CSquaredPlus3

V-Day BK [before kids]

Valentine's Day circa 1996...

Chris would check tires, chains, brakes and ensure we had extra tubes and the proper allen wrenches for our bikes.  I made sure we had snacks.

We'd head to the desert, ride for a while and stop for lunch.  Pop-Tarts and water under a tree.

I frequently crashed -- usually pedaling uphill -- and Chris always sacrificed his water to clean my scratches.  Sometimes I cried... pain, frustration, fatigue or nothing more than a bruised ego.  Chris was never sharp with me.  You almost had it.  Take as long as you need -- we have plenty of time.

We don't have those bikes, that truck, or live near the tree.  And my leg sports a wrinkled knee, a few scars and evidence of Pop-Tart consumption [as all of our legs should].

But we still have each other this Valentine's Day.  Plus three handsome reminders of what intoxication on Pop-Tarts and water -- plus playing a little doctor -- can produce.

Happy V-Day.

Ice In The Urinal And Family Traditions

I liked the Grapenuts in my cauliflower fondue at the Renegade Canteen.  Dinner with my parents, minus the kids was what Chris and I needed after a long 4th of July weekend in the Arizona desert.

**********

It's become a family tradition, the July pilgrimage to Scottsdale, Arizona.  We stay at Mom and Dad's for a week, swim, celebrate the 4th, visit family and friends, and try to relax.  There's usually a little drama.  A boy finds a scorpion in his room, runs into a jumping cholla, and someone gets a speeding ticket... or two.

[Chris and the boys - funky white.]

[This jumping cholla was stuck on the 4YO's ankle.]

[Dad sleeping, the boys watching TV.]

And every summer, I learn something new.

**********

Mom, Dad, Chris and I were enjoying food, drink and conversation at what has become another family tradition, the End-Of-Vacation-Adult-Dinner.  Poor Uncle Joe and Aunt Stephanie [my brother and his wife] were graciously babysitting the boys, foregoing the grown-up outing.  Unfortunately for them, this is part of the tradition.  [Joe, I love you, man.]

[Enjoying dinner... Mom and Dad.  Chris and me - braces off in October!]

Mom and I excused ourselves and went to the ladies' room.  When we returned to the table, Mom said to Dad, "Our bathroom was nice. How was yours?"  Because as most women know, it's all about the bathroom.

"It was fine.  There was ice in the urinal."

We all laughed.  Dad made a funny.

"Seriously.  There wasn't ice in the urinal, was there?" Mom asked as we both studied our husband's faces for signs of lying.

Dad nodded, yes.

Chris nodded, yes.

Dad and Chris explained that ice in men's rooms is common and nothing new.  Mom and I still weren't convinced.  How could she be married to my father for 47 years and not know about ice in the urinal?  I felt the same.

"Why haven't you told me about ice in the urinal?" I asked Chris.

"It's not a big deal."

"I think it's weird you've never mentioned it.  ...  And I still don't believe you."  It might have been the Chianti fueling my fire, but I wanted proof.

Chris and I walked to the men's room.  He wasn't thrilled, but he's a good husband and he knew his wife had had enough Chianti to do it by herself if he didn't cooperate.

"It's empty.  Have at it," he said as he opened the door for me.

And I'll be damned...

 

We returned to the table and I showed Mom the pictures.  The guys were telling the truth.  But now we wanted to know why.  Why was there ice in the urinal?

Dad and Chris shrugged.  Not only had they kept it a secret all these years, they had never bothered to ask why the ice was used. 

We asked the waitress.  She had been a server for a decade and had never heard about ice in the urinal.  How did she not know about this?  We asked the busboy, but the slight language barrier resulted in smiling, scurrying and more ice in our drinks.

The waitress said she would talk to the manager and get back to us.  Dad left her his card and he recently received an email that said in part:

...here's the answer for your questions.  There is nothing special about it.  It was out of necessity.  They had issue with not enough flow of the water to flush urine at the time.  So they used ice to add water flow.

Regardless of the ice, or the reason for the ice, what I still can't get over is that I'm 44-years-old, my mother is... older, and neither one of us knew about this.

I wonder what I'll learn next summer.

Tough Negotiator

December 1989
Chris and I had been married just over a month and were excited to purchase our first Christmas tree together.  Our budget was $20.  Not much, even twenty years ago.

We visited two Christmas tree lots and both times I immediately told the lot owner, "We want the biggest tree you can give us for $20!"  Neither lot had a tree taller than three feet available for that price.

As we got in the car without a tree the second time, Chris said, "Please don't say anything at the next lot.  Let me do the negotiating."

I tried.  Chris patiently followed the lot owner from tree to tree, nodding his head, whittling the price down.  I dutifully stood beside Chris and tried to look young and sweet... and poor.  Things weren't moving fast enough.  I felt an opening, sensed a softness growing in the lot owner.  "This tree is perfect for our apartment, but we only have $20," I said.

We left the lot without a tree again.

**********

Purchasing cars, houses, negotiating in general, is not my strength.  I show my hand too quickly... Would you like to see our bank accounts?  I pay more than is necessary because I trust the seller... He TOLD me this was a good deal.  Why would he lie?  Or I kill the transaction because I spastically blurt the wrong thing at the wrong time... Are you trying to screw me?

We bought a car recently and Chris reminded me several times to please just shhh.  He's kinder than most partners would be with my track record, "I know you're only trying to help, but you've got to let me handle this.  Don't say anything about money.  Try not to say anything at all... in front of anyone.  You and I need to talk privately."

It was hard, but I did it.

**********

Yesterday, we had a new guy do some yard work for us.  He gave me a bid for the work a couple of weeks ago.  It sounded... fine.  [What do I know?]  The man worked hard in the hot sun all day, the bushes and beds looked groomed and tidy and he was a pleasant person.

I gave the guy a check, came in the house and told Chris how pleased I was with the work that had been done.  I said, "He tried to charge us less than his original bid.  But, I reminded him... it was such a hot day... plus he's got to haul all that stuff away and unload it."

"So, you paid him more?"

"... ... ...  I don't want him to feel like we're taking advantage of him," I said.

"So, you negotiated up?"

Chris was calm, but he added, "Don't do that."

**********

I have a little money.  Anyone want some?

[Image courtesy of Google Images]

In Sync

I'm not exaggerating when I say our three sons were all dreadful sleepers as infants and toddlers.  Even now, at the ages of 12, 10 and 4, we rarely make it through an entire week without a middle-of-the-night blood sugar issue, bed-wetting incident or nightmare.  Sleep deprivation is debilitating, especially when it lasts for years.  Not that it's a competition, but it takes a lot for someone to trump the length and extent of sleep deprivation that Chris and I have endured.  Regardless, we muster compassion for anyone who's experienced lack of sleep, even those on the less severe end of the spectrum.

Chris' career hasn't required him to travel much over the years, which means we've been able to enjoy most of the hellish, sleepless nights together.  Recently Chris has been traveling a bit more.  With the boys a little older and all of us better rested, a sharp contrast has emerged in how I physiologically react when Chris tells me he has a trip approaching and how I ultimately manage the challenge.

**********

NEWS OF THE TRIP
Then - Seize, whine, then apologize to Chris for seizing and whining, and immediately start mini-therapying myself by repeating affirmations of my patient mothering skills and ability to function on zero sleep.

Now - Calmly say, "No problem," plan what shows I'll watch after the kids go to bed and debate internally if it's poor parenting to have a glass or two of wine when Chris is out of town.

ANTICIPATION
Then - Knowing Chris had a trip planned created tremendous anxiety for me.  I lost precious sleep worrying about the fact that I would get even less sleep when he was away.  I always managed my single-parenting days and nights better than I thought I would, but with the fear I might "fail" [not knowing what that would look like, but knowing I didn't want to find out] sitting on my shoulder.

Now - I don't hyperventilate anymore when Chris gives me his travel dates.  Occasionally the boys and I have a long night or complicated day, but we don't have multiple challenging days stacked one on top of the other, week after week, month after month, year after year.  I can deal with "typical" curve balls.

SLEEP
Then - I simply didn't sleep well, if at all.  The kids were up many times a night.  Someone usually threw-up.  If it wasn't a child, it was a dog.  When the house was quiet for twenty minutes at 2:00 AM, instead of sleeping, I tortured myself with envious thoughts of Chris sleeping soundly in a hotel bed while simultaneously missing him in ours.  I struggled with bad dreams, so I rarely slept deeply.

Now - I sleep great.  Sometimes a boy needs something in the night, but it's manageable.  I still have a vivid imagination and experience a nightmare once in a while, but it seems better now.  Maybe because I'm getting more sleep.  It's also much easier to make my bed in the morning.  I enjoy that.  Bonus!

SCHEDULES [Chris takes the older boys to school when he's home.]
Then - Awakening a baby who slept poorly the night prior, placing him in a backward facing car seat when what he really wanted to do was nurse [ALL DAY], was difficult.  The four-year-old [then baby] was a car screamer.  It upset the two older boys and lasted until he was three-years-old.  No joke.

Now - I prepare the four-year-old the night prior, explaining his father is out of town so we get to take the big boys to school.  This reverse psychology worked a few times but now he groans.  He doesn't like being woken from a deep sleep, pulled from a warm bed and placed in a cold car seat.  But he does it without protest.  Sounds small, but it sends me to the moon.

**********

Chris is out of town.

Yesterday morning as I uncovered my four-year-old son's warm, sleeping body, I whispered, "Good morning.  It's time to take the big boys to school.  I'll carry you."  He rolled towards me, eyes closed, hair sticking up like a rooster and reached out obediently.  I picked him up and drew in his scent  --  clean sheets and lavender soap from his bath 12 hours prior -- and I reminded myself to never forget this moment, how perfectly we fit together as he clung to me.  I felt happy and content.

I carried him downstairs and put him in his car seat, the big boys quietly helped me by opening doors, handing me the four-year-old's blanket, and double-checking the house for lights that needed to be turned off and doors that needed to be locked.  We were in sync.

Five minutes into the thirty-minute drive, the four-year-old's eyes were open and he looked peaceful.  Oldest Boy wanted to know if we could listen to his iPod, but asked if we could call his dad first.  We called Chris and left a voice message telling him we missed and loved him, and wished him a good day.

Chris will be home late tonight, maybe even early tomorrow morning.  I used to memorize or have handy flight details, hotels, meeting times, etc...  It's not that I don't have that information... somewhere, I'm just... I don't know... busier, better rested, able to send and receive texts [finally].

The boys and I are glad Chris doesn't travel much or for very long.  But now when he does, we all work together to fill in the gap created by his absence.  Sleep helps; so do restaurants.  I might not be hyperventilating waiting for his return like I used to, but just like then, it's nice to have the other guy home so I can poke him in the middle of the night and groggily demand, "Cuddle me.  I had a bad dream."

Hoops

All the advice about bloggers sticking with one blog is true.  I've nearly abandoned See Chrisy Run [my other blog].  It's still there, but I haven't updated since Supermodel and I finished our final race last September.  I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

More importantly, I don't know what my next event/goal will be, if any.  Supermodel kind of broke up with me after the trauma of the Triple Trail Challenge.  I might have pushed her too far when I enthusiastically made reference to how great the events would be next year because we would be experienced trail racers.  I had this discussion with her less than an hour after she crossed the finish line of our last event -- a grueling trail marathon.  She was clearly irritated by my attempt to muscle her into being my training partner again while she was still trying to hydrate, catch her breath and wipe the blood from her body as she repeatedly mumbled, "That sucked."

I reminded Supermodel that it was just like having a baby.  We forget the pain moments after delivery.  She told me she's had six children and vividly remembers the pain of each birth.  She also informed me she didn't want to run with me during the winter months. 

I workout before the kids get up for school, so I'm typically out the door by 5:00 AM.  Supermodel had a little more flexibility with her schedule so she didn't need to run in the middle of the night in the winter.  I don't run alone in the dark, so Chris said he'd run with me at the offensive hour.

Winter has come and gone.  Chris ran with me on several cold, dark, snowy mornings.

One morning I was waiting for him to come downstairs.  Steam was swirling above his lovingly poured cup of coffee and our cold weather gear was thoughtfully displayed on the counter.  I was in the office checking my email... and the windchill.  Chris entered the office dressed in his warmest running tights and turtleneck, looked out the french doors at the snowfall [which would have been pretty had the wind not been driving it horizontally -- it was harsh], and calmly said, "I'm not running in this shit."  He turned around and walked back upstairs.

Supermodel asked how it was going running with Chris.  I told her it was great -- he'd only called one run.  She said she wouldn't have wanted to run in that weather either.  "He just has the balls to stand up to you," I believe were her exact words.  Whatever.

Now what?  I'm reviewing training plans, plotting event dates against our summer plans, and working on Supermodel and/or Chris for a commitment to... something.  So far, no dice.

I do have one goal...

We have an arcade-style basketball game in the basement.  On occasion, I play by myself.  A couple of weeks ago I hit what I thought was a family high-score for a one-minute solo game.  I called Chris and left him a message.

"Know your busy, but I was in the basement tidying... anyway... I played a few games of basketball.  What's your high-score?  I think I beat it.  Sixty-four.  Uh-huh.  Six. Tee. Four.  Call me."

Chris returned my call and said he didn't remember his exact score, but knows he broke 80 once and hit the 70s a few times.  I didn't believe him.  He said he was in the zone and one of the boys was his witness. Further probing revealed that Middle Boy [10] witnessed the high score, however he's been known to stretch the truth, and succumb to the power of suggestion.  Doesn't matter.  The score to beat is 80.

Chris has taunted me with email subject lines that say "made it to 80 yet?"  And salutations like "Hey Hoops."

Sixty-eight.  That was my highest score until a few moments ago.  I went downstairs to take a picture for this post.  I played one game before returning upstairs.  One game.  My score?  SEVENTY-EIGHT.

I feel a sore trapezius muscle coming on...

True Love

A very long time ago, a 17 year-old girl and an 18 year-old boy fell in love.  They married, probably too soon and adolescent by most people's standards, but I have to assume the passion was intoxicating, as it always is in young love.  They were joined by a baby girl shortly after.

There was a war that separated the young lovers, but they managed to conceive another baby girl.  The young father didn't meet his second daughter until she was two years-old.  Not uncommon for war babies.

After the war, the boy, now a man, returned home full of ambition and purpose.  Very intelligent, he was accepted to the Thunderbird School of Global Management, which at the time was a prestigious new school.  He graduated, began working for a global company, succeeded in climbing the corporate ladder and moved his wife and daughters to Manila, Philippines, where he assumed a significant leadership role for a large corporation.

A son was born in Manila.  The family was happy, healthy and wealthy.  They wanted for nothing.  There was a maid, a driver, a gardener, a houseboy, even people to sew haute couture dresses for the girls as they began attending formal parties.  They were able to travel the world and see sites with personal guides.  Life was good.

Then again... life was life.  Things happen.  People make mistakes.  There were parties and drinking and more parties.  It was glamorous to have a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail in the other.  One thing led to another and the man began an affair with his assistant.

The girls had grown into young women and returned to the United States to attend college.  The mother and her son eventually followed.  There was a divorce.  The man married his assistant.  The woman remained single, although fielded a proposal or two in subsequent years.

Life continued.  Even though he'd married another, the man still loved the woman, and she him.  He returned to the United States with his new wife, battled heart disease and other demons.  The new wife seemed to understand where she fit into the hierarchy of his love.

Sadly, the still single woman, now a grandmother -- my grandmother -- developed esophageal cancer.  She lost her fight in a small Indiana town at the age of 69.  In a large California city, the married man, now a grandfather -- my grandfather -- followed her fight and was deeply saddened to hear of her loss.

I grew up hearing about the love affair that was my grandparents'.  It was difficult for me to understand why they just didn't run back into each other's arms.  My grandmother told me stories dripping with adventure, love, passion and heartbreak.  It's complicated, she would say.  Even at a young age, I began to appreciate this.

I want to believe that some people have a "love of their life".  As I've talked with the women in my family and some mature female friends, it saddens me to know that a few have experienced life's one true love, but it had escaped them, for a variety of reasons and circumstances.  But many managed to make a life with someone they loved.

In 1990 I traveled to Indiana for Grandmother's memorial service.  I had been married less than a year.  When I arrived at my aunt's small apartment, where Grandmother died, there was a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses.  It was from Grandad.  The card read, Goodnight Sweetheart.  I'll see you in my dreams.

True story.  Happy Valentine's Day.

Coupons

I've always known I wanted to be a mother and a wife.  There was never a doubt in my mind.  As a young girl I embraced all things domestic.  I remember convincing my brother it would be fun to clean and organize the laundry room for Mom one afternoon.  I was eight.  My brother was five.  It would be a few more years before my brother wasn't such an easy sale, and I had to play "house-dork" alone.

I assumed I'd have two children, probably because that's what my family looked like.  My childhood friend, Samantha Kelly, and I concluded that all little girls had a tiny baby in their stomachs, and when we grew-up, the baby would be ready to crawl out our belly buttons and join us in life.  I don't recall which one of us initiated that theory or how we explained the arrival of subsequent children.

When I learned the truth, like many young girls, I was mortified.  I decided I would get married, do what needed to be done to have two children, but only if I was completely sedated both times I had to do it.  [Funny.  I have three children so I actually did it THREE times.]

Whether it was a college dorm room or an apartment, I liked my environment to be fresh, homey and organized.  My roommate, Em, allowed me to grocery shop for us and knew I didn't mind cleaning and cooking.  Some of it was my need to be in control and do things "right", but I also enjoyed it.

When Chris and I were first married, going to the grocery store was one of my favorite weekly chores.  The Sunday paper was worth it's weight in gold because of all the coupons.  I'm an ROI kind of gal, so the money I saved with coupons more than paid for our newspaper subscription.

I cut coupons, organized them by category and date, and used them faithfully.  Basha's, a grocery story near our first apartment that I knew so well I was able to make my shopping list in the order of the aisles [some call it OCD, I call it efficiency], had a Bargain Booster program similar to the S&H Green Stamp program I grew up watching my mother participate in.  When I noticed someone manhandling their stamps, I politely asked if I could have them.  Some days, with a combination of coupons and filled Bargain Booster cards, I was practically paid to purchase an item.

Because money was tight, I often shopped on Thursday nights after work.  Friday was payday, and twenty years ago, floating checks really worked.  No instant electronic transfer, thankfully. 

Once or twice a month I treated myself to a magazine like Glamour or Allure, justifying the purchase with all the money I'd saved using coupons.  I read every word of every article and advertisement.  Several times.  It was decadent to me.

The simple things in life truly made me happy.

**************

Sunday afternoon, as I schlepped around parking lots with dirty slush from melting snow and carts not placed in the cart returns, trying to find more room in the back of my car to unload yet another stop's purchases... I felt tired and burdened.  Costco, the grocery store, PetSmart... then home to cook dinner.  All after sledding with Chris and the boys earlier in the day.  Chris had been out of town the week prior.  We were all tired.

I don't cut coupons anymore.  The payoff hasn't been worth the time it takes to sift through them... at least for grocery items.  Occasionally I'll find coupons for the children's museum, a haircut, or other service.  I like those.

I'm not as organized as I used to be.  Or clean. 

In spite of the busy days, complicated schedules and routines, heavier housework, fatigue, and the words "wash me" on the back window of my car in one of my son's unmistakable handwriting, I have to remind myself to remember...  this is what I've always wanted.

It's good, sincerely, but I'm not going to be sedated for a fourth time... unless Chris has a coupon.

Christmas Lights Did Him In

Nothing.  I mean, NOTHING, will make a man lose his cool quicker than issues with Christmas lights.  Even the most patient of men.

I thought Chris had passed this test right after we were married.  Dad was sorting through things in the garage and Chris offered to help.  Dad found a box of mangled Christmas lights, pushed the box towards Chris and said, "See if you can make some sense of these."

Chris untangled and organized several strands of lights.  I was so impressed.

The tree I selected this year is slightly larger than last year's tree.  It took Chris, a couple of neighbors and me to get it in the house.  We cut two feet off the top, and I trimmed the branches so it would fit in the tall, but narrow space we always place our tree.

Chris teased me about the tree, but remained patient.

Because this isn't our first rodeo, we put lights on the top few feet of the tree before we brought it in the house.  It was easier while the tree was on it's side.

Chris began lighting the rest of the tree yesterday morning.  At 8:30 last night, he was making another trip to Home Depot.  The day taught him, and me, that when we have a tree this large, it's important to have two zones of lights.  One for the top half of the tree and one for the bottom half.

Unfortunately, Chris learned this after lighting the same lower section of the tree, having the lights blow, removing the lights, and repeating the process several times.  He was wild-eyed and his hair was askew after eight hours of repetitive work.  Pine needles were everywhere, we all stayed away from the family room.  Foul words, agonizing growls and groans popped out from behind the tree in a Tourette's-like manner throughout the day.

One of the most patient people I've ever known, my husband, lost it.

It's Sunday morning.  I rose early, as I usually do, and found a half consumed Vesper in the kitchen sink. I  don't know if it was the first or the third, but I know my husband deserved it, or them.

Because, he did this...

Twenty Years

November 4, 1989

 

 

Twenty years later...

 

Happy Anniversary, Chris.  I like you.  You're fun. 

Love,
The Other Chris [the girl]

Holding Hands

I don't participate in writing prompts often [publicly], but as I've shared previously, one of the most welcoming group of bloggers can be found over at Deb's of San Diego Momma.  Deb supplies writing prompts every Tuesday.  If you ever choose to participate, I guarantee your writing will be read and your efforts supported and encouraged.  You can't go wrong.

This week's prompt is "L-O-V-E".  You can read about it here.

I worked on a post about "love" and decided it read like I was pontificating.  I don't want to do that.  We all have sweet, interesting, meaningful [to us] stories about how we met our significant other, how wonderful and passionate portions of our lives and love have been.  "We're best friends [vomit].  We do everything together [puke].  We finish each other's sentences [bullshit].  We complete each other [fingers in ears, la-la-la-la-la]."  Even if these things are true, most of it is best kept private - it rarely reads well, people.  It's a select few who can get away with expressing to the world in detail, the love and respect shared between a committed couple.

I used to work with a woman who always talked about she and her husband's sex life.  It ruined my lunch every day because I couldn't get the visual out of my head.  We all have sex.  We've all had good sex.  None of us invented it, so caress your ego somewhere else.  Even better, share all the mush and high-fives with your partner - or Penthouse Forum.

Chris and I have been married 19 years, together more than 20 - just the facts.  For the record, I don't believe someone's time together is an indication of the health of the relationship.  [Chris and I are fine - no worries.]  We've had our challenges and our times of ease.  I assume we'll have more of both in the future.

When I think of the best relationship advice we've received, two examples come to mind.

We'd been married only a couple of years and already felt the need to see a marriage counselor.  [We're the generation that goes to a therapist for everything.]  I was working as an administrative assistant for three PhDs.  One of the PhD's was a man named Charles.  He was in his late 70s and found himself needing to return to work later in life, not unlike many older people in this economy.  He had been married over 50 years and had what appeared to be a very traditional marriage.

Charles and I were often the only two people in the office.  One day Charles overheard me talking with Chris on the phone and I was crying by the end of the call.  He came over and offered me his handkerchief, which I politely accepted even though I'd seen him using it earlier.  He asked me if I needed to talk, so I told him the story.  What Chris said and felt, what I said and felt, what the therapist said...  Charles listened.  In a soft and assured voice, he said, "When you go home tonight, you two just sit on the couch and hold hands.  Watch the news quietly.  It sounds like you kids have talked enough.  Just hold hands, and sit, and don't talk.  Rest."

He was right.  I think we were in a ditch, and the therapist was over-complicating the situation.  We needed to step out of the ditch and walk away from it.  Not analyze from several angles how we got in the ditch, and all the possible ways to get out - just hop out of the ditch.  So we did.

There are obviously times that require labor-intensive communication to resolve issues, but this wasn't one of them.

The second example that comes to mind is something my Mamaw said.  Chris and I were having dinner with she, Papaw, my parents, and Chris' parents several years ago. We were finished eating, enjoying conversation and a little more wine.  Someone asked Mamaw and Papaw what the key was to being married so long.  They shrugged and smiled, the conversation moved along.  We began discussing  sleep patterns, like what time we went to bed at night and got up in the morning.  Papaw said, "I'm an early riser so I go to bed about 8:00 o'clock.  Jane here, she likes to sleep in, so she stays up much later than I do."

Mamaw raised her eyebrows, lifted her glass and said, "That's... how we've stayed married so long."

[Mamaw, Papaw, Oldest Boy and Middle Boy - July 2004]

If you really loved me, you would.

Oldest Boy asked if we could rent West Side Story.  His dance and music teachers at school have been playing clips from the movie in class.  He convinced Middle boy that it was about gangs and he'd really, really, really like it.  I love old movies, especially musicals, so I was thrilled.  We found a copy at Blockbuster and grabbed Karate Kid II as well.

We watched the first half of West Side Story last week, on a school night.  On our way home from skiing Saturday afternoon, assuming they had forgotten about the Jets and the Sharks, I reminded the boys we could watch Karate Kid II.  Oldest Boy said, "Can we watch the rest of West Side Story first?"  I was so pleased.  Middle Boy was not.

We showered, got in pajamas, made our popcorn and cocktails, and finished West Side Story.

Middle Boy disappeared towards the end of the movie, but he watched longer than I thought he would.  We heard the hum of an electric pencil sharpener coming from his room. [He loves to draw with colored pencils.]

I was sitting with Chris.

Me:  Let's pretend you're Tony and I'm Maria.

Chris:  Sure! [wheels turning]

Me:  Tony has nice hair and a full mouth.  Would you consider a little filler in your lips?

Chris:  No. [buzzkill]

Me:  would you consider hair extensions?

Chris:  No. [double buzzkill]

Me:  Will you at least sing "Maria" to me?

Chris:  I can't sing.

Me:  Yes you can.  Come on.  Do it.  Please...

Chris:  No.

Me:  What about "Somewhere"?  That's so romantic.

Chris:  No.

Me:  Fine.  I'll sing my parts and your parts. [clearing throat]

Oldest Boy:  Dad, sing "Cool" or the "Jet Song".  Those are good!

Chris:  This isn't going how I thought it would.

Me:  My mother almost named me Maria you know...

I think we'll be able to buff that right out...

Toddler Child and I are in Arizona.  We flew here on Thursday and return to Utah later this afternoon.  I'm here primarily to visit my grandmother - Mamaw - and I have Toddler Child with me because I lost the bet.  We're staying with Mom and Dad and things are going fine, although I'm tired. 

I'll post more about my time with Mamaw when I get home.  She's failing but it was wonderful to see her.

Toddler Child has a cold. [Of course.  I'm traveling alone with him.]  He developed symptoms about 20 minutes after we got off the plane in Phoenix.  This was after he spent the flight yelling, "Captain!  I need some orange juice!  Captain! Caaaaptain!"

Mom let me borrow her car to run to the store to get cold medicine.  I'll make this short.  I hit the house.  Backed right into it. In my defense, my car beeps when I get too near something [like a house] when I'm in reverse.  Her's does not.  My car has large windows and excellent visibility.  She drives a tiny convertible -- like a clown car -- with small windows and poor visibility.  It's like driving with a bag over your head.

I pulled the car back into the garage and entered the house to confess, only after contemplating if Mom and Dad would notice the damage to the car... and... the house.  I couldn't fly this one under radar.

"Hey, Mom."  She looked up from her spot on the floor playing with Toddler Child.  "I hit the house.  Sorry."

I'm a terrible driver, as shared in item number one in this post.  These things don't surprise or alarm my parents or husband.  When Chris and I were first married, I parked the car in our garage, on top of the lawn mower.

I showed Mom the damage, told her we'd pay for the repairs and went to the store.  Dad had been in their bedroom/bathroom showering after a bike ride.  Coincidentally, the part of the house that I hit.

When I returned from the store, Dad was in his office.  I walked in to tell him what I'd done and apologize.  He said he was in the shower when he heard and felt the "impact".  I asked him what he thought it was.  He said, "I figured Chrisy hit the house." 

Thanks.

This is a very important day. Rock the vote.

November 4, 2008
On this day Chris and I both exercised our right and "rocked the vote" with the young people.  We've earned the cool sticker.

November 4, 1989
On this day nineteen years ago, I cast my ballot for a young man who had earned my confidence, trust, respect and love. 
 

I became the wife of Mr. Christopher Alan Ross.

Happy Anniversary Chris.  We'll rock our own little vote later...promise.

It never fails.

Chris doesn't travel that much for work.  He has two, one-week-long commitments each year for his employer.  One is in June, the other in October.  He's away now.

I can count on a couple of things happening when Chris travels.

1)  I always get sick.  Not "gonna die" sick, but functioning sick.  Just enough to feel crummy and want to rest.  Chris left our home at 4:30 a.m. on Saturday.  At 1:30 a.m. - three hours before he departed - I was hit with a head cold.  I woke him up.  "Hey.  I'm sick.  Isn't that unfrickin believable?  Always happens when you leave town.  Sorry to wake you."

2)  At least one of the kids vomits in the middle of the night.  I'm not talking about a child waking you up saying their stomach hurts, and you gently guide them to the toilet, they get sick, you brush their teeth and put them back to bed. 

I'm talking about a child running into your room crying and gasping, the smell preceding them, you jump from your bed to the child, pick them up or push them hard, and get them to the bathroom so they can spit the last teaspoon of sick into a toilet.  The rest of the sick has hit every linen on their bed (including the dust ruffle), the wall (including baseboards), and marked a trail on the carpet from their room to yours.  A Hansel and Gretel technique.

The good news is, we've not had a vomit incident.  I hesitate to even type that.  Chris would shush me and call me crazy for giving this a voice.  He's not superstitious, but he would consider this too serious to tempt.

The bad news is, I'm sick.  Mother would say, "Lets focus on the positives!

• The kids aren't sick!  Well, except Toddler Child, but that's just a little congestion.
• Everyone's finally sleeping through the night!  [It's honestly been years in our house.]
• You have the WHOLE bed to yourself!
• Your hair's been looking much better lately!
• Oh, and you're not pregnant!"

I'm kinda sweet on this one.

My husband Chris has a marketing related blog.  I know - snore.  I read it, because I'm his wife, blah blah blah.  I try to leave comments, but he NEVER publishes them.  The first couple were serious and I was trying to be supportive.  They apparently weren't professional sounding enough.  Now I comment, knowing he moderates, and I leave the raunchiest, foul-mouthed, and dirty-talk comments possible.  I think he kind of digs it though.

Chris wrote a post yesterday that I like, and not just because he linked to me - I'm not the demographic for the marketing/advertising types that read Chris' stuff.  It's not a long post - he tries to keep them short and readable.  Click here and check it out.

Oh, and here's a picture of Chris not being a marketing guy - just being Dad.  He's real good at both.

A Quickie

Last night after a filling meal of T-bones, potatoes, mushrooms, etc... I was enjoying finishing a glass of wine.  Chris was scooping the boys some ice cream for dessert.  I told him there was some hot fudge if he wanted to make sundaes and he should have one too.  He thought that sounded good.

Chris said to me, "Why don't you have some ice cream?"

"I don't care for any right now.  Thank you."

"It'll be gooood..."

"No thanks.  I'm finishing my wine."

He was persistent, "The hot fudge will pair nicely with it..."

"Honey.  No thanks."

"C'mon.  Have a little ice cream with us... " (pleading)

"Maybe later."

"I know what that means."

I'm trying to get his priorities straight.

Me:  I need to do a new post today.  What should I write about?

Chris:  I don't know.  I have my own problems.

I know most people who blog are stealing moments from a hectic day to sit down and write. I often feel I've written something in the most fragmented way.  I still seek that extra bit of encouragement and a second set of eyes to confirm that I didn't miss a glaring error.  I usually call Chris. 

He's busy, but takes time out of his day to pause and read something I'm about to post to my blog.  I call him at work asking, "Can we please line edit this together?"  He says sarcastically, "Oh, I love this part." 

I read aloud very slowly as he's following along on his PC at work.  Is that a clumsy sentence?  Is it clear what I'm trying to say?  Is that too self-indulgent?  Okay, we made a few changes, lets start from the top.  He sighs, and I can hear him typing in the background.  "I don't think you're focusing," I say.  He replies, "I am too.  I think it's great.  Just don't use the word 'thingy'.  You've been using that too much."  Awww.  He is paying attention.

Not only because he patiently supports me in so many areas, but because he's good at what he does (which I really don't understand completely to be honest - I call it bringin' home the bacon), I'd like to link to some nice things for him (red = lovey).  Click here to see his blog post announcing the launch of something about which he is excited.  Click here to see his partner's post about the same thing with many flattering comments about my husband.  And finally click here to read the press release that cost him zero dollars but still made it to Yahoo.

Now I'm going to call him to see if he has a minute to help me line edit this...