The Things We Do For Love

I can't believe what I just did. I was sitting at my computer at home in my bare feet and rolled the chair forward slightly with one foot wrapped around the chair leg. The roller on the leg caught on my ankle bracelet, snapped it off and shot it so hard it hit the back of the desk. I had to get on my hands and knees to find it. Is that a fluke accident or what?

I'm so annoyed. I can't believe I broke this silly thing again. I broke it two summers ago by catching it with my thumb as I pulled off a sock.

Tom loves this ankle bracelet. For some reason, it's just something he just really likes. A bare leg, bare foot and that gold ankle bracelet. When it broke the first time, we had to take it to a jewelry store and get it fixed. We went together to pick it up and he urged me to put it on right there. I had to sit down in the mall and fasten it around my ankle. He smiled when he saw it on my ankle.

I guess I'll have to get it fixed again. At this point, it might be cheaper to get another ankle bracelet. But I like this one. I bought it one time in Destin when Liz and I were shopping together. We both got one but hers stretched out for some reason. I still have mine. It was before she was married and had Wesley. It was just the two of us on a hot Florida day, shopping and having fun. I like to remember that day so I keep and wear the ankle bracelet.

And Tom loves it. So, I guess I'm heading to the jewelry store this afternoon to get it fixed. I hope they can do it pretty fast. I wouldn't want him to miss out on a day of me wearing the ankle bracelet. It's the simple things. The things we do for love.

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.

Switching the Water Bottle

It's a SNOW DAY. Life is good.

I'm sure Valentine's Day has a different meaning for everyone. Romance doesn't have to mean a candelit dinner, hands intertwined, champagne and strawberries. Sometimes, it's the simple things.

We both keep bottles of water by our beds. I keep one because I have hot flashes in the night which often require a liberal application of cold water (sometimes I'm tempted to actually throw it on my body), covers thrown off and the fan tilted so it will blow on my sweaty, annoyingly menopausal body. Tom keeps one because he has allergies and takes medicine which can cause a dry mouth. And because he just gets thirsty sometimes.

I make the beds in our house. I don't mind doing it. I like a made bed. I make mine up every morning. I arrange the pillows just so and fold my pajamas neatly by the pillow. It pleases me when I get ready to get in the bed and it is smooth and fresh and ready for me. So, if the water bottles are empty, I get fresh ones. Usually, I'll just carry mine in the kitchen in the morning, put it in the recycling bin and get a fresh one. But since Tom has his own bedroom and own bed (I adore my husband but the snoring finally got to me after 20 years), I may not notice his water bottle is empty until the weekend or a day off when I change the sheets and make his bed. If his water bottle is empty, I take it in the kitchen, put it in the recycling bin and get him a fresh one. He rarely, if ever, gets his own bottle of water. We don't talk about it.

I suppose some feminists would have a field day with this one. But when Liz switched cars with me the other night so they could borrow my little red truck, she left the car outside. Tom put it in the garage for me, so I wouldn't have to go outside in the cold in the morning. Didn't complain, just did it.

So I switch his water bottle for him. I switch his water bottle because I love him.

It's pretty simple really.

The Poofy Recliner

We have two Lazy Boy recliners down in our family room. We bought them, along with the couch, when we moved in and finished the downstairs. One is closer to the door, so that's the one I automatically took as my chair. Tom, of course, takes the couch. This is not even up for discussion. Sometimes, when he is working at the computer, I will lie on the couch to watch tv and it's comfortable...but not quite right. I need my chair.

The chairs are those big man Lazy Boys and when we first got them, I thought we had made a mistake and they were too big. But if I put a big pillow on one side, I fit perfectly. I can pull up my feet, tuck them under me, lean on the pillow and be cozy and comfy. And we can reach each other. Tom always reaches back to my chair from the couch and we have this sliding hand movement thing we do when something is particularly moving or funny or an inside joke on tv. This has been the status quo for us for several years now. Tom lies on the couch, I sit in my chair and we watch tv.

But, the other night he was working at his computer and I sat down in the other chair to talk to him for a minute and...oh, my God!...that chair is so much softer and poofier!! I have totally smooshed mine down! Well, this wouldn't do. I decided to switch chairs. I began my chair-switching campaign the next night. I could actually see the big screen tv better, but the lamp was reflected in the screen. Patiently, Tom turned it off so I could see. He did ask why I was sitting over there and, when I told him, he didn't say anything. But he sighed when he turned the light off.

The next night, when I headed for the poofy chair, he just sat on the couch and looked at me. "What?" I said. "Well..." he said. "When you sit over there...I can't reach back and touch you." I looked at him. My unromantic husband of almost 30 years who always buys me everything on my Christmas list. Never anything else. Never anything spontaneous or surprising. And I moved back to the other chair. So he can reach back and touch me.

Tonight, I think I'll just switch the chairs. Duh.

The Wesley Waltz

I've always liked to dance. I danced in high school (Let's do the twist, the pony and the swim. Now, don't hurt that hip with the arthritis trying these today.) and in college and even took some modern dance classes as a college student. I danced at parties and discos (Oh, yeah, let's have a shout out for those who remember Stingle's in Chevy Chase and doing the bump!) and loved it. Tom and I still dance ocasionally. We go to parties where there is dancing and we dance when we go on cruises. But we have just recently discovered a new dance.

It's called the Wesley Waltz.

The Wesley Waltz is not hard to do. It does require patience, some dexterity and a grandchild. Or possibly your own child would do. It's best done in the kitchen on the linoleum. Here's the directions, for those of you who want to support me in starting a new dance craze.

The (insert any child's name here in place of Wesley) Wesley Waltz

1. Slide, slide slide your feet. (Slide because you don't want to step on the tupperware, pots, refrigerator magnets or water bottles Wes has scattered on the floor.)

2. Hop, hop, hop when you step on the sharp magnet because you forgot to slide.

3. Jump, jump, jump and grab the baby before he pulls the kitchen chair over.

4. Pirouette and slide the baby into the high chair.

5. Slide, slide, slide to get the cookies for the baby.

6. Do a lean and pick the baby from the high chair, toss him in the air and tickle him all in one smooth move.

7. Dip, dip, dip the baby and kiss his warm, sweet-smelling neck when his head falls back with belly laughs.

8. Slide, slide, slide in to the living room.

9. Flop, flop, flop in the chair. Now, rest.

Tom and I were dancing at a cook-out a couple of summers ago. It was a great location by a beautiful lake house and we were slow dancing on a patio to a romantic country song. I was in my bare feet and he was holding me close. We smiled at each other. The girl who was taking pictures snapped one of us, then leaned forward and whispered "Y'all are the happiest couple here." We smiled again, I leaned my head on his shoulder and he held me a little tighter. At the time, we thought that was a highlight. One of the best dances ever.

That was before we knew about the Wesley Waltz.

Love And Nicknames

My birthday was last weekend. Strange how birthdays change over the years, along with your priorities. I still like presents and cards (who doesn't?) but my priority is being with my family on my birthday. I just love to see them. My son and daughter have grown up into sweet, caring adults who still enjoy spending time with their parents. And my son-in-law has become such a part of the family that I can't imagine our family without him. Wes got to stay with his godmother since we were doing dinner and a movie and he's not quite ready for an outing that does not allow him to crawl on the floor.

Later in the evening, after everyone had gone home and it was just Tom and me, he gave me my present. My sweet, thoughtful, loving husband had given his pudgy, Weight Watchery wife - a Whitman's sampler.

To give him credit, I have always loved Whitman's Samplers. I LOVE that you can look on the top of the box and see what kind each one is - it's like a prize in every candy. And I did check the points and I can have two for three points. So, I'll just eat two and close the box. I think I can do it. I'm still in my determined dieter phase.

With the box was a card he had obviously spent some time picking out and had signed lovingly. But it wasn't the present or the card or even that he had signed it "I love you with all my heart, baby." that made it special. (Yes, he is pretty fabulous.) It was the fact that the card was addressed to Fran.

Now some of you are puzzled. You are well aware that my name is not Fran. No, it's not. But this is just one of the many, many nicknames my husband has for me. At Christmas time, under the tree, I have lots of presents from him. Each one has a different name on it. My children laugh every year as they hand out the presents labeled with some of these names.

Fran: Somehow, some of Tom's relatives got my name wrong and we were both too polite to correct them. So, I was Fran for a long time.

Bob: My kids called for me when they were sick with very stuffy noses. Mom became Bob.

Darnell: This is a good one. We had a limo driver pick us up at the airport in Seattle when we were on our way to Alaska. He stood there yelling for "Darnell". We looked at each other and said "Darnell? Darnell?" It turned out he was saying my name with a Middle Eastern accent. This was the same driver who drove approximately 204 miles an hour to get to our hotel. I hope he could get those indentations from our fingers out of his seats.

Fuzz: A bad perm. 'Nuff said.

There are actually more that I can't remember at this moment. But he can. He remembers every one. He labels my cards and gifts with different nicknames and calls me by those names with teasing affection. Someone told me once that a child who has a nickname is a child who is well loved.

If that is true, I am extremely well loved. And isn't that wonderful?