The American Ambassador by Ward Just (Anti-Father’s Day)

One review for LibraryThing:

  • Tomato Girl by Jayne Pupek (one word: tragic, tragic, tragic!)

Both Ninety-two in the Shade and Tomato Girl  were described as “gritty” and yes, were both gritty, but in two very different ways. I have to say The Kite Runner was my favorite June book.

Outdoor Natalie

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Here’s one thing I adored about Vegas. Music was everywhere. No matter where you were. In the elevator, in a store, on the sidewalk, on the escalator, in the elevator. Didn’t matter. Music was there and everywhere. One of the best moments was hearing Natalie while basking in the midday sun. We were coming back from exploring the newest casinos (& stopping in my favorite indulgence, Sephora) when all of a sudden kisa stopped me and said to listen. What? Water fountains? The Japanese tourists behind us discussing shutter speed? The traffic weaving its way up the strip? For a moment I was lost. Then I heard the voice.
My former boss had told me there was no greater show than seeing Celine. I never saw anything indicating Celine was even around. Bette, Cher & Elton all had their moments, but it was Natalie who stole my show.

Orgasmic Mesa

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Heaven on Earth

This could also be called Ode To Bobby Flay or Where are the Damn Statues?! We went to Caesar’s Palace four times. Not for the gambling. Not for the shopping. For the statues. When my mother visited Vegas she had all these great stories of moving statues. I wanted to see them for myself. I had always told myself that if I ever made it to sin city I was going to find the statues in Caesar’s Palace.
The first time we went it was early morning. Nothing was really opened yet. Spotless and quiet, even the slot machines seemed muted. We didn’t find the statues.
The second time we passed through Caesar’s it was mid-afternoon. We followed signs to the moving statues and came up empty. So empty I felt lost. Where were the statues?
The third time we deliberately went to Caesar’s we asked someone for directions and were led to a cheesy, theatrical fountain show with mechanical puppets and lots of fire. Not what I was picturing. Not at all. Rather than wasting a trip I convinced Kisa to have lunch at Mesa, one of Bobby Flay’s restaurants.
Never before have I eaten at a place where the food is so good my eyes literally rolled back in my head. I ordered the southwest breakfast burrito with chorizo, scrambled egg, goat cheese, cilantro and three kinds of sauces.
On our fourth trip to Caesars I found the statues my mother had been talking about. Finally. I recognized them from the pictures she took. I was surprised to discover they are not LIVING statues but rather, moving mechanical statues. Just like the ones I found the day before. Admitting defeat I finally moved on from Caesars but I will never forget Mesa.

Breakfast