Right now the world feels like a hopeless place
Thursday, November 18, 2021
Saturday, November 13, 2021
A year later I wrote about my last first date.
In November of 2007, we had several dates in rapid succession, and then I went away with my fabulous friend Jen for our very own Thanksgiving in Mexico, and I have to say that I just now looked back on those posts, and there are not any photos but we did, very briefly, watch porn!
Honestly, my trip to Cancun with Jen was the funnest Thanksgiving of my life. I have many delightful memories and photos from that trip.
I returned from the trip and Nick was my boyfriend. Like, really, actually, solidly my boyfriend.
And then he was my fiance. And then he was my husband.
Which, I'm happy to report, he still is.
I typically write a schmoopy post about our meeting. I love the early anniversary posts I wrote. I adore writing the goopy, lovey blogs.
But I have to be frank.
This year, this anniversary, we're rather annoyed with each other.
Or anyway, he was initially annoyed, and then he was kind of a giant dick, and now I'm still annoyed, although I'm trying not to be.
I'm not saying alcohol is the answer but I am saying that a tequila kind of took the edge off.
Because here's the thing. Everyone in this house but Nick is pretty messy.
Not like spill chocolate syrup on the floor and leave it. More like leave your jacket on a chair, and also your books in a pile, and your backpack, which has no actual designated location, wherever you might drop it when you come home on Friday.
And the counters get kind of full. And so on.
I was raised in a tidy house, but we had servants. I was never actually tidy.
Nick was raised in a household where children weren't even allowed in the living room because they might mess it up.
Our kids are allowed in the fucking living room. And by the end of each week, entropy has won.
When it all gets to a certain point, Nick gets mad. I told the kids earlier today that we had to tidy up the ground floor or Daddy would get mean.
And then we didn't tidy up.
And then Daddy got agitated and super pissy about the mess.
Frankly, I feel like there are many things I deal with daily and many things I ask our children to do, and I am met with resistance with all of them. And I'm tired all the fucking time without struggling with our children.
So the mess piles up.
And this might seem tangential but in my mind it is gential, or whatever the word might be. (Because at this point I have had a little more tequila and frankly, I don't care exactly what the word is.)
So. Nick is trying to eat healthier. So I make these healthy meals, and for the most party, my mom and India and I eat them. Nick and Jordan might--might--eat them once. And then never again.
Which means I've put all this effort into something that isn't appreciated.
Recently Jordan got mad at Nick about something and said, "All you think about is meat and mayonnaise!"
Nick initially thought it was funny, and then when I was like, "Uh, he pretty much nailed it!" he got kind of defensive.
I didn't say out loud that he also mainly thinks about work and rowing and sex. Not always in that order.
But meat and mayonnaise are up there for sure.
Anyway, I feel like we are having the kind of day where neither of us feel like what is important to us is valued by the other. And our efforts aren't recognized.
The fact is, this is something that happens. It's extremely annoying. In the way that living with other humans and trying to get along most of the time is challenging, and frankly, often annoying.
This evening I said, "I think we're not having one of those 'I'd marry you all over again' kind of days."
And Nick said, "I'd marry you all over again."
And I was like, "uh."
Which is not to say I regret being married to him. Or that I think I'd be in more harmony with someone else.
More, just, this shit is hard. And it doesn't actually matter what calendar day it is.
It's our 14-year meet-a-versary.
More like meat-a-versary. With mayonnnaise. (HAHAHAHAHA!)
He's not going to find that funny.
Maybe next year.
Still, I love him. And he still loves me.
He is my place of absolute safety. My guaranteed laughter. My home.
Maybe at year 15 we'll once again have a romantic Tabard date.
And come home to a tidy house.
Ya never know?
Friday, November 05, 2021
When I met Nick, nigh on 14 years ago, he favored one foot just slightly.
He had an ankle injury, he explained.
Well. What it turned out, when he had it looked at like five years later, was that he had this wee sharp piece of bone that was gradually sawing off his Achilles tendon.
I can't even think about this without wincing. This proves to me he'd have been more stoic about pregnancy and childbirth than I was.
Every so often I'd suggest that he might like to have surgery rather than being in abject pain when he walked anywhere. And I was told that he was entirely too busy for that nonsense.
Until this May, when that nonsense wound up really being the only reasonable option, given that a person who has legs and feet needs to be able to walk.
I picked him up post-surgery and brought him home, totally loopy, on crutches and pain medication and with a bag of nerve blocker attached to a needle inserted into his leg.
He was not allowed to let his operated-on foot touch the floor, like, not even rest on it, for 10 days.
In fact, he only got out of bed to crutch to the bathroom the first couple days. I was feeding him in bed.
And he was CRABBY. Which was understandable. But very unpleasant. Because rather than recognizing it, he kept accusing me of being short-tempered.
Which I sometimes am but in this instance was not. I was, in fact, infinitely kind an patient.
So I did the only thing I could think of.
I started avoiding him.
Which was easy because he was stuck in bed in our room. He was doing Zoom calls from bed. At one point he even put on a button-down and tie to speak to a judge.
So I just didn't go there except when I had to. Because he was so mean.
And then he got his feelings all hurt and accused me of avoiding him.
I fessed up: yes, I was. I totally was.
Several days post-surgery he went back to the office. I drove him. Prior to surgery he'd bought this leg scooter thing to get around.
I definitely recommend these scooty things. Way easier than crutches.
So he would crutch down the front steps and I'd carry the scooter to the sidewalk. Then I'd run through the house, jump in the car, and drive around to the end of our block, where there was a ramp for him to scoot down.
I'd park, open his door for him, wait for him to get on crutches, and then take the scooter and put it in the back of the car. I'd drive him to the office, get the scooter out and bring it to him, and say goodbye.
I would repeat this process in reverse at the end of the day.
And every day, when I pulled up to get him, he would say one of two things, neither of which were "thank you" or anything of a grateful nature.
1. You're too close to the curb.
2. You're too far from the curb.
And reader, I bit my fucking tongue every time.
Until I really really didn't.
At the end of the second week he had an 8:00 am appointment with his doctor downtown. So around 7:30 we started the process of leaving the house.
On my side, it was filled with complications, like a garbage truck in the alley and having to turn around our very tight urban alley and then having to navigate the one-way streets of our neighborhood to get back to our street and pick him up.
This kind of thing stresses me out, and I was flustered when I picked him up. He was at the end of the street, sitting on his scooter, chatting with neighbors.
I got his scooter in the back, pressed the button to close the back hatch, and jumped in the driver's seat.
Whereupon Nick said, "I think you put it in wrong."
"I didn't. I need you to stop criticizing me."
"I'm not criticizing you. The door made a noise. I think you put the scooter in wrong."
At which point I yelled, "AAAAAAAAAAGGGGHGHHHHHHHH! YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING ASSHOLE!"
But it was more like, "AAAAAAAAAAGGGGHGHHHHHHHH! YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING ASSHOLE!"
And he responded with a big old, "FUCK YOU!"And we proceeded to denigrate each other, yelling horrible, vile things back and forth at higher and higher volume.
Until finally I yelled, "SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP! IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP, I'M NOT TAKING YOU!"
We have super sophisticated, reasonable altercations, as you can see.
And he yelled back, "FINE! JUST DROP ME OFF AND WE! ARE! DONE!"
Done? Like, done done? Huh.
So I was all, "Like, you want to get divorced?"
And he replied, "If you do!"
I took a deep breath, stretched out my arms, shoulders, neck, and said, "Well. I feel better now. Do you want me to come into the appointment or just drop you off out front?"
And he was all, "Yeah, me, too. I'd like you to come in, but whatever works. If it's too hard to find parking, just drop me."
There were a whole bunch of medical students in the exam room to watch Nick's gauze get cut open, because apparently Nick had a very interesting ankle issue.
After they did what they needed to do, the doctor looked at me and said, "You know, recovery from this kind of surgery can be hard on everyone."
I laughed. I think. I probably made more of a dying goat noise.
And didn't mention the neighbor with the shocked face on the street corner, the one who could obviously hear every word we screamed through rolled up car windows.
Turns out Achilles issues are, in fact, Stygian.