A Link

I love McSweeney's Internet Tendency, especially the "Michael Ian Black Is a Very Famous Celebrity" section. If you visit the main page, scroll to the bottom for links to the various archives. Brilliant stuff there, just effing brilliant.

But today, in honor of all of us who have ever come THISCLOSE to quoting Wikipedia in a scholarly paper because hey, it seems really accurate, I present a List: "Footnotes, Endnotes, and Parentheticals That Cost Me Marks on My Thesis," by Mike Baylis.

You're welcome.

Moose

I hate being both self-assured, and not. Knowing exactly who I am, and not.

I'm reading Moose: A Memoir of Fat Camp by Stephanie Klein. It's her fault. She reminds me that I'm still searching; still trying to find my niche; haven't turned out yet. That the vulnerability of my history might never disappear.

The book is about Stephanie's experiences at fat camp. She's compressed five summers of friends, tears, and chub-rub into one fictional season. The real childhood diary entries she's included shine truth behind the perspective of years.

It's not about being fat. It's about everything.

One line in particular sticks with me: "It was okay that I hadn't liked the way I looked, but it wasn't okay that others noticed it too." Insert any flaw, and you'll have the way I feel when the DNB and I fight. It's okay that I don't like the way I try to be in control in life, but it isn't okay for him to point it out. As long as I'm the only one noticing, I can diminish it as my being too hard on myself, as a lack of self-confidence, as anything but real.

Part of the becoming process has to be accepting that others really do see us as effed up as we see ourselves. But while we can't choose to be anyone else, sometimes the right people do choose to stay anyway.

On Worship

If I were to worship the DNB, I would do things that brought him joy. I would go out of my way to serve him - to be less selfish and put his desires before my own. In short, love through acts of devotion. In shorter, love.

Somehow thinking of worship with a human face makes it easier to understand and apply to the spiritual realm. The DNB and I have been discussing this concept recently, especially mindful of the holiday season. For us, it's no longer about raised hands and songs in a church - it's about being intentional in the way we live our lives.

Reaching out, volunteering, taking better care of our world: this is all worship. They are all acts of love. It's about doing life mindful that God exists, and making choices and doing acts that reflect that belief.

Angry

"Never go to bed angry," someone wrote in a wedding card to us.

I rolled my eyes at the cliche. There's so much more to a successful marriage than that.

There is. And there isn't.

Even in the throes of newly wedded bliss, I can't always do it. I'm too proud, too stubborn, too everything but loving in those moments.

I can't be the first to turn towards the center of the bed, wrap my arms around him, and apologize. I just can't.

It's a slow road, this path to I'm Sorry. I'm sure in that past I've gone spans of years without uttering the words. It's something I'm working on because it's an ugly and cruel way to live; Always Right.

It's not as satisfying as it once was, because now I would all at once give my life for the same person I can so casually wound. If only on a cerebral level, it doesn't fit. But he is so easily hurt by my coldness that I can feel the disconnect in my heart, now, too.

Sometimes it takes a summoning of such resolve that it's draining. Only others like me would truly understand.

Love never has been easy for me.

Missing You

I miss long conversations. I miss your energy and your spontaneity. I miss having time. I miss closeness and shared laughter. I miss inside jokes. I miss our favorite spots. I miss your quirks. I miss your style and your confidence. I miss the meals I knew I loved. I miss your judgment, because it keeps me grounded. I miss how you need me. I miss how I need you.

Fear

I don't like nights when the DNB is on call.

Of course, it's less because I enjoy his company and more that I don't like being alone at night. Yeah, I'm a big baby.

When I was younger, we lived in Panama. Our first year there, there wasn't enough housing on the military base, so we lived in downtown Panama City, on a dead-end street with nice neighbors. But the city wasn't very safe, and Americans were victimized often. We had an alarm system, and my biggest fear was being frightened awake by its shrill siren.

It seemed like it went off regularly. When it did, my dad would prowl the house, baseball bat in hand. Once he discovered that the wires around one of our windows had been cut. I couldn't sleep that night.

When we moved on base, I thought I would feel more safe. Until our next door neighbors had their home burglarized in the EARLY EVENING while they were upstairs. The fear came creeping back. I would lie awake at night, my body tense, each distant sound amplified.

The DNB is remarkably understanding of this particular neurosis, unlike the others which he exploits to annoy me. He has often willingly climbed out of bed to examine the bumps in the night that terrify me.

But when he's gone, I still lie rigid, listening. Anxious.

It Runs in the Family, Part 2

I didn't notice the winks and nods around the dinner table.

For most of his life, I had threatened to string my little brother, Nathan (George), up by his toes and jam peanut butter up his nose. Now he was four years old, and payback was about to be a bitch.

On some secret signal, they rushed me. The whole family tackled me backwards in my chair. I struggled valiantly, but they pinned me in the middle of the living room.

Even my sweet mother was in on it, using what were probably covert military maneuvers to hold me down. Collecting all manner of ropes, ties, belts, and other instruments of captivity, the rest of them tied my legs together and my arms to my sides.

I was laughing so hard I could barely get my breath, but when I did, I yelled ineffective threats of swirlies and Chinese Elbows of Torture. Although I have freakishly strong legs, the knots binding my legs were strong, and I wasn't able to make good on my promises to "get my legs into it."

I didn't notice when George disappeared, but when he returned, I immediately saw the plastic jar of peanut butter in his hand. With my family's encouragement, he excitedly unscrewed the lid. I watched helplessly as he dipped his finger into the jar, collecting a large scoop of peanut butter. Then he came towards me.

I twisted and struggled, but was powerless against both parents and both sisters. This was a family on a mission, and I deserved it.

Days later, I still sneezed Jiffy.

It Runs in the Family, Part 1

My aunt's house has been our family gathering place for as long as I can remember. When I was younger, and my family was moving around a lot, it was wonderful to have that one constant place to come back to. It was also wonderful because my cousins were usually there also.

On my mother's side, I have four cousins: Jenn, Rob, Andy, and Lyn, all older. They were all interminably cool, and I loved to spend time with them. I was in awe of Jenn, the oldest, who taught me to use only a quarter-sized amount of the sweet apple-scented Salon Selectives shampoo and had her own bird.

During one family gathering at my aunt's house, all of us cousins were watching Pee-Wee's Big Adventure in the family room. I suppose I had seen it before, because I knew something scary was coming when Pee-Wee met Large Marge, the super-weird trucker lady.

"I'm scared of this part!" I yelled and ran out of the room. The family room is separated from the rest of the house by a set of French doors, which I closed behind me. I remember feeling like I needed to pee a little bit because I was nervous.

After a minute or two, Rob yelled from the other room, "S, it's okay, you can come back in!"

"Are you sure?" I hollered back.

"It's fine, come on!" they chorused.

As I took my seat on the floor in front of the others, Rob pressed the play button on the remote.

And when they pulled the driver's body from the twisted, burning wreck, Large Marge was saying, it looked like this!!

She screeched as her face twisted grotesquely and her eyes popped out! I shrieked with her.

"Guys!" I shouted, turning accusingly.

My cousins dissolved into giggles.

$$$

Here's the thing: don't talk to me about money.

Unless we are BFF, and you know who you are, don't tell me how much you make. Don't ask me how much I make. Don't wonder how I can afford what I choose to spend money on. Don't judge me for what I buy or don't buy.

Just don't.

In our pre-marital counseling, I verbalized my "thing" with money. I was afraid that with all the oneness and sharing of marriage, I was going to lose some of the financial independence I've prized. I didn't want to give up my ability to buy the things that I enjoy, without question or pause from anyone else. For me, money is personal and private. Our pastor looked at the DNB and spoke the obvious, "This is a hot-button issue for her." The DNB was nonplussed. He knew it; all that was left was to be careful with it.

The day we went through every one of our financial assets and debts together was momentous for me. It felt as intimate as sex; it was a soul-baring union. It is true that the things we spend money on and the debts we amass say something about who we are, but it wasn't that. It was that lingering fear, still, the giving up of that remnant of my singlehood. We made a pact - that there are things I enjoy buying that he doesn't "get," and vice versa. It's an understanding about our lack of understanding, and we listed those things we would like to be able to use our money on, responsibly, without judgment or reprimand from the other. It has kept our finances remarkably harmonious, healthy, and open.

With He For Whom I Have Forsaken All Others, I can do this. For the rest of the world, however, it remains a hot-button. Let's not touch it.

He Takes My Breath Away

A stench wafts over me!

I look over at the DNB. He stares stoically at the television.

Although I now have two brothers, I was raised in a house full of girls. My mother would never say the word "fart," preferring the more dainty, if less apt, "poot." My father was the only one in the house who emitted noxious fumes, often with great gusto. When it happened at the dinner table, usually accompanied by hand gestures as punctuation, my mother would cluck her tongue and admonish, "Say 'excuse me,' Greg."

The DNB, however, was raised in a house full of boys. Farting, belching, and mass food consumption were the norm. It was a running contest, he proclaims, to see who could produce the loudest and stinkiest fart. Those of you who know him, know he's not your usual smelly boy - there's definitely something wrong with his digestive system, and it runs in the family. His mother often comments, "If you can't do anything about it, you might as well enjoy it." And yes, child, he does.

So you're starting to get the picture. We're from two different worlds.

When we started dating, this caused a bit of tension. We had to compromise, and I laid down a set of Rules which the DNB accepted as fair. No farting at the dinner table. No farting in bed. No farting in the car (that one's definitely a losing battle).

But the DNB has found a loophole, as there is no rule about farting on the couch. Blast!

Another wave of toxic air reaches my nostrils.

"Baby!" I shout accusingly. He is beginning to remind me of a Bud Light commercial, the "Mr. Silent Killer Gas Passer" one.

This time, he looks over at me, sheepishly. "I'm a dirty, dirty boy," he says. This is DNB-code for "Excuse me," the closest he'll ever come. Although it's an inside joke more than anything, I view it as bearing a touch of respect, an acknowledgement that I'm a girl and our home isn't a frat house.

Five minutes pass. Another noxious cloud approaches, and I plug my nose. Then a fourth, and a fifth, and I finally jump up from the couch. "I'm going to bed, where the air is clear," I announce as I leave the room, mindful of the Rules.

The DNB, unwanted, follows. "Sometimes I smell them and I think, 'that's pretty bad,' but that last one hit me like a punch in the face. Man, that was awful," he rambles as he climbs the stairs.

I'm poised defensively by our bed when he walks into the room. "No farting in the bed!" I remind him.

"I know. I'm done," he claims and climbs under the covers. "Wow, those were really bad."

We turn out the lights. I lay as close to the edge on my side as possible.

"Once in band, I farted and the clarinets smelled it. Oh yeah." The DNB stares at the ceiling in the dark, reminiscing.

I scoot further towards the edge, silent.

"Can we spoon?" he asks.

His and Hers Oral Hygiene

I find new ways to antagonize the DNB!

In addition to his pillows, he is also very particular about his toothpaste. This is why we have two tubes of the stuff, because I can't be bothered to squeeze it carefully from the bottom each time. We tried to share, but for the sake of the marriage we decided to live life separately, toothpaste-wise. I just grab it wherever and squeeze, usually creating a thumb-sized valley down the center of the tube. It works out in the end with very little waste, but the DNB can't stomach a tube that isn't perfectly flat on the one end, with the toothpaste pressed up nicely against the open end.

I just can't resist. I begin each morning by flattening his toothpaste tube in the opposite direction, so all the toothpaste is pressed against the closed end of the tube. By nightfall, the toothpaste is again where it should be, all clustered up near the opening. I press it backwards again.

"Did you brush your teeth, dear?" I ask the DNB sweetly one night.

"Yes, and I know you've been messing with my toothpaste," he shouts from the bathroom. I am impressed by my husband's remarkable acumen. "And I know that you know that I know," he continues, "Because you can see that I have to fix it each time." He comes into the bedroom.

"You're right - I do know that you know that I know," I reply. "Which is why it's so funny. I'd have only had the fun of it once if you didn't keep fixing it."

He swats me with one of his pillows. Which is actually mine.

Pillow Talk

I find new ways to antagonize the DNB!

He is very particular about his pillows. They must not be too flat, nor too firm, nor too fluffy, nor too squishy. Some people view this as a touch OCD. I view it as opportunity.

I regularly switch the DNB's selected pillows with mine, since he has confiscated the best of the bunch. Finally fed up, he grabs them back and writes his initials on them in permament marker. "There," he announces proudly.

I wait until he goes to the bathroom in the middle of night, toss his pillows across the room, and replace them with the flat, lame pillows from our shams. He feels his way back into the darkened room and lays down. Five minutes pass while I pretend to be asleep.

"BABY!" he suddenly shouts and whacks me in the head with one of them.

The next afternoon, I take his carefully marked pillows and turn them around in their cases, so the initials are hidden, and then place them on his side.

That night, he makes a big production of checking each of his pillows. Not seeing his initials, he shouts again at me and grabs mine from under my head, convinced that I must have them. But there are no initials on mine either. He is puzzled, but feels them all carefully before trading one of his for one of mine. He positions his two chosen pillows and alternatingly fluffs and pounds on them until his sleeping arrangements are once again perfect.

I shake silently, laughing into his pillow.

If You're Not Bleeding, You're Okay

With a doctor in the house, statements like, "I've had green poo for three days" or "I think there's a growth on my ass" become matter-of-fact and ordinary.

But although the DNB is good to have around to address such pressing issues, he tends to leave the empathy at the hospital. It's not that he doesn't care when I'm not feeling well, because he does. It's just that he knows too well which ailments are curable and which simply need to run their courses. If it's curable, he springs into action, giving advice and searching Epocrates. If it's not, as most ailments seem to be, he'll mumble, "I'm sorry baby," roll over, and go back to sleep.

This is why when I'm sick, I need my mom.

My mom always knows what to do. When I was younger, I used to get frequent migraines. The routine was the same: as I lay in the dark, trying not to even blink, she would bring me ibuprofen for the pain and a cold, wet washcloth to put over my eyes. Then she would turn on a tape for me, often episodes of A Prairie Home Companion, to give me something aural to entertain me until I fell asleep. Besides, only a mom can deal with three children simultaneously sick to their stomachs in three bathrooms; only she would not lose her mind when I told her later that I didn't want to get the sheets dirty by throwing up on the bed, so instead I leaned over and puked on the carpet.

When the DNB is sick, though, no matter how slightly, he needs total and utter sympathy, along with constant attention.

He lies on his back in bed, covers pulled up to his chin.

"Kiss my forehead," he says faintly, eyes closed with the sheer effort of speaking.

When he thinks it's been too long since I last visited him in this bedroom Cocoon of Death, he drags himself downstairs, looking helpless and forlorn. "I don't feel good," he announces.

"But muffino," I remind him, "You only have a cold."

"But I don't feel good," he repeats, brow furrowed.

He stands in the middle of the living room staring aimlessly for a moment before shuffling back upstairs.

Likes & Dislikes

Likes:

• Forehead kisses
• Body butter
• Being an age that is an even number
• Children I am related to, or those spawned by my close friends
• This is Spinal Tap
• Hardwood floors
• Frozen margaritas that have tumbled for hours, no salt
• Pottery Barn
• Snow days
• Friends who know how to give as well as take
• Peanut sauce
• Inside jokes
• Lipgloss
• Gummy vitamins
• Armpit waxing
• Candles
• Vehicle seat-warmers
• Water, except to drink
• Kyle's mom
• A crackling fire on a cold night
• Siblings, particularly my own
• Football
• Bare Escentuals
• Open book exams
• Crossing tasks off lists
• Making the DNB laugh
• Long lunches with friends

Dislikes:

• Beverages that are lukewarm or hotter
• Pulp
• Other children
• Lowe's
• Eating chickens that did not die happily
• Diet Coke
• Popped collars - and to the 2L female who does this every day, stop. No really, stop.
• When another driver does something illegal or rude, you honk, and they flip you off
• Going to the dentist
• The smell of stewing chicken
• Taking medicine
• When Lesbian Nazi Hookers are abducted by UFOs and forced into weight loss programs
• Olives - the only known food the DNB and I both dislike
• Eyedrops, or anything besides my finger touching my eye
• Licorice
• The "Bichon Head"
• Wal-mart
• Billable hours
• Feet, including my own
• White chocolate
• Strangers talking to me on elevators, i.e. the woman yesterday who said simply, "Looks like it's back to pantyhose again"
• When the DNB forgets to turn off his alarm after he gets up
• Email forwards
• Being home alone overnight

The Carriage held but just Ourselves - And Immortality

A woman died this morning 50 yards from our house.

The crash woke me just before five o'clock. I heard the tires screeching just before impact, a horn blaring just after. I jumped out of bed to open the blinds, my first thought for my street-parked car. I heard our neighbor's door bang and saw him running down the street, toward a car totaled against a tree. Dr. DNB followed suit, but I lingered at our porch.

A second car had smashed into an electrical box. The street lights were out. The horn was still blaring.

Before the sirens were within earshot, the DNB had reached into the second car to begin compressions. There was a woman inside. It was an awkward angle, and I could only see his head and shoulder moving as he pushed his fist against her chest. He told me later that he checked and double-checked that she had no pulse; he wanted to believe that as soon as he touched her, she would rouse, annoyed by the intrusion.

The police arrived en force. I suspect this is because one of theirs was the driver of the first car. He was largely uninjured but in shock. The fire department sent two trucks; the intersection was shut down on all sides. When the ambulance arrived, the EMTs took over compressions for the DNB, until they were certain that their efforts were futile. She was gone.

The DNB walked slowly back to the house. In the darkness, I didn't notice that he was covered in her blood until he asked me to open the front door. He spent a long time at the sink.

At 4:30 this morning, Samaria Langford was a living being. Perhaps she was going to work, or maybe coming home. Maybe she was distracted, or just tired, when she ran the red light. Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me. Minutes later, her loved ones were going about their lives, unaware that she sat dead in a car.

We think we can control our lives. If we plan enough, if we're organized enough, if technology is advanced enough, then we can change courses. But in an instant, it all comes undone.