Step Aside, Chuck Norris

Yeah, you heard me. Step aside. You ain’t got nuthin’ on my man.

Yeah, I am sure you could kill me with 1 punch. I am sure that you could roundhouse kick something large enough to block the hole in the ozone layer into the sky and save us all from skin cancer.

But can you rebuild a rotted attic vent and whip up a crème brulee from scratch in just 1 day? Not even 1 day, try half a day.

Didn’t think so.

But my man? He totally can. And he did. Yesterday.

So, Chuck Norris? Who dat?

Seven

Just taking a break from the trip log to wish Todd a Happy Anniversary.  The last 7 years spent married to you have been the best I've known yet.  Thank you for constantly making me smile.

And thank you for constantly making me laugh.

 And thank you for being my best friend.  I love you.

When Nerds Get Married and Send Each Other Emails

Recently Todd's jumped onto the iPad wagon.  At first he regarded it as a toy.  But the more he played with it and the more he customized it, the more he molded it into a useful tool.  For example, he's downloaded an app for tides, so now we can check the tide schedule for anywhere in the US.  This is handy for when we travel through the narrower parts of Long Island Sound next month.  Going with the tides will make a world of a difference in terms of defining our ability to get anywhere in a reasonable amount of time.

He's got the iPad dialed in to the point where he can access his work computer through it using some hoodoo voodoo called Virtualization.  Now when he sends me emails, they look like this.

******
Dear Beej,

Blah blah blah blah... Todd speak, yadda yadda.

Love, Todd

Sent remotely from a VMware virtual desktop
******

Just this morning he wrote to me, and it was in this format, with this "sent remotely from" thing appended to the end.

So I wrote back:

******
Dear Todd,

Blah blah blah... yadda yadda, Beej speak.

Love, Beej

Sent from a crappy computer on a desk whose load bearing properties are questionable.
******

It Must Be Love

In my single years I was a very intolerant girlfriend. I ended relationships on a whim, and often badly. You don’t call me enough? You’re outta here. Call me too much? See ya. You’re wearing that in public? Sayonara. You sing off key? Adios, muchacho,


Don’t even get me started on bad table manners, or bad manners in general. It is not OK to agree to go to a family function with me on a Sunday, but just have your date from the night before leave moments before I arrive to pick you up in the morning. And don’t go to a frat party when the last you heard from me was my voice on your machine saying “Hey, I’m stuck in Johnston, my car broke down. Can you please come and get me?” And don’t be surprised if I get really mad and leave a dozen messages on your machine calling you an asshole and my future ex-boyfriend for doing just that. And then don’t be equally surprised when you actually do become my ex-boyfriend the very next day.

A Google stalking session revealed that the boyfriend in the first scenario above married the woman who left his place that Sunday morning. The other boyfriend in the second scenario never understood why I was so mad at him, and I wonder if he’s ever told that story to his wife and I wonder whose side she took.

But marriage is different. Well, for starters I didn’t marry a man who has ever even thought of doing the above. There is something encompassing about marriage. The things that once annoyed the crap out of me about ex-boyfriends now don’t bother me so much because the man I married is so much more than the habits that once drove me up a wall.

For example, when I go to bed before my husband does, he routinely comes clomping up the stairs loudly talking to the dogs and wakes me up just after I’d managed to drift off. On the rare occasion that I sleep later than he does, he whistles the M*A*S*H theme song while he gets ready for work, and he does it loudly.

But there are so many great things that he does, that it doesn’t matter that he wakes me up. I mean, he talks to our dogs as they are all getting ready for bed and often covers Griffen with his t-shirt so he won’t be cold. He whistles the M*A*S*H theme song while getting ready for work. How endearing is that? Never mind all the other zillions of little things he does to put a smile on my face.

I spend my entire days at work gazing at pictures of Todd and missing him horribly, even though I’d just seen him in the morning and will see him in the evening. It used to be that going to work was a break from my relationship. But now it's an interruption.  A three day weekend is looming, and I am so excited that I will get to spend every minute of it with Todd. Friday afternoon cannot come soon enough.

So those other boyfriends? They were just practice.

Lonely

Well, lonely and jealous I guess. Todd and his dad are currently in a plane bound for The Bahamas. The Fricken Bahamas. I am stuck in Rhode Island, doing pesky things like going to work, and he’s on his way to the Bahamas. Their plane departed Boston this morning, and after a three hour flight they’ll be having lunch and fruity umbrella drinks on a white sand beach. I am sure you’ll excuse my jealousy.

He goes on a trip with each of his parents once a year. In February he had a conference in Vegas and took his mom along for the week. Concerned that she’d be bored while he was at the conference, he arranged for his cousin—a close friend of my mother-in-law—to join them. Of course, he did not tell his mom about this arrangement, and surprised her on that Sunday. And of course they all had an amazing time. He arranged for a day in the spa for the two of them, they went to something like 3 dozen Cirque du Soleil shows. He won gobs of money at three card poker, and turned it all over to his mom so she could have some mad money while he was in class during the day.

Now he’s off to The Bahamas with his dad, where I am sure they’ll do fabulous things like renting a sailboat, snorkeling, and drinking lots of rum.

More than jealous, I am lonely. Before I met Todd, I lived alone. I liked living alone. I enjoy having my own space. I used to look forward to Todd’s trips just so I could have the joint to myself for a few days. Last night I made a very disgusting and disappointing dinner. Of the two of us, Todd’s the cook. So, I lamented his absence as I dumped the chicken fried rice into the trash. I had found the recipe in the Providence Journal, and in my incapable hands it turned out entirely inedible. Relieved, I discovered both cereal and milk in the kitchen—a rarity—and polished off the quiet night with a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

But this morning I woke up and the house felt empty, despite the beagle hogging the bed. Even though I lived alone, and quite enjoyed it, I find myself enjoying an empty house less and less. I never wanted to be one of those married people who couldn’t exist without her spouse, and I am scared that I am turning into that person.

While he’s away, I am filling the time. Tomorrow night I am dragging some friends along to see Willy Porter in concert. Then on Sunday I am going to a cook-out.

But it’s just not the same without Todd.

Who’s With Me?

I have a sweet tooth that is so big I swear it’s visible from outer space. I often fantasize about ways to combine all my favorite desserts. I imagine a cupcake bisected by an oatmeal raisin cookie then topped with ice cream and then served as one crazy a la mode on a slice of pie. If I was Catholic, I’d give up sweets for Lent. Alas, I am not Catholic, so I never have to endure that torture.

Todd claims that he was never that into sweets until he hooked up with me. While I take my tea black, the lure of some concoction like brownies topped with crème brulee sprinkled with Andes candies never fails to seduce me. But I wasn’t always this way. Sure, I always liked dessert; I just didn’t have it every single day multiple times per day like I do now. In college I rarely had dessert after dinner. Never ate a cookie after a sandwich at lunch and never had ice cream at the ready in the freezer.

Now? It’s everywhere. And it’s my own doing. Yesterday Todd and I were talking about the decline of our eating habits, when he brought up the topic of our dessert consumption.

“I’ll bet you can’t go a week without sweets,” he teased.

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll go to the end of the month! What do I get if I win?”

And on the conversation went until it eventually evolved into a month-long challenge that will end on April 15th. Todd and I have resolved not to eat sweets until April 15th. If he caves, he has to take the trash barrels to and from the curb every week for a month. If I cave… well, I can’t remember what he gets if I cave. I am sure he does, though.  And even though I cannot remember, I am sure it'll be mildly unpleasant enough to keep my competitive spirit going strong.

So, Internet, I invite you all to join our dessert free for a month challenge. No sweets until April 15th.

All the cool kids are doing it. Are you in?

Birthday Week: Day 1

It happens the same way, and pretty frequently too.  The doorbell at work rings.  One of my co-workers who sit near it answer it.  They groan and say, "Beej?  Really?  Again?"

Todd likes to send me things at work.  He sent me flowers last year on the first day of spring.  He sent me flowers this year on the first day of February.  I've gotten them for Groundhog's Day.  I've gotten them just because.

Yesterday an Edible Arrangement arrived--chocolate covered pears and apples.  The card read "Happy Birthday Week!"

The women rushed in to share, because I ALWAYS share in my bounty.  And then they rolled their eyes, because it's my birthday week.  I get presents when it's not even my birthday.  (Hell, he's gotten me presents on HIS birthday.  Figure that one out.)

Is it wrong that I was pushing for a birthday month?  Not necessarily for gifts, more for chores.  For example, "I shouldn't have to chase the dog to the neighbor's again.  It's my birthday month."  Eventhough I often call Todd "Excellent Husband," he's not buyin' into the whole birthday month thing.

On This the Day of our Engagement

Scene: last night, in the hot tub at our house in Podunk, Rhode Island.

Beej: Hey, what’s the date today?

Todd: I don’t know. I don’t pay attention to that stuff on the weekends.

Beej: It’s October 17th. Nine years ago today you asked me to marry you.

Todd: (splashing around in the water) And what did you say?

Beej: (stretching out in the hot water and sighing) I said no. Then you asked me what you needed to do so I would say yes, and I said that you needed to get me a hot tub and I might consider it.

Todd: I think you might be remembering that incorrectly. Just a little.

On the night he asked me, October 17, 2000, I was working in Boston, and he was working in Providence. We lived between Boston and Providence at the time, and I used to take the train into Boston for work every day, then I went to grad school at night and caught the late train home. Todd drove the 45-60 minutes south to Providence for work, and came home at a million o’clock every night.

He called me at work on a random Tuesday in October and said “Hey, how about if I come into Boston tonight and we’ll have dinner together in the city.” We hadn’t seen much of each other at the time, and I couldn’t wait until I saw him that night.

I was late meeting him at Government Center. I had to take the green line to my professor’s office on Beacon Street to drop off a paper. He never ended up reading the paper and just gave me a B because it had gotten lost in his office. I thought I deserved an A because he was the one who lost the paper. The green line was slower than weight loss, and I frantically checked my watch every other second until the train finally crept into Government Center. I ran up the stairs and out the street exit. Todd was there with flowers that he’d bought from the vendor on the sidewalk.

“There she is!” he exclaimed. Finally I’d shown up, and it didn’t look like he’d been stood up. We walked to Quincy Market, and checked out the benches under the trees. White Christmas lights were strung in the trees, and the branches were lined with thousands of squawking birds. The benches were covered in poop so we sat at the base of the Samuel Adams statue.

It was chilly that night, and I felt the chill of the stone base of the statue as I sat. Todd put his hands in his pockets. I wondered if his hands were cold. But Todd’s hands are never cold. He’s exothermic. I swear the water boils around him when we dive. I watched his hands; I wasn’t listening to what he was saying.

He held out a ring and asked, “So, will you marry me?” I burst into tears and said yes.

Here it is 9 years later, and I still have no idea what he said before he asked. I wish I’d listened more.

An Open Letter to Krista and Chris

Hi Guys,

Do me a favor? It'll just take a minute, I promise.

Hold out your left hand in front of your face. Just look at it for a second or two. Now, count the fingers. Yes, the thumb too. Yeah yeah, I know, it's a thumb, not a finger. Just count it, OK? (Do you have to be so obstinant? I mean, really!) Count your fingers. Five of them, right? (Assuming neither of you are really a Simpsons character.) You guys can now count on one hand the number of days until your wedding. How cool is that? After a year of planning. After counting all the fingers on dozens upon dozens of hands, and even a few toes on a few feet, it's now down to one hand. Five fingers, on one hand. Five days.

Now, take a closer look at the ring finger on your left hand. Krista, take off the bling for a sec, and just take a look at your ring finger. It's bare. It's naked. There's probably a faint tan line from your engagement ring, Krista. But Chris, your finger is plain, almost stark looking.

In five more days this finger won't be bare anymore. Ever.

In five days you won't say "This is my fiancee..." anymore. Instead you'll say "This is my husband..." or "This is my wife..." when you are introducing each other to someone. Even though you'll call each other "husband" or "wife" the real meaning behind those titles will always be "This is my best friend."

We are beyond excited for you two, and we can't wait 'til Saturday.

Love,

Beej and Todd