Six years.
Six years is a long time.
Six years is hardly anything.
Six years is everything.
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My husband and I have had a not even remotely fairytale story from the very beginning. At the point in history when my father decided to run my then-boyfriend off, we had been dating for about a year.
Now, as a little background TheMan was my first serious, lasted-more-than-a-few-weeks boyfriend. And he didn’t go to our church. He was Lutheran and we were quasi-Baptists. AND his mother owned a bar.
And we were boinking like horny bunny rabbits suspected of engaging in less than pure activities.
So there was, at the time, very little love lost between my then-boyfriend and my dad.
One day, shortly after my parents developed the aforementioned suspicions, TheMan invited me out fishing, with the guys.
I, being a young teen girl who was madly in love, chirped, “Oh, that sounds fun! I’d like to go!“ And then spent the next hour or so, until his planned arrival, picking the perfect outfit for fishing with the guys.
I see his truck pull up to the farm, and I grab my jacket. In the amount of time it takes me to grab a jacket and walk downstairs, he had already backed out of the driveway and onto the road.
This, of course, led to an ugly scene with my dad. But that’s a story for another night!
Later, I found out what had happened, according to TheMan.
Note: My dad was/is a farmer. This is important to the rest of the story.
Dad had been out doing chores when TheMan pulled in. Feeding something or other, or mucking out some building, or something like that. Farmer stuff.
Then TheMan pulls in. TheMan. Who has (possibly) sullied his sweet (and willing) daughter. To take her out, on a boat, on the river.
Oh, HAYUHL NO. So he marches up to the truck, and he informs TheMan that he needs to get gone. About 30 seconds ago.
Now, what TheMan SAW was an angry father, coming up to the truck, yelling and carrying a pitchfork!
Now, he could have taken the time to drive forward and pull around, because my parents driveway makes an awkward loop. But. Pitchfork.
So instead, this 18-year old version of TheMan chooses to back that truck, which is towing a boat, down the long driveway as fast as he can.
And he does. Hauling butt, with a boat attached, he gracefully backed down that long driveway, and onto the road. With nary a wiggle, or misplaced wheel.
What can I say? His driving skills charmed me.
*****
Many years after this, I mention the story to my dad. He gave me a funny look and says, “I was carrying the pitchfork? Huh. That explains why he backed up so fast!”
And then he walked away chuckling.
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My husband has long been intrigued by the idea of canning. Food. In jars. At home. Which I understand the practicality of it, and the idea of having the convenience of canned, with the yumminess of home-made is alluring. Truly.
But from what I remembered from my childhood, I thought the process would involve a lot sweat, tears and maybe even some blood. But he REALLY wanted to make his pickles, so fine, let’s make some pickles.
It didn’t go entirely smoothly. Example? We may have failed to consider how we were going to get the submerged jars OUT of the boiling water.
But it wasn’t too bad. So my husband starts talking about how he’s going to do it “next time”, and won’t it be great to have our own food in cans?
I ask him, “So what are you going to start home-canning?”
“Well,” he tells me, “We could do sauces, soups, veggies…pretty much anything you normally buy in cans.”
And so. I turn to him. And I say, with all sincerity…
“Oh, like tuna!”
….
The poor man.
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We’re in the kitchen. We’re trying a new brand of breaded processed frozen fish, but have discovered, alas, that we are out of tartar sauce.
No problem, we’ve both cooked for a living before, and have faced down worse situations on Friday Fish-Fry night. (Running out of tartar sauce? Hah. Try running out of fish!)
So we gather the needed ingredients (mayonnaise, relish and lemon juice), and pull out the trusty wooden spoon.
After inquiring about how long we have owned said spoon, and why it might, after six years, be time to buy a replacement spoon, and also discussing what is the correct size of the handle and the appropriate curvature of the bowl of the ideal wooden spoon…AFTER this….
My husband turns to me and says something about how wooden spoons are green. I ask “Oh, like recyclable?” He goes on and says something about renewable resource blahblahblah.
And after this thought-out theory on his part, I come back with, “Well, yeah. But you could recycle a wooden spoon, right?”
He looks me, and shrugs, “Yeah, I guess you could recycle it. You could sharpen it and make it a zombie shank, I suppose.”
Of course. Zombies.
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The husband and I don’t generally talk about where we met. Most people assume that, since we’ve been together since high school, we must have gone to high school together.
Yeah. Not so much.
I was working at McDonald’s. Drive-thru diva extraordinaire. He was hired on as a grill boy. Burger flipper. Not exactly a romantic venue to meet in. No locking of the eyes across the crowded room here thankyouverymuch.
I couldn’t remember his name for 2 weeks. We flirted back and forth, every time we worked together, for about 6 months or so.
Reluctant, we were.
Okay. I was reluctant, and socially awkward. So he wasn’t sure I was interested.
I wasn’t sure I was interested. I take that back. I was mostly definitely interested, with all the emotionality and physicality that 16-going-on-17 year old hormones can muster. But I thought I shouldn’t be interested.
I was on the cusp at that point. Dancing the line between hard-core religiousity, and wild child syndrome. I saw him as a “bad boy”. And perhaps, compared to the other members of my Sunday School class, perhaps he was.
Okay, compared to them? Yeah, he was a bad boy, a rebel, a wild card. But he really wasn’t THAT much of a badass.
So. Met at McDonald’s. Flirted for six months. AND I bailed on our first date (oh yes, I was at least as smooth then as I am now. At least.)
It’s no wonder he married me.
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Hello dear friend and former constant companion,
I was wondering where you’d been. I expected you to pop in awhile ago, to be honest.
And while we’re being honest here, friend, I have to admit that I wasn’t exactly looking forward to you coming back around. I think “dreading” would be a better description of how I was anticipating your visit.
I knew you were coming, of course, because, sooner or later, you always do. You show your ugly face at my weakest moments.
Tonight, it was just unfair to everyone in the house for you to show up. My husband asked if I minded if he went out for a bit. Now, I know WHY you choose then to show up. It’s because of past issues we’ve had. At the start of this mess, when we were both angry and depressed. And his reaction was to be gone All. The. Time.
But.
That was then. This is now. It’s not like that now.
He’s been here damn near every night for the last year. I honestly cannot remember when the last time he DID go out sans me. I know this isn’t the start of any “slippery slope” bullshit, despite what you’re saying.
And yes, I hear you whispering in my hear that now that I’ve said that out loud, I damn well better knock on wood, knock on whole forest, or else it’ll come back to bite me in the ass.
And this is the part where I tell you to piss the heck off, Insecurity.
I don’t need you here. There is no reason for you to hang around, and there is no room in my head for you.
Love,
Me
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“It’s only temporary,” I keep saying to myself. This crazy, busy every-second-scheduled-and-accounted-for lifestyle is only temporary. A matter of weeks until the end of the semester.
A matter of weeks until classes are out, and I can put homework aside, for a couple months.
But. I’m already dreading next semester, and this one isn’t even done yet.
I’m already worried about how we’ll balance finances, kids, homework, housework and oh yeah, maybe each other? better than we did this year. Because the way things went/are going cannot be repeated. Just…no. Not gonna work.
Um. There really isn’t a conclusion to this post. Just that I’m overwhelmed, my brain is fried and I don’t want to repeat this.
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Today’s Girl Talk Thursday topic is the upcoming holiday of lurrrrve, Valentine’s Day. Boon to card manufacturers and retail stores; bane of your average person’s existence.
I have mixed feelings on the V-Day issue. I’m not a hater, but I don’t really go out of my way to make it SUPERDUPEROMGZZZ special, either.
Yes, it’s very nice to get a big fuzzy teddy, or a large, expensive bunch of flowers. It makes me feel all warm and squishy inside.
But how many stuffed bears does a girl need? And flowers die. I like them, I do, but dude, we’re in the middle of a RECESSION! Instead of buying me flowers, how ’bout you pay the water bill? I’ll promise to think of you whenever I take a long hot shower. And that’s way sexier than a bunch of dead flowers on my table.
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And I’m married. I might, if he remembers am nearly guaranteed to get something, from someone if he expects to get “something” in return.
What about those who aren’t permanently stuck with someone married? The agonizing over whether or not to get someone something….have we been going out long enough? What can I get that says I care, without saying I care too much? What if I get the wrong thing?
See, when you’re married, it’s not as much worry. If TheMan gets me the wrong thing, no worries…he knows I’ll just take it back and get what I REALLY wanted. There’s no more pretending that you’re thrilled to get a roadside emergency kit <--true story when you’re married.
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And lastly, what is it with Valentine’s day and schools now? Apparently, my kid isn’t supposed to put her classmates’ names on the cards anymore? When did that become a no-no? And why? I mean, she already knows their names. I’ve heard their names, and spoken to many of them. What exactly is the concern?
I’m not following, here.
___________
Well, I guess I came down a little harder on V-Day (by the way, I still giggle like a twelve year old boy every time I see the letters V and D side by side….) than I thought I would.
I want to know, what do you think about Valentine’s Day? Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments.
Or, if you’re feeling particularly wordy today, click the button on the top of the post, write your own, and link up to participate in GTT.
May your weekend not suck too much!
Love,
Jen Thepsychobabble
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I could write another post explaining why I am incredibly freaking busy THIS week. But you’ve heard it already, and I’m sure you don’t want to hear it again.
So instead I’ll tell you about how my husband has been amazing this last week or two.
He’s been very supportive of letting me escape the house in the AM to go to the gym. See, neither of us is a morning person, so offering to get up with the kids and get the day rolling is a big deal around here.
Tuesdays, he has them all day while I’m in class.
This week, I came home at 9pm, which is normal. And I found the kitchen cleaned up, the living room cleaned, the kid’s tucked in…AND the ugly wall paper in the dining room stripped off, and he was in the process of putting that plaster-y stuff(yeah, so Miss Home Improvement, I’m not) up on the walls to cover and fill the cracks and bumps.
He totally showed me up. I have a hard time getting the basics done some days. So I was incredibly impressed.
And today he finished plastering and began painting. And it looks soooo much better in there. I’m thrilled:)
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We stare at each other from across the room. His arms folded against his chest. Mine straight by my side, ending in fists. My chest is heaving, his jaw is clenched.
We’ve just spent the last part of the day heaving insults, and ripping old wounds open.
Rubbing a little salt into them, just for good measure.
We’ll both feel bad about it later. We’ll both apologies for the nastiness we spewed at each other, and for the over-the-top dramatics.
I know this, because this is what we do. Periodically, the insanity in our house escapes it’s little box, and infects us both. Turns us into wickedly smart beings, who know just what to say to hurt the other one. To escalate things.
It may not sound like it, but this is an improvement.
When we were first married, we would be at each others throats at least every other day. It probably would have been every day, if he wasn’t working 24 hour shifts.
Then it was less often, and then even less often. Then we moved. And there was crappy minimum wage jobs for me, and infrequent, but well-paying, jobs for him. So I left my barely-covering-gas paycheck behind and started school. And the fighting got worse. And more often.
Until we were screaming threats of divorce, and over-my-dead-body and that-can-be-arranged.
Until we were calmly sitting down, while not even in the grip of that blind red rage, and discussing who would take what responsibilities.
Until we both broke down under the thought of being apart, and decided to try desperate-last-resort sort of measures.
Counseling. Medication. We had separate issues to work through. Separate issues. Both of us come from different places. Both of us come equally damaged.
We worked hard. Hard at communicating. Hard at compromising. Hard at changing expectations. We circled the dangerous areas for awhile. Sidestepping hot topics that we knew would lead to arguments. Then we carefully broached them. Dipped our toes into those inexplicably controversial topics between us. And survived. We didn’t always reach a resolution, but we could argue without resorting to lashing out, and hurting it each other.
And so, it has improved, though it may not seem like it to those outside.
Because this last fight, where we said and did things we’re ashamed of after the fact, is the first one like it since August. And in a perverse sort of way, I’m proud of us.
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