Marriage Perk #64

I drifted off last night into an exceptionally obnoxious nightmare – a rabid stray cat was going all Hannibal Lector on my toes. Not exactly apocalyptic, but far from a walk in the park! Which, as an avowed dog person, I imagine would have gone a whole lot better. I beat at the crazed feline furball and screamed for “HELP! HELP! GEORGE!! HELP!!!”

Within seconds, I jerked awake with an awful tingle in my toes that took a full ten minutes to dissipate. My husband reassured me that “No”, there weren’t any small animals with row upon row of tiny razor sharp teeth in bed with us. I had to take his word for it.

“Did you hear me yelling for you?” I asked.

“No,” said George, “but I saw your breathing speed up and I figured you might be having a nightmare. So I woke you up.”

I went straight into Disney mode, couldn’t help it. I was a girl-child of the Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast era; who could blame me? I swooned.

“You rescued me!”

I fawned over my Prince Charming in the pale moon glow of our bedside alarm clock. His cartoonish lambchops (a furry, sadly temporary, joke) exaggerated his cheekbones, transforming him into the archetypal animated crush. My friends from kindergarten would be so jealous! While I, with my sleep creased face and post-traumatic-dream-flailings, was anything but Sleeping Beauty. Yet, my hero had still fought for me, and, in his own sweet way, had cut through the vine choked labyrinth of my subconscious to save me. Though thankfully for the happily ever after of his nose, he was smart enough not to have tried waking me with a kiss!

Remember Marriage Perk #63?

Allen Iverson and the quiet gratification of semantics

Official SavingCymbria Iverson Tribute ~We'll miss you!~

The husband and I got into a heated debate last night over Allen Iverson’s retirement. I argued that ’ego’ had to have been a factor in the gifted basketball player’s decision to leave the game. This accusation came across as cruel blasphemy to the diehard fan beside me on the couch.

“He doesn’t have an ego!” My husband was obstinate. “He’s just proud and uncompromising.”

Point. Set. Match.

Update: Way to go Philly for making this post entirely null and void

An immortal quote for a not so immortal moment

I found this gem of a quote in the back of The Calgary Sun:

“What you love – becomes your master.”

“Would you agree?” I asked my ever-so-wise husband.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled at me, and kept smiling until I figured out why.

Got a man? Go ahead and take advantage of him!

It’s no wonder men have been feeling emasculated and underappreciated. Their value in our culture has been steadily depreciating ever since Rosie picked up her riveter. We women have come to judge our mates’ usefulness in terms of dishes washed or feet massaged, rather than recognizing, and celebrating, their uniquely masculine qualities. Go ahead, take advantage of a husband! We forget how useful they can be when we’re faced with a stubborn pickle jar, or a set of chilly sheets. Sometimes, a gal just needs something solid to lean on whilst she ties her shoes.

***

It was 6am on a Saturday morning when I threw four generations of feminism to the wind and finally called for help. “Geeeorge, can you come to the bathroom for a sec?”

I heard him groan, then sigh, then drag himself out of the cozy bed in the next room - where he’d generously been donating his time to the warming of sheets. The man knew better than to ask me, Why? I’m a writer; the occasional crisis, existential or otherwise, is part of my job description. He came around the corner, my knight in shining… um… um… Anyways, he was as prepared as any less-than-dressed, half asleep man can be when trudging to the rescue.

George is a fellow who takes things in stride. Finding his half-naked wife squatting over the bathroom sink with a broom braced against the far wall didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. I, on the other hand, was mortified. How, I ask, can one ever regain one’s position as an object of desire after having been caught in such a ridiculously undesirable position?

There we were, our own prehistoric human display in the heavily linoleumed museum of our apartment, me with my blue plastic (microfiber tipped) spear and him with his cro-magnon brow furrowing deeper by the second. He kept the disgruntled, glazed look as I explained that there was a GIANT spider under the head of the broom and that I was too scared to check if it was dead.

My brave husband humored me. He took over at the broom handle and waited till I’d scurried down the hall before lifting the head off the wall.

“Is it dead?” I called from the distant safety of the living room.

“I don’t know,” he answered slowly. ”There’s nothing there.”

He was right. There was no trace of the spider, no stray limbs, no tell tale smear. After a thorough examination, I turned to George and said those seven magical words: ”Let us never speak of this again.” He nodded, and we both went back to bed, into those lovely pre-warmed sheets.

Later in the day, I thought I saw the same spider creeping behind the toilet, but I left it alone. Sure, it’s great to take advantage of your man, even healthy for his masculine pride, but it’s my own pride I’m worried about. Ever try sucking in your gut while squatting on a counter wearing ratty granny panties? No? Can’t think why not? My kingdom for a loincloth! Now, let us never speak of this again.

Portrait of a marriage using the medium of Shepards Pie

Can you guess who is who? Hint: I'm got more curves

We share many things, my husband and I, but a taste for garlic is not one of them. This wasn’t always the case. In our beginnings, we spent countless romantic nights gazing into each other’s eyes over the greasy plastic tablecloths at Shawarma Palace. We planned our brilliant future together while taking turns dipping garlicy potatoes into a small shared bowl of creamy white, ridiculously potent, garlic dipping sauce. Then tragedy struck.

Life happens. People change. A strong marriage must allow for personal evolution, even encourage it. On one of those Shawarma Palace nights I made a mistake, I got carried away in the moment and went too far. I ate an entire bowl myself. The next morning I woke up gagging with the worst garlic hangover of all time. For the next three days all I could smell was garlic, no matter how many times I showered. All I could taste was garlic, no matter how many times I brushed my teeth, frantic and  foaming at the mouth like I’d come home with a bad case of rabies - it sure felt terminal! Even now, just the idea of eating the stuff makes me nauseous. Once you’ve spent three days as a human garlic clove (sorry Robert Pattinson) any notion of it acting as a flavour ‘enhancer’ is long, long gone. 

Ever the gentleman, my husband stayed married to a woman who now loathes his favourite flavour. He’s good that way. I wanted to thank him for all the culinary compromises he’s had to make since then, and what better way than with the fetid plant itself? I ‘whipped’ up the two shepards pies you see above, and tailored them to our specific tastes. Mine was loaded with veggies and sweet potato, while his was all about garlicy mashed Yukon Golds. But how much garlic powder to add? Ah yes, that was the question.

I will make any number of sacrifices for love: time, energy, even the occasional kidney; but testing garlic levels in mashed potatoes isn’t one of them. So instead, I took the logical approach and kept adding garlic until I could smell it. I have been informed by several garlicphiles since then, including my darling husband, that this is not how they do it at The Cordon Bleu.

Once again, tragedy struck.

Apparently I got carried away again, because I added enough garlic to make the thing wholly inedible. And there it sat, on the bottom shelf of our fridge, as a Tupperwared token of misguided, misflavoured love, until Yesterday. It was harder than I thought it would be to throw out, and smellier, but I think there’s a lesson here under all the spoiled ground beef and onion. When you really love someone, and you want to tell them in a language they’ll understand, sometimes you have to be brave enough to taste it for yourself first. I took up golf didn’t I~wink.

A tender moment… (with a hot pepper kick!)

I was settled snugly in the living room couch, with all I needed for a cozy TV supper ready on my lap. All that was missing was a dash of the spicy sauce my hubby had just discovered in the fridge door.

“Can I try some?” I called from the couch.

“It might be too spicy for you,” he hollered back.

“I’ll just take a bit then!”

He came around the corner on a mission, bottle in hand. Now, about my husband. This is a man who comes alive in the mountains,  a man at home in the wilderness, whose early glory days were spent living happily in a frigid backyard shed at Whistler. This is a man whose Viking legs and beard could send a whole legion of  Le Cirque waiters crying to their mammys.

This very same man bent carefully over my plate, with brows furrowed in quiet concentration, to deposit just the right amount of spicy sauce next to his wife’s mashed potatoes. I watched him with a secret smile as he rocked the bottle gently and kept his eye on the glass mouth, so he could pull back quickly when he had to. This is a man who can drive a golf ball well over 300 yards. And this is a man who can love so plainly… so plainly my nose started tingling well before the hot pepper kick ever touched my tongue.

All’s fair in love and… mornings (~wink)

The snooze alarm cut into my shower with a beeping so loud it set my teeth humming in my jawbone.

“MEEEEEEP…MEEEEEEP…MEE…”

I must have reset the clock by our bed on the as-if-waking-up-at-6am-isn’t-torture-enough setting rather than the kinder and oh-so-much gentler radio option. The teeth rattlin’ sound from the next room was so piercing I couldn’t concentrate – did I just double shampoo instead of condition?  I could feel the tiny hairs of my inner ears shivering as the high vibrato resonated behind my eyeballs.

Why wasn’t the hubby turning it off? It was right beside his pillow! I tried yelling at him from the shower, but there was no way he could hear me over the alarm. I finally had to take matters into my own hands, and ran towel-bound into the bedroom to turn it off. Finger to button – oh sweet relief!

I ‘politely’ inquired, with hands clamped on terry-towel hips, into the condition of dear hubby’s eardrums. “Dunno,” he said, claiming to have “not really” heard the Philip Glassian cacophony, “Just tuned it out, I guess.”

“What if the smoke alarm goes off?” I asked, suddenly concerned.

As he quieted my fears with tender reassurances about volume and urgency, a strange thought began to form in my mind. If this man can will himself to sleep through an amped up Moby concert gone wrong, what else can he “tune out”? What else has he “tuned out”?

Hmmmm… better make sure I’m all set to blast on “max” next time dear hubby triggers my alarm bells! I’m not taking any chances lol. After all, all’s fair in love and mornings ~wink. 

Help – I’ve married a goldfish!

Let me set the scene…
The hubby and I were chatting in the kitchen late last night. You know, just hangin’ round the ol’ fridge shootin’ the breeze. I turned away briefly (couldn’t have been for more than three seconds), to grab something out of my backpack on the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw George making a move for the fridge door.

When I looked back, I saw something no wife should ever witness. Sure, we all know it goes on, in your fridge, in your neighbour’s, but nobody talks about it. Yes, sometimes what we don’t know will only hurt us (microscopic pathogens aside) when it hits us right smack in the face.

To be fair, there was no split lip involved, but the impact of the horror I saw was just as strong. George had the Brita water pitcher in both hands and was doing his best to guzzle directly from the spout. I know, I know, he’s a guy, and I can deal with the occasional scruffy milk top or orange juice container… but a Brita? Doesn’t that bloody well defeat the whole purpose!! “Filtered” water anyone?

And the visual was just too awful. The man had somehow managed to get his lips wedged inside the spout and was sucking away like mad with a panicked look on his face. He’d been caught in the act, after all, and his eyes were bugged like a lidless goldfish. I could see his puckered mouth, bright fleshy pink, through the clear plastic – not a good look for any man, least of all for my Viking George. I’d stumbled onto a tragic Kafka-esque scene… Man wakes up as suffocating goldfish… makes mad dash for fridge… reaches with last strength ebbing…for …the…Brita?

Ya, so I married a goldfish. Well, at least that sounds better than “ya, so I married a guy who sticks his mouth all over the water filter.” Hmmm, t’is better to savour the irony? Or build on the surrealism? That is the question. Or maybe, just maybe, I should stop thinking like a writer and just tell the man to use a glass!

How have I let it come to this?

Where did it go so wrong? I’m a 21st century independent woman who fights fiercely for equality at every opportunity. So how could I have been so blind to the grand injustice happening under my nose on a bi-weekly basis?

My husband stood admiring (I’d like to think the man was in awe) our freshly scrubbed (by moi), gleaming white bathroom. ”Did we get a new toilet paper holder [spring]bar?” He asked, pointing to the naked black plastic rod in its mod-chrome setting.

“No,” I said, confused, “it’s the same one it’s always been.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, we both came to the same horrifying realization. I was the one brave enough, or foolish enough, to put it into words.

“You’ve never seen it before, have you?” I asked, wide eyed as the truth hit me. He shook his head. ”So you’ve never replaced the roll the whole time we’ve been living here?” It was more statement than question. “That’s almost two years!” 

He smiled sheepishly. “I guess not.” Then he flashed that ever-so-darling grin that I’m sure got him out of all kinds of trouble as a kid, and as much as I hate to say it, still works just as well today…sigh.

Click Here to read about how toilet paper can solve the global oil crisis – no really!

Because love is beautiful, magical, and because…

Because love is...

...everything.

Who are these just-married lovebirds? Visit this post’s “comments” to find out…

How to get married with plenty of figurative, but no literal, electricity

Five years ago today, I was dressing for my wedding by candlelight. Our planned elopement to Niagara Falls coincided with the largest blackout in North American history. I had designed my hand sewn wedding dress (my sewing machine had been on the fritz too) with our train trip in mind. It was a knee length strapless sheath made of white eyelet, with a little stretch for comfort and a thin pink ribbon tied in a delicate bow at the waist. We’d matched George’s tie to the ribbon and, before he gobbed jam on it halfway through the trip lol, we were the perfect pastel couple.

We were married late that night, after having to reschedule from a payphone deep underground in the madhouse of a Toronto train station. The Eastern seaboard had come to a halt, but we would not be dissuaded. People got married before electricity, didn’t they? Our Reverend took us out to pick up pizza after the ceremony (we both teared up as we clasped hands and promised forever) and then to watch the fireworks over the blacked-out falls. I remember the wind catching my veil and blowing it around us as we looked out over the dark water. The fireworks blazed on, despite the disaster. We’ve never cared that we missed seeing a wonder of the world that night, because we’ve spent the last five years building our own : )

Marriage: Just remember this one little secret…

“Marriage isn’t a court of law. It is a court of precedent.”- Kristi DeWolf

The most illuminating piece of marital advice I’ve ever heard comes from my genius-in-training unmarried 18 year old coworker. And to think, some people out there still listen to Dr. Phil. Get with the times people! Want wisdom? Look for a girl with face piercings and an ‘unprecedented’ ‘tude.

Strengthen your marriage with THIS principle of Marketing Management

Who knew walking down the aisle at Home Depot to buy a fridge could give you better footing on your trip down another aisle…

I came across a key marketing concept during some “light” summer reading: A Preface to Marketing Management, by J. Paul Peter & James H. Donnelly Jr. Selling is top priority in marketing, but how do you make sure the product isn’t returned after sale? The investigation of Postpurchase Dissonance is a hot topic in the field.

Doubts and second thoughts occur when there is a cognitive discord within the buyer’s attitudes and beliefs. Dissonance is most likely when the purchase decision is of psychological or financial importance, and/or the buyer has forgone a number of alternatives with comparable features. Hmmm, that doesn’t set marriage up with favorable odds, does it? I happen to have lucked out with a husband whose “features” are beyond “compare”, but the next section just might be helpful for those of you without a G.W. of your own (which had better be everyone reading this!).

 The textbook gives four helpful ways to prevent and/or reduce Postpurchase Dissonance:

1. By seeking information that supports the wisdom of the decision. (ooo you two have compatible astrological signs, that must clinch it!)

2. By perceiving information in a way to support the decision. (Your husband just went to Vegas without you because he said he didn’t want you getting a nasty burn in the desert sun…and you believe him)

3. By changing attitudes to a less favorable view of the forgone alternatives. (Just remember ravishing Antonio’s foot odour and Joey’s sinister collection of toy clowns)

4. By avoiding the importance of the negative aspects of the decision by enhancing the positive elements. (“He’s not poor; he’s a brilliant musician” – Note: don’t use that argument with your parents, who probably haven’t finished paying off that wedding of yours ; )

The book also suggests Postpurchase Dissonance can be reduced by admitting a mistake has been made. But really, would you want to wake up to a mistake every morning? Didn’t thing so. So if you didn’t hit the G.W. jackpot, just keep this little list in mind. And let’s just hope you have better luck picking your next major appliance *wink*

You’ll never really know your husband

I could draw you map of my husband’s back. It would take hours, but it would be perfect. I’d chart every rise of muscle and bone, every dip in between. Each freckle and follicle would be accounted for. A baby pink pencil crayon would show you the soft blush of his skin after a massage, and you’d learn his magic: that he smells like the warm, delicate layer of sand dust left on your body after a day at the beach.

My husband is a man of gentle grace and stubborn passions. I could map his past for you too, and tell you his dreams for the future. You’d find out the name of the boy he protected from recess bullies in elementary school, and why he needs to order new ‘rifle’ shafts for his wedges.

This is my husband.

But what do I know? I’m just his wife ; )

He and I were being driven home recently by visiting relatives after a supper out on the other side of the city. I was doing my best trying to give directions from the back seat, but I am a chronic pedestrian and can only guide people “as the crow flies”. And since when do crows have to worry about one way streets and highway exits! 

My “darling” husband, an experienced driver, was no help at all. He was stupidly mute. I kept waiting for him to rescue me and chime in on cue with a “left” or a “take Deerfoot”, but he kept right on with his lazy daydreaming, watching the houses whiz by out the backseat window while I did my best to keep us in the same province! 

I felt my temperature rising. Instead of directions, my brain started obsessing on why he was being so frustrating. What did he think this was? Just another job to pawn off on good ol’ pick-up-the-slack-Cymbria? These weren’t dirty dishes, these were his relatives! Don’t get me wrong, I love chatting up my husband’s Aunts and Uncles, but I also like getting home in time for work the next day! Do you want to know the worst of it? His body language was all too clear in letting me know he was getting fed up with me too! Every time I missed calling out a turn, he grimaced in a most un-husbandly way.

When we finally made it home I was fuming. He shut the front door behind him, then gave me a wicked smile that shut me up before I could open my mouth. 

“I almost didn’t make it!” he gasped. ”I thought I was done for when we turned on 17th!”

My husband bolted straight for the bathroom.

Love. sigh. What do I know?
Apparently, not much lol

Applying the scientific method to marriage reveals a terrifying secret

Let’s look at this whole marriage thing logically. Go on, take a deep breath and dive in; it’s about time someone at least gives it a shot.

Purpose: To measure and define the ratio of one marriage partner’s “right” proposed solutions to those of the other partner

Hypothesis: “I am always right” (come on, do we even need to test this!)

Method:
Step 1) Take two people with varied life experience who (ideally) respect each others intelligence and problem solving skills equally

Step 2) Place said two people in an endless variety of real-time challenges and social puzzles

Step 3) Test pros and cons of partners proposed solutions to determinine “rightness”

Conclusion: The “logical” assumption is that each partner will propose the best solution for the couple in 50% of the cases. Therefore, the “right” ratio can be defined as 50:50.

Application:The horror! There must be a flaw in my calculations. My husband couldn’t possibly have that kind of an edge! But him being right half the time would be an easy price to pay for him admitting he’s wrong the other 50% lol

Marriage Perk #63

I’m showered, dressed, combed, and brushed. I tie my shoes and put on my jacket. My hand is on the doorknob. But wait. I’ve forgotten my watch on the nightstand.

I tip-toe into the bedroom, careful not to wake the big lump under the covers. As I wrap my watch round my wrist, I see that a slipped comforter has left a peachy pink cheek exposed and vulnerable. I dive in and kiss that special spot, just past the corner of your eye, where (in these last few years) the delicate skin has begun to crease. My lips find all the heat and softness and comfort they’ll need for the day in the half-second we connect.

I notice another “cheek” is exposed ; )

So I smack it.

Perfect way to start the day.

“Gripped” by golf

I knowingly, willingly, married a golf nut five years ago. I was so infatuated with this man that I happily agreed to watch endless hours of golf coverage on our weekends together. I was blissfully captivated by his joy and all his adorable reactions to the shots on TV; I barely even looked at the screen. And really, why would I? I mean, is there anything more boring to watch? (Note: The Masters are not included in that terrible generalization. That tournament is actually almost, dare I say it, thrilling : ) 

My infatuation with my new husband even led me out onto the golf course. I couldn’t bear to be separated from him for a long lonely 4 hours. I was determined not to become another bitter “golf widow”. I hacked around with his 5-wood, and puttered around with his putter. The emotional rollercoaster of the game came as a shock. How could this game, so seemingly effortless and dull on TV, make me want to gnaw off my grips and scream bloody murder? 

As my infatuation for my husband grew and matured, so did his love for golf (oh, and for me too of course : ) His handicap dropped. He read mountains of golf magazines, cover to cover. He became addicted to the golf channel. I watched it all, and listened, boy did I listen. Without knowing it, I too became literate in the language of the game: the techniques, equipment, players, rules, etc. It osmosed slowly from his brain to mine. Little did I know, it would one day pay off. 

That day was yesterday.

My husband’s golf obsession took the ultimate step a month ago. Long story short, he now sells golf clubs for a living. He’s brilliant at it, and loves it. The man is living the dream. Ok, so the PGAwould technically be “the dream”, but he’s a whole lot closer than he’s ever been before. And what was my darling’s first order of business at his new job? Why, to set his wife up with a sweet sweet set of clubs, of course. (I’ll post a picture on an upcoming post for your drooling pleasure) 

I played my first round with my new clubs yesterday. And I tell ya’, it’s a whole new game. Suddenly, yardages came into play, and pin placement, and course management, and everything I’d learned about over the years. Most importantly, for the first time, I felt like I had a chance. Each hole was a new opportunity for success, instead of just another shot at grim humiliation. I was shaking from the thrill of it, and then two seconds later I was shaking from the frustration of it. Craziest thing about the round was that I was actually eager for more after the 18th. And believe me, that’s never happened before! 

My score was still too high to share with the internet world, but was 7 shots lower than my previous record. And taking into consideration some sketchy putting and painful mis-hits, it could have been a lot lower. It should have been lower! It will be lower next time! Mark my words!

Oh no.

Sigh.

I should have seen this coming.

This was his plan all along.

And I’ve fallen ”fore” it!

Oh ya, I’ve got it bad. I’m even making golf puns, groan.