Tag Archives: marriage

To heel or not to heel, that is the sandwich

Humor, marriage March 24, 2013 Comments: 10
Image via eatingbender.files.wordpress.com

Image via eatingbender.files.wordpress.com

“Welcome to Subway, may I take your order?”

“Sure, I’ll take a tuna on wheat, toasted, please.” While the polite but pierced teen prepared my favorite sub, I chatted with my husband, who was next up. “So Hon, did you like that new club deli meat I put in your lunch today?”

“That sandwich had meat in it?” he asked sarcastically.

“What are you talking about? I made you a nice big sandwich with that new club deli meat I got at the commissary. You know, the one made of both ham and turkey with bacon wrapped around it. Geeze, I thought you’d like it!” I declared incredulously.

“Well, Hon, it was kind of hard to taste anything inside the sandwich because the strong flavor of the two heels of bread you gave me overpowered everything else.”

I grumbled, but he was right. After making the kids’ sandwiches that morning, I noticed that two heels of bread were left. I could’ve opened a new loaf and thrown the heels away, but my mother had instilled a certain frugality in me.

I thought my husband would appreciate the fact that I was not wasting two perfectly edible bread heels that his hard-earned military salary had purchased. Besides, I thought, he must be grateful that I’m the kind of wife that gets up every morning and packs him a nice lunch, right?

“What would you like on your tuna, Ma’am?” As I selected toppings that were salty, sour, crunchy and spicy, all I could taste was bitterness. “That’s it,” I ruminated. “He can make his own stinking sandwiches from now on.”

As my sub was being salt-and-peppered, I remembered a conversation I’d had with a salt-and-pepper-haired lady in the YMCA locker room two tours ago in Virginia. We had just finished our morning exercise classes – I, advanced step; she, senior water aerobics – and the women’s locker room was steamy and abuzz with conversation.

I regularly got a chuckle out of listening to the water aerobics group as they pulled on their support hose, stretch gabardine pants and embroidered tops. All the old women would cackle away about their ailments, medications, aches and pains. I always noticed that the salt-and-pepper-haired lady would listen and show concern for her friends’ self-absorbed grievances, but never complained herself.

I thought she was a real class act, and made a mental note to myself to try to become that kind of old lady, rather than the kind that went on and on about things like glucosamine and condroitin.

On this particular day, she and I found ourselves simultaneously brushing our hair at the shared vanity. “Are there any decent car washes around here?” I asked, after some cursory remarks about the weather.

“Well,” she started, with that Old World throw-back southern accent common in Richmond and Norfolk, “I must admit I’m not very familiar with automotive services around here.”

“You see,” she went on, “my husband died last fall, and don’t you know, during our entire 45 years together, I never once put gas in my own car.”

It took me a minute to process the significance of what this tasteful elderly lady had just said. “Wait, you mean he always put gas in the car for you?”

“Why yes, he certainly did,” she said, somewhat melancholy.

Of course, my immediate reaction was to get mad at my own husband, who never put gas in my minivan. Just as I was mentally making plans for real doozy of a husband-wife argument, the salt-and-pepper-haired lady continued:

“I never asked him; he wanted to do that for me, so he did. And there were things I always did for him – cooking his meals, gardening, and such. I must say, we loved taking care of each other.”

I stood, mouth half agape, staring at the lady in the shared mirror. Like a scene from “Cocoon,” it was as if she had just bestowed upon me the secret to a happy marriage.

“Will that be all?” the bolt-studded Subway employee said, jolting me back to the present. I realized that making my husband’s sandwich every day didn’t render me subservient to him. It was something I did to take care of him because he takes care of me.

With a fresh outlook on my marriage and a fresh tuna sub in my hand, I decided that there was no reason for me to dig my heels in. I’d continue making my husband sandwiches for the rest of our lives, and hopefully he’ll endure a heel or two along the way.

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The Chains of Love

Humor October 22, 2012 Comments: 8

My husband is deeply in love with someone. Someone with a great personality. Someone that makes him feel like a real man. Someone with a really nice tush.

That someone is my husband, himself.

Now don’t get me wrong – I’m not poking fun. In fact, I’m quite jealous that my husband has so much self-respect and confidence. I’ve been trying my entire life to simply be mildly satisfied with myself, and all I can seem to muster is the fleeting thought that I’m kinda funny for a frumpy housewife.

By contrast, my husband’s ego is ironclad, and completely undiminished by hereditary balding, an ample spare tire, and no mechanical skills. He can’t even walk by a mirror or other reflective object without admiring his image. Every time he catches a glimpse of himself, he stretches his neck out a bit, sucks in his gut, and twists to the side to sneak a peek at his backside. It seems to reassure him that, “Yup, I’m as good looking as I think I am.”

My husband’s self-admiration has reached new heights this fall, thanks to our high school football team. On Friday nights, my husband slips into his Blue Devils replica jersey, double knots his sneakers, and gives himself a wink in the mirror before heading to the high school stadium.

At the ticket booth, he proudly says loud enough for everyone in line to hear, “I’m on the list – Chain Gang.” As a sacred volunteer, he saunters through the gate without paying, as if he is Snoop Dog being ushered through the velvet ropes at Studio 54.

He and the other chain gang dads gather near concessions for their weekly pre-game pow-wow. After handshakes and back slaps, they haggle over team stats and joke loudly, glancing around to see who’s watching.

Just before kick off, my husband slips to the back door of the concession booth to obtain the first of three cheeseburgers he will consume throughout the course of the night. Unfortunately, the volunteer coordinator offered the chain gang dads free food, and my husband takes full advantage, deeming it absolutely necessary for sustenance.

Cheeseburger #1 goes down in four chomps, and my husband disposes of the wrapper in one manly whip at the trashcans before marching purposefully across the lighted field to take his coveted position on the chains. As he approaches the opposing team’s side, he relishes his elevated status. Not everyone can walk onto the field minutes before kick off, but he can because he was chosen to be in the inner circle of football volunteers. Not just any volunteer, but the kind that get in free, can walk on the field, and eat anything they want. My husband has reached the top echelon, the pinnacle, the upper crust of the football volunteer hierarchy, and he knows it.

After a grueling half of standing while holding a pole, my husband makes a shamelessly public display of running back across the field at half time in search of more refreshments. He chugs a can of soda as if he’s just finished a marathon in Death Valley, and tosses the can with a masculine belch. Cheeseburger #2 is consumed with a serious demeanor – there’s still work to be done.

Thankfully, the 600-calorie burger gives my husband the strength he needs to endure standing with a pole for the last half of the game. When the final whistle is blown and the game is called, my husband parades his weary body back across the field one last time, waving and winking on the way as if he was an integral member of the coaching staff.

Despite his exhaustion, he moves swiftly because he knows he must get to concessions before it shuts down. Cheeseburger #3 in hand, he takes his place on the track to allow exiting spectators to get a good look at the illustrious chain gang.

Back at home, my husband carefully hangs his replica jersey back in the closet to await the next game, and readies himself for bed. Another glance in the mirror confirms what he already knows – he’s everything he ever wanted, and more.

 

 

The Skin and Bones of Contention

Humor, military spouses August 21, 2012 Comments: 8

The wild things that go on in our bedroom.

At some point or another in a marriage, a wife faces a delicate dilemma: How to incorporate her husband’s deer head, bowling trophy, concert poster, stereo speakers, bar lamp or autographed sporting equipment into the home décor. In nineteen years of marriage to my Navy husband, I’ve learned that solving this domestic quandary involves compromise, diplomacy, tact, and sometimes, trickery.

After each of our eight moves, I set about making each new house our home. The vast majority of the unpacking and home decorating has been left to my discretion as the wife, and I always make a sincere effort to find spots for the treasured belongings that will provide a comfortable and secure environment for our family.

Sometimes, however, I must prioritize. After our most recent move, I was unpacking a box labeled “master bedroom” and came upon an item that my husband had purchased during our last tour of duty in Germany.

Despite the fact that he is squeamish about blood, has never hunted, and is afraid of my kitchen cutlery; he bought himself a full-sized reindeer pelt one night at a German Christmas festival. He’s not quite sure why he made the purchase, and admits that it may have been motivated by the half-dozen mugs of mulled wine he consumed that frosty winter evening. But, he insists, he must’ve had a perfectly good reason at the time.

After finding the pelt in the moving box along with our prissy floral bedroom linens, I wondered, How will this thing fit into our new bedroom’s decor?

On one hand, displaying the enormous hide might have added the Nordic charm of an igloo – all we needed was an ice machine and a dog sled to give our bedroom a real Tundra vibe. On the other hand, my husband might take the Eskimo theme a bit too far – turning the thermostat below 50, sleeping in a Caribou parka, and offering to massage me with whale blubber oil.

I shuddered at the thought and stuffed the reindeer pelt under our bed.

A few days later, I found the hide spread out in the middle of our bedroom floor like a fresh kill. The dog took a few sniffs and resolved to stay at least two feet away from the strange flattened beast in case it might suddenly attack.

A couple times, I hid the pelt from my husband in hopes that he wouldn’t notice, but he always did, and put the wild animal skin right back in the middle of our bedroom floor. If I tried to reason with him, he declared quite simply, “I like it,” and would not discuss the matter further.

While there have been many battles worth fighting in our marriage, I knew that this was not one of them. In my husband’s travels with the Navy, he has brought home countless souvenirs and memorabilia. Some items were special enough to become a permanent part of our home décor. Others had only a short time on display, before being relegated to a cardboard box in the garage.

There was the airplane propeller, the English cricket bat, the Yemeni sword, the German beer stein, the Middle Eastern vase, the Norwegian whale bone, the Korean chess set, dozens of Navy plaques and framed certificates, and scores of African items – wildebeest horns, warthog tusks, bowls, woven baskets, tribal warrior figures, Masai clubs, fertility masks, bongos, and carved wooden animals.

For husbands like mine, these items become more than just clunky, dust-gathering, tacky souvenirs. The items represent their athletic superiority, power, virility, and youth. Despite the fact that my husband has no sober memory of its purchase, that reindeer pelt is his manhood splayed out on our bedroom floor for the whole world to see.

I wouldn’t want to take away my husband’s manhood just because it doesn’t match the bedspread. And besides, the reindeer pelt reminds me a little of my husband – it doesn’t say much, lays around a lot, and sheds.

An edited version of this essay was published in the August 2012 issue of Military Spouse magazine as my new column, “Things that drive us CRAZY! ” This is the uncut original version, but if you missed the August issue, here’s my column as a PDF: MSMAugColumn

Don’t forget to pick up the September issue of Military Spouse magazine, where I am highlighted as a contributor, and my column “Things that drive us CRAZY!” tells a funny story of the challenges milspouses face when trying to find employment.

All I want for my birthday

Humor, marriage June 5, 2012 Comments: 12

Thanks to some terrific neighbors and my sweet kids,
my birthday was not a total wash.
Not that I care or anything . . . really.

My husband totally forgot it was my birthday this year. But you know, I’m so easy going, it really didn’t bother me in the slightest. As long as everyone else is happy, I’m completely content. I wouldn’t even think of putting anyone out for my silly old birthday. I wrote about my selflessness a couple years ago, and thought my forgotten 46th birthday was the perfect occasion to repost an updated version. Not that I’m upset or anything. Really.

It’s my birthday today. I really don’t want anything. Really.

I just want to relax.  That’s all. Maybe a little sunshine. But that’s it. I just want to sit out on my patio in the sun and relax.

Sure, I might want a cocktail while I sit out there. Nothing fancy. Maybe a beer. Maybe a wine spritzer.  No big deal. Ooo, or maybe some sangria, but not that yucky mix or the fake ones that people make with 7-Up and bad wine. One of the real ones that has been soaking in fruit all day long. Yea, that would be good.

But I do like frozen drinks when it’s sunny too. Like a strawberry daiquiri or a frozen margarita. Oh, I know what would be good – a Lemon Drop with real squeezed lemon or a Mojito with the fresh mint and crushed limes. I love those things. Or maybe one of those Pink Lemonades made out of cold Limón cello and cranberry juice. Oo, now that’s the ticket.

But I wouldn’t want to be pathetic sitting out there in the sun all by myself, so maybe it would be good if a friend sat with me. I wouldn’t want to put anyone out or make them feel obligated. Just a good friend who isn’t just trying to get the check in the box. Someone who really appreciates me and likes to listen to my stories. That’s all. And of course it would be good if she brought the drinks so I wouldn’t have to make them myself.

Actually, it would be neat if other friends got word it was my birthday and were like, “It’s Lisa’s birthday! She’s so funny and cool, we need to go celebrate with her!” Not the friends that think, “Oh crap, it’s Lisa’s birthday . . . I’ll just run over and regift that candle I got for Mother’s Day.”

Just a few sincere friends on the patio with drinks, that’s all. Although, it would be nice if they all chipped in without me knowing and bought me something special. Nothing expensive, just something really meaningful that they all knew I would appreciate. That would be awesome.

But seriously, I really don’t want anything. However, I hope I don’t have to cook tonight. It would be great if my husband just picked up some take out so the kids get fed. I really don’t care what it is. Just something light to go with the cocktails. A big Greek salad would taste good. Maybe with a bit of crumbled feta.  Tzatziki with fresh dill and some kalmata olives would be fantastic. Oo, and some of that really soft flat bread warmed up on the grill to give it that smoky taste. I know what would be tasty — marinated grilled chicken breasts, thinly sliced. That would go great with the Pink Lemonades.

I don’t even need a cake today. But if a friend brings a little cupcake with a candle in it, I’ll be totally appreciative. I’d even be happy if the kids cooked a pan of brownies. They would like that. Personally, like them nice a gooey, and they taste so good when they are warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. Drizzle some Baileys on top with a few dark chocolate curls and that’s a real dessert.

Seriously though, as long as the kids get fed tonight, I’ll be happy. I just hope they clean the kitchen when they’re done. I’m so sick of cleaning. Just the basics – put the dishes in the dishwasher and wipe the crumbs up. It’s not that hard. It would only take a few minutes. Wouldn’t it be outstanding, though, if my husband secretly hired a cleaning person to clean the whole house? It would be unbelievable if I came up from my birthday cocktail party/Greek dinner and found a sparkling clean house.

I really don’t need anything from the kids. Maybe just a card. Just one that they made themselves, and took the time to write something touching inside with cute handwriting. One that they hid under their bed every night and worked on while I was cooking dinner. One that will bring a little tear to my eye. That would be nice.

But no gifts. Other than little things they made in art class. Like a little beaded bracelet or a key chain. Or maybe they snuck away with their father a while ago and went shopping for me. I’ll bet they all picked out something together, something I would have never thought to ask for because I never demand anything. Like some piece of jewelry that is stylish but meaningful or symbolic in some way. Or maybe an iPad. Or a Mediterranean cruise.

But any old thing will do, really. Like I said, I don’t really want anything. I just want to relax.

I better go plug in the video camera. It would really stink if all my friends came with the cocktails and surprise gift for the Greek dinner and no one had a camera to catch me on tape when I cry over the kids’ homemade cards and the necklace, and when I open the new iPad and the cruise tickets.

Just in case. You never know.

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I only have eyes for you, Dear. Whether you like it or not.

marriage May 6, 2012 Comments: 13

One busy weeknight while chewing the last bites of pork chops and boxed macaroni and cheese, I asked my husband, “Did I tell you about my conversation with the sixth grade math teacher today?”

Gnawing a particularly tough piece of meat, my husband shook his head with a familiar glazed look in his eyes. After 18 years of marriage, he knew that I could take a good 20 minutes to describe cleaning the fuzz out of the lint trap, so he settled into his seat and braced himself for excruciating detail and superfluous analysis.

“Well, I called him about the semester project,” I continued, “and do you know what he said?”

“No. What.” my husband robotically replied, staring blankly into space.

I went on, in great detail, to describe a mundane event in my daily life as a stay-at-home Navy wife and mother of three. However, many years of housewivery had taught me that I could give our regular dinner conversations a stimulating dose of drama and suspense if I merely embellished my otherwise ordinary stories with exhaustive descriptions, exaggerated voice intonation, and vivid facial expressions.

I told my husband all about my phone call with the math teacher, but it came off more like a thrilling off-Broadway play. During a particularly expressive point in my story, my husband, tired and irritated after a long day and a mediocre dinner, interjected sardonically, “Oh, please, do that again with the bulgy eyes. That’s really attractive.” Fully intending to add insult to injury, he mocked me by imitating my Marty Feldman-like eyes, while I sat, stone-faced, glaring at him.

Although his deep-set eyeballs could never mimic the natural prominence of mine, my husband nonetheless contorted his face to look as ridiculous as possible. As I watched his discourteous display and doggedly gripped my fork on that weeknight at the dinner table, our entire marriage passed before my genetically protuberant eyes.

What’s happened to us? I wondered. We used to be so lovey dovey, and here we are pelting each other with insults over Shake & Bake. Is our marriage hopeless? Does he think I’ve become unattractive and annoying? Well, I don’t recall anyone dying and making him God’s gift to women. Hrmph.

Bitter, I finally interrupted his facial contortions, “So, who are you over there, Robert Redford or something?” With blatant hypocrisy, my husband took immediate offense to my sarcasm and scowled.

We sat in silence, sucking the macaroni from our teeth and avoiding eye contact.

Unable to remain mute for more than a minute, I spoke weakly without looking up from my plate, “I can’t help that my eyes bulge, you know.”

My husband’s irritation was suddenly replaced with sincere remorse. “Oh, Honey, I’m sorry,” he said, moving in closer and placing his hand on mine. “I don’t think your eyes bulge. I think you’re bulgy in all the right places.”

His awkward flattery softened my ire, and I released the death grip I had on my fork. Glancing up from the remains of my pork chop and into his deep-set eyes, I realized that, even if we get a little mad from time to time, we’ll always be madly in love.

Sentimental Sofa

marriage March 4, 2012 Comments: 6

When I met my husband almost 20 years ago, he had a couch. It was his “bachelor couch,” and even though it may have looked cool back in 1990 when he bought it to furnish his bachelor pad, the upholstery pattern on that piece of furniture can only be described as a cross between a Bill Cosby sweater and the wallpaper in a gynecologist’s office.

However, I came into the marriage without a couch, so on our limited budget, I was thankful to have one at all. For the first couple years of marriage, the couch was a useful piece of furniture, despite her crisscrossing shades of teal, gray and mauve, and the outdated honey oak embellishments on the armrests.

Moving with the military every few years, I thought my husband’s bachelor couch would eventually be jettisoned like other outdated items from our past – my black and white TV, his old girlfriend’s wine glasses, the kids’ worn out stuffed animals, my stirrup pants – somehow that old bachelor couch just never went away. Sure, we bought other furniture, but the old bachelor couch stuck around in a spare bedroom, or waited in a storage unit until we could find another use for her.

More than a decade into the marriage, I suggested that we donate my husband’s bachelor couch to charity. “But she is so well built and still has so much use  – we can’t get rid of her!” he replied, incredulously. I never brought it up again, and as I sit here in my office writing this column at my desk, that 22-year-old bachelor couch sits just two feet away, made tolerable with a striped slipcover.

I could feel threatened by the fact that my husband has had a longer relationship with his bachelor couch than with his own wife; in fact, when I am alone in the room with his couch, I sometimes feel her mocking me.  But I have learned that, as much as I dislike her distasteful appearance, my husband’s bachelor couch symbolizes something for him, something with which he is not yet willing to part.

Perhaps, the couch that my husband purchased in his mid-20s reminds him of his youth, his virility, his long-gone full head of hair and former waistline. Or perhaps, she reminds my husband of buddies from his squadron days, who sat upon its sturdy cushions to watch football in unspoken camaraderie.

And as much as I don’t like to think about it, perhaps she reminds my husband of old girlfriends, who were probably tacky, wore too much make up, drank wine coolers and did God-knows-what with him while lying on her garish upholstery.

I guess I can’t blame him for grasping onto bygone virtues. Heck, I have two file boxes out in the garage that contain a useless jumble of high school yearbooks, photos, diaries, artwork, playbills, swimming ribbons, and even the bronze Junior Firefighter Badge I sent away for from a Smokey the Bear advertisement in the back of Highlights magazine. If anyone tried to throw those file boxes away, I’d turn from middle-aged housewife into vicious cage fighter faster than you can say “aggravated assault.”

Why? Because those scraps of crumpled paper and corroding metal symbolize a simple, carefree time. A time when my greatest worry was curling my bangs right or whether my parents were going to let me have the car on Friday night. So, on days when the minutia of my middle-aged life as a housewife and mother of three bogs me down, it’s nice to know that I still have in my possession, in two moldy file boxes in the garage, the hope that life can be simple and carefree again.

So, I will not begrudge my husband his reminder of days gone by, even if his “little memento” has had a longer relationship with him than I have and takes up eight feet of wall space in my office.  Besides, she has provided the rest of the family some consolation by facilitating many an afternoon nap.

When Strangers Marry

Humor, marriage, Memories, Middle-Age, military October 16, 2011 Comments: 13

On this day, eighteen years ago, I promised to love, honor and cherish a man I really didn’t know all that well at the time.

In fact, prior to committing ourselves to each other until death, my husband and I were pretty much clueless. We had no idea what kind of husband or wife we might turn out to be. As long as we were in love, we thought, nothing else mattered, right?

Time marched on, and with each passing year, we made new realizations about each other and our relationship.

Most significantly, our vastly different childhood experiences forced us to redefine our pre-conceived notions of “man” and “woman.”

My husband grew up going to private school as the son of a neurologist in the affluent DC suburb of Chevy Chase. At weekend cocktail parties and crew regattas, parents chatted over canapés about politics, world events, and their children’s prep schools. They drank bottled water and bought their food from overpriced grocery stores. They had things like capers and pate in their refrigerators, and drove imported cars.

I, on the other hand, grew up in a town with only one high school, where we thought every one in the world had two days off for hunting season. To the people of my small town, “Chevy Chase” was not necessarily an affluent neighborhood, and it was perfectly normal to get your water from a well and your meat from the woods. Our refrigerators frequently contained bricks of Velveeta, cans of Hershey’s syrup, and in the spring, fish with the heads still on. My parents’ vehicles were pre-owned, and other than one Volkswagen Beetle, none of them were imported.

My husband grew up believing that all women can throw sophisticated dinner parties at the drop of a hat, while being charming and looking fabulous in the latest styles from Lord & Taylor or Talbot’s. He did not realize that he had made a lifetime commitment to someone who shops at Target and whose idea of a party is opening a bag of Fritos and watching a Steelers’ game. My poor husband has had to redefine “woman” to include those, like me, who would prefer a hot poker in the eye than the obligatory social events required of a navy officer’s wife.

Similarly, I have had to adjust my definition of “man” to include those who don’t own any thing that is fluorescent orange. I’ve had to realize that there are men out there who actually prefer white wine to beer, and not all men demand space in the garage for a work bench. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my husband is afraid of tools, guns and knives, and shudders at the mere thought of putting a worm on a hook, much less eating a fish with the head still on it.

I’ll admit – I have felt somewhat guilty that I’ve never fulfilled my husband’s expectations of what his wife might be. I’ve often wished that I was more sophisticated, more formal, more “fancy.”

And I’ve seen self-consciousness in his eyes too, like the time I had to put the barbecue grill together because he couldn’t understand the instructions, or the time I snorkeled on a beach vacation for four hours alone while he sipped a Pink Squirrel and read an Oprah Winfrey book selection under an umbrella.

If we knew back then what we know now, would we have eternally promised ourselves to each other before the altar of Graystone Church eighteen years ago today?

Without a doubt, I say “Yes.”

When we first met, the one thing we knew for certain was that neither of us was perfect, but we instantly gave each other the pure and unconditional acceptance that had been missing in our lives. Unless one later discovers that one’s betrothed is actually an axe murderer or a spy for the Russians, unconditional love and acceptance is a powerful thing that can transcend unknown personality quirks.

Besides, I’ve also discovered along the way that my husband is incredibly disciplined, dedicated, and hard-working. Better yet, he is fiercely loyal and his love for our family is deep and sincere. Best of all, he makes me laugh.

We may not be the husband and wife we thought we’d be eighteen years ago, but deep in our hearts is the underlying truth that we love and accept each other just the way we are.

So, Happy Anniversary, Honey. Always be yourself, and I will always love you for it.

The Call That Launched a Thousand Tears

family, Humor, marriage, military, parenting June 23, 2011 Comments: 9

So, I called my husband the other day.

“Hi Hon, so what’s up?” I asked.

Now, before I go any further with this story, I need to set the scene:

My husband, bless his heart, has been at Naval Station Mayport on the sunny Atlantic shores of northFlorida, for almost three months. He went ahead of the rest of our family to start his new job there, and to live in the oceanfront base hotel, with daily maid service.

I, on the other hand, stayed in our stairwell apartment on Patch Barracks in chilly Germany with the kids so they could finish school. Our seemingly fool-proof plan included me arranging and managing our household goods move, the shipment of our dog “Dinghy,” meaningful travel with the kids at spring break, inspection and shipment of our minivan, checking out of military quarters, arranging hotel and airport shuttle, and other tasks associated with moving a family across the world.

As a military spouse, I am used to handling things while my husband is away, so I thought this little three-month separation would not be much different from the rest.

I was wrong.

When I made that fateful phone call to my husband, I had endured a grueling week of shocking school progress reports, driving around base for two hours in search of my teenage son who had failed to turn in his final Biology project, a malfunctioning oven and resulting visit from the grumpy German Fire Department, a broken dryer and resulting shameless display of underclothes hanging on radiators and windowsills, and lots and lots of overwhelming move details. I was out of patience, energy and dignity.

“Well, I rented a movie last night,” my husband responded, “it was no good, but I got another great pizza from Sal’s.”

“Oh, that sounds nice,” I offered weakly, wondering if the kids would be OK eating cereal again for dinner.

“Today, Dinghy and I needed a little change of scenery from our daily beach walks,” he continued, “so we hopped in the car and went to the Riverwalk area for a nice long run and lunch at an outdoor café.”

I had fallen silent, but my husband didn’t notice.

“The folks at the café were so nice and gave Dinghy three bowls of water to drink since it has been so hot and sunny here.”

I stared out my window at the dark clouds that hadn’t lifted in days.

“And after that we headed back here to the homestead for a quick swim and to watch some boob tube. . . .So what’s been going on there?”

I began, slowly at first, to relate the details of my agonizingly stressful week. My rant picked up speed, leading to some crucial information about our move I needed to go over with him.

“Ooo, hey Hon, can I call you back in like five minutes?” he said.

“Uh, sure,” I agreed, believing the delay to be due to some minor urgent matter relating to our dog. Our 110 pound labradoodle was prone to gulping water and then spontaneously vomiting it all back up on a whim. I wondered if that was the problem.

Five minutes later, I answered on the first ring.

“Hey, so what happened? Is Dinghy OK?” I asked.

“Oh, heck yea, he’s fine. I just had to run down to the beach real quick. Right before you called I had come up from the beach to grab another beer. I left my beach chair and book down near the water, and wanted to go grab it before the tide started coming in.”

That was all it took. The floodgates opened and a veritable tsunami sprang from my tear ducts. Within 10 seconds, I was a wailing, blubbering, snotty mess.

Stunned, my husband had nothing much to say, offering only, “Hang in there, Hon, you’re doing a great job.”

My husband and I learned a dual lesson that day. I learned that long-term military separations are so much easier for the spouse to handle when the service person is somewhere icky like on an aircraft carrier floating out in the Pacific, or living in a tent in some God-forsaken dusty hot climate, or at least behind a big metal desk working day and night to support the family.

My husband learned that, next time his wife asks him, “What’s up?” he should definitely respond, “Oh, not much, what’s up with you?”

Bucketful of Love

marriage February 13, 2011 Comments: 15

My 5th grader’s Harriet Tubman Project is due this week. The car is encrusted in salt and grime and needs new wiper blades. The dog ate an entire jumbo rawhide bone in 20 minutes, and now has a bad case of the runs. Two days ago, I sprouted a cold sore.

And tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

Every year, it’s the same thing. We’re engrossed in the hectic pace of normal family life. We’re paying bills, deciphering homework assignments, cheating on diets, reprimanding teenagers, grocery shopping, car pooling, and shoveling snow.

When February 14th rolls around, you can almost hear a collective exclamation — “Oh crap, it’s Valentines Day!” And we rush around to get the proverbial check in the box.

Mustering fresh romance after 17 years of marriage can be tough. Even if we manage to pop open a bottle of bubbly and exchange the obligatory cards with meaningful sentiments (scribbled in the car outside the 7-Eleven,) we still have to fight back the urge to yawn once the clock strikes nine.

It all seems so contrived. As if some corporate conglomerates who market greeting cards and heart-shaped balloons conspired to add more tasks to our daily “To Do” lists, all in the name of Valentine’s Day profits.

A few years ago, I was complaining to a friend of mine about Valentine’s Day messing up my schedule, when she told me about her tradition with her husband. They forgo the convenience store cards, and skip giving nick-nacky gifts like picture frames, teddy bears and Whitman’s Samplers.

She never cooks a nice dinner. He never buys flowers.

Instead, they get out the Hanky Panky Party Pail.

Nothing more than a cheap purple plastic sand bucket, they unceremoniously throw in a few items relating to “hanky panky” – an adult beverage, lingere, anything that will facilitate a Valentine’s Day romp in the hay.

At first I thought, “Well, that’s just disgusting. No hearts? No candles? No flowers? What kind of marriage is that?” But I soon realized that there are really only two reasons our husbands buy us cards, flowers and chocolates on Valentines Day: 1. So we won’t get mad at them, and 2. On the off chance they will get lucky.

And the only reason wives cook and buy cards and ties for our husbands is so that we can say we gave them something, even though we know it’s not what they really want.

So why rush into our salt-encrusted cars to buy silly pre-printed cards and new ties just so we can dash back home to wrack our brains for something meaningful to write inside the cards and search our closets for old gift bags that they have most likely seen before?

Why go through the rigmarole and expense of getting babysitters so we can stand in line for the Valentine’s Day Chicken Quesadilla special at Ruby Tuesday?

Why pressure our husbands to give us flowers when we know they will eventually wilt, drop petals and pollen everywhere, and leave that grody green slimy ring on the inside of the vase?

Why expect heart-shaped boxes of chocolates when half of them are filled with nondescript fruity fluff anyway?

Why not skip all the unnecessary holiday commercialism and get right down to business?

It’s a win-win for both parties. Wives don’t have to cook, clean or find time between orthodontist appointments and school projects, and husbands get what they always wanted.

And if you are my husband, it only takes a few minutes.

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