Category: My Husband Rocks

Is It Any Wonder?

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We’ve started to talk about Thanksgiving. They talk. I listen. I find this time of year tiresome. Who goes where and for how long? Can we split up the time? Can we avoid the time? What is the time? My mother-in-law is stressing about keeping the kid. Defiantly announcing, “I get the kid.” Okay. Definitely. Two years ago I brought up having a “schedule,” some sort of flow chart to keep our obligations straight. Somehow it became a discussion about something else entirely.
We have never had a holiday, just the two of us. I’ve never cooked a twelve part meal with only him in mind. Turkey, (garlic) mashed potatoes, cajun sweet potatoes (with pecans), that green bean casserole, cranberry sauce (homemade), creamy pearl onions, stuffing (two kinds), honey wheat rolls, the gravy I don’t touch, three kinds of pies… There’s always been someone else. Or a few someone elses. Not that I don’t mind family. I just miss him.

It’s insane how much we try to divvy up family time. Time with his family – both sides- time with mine. What about the other in-laws? Where’s their time? Everyone wants a piece. Who gets the turn this year? Well, where were we last year? We’ve never hosted Christmas, nor have we started our own (private) traditions because we haven’t been here. My kitchen remains cold because we’re always cooking somewhere else. I’m about ready to sell my serving ware.
This year I may not even bother with the ornaments, the decorations, or even the tree since we won’t be here…again. I was in such the spirit last year that I put everything up….only to have it sit silent while we went somewhere else.

Here’s my wish for the holidays. I want my home away from home to be so warm that I feel like I’m where the heart is and I’m happy to be there. Regardless of where that is.
 

Cleaning Out

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Sometimes I get beyond frustrated with my way too much stuff. I have one of those lives where even the paperclips have a home, yet you wouldn’t know it with all the junk I have around. Junk junk junk. It feels excessive, stupid and indulgent to have so much. Kisa and I have two full sets of dishes. One from my life without him (from 1990), and one from our humble beginning together. Do we really need 20 mugs for a two person household? I don’t think so.

So today….today kisa and I are cleaning. The in-laws announced the arrival of a huge dumpster and a whole week to fill it. I hear it’s the walk-in kind. How cool is that. I can imagine it like a gaping mouth that will accept only garbage, trash and unwanted junk. I can’t wait to feed it. Cookbooks without a single diary entry…mattresses tired of waiting for guests…posters from high school…stuffed animals from old boyfriends…lying letters…anything related to broken promises or unfulfilled good intentions. I hope it’s really, really hungry.

I want a lighter life. I want to be stark like the mountain range, not cluttered with clusters of trees and debris. I want more of a mis en place existence. I can’t explain it more than that.
Stay tuned.

Happiness Is…Me

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Somewhere in the back of my mind I seem to recall a book. Something in my childhood that I held dear. I’m thinking it had to have been written by Charles Schultz because I distinctly remember Snoopy and the gang. It was called “Happiness Is…” and within its pages were pictures and proclamations of what made someone happy. “Happiness is…a warm blanket” with a picture of Linus or something like that. I’m guessing. It’s a murky memory at best.
Throughout the years I have played the “Happiness Is…” game, filling in the blanks whenever something made me happy. Happiness is…whoopie pies fresh from Moody’s Diner. Happiness is…my husband massaging my feet. Happiness is…finding a great pair of shoes…chai tea…nanook slippers…You get the point.
Lately, I’ve been playing the game a lot. Happiness is talking to a friend for four hours and not noticing a single second. Happiness is hearing from Ohio and talking about the talkative. Happiness is two pumpkins, one smiling, one frowning, on my doorstep. Happiness is Halloween and everything it brings. But, most of all…last but nowhere near least, happiness is…acceptance when you least expect it.
I talked to my mother on Halloween night for two hours, 20 minutes and 19 seconds. While I struggled with hurt, she helped. While I struggled with disappointment, she didn’t try to tell me differently. She let me feel everything I needed to and thensome. I’m not saying things are perfect. Things rarely are. But. But, I’m on the road to good and that makes me happy.

Coming Home

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Dear kisa,

You are stranded on a plane somewhere in PA. Engine trouble…something about a starter. I didn’t worry about failure during flying, but more about how tired you’ll be when you finally touch down for sleep. I know how much you hate to be tired.
I had a break through at work today. My BigBossMan reminded me I’m Miss Mucky Muck. If I don’t like something I can make it change…or go away. Imagine that! I’m been counting to ten when all I need to know is three strikes you’re out. Load off my mind and onto my plate.
We’re out of milk. My chai tasted like dirt. The kitchen has been cold without you to cook for. I’m glad you’re coming back tomorrow. Wish it was tonight. I’ll try to kiss you more than the Chipotle.
Anyway, I am ready for bed. Ready to get a new Serious. Speaking of the orange orb, I heard something funny the other day, “That closed sign means nothing to me. That rope across the driveway isn’t going to keep me out.” I had to laugh. Isn’t that how you get your pumpkins? Boys will be boys.

Kisa, I’m tired of negotiating with the cat for bed space. She’s a hog in disguise! Come home soon.
love,
me

Talk Talk Talk

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Dear kisa,

I’m a little late with today’s letter. That’s what happens when your wife is on the phone for over 200 minutes. Yup. You read that right. I was on the phone for an hour last night. Tonight, nearly four. I needed to talk to someone who really understands me. Not that you from last night doesn’t…or that you don’t. Far from it. I’ve got a great friend and you’re the guy who can tell me when to drink my coffee because you’re that clued in to my temperature control. It’s not that I don’t trust every word I give to you…I just needed to give them to someone else tonight.
We talked for nearly four hours. It’s like I had a backpack of sh!t and she not only looked inside and said, “yup, it’s crap” but she took it from me as if I didn’t need to carry it anymore. I needed just one more person to tell me nothing make sense for me to understand it. With therapy in her family I trusted her questions almost as much as her answers. It was good…and I didn’t even finish the bottle.
It’s 1am and I honestly think I’ll sleep tonight. Hopefully, I won’t wake to find the sheet in a ball beside my head, or the comforter stranded down the hall like last night….Just in case, maybe I should have one more glass of wine – tilt that bottle in the air and toss back more than my share (NM) – take me over the limit of reason. I don’t think so. I’m talked out and tired out.
Until tomorrow,
me
xoxox

rain & not snow

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dear kisa,

i know i will try to hear you later when you call…from The Game…i guess this is more for when you can’t hear me. across the miles. it rained today but that didn’t stop us from going out. we ate at jake’s for lunch, only we had breakfast. i got the usual…without the hot sauce. she forgot it and i was too insecure to ask. it wasn’t as good as when i’m across from you. the cornbread was dry, the eggs not runny enough. i missed seeing you through coffee’s steam. after we went to faces and laughed at the halloween faces. instead of goblins and ghouls i thought of christmas and all the presents i could buy. i didn’t. we wandered thornes and i bought Yungchen’s 2006 album while she bought a bee. don’t ask. i don’t think i understand it myself. the rain made yard leaves shiny and bright. it was only then i remembered you have the camera. i touched the pumpkin’s orange instead. a rub for good luck. we walked in shops smelling perfume too decadent for my skin. clothes too rich for my wallet. i wouldn’t wear them anyway. i prefer black, and today, orange.
last night i slept sideways. tonight i’ll sleep lightly. i’m not as tired as the day before. if i had my cellphone i would make phone calls. i want to ask a man about a sunday that may or may not have happened.
the cat is confused and a little concerned. i don’t think she believes me when i say i’m not going anywhere. where would i go? i ask her.
anyway,
thunder rolled across the skyline and the trees have slipped into black so i’ll say goodnight. i can see you – fat tires in cupholders. hope the fun is yours for the taking.
love,
me

On the Doorstep

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I am on the doorstep of getting back to good.
When Kisa and I were first dating …no. Let me rephrase. When Kisa and I were in the throes of seriousness and living together full tilt I would randomly blurt out “don’t leave me.” I don’t know where this utterance came from or why I sounded so desperate. But, it was my darkest fear. He would sometimes joke his response, “where would I go?” but more often he would sense the seriousness and whisper “I’m not going anywhere.” In those days I was petrified he would decide I was too damaged, too whacked out for his sensibilities. The last time I seriously feared this was when I was standing in a wedding gown, feet encased in ice. I was more than 30 minutes late to my own ceremony because I was convinced I wasn’t good enough. Kisa was already at the alter so I couldn’t tell him Don’t Leave. Kisa knew all my secrets but that didn’t change my Turn Back attitude.
These days he is my rock. I don’t ask him not to leave as much. It still slips out from time to time but it has become more of a private joke than anything else. I still feel like I’m a crystal vase with a hidden crack, a perfect rose with an aphid problem, a masterpiece with peeling paint. But, as Jackson Browne said “Do not confront me with my failures. I have not forgotten them.”
I am on the doorstep of healing.

Beyond Me but Beside Me

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Lately, I can’t breathe. Lately, it feels like everything is beyond me. Beyond my control. My mind races no matter where I am. Work. Work is insane. I’m in over my head. The Fray have it perfectly said. I love that song right now. It’s so me. This is so friggin hard. Right now. I’m trying to look like I know what I’m doing but it feels like one big puppet show. I fight tied up in strings.
My home life. I’m drowning. If it weren’t for kisa I would be hanging from heartache. No, hate. I’ll admit it. Hanging from hate. There is someone caught in the middle of this and I feel so damned sorry for her. She didn’t ask for this. Well, neither did I. Neither did I. Excuse me if I don’t rush to thank you or act grateful or pretend to think you saved me. If anything I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days. I’m in over my head.
Kisa leaves me in three days. He said something interesting last night. “All this” he said, waving his hand around to signify all of life, “will seem like nothing next year. You will look back on this time and know you are stronger than all that.” I believe it. I look at what I was worried about two years ago today and I have to laugh. It’s amusing how I was so wrapped up in trivial things.
In the meantime I take sharp breaths, fighting to breathe. Head above water. Kisa pats me leg everytime I gasp. He’s getting used to me. It’s like I’ve been crying so hard I hyperventilate. Kisa makes the bed everyday and laughs at the twisted sheets. “Harsh night?” He’ll ask while pulling the fitted sheet back over the mattress and untangling the mess of blankets. To me, it’s as bad as wetting the bed. It’s embarrassing how much I kick, toss and turn when I finally fall asleep. It’s all beyond me but I can make it through this because Kisa is beside me.

Ode to Mickey Hart

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Everyone knows I love drums. I’ve certainly blathered on and on about the people who play them, the sounds they make, and the way they make me feel.
Seeing Mickey Hart & Planet Drum was no different. A performance on the UConn campus on a chilly, rainy night. Kisa was able to snag one pic of Zakir Hussain looking up at us while playing with Mickey. This was towards the end of the show – considered the encore – with security standing right behind us.
The whole show was amazing. When we first walked into the auditorium I was fascinated by the stage. Five different “pods” of sound with two curious looking sculptures front and center. It was obvious where Mickey would play but, not knowing the other drummers, I wasn’t sure who sat (or stood) where. But, really, to be honest, it was the interesting sculptures that held my attention. Gentle spotlights lit up twisted limbs. I saw dolphins in one, confusion on the other. They looked magical in the light. Their shadows created monsters on the floor.
Finally, the lights went down and the boys came out. The very first thing Mickey did was introduce the weird sculptures. Gnarled stumps pulled from the ground. Ever see the video by the Cranberries – the one where a bunch of women work a stump from the ground, take it home and after bathing it it becomes a man? It looked like that stump was on stage. The first stump was called “Squid” and was as old as the Civil War. That was the one I called confusion. The second stump was a giant Redwood called “Twin Dolphins.” I was pleased Mickey saw what I did. Then Zakir and Mickey proceeded to play the stumps. Using hammers, drumsticks, fingers…anything and everything, the show opened with the playing of trees. The sounds knocked and echoed, banged and trembled. Loud and soft. The entire auditorium was filled with the sound of drumming on trees. It only got better from there.

Getting Away

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For years I have wanted to make it to the Pumpkin Fest in Keene, New Hampshire. I can’t remember all the reasons why we didn’t; all the excuses for not going in years past, but this year we finally made it! I ended up taking nearly 100 pictures. For every shot a little stress melted away. For every sweet pumpkin face I relaxed just a little more. Only an hour away from home but miles away from the madness.

There is something magical about pumpkins. I know there is no way I could put this into words. At least sanely. In short, I see faces in the uncarved orange orbs. I see Jack way before he is born. Today, it was fun to see the creativity of others. The messages people want to put out there – through a pumpkin. We saw a lot of Greenbay Packers pumpkins (what’s up with that?), a few Patriots pumpkins, and lots of humor. I personally liked the puking pumpkins best. It’s all I can do to stay away from the bottle myself these days. Pumpkins in trees, pumpkins on cannons, pumpkins in fountains, on street corners, in flower beds, on people’s heads. Kisa got a funny pic of me with two such nuts.
Then, there was the food. We started with sampling spicy pickles. They start off sweet and end with heat. Perfect for hamburgers. (We bought a jar on the way out.) Then we went for the whoopie. Pumpkin, of course. Next, teriyaki chicken on stick and garlic bread. Yet another whoopie. Pumpkin, of course.
We blew off the crafts except for the food related items. Heidi Jo was there so, of course, we had to buy nearly $40 worth of her wares (we missed her at the Big E). It was all about the food.
And the pumpkins.

Cult of (multiple) Personality

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                                      monkey.jpgjapanese.jpg

Someone really liked a picture of me that my brother-in-law took. He said “that’s so you” when he saw it. What do you mean? I was puzzled and didn’t get it. When it comes to me, myself and moi, I rarely get it. “You are awkward. Silent and awkward, waiting for the photographer to go away so you can go back to where you are comfortable.” Where is that I want to know. I cocked my head, trying to remember the moment for myself. “Behind the lens, on the fringe, out of view” my friend replied. Ah, yes. That’s me. Completely. Now I remembered my goaway attitude. Yet, when I went to add the pic to a disc for my mother “spaceball” was the title of the pic. Spaceball. One man’s idea of spaceball is another woman’s fear of you. Two personalities on one face.

The latest issue of Real Simple came with research on how to find your “right” scent. I love these quizzes that tell you what type of person you’re supposed to be based on how you prefer to socialize, spend your holidays, or how many times you let the phone ring. This time I let kisa answer everything. Kind of a HowWellDoYouKnowYourWife? stunt. I’m shameless. To my utter delight he answered every question “right”… even the ones where the answer is, “well, it depends. Is September considered Autumn? Well, then I think B” or “that’s a tough one…is it that time of the month?”
By the time we were finished I was across the board screwed when it came to picking a scent. It was a tie between woodsy, clean, and oriental. Floral came in dead last. Weird. The most popular scent was my least favorite…according to what drink I would order out with the girls, what piece of furniture I’d most likely own, and whether I prefer the smell of books over baking bread or the ocean. There wasn’t one scent that won out so I told my husband I guess that means I’ll buy a bottle of each!

Ask me how I like my eggs and true to Runaway Bride style I wouldn’t be able to answer you the same way twice. I want to be Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn and Ani DiFranco all at once. I’ll tell you I’m an orphan after you meet my Black Crow family.  I don’t think I’m the same person twice in one day.

My Beautiful You

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Disclaimer: I am writing this for several people. Hopefully you will recognize yourself in the lines…or maybe in between.

Dear You,
I chose you first because we are strangers, yet I like you. I do not like you for reading me, but what I read of you. When your writing is silent I worry. Yes, I worry. I do not know you, but you read right. I care. I may not know how you take your coffee or cook your steak, but I know you are human – of flesh and feelings – and that alone, my friend, makes me care.
Dear You,
I got your call the other day. I am sorry I missed it, sorry I didn’t return it. I don’t dial the digits because I’m afraid of sounding dumb. I’m a broken record. I miss you. Last night I dreamt of red, red apples cut in half and lime green thongs on a sleeping girl. Art as art does. Know that I prefer your now to then.
Dear You,
Thanks for being you. I don’t say it enough. You. Thank You. You. I reread a diary entry. We stood outside a closed ice cream shop. It was late, late, late yet you weren’t going home. I walked you to his apartment above a sweet store. You broke into a perfect British accent – so perfect I had to write it down. I don’t remember why you were imitating a Brit but I told my diary you made me laugh so hard I cried. To this day I can picture that night perfectly. Standing on a sidewalk, chatting as if we had just bumped into one another, you saying something to make me laugh… some things never change.
Dear You,
I’ve been meaning to ask you…been meaning to tell you…yet I don’t have the words. I step on toes to say I love you. I don’t know what that means to anyone but me.
Dear You,
You confuse me. I’ve backed down from friendship because nothing seems related to me. At least not where you are concerned. I don’t know where I fit in so I edge myself out. I wasn’t important enough to have the forwarding address or the latest news and I have accepted that. I’ve moved into a different space of being. At least with you. We’ve talked about this before so nothing’s new. Don’t mind me if my mind is not on you.
Dearest You,
You alone have all of me.
Love,
Me

Big Sun Smiling

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BigSun

What happens to a person when she has reached the point of laughing for no reason at all? Giggling because there’s no turning back? Stirring stirfry on the stove I answered the phone as if I never left work. My husband giggled on his end and brought me back home. Woops. I mean…hello? Too late. He continued to laugh at me. There was no taking back the slip, nothing left to do but laugh along. The ingredients for Pad Thai were in front of me but I was miles away from my kitchen. Hopeless and pitiful. Yes, I admited, I was still thinking about work. Obviously. I could hear kisa’s eyeroll over the phone coupled with his gentle sigh. He knows where I’m coming from even if he’s not from there. Cutting limes and chopping peanuts I was thinking about a mouse.
There is a mouse in my office. He (?) has broken into my packets of hot cereal and crackers, strewn crumbs across my desk. The sad thing is I knew this before I moved in, even before I ever dreamed the office would be mine. I simply moved in without memory of the mouse. Now, I’m reminded and all I can do is sigh. It’s just one more thing.
Last night I dreamed of a cruise ship. My family on a cruise and me waving goodbye from the wharf. According to my new dream book that means my family is either going to die or I want them to go away. Well, since they are nowhere near me I have given myself worry. I resisted the urge to call them all day. What would I have said? How to explain my latest neurotic dreamscape? I have to laugh at myself for how ridiculous it all seems.

  

Obsession

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If my stomach was writing this, this would be the mother of all blogs, singing the praises of the perfect burrito while bowing down to the perfect partner.

If the items in this picture look at all familiar to you, you might be asking yourself, “Self, is it possible she’s in Colorado or New York and not Maine or even Massachusetts?” I would have to answer you with a voice full of glee and giggle, “It is true! I am not in Colorado, nor New York. Chipotle has come north of all that! North of Close Enough to ME! Chipotle has invaded Massachusetts and it’s about time!” There is only one restaurant right now with two more “coming soon.”
Kisa had the trip planned from Day 0. Keeping the plan a secret from me for four whole days must have been difficult because it meant getting me off the island on the earliest boat…on the last day. Getting me off the island can be a chore in itself if I’m not ready to leave. Luckily for him (and ultimately, my stomach) I boarded the 9am without complaint. It had been a long weekend.
TomTom told us the way to go. I have to admit I forgot all about The Secret Plan. Still having post-parting pangs I sulked as route 1 flew by my window. Moody’s was enough to distract me, work me out of my depression. Whoopies were just been whipped together. I bought the first of the batch. L.L. Bean only distracted me further with disappointment. I couldn’t find anything I liked (believe it or not). By the time we missed the exit for 495 South I remembered “the plan” and how secret it was.
616 Fellsway should be the name of my next pet. 616 Fellsway, Medford is the address to heaven. Heaven in a burrito. When we pulled into the parking lot I could barely believe my eyes. True to design, true to color scheme and true to chrome, there before my eyes lay the greatest place to eat my stomach has ever known. Chipotle. In all its glory. I heard a choir singing. Chipotle in all its aroma.
We ate our standards. For those of you in the know:
Rice: yes
Meat: chicken
Beans: black
Salsa: medium (corn, of course) & hot
Cheese: yes
Sour cream: yes
Lettuce: no

Drink: lemonade with a splash of sprite
Chips & salsa: yes

When we were finished gorging we went up again. To go.

1987

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My discomfort started with a clenched jaw, a stomach in knots, and a real sense of dread. We drove through campus a little after 10pm and all I wanted to do was turn around and go home. All I could think was “There I go again, doing something stupid.” I kept asking myself why did I come back? What did I have to gain from seeing people who didn’t like me almost as much as I didn’t know them? Almost every memory of this place is tainted by something embarrassing, awkward and not worth remembering at all. It was all I could do to stop from myself from blurting out “Yup! The campus looks awesome. We can turn around now. Let’s go home now.” Kisa would have killed me. With a cold he had just driven four and a half hours to get me here…for whatever reason.
The next morning I was feeling worse. Our B&B bed was made of bones and bricks. Everything creaked. The floor, the door, the bed, the dresser drawers. My tossing and turning, sighing and twitching kept Kisa and every neighbor within earshot up all night. Neither of us could imagine getting through a day of socializing and smiling. Kisa had nothing to reminisce about and I surely didn’t paint a pretty picture.
Breakfast changed all that. Sitting down to a gourmet meal of omelets (wild mushroom) and “possibly the best french toast on the planet” we were drawn into conversations with neighboring tables. Soon we were asking each other the usual question – What year are you? 1972. 1982. 1987. We passed stories from table to table. Holden Hall became hilarious. Gehring was more than girly. We couldn’t decide if Madame was the same Madame that everyone knew. Dress codes and dish duty. Outward Bound Hell and smoking in the boys’ room. Hanscom tag and an infamous pickle jar. 1972 remembered the exact same things as us 80’s grads.
By the time the parade rolled around we were all ready to roll. For the first time ever I participated. For the first time ever I found pride.

To be continued…