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February 24, 2008 by enchantingsunshine.
Yesterday was a fun day. First my husband and I rode the new light rail in Charlotte for the first time. The “Blue Line.” As if there were another. I loved it! Loved it, loved it, loved it! I grew up riding public transportation, to high school, to the library, to the Inner Harbor, wherever I wanted to go. Light rail and subways though are the ultimate in my mind. No traffic jams, you get to relax, no parking hassles, and you can drink as much as you want when you go out! What could be better?
I spent two months in Spain years ago and in every European city I have ever visited, I have envied them their extensive rail systems. For my honeymoon a couple of years ago, we traveled all around Italy completely by train and it was a lovely experience.
Before the light rail opened here, all we heard was morons bitching, moaning, and groaning about how no one will use it and what a waste of money it will be. How amazingly short-sighted people are! As it turns out, people LOVE the light rail and ridership has far exceeded what even the city planners expected. Last night there was a game at the “Bobcats Arena” and the train was chock-a-block! No one will ride it indeed! Yes, of course, people would rather sit in traffic inhaling fumes, getting their blood pressure up instead of riding the train, relaxing, reading the paper or listening to an IPod when the option is available.
So last night, thanks to the train, we had a fun night out with dinner and drinks downtown. Before all the drinking, the hubby and I headed to an RV show. Thinking that we had narrowed down the options, we decided this time to focus on a low-priced fifth-wheel, the stablest of the trailers. As usual, we left more confused than when we arrived. We’re told that an RV loan is tax-deductible as a second home. A smart salesman told us all about people who transport trailers for you and how some people park them at desirable locations such as the beach. That would solve the problem of where to store the trailer and provide a guaranteed beach vacation whenever we want. So now we’re thinking, maybe we want something a little nicer if we’re going to be keeping it as a “second home?”
Lots of fun decisions ahead.
Then I almost ended it all this morning. I went into our partially finished attic to marvel at the husband’s handiwork. A colossal klutz my whole life, it only took ten minutes for me to stick my foot through the ceiling of the unfinished part. The beam I was holding onto wasn’t secure, so when it came loose, so did I. Now the husband has a nice hole in the garage ceiling to fix, a fact that was made known to me as he helped me wiggle my trapped foot free. I suggested that he would have been happier if I had fallen all the way through the ceiling. Let’s just say that his non-committal response will be greeted with an equally non-committal response tomorrow morning, if you catch my drift.
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December 15, 2007 by enchantingsunshine.
My husband, God love him. (Education note: If you’re from the north, the expression “God love him” is foreshadowing. It’s very similar to “bless his heart.”)
Scientists are increasingly proving that men and women think differently. As our different proportions of estrogen and testosterone drip into and form puddles in the folds and cavities of our brains, we are influenced to engage in the world and behave in ways that can only be explained, to be kind, as “crazy” in the eyes of our partners.
It’s a glorious Saturday morning here. Cold has finally found it’s way to us again. Finally, we have comfortable sleeping weather. It’s overcast and promising to rain (we’re keeping our fingers crossed) and it’s the perfect sort of day to stay inside with a warm drink, playing on the Internet, catching up on podcasts and reading. Not according to my husband though. The man loves to work. He loves it. If you were to confront him and say, “Good sir, do you love to work?” he would deny it, maybe even vehemently. He might even chortle. However, as his wife, I am an eye-witness, an objective observer to his daily doings, and I can tell you that there is only one explanation, just one logical conclusion.
This morning, instead of say, sleeping in, or sitting down to a nice breakfast or eating cookie batter, all behaviors I would consider logical, my husband got dressed and rushed outside to rake and bag the leaves. Oh, how many times I’ve tried to convince him to use the mower to mulch the leaves, which are then quickly and easily raked and thrown into the natural areas I’ve worked very hard to create to reduce the yardwork.
Sometimes, I rush home from work and hurriedly mulch up the leaves in the front yard because I know that come the weekend, my husband, God love him, will see those leaves and be unable to fight his uncontrollable, compelling urge to bag them. Last week, I came home at lunch (to wait for a service techinician), and I got the front yard done in about 40 minutes, a job that done my husband’s way would have taken probably two and a half hours. When he got home an hour later he asked in amazement, “When did you do that? You mean you just did that? How did you do it so fast? Where did the leaves go?” I explain it. Again. In fact, we’ve had this conversation no less than ten times (about twice every Fall before I give up and just let him do what he’s going to do).
But still, no matter how I try to appeal to his logic, somewhere in his mind, it makes more sense to the man who claims he hates yard work, who moans and complains vociferously that he gave up his town home where all the landscaping was done by the homeowners association, to go outside at 9 am on a Saturday morning and spend two hours raking and bagging leaves.
I wish I understood. I am convinced that if I can make sense of this behavior, I will have the secret to how men think and will be world-famous for saving relationships all over the planet. It may even be the secret to world peace.
But God knows, I love him. Bless his heart.
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December 12, 2007 by enchantingsunshine.
One might expect that coming from different countries, my husband and I might encounter a few cultural differences. Somehow though, I once, naively, thought that it would be easy to navigate these since we speak the same native language. The thing is, no matter how culturally enlightened or self-aware you might fancy yourself, there are always going to be things that you accept as basic life assumptions, things that you don’t even think to question. Some of these assumptions have been uncovered only after some hard work and none too pleasant “discussions.”
Here’s an example of what I mean. Any self-respecting American will tell you, breakfast is about sweets: pancakes, syrup-covered French toast, waffles, toast with jam, Pop Tarts, Captain Crunch, Frosted Flakes, Fruit Loops, donuts, and maybe a side of eggs with a meat. We believe in jump-starting our day with a sugary boost.
Any self-respecting woman will tell you that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. So while my husband and I were still dating, to ensure our matrimonial actualization (or some might say “ensnarement”), with invincible perspicacity and artifice, I employed a program of deceiving my husband into believing I had wifely characteristics and abilities. On weekends, I created elaborate breakfasts to help my husband figure out that he couldn’t live without me and our peaceful weekends filled with delicious offerings. A few of these, I was sure, were the key to eternal worship and admiration, namely the Napoleon Waffles and the Banana Liqueur stuffed French toast. After spending hours looking for recipes and then hours in the kitchen cooking, I was utterly crushed when he complained on all occasions, “It’s too sweet.” It took several mornings of disappointment before we figured out that the English don’t like sweet for breakfast. To them, French toast is “eggy bread,” another way to ingest eggs, not a way to ingest syrup.
Truth be told, I’m still trying to internalize and accept this fact and give up my idea that weekends are meant for luxurious beginnings. Now when I make plain, boring French toast, I look the other way and try to hide my disgust when my husband happily drizzles ketchup over what he regards as an alternative way to eat eggs, so contently believing this is the proper order of the universe.
Another thing the British don’t know about is squashes. Maybe they did once, but after we rebelled in what some have labeled, “The War of American Aggression,” they decided to cut off their nose to spite their face and refused to eat them ever again. Included in the list of things the British adamantly refuse to like no matter how you prepare or disguise them are pumpkin and sweet potatoes. Try though I do, I cannot find a way to make my husband like pumpkin, not in pumpkin pie, not covered in whip cream, not in gnocchi, not in pumpkin cheesecake and not even in the recipe I recently discovered as the best way anyone ever thought of to eat pumpkin - chocolate covered coffee pumpkin cheesecake in a graham cracker crust. Can you imagine? I’ve considered bringing up this point and testifying against him when he applies for citizenship. I don’t know how you can get more un-American.
Peanut butter, and particularly, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the staple of American childhood — unknown and unheard of to the British! I never considered peanuts to be an acquired taste, but I can’t flavor any dish with them, no matter how subtly, without hearing a complaint. Should I dare to eat a handful, I always hear a sensitively delivered, “Eww, your breath stinks of peanuts.” Some days he’s lucky I don’t drive a knife through his heart.
This is how my husband used to be. I think he’s making his first small steps toward assimilating. Yesterday I had an eye appointment and couldn’t see a thing with my pupils dilated. I needed lunch, so I asked my husband if he would make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from our supply in the company break room. Now, to you or me, this might seem a simple task that you could do blind-folded, but for my husband, it was his very first PB&J sandwich. He asked me to coach him through it:
Me, donned in sunglasses, standing a couple of arms length away and cocking my head backward to try to see better: “Now take the peanut butter and spread it over the bread.”
Him: Spreading a glob onto the bread, “Like that? Is that right?”
Me: “Did you get the corners? Not too thick. You have to spread it out, get it in the corners too.”
Him: “Okay now what?”
Me: “Take the jam, just a little cause this one has a lot of sugar, and spread a thin layer over the peanut butter. You have to add enough so that it keeps the peanut butter from sticking to the roof of your mouth.”
Him: Spreading jam, “Like this?”
Me: “That’s great. Great job, honey!”
I bet you took making PB&J for granted. Though he still won’t eat a PB&J, at least he knows how to make one, and for that reason, I’m reconsidering testifying against him. I’m still on the fence though. One more bad breath comment and he’s on the terrorist list. And that brings me to another key ingredient in having a successful marriage, in addition to accepting our differences as equally valid ways to view the world, always have a card you can play. If the man had any sense, he would realize that as an immigrant, he’s playing against someone with four aces.
I’ll close with this clip from the Family Guy that my dear friend Jeff thinks is the funniest thing he’s ever seen: Peanut Butter Jelly.
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October 14, 2007 by enchantingsunshine.
For this week’s episode of “That’s Love,” I’d like to share a couple of stories.
Years ago I read several books that discussed theories about what makes for a happy marriage. I use the word “theories” because even with case studies, any conclusions are still based on a researcher’s interpretation of the data. Famous marriage expert John Gottman has done the most compelling and scientific research on successful marriages and provides “recipes” for happiness and disaster. Though not as scientific, other marriage authors offer interesting insights into marriage, even if most of their guidelines for marital bliss aren’t gleaned from labs but rather personal anecdotes and self-reports.
One of my favorite books on the subject is by Judith Viorst, called Grown-Up Marriage. Viorst proposes that happy marriages stem from a mature understanding of what marriage is. Marriage isn’t a fantasy created in Hollywood where two individuals feel amorous every single day and never get irritated with each other. Individuals in happy marriages accept the reality of life, and have more realistic expectations. We live in a culture of choices that gives us the luxury of being choosy and demanding of perfection. We are less tolerant of flaws, not wanting, but expecting perfection. We are in the habit of regarding people with the same critical eye as we do our things. In a culture where “good enough” is considered “settling” and a bad thing, even though we ourselves are imperfect, Viorst asserts that happiness is not to be found around another corner. In a mature marriage, we know and accept that people are fallible and imperfect, we tolerate imperfections in our partner, in ourselves, and in our responses to each other. We don’t pathologize one another, constantly over-emphasizing defects as an excuse to leave. Instead, we focus on what we love, putting our energy into appreciating, not picking apart a spouse who could never live up to the unrealistic standard of perfection we’ve invented. Happy couples aren’t happy every day and they’re not without recurring arguments. The reality of life is that you can love someone with your whole heart, but if you spend more than a couple of years together, you are going to really, really get on each other’s nerves sometimes. And what’s more, if you keep working to understand one another, you’ll also love each other more deeply than you imagined.
It’s been a long time since I read the book, so that summary may be a conglomeration of other things I’ve read too. Anyway, you get the point.
My favorite story from Viorst’s book was about a husband who liked to line the medicine cabinet shelves with aluminum foil. His wife was never able to learn the reasons for the habit and found the whole thing rather troubling. Sometimes she would find herself staring inside the cabinet, pondering his bizarre behavior and unnatural affinity for tin foil and think “Who is this man and why did I marry him?” Haven’t we all been there.
This is all a long lead in to a weekly feature I’m starting called, “That’s Love.” I had the idea a week ago but a conversation with a colleague on Friday convinced me to proceed. It’s a way to remember that, even with Bush still in office, there are still so many examples of love and kindness in our world, and we notice what we focus on. So here’s focusing on the good stuff. Hope you like…
That’s love! Friday, a colleague, who I’ll call Jan, came into work in a sleepless fog because of a procrastinating husband. The night before, Jan’s husband was supposed to prepare the breakfast he was catering on Friday morning. Just before heading off to her monthly bridge club meeting at 7 p.m., Jan asked her husband if he needed help and was assured that everything was under control. When she arrived home at 11 p.m., her husband was just starting to make the food. Even though Jan was annoyed with her husband for procrastinating, she immediately started helping him make twelve dozen mini muffins, went to bed for a couple of hours while he continued to work, and then woke up at 4:30 to help him finish the catering work. When I said, “that was so sweet of you” she replied, “Well, I didn’t have a choice, did I?”
The thing is, she did have a choice. She could have come home, seen her husband working in the kitchen, kissed him goodnight with a slap on the rump and said, “Good luck!” and slept like a baby. She could have made him feel like a loser, lectured, and scolded, and made him feel two feet tall for a mistake he was already well-aware that he made. (Of course, if he has a chronic habit of being irresponsible, helping him might actually be hurting him, but that’s a topic for a different discussion.) With the love of a wife, Jan overlooked and forgave her husband for being imperfect, a fact they both knew, and even though annoyed at his behavior, sacrificed her own sleep to help her husband succeed. Friday afternoon, Jan received a call that the breakfast went off so well that her husband was asked to cater lunch the next day.
I have a few of my own examples of “that’s love” from the last week. On a trip to Baltimore earlier this year, I bought a poster of Memorial Stadium. Unfortunately, my childhood home isn’t in it, but even so, it’s a good picture. Earlier this week, my husband carefully unrolled it and weighted it down on the dining room table so that it would lay flat. Yesterday, when we were shopping, he suggested we get a frame, already having memorized the dimensions. While I searched for an item in a different part of the store, he looked through the many frames and picked out one that fits the picture and our decor perfectly. All without me ever mentioning anything about hanging up my poster. As I write this, he is hammering a nail into the wall behind me to hang it up.
Over the last four days, he’s spent his spare time trying to ascertain the source of our network issues (and still no clue, bless his heart). He researches on the Internet on one of the computers that can hold the connection for more than five minutes at a time, has tried reinstalling programs, unplugging this and that, back and forth, up and down the stairs he goes. If it were me, I’d have given up and bought a new computer and router two months ago. But with the patience of a saint, he continues to work at it, determined to fix our problems the right way, even though it means sacrificing time that he would rather spend doing other things.
Most importantly, one day I made coffee and as I poured it, remembered with disappointment that we were out of half and half. Half and half makes the coffee. It’s one of God’s most perfect foods. I opened the refrigerator and to my delight noticed that this most perfect creature I married bought a replacement, enabling me to enjoy the full glory of my coffee.
These things are like getting flowers. They’re an expression of caring that shows someone is thinking about you and your happiness, without the death and maintenance of replacing the water and cleaning up the dead flower bits that fall off on your dining room table.
In addition to the romantic relationship examples of “that’s love,” there are expressions of love in the ordinary, every day routine of life. Here’s what I mean. We often get homemade advertisements in our newspaper slot. They’re usually plain font, printed text on a white sheet of paper advertising lawn services, painting, home repair and the like. Often they’re unimaginative and unmemorable and aren’t read beyond the first couple of words as they make their way from my mailbox to the recycle bin. (I prefer to only use contractors found on Angie’s List.) This week though, there was an advertisement that said “love.” A paper flyer was accompanied by a laminated color business card complete with a logo. It was for a pesticide company, and as a good hippy, it’s not a service I’m hoping to need. Even so, I was tempted to save the card because when I looked at it, I could see the person on the other side, full of hope and excitement, lovingly creating a logo and laminating his business cards, excited about the prospect of running his own business, inserting it in my mailbox with hopeful anticipation of generating customers. A piece of the energy that went into making that business card and flyer came through to me. It’s those things that are done with love and care that melt my heart.
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