Dear Tom, (Again)

Well, I kind of forgot to remind you about Try It Tuesday yesterday (first day back to work) and I don't actually have a graphic yet, so let's plan on that for next Tuesday, OK? Do you have your post written yet on something new and fabulous you have discovered? Then you are good to sign up for Mr. Linky next Tuesday. See you then.

Oh, my dear. Have you not learned that when you SCREW UP, it's going to end up the World Wide Interweb?

Readers. Don't you agree that the person who uses the LAST Q-TIP should probably throw the box away and tell someone? Instead of leaving the empty box in the linen closet?

I knew you would agree.



Check my new Herald-Leader post today: Next I'm Going To Fix A Mess Of Collard Greens

That's It! He Wanted To Recycle!

Y'all.

Come ON.

When some of you looked at the picture yesterday of the milk jug sitting on top of the trash, you actually considered that the reason Tom put it there was because he intended to recycle.

Yeah. That's it. Snort.

Only the recycling bag was in the dining room, just a few steps away. Apparently, that was just WAY TOO MANY STEPS for him. He never even considered recycling it. He just set it there because, in his words "the trash was full". Uh, ya think? So do you think there was the slimmest possibility that he would remove the trash bag, put the extra trash in it and replace the trash bag with a fresh one? That possibility is so slim, it is virtually non-existent. In fact, it IS non-existent. Never gonna happen. And maybe that's because he doesn't know where the trash bags are kept? That would be a good argument if they hadn't been under the sink for THE LAST 30 YEARS.

Oh well. He does have his good points. I could make quite a list. But let me close with a message he left me on the refrigerator the other morning. Just because.

I guess I can throw the trash away for him a little longer. Just a little longer.

Check out my latest Herald-Leader blog post at: On The Patio Reviews Begin Next Week

Dear Tom,

Just so you know.

This does not count as PUTTING SOMETHING IN THE TRASH.

Love,
Your Wife

Super Geeks

Now this is just how geeky we really are. Y'all already know how obsessed Tom and I were about watching the old episodes of "Smallville" and you may possibly remember (if you have absolutely nothing else to do with your time) the little game we had going with "Caw".

Well, you know with the writer's strike, there's not much on TV and we have to do something in between getting our movie fixes from Netflix (since I am forced to alternate our movie selections with seasons of "Gilmore Girls" - why yes, we do watch a lot of TV, what's your point?), we decided to go back and watch "Smallville" over again.

Yes, we are that geeky and obsessed. So, the other night, they showed something to do with the crows school team and I called out "Caw!". And Tom turned around and said (actually a trifle annoyed) "You can't just say caw anytime, you know." And I said "Oh, really?" And he said "Yeah!" and then he took my "Gilmore Girls" DVD and he snapped it in two. And he laughed an evil laugh.

OK, not really. But I bet he would LIKE to. Actually he said we had to come to an agreement about when to say "Caw". Like, we had to have rules and everything.

Now some people might have laughed out loud at this. But no. I joined in the discussion in quite an animated manner. It wasn't until later that I realized how totally and completely lame we are.

So we agreed. It has to be a banner that says something about the school team. It cannot be a varsity jacket. He came up with that one on the fly just because I beat him to the caw. Sore loser. It has to actually have a picture of a crow on it. He had the nerve to think he could slip that one past me. I don't THINK SO, Mister.

I am the first to admit this has caused some cursing at our house. "Caw!" "Damn, I didn't even see that." "Caw!" "Awwww, I missed it."

This is kind of similar to a drinking game where you have to take a slug every time you see something on the screen or a character says something.

But that would actually be cool. This is totally not cool. It's really pretty geeky. Super geeky. But, oh. There is some serious laughing going on.

Huh. You Really CAN Find Anything On the Internet

Tom came back in the bedroom while I was curled up in bed watching an episode of Gilmore Girls. No, he has not become an aficionado; he was just visiting. There was a scene where one of the characters was tying her dad's tie because she had printed out the directions from the Internet and she noted that you can find anything on the Internet. "That's true", Tom commented from his position with his head in my lap, having his hair stroked. Really, why would I need a dog?


Well, it's true. You truly can find anything on the Internet. Have you seen this site about reuniting lost gloves? You know how you lose that one glove? And you can never find the other one? Well, now you can find that precious lost glove. At least, you can if you live in Pittsburgh. But they are planning sites for other cities as well. I'm a little cynical about this site since they actually have a link for "Media Inquiries". But it was a clever idea. Very clever. They are planning a book, for God's sake. Why can't I think of stuff like that?


Maybe a lost sock site? Lost earring? Throw me a bone here.

Home Late

Tom got home from work late the other night. This is extremely rare. He is always on time and sometimes even comes home early to finish up his work on the computer. But he was late. Normally, when he is late, he will call me. No call. It got later and later. I blogged for a while, then settled into a comfy chair and read. When I looked up, it was quite late. He had never called.


Having a good imagination is a blessing when you are reading a good book. The characters come alive in your head and move around, going through their lives in vividly visualized settings. It's a curse when you start to imagine what could have happened to your loved ones. I tried to read but couldn't concentrate. I decided I would call him at 6:00 if he was not home. It got darker and colder.


Not outside.


In the house.


It was quiet. And dark. And cold. I turned on more lamps and checked the heat. It wasn't really dark and cold. It just felt that way. Being alone would feel this way. Not having him around would feel this way. If he never came home it would feel this way.


And then I heard the garage door open. I felt a little silly when he told me he had stopped at the grocery for a couple of things. And then had to go to another store to get just what he wanted.


I tried to tell him how strange it would be if he never came home again. How lonely. How dark and cold. He hugged me and loved me up a little, then said "You would manage. You are a strong woman." And hopped in the shower.


He doesn't really understand. I would manage. I am a strong woman. But he takes away the dark. He takes away the cold. He...makes me stronger.

First Date

Flash Back Friday

I've been writing and thinking a lot lately about memory loss. It is annoying that I have forgotten so much of my life.

But I do remember a few things. It's funny how they stand out in my memory.

I remember the first date with my husband, so I thought it would be interesting to have him write his perspective on our first date and then post them together to see the different points of views. Interesting and funny. But, when I asked him, he didn't remember enough details to write about it. He DIDN'T REMEMBER!

But I do. It was a blind date. Actually, I found out later that he had seen me at a fraternity party, but I had never seen him. So I guess it was half of a blind date. I was working at Walden Book Store at the mall and he picked me up there. He walked in. Oh. My. God. He was wearing yellow pants. And a flowered shirt. And shoes with big heels. (Giving him the benefit of the doubt, it WAS 1975. But still.) He also had the bluest eyes I have ever seen. The same eyes our grandson has now.

We were going to see "Jaws" (the first one) but we had some time, so we sat by the fountain in the mall and we talked. I'll never forget it. He told me a story about old Buck and the one and only horseback riding experience he had ever had. They neglected to tell him that old Buck fell down a lot. He had me laughing so hard I almost peed in my pants. And that was long before I had children, became middle-aged and actually, occasionally, do pee in my pants a little when I laugh hard.

We had a great time together. I ended up almost in his lap at the movie, I was so terrified. I guess he probably liked that. We got pizza for dinner. We made plans to see each other the next day. We were never really apart after that.

And he still makes me laugh. Every day.

Everyone is Divorced

Everyone I know is divorced. OK, that may be a slight exaggeration. But not by much. It seems like everyone I know is either divorced, married for the second (or third, or fourth...) time or is in the process of getting a divorce. Most of the people I work with have been divorced. One teacher at my school recently went though a bitter, hurtful divorce that will affect the rest of her life. Most of my friends are divorced, some after years and years of marriage. 20 years. 30 years. Some are remarried. Some are alone and looking for someone special. I hope and pray they find that person. Some have quit looking and say they will never marry again. They have been too hurt. They are not willing to face that possibility again.


I went to get my hair cut and colored and streaked the other day (God, what we go through to look beeyootiful) and, when I asked my hairdresser about her annual trip to the Jersey shore, she quietly said they wouldn't be going this year. Just being chatty and friendly, I wondered aloud why they weren't going, they had gone every year, I knew she loved it there. And she replied that she and her husband were getting a divorce. After 14 years. It was a complete surprise to her. She's pretty sure there is someone else. He denies it. But he has been on a LOT of hunting trips, weekend trips where she can't reach him and long weekends away with lame excuses and working late and...well, I think she's right.


I have been at a technology conference the last couple of days and I ran into a friend I hadn't seen in a couple of years and how are you and what's new and how's your family and your husband...oh. Divorced. And he's remarried. Oh. Sorry. So sorry.


I can't imagine being divorced. I just can't imagine. Tom and I have had our ups and downs and I have yelled at him and I even, back in the old days before kids, dumped a pitcher of kool-aid in his lap one time. But we worked it out. We have never, even at the worst of times, come seriously close to divorce. Divorce has never been mentioned. We just...work things out. We yell. We talk. We laugh. We make up. We go on. We each have our own faults. (him MUCH more so than me, of course) But, we enjoy being together. We like the same things. And we have our own interests as well. We love our family. We have so many plans for the future. Retirement. Lots and lots of travel. Time with our family. We have so many shared experiences. So many shared memories. A word, a phrase, a sentence, can bring back a memory and make us laugh, share a glance, shake our heads. I can't imagine starting all over again with someone else. I can't imagine.


He knows I interrupt him in the middle of his sentences. He doesn't mind. He knows I am overweight. He doesn't mind. He knows I figure out the end of movies and often blurt it out to him. He doesn't mind. (well, he does but he lives with it) He knows I need to shop, need to eat out with my friends, need to spend time with other people sometimes. He doesn't mind. I went out with my friends for dinner just the other night. As I left, he said to have fun. Have fun. That's pretty nice. I'm pretty lucky. I try to tell him that often. That I'm lucky. That I love him. That I appreciate him. Sometimes I forget and it's not until I find out someone else is getting divorced that I remember to tell him.


I need to tell him more often. That I'm lucky. That I love him. That I appreciate him. Because I do. All the time. Even when someone else is not getting divorced.

Smell Ya Later

"The best smell in the world is that man that you love." - Jennifer Aniston

Oh. Ok, that was weird.

I just went up to the office and there was a guy in there. A parent. I brushed past him to put a paper in the Principal's mailbox and...he smelled like my husband. I couldn't tell you what the aftershave was even if you offered me a substantial amount of money to buy shoes, but it's one that he uses regularly. Smelled just like him. My brain was like "Oh, Tom." And then, "Oh, not". It was a rapid and very strange mixed message my body received. It didn't know quite what to make of it.

Tom always smells good. He is a man who is meticulous about his personal grooming. When he gets home from work in his khakis, polo shirt and work boots, the first thing he does is take a shower. He would never dream of going out to eat in his dirty work clothes. Or even hanging around the house in them. I take that for granted until I see other guys in restaurants and stores who have not bothered to get cleaned up before they go out.

I don't smell him often. He's the one who is always smelling me. He buries his face in my neck and inhales me, sighing in ecstasy. I've learned when he comes up behind me to just cock my head to the side and allow him access to my neck. That's all he wants. It's the simple things, really.

I think when I go home tonight I need to smell my husband. Hear that, sweetie pie? I'm going to schunzzle my face in your neck and smell you. 'Cause you smell good.

And I appreciate that.

Was My Face Red

Please don't be surprised if you hear I have disembowled my husband with a grapefruit spoon. This happened the other day.

Me: (Sitting on the toilet in the downstairs half bath which HE uses most of the time) What the...there's no toilet paper. THERE'S NO TOILET PAPER!

Him: Oh, yeah. Heh. I meant to put some more in there.

Me: Well, get me me some for God's sake. (mumble, mumble, unprintable obscenities)

Him: Uh, yeah. Just a sec. Let me get to a point where I can pause this game. (!)

Me: (Drip drying.) Please HURRY!

Him: Oh, yeah. Heh. OK.

Me: More unprintable obscenities.

But then, last night, there was this.

"So." He said. "Since you don't have anything planned for Saturday, maybe we could have a day together."

Saturdays are normally cleaning days, laundry days, mani/pedi days, lunch out days, baby-sitting days and pretty much anything else I can cram in there days. But this Saturday was, actually, pretty free.

"Oh, yeah?" I replied sarcastically. "You mean, I can do laundry, clean the bathrooms, make lunch - while you sit and play on the computer?"

"Well, actually," he replied quietly. "I was thinking we could go out for lunch and then see a movie together."

Imagine my chagrin.

Achilles Heel

Now that I have written a couple of blog posts (like here and here) about my lovely, wonderful, sweet husband, I have to tell the truth about him.

When we are in a rush for one reason or another, I will quickly make him a sausage-and-toast sandwich instead of a big breakfast. (Lest you think I am an unempowered, enslaved, short order cook for him, let me clarify that this is just on the weekends.) This morning, I made him one and he told me not to put mustard on it. He didn't like it with mustard. For 30 years, I've been making them with mustard because, at some point when we were newlyweds back during the ice age, he told me he liked them that way. He waited 30 years to tell me differently?

Also. He leaves the heels on the loaf of bread in the bread package. We don't eat the heels. But whenever he opens a loaf to make a peanut butter sandwich (gah), he leaves the heel. I mean, he takes some slices out of the middle, then carefully puts the heel back in the package and closes it up. So, when I go to get a piece of bread to make toast for him, I take out the heel and throw it away. EVERY TIME. When I asked him about this, he actually said someone might want to eat the heel. AND WHO WOULD THAT SOMEONE BE?? He and I are the only ones who live here. I don't like white bread; I only eat wheat. He won't eat the heel; he just likes to carefully save it. So who is gonna eat it? He had no answer to that. I have actually tested him on this and, if there are, like, three pieces of bread left in there? Two of them will be the heels. So, I throw the heels away when I open the package. Other than that, he is almost perfect.

Oh. Except for the peanut butter and crackers. He NEVER puts them away. He fixes peanut butter and crackers (gah, again) for a snack, then leaves the crackers and peanut butter on the counter. Always. Never puts them away. When I asked them (with great restraint) why, he said he might want more. But he never does. He just leaves them on the counter. I think that's it.

Oh. Except for the beard trimming. Which ends with the sink and the surrounding area covered with little, tiny hairs. When I call him on this, he says he rinsed it. In what alternate, hair worshipping universe is that sink rinsed? Dontcha see all these hairs you left? That's definitely it.

Oh. Yeah, there is the clothing issue. I noticed the other day (yeah, it's been 30 years - I'm not very observant) that he was wearing the same sleeping pants and t-shirt every night. I asked him about it and he said, yeah, I wear the same clothes every evening and change on Sunday night. This is not quite as gross as it sounds, since he showers every night and basically spends the evening vegging so it's not like they get sweaty and dirty. I thought this was EXTREMELY peculiar (what woman would wear the same clothes all week, even to lounge in?) but my son-in-law said he did the same thing.

Can you feel my pain?

That's it, I think. I guess that's not much, in reality. He's really very neat, very considerate, very sweet and he loves me with every fibre of his being.

I know this. Because a few years ago? On the fourth of July? Some moronic idiot dropped a lit firecracker in the (full) box of fireworks. It was just a matter of time before the whole box exploded. Most people jumped back, many ran away. Tom? Reached over with both hands and shoved me behind him. So I wouldn't get hurt.

I guess I can leave mustard off his sandwich, throw away those heels, put away that peanut butter and clean up a few hairs.

If he is willing to get blown up for me.