Whenever I travel alone, I think about him. Especially when I get off of the plane and walk into the terminal where my fellow passengers meet and greet their awaiting companions. That's where he would be. And I would see him from far down the corridor, his buzzed blonde hair a few inches above everyone else's, bobbing up and down as he jumped with excitement to see me and sweep me up in his arms. This remains one of the most romantic memories of my life, so far.
It's been three years since he smashed my already bruised heart into pieces. Or is it four? I'm not sure and for some reason I have a mental block that won't let me do the math to trace back my failed relationships. It makes me feel old and I think it would hurt too much to face the cold, hard, clear facts. So I settle for a hazy timeline of heartbreak instead.
I don't want to think about him. And I've come a long way over the years in shaving down the amount of times he crosses my mind. From every minute, to every hour, to every other day and, for the last year, every month or so. Or whenever I get off of a plane alone.
But this trip - and the anticipation leading up to it -- has shoved my progress back. He's been on my mind every day, several times a day. And it's not a longing I'm feeling. Or sadness. Or self pity. It's anger. Still, after all this time, anger.
Why is this trip having such a strong affect? Well, first of all I'm in Portland, Oregon. It's not Seattle, the city where I flew every other weekend for almost a year to visit him - right up until he literally vanished from my life with no explanation. But it's the Pacific Northwest and I can't help but associate the entire region with him. The deep green trees, the rivers, the flannel.
I'm here for work but Wine Guy and I decided to transition my business trip into a mini vacation for the two of us. He arrives tonight and we will enjoy the city for the weekend, then head out to the Oregon coast for a few more days. Wine Guy and I haven't traveled together all that often so I've kind of built this trip up in my head, convinced that it will be a romantic little getaway - bed and breakfast and all.
Traveling. Boyfriend. Pacific Northwest. Romance.
This all adds up to painful memories of Naval A-hole.
Being typically self-destructive, I revived my stalkerish Google searching habit to see if I could find out where he might be. A few years ago I discovered that he was in Norfolk, probably gearing up to deploy on an aircraft carrier to the Middle East. I liked to think of him stuck on a cramped, gray ship with nothing to do but run on a treadmill and get teased by his fellow shipmates. Of course, that's the part of it he enjoyed, but to me it sounds like hell. And that's where I want him - in hell.
Up until this trip with Wine Guy popped up on the calendar, I hadn't Googled him in quite some time. So I was surprised when his name got a solid hit. It wasn't much, only a few words from a tiny local newspaper - and not even a complete sentence. But the impact of those few words was huge.
The headline: Marriage Licenses, January 11, 2009
Then a list of names, ages and hometowns. The end of the list included his - Naval A-hole, 34 - and hers - SmallTown Girl, 26.
There it was. He was back in bumfuck Washington state. He was married. To a 26 year old local girl.
At first I wanted to cry and throw my computer across the room."He's happy! He's married! He found a young, little chippy who'll go along with anything he says! Noooooooo!!!!!!"
But I tried not to let these thoughts escalate. Instead I sat on them, analyzed them. Tried to figure out what they were really about and, to quote annoying Dr. Phil, evaluate if they were "working for me."
Of course they weren't. On the surface, I was experiencing a petty, stupid jealousy, tinged by the fact that I remain unmarried. Wah, wah, wah. Look deeper.
Let's begin with my relationship with Wine Guy. We are happy. We have a future together - and a present that's doing great. He knows what I want and I trust that we will get there. And, of course, life is not a race. (I do finally believe that, but it took awhile).
Now let us examine Naval A-hole and try to picture what life would be like if he never dumped me and I got exactly what I wanted at the time. I would be the wife of a Naval Flight Officer, living in a shithole Navy town in the middle of a sunless nowhere, watching a bunch of straight-laced, testosterone heavy men play video games and drink beer every weekend. Or sit home alone while he was deployed far away on a ship.
No fucking way.
I'm thankful that I didn't get what I wanted. But still pissed off that he discarded me like a meaningless piece of trash.
So here I am in Portland, wandering the town in between conference sessions, still kind of stewing and not knowing exactly why.
If anyone can claim they were as wounded as I was by Naval A-hole's actions, it's my mom. I was nervous to tell her about this latest news and actually sat on the information for a few weeks, probably because I hate to see her upset when A-hole comes up. But when I keep things from my mom it feels like there is something "bad" about it all, so I decided I should tell her and hope that once I aired it out I might feel better. I called her on a break and left a message saying I have some gossip about Naval A-hole. She called back eager to hear the news.
She didn't react too strongly, probably terrified that she'd say something to upset me. (Yes, we walk on eggshells often when we speak to each other - gotta love the mother/daughter dynamic). But when I told her how I felt grateful for not being with him when I envision my life as his wife, she said something that nailed it down.
First she disregarded the notion that I missed out on anything not being with him, and then she said, "I just don't want him to be happy!"
I couldn't agree more. But here he is, married to a 26 year old and living in a little town that I know he kind of liked (a few miles away from crappy Navy town).
And then I remembered something I've been saying for years -- and even said to Naval A-hole a few times. Men have so much less to worry about when it comes to marriage. They can relax and wait as long as they want because there will always be a 26 year old girl for them to marry.
I'm sad to say that Naval A-hole proved my point. But who is this girl? From what little I could find about her on Google, I learned that she works for a small boat charter company and very likely has never left her hometown. I imagine (hope) that she's slightly docile, gullible, and won't challenge A-hole's existence in any way. Like I probably did (especially when I expressed that I wasn't eager to live the Navy wife life).
Whether he's happy or not with this kind of girl...well, I guess I can't concern myself with that. I could hope and pray that karma actually exists and that a person like A-hole will pay the price for the poor choices he's made. But what I really want to do is Stop. Thinking. About. Him. Forever.
That's why I'm writing about this today, hoping for some sort of purge. Especially before Wine Guy arrives tonight. He deserves all of my heartfelt attention. And I can't let Naval A-hole rob me of happiness for one more second.
I'm considering myself purged. Fuck him.
Dismissed.
July 16, 2009
July 2, 2009
Everything in its Place
It's a tension that has slowly built up over the year that Wine Guy and I have lived together. Every day we bring more of it into the house - mail, brochures, coupons, greeting cards, invitations, receipts. Basically, crap. And it never ends.
I'm no neat freak. In fact, I'm kind of messy. But I am big on knowing where things are and putting them in their properly dedicated place. This means I rarely spend ten minutes tearing the house apart looking for the receipt I need to return something. I generally know where my keys are and my bills get paid on time because they are placed right next to my computer so they can't be missed.
Because Wine Guy and I are new to both living together and the townhouse where we reside, the organizational routine that carried me through six years living alone is all screwed up. I attempted to get a handle on the clutter during the first few months of cohabitation, but I quickly realized that the disorganization I noticed at Wine Guy's previous apartment was no fluke, and that this struggle was just turning me into a nag.
I would just organize it all myself, except that I have no idea what stuff of his is important and what isn't. Trust me, I've tried in the past and gotten rebuked for throwing away some crumpled up piece of paper that was apparently necessary to him. Do you see my rock and hard place now?
So I gave up and tried to mind my own business and continue filing my own stuff away, while his piled up. But it's not like being organized is easy for me, and after awhile - especially once his piles started taking over - I think I just threw in the towel with the sentiment "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." And the piles continued to grow.
But every day when I came home and opened that front door, I could feel a little anxiety tickle the back of my throat. Too. Much. Shit. Everywhere. Where do I put the new shit I'm bringing in? Deep breathes, deep breaths.
This is not working for me.
Rather than tell Wine Guy that he "needs to clean up" his stuff, I thought I might try creatively shuffling it around in a way that would cause me less anxiety and still preserve the sanctity of his crap pile. So I hit Pier 1 during their big summer sale and found two baskets that looked promising - one for all the new Wii video game paraphernalia scattered about the living room, and another to help organize (and filter) the mail.
When I came home from knitting group Tuesday night, I brought in the baskets and just started putting things in them, nicely stacked. He didn't seem to mind since I wasn't really asking him to do anything. I started with the video game stuff, then hit the mountain of papers on the dining room and buffet tables.
Inevitably, I had to start asking him, "Do you need this?" and "Is this important?" But instead of getting annoyed with all the questions, he actually seemed kind of interested and soon came over and started sorting through the piles himself. Perhaps they were getting to him too.
The next two hours were quite unexpected. We became cleaning, sorting, organizing machines. And it was beautiful. No longer was it me tentatively butting in to whatever he was doing to see if I could throw something away. No longer was it him rolling his eyes at me when I tell him that his piles are causing me stress. No longer was it me smugly watching as he rips through the piles trying to find that car insurance bill he just realized he forgot to pay.
No, this was pure organizational teamwork. Now that we finally have a feel for the awkward layout of our place, we could finally make informed decisions about how to organize to suit how we live. Mail sorting happens here. Magazines go here. Fun tidbits go here. The vitamins, nail clippers and deodorant that he insists on keeping in the dining area are hidden here.
We were brainstorming, laughing, thinking, improving. This was especially satisfying for someone who craves organization like me. I mean, my favorite place to go as a kid was the local office supply store where I would browse the aisles looking at folders, notepads and post-its, thinking of ways I could improve my organizational system for the next school year. Yes, I was (and am) a dork.
I came up with a term to describe just how damn happy that evening made me. Yes, this was my very first "Organigasm."
Here's to many more (but I'm not holding my breath).
Dismissed.
I'm no neat freak. In fact, I'm kind of messy. But I am big on knowing where things are and putting them in their properly dedicated place. This means I rarely spend ten minutes tearing the house apart looking for the receipt I need to return something. I generally know where my keys are and my bills get paid on time because they are placed right next to my computer so they can't be missed.
Because Wine Guy and I are new to both living together and the townhouse where we reside, the organizational routine that carried me through six years living alone is all screwed up. I attempted to get a handle on the clutter during the first few months of cohabitation, but I quickly realized that the disorganization I noticed at Wine Guy's previous apartment was no fluke, and that this struggle was just turning me into a nag.
I would just organize it all myself, except that I have no idea what stuff of his is important and what isn't. Trust me, I've tried in the past and gotten rebuked for throwing away some crumpled up piece of paper that was apparently necessary to him. Do you see my rock and hard place now?
So I gave up and tried to mind my own business and continue filing my own stuff away, while his piled up. But it's not like being organized is easy for me, and after awhile - especially once his piles started taking over - I think I just threw in the towel with the sentiment "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." And the piles continued to grow.
But every day when I came home and opened that front door, I could feel a little anxiety tickle the back of my throat. Too. Much. Shit. Everywhere. Where do I put the new shit I'm bringing in? Deep breathes, deep breaths.
This is not working for me.
Rather than tell Wine Guy that he "needs to clean up" his stuff, I thought I might try creatively shuffling it around in a way that would cause me less anxiety and still preserve the sanctity of his crap pile. So I hit Pier 1 during their big summer sale and found two baskets that looked promising - one for all the new Wii video game paraphernalia scattered about the living room, and another to help organize (and filter) the mail.
When I came home from knitting group Tuesday night, I brought in the baskets and just started putting things in them, nicely stacked. He didn't seem to mind since I wasn't really asking him to do anything. I started with the video game stuff, then hit the mountain of papers on the dining room and buffet tables.
Inevitably, I had to start asking him, "Do you need this?" and "Is this important?" But instead of getting annoyed with all the questions, he actually seemed kind of interested and soon came over and started sorting through the piles himself. Perhaps they were getting to him too.
The next two hours were quite unexpected. We became cleaning, sorting, organizing machines. And it was beautiful. No longer was it me tentatively butting in to whatever he was doing to see if I could throw something away. No longer was it him rolling his eyes at me when I tell him that his piles are causing me stress. No longer was it me smugly watching as he rips through the piles trying to find that car insurance bill he just realized he forgot to pay.
No, this was pure organizational teamwork. Now that we finally have a feel for the awkward layout of our place, we could finally make informed decisions about how to organize to suit how we live. Mail sorting happens here. Magazines go here. Fun tidbits go here. The vitamins, nail clippers and deodorant that he insists on keeping in the dining area are hidden here.
We were brainstorming, laughing, thinking, improving. This was especially satisfying for someone who craves organization like me. I mean, my favorite place to go as a kid was the local office supply store where I would browse the aisles looking at folders, notepads and post-its, thinking of ways I could improve my organizational system for the next school year. Yes, I was (and am) a dork.
I came up with a term to describe just how damn happy that evening made me. Yes, this was my very first "Organigasm."
Here's to many more (but I'm not holding my breath).
Dismissed.
June 18, 2009
Happy Hip Update
The fact that I haven't mentioned my recovery from hip surgery since mid-April is, thank goodness, a very good sign. My recovery went really smoothly, thanks in large part to the support (and yummy pajamas and treats) I got from my friends at my "Hip Shower."
This recovery felt much faster than last time and I'm already walking without any sort of crutch or cane, though I get sore and tired pretty quickly still. I returned to work last week at half-time and begin full-time work next week.
As much as I hate to admit it, I've been in a far sunnier mood since I returned to work and again have a reason to get out of bed in the morning besides walking the dog to the corner and back.
But I still have to work on kicking my habit of two-hour naps every afternoon.
I saw the surgeon yesterday and, unfortunately, got some not so great news. I have excess bone growth that is apparently very rare (but also means I generate bone easily - good sign for my senior years I guess). I will have to have another procedure in 6-9 months to have it removed so I can gain full range of motion (it would be nice to be able to put a sock and shoe on my right foot again without ten minutes of struggling).
I'm trying not to be upset about this news, which isn't all that hard since it is only outpatient surgery. If had to stay in that godforsaken hospital again I think I might choose to just wear slip-on shoes for the rest of my life.
The doc says I should be back to full activity (tennis!) by September, so I'm trying to remain patient and not eat too many ice cream sundaes until then.
Just wanted to give you all an update so you no longer have to picture me hobbling around all drugged up on pain killers (though I do have a nice leftover stash of percoset and morphine just in case).
Dismissed.
This recovery felt much faster than last time and I'm already walking without any sort of crutch or cane, though I get sore and tired pretty quickly still. I returned to work last week at half-time and begin full-time work next week.
As much as I hate to admit it, I've been in a far sunnier mood since I returned to work and again have a reason to get out of bed in the morning besides walking the dog to the corner and back.
But I still have to work on kicking my habit of two-hour naps every afternoon.
I saw the surgeon yesterday and, unfortunately, got some not so great news. I have excess bone growth that is apparently very rare (but also means I generate bone easily - good sign for my senior years I guess). I will have to have another procedure in 6-9 months to have it removed so I can gain full range of motion (it would be nice to be able to put a sock and shoe on my right foot again without ten minutes of struggling).
I'm trying not to be upset about this news, which isn't all that hard since it is only outpatient surgery. If had to stay in that godforsaken hospital again I think I might choose to just wear slip-on shoes for the rest of my life.
The doc says I should be back to full activity (tennis!) by September, so I'm trying to remain patient and not eat too many ice cream sundaes until then.
Just wanted to give you all an update so you no longer have to picture me hobbling around all drugged up on pain killers (though I do have a nice leftover stash of percoset and morphine just in case).
Dismissed.
June 12, 2009
Delayed Dining
I like the idea that after 2 years and 2 months together, Wine Guy and I still have a few milestones left to achieve - beyond marriage, children and divorce, of course. Well, I knocked one of those off last night in honor of Wine Guy's birthday.
Although this was a rather significant milestone (in my opinion), it is also one that normally comes in the first 2 months of dating, not years. Nevertheless it was a big moment -- for us as a couple and for me as a kitchen-phobic individual.
I cooked my first meal for Wine Guy.
Notice I did not write that I prepared this first meal, planned it, ordered it, picked it up, or reheated it. I've done that hundreds of times.
But cooking - as in pick a recipe, buy the ingredients (none of which is pre-made and pre-packaged), prep, cook and serve it - terrifies me.
Wait. Let me clarify. I hate cooking, but I'll do it when necessary. But I'm terrified of cooking for Wine Guy.
See, in our relationship, Wine Guy is kind of "in charge" of food. Wine too (obviously). I relinquish that responsibility happily.
I like to eat but I dislike all of the pesky details that come along with making my own food. And Wine Guy loves every second of it. So who am I to rob him of that joy?
So I let him make the calls when it comes to all things culinary. With one major exception that was so obvious, we didn't even discuss it. I am in charge of all Asian dining. (What do you think I've been living on all of these years I've been avoiding the kitchen?) Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Vietnamese.....I'm very at home with these menus and dining cultures. And Wine Guy isn't.
Not only is Wine Guy knowledgeable about food and enjoys cooking, he is also a complete tyrant in the kitchen.
OK, I'm exaggerating (sort of). But it is clearly his domain. I feel like an unwelcome visitor when I'm in there with him. So when I am forced to be his sous-chef (usually when we're entertaining), I freeze up, certain I'll commit some horrible kitchen sin.
When I'm not in the kitchen with him, he becomes so engrossed in everything he's doing that I feel basically invisible until the meal is served, tasted and analyzed. This took me a while to get used to, as evidenced by this post back in June 2007. At first it really hurt my feelings, but then I started to see that this was his happy place - and I want him to be there as much as life allows. Plus I got a meal out of it.
So I became enthusiastic about doing the dishes and enjoyed his talent and passion for something so tasty. I mean, he could have been into Go Kart racing for god's sake, so I am very thankful.
But I wanted to do this for him and, since we were going out to celebrate big the night before, I knew he wanted it to be low key.
Wine Guy is well aware of my lack of training in the kitchen, so I knew that he knew that my plan to cook dinner was a big deal for me. Perhaps he was also a tad afraid (but not more than I) and kept telling me that I "didn't have to do this." When I insisted that I wanted to, he kept saying that I should "keep it really simple."
So I took Wine Guy's favorite cookbook with me one afternoon to the dog park and perused it while Luna romped with a chocolate lab. As I flipped through the pages, I decided that a nice simple pasta dish would be the perfect way to start my kitchen endeavors. But what kind? Well, we both like spicy. I know he likes to cook with penne pasta.
And voila! I had a dish - Penne Arrabbiata.
But that is just too simple on its own. So I thought some more. He uses shrimp quite a bit and I knew exactly where to get the kind he finds acceptable (he's very particular about quality ingredients).
And voila again! I now have Penne Arrabbiata with Shrimp. Wow. It sounds like real food.
I wasn't happy with the choices in the book so a quick Google search led me to my recipe of choice. Simple, easy, tasty.
But I have to make two things. Why? Who the hell knows. Apparently this is what I decided a girlfriend-who-cooks-for-her-boyfriend would do.
But there is no way I can handle another dish that involves, you know, a stove. That leaves me with one choice.....salad. A Caesar Salad sounds Italian, right?
Another search and I land on the recipe that seems the simplest and most true to the original (Wine Guy is also a bit of a food purist).
Menu=Done.
Penne Arrabbiata with Shrimp and Cesar Salad
Shopping was a breeze since I picked almost embarrassingly simple recipes. Plus I knew enough to go to Wine Guy's favorite market, which is small, easy to navigate and has limited (but quality) brands - keeping my choices to a minimum.
Wine Guy called while I was home unpacking the groceries. After he told me about his day I asked if he could do me one small favor on his birthday.
"Depends on what it is," he responded.
"Please don't ask me anything about dinner. Don't ask where I got the recipes, what I bought, nothing. Don't even come into the kitchen when you come home. Just sit down, relax and eat when I tell you it's ready."
I could tell he wasn't liking this plan. The best birthday gift I could have given him would probably have been to let him trail me the whole time, telling me what to do next. "You should cut it like this instead." "You know what would work better?" "Here, just let me do it."
But I wanted to celebrate, not kill him.
He reluctantly agreed to my request. But just in case, I wanted to do as much prepping as possible before he got home. I prepared and measured out all of the ingredients so I could just start throwing them in the pan once he walked in the door (timing is the hardest thing about cooking I am learning).
As I started washing, chopping, and shredding, I realized something. I've actually learned a lot about cooking just from watching Wine Guy these last two years. He has so many little tricks and shortcuts that he's figured out by trial and error over the years. And here I am, a total novice,with skills I didn't even know I had learned!
When Wine Guy came home I gave him a kiss and pointed him to the couch. He peered over my shoulder, trying to see what I had going on in there. I tried to block his view but it was too late.
"Can I just say one thing???" he asked as I shoved him out of the doorway.
He looked like he had something important to say and, well, I didn't want to screw the whole dinner up. "Fine, go."
As he stepped inside he pointed at the pots hanging on the pot rack. There's one in particular he wanted me to see - and it wasn't the one I had simmering on the stove.
"See this?" He points to a deep pan hanging on the rack. "This is a saucepan. What you are using is a saute pan, and its shallowness and curve is making the liquid evaporate more than you want."
I looked at the stove and, horrorified, realized he was right. The sauce was reducing too quickly. I was seconds away from having a few glumps of tomatoes that would barely cover one serving of pasta.
"What do I do?" I panicked, finally letting him inside the kitchen.
He headed straight to the back cabinet. The one I've opened maybe twice since we've lived here. "Hold on, I think we have some more tomatoes here."
Wine Guy shuffled around and finally pulled out a big can of whole tomatoes. "Just open this and drain the juice into your pan. That should do it."
He handed it to me and then he did the kindest thing he's done in some time. He smiled, walked out of the kitchen and went downstairs, leaving me to finish cooking dinner.
By the time we sat down to eat, I was so nervous my appetite was nowhere to be found. But, once I saw that he was enjoying both the salad and the pasta, I relaxed and took a deep breath -- and smelled the wonderful scent of garlic, onions and tomatoes that had filled the upstairs. All of a sudden I was hungry. And it was good.
Thanks for the gifts you've given me, Wine Guy. Just by being who you are.
Dismissed.
Although this was a rather significant milestone (in my opinion), it is also one that normally comes in the first 2 months of dating, not years. Nevertheless it was a big moment -- for us as a couple and for me as a kitchen-phobic individual.
I cooked my first meal for Wine Guy.
Notice I did not write that I prepared this first meal, planned it, ordered it, picked it up, or reheated it. I've done that hundreds of times.
But cooking - as in pick a recipe, buy the ingredients (none of which is pre-made and pre-packaged), prep, cook and serve it - terrifies me.
Wait. Let me clarify. I hate cooking, but I'll do it when necessary. But I'm terrified of cooking for Wine Guy.
See, in our relationship, Wine Guy is kind of "in charge" of food. Wine too (obviously). I relinquish that responsibility happily.
I like to eat but I dislike all of the pesky details that come along with making my own food. And Wine Guy loves every second of it. So who am I to rob him of that joy?
So I let him make the calls when it comes to all things culinary. With one major exception that was so obvious, we didn't even discuss it. I am in charge of all Asian dining. (What do you think I've been living on all of these years I've been avoiding the kitchen?) Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Vietnamese.....I'm very at home with these menus and dining cultures. And Wine Guy isn't.
Not only is Wine Guy knowledgeable about food and enjoys cooking, he is also a complete tyrant in the kitchen.
OK, I'm exaggerating (sort of). But it is clearly his domain. I feel like an unwelcome visitor when I'm in there with him. So when I am forced to be his sous-chef (usually when we're entertaining), I freeze up, certain I'll commit some horrible kitchen sin.
When I'm not in the kitchen with him, he becomes so engrossed in everything he's doing that I feel basically invisible until the meal is served, tasted and analyzed. This took me a while to get used to, as evidenced by this post back in June 2007. At first it really hurt my feelings, but then I started to see that this was his happy place - and I want him to be there as much as life allows. Plus I got a meal out of it.
So I became enthusiastic about doing the dishes and enjoyed his talent and passion for something so tasty. I mean, he could have been into Go Kart racing for god's sake, so I am very thankful.
But I wanted to do this for him and, since we were going out to celebrate big the night before, I knew he wanted it to be low key.
Wine Guy is well aware of my lack of training in the kitchen, so I knew that he knew that my plan to cook dinner was a big deal for me. Perhaps he was also a tad afraid (but not more than I) and kept telling me that I "didn't have to do this." When I insisted that I wanted to, he kept saying that I should "keep it really simple."
So I took Wine Guy's favorite cookbook with me one afternoon to the dog park and perused it while Luna romped with a chocolate lab. As I flipped through the pages, I decided that a nice simple pasta dish would be the perfect way to start my kitchen endeavors. But what kind? Well, we both like spicy. I know he likes to cook with penne pasta.
And voila! I had a dish - Penne Arrabbiata.
But that is just too simple on its own. So I thought some more. He uses shrimp quite a bit and I knew exactly where to get the kind he finds acceptable (he's very particular about quality ingredients).
And voila again! I now have Penne Arrabbiata with Shrimp. Wow. It sounds like real food.
I wasn't happy with the choices in the book so a quick Google search led me to my recipe of choice. Simple, easy, tasty.
But I have to make two things. Why? Who the hell knows. Apparently this is what I decided a girlfriend-who-cooks-for-her-boyfriend would do.
But there is no way I can handle another dish that involves, you know, a stove. That leaves me with one choice.....salad. A Caesar Salad sounds Italian, right?
Another search and I land on the recipe that seems the simplest and most true to the original (Wine Guy is also a bit of a food purist).
Menu=Done.
Penne Arrabbiata with Shrimp and Cesar Salad
Shopping was a breeze since I picked almost embarrassingly simple recipes. Plus I knew enough to go to Wine Guy's favorite market, which is small, easy to navigate and has limited (but quality) brands - keeping my choices to a minimum.
Wine Guy called while I was home unpacking the groceries. After he told me about his day I asked if he could do me one small favor on his birthday.
"Depends on what it is," he responded.
"Please don't ask me anything about dinner. Don't ask where I got the recipes, what I bought, nothing. Don't even come into the kitchen when you come home. Just sit down, relax and eat when I tell you it's ready."
I could tell he wasn't liking this plan. The best birthday gift I could have given him would probably have been to let him trail me the whole time, telling me what to do next. "You should cut it like this instead." "You know what would work better?" "Here, just let me do it."
But I wanted to celebrate, not kill him.
He reluctantly agreed to my request. But just in case, I wanted to do as much prepping as possible before he got home. I prepared and measured out all of the ingredients so I could just start throwing them in the pan once he walked in the door (timing is the hardest thing about cooking I am learning).
As I started washing, chopping, and shredding, I realized something. I've actually learned a lot about cooking just from watching Wine Guy these last two years. He has so many little tricks and shortcuts that he's figured out by trial and error over the years. And here I am, a total novice,with skills I didn't even know I had learned!
When Wine Guy came home I gave him a kiss and pointed him to the couch. He peered over my shoulder, trying to see what I had going on in there. I tried to block his view but it was too late.
"Can I just say one thing???" he asked as I shoved him out of the doorway.
He looked like he had something important to say and, well, I didn't want to screw the whole dinner up. "Fine, go."
As he stepped inside he pointed at the pots hanging on the pot rack. There's one in particular he wanted me to see - and it wasn't the one I had simmering on the stove.
"See this?" He points to a deep pan hanging on the rack. "This is a saucepan. What you are using is a saute pan, and its shallowness and curve is making the liquid evaporate more than you want."
I looked at the stove and, horrorified, realized he was right. The sauce was reducing too quickly. I was seconds away from having a few glumps of tomatoes that would barely cover one serving of pasta.
"What do I do?" I panicked, finally letting him inside the kitchen.
He headed straight to the back cabinet. The one I've opened maybe twice since we've lived here. "Hold on, I think we have some more tomatoes here."
Wine Guy shuffled around and finally pulled out a big can of whole tomatoes. "Just open this and drain the juice into your pan. That should do it."
He handed it to me and then he did the kindest thing he's done in some time. He smiled, walked out of the kitchen and went downstairs, leaving me to finish cooking dinner.
By the time we sat down to eat, I was so nervous my appetite was nowhere to be found. But, once I saw that he was enjoying both the salad and the pasta, I relaxed and took a deep breath -- and smelled the wonderful scent of garlic, onions and tomatoes that had filled the upstairs. All of a sudden I was hungry. And it was good.
Thanks for the gifts you've given me, Wine Guy. Just by being who you are.
Dismissed.
May 18, 2009
The Man-Purse Challenge
"Can you hold this for me?"Sounds like an innocent enough question. And when my purse has any spare room, as it often does, I always say yes.
It's rarely a woman who asks me this question. Mostly because she would also be carrying a purse to hold her standard must-carry items - wallet, phone, lipstick, tampons.
But the man-- the poor man. Cursed with the back pocket as his only solution. Before the cell phone and other bulkier electronic must-carry items, all the man needed to worry about was the wallet. Easy enough to slip in the back pocket. No lipstick, hopefully, to worry about and all that jangling change goes in the front pocket or gets left in a jar at home.
Well, those days of pity are over. We all have bulky items we need to carry around these days, whether we wear lipstick and sanitary napkins or not. And it only seems fair that men should have to carry their load.
The first year of my relationship with Wine Guy I would respond with, "You need a good bag to carry your stuff." This was met with a stern look, and my purse got heavier.
Then I went sarcastic (always my first, less effective fallback). "Seriously, you need a man-purse." This was met with an even sterner, "No way."
Now, two years later, I've pretty much given up and accepted my lot in life -- say , "Sure" and and shove his items into my purse. Sometimes he even slips them in without my knowledge. Then, of course, it's my duty to remember they are there and return them to him before we eventually go our separate ways.
I haven't given Wine Guy crap about his need for a man-purse in awhile. But his birthday is fast approaching and, well, it's hard for me to imagine someone of any gender wouldn't want a wonderful bag to carry their most beloved items (I am a woman after all). So I thought I'd give it the old college try one more time, minus the sarcasm.
"How about a nice bag for your birthday?" I asked as I fished his phone and wallet out of my purse while standing together in a dark parking lot.
Clearly, time has not healed this wound. He responded, "Seriously, don't even think about it getting me that. I won't use it."
I handed his items over and mumbled, "I know." Defeat.
So....should I give up and consider myself his human purse? Or have any of you ladies (or men) found a solution? There's got to be some item out there (short of a fanny pack) that could please us both?
Help.
Dismissed.
May 14, 2009
Games for Grownups
After two years, I can't freakin' believe Wine Guy finally tricked me into allowing video games into the house.
I HATE video games.
OK, the vintage Atari 2600 games are just fine in my book. Lord knows I spent much of my youth playing them. But as a teenage babysitter, I saw how absolutely mindless and antisocial the boys I watched became while playing.
Then throw in Naval A-hole and the marathon sessions of Halo with his squadron buddy that he forced me to attend during my visits up to rural Washington state just to see him....well, you can see why I dislike them so much.
Wine Guy is well aware of this and has been respectful. So much so that he refrained from setting up his PS2 station when we moved in together. Now that's restraint.
But when I came home tonight, I walked into what looked like Christmas morning.
A few days ago WG's boss gave him a beautiful new LCD HDTV as a surprise bonus. Well, since that was "free," WG figured he might as well invest a little money in some additional video technology to make our set up even better.
While I was at the movies tonight, WG was at his weekly wine tasting talking it over with his friends. When he told them how much I loathe all things video game, one of them suggested a Wii as a possible solution. He bit.
One trip to Best Buy later and all of a sudden we are the proud owners of a Wii console and a Wii Fit. He bought the latter as a "surprise" for me because I have heard good things from a few of my like-minded female friends and talked about wanting to try it.
At first I was a little stunned and perhaps scared that our nights would now consist of me sitting on the couch "watching" WG play games and waiting for him to finish so we could actually, you know, talk or something. He was a little disappointed that I didn't jump with joy and cover him with grateful kisses.
But once he got it going, the thank you kisses were aplenty. Next thing I know, here I am at 12:30am sitting on the couch and watching him snowboard. And providing my own play by play. And having fun.
This after an hour of setting up our Miis (our customized avatars), trying some balance games and aerobics on the Fit, and building our teamwork skills by playing a few games of doubles tennis together. We're talking high fives and everything (OK, that was me getting a little too competitive).
If this is the what video games are now, then I might just have to change my mind. This could be the best thing that has happened to us in awhile. I'm talking "quality time," not to mention setting fitness goals and reaching them together on the Wii Fit (how cool is that!) Or it could just be the honeymoon phase. Only time will tell.
Dismissed.
Addendum: I started writing this during WG's third snowboard run, suddenly inspired with a relationship story to tell that wasn't throughly depressing. I've been writing for about 15 minutes and about two minutes ago he turned to me and said with a kinda cute whine, "[Trooper], come and watch. Come and appreciate my skills!"
Oh shit.
Dismissed again.
I HATE video games.
OK, the vintage Atari 2600 games are just fine in my book. Lord knows I spent much of my youth playing them. But as a teenage babysitter, I saw how absolutely mindless and antisocial the boys I watched became while playing.
Then throw in Naval A-hole and the marathon sessions of Halo with his squadron buddy that he forced me to attend during my visits up to rural Washington state just to see him....well, you can see why I dislike them so much.
Wine Guy is well aware of this and has been respectful. So much so that he refrained from setting up his PS2 station when we moved in together. Now that's restraint.
But when I came home tonight, I walked into what looked like Christmas morning.
A few days ago WG's boss gave him a beautiful new LCD HDTV as a surprise bonus. Well, since that was "free," WG figured he might as well invest a little money in some additional video technology to make our set up even better.
While I was at the movies tonight, WG was at his weekly wine tasting talking it over with his friends. When he told them how much I loathe all things video game, one of them suggested a Wii as a possible solution. He bit.
One trip to Best Buy later and all of a sudden we are the proud owners of a Wii console and a Wii Fit. He bought the latter as a "surprise" for me because I have heard good things from a few of my like-minded female friends and talked about wanting to try it.
At first I was a little stunned and perhaps scared that our nights would now consist of me sitting on the couch "watching" WG play games and waiting for him to finish so we could actually, you know, talk or something. He was a little disappointed that I didn't jump with joy and cover him with grateful kisses.
But once he got it going, the thank you kisses were aplenty. Next thing I know, here I am at 12:30am sitting on the couch and watching him snowboard. And providing my own play by play. And having fun.
This after an hour of setting up our Miis (our customized avatars), trying some balance games and aerobics on the Fit, and building our teamwork skills by playing a few games of doubles tennis together. We're talking high fives and everything (OK, that was me getting a little too competitive).
If this is the what video games are now, then I might just have to change my mind. This could be the best thing that has happened to us in awhile. I'm talking "quality time," not to mention setting fitness goals and reaching them together on the Wii Fit (how cool is that!) Or it could just be the honeymoon phase. Only time will tell.
Dismissed.
Addendum: I started writing this during WG's third snowboard run, suddenly inspired with a relationship story to tell that wasn't throughly depressing. I've been writing for about 15 minutes and about two minutes ago he turned to me and said with a kinda cute whine, "[Trooper], come and watch. Come and appreciate my skills!"
Oh shit.
Dismissed again.
May 9, 2009
"I"s and "We"s - Part I
I knew there was trouble when she stopped using the word “I.” You know, that all-important word that represents the individual in us all. The word that is so important that it must be capitalized. Well, when Blonde Wife had her baby, that word ceased to exist.
“How are you doing?” I would ask.
“Oh, we’re doing really great,” she’d reply.
Uh, OK. Try again.
“What have you been up to lately?”
“Oh, lots. First we went to the park. Then we went to the local pool and signed up for swim lessons. You have to get on the waiting list at least two years ahead you know.”
No. I didn’t know that.
I was a bridesmaid in her wedding a few years ago. We must still have something in common.
“So how are you feeling?”
“Well, Blonde Baby vomited yesterday. But I think it was just a little gas. We’re feeling much better today. I don’t think it was anything serious.”
I knew I’d lost her. Blonde Wife was gone. Blonde Mom was here to stay.
But I still didn’t care. I thought the world of this person. I’d met her in grad school and immediately knew she was one of those rare women who I absolutely, totally admired. She was beautiful. Humble. Funny as shit. Intelligent and interested in subjects far deeper than the latest celebrity scandal. But she wasn’t above a good poop joke either. She had a wonderful relationship with her soon-to-be-husband that I hoped to someday emulate, and, best of all, she seemed to “get me” -- and liked me anyway. When she asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding, I was so honored I couldn’t get to the dreaded David’s Bridal fast enough.
So when I realized she was letting this wonderful “I” individual go and replacing her with a “We” I didn’t quite understand, I was let down.
I had no problem with her first, subtler “We,” transition when she met, dated, moved in with, and then married her husband. But there was still plenty of room left over for the woman I treasured as a friend. Plus, I liked the man she chose to spend her life with.
But Blonde Baby changed everything. First they moved to the northern suburban outskirts of town. That’s fine. I’ve got plenty of mom friends who moved to the boonies with their babies. No biggie. If you are important enough to my life, I will make the effort. Hell, I’ve got a calendar. Let’s get it on the books.
So Blonde Mom and I would schedule plans – dinner at her place with the family – about a month ahead of time. The Blonde Family is very busy after all with the various in-laws and rigorous baby schedule. But when the day would arrive, she would cancel via email with some seemingly heartfelt excuse. Of course I understood.
So we’d go for round two and plan another dinner a few weeks down the road. I wanted them to meet and get to know Wine Guy. Blonde Wife had met him once, only briefly, and I felt that people who are so important to me should get the chance to bond in a more meaningful way. I told her this.
She canceled again.
So we go one more round.
When she canceled the third time, I finally threw up my hands up and said “OK, ball’s in your court.” Of course, by this time (six+ months later) Wine Guy didn’t understand why I cared so much. I mean, who the hell are these people anyway? Obviously they can’t be that important to me if we’ve been together over a year and they’ve barely even met.
No matter how much I tried to argue him on the matter, I knew he was right. It was about time I started to take the hint. Especially after I learned, via a Facebook status update, that Blonde Wife was pregnant with Blonde Baby #2. I dutifully submitted my public “Congratulations” wall post. No response.
Then I learn through yet another Facebook status update that it’s a boy. A perfect balance to their now three-year-old girl. I gave my public “Congratulations” wall post. No response.
The I learn through a Facebook wall post that Blonde Wife made on a mutual friend’s wall that there were complications with the pregnancy that sounded pretty serious.
Suddenly it hit me. A sad fact I figured out a few friends-with-first-babies ago that I somehow always manage to forget all over again. Just because I consider someone part of my family, doesn’t mean I’m a part of theirs.
And just to clarify in case some of you moms are wondering, I love kids - including hers -- and was/am always willing to make Blonde Baby #1 part of whatever plans we made together and spent plenty of time talking about all things baby with her before she bailed on me.
But I’m not one of those people who go quietly into the night – especially when it comes to a friend I really trust and believe in. So I decided I had nothing to lose but ask her straight out – are we friends or what?
Wine Guy was strongly against this maneuver. He urged me to just “get over it" (quite possibly the most infuriating advice ever given). Plus, he didn’t know her like I did. We were FRIENDS. I considered myself a savvy friend-picker at this point, and I was 100% sure that there was something I was missing here. Something about our friendship that could be fixed.
So I wrote her an email that said,
“…without Facebook I wouldn't know that you are A) pregnant B) having a boy and C) having complications, surgeries and mandatory bed rest (I'm sorry about everything in C). Are we friends or what?.. it's very hard to be just "Facebook friends" with someone I felt so close to not long ago. Especially when you are going through big life moments - good and bad….Did I do something? Do I just not fit into your world now?... I don't know....I've been through many scenarios in my head and finally just said 'screw it' - and thought I'd actually just ask you.”
In the closing (not included above) I tried very hard not to push too hard and to let her know that my thoughts are with her during what I assume is a tough time (but don't know the details since she hasn't talked to me in months). I asked her to get back to me when and if she felt ready.
Overall it was a sincere attempt to be honest and straightforward. If you know me at all (and she does), you'd know I meant it.
The Blonde Wife I knew would have responded with a real answer. Of course, this is assuming she hadn’t morphed into some sort of alien “We.” You be the judge – here’s her response word for word.
“Thank you for your words of concern about my health. It's been a very scary time for us. However, as you might imagine, I am nowhere near being able to respond to the rest of your message. I'm feeling "kicked while I am down," by it quite frankly. Right now my priorities are to focus on being well enough to be here for Blonde Baby#1 and not to lose this baby [Blonde Baby #2].”
Ouch. Much worse than I ever anticipated. I certainly wasn't intending to jeopardize her baby's by asking about our friendship. I just wanted to be included in her life.
Two weeks later I see another Facebook post she made about her family's upcoming vacation to Hawaii. You tell me. If you are well enough to fly six hours to an island vacation destination, don’t you think you could – at the very least – reply to an email from one of your three freakin’ bridesmaids who just wants to be your friend?
This vacation announcement hurt more than her original response to me. So I decided to spare myself further pain by "unfriending" her from Facebook to avoid any more updates about her ultra active “We” life. Shortly thereafter I took Wine Guy’s advice and emotionally gave up on our friendship -- probably about eight months after she did.
This all took place in January 2009, and the exchange kicked off a massive depression for me. Mostly because it felt like a confirmation of my deepest, darkest fears that I always hoped were entirely delusional; that as a single, childless woman, I am thoroughly insignificant in the eyes of a woman with a husband and child(ren).
And I don’t mean this to sound as self-deprecating as it does. I don’t even take it all that personally, really. How could I when there is absolutely NOTHING I can think of to justify why Blonde Wife would do this except for the fact that she is totally and completely immersed in her new role as Mom? She moved to a Mom neighborhood. She made all new Mom friends who do all sorts of Mom activities together. And she just simply doesn’t have room for my silly little dating/job/dog life anymore.
This thought hurt me more than if she had replied with, “You are a total bitch. I hate it when you _____ and I never want to talk to you again.” Then at least I would have a reason. Something to improve upon. Or at least something to tell her to go fuck herself over.
But this? This is just….life. People move on. I totally get that. But I just thought our friendship was a bit deeper than that. Like the handful of other women I adore who have had children and haven’t flicked me off their lapel like piece of worthless lint.
Granted, many of them have moved on or evolved past the "I" stage. But there’s that certain few who, even if we don't speak for six months at a time, when we do connect it’s like not a moment has passed. And nobody’s mad at anyone for disappearing for awhile.And when we do finally get together, I don’t mind if we spend the day with their kids, talking about their kids, while sitting poolside at their kid’s swim lesson. As long as we know that we are important to each other – that’s all I ask.
But you just can’t avoid the inevitable. Along with that baby comes a wall that keeps the “I”s and “We”s just a little bit separated. It’s nothing personal. But it doesn’t mean there aren’t casualties – usually on the “I” side.
…..To Be Continued…
Dismissed.
“How are you doing?” I would ask.
“Oh, we’re doing really great,” she’d reply.
Uh, OK. Try again.
“What have you been up to lately?”
“Oh, lots. First we went to the park. Then we went to the local pool and signed up for swim lessons. You have to get on the waiting list at least two years ahead you know.”
No. I didn’t know that.
I was a bridesmaid in her wedding a few years ago. We must still have something in common.
“So how are you feeling?”
“Well, Blonde Baby vomited yesterday. But I think it was just a little gas. We’re feeling much better today. I don’t think it was anything serious.”
I knew I’d lost her. Blonde Wife was gone. Blonde Mom was here to stay.
But I still didn’t care. I thought the world of this person. I’d met her in grad school and immediately knew she was one of those rare women who I absolutely, totally admired. She was beautiful. Humble. Funny as shit. Intelligent and interested in subjects far deeper than the latest celebrity scandal. But she wasn’t above a good poop joke either. She had a wonderful relationship with her soon-to-be-husband that I hoped to someday emulate, and, best of all, she seemed to “get me” -- and liked me anyway. When she asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding, I was so honored I couldn’t get to the dreaded David’s Bridal fast enough.
So when I realized she was letting this wonderful “I” individual go and replacing her with a “We” I didn’t quite understand, I was let down.
I had no problem with her first, subtler “We,” transition when she met, dated, moved in with, and then married her husband. But there was still plenty of room left over for the woman I treasured as a friend. Plus, I liked the man she chose to spend her life with.
But Blonde Baby changed everything. First they moved to the northern suburban outskirts of town. That’s fine. I’ve got plenty of mom friends who moved to the boonies with their babies. No biggie. If you are important enough to my life, I will make the effort. Hell, I’ve got a calendar. Let’s get it on the books.
So Blonde Mom and I would schedule plans – dinner at her place with the family – about a month ahead of time. The Blonde Family is very busy after all with the various in-laws and rigorous baby schedule. But when the day would arrive, she would cancel via email with some seemingly heartfelt excuse. Of course I understood.
So we’d go for round two and plan another dinner a few weeks down the road. I wanted them to meet and get to know Wine Guy. Blonde Wife had met him once, only briefly, and I felt that people who are so important to me should get the chance to bond in a more meaningful way. I told her this.
She canceled again.
So we go one more round.
When she canceled the third time, I finally threw up my hands up and said “OK, ball’s in your court.” Of course, by this time (six+ months later) Wine Guy didn’t understand why I cared so much. I mean, who the hell are these people anyway? Obviously they can’t be that important to me if we’ve been together over a year and they’ve barely even met.
No matter how much I tried to argue him on the matter, I knew he was right. It was about time I started to take the hint. Especially after I learned, via a Facebook status update, that Blonde Wife was pregnant with Blonde Baby #2. I dutifully submitted my public “Congratulations” wall post. No response.
Then I learn through yet another Facebook status update that it’s a boy. A perfect balance to their now three-year-old girl. I gave my public “Congratulations” wall post. No response.
The I learn through a Facebook wall post that Blonde Wife made on a mutual friend’s wall that there were complications with the pregnancy that sounded pretty serious.
Suddenly it hit me. A sad fact I figured out a few friends-with-first-babies ago that I somehow always manage to forget all over again. Just because I consider someone part of my family, doesn’t mean I’m a part of theirs.
And just to clarify in case some of you moms are wondering, I love kids - including hers -- and was/am always willing to make Blonde Baby #1 part of whatever plans we made together and spent plenty of time talking about all things baby with her before she bailed on me.
But I’m not one of those people who go quietly into the night – especially when it comes to a friend I really trust and believe in. So I decided I had nothing to lose but ask her straight out – are we friends or what?
Wine Guy was strongly against this maneuver. He urged me to just “get over it" (quite possibly the most infuriating advice ever given). Plus, he didn’t know her like I did. We were FRIENDS. I considered myself a savvy friend-picker at this point, and I was 100% sure that there was something I was missing here. Something about our friendship that could be fixed.
So I wrote her an email that said,
“…without Facebook I wouldn't know that you are A) pregnant B) having a boy and C) having complications, surgeries and mandatory bed rest (I'm sorry about everything in C). Are we friends or what?.. it's very hard to be just "Facebook friends" with someone I felt so close to not long ago. Especially when you are going through big life moments - good and bad….Did I do something? Do I just not fit into your world now?... I don't know....I've been through many scenarios in my head and finally just said 'screw it' - and thought I'd actually just ask you.”
In the closing (not included above) I tried very hard not to push too hard and to let her know that my thoughts are with her during what I assume is a tough time (but don't know the details since she hasn't talked to me in months). I asked her to get back to me when and if she felt ready.
Overall it was a sincere attempt to be honest and straightforward. If you know me at all (and she does), you'd know I meant it.
The Blonde Wife I knew would have responded with a real answer. Of course, this is assuming she hadn’t morphed into some sort of alien “We.” You be the judge – here’s her response word for word.
“Thank you for your words of concern about my health. It's been a very scary time for us. However, as you might imagine, I am nowhere near being able to respond to the rest of your message. I'm feeling "kicked while I am down," by it quite frankly. Right now my priorities are to focus on being well enough to be here for Blonde Baby#1 and not to lose this baby [Blonde Baby #2].”
Ouch. Much worse than I ever anticipated. I certainly wasn't intending to jeopardize her baby's by asking about our friendship. I just wanted to be included in her life.
Two weeks later I see another Facebook post she made about her family's upcoming vacation to Hawaii. You tell me. If you are well enough to fly six hours to an island vacation destination, don’t you think you could – at the very least – reply to an email from one of your three freakin’ bridesmaids who just wants to be your friend?
This vacation announcement hurt more than her original response to me. So I decided to spare myself further pain by "unfriending" her from Facebook to avoid any more updates about her ultra active “We” life. Shortly thereafter I took Wine Guy’s advice and emotionally gave up on our friendship -- probably about eight months after she did.
This all took place in January 2009, and the exchange kicked off a massive depression for me. Mostly because it felt like a confirmation of my deepest, darkest fears that I always hoped were entirely delusional; that as a single, childless woman, I am thoroughly insignificant in the eyes of a woman with a husband and child(ren).
And I don’t mean this to sound as self-deprecating as it does. I don’t even take it all that personally, really. How could I when there is absolutely NOTHING I can think of to justify why Blonde Wife would do this except for the fact that she is totally and completely immersed in her new role as Mom? She moved to a Mom neighborhood. She made all new Mom friends who do all sorts of Mom activities together. And she just simply doesn’t have room for my silly little dating/job/dog life anymore.
This thought hurt me more than if she had replied with, “You are a total bitch. I hate it when you _____ and I never want to talk to you again.” Then at least I would have a reason. Something to improve upon. Or at least something to tell her to go fuck herself over.
But this? This is just….life. People move on. I totally get that. But I just thought our friendship was a bit deeper than that. Like the handful of other women I adore who have had children and haven’t flicked me off their lapel like piece of worthless lint.
Granted, many of them have moved on or evolved past the "I" stage. But there’s that certain few who, even if we don't speak for six months at a time, when we do connect it’s like not a moment has passed. And nobody’s mad at anyone for disappearing for awhile.And when we do finally get together, I don’t mind if we spend the day with their kids, talking about their kids, while sitting poolside at their kid’s swim lesson. As long as we know that we are important to each other – that’s all I ask.
But you just can’t avoid the inevitable. Along with that baby comes a wall that keeps the “I”s and “We”s just a little bit separated. It’s nothing personal. But it doesn’t mean there aren’t casualties – usually on the “I” side.
…..To Be Continued…
Dismissed.
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