Well, I feel like a tool. I recently just fell for the oldest blogging trick in the book.
I still read blogs avidly--the blogs of people I know, and homemaking and crafting and scrapbooking blogs, mostly. And I read all about these ladies' lives, and I think "My god, how lucky they are! How happy they are! Look at their beautifully cooked meals/cute kids/orderly homes/lovely craft projects!"
You see where this is going. Hello, inferiority complex!
I think it gets worse when it's someone I know. For example, a friend of mine from the Indiana days is a newlywed, and an avid (and skilled) cook/blogger/crafter. She writes beautiful and uplifting things about her life, right down to her faith, and I simultaneously admire and envy her. AND she lives back East, where there are four seasons.
Purely by accident, I imed her today on google chat. And we got to talking and catching up--and that's when I realized I had fallen for it. I remarked on her blog, and how charmed her life seemed, and her response?
"Well I only write things that are happy."
D'oh! Of course! It's a blog! My sister, who has been blogging since 2001, has a cardinal rule: "Only post the good stuff." Funny that, I thought this was a trait unique to my sister. Apparently not! And if my sister and my friend only blog the good stuff, well, I bet the same is true for a lot of other ladies out there.
I suppose I could do that (I suppose I will do that). The ugly fact about it is, I have a tendency to focus on my blue devils and ignore the awesome stuff in my life--so nothing ever gets posted these days. I'm going to try to get back into the groove with blogging, even if it's only to talk about the awesome stuff in my life and focus on that and make all you readers (at this point, just my afore-mentioned friend, sister, and the omnipresent Indiana stalker) embrace your inner inferiority complex!
Ha. Maybe not so much. At least not intentionally.
But talking with my friend was immensely reassuring--she copped to the 9.5 million fights a week she and her husband have (they are still happy, incredibly so), and unintentionally reminded me that that is fairly normal. And that's the lesson of the day...
There's a lot that people don't tell you about being married.
And there's a lot that I still don't know about being married.
But I'm learning.
Not sure that that's what I'll be posting, but expect some good content in the near future!
Showing posts with label The Meaning of Wife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Meaning of Wife. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
A Lesson on Learning to Love My "Forever Life"
I am just wrapping up my fifth summer in California.
Well, wrapping up isn't quite the word for it, as it's about 11 days from the beginning of fall, and we're forecasted for the low-100s all next week. But hey! That's 'way down from the 116 degree + humidity temps we had at the end of August/beginning of this month. You learn to take what you can get and be happy with it.
But anyway, summer is, in theory, ending; the kids are back in school; the orange/red/yellow decorations are out in the stores; people on my blogroll are talking about crisp air and autumn projects and quite frankly, I want to punch them in the face. Really, really hard.
This is not a healthy response. I know this.
So...a few weeks back, I was thinking on this unhappy state of affairs. And then that night I went home and read Single Infertile Female' s blog, and she was talking about her "Forever Life" and how she was afraid that it was going to be defined by fear and loneliness and bitterness and disappointment. What stuck in my head was the term "forever life". I didn't realize why until the next day, at work, when it occurred to me that we all, eventually, commence our forever life.
And I had just commenced mine this summer (of all times!) I cast my lot in with Himself, committed myself to a life with him, for better or for worse. I'm so happy that I did. But. Himself loves the desert; he grew up here, he loves the mountain and the trails and the deadly black widows and velvet ants and rattlesnakes and the roadrunners and the bighorns. He loves it here.
And me, not so much. I dislike being so far from my family; I miss rain and seasons and cold weather; I miss old houses and barns and fields and the color green...well, you get my picture.
But this is my Forever Life. This is it. Himself and I both have great jobs, and coupled with the fact that he loves it so much, it's looking more and more like we won't be leaving here any time soon.
If ever.
It finally sunk in that day at work. In the course of a few hours, I grew up and faced facts: my circumstances won't be changing, so what do I do? Continue bitching and whining and making disparaging remarks about California? That would only strain and perhaps kill my marriage. Quietly resign myself to it and act all passive-aggressively like the long-suffering wife? Unlikely; the act would be too difficult to sustain. So, the third option: Adapt. Like it or lump it or make yourself love it--and do so genuinely. And until you get to that point, celebrate the great parts and learn to cope with graciousness.
I think we can guess which route that I am taking.
It's simple enough--I simply try, day to day, to find the funky, funny, quirky, delightful, gratifying things about living here. I throw myself more into my job than ever. I make a genuine effort to cultivate lasting friendships.
But just now, I learned another thing that I have to do.
A lot of unhappiness comes from comparing yourself and your circumstances to others; seeing what they have and being envious of them. Now we come back to where I want to commit aggravated Internets assault against innocent homemakers on my blog. No so much with the healthy, there.
Just prior to composing this post, I happened upon this:
A real estate listing re-blogged on Hooked on Houses. I am a total sucker for these types of houses, and so I followed the link...
Only to find out that this house is in the town from whence I originally spawned, Milford, Ohio.
It's selling for $189,000.
Of course, I began perusing the link, ogled over the compact little rooms, the hardwood floors, the pleasing reds and neutrals. And then I caught it--that little kernel of unhappiness, starting to swell and explode--and I knew what I had to do.
I closed the tab.
If part of graciously coping and eventually building a genuinely happy life out here depends on me turning away from pictures of My Ideal Life, then that's what needs to be done. Is it sticking my head into the sand?
Well, yes. But whatever works, right? And I live in the desert, so at least there's plenty of sand to go around!L
Well, wrapping up isn't quite the word for it, as it's about 11 days from the beginning of fall, and we're forecasted for the low-100s all next week. But hey! That's 'way down from the 116 degree + humidity temps we had at the end of August/beginning of this month. You learn to take what you can get and be happy with it.
But anyway, summer is, in theory, ending; the kids are back in school; the orange/red/yellow decorations are out in the stores; people on my blogroll are talking about crisp air and autumn projects and quite frankly, I want to punch them in the face. Really, really hard.
This is not a healthy response. I know this.
So...a few weeks back, I was thinking on this unhappy state of affairs. And then that night I went home and read Single Infertile Female' s blog, and she was talking about her "Forever Life" and how she was afraid that it was going to be defined by fear and loneliness and bitterness and disappointment. What stuck in my head was the term "forever life". I didn't realize why until the next day, at work, when it occurred to me that we all, eventually, commence our forever life.
And I had just commenced mine this summer (of all times!) I cast my lot in with Himself, committed myself to a life with him, for better or for worse. I'm so happy that I did. But. Himself loves the desert; he grew up here, he loves the mountain and the trails and the deadly black widows and velvet ants and rattlesnakes and the roadrunners and the bighorns. He loves it here.
And me, not so much. I dislike being so far from my family; I miss rain and seasons and cold weather; I miss old houses and barns and fields and the color green...well, you get my picture.
But this is my Forever Life. This is it. Himself and I both have great jobs, and coupled with the fact that he loves it so much, it's looking more and more like we won't be leaving here any time soon.
If ever.
It finally sunk in that day at work. In the course of a few hours, I grew up and faced facts: my circumstances won't be changing, so what do I do? Continue bitching and whining and making disparaging remarks about California? That would only strain and perhaps kill my marriage. Quietly resign myself to it and act all passive-aggressively like the long-suffering wife? Unlikely; the act would be too difficult to sustain. So, the third option: Adapt. Like it or lump it or make yourself love it--and do so genuinely. And until you get to that point, celebrate the great parts and learn to cope with graciousness.
I think we can guess which route that I am taking.
It's simple enough--I simply try, day to day, to find the funky, funny, quirky, delightful, gratifying things about living here. I throw myself more into my job than ever. I make a genuine effort to cultivate lasting friendships.
But just now, I learned another thing that I have to do.
A lot of unhappiness comes from comparing yourself and your circumstances to others; seeing what they have and being envious of them. Now we come back to where I want to commit aggravated Internets assault against innocent homemakers on my blog. No so much with the healthy, there.
Just prior to composing this post, I happened upon this:
A real estate listing re-blogged on Hooked on Houses. I am a total sucker for these types of houses, and so I followed the link...
Only to find out that this house is in the town from whence I originally spawned, Milford, Ohio.
It's selling for $189,000.
Of course, I began perusing the link, ogled over the compact little rooms, the hardwood floors, the pleasing reds and neutrals. And then I caught it--that little kernel of unhappiness, starting to swell and explode--and I knew what I had to do.
I closed the tab.
If part of graciously coping and eventually building a genuinely happy life out here depends on me turning away from pictures of My Ideal Life, then that's what needs to be done. Is it sticking my head into the sand?
Well, yes. But whatever works, right? And I live in the desert, so at least there's plenty of sand to go around!L
Monday, July 5, 2010
Manic Monday in Marriage
Today has been an interesting day in the marriage of Sassy and Himself.
And the day's barely half over.
It started innocuously enough. We both had a day off. I slept in. He went out for a massage. I woke up. Eventually he came home.
Maybe that's where we went wrong: me waking up and him coming home.
Because when that happened, the shit hit the fan.
What we argued about is certainly not relevant here, and possibly not relevant within the context of the our marriage. To be terribly reductive, we'll just say that it came down to chore division. For now, we'll assume that there are not underlying issues. What is relevant is how we handled the quickly-escalating situation.
It had the potential to be not pretty. In fact, it was fairly unpretty. It seems unkind and petty to say "he started it," and not even that is particularly relevant. What IS relevant is this: I think we both did something right in how we handled the situation. I didn't rise to the bait, and ultimately, he didn't pursue it.
What did happen was this: he went off to the spare bedroom, and I began to clean. The entire time I was cleaning, I was thinking angry, frustrated thoughts. I was hurt, I was boiling mad, and at least in my head, I was on a warpath.
And then he came out of the guest room. I threw him one dark, deeply foul look before continuing on with my current task of vaccuuming. After a moment, he said, "I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."
You know when in a disagreement, someone offers an olive branch, at least ostensibly? And sometimes you take the olive branch, and you begin to communicate and hopefully make up and forgive each other, but it degenerates into a continuation of the anger and miscommunication of before?
That could have happened.
But it didn't.
I looked up at him with tears brimming in my eyes, and I said, "I can't talk about this right now. Because I want what is best for us and our marriage, and talking right now won't be helpful."
He went away again. I continued cleaning. He took a nap, I filed some things...do you see where this is going? I took the time to cool off; I deliberately avoided a situation of saying angry things; he respected that, he took the time to cool off.
After about ninety minutes, I went into the guest room and laid down on the bed with him. I threw my arms around him. He woke up. We cuddled. We looked into each others' eyes, and we soothed each others' hurt feelings. We still haven't discussed the issues; we will when the time is right.
The main thing is this: in marriage, in ANY romantic and committed relationship...bite your tongue. Give your anger time to cool off. With time comes perspective, and with perspective comes the awareness that really, what does it matter, in the great scheme of things? It doesn't matter who's right and who's wrong, at least not at this point. It matters how you can fix things together, and avoid them getting broken in the first place.
Sassy and Himself earned major marriage points today, I think.
And the day's barely half over.
It started innocuously enough. We both had a day off. I slept in. He went out for a massage. I woke up. Eventually he came home.
Maybe that's where we went wrong: me waking up and him coming home.
Because when that happened, the shit hit the fan.
What we argued about is certainly not relevant here, and possibly not relevant within the context of the our marriage. To be terribly reductive, we'll just say that it came down to chore division. For now, we'll assume that there are not underlying issues. What is relevant is how we handled the quickly-escalating situation.
It had the potential to be not pretty. In fact, it was fairly unpretty. It seems unkind and petty to say "he started it," and not even that is particularly relevant. What IS relevant is this: I think we both did something right in how we handled the situation. I didn't rise to the bait, and ultimately, he didn't pursue it.
What did happen was this: he went off to the spare bedroom, and I began to clean. The entire time I was cleaning, I was thinking angry, frustrated thoughts. I was hurt, I was boiling mad, and at least in my head, I was on a warpath.
And then he came out of the guest room. I threw him one dark, deeply foul look before continuing on with my current task of vaccuuming. After a moment, he said, "I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."
You know when in a disagreement, someone offers an olive branch, at least ostensibly? And sometimes you take the olive branch, and you begin to communicate and hopefully make up and forgive each other, but it degenerates into a continuation of the anger and miscommunication of before?
That could have happened.
But it didn't.
I looked up at him with tears brimming in my eyes, and I said, "I can't talk about this right now. Because I want what is best for us and our marriage, and talking right now won't be helpful."
He went away again. I continued cleaning. He took a nap, I filed some things...do you see where this is going? I took the time to cool off; I deliberately avoided a situation of saying angry things; he respected that, he took the time to cool off.
After about ninety minutes, I went into the guest room and laid down on the bed with him. I threw my arms around him. He woke up. We cuddled. We looked into each others' eyes, and we soothed each others' hurt feelings. We still haven't discussed the issues; we will when the time is right.
The main thing is this: in marriage, in ANY romantic and committed relationship...bite your tongue. Give your anger time to cool off. With time comes perspective, and with perspective comes the awareness that really, what does it matter, in the great scheme of things? It doesn't matter who's right and who's wrong, at least not at this point. It matters how you can fix things together, and avoid them getting broken in the first place.
Sassy and Himself earned major marriage points today, I think.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
All Together on Tuesday: The Latest Version of the World's Best Planner
Hi! Welcome to the Very First All Together on Tuesday post! This Very First Post is going to take the form of an (initial) product review, and will include the obligatory and gratuitous self-deprecationg humor.
"Get It Together" Product: Mead OrganizHer Flexible Solutions Family Organizer
Available in Target Stores (not online, as far as I can tell) for roughly $14.99...I could not find it online.
Originally I came across this lovely, kinda teal thing back in May, when I was meandering through Target trying to find things that I absolutely had to have for the honeymoon. This planner caught my eye, and after we returned to Sunnydale, I ventured out to Target to see if it was still there.
It was.
After perusing it for a few moments, I decided I quite liked it. Between Himself and me, as well as all of our little well-intended goals and social obligations and independent projects and in his case, speaking engagements, we've got a pretty whacky schedule. And we're constantly asking eachother "What are the plans for the eighteenth?" "I think we've got the Museum fundraiser." "No, that's on the twentieth. I think the eighteenth is free...we need to have so-and-so over." "No, wait, you have a program at..."
You get the picture. And so I dropped the money on this organizer, which will most assuredly help me get my life in order, and keep track of Himself's, as well. Of course, it replaces the previous planner which I thought would be the answer to all of my life goals, concerns, and issues; and that planner had replaced the calendars I had before that...Yeah. I am hoping someone out there knows what I am talking about.
Anyone? Other than the crickets chirping?
So. Moving along. Here's some basic stuff about it: It's about 9 inches wide, 11.5 inches tall, so it's not a compact little thing you can easily haul around. That's both a pro and a con in my book--portability is nice, but too small and it's danged tricky to write in without having three-inch claws for hands.
There are two little pouches inside, kinda zip-loc style. Right now I am keeping our gift cards and our post-wedding registry coupons in there. And then there's a whole bunch of undated pages, with the days of the week arranged in column format with a notes column at the farthest right. You write in the dates yourself. Within the columns are several sections: "All Me", "All Them", "Lunch", "Dinner", "Notes". Then, at the very back is a menu planning section and an "important phone numbers" section. The idea is that I will keep the hard copy and make a photocopy for Himself each week, to be updated as we need it. Here are some pictures of the first week "in action":
Two-Page Spread (Click for Larger)
Individual Views of Spread (Mon-Thurs on Left, Fri-Sun + Notes on Right)
(Click for Larger)
"Get It Together" Product: Mead OrganizHer Flexible Solutions Family Organizer
Available in Target Stores (not online, as far as I can tell) for roughly $14.99...I could not find it online.
Originally I came across this lovely, kinda teal thing back in May, when I was meandering through Target trying to find things that I absolutely had to have for the honeymoon. This planner caught my eye, and after we returned to Sunnydale, I ventured out to Target to see if it was still there.
It was.
After perusing it for a few moments, I decided I quite liked it. Between Himself and me, as well as all of our little well-intended goals and social obligations and independent projects and in his case, speaking engagements, we've got a pretty whacky schedule. And we're constantly asking eachother "What are the plans for the eighteenth?" "I think we've got the Museum fundraiser." "No, that's on the twentieth. I think the eighteenth is free...we need to have so-and-so over." "No, wait, you have a program at..."
You get the picture. And so I dropped the money on this organizer, which will most assuredly help me get my life in order, and keep track of Himself's, as well. Of course, it replaces the previous planner which I thought would be the answer to all of my life goals, concerns, and issues; and that planner had replaced the calendars I had before that...Yeah. I am hoping someone out there knows what I am talking about.
Anyone? Other than the crickets chirping?
So. Moving along. Here's some basic stuff about it: It's about 9 inches wide, 11.5 inches tall, so it's not a compact little thing you can easily haul around. That's both a pro and a con in my book--portability is nice, but too small and it's danged tricky to write in without having three-inch claws for hands.
There are two little pouches inside, kinda zip-loc style. Right now I am keeping our gift cards and our post-wedding registry coupons in there. And then there's a whole bunch of undated pages, with the days of the week arranged in column format with a notes column at the farthest right. You write in the dates yourself. Within the columns are several sections: "All Me", "All Them", "Lunch", "Dinner", "Notes". Then, at the very back is a menu planning section and an "important phone numbers" section. The idea is that I will keep the hard copy and make a photocopy for Himself each week, to be updated as we need it. Here are some pictures of the first week "in action":
Two-Page Spread (Click for Larger)
(Click for Larger)
Observations Thus Far:
Cons:
The family planner has been in use 12 hours, so this is just an initial review. Perhaps in a month or two I will revisit it, to see if it has truly solved all my issues, or if it has been exiled to a pile of papers, in which all the other life-changing planners reside.
Will this be the answer to my organizational woes? Will this help me to achieve the life that I've always wanted? (Because apparently my ideal life cannot begin until it's scheduled in the perfect organizer between picking up the dry cleaning and working the late shift at the Library). Most likely not, but at least you can learn about a product that might help you"all together!"
There are other products in this line, namely, the Expense Tracker. I won't be buying this because A.) I don't need the "complete set" to be happy, B.) Sheesh, I haven't even used the pretty reciept organizer I bought in the New Year. And C.) I have no desire just yet to see how much money I am wasting on stuff and nonsense, particularly organizing crap.
But that's another post, perhaps for Thoughts on Thursday.
Have a good night!
Cons:
- It's not portable for most folks unless they walk around with a briefcase or a backpack.
- The paper is slick, and feels a little weird to write on.
- There's an "All Me" Section and an "All Them" Section, but not an "All Us" Section (I just wrote it in)
- Writing can be a little awkward, but it's easily remedied, detailed in the pros below (Because I am positive and like to end on a happy note)
- There's lots of leeway for customization (if you don't like it, design and print up your own pages!
- Just found this out: there are free templates for additional organizational helpers listed on Mead's Website, which you can download for free
- It's a pretty teal color
- It's easily expandable (kind of like a chintzy three-ring binder)
The family planner has been in use 12 hours, so this is just an initial review. Perhaps in a month or two I will revisit it, to see if it has truly solved all my issues, or if it has been exiled to a pile of papers, in which all the other life-changing planners reside.
Will this be the answer to my organizational woes? Will this help me to achieve the life that I've always wanted? (Because apparently my ideal life cannot begin until it's scheduled in the perfect organizer between picking up the dry cleaning and working the late shift at the Library). Most likely not, but at least you can learn about a product that might help you"all together!"
But that's another post, perhaps for Thoughts on Thursday.
Have a good night!
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Erring on the Side of Hope
California is...an interesting place. To most, it's a glorious place, with the promise of sunny, temperate days, glitzy glamorous nights, and plenty of potential success and dreams to lure many an unsuspecting soul here. But there's so many invisible (and sometimes visible) hazards. There are so many faultlines, ready to rupture and break us all apart.
So it is with Himself and me. There's always a faultline, in each relationship, even the most happy and blessed. In our case, the faultline is Himself's son (we'll call him Himself Jr), my soon-to-be stepson. All is not sunshine and harmony in our life right now, and much of it has to do with Himself Jr.
He's a mere fifteen years old...probably the same age as my mother was when she first started to hit the skids. I haven't seen Himself Jr. since before his dad and I got engaged last October; even before then, Jr. had been painting the town a little too red, experimenting with some too-dangerous drugs, getting into too much trouble with the law. We thought he was going to be going to a drug rehab/bootcamp center for a year, and just a day or two ago he was moved to one. Himself and I have had too much experience with addiction and criminal behavior in our families to do or think anything other than "One day at a time," but we still breathed a cautious sigh of relief.
Too soon, it seems. We got the call that Himself Jr. took off from the rehab place (apparently, in California, they can't force minors to stay. Bunch of damned liberal nonsense claptrap, if you ask me) and now no one knows where he is. I have to believe that Himself Jr. is as scrappy and resourceful as ever, and will show up sooner or later, probably sooner rather than later, and almost certainly worse for wear.
But I mourn for Himself. I see the worry that is beginning to carve lines of disappointment in Himself's face. I mourn for his happy-go-lucky streak, his sense of self-worth, his optimism, each of which takes a hit each time Himself Jr. raises hell. I have never reared a child, most likely never will, but I have enough empathy and imagination to conjure the emotions that plague Himself now. And all I can do is just hug him, listen, refrain from making any conclusions or judgments.
The damned pickle of it is that I like this kid. The few times that we've seen each other, we've gotten along. Even laughed a couple of times. He's smart, he's honest (even with everything else, he's honest), and he's absolutely determined not to give a damn that he is wrecking his body, his mind, his life.
As I've said, both Himself and I have seen what addiction can do to a family. And so I worry for us, for our fledgling marriage, for its tender fragile state. I worry about what could happen if Himself Jr. continues down this path. But then, if the worst can happen, and our partnership suffers as a result, I suppose it is just as possible that the other extreme could also happen...
Out here in the desert, the San Andreas Fault runs right through, a volatile flaw in our otherwise stable earth, just ready to open its yaw someday and unleash untold destruction upon us, 2012-style. But here's the cool thing about the Fault--you can see where it is, because there's a band of green foliage growing on it. Green, in the desert. Even in the summer time. Because of the Fault. Water percolates up from the Fault, you see, so even this potentially frightening thing brings some good to us, some life to our region. And of course, it's just as likely as not that the Fault won't get faulty in our lifetime, thereby reducing all of my anxieties to naught.
I'd like to make it so that this faultline in our relationship can be like the San Andreas--despite what happens, or perhaps even because of what happens with Himself Jr., I'd like to see that something else, not awful at all, can come out of it...I'd like for Himself and I make it so that, like the greenery on the San Andreas Fault, something good comes from the faultline which runs through this...I'd like for us to make this a relationship strengthened, a love enhanced through even the most dangerous flaws that lurk at the heart of a home.
So it is with Himself and me. There's always a faultline, in each relationship, even the most happy and blessed. In our case, the faultline is Himself's son (we'll call him Himself Jr), my soon-to-be stepson. All is not sunshine and harmony in our life right now, and much of it has to do with Himself Jr.
He's a mere fifteen years old...probably the same age as my mother was when she first started to hit the skids. I haven't seen Himself Jr. since before his dad and I got engaged last October; even before then, Jr. had been painting the town a little too red, experimenting with some too-dangerous drugs, getting into too much trouble with the law. We thought he was going to be going to a drug rehab/bootcamp center for a year, and just a day or two ago he was moved to one. Himself and I have had too much experience with addiction and criminal behavior in our families to do or think anything other than "One day at a time," but we still breathed a cautious sigh of relief.
Too soon, it seems. We got the call that Himself Jr. took off from the rehab place (apparently, in California, they can't force minors to stay. Bunch of damned liberal nonsense claptrap, if you ask me) and now no one knows where he is. I have to believe that Himself Jr. is as scrappy and resourceful as ever, and will show up sooner or later, probably sooner rather than later, and almost certainly worse for wear.
But I mourn for Himself. I see the worry that is beginning to carve lines of disappointment in Himself's face. I mourn for his happy-go-lucky streak, his sense of self-worth, his optimism, each of which takes a hit each time Himself Jr. raises hell. I have never reared a child, most likely never will, but I have enough empathy and imagination to conjure the emotions that plague Himself now. And all I can do is just hug him, listen, refrain from making any conclusions or judgments.
The damned pickle of it is that I like this kid. The few times that we've seen each other, we've gotten along. Even laughed a couple of times. He's smart, he's honest (even with everything else, he's honest), and he's absolutely determined not to give a damn that he is wrecking his body, his mind, his life.
As I've said, both Himself and I have seen what addiction can do to a family. And so I worry for us, for our fledgling marriage, for its tender fragile state. I worry about what could happen if Himself Jr. continues down this path. But then, if the worst can happen, and our partnership suffers as a result, I suppose it is just as possible that the other extreme could also happen...
Out here in the desert, the San Andreas Fault runs right through, a volatile flaw in our otherwise stable earth, just ready to open its yaw someday and unleash untold destruction upon us, 2012-style. But here's the cool thing about the Fault--you can see where it is, because there's a band of green foliage growing on it. Green, in the desert. Even in the summer time. Because of the Fault. Water percolates up from the Fault, you see, so even this potentially frightening thing brings some good to us, some life to our region. And of course, it's just as likely as not that the Fault won't get faulty in our lifetime, thereby reducing all of my anxieties to naught.
I'd like to make it so that this faultline in our relationship can be like the San Andreas--despite what happens, or perhaps even because of what happens with Himself Jr., I'd like to see that something else, not awful at all, can come out of it...I'd like for Himself and I make it so that, like the greenery on the San Andreas Fault, something good comes from the faultline which runs through this...I'd like for us to make this a relationship strengthened, a love enhanced through even the most dangerous flaws that lurk at the heart of a home.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Wives in Books: Julia and Julia; Cleaving
March--otherwise known as the Month of the Thousand Library Programs--has passed, thank god. I survived, more or less, but it appears that I did so only on the strength of an unholy pact between me and my body--a pact that was made without my conscious knowledge. My body agreed to get me through March, only on the condition that it would be allowed to collapse come April 1.
And so, despite my responsible and vigilant ingestion of many vitamins and minerals (I smell like an herb garden right now, I think), I am now at home, buried under a pile of unwashed quilts, nursing a sore throat and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. The cats look askance at me, as if they are wondering why I am home in the middle of the day and not feeding them.
Life is hard.
______________________________________________________________
So. Book review time.
And so, despite my responsible and vigilant ingestion of many vitamins and minerals (I smell like an herb garden right now, I think), I am now at home, buried under a pile of unwashed quilts, nursing a sore throat and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. The cats look askance at me, as if they are wondering why I am home in the middle of the day and not feeding them.
Life is hard.
______________________________________________________________
So. Book review time.
Two books, one author: Julie Powell, known in some uncharitable circles as "a soiled and narcissistic whore." I'll refrain from such judgments, mainly because A.) Hey, we've all been there, and B.) It just takes way too much energy at present. And plus, there's an absolutely adorable egg whisk on the cover--which I actually registered for! Heh.
Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen. If for some reason you've been living under a rock for the past few years (or, the other alternative that can explain a disconnect from pop culture, have been attending grad school), and haven't heard, it's a book based on the blog of a woman who, on the eve of turning 30, decided that she had done very little worthy in her life and so proceeded to spend the next year cooking up every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Powell documents her experiences in her blog, expands upon them in her book, eats a lot of butter, and drives her sainted husband crazy. Defying all odds, she gets noticed, her book gets published, and a movie is made out of it.
Both the book and the blog have a refreshingly honest--and caustic--tone and text, to say nothing of a supremely quirky wit. As well, Powell offers up a more than a few domestic details which I find utterly beguiling. As an almost-30 almost-wife, I understand career frustrations and the feeling of abject terror that comes when I realize that the only thing standing between me and middle age are ten tenuous, flimsy, easy-come-easy-go years. Julie Powell's been there, and her book is a good companion to light the way.
Her husband, Eric, is along for the ride, and he certainly benefits--and suffers--from the project. He practically gave her the idea for it, and he certainly provides her with a great deal of support (and manpower) as she cooks her way through the year. More than once, I found myself thinking, "That is a marriage I'd like to aspire to."
That is, until I read Cleaving.
Powell is taking a lot of flak for this book, perhaps not unjustly. It's a very different kind of book from J&J...it's more specialized (meathooks and butchery, anyone?), it's not as funny, and in fact, parts of it are pretty darned sad.
You see, Julie ends up cheating on her husband. Not just for a one-night stand, but for a long time. A couple of years' worth of time. And her husband knows. And they stay together, the whole time pretty much, and eventually Julie and her lover (who's a real toad of a guy, btw) part and Julie's devastated. And so she goes off and learns butchery.
Here's the real departure--butchery. Because once you get past the screamingly obvious metaphor (Helen Keller couldn't have missed it) of Powell butchering her marriage, the meat stuff is pretty boring. I actually skipped over most of that, because to me, the redeeming parts of the book were Powell's reflections on her marriage, her husband, her affair. She pondered Eric, the strange, secret language of their relationship, the past and the future of their marriage. She tried to come to terms with the sick nature of her obsession. I'm still not sure if she succeeds at any of it. The final lesson--in fact the only lesson--about marriage that I can take away from this book is that there is no happy ending, ever. Each marriage is a story in progress, without end until the ultimate end--death or separation. Each day the marriage evolves, and the only way to evolve with it is through vigilance.
And fidelity. I'm just sayin'.
Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen. If for some reason you've been living under a rock for the past few years (or, the other alternative that can explain a disconnect from pop culture, have been attending grad school), and haven't heard, it's a book based on the blog of a woman who, on the eve of turning 30, decided that she had done very little worthy in her life and so proceeded to spend the next year cooking up every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Powell documents her experiences in her blog, expands upon them in her book, eats a lot of butter, and drives her sainted husband crazy. Defying all odds, she gets noticed, her book gets published, and a movie is made out of it.
Both the book and the blog have a refreshingly honest--and caustic--tone and text, to say nothing of a supremely quirky wit. As well, Powell offers up a more than a few domestic details which I find utterly beguiling. As an almost-30 almost-wife, I understand career frustrations and the feeling of abject terror that comes when I realize that the only thing standing between me and middle age are ten tenuous, flimsy, easy-come-easy-go years. Julie Powell's been there, and her book is a good companion to light the way.
Her husband, Eric, is along for the ride, and he certainly benefits--and suffers--from the project. He practically gave her the idea for it, and he certainly provides her with a great deal of support (and manpower) as she cooks her way through the year. More than once, I found myself thinking, "That is a marriage I'd like to aspire to."
That is, until I read Cleaving.
Powell is taking a lot of flak for this book, perhaps not unjustly. It's a very different kind of book from J&J...it's more specialized (meathooks and butchery, anyone?), it's not as funny, and in fact, parts of it are pretty darned sad.
You see, Julie ends up cheating on her husband. Not just for a one-night stand, but for a long time. A couple of years' worth of time. And her husband knows. And they stay together, the whole time pretty much, and eventually Julie and her lover (who's a real toad of a guy, btw) part and Julie's devastated. And so she goes off and learns butchery.
Here's the real departure--butchery. Because once you get past the screamingly obvious metaphor (Helen Keller couldn't have missed it) of Powell butchering her marriage, the meat stuff is pretty boring. I actually skipped over most of that, because to me, the redeeming parts of the book were Powell's reflections on her marriage, her husband, her affair. She pondered Eric, the strange, secret language of their relationship, the past and the future of their marriage. She tried to come to terms with the sick nature of her obsession. I'm still not sure if she succeeds at any of it. The final lesson--in fact the only lesson--about marriage that I can take away from this book is that there is no happy ending, ever. Each marriage is a story in progress, without end until the ultimate end--death or separation. Each day the marriage evolves, and the only way to evolve with it is through vigilance.
And fidelity. I'm just sayin'.
Monday, March 29, 2010
What Am I Doing Wrong?
I made dinner tonight.
This is a momentous--huge--occasion in our household, as I am kitchen-handicapped. But for any number of reasons, I feel compelled to at least get a grip on some rudimentary culinary skills. I made a really simple dish--brown rice, steamed asparagus, and herb-roasted chicken cutlets. Someday, some other post, when I am feeling less dispirited and disgusted with the lot of women, I'll post the results. Also, when I find my camera cable.
But for now...
...WTF?
How do women do it? How do they have careers, marriages, and children, to say nothing of alone-time and social time? Something's gonna get shorted, and ten bucks says it ain't the job, the husband, or the kids cryin' the blues. (Except when they feel neglected because Mom went off and did something for herself).
I get off work at 6:15. It takes 15 minutes to get to the store, another 15 minutes to run through the store and pick up items for dinner, and all in all I'm home by 7 PM. After five or ten minutes of prep-work (hand washing, digging out ingredients and utensils), I start prepping the food and cooking. Dinner is prepared by 7:50, and I'm lucky (lucky! Can you believe it! Lucky!) to have a few minutes while the meal is cooking to clean up a little in the kitchen, start a load of laundry, scoop the litterbox), and I am done eating by 8:15. And there's still more kitchen clean-up to do.
It's now 8:45 PM. and ideally I should be in bed by 11. Forget hopping on the exercise bike, forget scrubbing out the bathtub. Forget all sorts of things I had on the to-do list. I'll be lucky if I sort through some of the mail and get some writing done. This is insane. How do women who are wives and mothers as well as workers manage to do all of this and run their lives?
Or am I doing something wrong?
This is a momentous--huge--occasion in our household, as I am kitchen-handicapped. But for any number of reasons, I feel compelled to at least get a grip on some rudimentary culinary skills. I made a really simple dish--brown rice, steamed asparagus, and herb-roasted chicken cutlets. Someday, some other post, when I am feeling less dispirited and disgusted with the lot of women, I'll post the results. Also, when I find my camera cable.
But for now...
...WTF?
How do women do it? How do they have careers, marriages, and children, to say nothing of alone-time and social time? Something's gonna get shorted, and ten bucks says it ain't the job, the husband, or the kids cryin' the blues. (Except when they feel neglected because Mom went off and did something for herself).
I get off work at 6:15. It takes 15 minutes to get to the store, another 15 minutes to run through the store and pick up items for dinner, and all in all I'm home by 7 PM. After five or ten minutes of prep-work (hand washing, digging out ingredients and utensils), I start prepping the food and cooking. Dinner is prepared by 7:50, and I'm lucky (lucky! Can you believe it! Lucky!) to have a few minutes while the meal is cooking to clean up a little in the kitchen, start a load of laundry, scoop the litterbox), and I am done eating by 8:15. And there's still more kitchen clean-up to do.
It's now 8:45 PM. and ideally I should be in bed by 11. Forget hopping on the exercise bike, forget scrubbing out the bathtub. Forget all sorts of things I had on the to-do list. I'll be lucky if I sort through some of the mail and get some writing done. This is insane. How do women who are wives and mothers as well as workers manage to do all of this and run their lives?
Or am I doing something wrong?
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Meaning of Wife: An Interview
Last night we had a couple of our friends over...Ken and Gail, two of the smartest and funniest people I've met since moving to California. They're like Himself and I...fairly liberal, lovers of cats, eschewers of child-bearing...and they make really good dinner party companions. Of course, that might just be because they appeared to enjoy the gin gimlets which I promptly foisted upon them. (One of the reasons I love Ken and Gail was because when I offered to make them a gin gimlet, Ken's response was, "Who drinks gimlets? Are you channeling Julie Powell?")
Anyway, I was quite eager to grill them on their views of "the meaning of wife" and the burning question of, "Can one be both a career woman and a housewife?"
Gail's decided response was "No." With the addition of "Not as I view the term 'housewife'."
We talked about that for a few moments, and then debated the definition of the term "housewife." (Now I'm wishing I had not had that second gimlet, otherwise perhaps I could remember more of the exchange). And then, like the good liberals we are, we conceded that we guessed "it depends on how one defines the term "housewife".
Ken's response was a little more ambiguous, and provoked even more liberal ponderings on social views and expectations and their evolutions. The end result of this impromptu and decidedly un-scholarly study was...well...darn those gimlets, anyway.
One thing, however, does stand out in my mind. We decided that, if one were to be both of those things, they would have to be neither a high-powered career chick (and let's face it, as an L-I with approximately several gabillion bosses--three at the library, one or ten or so above them, to say nothing of the taxpayers of Sunnydale II-- there is no way in Zeus's holy scrotum I could possibly be described as "high-powered") nor a particularly competent housewife. Which is comforting on many, many levels.
So, maybe I'm no closer to establishing the answer to this burning question...or maybe I am on the way to defining the meaning of wife for me.
Anyway, I was quite eager to grill them on their views of "the meaning of wife" and the burning question of, "Can one be both a career woman and a housewife?"
Gail's decided response was "No." With the addition of "Not as I view the term 'housewife'."
We talked about that for a few moments, and then debated the definition of the term "housewife." (Now I'm wishing I had not had that second gimlet, otherwise perhaps I could remember more of the exchange). And then, like the good liberals we are, we conceded that we guessed "it depends on how one defines the term "housewife".
Ken's response was a little more ambiguous, and provoked even more liberal ponderings on social views and expectations and their evolutions. The end result of this impromptu and decidedly un-scholarly study was...well...darn those gimlets, anyway.
One thing, however, does stand out in my mind. We decided that, if one were to be both of those things, they would have to be neither a high-powered career chick (and let's face it, as an L-I with approximately several gabillion bosses--three at the library, one or ten or so above them, to say nothing of the taxpayers of Sunnydale II-- there is no way in Zeus's holy scrotum I could possibly be described as "high-powered") nor a particularly competent housewife. Which is comforting on many, many levels.
So, maybe I'm no closer to establishing the answer to this burning question...or maybe I am on the way to defining the meaning of wife for me.
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