Framed Photos

Tonight I gathered all of my mismatched framed pictures to make an arrangement on a bare wall. A few of the pictures are from when Pete and I were dating, some are from our engagement, others from the wedding, and so on. Right when I thought I was finished, I spotted a 2 inch frame that was exactly the right size for our 10 week ultrasound picture.

.

Pete hammered the nail and I hung the picture; it was almost too small to notice. "Just imagine how many pictures we're going to have of this mysterious person," I said. "School photos, birthday parties, vacations, holidays, graduations... And all we have now is this."

.

And then I realized that this is probably the last time that many of those pictures of Pete and I will every be on our wall. Couples with kids just don't display multiple pictures of themselves kissing on park benches or dancing at their wedding. Most of them will get tucked away into albums as we make room for the kids' portraits and family pictures, just like my pictures of friends and high school and Europe made way for these.

.

If beginnings weren't this much fun, I'd spend a lot more time crying over endings.

*photos http://www.sarahbarlow.com/

The Fan of my Dreams

I live a pretty sreamlined life, but once in a while I go a little crazy over something specific. For one week I went beserk over a pair of yellow driving shoes that I couldn't afford (see http://joyblogstotheworld.blogspot.com/2008/10/joy-ride.html). A few months later I found a knock-off pair for $15, but by then I was over my lust for golden suede, so I didn't bother.

A few months ago I was looking through a design book and I saw a vintage fan. You know, the kind they don't make anymore because of the risk of decapitation? They're so rad. I obsessed over them and went to all of my local thrift stores, but the only ones I found were online and over $75. I gave up in hopes that I would jinx it, the way you stop looking for love and then immediately meet the man of your dreams.

But it wasn't until I completely forgot about the fan that it showed up yesterday at the Salvation Army. It was in perfect vintage condition, which is to say that it's not so perfect that it looks like it came from Urban Outfitters. I stood there under the harsh white lights, surrounded by a bunch of crappy floral prints in even crappier (word?) frames, with Celine crooning "It's all coming back to me" over the radio. (Actually, I can't remember if that song was actually on the radio, or if she just started singing in my head.) It was $29.99, which is about $15 more than the price tag attached the the fan of my dreams. I tried to get it for less (isn't it fun to haggle with charity?) but I bought it for $29.99. Which, if you want to justify it, isn't any more expensive than a new fan. Pete said the exact same thing in utter confusion when I came home toting an old fan in the middle of February.

After I explained the fan, after I put the fan in three different places before determining it's location on top of the fridge, and after I sat and stared and sighed at the fan, Pete said, "Do you know how much I love to see you happy?" I turned and stared and sighed at him. "I do. And do you know how much happier you make me than a fan?" He said that he did. I sat and stared and sighed at it some more, then said, "I hope I don't chop my fingers off in that thing." Pete didn't look up from the computer.

"Of course you will, darling."

Even though we ain't got money...

Six months ago Pete and I would often say to ourselves, "We may have a tight budget, but at least we're not in debt!" It was a mantra, and like most mantras, it helped.

Then we borrowed money from parents to buy a car. I took a closer look at the loan that I had taken out for one semester of school. Pete had dental surgery sans dental insurance. Then he fell over playing frisbee, and after receiving the hospital bill, doctor's bill and radiologist's bill, we took a gander at our deductible. High.

Yesterday Pete found out that it's going to cost over four hundred dollars to register our car in Michigan. He came home and said, "I need you to say something nice. I'm discouraged about money." I thought about it a moment and then said, "At least only half of our debt is stuff that we're paying interest on." This mantra didn't end with an exclamation point like our last one did, so I don't think we'll be repeating it frequently or with the same level of snobbery.

I tried again. "Hey, listen. Either we'll pay off our debts, or we'll die first and it won't matter." I felt immediately depressed by this, but Pete seemed oddly consoled. "I never thought about it that way," he said.

"OR!" I said, "How about this: we don't have money, but I love you."

He smiled. "How about we just stop worrying about money and become hobos."

"How do you become a hobo?"

"Well," he sid, "You put some of your things in a sack, tie it to a stick, and then walk around."

"That sounds easy enough," I said. "Can we have a baby and strap it to our backs?"

"No, just us."

"Okay. Just us."

I'm Cold.

Yesterday, in response to my continuous whining and chattering about the cold, Pete suggested that every fall I make the following announcement:

"Pete, I would like you to know that I am going to be cold for the next five months. If at any point you are wondering whether or not I am comfortable, you may assume that I am not."

I am cold from roughly October 16 to March 29, and sometimes well into April. I wake up cold, I get out of the shower cold, I drive to work cold, I make dinner cold, I go to bed cold. My feet are cold, my arms are cold, my fingernails are cold. Even now at work, with no one else here to turn the heat down from the 79 degrees that I have cranked, I am cold.

The reason I can be cold in a 79 degree room is because winter emanates from my insides; it settled there when it settled in West Michigan. Winter is stored in my belly and slowly released in a steady stream of discomfort. While I may be able to layer against the Michigan winter, there is nothing I can do about the winter inside. Sometimes tea helps, but only in the temporary way that a cough drop soothes a sore throat.

And so I find myself, every year, in this race to cure winter. I make lists of the things that I like about winter (which is actually what I am supposed to be doing right now), I try to meditate in a frigid car the way a monk meditates after setting himself on fire, and I lean heavily on my fantasy life, which these days always includes a palm tree.

As for the ultimate cure (moving south), I am starting to suspect that God has me and the rest of the north under a curious delusion in order to keep us here. Case a point: Why haven't all the homeless people in Chicago walked to Miami by now? You see, there's a disease called winter and a delusion that keeps us bound to it. So we just hang around here and talk about the problem of winter for five months, until summer comes and everyone instantly starts complaining about the humidity, like idiot goldfish.

However, I feel I am on the cusp of a breakthrough, that I just may rid myself of this delusion in time to save myself. Though I may love you, I probably will not be able to help you. I imagine all southerners make a pact with God in order to maintain the weight and balance of the globe, so that they can continue living winterless lives while the north slips on its front porch in early December and falls into a black hole called Cold. And I plan to keep that pact if it is a necessary precondition.

Pete, just in case you've forgotten: I'm cold.

Pilot's Wife

About a year ago I read a novel called The Pilot's Wife. I read it because it came recommended by my mom, and also because I am a gigantic idiot. Any story about a pilot and his wife living long lives together before he dies of non-airplane related causes would NOT be in paperback and would NOT be an Oprah pick. And this book was both in paperback and Oprah's book club.

The story begins with the crash of a commercial plane at the fault of the pilot, whose wife later learns of his secret life including another wife and family in France. The story didn't affect me on a personal "I hope that doesn't happen to me" level, because my husband flies mainly what are called smallish planes, and he flies them to nearby locations. If he had another family stashed in, say, Lansing, I probably would have heard through the grapevine at Meijer by now. But the one little chapter in which she receives the news of the crash was reason enough for me to have passed up the title.

Last week I came home from work and walked over to the maintenance shop to ask Pete what his plans were for the evening. Dan, his boss, told me that he was flying with his student, and that they had flown to Claire. I found a couple more guys in the flight lounge and asked them what time Pete had left for his flight.

"He left at two," Chad said. Then, "Have you, uh, heard from him at all?"

"No..." I said. "Why?"

"Well, I might need his help swapping planes in a hanger. Let me know when you hear from him, okay?"

An hour later I was chopping vegetables and trying not to look at my watch when Nate knocked on the door. I greeted him and asked him why he had stopped by. "Pete and I are hanging out at 5:30," he said, peering into the living room, expecting to see Pete. So it was then, around 5:30, that a dull sick feeling started to grow in my middle parts.

I called Chad and asked him what I should do next, but he did the next things for me. He called the airports to track down his flight plan, then called me back to tell me that Pete wasn't following a flight plan. Nate hung around as gracious company and I chopped all of the vegetables that I could find in my house. Another hour passed, and suddenly I could no longer distract myself from the fact that my husband's plane had been missing in a snow storm for three hours.

It was then, mercifully, that I got news: Pete's student had called a friend to tell him that they were grounded and waiting for someone to pick them up. The only remaining question was, Why had Pete's student called a friend while Pete had still not contacted me? Strangely calm, I knew their had to be an explanation. There was, and it was this (in a ten step sequence):

1. Pete flew to Claire with his student, Scott.
2. Pete and Scott set out from Claire to return to Lowell, whilst forgetting Pete's cell phone.
3. Pete and Scott became surrounded by storm cells, and eventually decided to land the plane in a potato field.
4. Pete and Scott screamed, high fived, and hugged each other after successfully landing the plane in a potato field.
5. Later, at the potato farmer's house, Pete tried in vain to remember my phone number.
6. He tried in vain to remember his parents' numbers.
7. Pete remembered his childhood best friend's phone number. Mr. Searles answered.
8. Mr. Searles didn't have Pete's dad's number, but he did have Mr. McGowan's phone number.
9. A very confused Mr. McGowan gave Doug Neal's phone number to Pete.
10. Papa-in-law Neal gave his son my phone number.

"Joy,I'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorry..."

Sometimes you find yourself in a situation when you know there are multiple potential outcomes and only one good one. I fell asleep that night thinking that of all the possible outcomes of the day's events, I was given the very best one. I was given the outcome that will never be in paperback and which Oprah will never read, unless Oprah is a blog surfer, which I doubt.

Rejoice!

Messy Snow

Pete pulls up to the Meijer entrance and opens my passenger door from the inside; I kick the slosh off my red boots and throw my bag in the backseat, after retrieving the greeting card from my purchases. It is not a very good card, but I am an hour late to work on account of the snow plow getting stuck at the end of my driveway, so I didn't have time to browse. The front of the card shows two rather adorable cartoon elephants, one giving flowers to the other with her extended trunk. It says, "Some friends make your day better..." (the inside:) "... and some friends make your life better. Thank you for doing both." It's for my boss, Renae, on her last day of work. My handwriting is hopeless on these slippery roads.

"I love this song," I say to Pete, even though he already knows how much I love this song. "I know," he says, even though he knows that I know that he knows, which is why he is playing it. I am trying to invert the u and l in wonderful (which I have spelled "wonderflu") when he says, "I have a confession to make."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Okay. So, you know how I don't like a lot of the music you like, and how I'll make fun of it?"

"Yes."

"Well, sometimes when you're not with me, I listen to it. Not because I like it, but because I miss you. That's my confession."

It is one of the sweetest things he's said to me. "Pete. That's one of the sweetest things you've said to me. I wish you would have said that to me some other time, because right now I need to finish writing this card." I can't think of the next sentence to write, so I stare at the elephants. Suddenly my face is contorted and I'm crying. I'm crying thinking about my husband listening to music that I love while he pines for me. And I'm crying because I finally realize that today is Renae's last day.

It's not just that she's a great boss. It's that my boss has been making my day better for two years. It's that on my first shift, Renae casually said, "I feel like I've known you my whole life instead of a few hours," which was exactly what I had been thinking at that particular moment. It's that Renae can sing either "Delta Dawn" or "One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus," and I immediately laugh, every time, for reasons that remain funny even though I've long forgotten them. It's that though I claim to like change, the truth is that I count on a few mainstays amidst the change, and Renae was a mainstay. Realizing that she is leaving while I think of Pete listening to Regina Spektor (whose voice grates on his nerves) is unbearable from a dry-cheek standpoint.

Crying would be sweeter if it didn't streak my face with mascara. The snow would be lovely if it weren't getting mauled by dirty tire tracks. This whole day has been one big mess of a storm, starting with the snow plow getting stuck in our driveway. It's been a mess of a storm, and I'm blessed to be weathering it.

.

Home is Where Your Airplane Is

Ever wonder what it would be like to live at an aiport? Me neither. But now I know.

This is how it happened:

When the door of opportunity in Virginia was closed, Pete and I decided to peek into some other doors. In particular, we were looking for doors that didn't belong to smallish one bedroom loft apartments with no closet space. So I called a landlord through a connection and started dreaming about a little two bedroom duplex in Grand Rapids.

Then Pete said, "Would you consider living at the airport?"

I said, "No."

Then the deal maker: "It's free rent."

I snapped my finger in that "gosh darn" fashion, because of course I should consider anything with free rent, even if it is an airport in smalltownville.

We walked through two flight offices, a little cubby room dubbed "the cave," a "parts room," an empty room with various large outlets, and a bathroom with a toilet and stall shower. These rooms were all my blank canvas, Pete explained, for (respectively): an office, a bedroom, a walk in closet, a living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom.

"But there's no oven, sink, fridge, or countertops!"

"Uh huh."

"I could maybe deal with this shower for five months, tops."

"Joy, you're going to be a missionary."

"I could fix it up however I want?"

"However you want. Except, no weird colors on the walls. Eventually intern guys will be living here."

So we went out to lunch and ran some calculations. Within a few days we had a fridge, countertops and oven for a total of $100... at which point I considered possible careers in craigslisting. A little later, Pete's family came and helped me put paint on the walls. Two weeks after that, Bethany drove up because I told her I needed help sewing. What I really needed was my best friend and a little sanity. She provided both.

"It's cute, hun. It's going to be really fun. You will totally survive."

"Beth? Did you see the shower stall?"

"It's cute, hun. It's going to be really fun. You will totally survive. Let's get to work."

And after weeks of work and a sad goodbye to apartment 302, we moved in.

Last night Pete and I finished dinner, played some cards, then settled into the living room for The Office. I turned off the overhead lights and opted for our two floor lamps, which is when Pete said, "Hey! You did it! This is a living room!" I surveyed the work of my hands, and agreed. The "oyster shell" walls glowed warmly, the bookcase was filled with colorful spines, and my favorite craig's list find--an eleven foot couch--stretched out before us. It was home. We finished our hot chocolate and our episode, and then Pete said, "Let's go to bed."

So we stepped out of our living room, passed three airplanes on our left, and walked up the stairs to our bedroom.

Home is wherever I live with Pete. And right now, home is rent-free.

(Pictures to come.)

Settling

I like to live on the edge as much as the next girl. In fact, I think I like life on the edge even more than the next girl. When Pete asked me if I would marry him, the underlying question was, "Do you mind living in Grand Rapids while I fly airplanes for an undetermined amount of time before I take you and our children to a yet-to-be determined continent for another undetermined amount of time?"

And I said, "Show me da RING!" (Actually, that was the underlying meaning to the sweet "yes" that I gave him.) Living in the moment is something that I signed up for, and something that I take pleasure in.

But after five months of limbo, here is why knowing where I am going to live for the next three years is so much better than not knowing where I'm going to live for the next three years:

Because in every way, it is.

Hands down, no contest, it is so much better.

Today Pete got the We're Going in a Different Direction letter that he's been dreading from a flight company in Virginia. By all accounts he should have gotten the job. They said they were hiring, he has the experience needed, he went to apply face-to-face, the interviews went well, and they've been encouraging him all along to finish his requirements. The only thing that would make sense of it is if God actually answered our prayers for a clean "no" if the job wasn't best for our marriage and our future.

There are a lot of reasons why this job was potentially bad for our marriage and our future. For one thing, Pete would have had to travel up to three weeks at a time, and I'm sorry, but we sucked at long distance relationship. 14 hours is a long car ride from your family, friends and support system, especially when you're thinking of having your first baby in the next couple of years. And the surveillance work that Pete was going to be doing... well... he told me once, casually, that it wasn't "the safest thing" that he could be doing. So if any of those things would have caused unnecessary damage (or, you know, death) I am deeply thankful for the We're Going In a Different Direction letter that Pete got in the mail today. And he seems okay, too.

The first thing that we decided to do is update our car registration. Next, we're going to move to an apartment with more space and a washer and drier, because two years is a long time to live in essentially one room with hardly any clean underwear, let me tell you. After we update our car registration and move to a new apartment, we're going to go ahead and get really attached to a lot of friends, instead of preparing to say goodbye. And in January, we're both going back to school.

Knowing where you're going to live is so much better than not knowing where you're going to live, especially when you get to live next to a church you love, a community you've invested in, friends you enjoy, and an afternoon's drive from family.

And to top it all off, I woke up this morning knowing exactly who I am going to vote for.

I haven't felt this settled in a long time.

.

6:00 am.

No one has ever accused me of being a morning person, but if they did, I would be ready to go toe to toe with my accuser. Because the facts are on my side.

FACT:

This morning Pete woke me up as we was leaving for work, and I looked up at him with the same puffy, bewildered eyes that I always greet him with early morning, along with my bad-breath kiss for which I always apologize.

But this particular morning, something was wrong. Terribly wrong. There was this... this... strange sensation in my neck! It felt like, sandpaper? No! Well, kind of. But also like I had swallowed something very sticky, like honey, followed by a mouthful of teeny tiny thorns.

"Pete! There's something wrong!"

"What's wrong?"

"I can't - I can't tell. It's like..." I swallowed twice, very intently. "It's like I swallowed something terrible that sticking to the sides of my neck and it feels AWFUL."

He waited a moment, then asked, "Do you have a sore throat?"

I contemplated this.

"Yes. I have a sore throat. That's right."

Pete: "Well, I hope you feel better."

"Thank you."

And this is why I don't think I should for any reason be forced to wake myself before nine in the morning. Because before 9, I forget words and basic concepts, which I think are very important in knowing when and when not to panic, especially when you wake up feeling like you've just gulped a handful of teeny tiny thorns.

The Story of Monday

There are some stories that need to be told, and some days that need to be preserved in memory. This is not that kind of story, and this past Monday was not that kind of day. But I'm going to tell it, regardless, because it was such an entirely useless day that I feel I need to put it to some kind of use, if not just as material to practice telling stories.

"The pizza should be out of the oven at 7:30," Pete said at 7:20 pm on Monday.

"You'll be out of the shower by then, no?" I asked. The apartment was stifling and I had no desire to go near the hot oven that had been 'preheating' for the entire hour that I had been at Target.

"Yeah, I should be out of the shower by then."

"Pete?" I asked.

"Yes?"

"I have a request. No, a demand." I sat on the bed, crossed my legs, and tossed the Target bag aside. "I demand that you play the High Society Music."

The High Society Music is a wonderful trick that I just discovered Pete can do. We had been watching the John Adams story, and Pete started "playing" along with the music in a party scene. He motioned like he was playing a little flute, then a little tiny mandolin of some sort, and a bunch of other instruments that I don't know the names of but always hear in the kinds of movies where men in wigs are dancing. Soon Pete started making noises like the instruments, and then his eyebrows raised really really high on his forehead, and it was just about the most fantastic spectacle I have ever seen: him humming and whistling and pantomiming about 10 instruments at once.

"I demand that you play the High Society Music," I said again. "Right. Now."

"Joooyyy," he groaned. "I'm not going to play the High Society music. I'm going to shower."

"No! Play it!"

Reluctantly he started playing a little air flute, then slowly added new instruments, until he was playing an unidentifiable brass instrument with a great amount of gusto. I laughed and laughed and laughed and rolled on the bed and laughed some more. Soon we were both laughing and being altogether silly, and a whole slew of inside jokes and bits started pouring out, until it was 7:30 and the pizza was ready.

Pete said, "Okay, go get the pizza. I'm going to shower."

"I don't want to get the pizza," I said. "Will you go get it before you jump in the shower?" He laughed, scurried into the bathroom and locked the door. I was instantly furious.

I knocked on the door and yelled over the noise of the shower, "I'm not getting the pizza! You said YOU would make the pizza! I always end up getting it out. I'm hot and I don't want to go near the oven."

I went back to sorting my Target items. 7:31. "I'M NOT GETTING THE PIZZA!"

7:32: "I told you, I'm NOT getting the PIZZA. It's BURNING!"

7:34: (Knock, pound, knock): "I told you, I'm not getting the PIZZZAAAA!!!"

I heard the shower turn off, and Pete said, "Wait. You mean the pizza is still in the oven?"

"Yes."

"You didn't get the pizza out of the oven?"

"No. I did not. Just as I've been telling you."

"Joy! I can't hear anything in the shower!" He got out of the shower, wrapped himself in a towel and went to get the burnt pizza out of the oven. "Thanks a lot," I heard him mutter as he stepped back into the shower.

By then I was feeling pretty stupid. But I still had my pride, unfortunately. So when Pete got out of the shower and asked, "Okay, now why didn't you get the pizza?" I was fully prepared to stand by my actions.

"Because I am hot, and the oven has been preheating for an hour. You said you would put in the pizza an hour ago. I came back from Target and it was thawed on the counter. You could have put it in the oven before you got in the shower, and I TOLD you that I wasn't going to do it. You got in the shower anyways, and I didn't take it out of the oven."

"So you let our dinner burn out of spite."

"Well, you ran into the bathroom even though you knew I didn't want to take it out. And I thought that was spiteful."

"Joy," he said patiently, as though I were four (which, at this point, could be logically argued), "Even if I were spite-ing you, why would you want to spite me?"

"Because, Pete. I'm not a better person than you. I'm just the same or worse."

At 9:00 pm on Monday I put a pan of brownie batter in the back of the car. I hadn't had time to bake them since we had made two frozen pizzas, but I would put them in our friend's oven and we'd have hot brownies halfway through the Heroes premiere. Pete got into the driver's seat and we made conversation as he turned out of our apartment complex, onto East Paris, and eventually onto 44th st. "Now," he said, "It's one of these little neighborhoods on the left."

"You have the address and directions, right?" I asked.

"No. I've been here before."

I took a deep breath. "Pete, we came here one time a year ago. It was daytime then. And we were coming from a different direction."

"Joy, it's fine. Well, it's not this one..." He turned back onto 44th st.

"Would you please call Joe?" I asked.

"I don't have my cell phone with me."

"Fine, I'll call." I looked through my purse, then remembered that i had changed jeans just before stepping out the door, and my cell phone was in the pockets. "So," I set out to clarify, "You are driving in the dark, depending on your memory from a year ago, and you didn't check to make sure you had your Blackberry with its nifty Mapquest feature that we are paying $30 a month for."

40 minutes later we pulled back into our driveway. The brownie batter had slid to one side of the pan. We walked up the stairs to our apartment and returned calls to let our friends know that we were alive. Barely.

"Well, what do you want to do?" Pete asked.

"I want to go to Family Video and get the next season of Seinfeld." So we went to Family Video, but they didn't have the next season of Seinfeld.

10:30, back at home, Pete presented me with my catalog that had come in the mail. He said, "You know what I think? I think that you should look through this catalog and get anything you want. And I'll pick up extra hours at work to pay for it. You work really hard and I'm sorry about tonight, and I want to do something to make you feel happy."

I leafed through the catalog at the wide-leg jeans that I've wanted and the winter coats and blouses, boots, cardigans.

"I'm sorry I let the pizza burn."

"I know."

"I really wish you would plan ahead with things."

"I know."

"I'll try to stear away from the $200 coats, even though they're really cute."

"I said 'anything,' Joy."

Softly, meekly: "Will you play the High Society music?"

"No, I'm going to bed." He started up the stairs.

"But I DEMAND it!"

MAX

I was reading through some old stuff and found these last two little pieces about Max, Pete's bird... thought I'd post em. They actually go before "Animal Hospital Walls," but oh well. The bird is dead. Chronology doesn't matter so much anymore.

January

MAX

Max is Pete's Cockateil that he's had since he was 12 years old, after his dad accidentally killed Max 1 by leaving the blanket over his cage while the family vacationed. Birds don't eat in the dark, so Max 1 starved himself in a dark cage. The story of Max 1 is very tragic, but Pete's dad made up for it by buying Max 2, who looks just like Max 1 but turned out to be a girl. Maxine is her full name. She reaped the benefits of her predecessor's demise and was taken on the family vacations.

About two months ago, Pete noticed a small growth on her left wing. She'd had one before, but it had fallen off shortly after it developed. This one did not fall off. It grew to the size of a jelly bean - and not like the yummy little Jelly Belly kind, but like the big, sugary, nasty kind that grandmas set out around Christmas. It surpassed the size of the Christmas jelly bean, and then Pete got nervous. He researched bird tumors online. Most of the forums said to take her to the vet. Others explained that it would be highly unlikely for a bird of her age to make it through any kind of surgery. Another suggested that he tie off the growth and let it die, which he did. The growth turned dark by that night, and shortly after Max began pecking at it. Max now looks like a warrior that has barely survived battle. The left side of her face is coated in dry blood, and her growth is inexplicable. Pete cleans her off as best as he can and he continues to tie off the growth because it is dying. Unfortunately, Max may as well.

Pete dressed for work tonight in my favorite pinstripe button-down and blue tie. I asked him if he was Okay, and he said Not really. Then he asked me to take his picture with Max. We closed the closet doors for a basic background, and he carefully extracted Max from her cage. Lifting his finger level to his face, he positioned her so that her good side faced the camera and he smiled. It was a proud, sad smile: a man and his bird. He smiled again, a tender smile, and I took that picture too. I said, One more, and this time he couldn't lift the corners of his mouth very high. He looked at Max, and I captured that sweet exchange. And then he started to cry. He put Max back in her cage and I held him while we cried together. I tried to wrap my arms around both the 12 year old boy that picked Max out in a pet store and the 24 year old man that now is worried that she's suffering and that he's not doing the right thing.

I prayed and thanked Jesus for seeing the small parts of our life, and asked him to alleviate any pain that Max may be feeling. I asked for wisdom as to whether or not we should put her down tomorrow, which I know is all Pete will be thinking about while he works tonight.I promised to call him at work if anything happens, and I told him to be at peace. Max is now huddled in the corner of her cage, sleeping, I hope. And even though I never wanted this bird in the first place, and even though I know she has never liked me, I wish with all of my heart that I could mend her and give her back to Pete.

See? I would say. All better, now.


BIRD IN A PINK COFFIN

I took off my boots and ran upstairs to the sound of Max's wings flopping in her cage. She was tossing as if some invisible force was throwing punches and beating the shit out of her. Her head craned back into an unnatural arch and then she suddenly stopped, panting. I called Pete to tell him that Max had seizure, but he walked in the door before he could pick up.

Pete sat with Max, his bird of 12 years, as she continued to have seizures in ten minute intervals. I couldn't watch, but I returned upstairs now and then to put my arms around him as scratched the back of her neck with his fingertip. After about forty-five minutes he looked at me and said, "I guess I should kill her."I looked at Max and her bloody tumor; she was shivering slightly and looked scared. I looked at Pete and his full, watery eyes. He looked scared, too. I called animal hospitals, but the only one open past six didn't accept birds. I googled terms like: "most humane way to kill a bird" and kept clicking, hoping to find something that didn't suggest cutting off her head.

Finally I called the pet store in Chicago that Max came from, and talked to a bird expert named Julie. She suggested that we put Max in a box, tie up the box, and place her in a freezer. The cold would drop her body temperature so drastically that she would quickly fall asleep, and die shorty after.

The only box I could find around the right size was a Victoria's Secret gift box leftover from a wedding shower. It was a little big, so we lined one side with a bag of frozen peas, then laid one sheet of paper towel along the bottom. We put on our shoes and coats, and Pete grabbed his wallet. With a last goodbye, we placed her frail bird body into the pink coffin, tied it with a ribbon, and placed her on the bottom shelf of the freezer. We ran down to our car, and went out to eat with our friends as planned.

Two hours later, I was giving our friends a tour of our apartment. I came back downstairs and gave Pete a hug and asked how he was doing. He hugged me back and said uncertainly, "Well. Max is still with us. " I lurched out of his arms and covered my open mouth. "Yeah," he said, "I opened the box, and she peaked her head out as if to say, 'Hi. Can I come out of the freezer, now?'"

Max is now sitting in her cage and responds with a whistle whenever Pete says her name. The tumor is still there, and so is the fear that her seizures will start up again. But as far as I can tell, the freezer cured our bird.

The freezer cured our bird.

We put our bird in the freezer.

We placed Max in a lingire box, tied it with a satin ribbon, and set her on the bottom shelf.

"It shouldn't take very long," Julie said. "Her body should fall asleep within ten minutes, and shortly after, she will die. This is probably the least traumatic way to handle it."

Getting the Love You Want

As I was checking in an elderly couple at the hotel, the gentleman glanced at my book laying down on the counter. "So," he asked kindly, "are you getting the love that you want?" He was referencing the title.

This would have been somewhat embarrassing, but I was actually able to tell him that I in fact am getting the love that I want. "My husband and I are taking a marriage class," I explained, "and this is the book it's based on."

"A marriage class?" His wife asked. "Well isn't that wonderful, dear." She looked at her husband. "John, isn't that wonderful?"

Before Pete and I married, we read a lot of books about marriage and we talked a lot about our relationship. Regardless of how in love and perhaps blind we were, a rational part of us wanted to make sure we covered all of our bases so that we wouldn't make a terrible, binding mistake. It was exhausting being so passionately in love while remaining open to the possibility of breaking it off and seeing other people.

Once we finally got married, it was like a huge weight had been lifted. The decision had been made. And for once, it was nice just to be in a relationship without constantly having to analyze it and weigh it and discuss it. So we didn't read any books, and we didn't talk with any older or wiser couples. We just ate breakfast and went to work and watched movies and had a lot of sex. Bliss.

Now, about a year and a half later, it's time to start discussing our relationship again. We're taking a class with our church based on the New York Times bestseller, Getting the Love You Want. Each class starts with a "romantic interlude," which this week entailed of whispering to your spouse a memory from the first time you made love. Pete whispered so quietly there that I could barely hear him myself. I think I caught, "You looked beautiful, and it was kind of complicated."

Next we watch videos of Hendrix and Helen, who are married, but maintain several separate professional last names. Helen has so many last names that I can only assume she kept her mother's, her father's, and her ex-husband's, but chose not to take Hendrix's. Hendrix and Helen both are prototypes of male and female psychologists, in that he has glasses and a beard and she has an unruly head of curls. They sit in opposite chairs and they demonstrate the Couple's Dialogue.

The Couple's Dialogue has three parts: mirroring, validating, and empathizing. I will now demonstrate a dialogue that Pete and I practiced with at class.

Joy: I would like to tell you about a dream that I had last night.

Pete: What you are telling me is that you had a dream last night which you want to tell me about. Did I get that right?

Joy: Yes. I had a dream last night that I was eating breakfast with Abraham Lincoln, and he was just now leaving office in 2008.

Pete: So, in this dream, you were eating breakfast with Abraham Lincoln. It struck you as odd that he was leaving office in 2008.

Joy: Almost. It didn't strike me as odd in the actual dream. But I think that it is odd now that I am consciously thinking about it.

Pete: So Abraham Lincoln was leaving office in 2008, but this did not seem odd in the dream. Did I catch that?

Joy: Yes.

Pete: Is there more?

Joy: Yes. In the dream, I asked Abraham Lincoln what he was planning to do after he left office, and he said that he was going to move to New Zealand because their stock market was good, as well as the weather.

Pete: In your dream Abraham Lincoln conveyed his plans to you, which were to move to New Zealand because of the better stock market and climate. Is that right?

Joy: Yes.

Pete: Is there more?

Joy: Well... now that you ask... I'm remembering that I had a hard time falling asleep last night. And at some point I thought that maybe I should take a sleeping pill. Thinking about sleeping pills made me think about that commercial with Abraham Lincoln and the groundhog who are missing from people's dreams because these people can't sleep. So I think that's why I had a dream about Abraham Lincoln.

Pete: If I'm getting this right, you thought about Abraham Lincoln before you went to sleep, and you think that may be the reason that you had a dream about him.

Joy: Yes. Also, I think that I couldn't fall asleep last night because I took that long nap. So maybe I should cut back on naps and just depend on a good night's sleep.

Pete: Is there any more?

Joy: No.

After Pete summarizes the conversation in whole, he asks, "Did I get all of that?" And then I say, "Yes, I think so."

Joy: Yes, I think so.

Pete: Well, I think that makes a lot of sense that you would dream about Abraham Lincoln after thinking about him. And I also think it is valid that you may have slept poorly because you took a nap. I feel your dilemma, because I think I sometimes don't sleep as well because of the naps that I take. If you want to try skipping your naps, I'd be happy to help you in any way that I can.

THE END

So, basically, the Couple's Dialogue is a great tool to make sure that the one partner feels respected and heard-out before the other partner tries to either defend him or herself or offer solutions. It is also a great tool to drive you a little crazy.

Of course, what it is actually good for is providing structure around heated discussions. "I would like to tell you about a dream I had last night" is one thing; "I would like to tell you about how you made a complete fool of me in front of everyone" is another. It takes great patience to parrot back, "So what you're saying is that you felt as though I was being a jerk to you and trying to expose you in front of everyone," instead of saying, "Honey, you got this all wrong; it was a joke." You can always just wait until there is no more, and say, "I would like to have a dialogue about why I think that you should lighten up a little."

Helen, Hendrix and Abraham Lincoln aside, it feels really good to be back in our groove, analyzing and fine-tuning our relationship. Marital bliss can get a little boring. Sometimes you need to throw in some couple's dialogue to spice things up.

- January 08

Poop Water

I woke up at 10:30 am and calculated the hours before I had to leave for work. Pete had just fallen into bed three hours prior after his overnight shift. I kissed him lightly and scooted out of bed. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and went to the bathroom.

The last part of this daily routine, however, turned out to be a colossal mistake. Because if you ever have spicy chili for dinner, you can pretty much bank on the fact that the toilet is not going to work in the morning. If you also ate the greasy appetizer, you should probably just find an outhouse or secluded bush. Which is exactly what I wished I had done as I inspected the toilet tank and began plunging a swamp of dirty poop water.

After about ten minutes of plunging and pulling on ever lever in the tank, it became pretty apparent that I wasn't getting anywhere. So I took a break and checked my email. Around 11:00 I went back into the bathroom, secretly hoping that poo fairies would have snuck in and taken care of it for me. Instead, I realized that the toilet bowl was slowly filling with more water. I plunged it down to a safe level, trying to use my peripheral vision to make sure that I was plunging accurately. I nearly barfed at the site of my own crap. 20 minutes later, I was angry.

"What's wrong with the bathroom door?" Pete asked.

"I slammed it," I said. "That's what's wrong with the door." I didn't care how juvenile I was being.

"Why would you slam the door?"

"Because I've spent half my freaking morning trying to get the freaking toilet to flush, and it's disgusting and I can't do it, and I need help." I plopped on the bed with childish dramatics. Then I followed him to the bathroom.

"Okay," I said, "but can you fix it without looking in the toilet bowl? Just, you know, lift up the tank lid and figure out what's wrong."He looked at me a little sideways. "Joy, why does it matter if I look in the toilet bowl? It's just poop. Do you think your poop is more gross than my poop?"

"Yes. I do."

He was being extremely patient. "Well, I want to help you, but eventually I'm going to have to look to make sure it's not overflowing."

Very suddenly, my face contourted and I started to cry. I cried big, loud sobs. I cried hiccups, gurgles, and spilling tears. "It's just so gross, and I don't want you to see it. I need you to fix it but I don't want you to see it. It's disgusting, nasty poop water and it's probably more gross than anything that has ever come out of you."

"Are you really crying because you don't want me to see your poop water?" he asked. I nodded yes, and he pulled me into a hug. Then he started laughing. He laughed big belly laughs... rolling and overflowing laughs. This made me sob even harder, so we stood together in the stinky bathroom, him laughing and me crying, and meanwhile the basin continued to fill up little by little. He took the tank lid off and began filling it with a lot more water than I had thought necessary. Then he pressed the flusher and lifted the lid to the toilet bowl. He saw me cringe and said, "Joy, it looks just like my poop water." The swamp began to swirl, and then it dissapreared. I can't imagine a dessert wanderer would breathe a deeper sigh of relief than I did at the sight of clean water. It gurgled up triumphantly and settled in the bowl

Sometimes I need someone to help me with my shit, but don't want them to actually look at my shit. It doesn't really work that way. What I need is for someone else to open the toilet bowl and then hold me.

"Your humantiy looks just like my humanity," I need to hear. "And I can help you.".

License and Registration, Please

I've been driving a car with expired registration for nearly two years now, and let me tell you that life as a fugitive has been rough. In the past when I saw a police officer in my rear view mirror I would simply check my speed and remind myself to keep a special eye out for stop signs and school buses. (Because, of course, the only time you don't notice the big yellow bus in front of you is when there is a police car behind you). But now that I've had this neon-reflective sticker on my license plate with the numbers "06" irrefutably printed, everything is completely out of my control.

I know it doesn't have to be like this. At least, I know this at a cognitive level. But between my out-of-state move, the missing title and registration to my car (as well as my missing birth certificate, passport, marriage license, and every other documentation proving that I am alive), I have started to lose hope of this process ever resulting in current license plates. Probably it will end when the government finds out that I don't exist, and they put me in exile or something, after I file my taxes, of course.

The bright side is that I have become an immaculate driver through this experience. This is because I treat every vehicle as though it were an unmarked police car, even the mini-vans with hand smears on the windows. All that this has really done is piss off the people behind me as I drive precisely one mile under the speed limit at all times. But the hand-smeared mini-vans have had no reason to pull me over and smack me with a ticket for expired plates, that's for darn sure.

My husband has joined me in my life of crime; his plates expired just a couple months after mine. I suppose some couples have worked out who the responsible one is going to be, but we're still battling it out to see who will cave. He did get pulled over the other day. I was in the car with him. When the lights starting swirling and he pulled over into a lot, I patted him on the knee and said, "I'm right here, honey." What I was really thinking was, Thank God we took his car, because he is going DOWN. In the end, the officer gave him a Promise to Comply, which is just like a Super Duper Promise with a dotted like to sign on. He'll probably get his plates taken care of, and I'll be forced to continue my unlawful ways alone.

scars and secrets

.

There are two pieces of information that I request from him on a nearly bi-monthly basis. One I request right before he falls asleep, in hopes that delirium might make him uninhibited. I pull the blanket over our heads and say, "Tell me your secrets."

So far, I haven't asked him at just the right moment before sleep, because he always responds with, "Joy, I don't have any secrets. I've already told you all of them." One time I told him just to make some up, which he did. They were all either boring or unbelievable. I fell asleep unsatisfied.

My other favorite thing to ask him is where the scars on his hands are from. I usually notice them at the dinner table, and I find them personal, endearing, and manly. One is from the time he jumped off the stage at high school and caught his hand on a music stand. Another is from his watch when it got pulled in a game of football. He can't remember what the other three are from, but I keep asking him in case he suddenly remembers.

I have a feeling they are from a secret government mission that he has yet to tell me about.

.

end of the month starvation

.

I haven't quite figured out our food budget. Actually, I have figured out our food budget, but I haven't really implemented my knowledge and made the right decisions. As a result, we tend to eat steak and asparagus at the beginning of the month, and bagels with peanut butter at the end of the month. My body seems to be adjusting to this cycle.

It's not that there isn't money in the spending account, in the gas account, the savings account, one of the other 11 "accounts" we have arranged on a spreadsheet. It's a matter of discipline, of principle. With the right amount of planning, I can make substantial meals for one month on the budget we determined.

In my world, "giving up" looks like an extra bottle of peanut butter in my shopping cart. I currently have two in the pantry.

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