Life is a Banquet

Little Moments of Freakiness

The key to a successful marriage, in my humble opinion, is realizing that marriage is made up of a series of little moments that mean everything held together by seemingly big moments that mean nothing. The trick is knowing the difference. Yesterday morning coming up the stairs, bleary eyed and far-from bushy tailed at

6:00 a.m.

trailing a dog with a full bladder, I happened to catch Freak at the top of the stairs, just as he was leaving out the door. He turned and caught my eye for a long second, pressed his fingers against mine and gave me a quick kiss, mouthing “I love you,” as he closed the door. In that moment, I knew why all of everything else that goes into marriage is worth it.  

Dirty socks and an inability to put things in the RIGHT place are temporary aberrations on my Donna Reed Radar. The feel of his hip pressed into my stomach in the middle of the night cancels out these temporary annoyances. In these wee hours between night and day when our bed is an oasis, his warmth is my blanket, and whispered goodbyes and I-love-yous are my lullabyes. In those hours I love him so much my heart feels ready to burst.

Sometimes I feel like a gapping pool of need, creating impossible expectations for him to live up to. Other times it feels like we are irritable planets circling each other in uneasy orbit. And I know I’m hardly the neediest person on earth, or the bitchiest wife, but I also know that I am a perfectionist about all things, including my marriage. I have the delightful tendency to see judgment where there is none, to confuse my standards for myself with his for me.  

And then in the midst of an argument, he rips open a new pack of canvases and I wordlessly dig for the new oil pastels we bought, and we start drawing. Tentatively at first, our words doing more work than the colors as we wrestled a tough issue to the ground. Then the color took root, and we fed off each other’s energy. There, right, there, as we finished the painting, emotionally spent, another of those little moments, unplanned and unexpected crept up on me and took my breathe away. Later, as we fell asleep, our hands met across our big bed, and I thought to myself “I could never write enough love letters to you, to me, to us, to encapsulate how lucky I am.” 

Why DINK's should not be allowed out on Weekends . . .

Freak and I should not be trusted to make rational decisions on weekends. It’s that simple really. All of our pets were acquired on a weekend. Most, if not all, of our biggest fights have happened on a weekend. We have come perilously close to buying houses we could not afford in sketchy neighborhoods in distant cities on weekends. Dubious items of furniture and garage-sale refugees have joined our household on weekends. Many, many ill-advised meals have been eaten on weekends. And this weekend, we came within FEET of buying an RV.

I, Wavybrains

As the goddess which we all agree I am, I should not have to strain my back cleaning *certain* people’s long hair out of tub drains, weaken my knees bending for stray socks, hyperextend my shoulders vacuuming, and I most certainly should never have to foul my oxygen with the scent of over-ripe cat box. Unfortunately, despite the fact that I am ever so much more intelligent than that Bewitched chick, and would never wear sheer harem pants like that Jeanie broad, mother nature neglected to give me the talent to point at something and say “cleanius maximus immedius” or something like that.

 

Do it like they do on the Discovery Channel

We had a perfectly wild and wonderful weekend.  Freak and I, you know, are SUCH party animals.  Friday night, why Freak waited until 9:30 to pass out in bed! After taking me to the saloon and buying me a heap of rare cow--and get this--we had dessert first!! On the way to dinner! Rebels, I tell you, rebels.   And Saturday, we took two naps--BEFORE we ever hit the road for the beach.  And Freak bought TWO kinds of chips for the drive--thumbing his nose at the carb police the whole time. 

Our 24 hours in paradise was way, way too short, and exactly what we needed too. We parked the car, and walked to dinner, walked to lunch the next day, and spent endless hours just hanging out in our hotel room.  Yes, I confess, our idea of a romantic weekend getaway is endless hours of the discovery and history channels for him, and a private, shaded balcony for me to read great fiction.  Heaven is hours and hours of uninterupted nothingness punctuated with multiple naps and snacks. 

And, in the end, we were happy that we decided to leave her doggieness at "her" kennel for the night--a little break from her made us appreciate her so much more the next day and allowed us more unstructured time.  Even the most attentive mommies and daddies need some alone time.  But a surefire way to make your owners feel guilty for the  entire drive to their destination is to start whining when they pull into the lot, pitifully stare at them as they walk away, and generally make them feel horrible, even if this IS a clean, nice, attentive place staffed with lovely trainers. Also eat like there is no tommorrow upon your return, ensuring that your misery is cemented in their minds. 

On the 12th, Freak and I mark six months (SIX MONTHS) of making this grand adventure work.  And it's weekends like this that remind me exactly why what we have is so amazing and beautiful.  Click on the flickr link to see pictures of how in love I fall with my husband, everyday.

Oh and if you really want a good laugh, here is me totally enjoying life, getting swamped by ice cold waves, and loving every second. 

Download 9605_037.mov

Gone Fishin'

We're on vacation.  Okay, TECHNICALLY we have a REAL vacation to Reno coming up, but that's actually a WORKING trip for me (writing conference!! More Stress!! Oh boy!!).  But, we NEED a break.  Being slightly cash poor these days, Clanna helped me come up with a fabulous idea. We're on vacation here.  At home. Need us? Cell phones are out of service, sorry.  E-mail? Not checking at the moment.  Hammock? Occupied by the cutest husband around and a book of bathroom ideas? Breakfast? Cinnamon Pancakes.  Clean up? Not happening.  Moving furniture into the basement? Not today.  Naps taken already today? Two.  Freak is right now enjoying the "spa" with a long, hot shower and BATH.  Yes, my manly man takes bubble baths, and I believe that's what he's up to right now.  Massages are planned for later this afternoon. 

What's truly cool though is realizing that we have the perfect home for vacationing at home.  We have a hammock. We have diet sodas in the fridge and pitchers for iced tea. Enough dirty dishes fit in the dishwasher to accommodate a weekend of laziness.  We have enough curtains now to spend the day in our underwear.  What more is needed really?  Oh and we have BOOKS.  Stacks and stacks of books.   I'm only on the computer briefly here because the need to write was overwhelming, but suddenly, the reminder that I have BOOKS waiting has me itching to return to my vacation.

The To-Do list and the To-Worry list are offically missing in action for the next two days! Tell me how YOU vacation and unwind at home, dear readers, I want to do this more often. 

Dating My Husband

Freak was home by 8! last night 8! 8! and I was ecstatic.  For the last week, his company (full disclaimer: I generally love his company, they give me freelance work, and they are pretty cool to Freak) has FLIPPED OUT over a huge job.  A job will millions riding on the line.  So the for the last two weekends, and last two weeks, I have barely seen Freak.  For the last week, I have seen him a grand total of 10 minutes, spread out over several days.  There has been a body sleeping next to me, but it falls into bed once I am asleep and leaves before I arise, so we'll just call the lump in my bed the phantom husband. 

After a week straight of 20 hour days, Freak finally got out of there by 8 for a much needed rest-and-refuel.  And I was giddy! giddy! I cleaned up, fluffed my hair, made an awesome dinner of healthy enchiladas and fruit cobbler and salad.  I raced through the house showing him all the changes, he babbled on about work gossip, and then we went to bed TOGETHER.  At nine.  Because we are just that wild and crazy.

And I WEPT.  Yes wept. Because I missed him so much, and this has been so hard on both of us.  I have made him lunches each night, I have kept the laundry DONE, for once, and I have generally tried to keep things low-stress here.  (Well other than the whole giving away a cat thing).  But, it has been HARD. 

And oh, I love my own company.  I've got craft projects going on, and I've read blogs to my heart's content, and awesome fiction books, and gotten lots done.  My house is cleaner than usual, orderly, and I am amazingly productive. And I miss my favorite distraction.  I love having time to myself, and I need that, I do.  But, if absence makes the heart grow fonder, mine is very FOND right now.  I miss telling him about my cases, and planning in hushed whispers at bedtime, and watching him with the pets.  I miss having him to get away from. 

So last night we had a date.  Today, he's back at work, and I'm getting a much needed day-off.  I feel SLIGHTLY guilty that I get a day off, when he is the one who REALLY needs it, but I NEED IT TOO, so I'm not going to try to play martyr and say that I don't get any time off until he does.  Cause, right now, that looks like oh, NEVER, or at least July 8, which might as well be NEVER. 

So, really, date your husband.  I highly recommend it.  We were all lovey-dovey and sickening this morning, and I LOVED IT.

Driving Distraction

Freak has discovered that I am a small child, soothed by long drives in the car.  As the miles add up, and the flatness of Salem gives way to curves and views that remind us why we are here, my anxiety level plummets replaced by the sort of dreams that only happen in the passenger seat. 

Our drives together, and the long meandering conversations that resulted from them, dried up with the rain under the pounding spring sun urging us to "get things done."  And done we have, with our gorgeous garden and welcoming patio (and the weeds now only tease our ankles instead of taunting the neighbors as they reach for the sky), and the soon-to-be-done major basement remodel, and the vast unpacking of stuff from Freak's St. Louis house. 

And parts of us have been "done" too, dried up under the beating heat of stress and work, our tiredness has defined many an evening as we have napped together, and considered movie watching a major victory in stress-management.  But the urge to hit the road is never far from Freak's agenda, and as his personal stress has abated, he has gradually reclaimed the road as his personal relaxation zone. 

The aimless driving without deadline, without goals or objectives, is exactly what I need right now.  I need the wide open spaces on both sides of me, urging to consider the bounty of the future instead of wallowing in my own pit of uncertainty.  It is the uncertainty which has made me slightly crazed lately, both needy and despondent and an over-eager steam roller as I become increasingly desperate in my search for a purpose which would lend definition to the murky future. 

Tonight, we drove to Albany for the simple reason that we had never really driven around Albany as anything other than a gateway to points west.  We started out, not for Albany, but for the health food store, for a little Dagoba nectar of the gods to sustain us.  Then, the car took us on a tour of neighborhoods far out of our lifestyle as we imagined the lives we would lead to live in such sterile places, and from there Albany seemed like a natural progression of sorts.  We ate amongst the locals at a Mongolian Grill dive populated by skinny teenagers and roughened truckers and a few extended families toting tired children.

And now, I am more at peace than I have been in a long time, more able to absorb the lessons of the last few weeks of being a DIY guru that things do not have to be absolutely perfect to be absolutely wonderful and that the only person I really need to please is myself (which is much easier to do if I bring my standards back down to earth).  And for all my stress lately, I see the change which has been happening lately, in spite of all my whining-- as I step ever closer to the person I want to be, and creep closer towards allowing myself to enjoy having that life.  My life is an open road that I can't wait to explore.

Quarterly Review

To:  Freakish Husband
Re: Your Quarterly Review

DRAFT 

We here at Chaos, Inc believe in giving our servants, employees, representatives, partners feedback on their performance and giving you the opportunity to give US feedback.  In the three months since you signed on with our company, we have entered into an unprecedented growth period.  Growth of cat abscesses, growth of stuff, growth of job related stress, growth of spending, and of course, growth of our waistlines.  You have, of course, been doing a stellar job during this period. 

Your management of our assets has continued to be superb.  We have heartily endorsed the spend-lots-of-money-remodeling second roommate plan, as we continue to see strides being made in achieving the communal household of our goals.  As we have pooled our resources, you have continued to reduce our total debt.  Wisely, you used the proceeds of your house sale to pay off your car, and reduce credit card debt. This was very fortuitous as our wedding reception corporate picnic, business trip to St. Louis, and repeated transactions with the vet have necessitated fluidity of assets. 

We also appreciate your thoughtfulness in getting us our own American Express and Discover cards.  This delegation of shopping responsibility will serve you well.  Would you prefer to view the new slipcover or my new shoes first? We understand that you have not been provided with all the resources you need for optimum performance.  However, we feel that you should take pride in the fact that you have not had to go to work buck naked nor have you been reduced to eating cat kibble.  Sure, laundry could be done more often, and that whole making lunches initiative has failed to pay off, but hey, you are now the proud owner of LOTS OF WHITE PAINT.  And pretty shoes.  We knew you'd understand. 

The teamwork you have demonstrated as we have joined together to solve the how-to-give-a-cat-a-pill riddle has been nothing short of superb.  Your choke-hold has saved the day yet again! You have also shown your team spirit in joining me in freak-injury-fests gardening, carpet ripping,  painting, as we continue to define what is HOME to us. 

Our mission statement of "we will deal" has come in handy through family crises.  We appreciate the fact that you didn't realize all that you acquired in this merger, and your willingness enfold other divisions in our corporate culture has gone above-and-beyond the call of duty.  Thanks to you, no layoffs have occurred, and, in fact, we have strengthened ties with all divisions affected by the merger.

"We will deal" has also prevailed in the face of job stresses on both sides.  As I face the challenge of finding alternative revenue streams, you have been the perfect sounding board.  Your unwavering support has helped to guide us through this period.  In your own employment situation, you have dealt with the stress of increasing responsibilities, and have continued to make us proud each day.  Your skill with people is simply amazing. 

In the last two weeks, our company has experienced a kind of renewal that a month ago seemed impossible. With you, the impossible becomes merely something to be worked out, talked over, and triumphed over.  While the increased number of business dinners out has certainly helped, our overall communication seems to have pulled through the stress to reach a new level of efficiency.  (Oh and all those hours invested in the "boardroom" certainly don't hurt either). 

In short, you are doing excellent. We wish we could offer you increased compensation or perhaps a bonus.  Alas, we cannot. However, you are welcome to borrow our pretty new clothes whenever you wish.  After all, what is mine is also now yours.  Hey! We know! We should offer you a reward trip! A honeymoon! I know, my American Express is around here somewhere . . .

Signed,

The Nagging Wench 

All Day, Every Day

I am drained right now.  Not a bad, "my life is hell", kind of drained, but drained nonetheless.  I did three back-to-back long days--a full day (not my usual 4 hours) at work Monday and yesterday with a court appearance thrown in.  Then today, I was at the capitol for a special leadership development program.  For pretty much a full eight hours.  Now, I have a doggie who wants to be walked, a house that desperately needs some attention,  a book which wants more words written, library books to return (see new book reviews!), organic food to be purchased, and I pretty much have the energy to sit here and sip water. 

I've been doing a tremendous amount of thinking lately about how lucky I am to be working part-time, and frustrated that there isn't more part-time work options.  Some days, I feel like a freak, and try to convince myself that my health is doing so much better now, I should really start applying for full-time jobs.  Other days, I tell myself that it doesn't matter what I COULD do, if I don't WANT to do that.  Then I think of what double my barely-above-the-poverty-line salary would do to our lifestyle, what triple would mean, and I vacillate again as I seek to find new ways to justify my life outside the norm. 

Freak gave me a new perspective when about a week ago, he said me, “you think someday I can work part-time too?”  He wasn’t being snarky, or passive aggressive, in fact, he seemed rather wistful.  And that longing freed me from the yoke of guilt I have been wearing for weeks now because in that instant I realized how lucky I am.  And so we started pipe dreaming of a day when both of us work part-time or at least less than 40 hours a week, or even just a day when he no longer has to commute. 

We grabbed a pen and paper and realized that, were our credit card debt paid off (which it will be by December), we could live, at our present lifestyle on two part-time workers.  And sure, I want cruises, and a big house would be lovely, and I do like to eat out, and lord knows I love my shopping, but I want this lifestyle more.  And thus my vacillation returns, as I feel weird for wanting this, for setting this as our goal, for stepping so far outside the buy-more culture. 

But, the last few days give me a glimpse of what a return to full-time work would mean.  It would mean a choice between a dirty house and a house cleaner, fewer moments of little relaxation, of slowing down.  It would mean being too drained to enjoy my largess on a moment-to-moment basis.  It would probably mean very little to no writing.  My dog would grow lethargic and develop separation anxiety issues.  The quantity of home-cooked meals would substantially decrease.  The social life I am building would collapse under the weight of my tiredness.  And who knows what it would do to my health? 

I think I can live with being the best bargain hunter in the west.  With being me, not being trendy.  I've spent a lot of time focusing on "perfect," but I think I can live with imperfect--mismatched sheets, old towels, second hand furniture, if it means getting the life I want.  I can live in a smaller house, with a smaller yard, if it means more freedom of our time. 

But the real stress, and a big part of what's eating me these days, is how uncommon this is, how unaccepted these choice are, how little support there is for part-time workers.  Try searching for part-time work and finding things other than get-rich-quick-schemes.  Try seeing countless jobs that use your education and skills, and which you'd love, if only they were less than 50 hour weeks.  Try imagining NO money,  or fast-food money, instead of a part-time position using your talents.  Stress.  Stress which I would NOT have to worry about if my state were not having a budget crisis.  The stress of being lucky and of trying to get lucky again and wishing it wasn't all so dependent on luck.

Mrs. Freak

Yesterday, I got my new driver’s license.  No, I’m not going to show you a copy.  I also finished the paper work necessary to change my name at work.  Because, you know, I’m so on top of things and only got married TWO MONTHS ago.  But, it’s taken me that long to ease into the idea of being Mrs. Freak.

It’s not that I don’t want to be Mrs. Freak.  In fact, my intuition said that I WOULD be Mrs. Freak someday, and I’m quite happy with how the name sounds.  It’s more that I had to ease into the change.  I’ve been Myfirst MyMiddle MyLast my whole life, and I never really gave much thought to the whole name change thing.  In fact, I always assumed I wouldn’t, being that I’m all about girl power.                         

But, then I discovered that a part of me was longing to be asked.  A part of me wanted to be a family.  Not just a wife, not just me, but part of something larger. I wanted to be a part of creating something larger than us, and sharing a name seemed to be symbolic of that undertaking.  We briefly debated him taking my name (he doesn’t like it), a hyphenated name (way too long), a completely new name for both of us (too confusing, but this option got the most discussion, and if our names were able to be combined in a semi-cool way or formed a neat anagram then this would be a real option) but in the end, my taking his name was really MY decision. He agreed that he would change his name to His First HisMiddle MyLast HisLast.  This way we would both end up with two middle names. 

But, even with it being my decision, it wasn’t made lightly.  Especially when, two weeks ago when I went to social security and discovered that MyFirst MyMiddle MyLast HisLast would not fit as planned and HisFirst HisMiddle MyLast HisLast didn’t work either.  Just too many letters.  So, I ended up deciding to drop MyMiddle on offical correspondence (we have a working agreement that this is now at the top of any Baby Name lists) and am now MyFirst MyLast HisLast. 

For his part, Freak’s middle name means a great deal to him, and he was not so willing to drop his middle name on his social security card and driver’s license.  So he hasn’t changed anything yet.  Which, while I confess to having mixed emotions about, I’m ok with. 

But, it put me out here in name change land by myself.  I keep forgetting to use my “new” name.  I keep signing the wrong thing.  Right now I’m signing Mylast HisLast because it feels right.  Mylast will probably eventually become an initial and pen name.      It’s funny how getting the new SSN card, the driver’s license, the tax forms, getting added to the deed of the house, all this official stuff makes me feel way more married than the ceremony did.

In fact, I’ve been joking that THIS is what people need limos and champagne for.  You should get ferried around to all this little tasks in style, celebrate the mundane aspects of getting married.  I did however get beautiful yellow roses (a particular favorite) welcoming me to my new name and a really sweet card.  All hail Mrs. Freak.  Now, if she can just remember to use it . . .   

Hitchhiker's Guide to My Heart

Two years ago today, I met my Freak.  Oddly enough, I'm not giddy with anniversary-joy and feeling-oh-so-lucky today.  Which I feel bad even admitting, but it's where I am today.   I'm not who I was two years ago, and I think any joy in the moment is buffered by grief and amazement at how much has changed.

Meeting Freak felt like joining up with something that was already there, waiting for me.   It was less an answer to a wish than an answer to questions I did not even know to ask.  In a way, our relationship often feels a lot like Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.  Two years ago, the universe sent me an answer.  I'm still figuring out what the question was.

Readying The Nursery

That's right . . .in addition to parenting a teenager (see last post), I've also become the proud parent of  . . . several dozen . . . ACTION FIGURES.   They are all boys (at least I think, from their gender neutral plastic bits it's kind of hard to tell) and are all quite healthy, encased in their little plastic shrouds. 

Apparently, I unwittingly adopted all of these creatures when I married Freak.  As luck would have it, our courtship was between Star Wars movies and all of his little action figure children were back in St. Louis, safely out of sight in large blue plastic tubs.  So, I did not have to face the reality of sharing my home with so many little men.   

Now however, fate has converged to make me the custodian of all these little pieces of uselessness.  While in St. Louis, Freak sold the house he owned there,  and boxed up the rest of his crap  belongings,  and after a long truck ride (Thanks U-Pack!),  my garage is now overflowing with boxes o'stuff. 

Stuff including two very large, VERY HEAVY, video games,  papers from every phase of Freak's life, question items of decor (A Star Wars throw?  The star ship enterprise as art? Assorted items of ex-girlfriend memorabilia? Merge has absolutely nothing on us).

The most pressing item on Freak's agenda is not organizing his stuff--nope it's acquiring more plastic Star Wars figures.  Apparently, all the little plastic men have been VERY lonely in St. Louis.  The companionship of their dozens of brothers is not sufficient.  Besides the DETAIL of the new figures! The new outfits! The limited editions!  I mean how could you NOT want to adopt this and give it a good home? 

Eight more little men have come to live with us--just since the weekend.  I'm not sure I'm prepared to deal with multiples like this.  How exactly does one care and feed for so many little men, all in need of love and attention?
So my question to you, dear Internet, is really quite simple. 

What sort of nursery would be appropriate for all my new children?  Their current blue plastic "room" is quite crowded.  I was thinking of some sort of bunk-bed shelving system that would allow their proud papa to admire them daily, but they are sensitive little buggers and must be protected from excessive heat and light.  They also need to be isolated from their animal siblings, who love a good plastic chew.  I want to be a GOOD mother to all my little plastic sons. Would a dark corner of the basement be inappropriate? There's a nice closet under the stairs - - -perhaps they could play Harry Potter . . . .

Vows*

Wavybrains and Freak were married yesterday, March 12, 2005, on a covered bridge in downtown Silverton, Oregon.  A judge from the Oregon Court of Appeals officiated

Mrs. Wavybrains Freak, 26, is the creator of little-read blogs of great self-importance,  “Life is a Banquet” and “Cultivate This.” She is a big loser and frequent contributor to the Fat Flush Forum, where she tries to convince others to become big losers too.  In her spare time, she is a minimally compenstated government attorney and occasionally possesses illusions of being a writer.  The bride owes her degrees to Sallie Mae, Inc., where she will also be shipping her first, second, and third born children in an attempt to repay the price of the initials on her business card. 

The bride is the daughter of Clanna and Big Al, of East Jesus, Illinois.  The bride’s overworked father has a very large title and a very small salary at a community college. After sharing her love of reading with her three children, the bride’s mother is now a librarian in Even Further East Jesus, Illinois.         

Mr. Freak, 32, is a self-made wonder who has talked himself into every job he’s had, and managed to outshine those with paper qualifications. He currently works as a lead computer programer, managing a development team in Portland, Oregon.  He'd have to kill you if he told you what he did while in the Navy. He is the creator of two, seldom-used blogs, an avid Age of Mythology player, will soon receive his yellow-belt in Kung Fu, and is the creator of the Church of Freak. 

The bridegroom is a son of Nurse Answer and Step-Officer and Father Cop.  His mother put herself through Nursing school and supported three boys as an Emergency room nurse before moving on in recent years to work in insurance and answering all of Freak and Wavybrain’s health questions.  His step father is a beloved fixture as a police officer for a large public university.  The groom’s father is a retired police officer. 

Wavybrains and Freak were introduced by a mutual friend who failed to explain that he had decided that the couple was perfect for each other. 

Because it was the exact wrong moment to begin a new relationship, Wavybrains resisted Freak’s overtures for approximately 48 hours before consenting to being introduced as his girlfriend.  Still wary of being in a “relationship,” it was four months later on the covered bridge in Silverton, Oregon when Wavybrains finally confessed her true feelings and the relationship became more serious as the couple moved in together. A year later, and she was still trying to break up with Freak on a semi-regular basis, certain that poor timing had doomed the couple to failure. 

However, Wavybrains’ heart knew what it wanted and would not allow her feet to leave. In between long crying sessions and crises of identity, the couple managed to forge a strong partnership as they weathered a cross-country move, the acquisition of four pets, the death of Freak’s cat, job loss, Wavybrains’ ongoing health issues, three moves in less than a year, the purchase of a house, dealing with ex-significant others, family crises, and having no furniture.

It was the having no furniture that nearly did them in, but after surviving all this, the couple decided that they were already married to each other in spirit and in deed.  They proposed to each other in front of sunflowers they grew in front of their home. After surviving an attack of bridezilla, and negotiating a truce between the feline and canine family members, the couple decided to marry before a piano fell on their car or a plague of locusts descended on them. 

They were married on the same bridge in Silverton, Oregon where they took their first steps towards becoming a family.  The Freak Family will temporarily reside here.

* We didn’t quite make the cut for this page, and since we can’t possibly understand why not, we assume that numerous apologies will be forthcoming.  But, if you can't join them, spoof them!

What Feels Like Home

Sometimes, you have no idea how much something means until you have been without it so long.  Nearly two years ago, I went from having an apartment filled with nice furniture to having nothing, as the result of an ugly divorce (things are more civil these days, but very ugly then).  I decided that my furniture was simply not worth the mental energy required to fight for it.  But, in the ensuing two years, as I have gradually moved from owning an inflatable mattress and a dish upon my first night in Salem, to acquiring computer desks, washer & dryer, refrigerator, chairs, a breakfast nook, a real bed, bookcases, storage, cooking supplies, and all manner of other odds and ends (including of course A HOUSE and FOUR beasts), I have thought often of what I was forced to leave behind.

101 Valentines to Freak

Stealing this meme from the ever-so-talented Michele, as I was planning a valentine's day post all about my Freak and what better way than to tell you a few things about him:   

Dead Horses? I've got my whip ready!

Let me expose more of my neuroses to the world as I pick apart and analyze my inner workings. As if I wasn’t already driving Freak crazy enough with wedding angst, health woes, and my quest to be the most expensive girlfriend/fiancee/future wife ever, I have an extreme case of baby-itis. You can thank the Redheaded Princess, Julie, Tertia,  Dooce, and the whole host of others in blogland with exceedingly beautiful babies.

I know, I know, I wrote a whole post about how I was so addicted to infertility blogs and needed to find a new corner of the blogging universe to lurk in.  However, with so many new babies to oooh and ahhh over and watch grow, it’s been rather compelling. Better than reality TV. 

A typical evening at Chateau Wavybrains: “Look at this picture!” Wavybrains conveniently does not mention that this is the 100th picture of Bella or Charlie or Tertia’s twins.  Freak glances at the screen for 1.2 seconds before uttering “cute” and slowly backing away from my desk.  Poor guy, he’s started ducking whenever I open my mouth. 

Which is probably reasonable, seeing how most things that spring out of it these days seem to be new ways for us to spend money.  What is unreasonable is the way I keep working babies into conversation. Every other sentence begins “when we have kids” or “if we have kids” etc. I’m starting to annoy even myself.  And I know that I’m driving Freak crazy.

Cause Freak doesn’t like pressure. He really, really, hates being backed into a wall. So, a nice wench would hear him say, “Yes, but now” and drop it. After all, he has a point: a) I have career aspirations that I’d like to address first, b) we’ve have enough major life events in the past two years, c) slightly more money in the bank would be helpful to avoid feeding our offspring government cheese, and d) I really do want him to be excited about the prospect and not looking like a gun is being held to his head. 

So why do I persist in beating dead horses? This really is the larger issue here.

Donna Reed, The Martyr

I have a confession. I’m not Donna Reed.  I know. Shocking isn’t it? I mean we do both have perfectly coiffed hair and firm conviction that a casserole makes everything okay.  But, I’m more like the unhappy woman in Pleasantville who needs to see the world in color. Shocking, lush, technicolor.  Deep within me is an Etta James song waiting to be crooned.

I shouldn’t have to make this confession. I mean, it seems pretty self-evident tat I’m an independent woman with dreams beyond a spic and span floor and a well-fed man. But, last winter after I was diagnosed with MS, and sunk into a depression, I saw assuming the traditional wifely role as a way out of my depression and fear. I felt that MS had stripped me of my worth and purpose. The guilt over my changed circumstances consumed me. I now earned 1/3 of what Freak did.  I felt like a prisoner in my own body and in a life so different for the one I envisioned.

I was terrified of all that MS might take from me. Again showing my stellar intelligence, I didn’t face these fears because that would mean admitting that the MS was real. Instead, I’ve spent a good portion of my time in deep denial over the MS, not wanting to give voice to my deepest fear that while the dreams hadn’t changed, my ability to fulfill them had. So, I tried to re-define the dream.

The Lottery Game

Do you ever play the “lottery game?”  You know, the one where you speculate what you would do if you won $5,000, or $100,000 or a $1 million or the whole $121 million dollar jackpot? Freak and I play this game on a not-all-together infrequent basis. Usually after I’ve been worrying about the present money situation. Which is smart. Really. Because, you know, I have a greater chance of being struck by lightening than of winning the lottery. And so, being a rational, reasonable woman, laying around and speculating about what I would do with my largesse would beyond silly.

Only, I do it. Which, incidentally, does not, in any way, relieve my present money worries. And, actually, playing the lottery game creates a whole host of new problems as it reminds me of all the things I would like to have.

Have Marriage, Need Wedding

What makes a couple “married?” Freak and I are still trying to decide how to get married. Which brings up some very interesting philosophical questions. What does it mean to be married? We have a house together, are gradually combining finances, have joint plans for the future, and consider each other in our financial decisions. We are each other’s next of contact on emergency forms, and the vet, the cable company, the furnace man, and the home warranty people consider us one unit. I’ve been mistakenly called Mrs. Freak more times than I can count. 

I know that he chooses me. Kids have gone from being an “if” proposition to a “when” assumption. I know in my bones that this man will make a wonderful father, that he will always have my best interests at heart, and that being here is an extension of his core self. I know that what we are building is what we both want very badly–Christmas trees, and family dinners. Backrubs and movie nights. So what more do we need to be married?

Confessions of a Former Praise Junkie

Confessions of a Former Praise Junkie
Freak and I spent most of six plus hours driving on Saturday talking about the nature of friendship. Seeing as how I've been very focused on finding more community, more people to share with, more close friends, it seems natural to turn my critical on this desire of mine. It's not really enough to say "I want more friends" without digging deeper into why you want more friends, and why you feel that way.

I'm reading to Freak out loud from my private, paper journal, trying to make sense of an epiphany I had Friday morning, trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts going through my head, like fence posts on the endless fields between here and Portland.

Also, given that no one person can be your "everything," it makes sense to think of types of friends I want, knowing that someone could fit into more than one category, rather than just looking for "friends." So what do I want? I want:

---Female shopping friend(s) to go bargain shopping with, to spend the afternoon window shopping
---Foodie friend(s) to cook with, to go to ethnic grocery stores with, to share recipes with
---Chick flick movie friend(s) to go see "girl" movies, watch friends and sex in the city
---walking/hiking/exercise buddies
---Travel friend(s) to take road trips with
---Lunch friends
---Potluck friend(s)-this last category is perhaps the broadest as well as being my deepest long term desire. I want groups of families who come over, hang out, talk politics and life, kids running around, playing board games, maybe someone breaks out a guitar or some music. I want community.

On the Road Again

I’m not sure at what point in the past year I-5 started feeling like home. There is something much more comforting about the simplicity of I-5 before you encounter Portland than the highways bisecting St. Louis. The idea of “going for a drive” is not something that naturally comes to me. Any sort of outing was a major event growing up, and not driving as a teenager, I never spent hours wandering the roads on my own.

So it’s funny how Freak and I have fallen into this quiet, comfortable routine of heading for the car whenever one of us needs calming, or we need to talk, or we just need to do something. Part of me knows that we probably should be doing something more active with our evenings and weekends. But there is something about the quiet rhythm of I-5 that makes fights and disagreements melt away, that invites deep conversation, that welcomes grand dreams.

There’s also a certain bonding in exploring a new town or getting lost together. (Freak might not agree with me here . . .). I am a horrible navigator, and Freak is a little directionally impaired to boot. So we often end up wandering aimlessly, vaguely trying to get home, or get to some destination, trying to find an on ramp to the comfort zone of the interstate. There comes a point where one of us is frustrated, the other with low blood sugar, and road construction slows us to an unacceptable crawl. And it is in these minutes that I know we’re going to be okay.

Freak probably doesn’t get this—but I love being together in these situations—in the unknown, conquering obstacles, and finding unexpected chunks of time to expand our conversations. I like the feeling of security I get when traffic crawls by a nasty accident, or we drive through a not-so-great neighborhood, and I feel his hand on my knee. And I know love. Given the purpose of getting un-lost, of getting through the snarl together, I feel needed (not to say that I don’t occasionally feel harried when I’m asked to make a snap judgment in foreign territory).

Sometimes when we clash over money, or miscommunications, or unrealistic requirements, the immediacy of working problems out crowds out the bigger picture. Each resolution creates a bigger canvas for us to work with. It’s like framing out an addition for a house. We do all the hard work on adding rooms on, that sometimes we can’t see how beautifully it all works together. In the car, we paint on the canvas, furnish the rooms, and the day to day stuff seems worth it.

Yesterday we went just to go. Just because we hadn’t in a while. It wasn’t so much where we ended up as going somewhere. We ended up at Eugene’s Saturday market. We went a year ago or so when we were visiting the area. I was reminded of who we were then, and who we are now, and I like who we are now, complications and all. I felt much more together throughout the rest of the day. Just because we went.

Loving More, Searching Less

Lately it seems like references to polyamory are cropping up more and more. Perhaps its our hyper-sexualized culture, or perhaps the whole-gay marriage debacle has people throwing in the monogamy towel as a vestige of WASP-dom they’d rather not be associated with. Myself, I never really considered anything other than a one person, one lifetime commitment for a very long time. I mean polyamory, or multiple relationships, is not exactly the dominant meme one receives growing up in the heartland.

I remember this bizarre movie set in the 1970s that came out in the early or mid 1990s that featured parents who were “swingers” and they went to a party where people grabbed car keys and went home with whoever’s car keys they grabbed and someone else went home with their spouse. This shocked and disturbed me more than my first glimpse of full frontal nudity.

You are Loved

Quote of the day: Don't give me a rhetorical answer to my rhetorical question! My mother reminded me tonight, "remember you are loved." It is such a simple thing, but so incredibly easy to forget when you are feeling off. (Or like in my case when whatever drug interaction checklist the pharmacist uses isn't quite precise enough). I get so hung up on avoiding failure, on making the "right" decisions, on figuring out the "right" answers that I forget to stop and notice all the love around me.

And I am loved. And so incredibly blessed by it. From the wireboy whose made his way back into my circle of friends after a long journey, to my friend the marxist, to other old friends, to the people in my yoga class, and even at work. And of course by poor Freak who has to suffer through these abrupt mood swings, and medication induced weepiness along with me. I've been working on a number of mental commitment cases at work. I notice one similarity among all of the cases I have handled thus far--the tendency of the truly mentally ill to push away those in the best position to help them.

While an inability to recognize love is a far cry from delusions and paranoia, it is a problem that impacts our mental health and our ability to relate to those around us. I just finished Jonathan Franzen's "The Corrections" and one by one each of the adult children realizes that their father, a rather difficult man, loves them. This realization sets them free to be who they really are.

All this worry that has occupied me most of my adult waking hours prevents me from seeing the love, and prevents me from letting my true self out in a similar way. In my search for what is "right", I overlook what is right here. I overlook the happiness that pervades my everyday life--my cats, my Freak and the sweet way he lets me be whoever I want to be, my house that I can paint whatever color I want (including my soon-to-be pink office), the job that I love. I'm happy and I'm so unused to the sensation, I keep searching for the crisis.

My challenge as Freak so ably points out is to find a way to live with all this abundance of happiness without inventing crises. Which I'm very talented at doing. But these crises distract me from the love around me so that I can go right back to worrying about what is "right." And isn't much better to be loved than to be right?

Forever Begins Right Now

Tonight, I re-read Judy Blume’s classic novel Forever. 17 year old Girl meets Boy, falls in love “Forever” and then falls out of love. It’s right up there with Love Story as far as sappiness goes. I last read this book when I was 14, and at the time I was more interested in the explicit “dirty” parts than in any plot or deeper meaning. But, when I was selling books back today and getting a few new ones, I saw it on the shelf and it seemed to beg me to take it home.

I read somewhere recently that if we remembered how much love hurts, we’d never do it again. How incredibly true this is. In fact, I think many people stay together long past the relationship expiration date to avoid the pain and heartache. When you are “in love,” the love feels invincible, and you’re certain it’s a once in a lifetime occurrence. And so like the heroine in the book, we rail against ourselves, fight the end, and even when we’re the one who leaves, we still grieve.

Everyone loves to fall in love. It’s the staying that’s hard. Love is such a fragile thing. What appears to be a hardy plant can die quickly, while what appears to be a puny little plant incapable of bearing fruit can surprise you and thrive. And in order to fall in love, we must succumb to temporary amnesia about the pain. Spur of the moment declarations of ever lasting love decorate the bridges, restrooms, building sides, and tabletops of America, testaments to the hope inherent in young love.

In the book, in the end when they break up, she must decide what to do with a necklace that has their names and “forever” inscribed on it. She drops it in her purse in a scene that perfectly captures the awkwardness of such partings. The deeper message here I think is that its very easy to become cynical when we loose forever. The stages of grief are akin to that over the death of a loved one.

Books like Forever don’t come along very often. We are conditioned to expect to see true love, first love triumph, to see our hero whisk the heroine off into the sunset. It’s easy to crave first kisses, and electric glances when you are surrounded by the pressures of daily life, the laundry, the work, the bills. My brother is in love for the first time right now—and I see the power of love to transform a person, to bring us however temporarily out of deep depression with its powerful rush of endorphins. But what do we do when the depression returns? When simply being together is no longer enough to make a crisis go away?

I’m far from a cynic. In fact, it’s the fact that I’m such a romantic that gets me into trouble. I want to believe in forever, I want the white picket fence, the kids, the happy home. I want to be a part of a little old couple on a bench. Even as I mock suburbia and soccer moms, I believe in the power of love. I believe in the power of the union of two.

The fear that Forever leaves unaddressed is the fear of your own fallibility, your own fickleness. It’s not like a diet where all you need is willpower to sustain the relationship. Fear of yourself is powerful barrier to fully being there in a new relationship. It’s that same all or nothing thinking that paralyzes from accepting our half-full world. We feel that we will never again trust completely. It's not fear of committment--it's fear of letting ourselves down. But the human spirit is such an amazing thing. At the end of Forever, when she runs into her former beloved, there is sadness at what is lost, but hope at what may come. That forever is not impossible, it’s just a matter of timing. And luck.

Forever is like any other journey—it begins with the first step. And I think I often forget this. You don’t get the happy ending if you don’t leap, if you don’t believe, if you don’t trust, if you don’t risk the pain. And it begins with forgiving yourself for having dreamed and believed before. I’m not sure I’m there yet, but I’m working on it. Forever can be right now.

And the funny thing about perfectionism is that we don’t want to start a task if we can’t do it “right” or finish it. Flylady with her 15-minutes at a time mantra has helped to stop such negative thinking. It’s enough to do what I can, even if I’d like it to be more. One of her testimonials this week asked what we are hiding from when we give into this defeatism. I think another good question is what are we afraid of?

There is so much good in my life right now that focusing on the negative is holding me back from truly enjoying. Sometimes half full has to be good enough for right now. And if half full makes us truly happy, we have to brave enough to admit that instead of apologizing for not doing “more.” In order to unconditionally love myself, I think letting go of such thinking will be a major step forward. Drink up!