Category Archives: marriage

Context Is Everything

Posted on October 2, 2009 | 6 Comments

Here’s a little quiz for all the husbands out there.

Let’s say you’re working toward a deadline that is mere days away. The project has been going on for about a year, and you know you’re under the gun.

And let’s say that today you have an opportunity to work late; the last opportunity this week. Next week doesn’t really count, because it’s likely that you’ll be asked to deliver early Monday.

But let’s throw in the fact that your wife has been working pretty hard lately too, and is basically running on fumes. And tonight she’s at home with two kids: one teenager who’s popped her knee and is basically useless, sprawled out on the couch and making intermittent demands; and a high-needs, hyperactive five-year-old who would have more appropriately been named Damien, whose current favorite activity is doing body slams on his sister’s bad knee.

And let’s add to that the fact that she’s still recovering from a lingering virus.

So you get an IM from her, saying, basically “Hurry home and save me!”

And you respond by saying that you were planning on working late.

And then this pops up:

fake_im

Would you think that maybe:

a) She’s telling you that you should stay at work because everything’s fine and you have priorities.

or

b) You will return home to find a blanket and pillow on the front porch, and a smoldering pile of your belongings on the lawn.

    Well, in the interest of maintaining an affectionate relationship with my wife, I opted to head home immediately.

    I called home on the way, a little apprehensive of what I might be greeted with.

    As it turns out, she really didn’t mind if I stayed at work, because she did understand completely that I needed to work late to get my project completed.

    I could have interpreted that line in her IM at face value.

    I should have known this; the second interpretation would have been out of character for her. Dang old IM doesn’t have any way of conveying emotion or subtext.

    So let this be a lesson to you all: know your wife, but be ready to switch gears quickly just to be on the safe side.

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    Posted in dad, life, marriage

    Reason #51,422 Why My Wife is The Best

    Posted on July 28, 2009 | 9 Comments

    Last night after dinner, my wife was sitting on the couch flipping through channels. I sat down next to her.

    “I don’t remember the last time I saw you channel surf,” I said, somewhat proud.

    She went past the History Channel, which was airing a “Modern Marvels” episode about 1970′s technology, and continued up the list. I said nothing, but silently hoped she would go back to that or maybe stop on the Golf Channel rather than land on “HGTV”

    Without a word, she went back to the History Channel and put the remote down.

    “Thanks!”

    “You’re welcome,” she said.

    “Are you reading my mind, or something?”

    She turned around and looked at me, and smiled. Then, without taking her eyes off of mine, she picked up the remote and keyed in the number for the Golf Channel.

    The fact that she knew I was thinking about it proves we have a good connection.

    The fact that she knew the channel number off the top of her head proves she loves me a whole lot.

    As I’ve said before, she’s a keeper.

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    Posted in fun, life, marriage

    Checked Out

    Posted on May 23, 2009 | 9 Comments

    Today was one of those days.

    I’m not even sure how to classify it, other than that.

    To begin with, Michael had a bad dream at about 3:30 this morning, and I wasn’t the first responder. This is a bad thing – because if I’m not first at the scene, then his mommy is. And usually mommy’s strategy is to bring a now very wide-awake child into our room for snuggling down.

    I think this worked once. Once.

    After half an hour of Michael’s bedtime kinetics, I’d had enough, and scooped him up to return to his own room. He protested, cried, and kicked his covers off. He was not going back to sleep. In an effort to be kind, I took him downstairs and told my wife to try to get some sleep, since I can’t.

    Michael and I sat downstairs and talked a bit, and watched some episodes of a Superman cartoon from the forties. He eventually fell asleep, and I caught an old western on AMC.

    The rest of the morning I was a stumbling zombie, trying to interact with my wife and daughters in as pleasant and cogent a manner as possible, all the while my brain was a swirling mass of vaguely connected thoughts underscored with a thick layer of lethargy.

    This afternoon my wife and I took Michael to the grocery store to pick up a number of things for the weekend.

    Michael was at his hyperactive best, constantly chattering and asking for this and pointing out that. Despite the fact that we had a shopping list, it was nearly impossible over the din that was Michael’s voice to concentrate and strategize an efficient route. For a while my wife pushed the cart, but Michael thought it was hilariously funny to repeatedly pinch her in very inappropriate places, until I’d had enough of hearing her scream, and took over cart pushing duty.

    Michael decided that daddy would get the tickle torture instead. Eventually I had to grab his hands and restrain them with one hand while pushing the cart with the other. This was the point where my wife thought it would be hilariously funny to repeatedly pinch me.

    I was not so much amused by all of it, to be entirely honest.

    By the time we got up to the checkout, I was really ready to not be there any more.

    After I unloaded our cart, placing the approximately seven metric tons of groceries on the belt, the clerk took the first item to scan.

    “Sir, this is an express line.”

    Thanks for letting me know now, pal.

    “I’m really sorry, I hadn’t noticed. I’m a bit distracted,” I said, indicating my red-haired passenger.

    “It’s not me, it’s the people behind you,” he said. I pointed out that when we unloaded everything onto the belt, there were no people behind us.

    My wife suggested that we split up, and each of the three of us pay for 12 of the items on the belt separately. Good idea, honey.

    The bag of Mother’s Iced Circus Animal cookies was the one thing I extracted from the grocery bags when loading the back of the van. It rode home right next to me.

    I think there are still a couple left.

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    Posted in dad, frustration, marriage

    Upheaval

    Posted on March 27, 2009 | 7 Comments

    The one constant of life is change.

    Things are changing, in many small ways.

    For one thing, this past week my daughters moved quite a ways away. Since my ex and I separated, they’ve always lived within about a mile. This was to ensure that if any particular transitional object (blankie, duckie, etc) were inadvertently left at the other parent’s house, the crisis could be easily remedied. Wednesdays and every other weekend, I’d swing by to pick my girls up on the way home. No problem.

    But because of various factors, my ex had to relocate quickly. They found a place about a half hour away. There isn’t going to be any more “swinging by on the way” now. Wednesday after work I’ll have to rush to Ms K’s to get Michael, and then make the trek down through rush-hour traffic to get the girls, then fight my way back home.

    Another change is that my wife has a new job. Same company, different department. She’ll be working in a hospital setting now, instead of driving around to people’s homes. This is a good change, in my opinion: being in a controlled environment, there’s less potential for her to run into some unsavory character. I was always a little nervous about her driving around in less pleasant areas, working in the homes of people she’d never met, or getting lost.

    And later this year, Michael will be starting kindergarten. I’m not sure if he’s ready for kindergarten. I’m not sure if kindergarten is ready for Michael. We’ll need to find a new place for Michael to be during the span of time when kindergarten isn’t in session and his mom and I are still at work.

    All these changes mean a shift in our routine. Our well-ordered and time-tested schedule must be tossed out. I like routines; they make things easy. It keeps things tidy and eases the mind of having to deal with at least some questions.

    But changes inevitably come, and in my years I’ve learned that it’s best to embrace them and be prepared for them, rather than let them overwhelm you.

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    Posted in frustration, life, marriage

    Just Desserts

    Posted on February 24, 2009 | 10 Comments

    Note: this is actually a story from two years ago that I just found buried. I see that I never posted it. It needs to be shared, even though it isn’t exactly the best follow-on to a post about healthy eating, there is still a lesson to be learned.

    Around 7:15 or so, my wife announces that she wants something yummy. I’m always up for something yummy. I suggest pie, and she says that’s exactly what she was in the mood for. I offer to run and get one if she’ll give Michael a bath.

    So off I go to Marie Callendar’s, taking with me the tin from our previous pie. I pick out a beautiful banana cream pie, one of our favorites, and head home in record time.

    I come in the front door, pie in hand, and hear my wife calling down to my stepdaughter: “Could you bring some paper towels?” Uh oh, that doesn’t sound good. Stepdaughter responds with “I don’t know where they are!” This girl lives in an alternate universe, I think, because despite the fact that she’s lived in this house for four years, the only things she is certain to locate are the TV remote and the refrigerator.

    I didn’t bother to point them out because according to my wife’s tone, time was of the essence, so I quickly whipped open the pantry closet and got a roll out. Stupid me, I didn’t put the pie down first. As I’m tossing the roll upstairs, I drop the pie box. It does a full somersault and lands right side up.

    “Shoot!” (or something like that) I shouted, and inspected the pie. “Ow!” my wife calls from upstairs, having been beaned with a poorly thrown roll of paper towels.

    The pie is okay – shaken up but otherwise edible. I am incredibly angry with myself for being so careless and I vow to not do that again.

    After explaining the whole scenario to my wife and then demonstrating to my stepdaughter where certain key items are in the house she’s lived in for four years, I put the pie in the refrigerator.

    Fast-forward to pie time, after Michael is safely ensconced in his bed.

    I eagerly extract two plates and two forks, and then reach into the refrigerator to withdraw the lovely pie.

    Somehow, and I’m really not sure how, I managed to drop it again.

    This time, it does not fare so well. The box splits open, the pie slips out and most of it spills out into the refrigerator, coating the sides, the vegetable crisper, the meat drawer, the grill on the front, my knee, my socks and the floor.

    Needless to say, I went slightly insane with self-anger. I picked up the pie tin, scooped the remnants onto the two plates, and then grabbed twenty seven squares of paper towels to clean up the mess I’d made, all the while muttering oaths at myself.

    Right then, my wife said exactly what I was thinking: “Maybe God doesn’t want you to have that pie.”

    Later on she pointed out how hilariously funny it was to watch me angrily throwing the last edible bits of the pie on our plates. I’m sure I made quite the spectacle.

    Anyway… the pie was really good.

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    Posted in food, frustration, marriage

    Marriage Tips #27

    Posted on February 19, 2009 | 3 Comments

    My wife and I have adopted a new favorite phrase we use to defuse potential crank-fests with each other.

    A few days ago she and I were discussing something or other, and I sensed that she was slightly irritated with my questions and/or my general lack of perception of whatever event/situation was currently at topic.

    Knowing that I was not going to gain ground by trying to talk with her in our respective states, I turned to my favorite method for keeping the connection: humor.

    “Stop yelling at me!” I said, out of nowhere, in utter hyperbole. I knew that she would know it was completely out of context.

    She laughed, and took the bait:

    “You started it!”

    And since then, we have yet another way to keep harmony and laughter in the house, and avoid those little bickering moments that pop up in times of stress.

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    Posted in fun, marriage

    Mementos

    Posted on February 13, 2009 | 11 Comments

    Goofy Grape.
    Choo-choo Cherry.
    Rootin’ Tootin’ Raspberry.
    Jolly-olly Orange.

    Long before there was an internet, before there was a Disneyland in Paris, and before anyone considered ordering a grande Caramel Macchiato while driving their car, these four little guys were the proud 3-D representatives of the “Funny Face” drink mix line. They were the “ramp walkers”, a giveaway toy promotion. We might have had them at some time in our home, but as a child I was notorious for losing and/or destroying things like that.

    I remember mixing up pitchers of Funny Face when I was a youth, and was saddened to see their cyclamate-laden visages removed from the local grocery store in the late 1970’s.

    But the years went on, and there were other things to drink, and some growing up to do.

    I got a job, left home, got married, had two daughters, got divorced, and for my trouble I became twenty years older. And a few years wiser.

    Before there was a Michael, before there was a blended family of stepsisters, before I entered into marriage the second time, I saw these little characters again in a china cabinet, standing guard against a set of Fiestaware dishes, cups and bowls; a china cabinet that happened to belong to a woman I had recently met.

    As soon as I saw them there, I knew this woman was the one. I mean, she had the Funny Face ramp walkers, for crying out loud! Complete with the matching weight coins!

    She and I continued to date for over a year, and my resolve only strengthened: I knew there was no way I was going to let her go. So I kept it a secret to myself. Kept it all the way until the following June, on the day of the summer solstice.

    On that day, I took this wonderful woman up to the grounds of Pittock Mansion, a local historical site with a commanding view of all of Portland and the Willamette valley. I had with me a bag full of surprises. She was intrigued by my mysterious plans.

    I led her to a park bench beneath a willow tree, and from the bag extracted a leather-bound book entitled “The Forgotten Princess”. The book was hand-written in calligraphy, and told the story of a girl who grew up not knowing she was a princess, and a boy who grew up not knowing he was a prince.

    The story goes on to say how the prince and princess lived out their lives, each of them under an evil spell. Then one day a fairy godmother introduced the prince to the princess. Instantly the spells they were under were broken, and they saw each other for who they really were.

    The story concludes with the prince asking the princess to marry him. As I read her this part, I flipped a few pages and took a diamond ring out of a small cut-out section of the book. I got down on one knee and placed the ring on her finger, and asked her to marry me.

    She gave me her answer, and with my pen I finished the story: “And the princess said yes, and they lived happily ever after.”

    And living happily we are indeed.

    Happy Valentine’s day, everyone!

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    Posted in fun, marriage, memories

    A Challenge

    Posted on February 11, 2009 | 14 Comments

    I’m buried in actual work today. But I had to put something up here so you didn’t miss me.

    Here it is:

    “Goofy Grape”

    “Lefty Lemon”

    “Choo-choo Cherry”

    Name another one.

    And, if you can, tell me what they are and why they’re relatively unknown now.

    No giveaway here, sorry, but it’s fun anyway.

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    Posted in Blog, fun, marriage

    Plugging Along

    Posted on January 29, 2009 | 12 Comments

    We have one of the stupidest houses in our state, I think. Whoever drafted the plans for it must have done so while watching a particularly riveting episode of “Wheel Of Fortune”. For one thing, this cracker box of ours boasts the deepest kitchen cabinets in North America, rendering anything in the back nigh unreachable; Manute Bol could lie flat inside lengthwise and we could still shut the doors. It also lays claim to three bathrooms, none of which can be locked, because the doors were hung poorly.

    One of the more imbecilic features of our home is the GFCI outlet that feeds all three bathrooms plus the back yard.

    Now, I understand the need for a GFCI: it’s to keep you from killing yourself when you accidentally pull your old Philco AA5 tube radio into the bathtub while trying to tune in Jack Benny because you’re tired of listening to those dang fools shouting about bringing Roosevelt in for a third term, when it was his fault we’re in this blasted recession.

    Ahem.

    What I don’t understand is why the builders decided to locate this particular GFCI outlet on the back wall of the garage underneath the built-in cabinets, directly adjacent to a gas supply line and right in the path of the side door.

    To bring my own stupidity to the party, I merrily covered this outlet completely by installing my own shelves on the workbench there. This workbench has always been a nightmarish mess since I own more than the two screwdrivers and one tape measure it was designed to accommodate. Thus I decided it needed some extra storage. There weren’t many options for locating shelves. In fact, there was only one: right against the wall where that GFCI outlet is.

    “It’s just one little outlet,” I thought. “I don’t mind covering it up. I’ll just plug a power strip into it, and I’ll never have to get to it again for anything.”

    Sure, I’ll never need to, like, PRESS THE RESET BUTTON or anything. Yeah.

    A couple years down the road, we had our first Mystery Power Outage. The bathrooms were suddenly devoid of electricity one evening. After some hunting, and trying all sorts of circuit breakers and effectively rendering pointless the front porch light timer and every digital clock in the house, I eventually came to the conclusion that that stupid little GFCI outlet I’d hidden must be the culprit.

    Sure enough, after clearing my messy bench and moving the shelves, I discovered that the little “RESET” button had popped out. Pressing the button restored power.

    Of course.

    Using nearly all three of my brain cells to arrive at a brilliant and forward-thinking plan, I used a hole saw to drill a large, circular opening into the side of the shelf unit so that I could push that button again in the future without having to move them again.

    And for a while, this was okay.

    Until the end of last spring, when my stepdaughter started making a habit of coming down the stairs with wet hair after her morning shower. We just thought she was being lazy and not blow-drying her hair.

    No, as it turned out, the outlets didn’t work in the bathroom, and she just didn’t bother to mention it to us. And by now, pushing that little button on the GFCI didn’t help any more.

    “This has to stop,” wife said.

    “Okay, I’ll fix it,” I responded.

    The next week, seeing that exactly nothing had been fixed, my wife reminded me of my promise. I probably made some half-hearted response of acknowledgement.

    Week 3: Wife reminds me again, gently.

    Week 15: Wife gives me an ultimatum.

    Week 15.1: Went to home depot and bought a new outlet.

    Week 22: Wife reminded me gently again that buying the outlet isn’t enough; I have to actually install it.

    Week 23: Wife stands before me, arms akimbo, giving me the glare.

    Time to get to work.

    The effort involved in removing the old outlet and installing the new one was not great, but that wasn’t what was keeping me from starting in: it was the prep work (refer to earlier comments about workbench being a mess).

    But when you get “the look” from your wife you have little choice but to press on. This means clearing the workbench, pulling everything out of the shelves, unscrewing them from their fixtures, removing the drill press, and displacing from their homes your tools and various other in-process projects.

    Soon, the hard work was all done: the bench was cleared and the shelves moved. No sweat (okay, some sweat). I even went so far as to turn off the power at the circuit breaker panel, to put my wife at ease. And something about safety. I handily replaced the offending outlet and restored power. In the bathrooms, electricity was once again available. Man, am I awesome.

    Then I figured, well, while I have everything torn apart, I might as well enlarge that hole in case I ever need to access that outlet again. So I put together my hole saw and started in. I made a bizarre-looking keyhole sort of thing, but it was large enough to allow me to replace the outlet if I ever needed to.

    Satisfied, I re-installed and re-stocked the shelves, bolted the drill press back down, put my tools back and loaded the bench back up.

    Then I saw that I’d enlarged the wrong hole.

    Like a dipwad.

    But at least the outlet is fixed.

    And yes, my workbench is still a mess.

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    Posted in dad, frustration, life, marriage

    The Haunted Clock

    Posted on January 8, 2009 | 6 Comments

    Just this last summer, great grandma passed away. You can find the details here and here.

    One of the many treasures she passed down to her family was a wall clock, much like this one. It’s a charming piece, and actually fits in with the décor of our living room quite nicely, since it’s mostly antiques and heirlooms. Except for the stuff I brought to the relationship, which like all men’s stuff, should be relegated to the “Stupid Room” – except that my wife is very kind and actually worked my knick-knacks in with the scheme. She’s amazing like that.

    But I digress.

    We had the clock for several weeks before I finally got off my lazy behind and put it up. Like most projects, it was suggested to me right away, but was only implemented when my wife brought the tools and the stepladder into the living room. The message was unmistakable: “Put up the clock, already.” She never nags – she just removes all of my excuses. All righty then, up it goes.

    The hanging of the clock required relocating the prints that were hanging there already. I had to haul out a much bigger ladder to do that, since these prints needed to move up the wall about six feet higher. Once I had moved the prints, I carefully hung the clock in its new location, prominently and proudly displayed on the back wall of the living room.

    Then, on the quarter hour, it chimed ala The Westminster Palace clock tower. Beautiful.

    On the half-hour, it chimed again. And at fifteen ‘til. And on the hour. And again on the quarter hour. Etc. Ad infinitum.

    This delighted Michael. For at least the first three hours of the clock’s first operation in our home, Michael was enthralled by the chimes. Particularly the chimes on the hour, since after the melody is over, the clock tolls the hour: one clang for one o’clock, two clangs for two o’clock, three for three o’clock, etc.

    It’s been hanging there for a couple of months now, and Michael hasn’t gotten over the novelty. He knows when the hour comes, because he knows the pattern. When the full melody is played, it’s the hour itself, and the clock will toll the hour.

    And when that happens, he drops whatever he’s doing and runs into the living room to count the chimes. “One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven!” Then he comes running back into the room we’re in and announces the time. “It’s seven o’clock!”

    Marvelous! This new addition has provided an amazing benefit: it has empowered Michael with the ability to know what time it is! And what’s more, he now recognizes the positions of the big hand and little hand for the hour, quarter, half and ¾. Wonderful! In an age of digital clocks, this boy will be one of the few who can read a dial clock, even one without numerals, and tell the time. I’d say, that’s a boon. The clock is a teaching tool.

    Only problem is, the clock seems to be getting full of itself. It really likes chiming, and it won’t stop.

    “Can we make it not chime all night?” My wife asked me. Hmmm… I think so, I said. I know there’s a setting on it to make it shut up at night. I think there is, anyway.

    I opened the clock, found what I believe to be the “Shut Up At Night” switch, and set that. While I was at it, I adjusted what I believed to be the volume knob, so it wasn’t so loud. That night, at seven PM, we didn’t hear a chime. Ah, peace at last. Michael paid no notice to it. The hours marched on, and still no chime. Yay. Problem solved.

    Then, at 2:15 in the morning, “DING! DING! DING! DING!” And so on throughout the wee small hours, and through the rest of the day.

    Apparently this clock’s idea of “night” is between 7:00 PM and 2:00 AM. I’m not sure what demographic considers those the night hours. In all of my life I have never kept those hours. I don’t know anyone who would have kept those hours. I think even the Amish would blanch at being awakened that early.

    And what’s worse, the chimes are louder than they were. LOUDER. I turned the volume DOWN, and it went UP instead.

    It’s taunting me.

    This morning, after my wife spent another very restless night and ended up downstairs on the couch at 2:30 AM, I was told that the clock needed to be silenced.

    I fetched the stepladder, a flashlight, some pliers and a screwdriver and marched into the living room to subdue the beast. Opening it up, I searched for the “Be Quiet” switch. None to be found. I was sure there was one there the last time I looked. The evil thing has absorbed one of its switches. So instead, I turned the volume knob down as far as it would go. All the way. Off.

    Done and done.

    Satisfied, I put away my tools and the stepladder and rejoined my wife, to soothe her weary brow.

    And at 6:15, it sounded again, as hale and hearty as ever: “DING! DING! DING! DING!”

    I swear, I heard within those notes the clock mocking me: “You! Can’t! Stop! Me!”

    Tonight, I’m going to show it the wire cutters.

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    Posted in marriage, memories, michael