Merry Christmas!

We would like to wish our readers out there, all two of you, from our hearts to yours, Merry Christmas! Remember who you love and that your are loved. Have a great Christmas.

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She Says: What Have I Been Doing?

I can remember Christmas as a child and young adult very well. Even more than the presents, or the cookies, or the holiday movies, I loved sitting in our family room at night with just the lights of the tree glowing across the room. Somewhere along the way, the tradition of sitting next to the tree taking in the holiday season slipped off my list of things to do. Suddenly, work, cleaning the house, or prepping for travel started taking priority. I now realize I’ve spent the last six years just trying to get through the season and make the most of the time I had off work doing un-holiday things.  Then Christmas would pass and I would complain “where did the year go?” without a second thought.

As Christmas quickly approaches, and we spend the majority of the season in Salt Lake going through the motions of setting our own tree trimming and gift traditions, it has been more evident than ever that the holidays have been too long ignored. Christmas is now my excuse to spend money on meals out, a reason to get out of Salt Lake, and the time I look forward to because there is no work.  Instead of not believing in Santa, as so many adults are accused of as they get older, I have forgotten to believe in the general spirit of the season. I have become a closet Grinch.

After I write this, however, I reflect on my behavior toward Christmas throughout my twenties and know that though they were always spent around family and with love, they were still spent with a deflated mindset. And it’s disappointing.

So from here on out, I’m taking bits of examples from others who truly know how to celebrate the birth of Jesus. I know I can take an extra couple days to get home earlier for the holidays. I’m going to cook more around the holidays so we can eat at home together. I’m going to purchase gifts with thoughtful intentions, not just to get shopping done before the mall craze starts. I’m going to sit in front of our tree and take in the season.  And last year will have been the final Christmas that I wonder where the year went …

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He Says: It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I love this season. It is fantastic. It is not my favorite time of year weather-wise. It is certainly not my favorite time of year work-wise. But the season, as it were, there is nothing better than this season. It is peaceful and blithe, reflective and carefree, reverent and cheeky. The thing that I love the most is that the season is contagious. Nearly everyone you meet is excited and joyful. A few weekends ago traffic was at a standstill in downtown Salt Lake City. This is quite unusual for the area, so I asked a passerby what was going on that night. He looked at me with a slightly confused smile and announced, “It’s Christmas!” and then bounded off. I felt as if Jimmy Stewart himself had just offered me a Christmas message. That’s why this season is so great. Everyone gets in the spirit.

Last weekend I was looking for a parking space downtown. When I found one and walked up to pay the meter, I noticed it was wrapped like a Christmas gift, complete with a bow. On top of the wrapping paper read, “Merry Christmas Salt Lake.” A small gesture to spread Christmas cheer. I smiled and went on my merry way to the Santa Pub Crawl. What’s that you ask? Well, exactly what it sounds like. Hundreds of people dressed up like Santa hop from bar to bar. What other time would you see that other than this time of year? Hundreds of Santas all friendly and jolly. And you can be sure we saw plenty of Ho Ho Hos. I mean heard. Sorry.

Christmas traditionalists will argue that most of this joy is not as it was originally intended. They will bemoan the fact that Christmas has been secularized and the intention behind this argument is not lost on me. Just look at the amount of stress that goes into purchasing gifts, especially at a time when, for most, money is tight. (As an aside, my family draws names and everyone writes down exactly what they want in a list and then we give each other exactly what they wrote and everyone has a great Christmas. It’s so thoughtful). Irony aside, those who argue that Christmas has lost its meaning also argue that the joyous spirit that surrounds the season is misguided these days. And that’s the thing, how can joy ever be wrong? If it is truly joy, what does it even mean that it is secular? In my book, a joyful heart is just that, a joyful heart.

Cicero once said, “An unjust peace is better than a just war.” (I know, Cicero? I’m a dork. Four years of Latin, what can I say). I believe there’s truth in this and that it holds for most every virtue. Maybe joy because of Santa is better than anger because of religion. If there is true joy, then maybe it holds the spirit of Christmas as originally intended after all. And joy is infectious. That’s why I’ll take this season over any other. It’s the season of loved ones. It’s the season of just one more cookie. It’s the season of giving. It’s the season of inebriation with ones we love or Santa look-a-likes we don’t even know. It’s the season of pay it forward. It’s the season of hugs. It’s the season when we all take a second to think about the things we have and consider the things we don’t. So the next time someone stops and asks you what all the hubbub is about, simply tell them, “It’s Christmas!”

PMS

Is there any further intro necessary? Everyone understands the He Says, She Says debates and jokes regarding PMS. There’s nothing interesting we could possibly add. Or is there?

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She Says: Can I Get A PMS Pill Up In Here?

I once dated someone who frequently called me a b-i-t-c-h. And not in a joking way. It irritated me so much that after we broke up (thank God) and once I started dating my husband, I filled him in on my issues with referring to me as a b-i-t-c-h in any sense of the word. Thankfully, he understood and he has actually never called me one in the 8 years we’ve been together since I told him, even if I maybe possibly deserved it.

The truth is, however, that I can definitely exhibit b-i-t-c-h-like characteristics from time to time. And when I say time to time, I mean when I PMS. On the other hand, I can also exhibit utter craziness, extreme happiness, and uncalled for sympathy for myself or any sad story featured on Oprah during this time.

It’s not an excuse and I always take full responsibility for my pre-menstrual bi-polarity. I have even come to pay better attention to my moodiness during “that time of the month,” though I almost always fail miserably at getting through those days without an outburst of some sort.

Take for instance, today. I went to the podiatrist for an issue I’ve been having with my foot. On the way to the doctor, I convinced myself I needed a minor surgery to remedy the painful problem. I will say, my family practice doctor was the one who put the initial minor surgery idea in my head, so she gets some of the craziness credit.

Anywho, as I sat in my little sterile room on the little tissue covered seat waiting for the doctor, I prepped myself for a longer lunch hour than expected due to my forthcoming surgery. When Dr. Lowe arrived, however, he said my foot would heal just fine on its own if I gave it another 3-6 months, despite already living with my issue for 3 years.

In a matter of 5 minutes, I went from shocked, to angry, to downright depressed that everything I had anticipated happening to cure my problem was no longer going to occur. So I leave. And I hop in my car. And I quickly dial my poor husband in the middle of his work day and rant, trying as best I can to hold back tears.

“But the jerk wouldn’t even do anything! He just gave me a little round band aid!” I cried.

“Well, he’s a doctor. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. And if you don’t heal up, I’m sure you can go back in a few months and talk with him again. No big deal.” came my husband’s reply.

“But you don’t understand! I can’t LIVE LIKE THIS!” I wailed.

Silence.

“Hello?!?” I whine.

“I’m still here,” says my husband, “but I can’t seem say anything about it that won’t upset you so I’m just going to listen.” (Note, at this point I can hear the clicking of his keyboard as he returns to work while I continue to cry).

I hang up and feel sorry for myself. And then I start hating my job. And then I start hating Salt Lake and our house and think the world is coming to an end. I need a nap to quell my tantrum, but I head back to work for another 4 hours and stew.

Come 5 pm, I’m a new person, happy as a clam, on my way home to my husband who more than likely thinks, “Am I going to have to live like this forever?”

Once home, I pour myself a glass of wine and stare blankly at the TV playing reruns of The View and start to recall the events of my day. And I realize I’m a big baby. And that never in a million years if I wasn’t PMS-ing would I have left the doctor’s office crying like I’d just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. All that emotion over a 10 minute appointment that left me drained and my husband thinking he’d married a deranged Dr. Jeckle and Mr. Hyde cloaked in the body of a smoking hot woman (c’mon, let me boost my own morale after my rough day).

So what am I trying to get at amongst all this rambling? To be honest, I don’t really know. I think this is more me venting than anything. Or perhaps it’s a confusing admission to the fact that I actually have to work very hard for one week out of every month to control my emotions so people don’t mistake me for a schizophrenic. In any event, the whole issue could be resolved if someone could come up with a simple remedy, a pill of some sort – preferably with Vicadin-like side affects – to put an end to the mixed emotions that seem to strike us women from time to time. Until then, I’ll stick with my Chardonnay, chocolate covered cherries, and husband who won’t call me a b-i-t-c-h even if I maybe possibly deserve it.

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He Says: Irritable Male Syndrome

Premenstrual Syndrome has been studied and written about extensively. I am not smart enough to add anything of worth to its discussion. PMS has also been the focus of countless jokes and alternative forms of entertainment. I am not dumb enough to throw my hat into the humor ring that is Aunt Flo’s casa. I do know, however, something about IMS. There is a recent movement advocating Irritable Male Syndrome, which is defined as involving hormonal, physiological and chemical changes in men. And when I say that I do know something about IMS, I in fact mean that I know absolutely nothing about it. That is, I know nothing about it outside of my own experience as a male and the experiences of males I know.

Now I am not trying to juxtapose PMS to this male counterpart. Again, I am neither smart enough nor dumb enough to be able to successfully make such a comparison. I am, however, advocating that a change of irritability and sensitivity in men may be caused by a chemical change in our bodies for which I have absolutely no scientific data to support. (But there are those much wiser than I that have done studies claiming scientific evidence of IMS). And for what reason, you ask, would I be advocating such a thing? Us men are supposed to be tough and brawny! We aren’t supposed to have feelings. And we certainly aren’t supposed to show them. Ever! Without exception! I get it. I get what it means to be tough and unwavering. (Just ask my wife, she’ll tell you exactly how much I can be a stubborn ass). No, really, I do get it. I have completed athletic competitions with a broken finger, a broken collarbone, a foot fracture, a broken nose, a wrist fracture, and separate concussions. I get what manly means to our culture.

The odd thing to me, though, is that despite all this, I have never met a man that doesn’t have feelings. Not once. I grew up with sports. In all my years watching, coaching and playing sports, I have yet to meet one single male that doesn’t have feelings. Isn’t that odd? Not a single one. In fact, one of my best buddies has a father who is the prototypical man’s man. My buddy’s old man is tall–at least 6’3”–and big–at least 240 and strong. He is the definition of a lumberjack. He built a log cabin on his farm just for the hell of it. He cut down the trees on his own land and built the damn cabin with his own two hands. The thing is a work of beauty. Like I said, he is a man’s man. But even he has feelings. I have had conversations with him about happiness he has experienced in his life and pains he has encountered. I gave him a big hug on the day he gave his daughter away and listened to him talk with a tear in his eye about how much he loved his daughter and his son. Every man has feelings. The secret is out. So I’d like to propose that we stop this charade that we men don’t have feelings. I have yet to meet a man who doesn’t.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t want every male to start emoting everywhere. (And no, I am not saying that women emote everywhere. Many of the strongest people I know are women). If you’re a male and see me on the street, this is not an open invitation to begin engaging me in a conversation regarding the contents of your feelings. I have my own. What this is, however, is a call for men to stop pretending they don’t have them. Life is a beautiful thing that requires more than a hardened shell of a heart tolerating each day. I wish I could write the words to help you understand what I mean, but instead of causing you to suffer through my poorly written prose, I’ll offer a quote. Why re-invent the wheel, right? As the late Jim Valvano said less than two months before he lost a year-long bout against cancer,

“To me, there are three things we all should do every day. We should do this every day of our lives. Number one is laugh. You should laugh every day. Number two is think. You should spend some time in thought. And number three is, you should have your emotions moved to tears, could be happiness or joy. But think about it. If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that’s a full day. That’s a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you’re going to have something special.”

Laugh. Think. And Cry. That’s a good day. Can we agree men? Can we all agree that being manly does not mean we don’t have feelings?

All right. Now that I have convinced you, it’s now time for me to lose you again. Women, us men have just agreed that we have feelings. What I now ask in return is that you understand that we have occurrences of chemical and physiological changes known as IMS. As long as us men recognize that we have feelings, we ask that you recognize that sometimes those feelings are caused by changes in our chemical makeup. There are days when I come home and kindly entreat my wife to be nice. “It was one of those days,” I say. “I’m just in one of those moods.” I recognize that I’m not quite right and I hope that my wife will respect that. After I am castigated a number of times and I react, you know what response I finally receive? “Oh stop being so sensitive.” Could you imagine the fecal storm I would receive if this incident was reversed. I shudder thinking about it.

This isn’t just me being a large minge either. I have a good friend who played high school football in Seattle for four years and then played four years of collegiate rugby. I’ve heard him grouse that women want him to show feelings, and then when he does they complain that he’s too sensitive. I have a buddy that has worked construction for years and wonders why his wife doesn’t understand that some days there are comments that hit home harder than other days. An Air Force pilot that says there are times when he needs to be quiet and keep to himself. A Police Officer that says some days he’s more depressed than others. A hunter that talks about unforeseen times when he has more anxiety and a higher stress level. A doctor that exhorts there are days when his mood swings quicker than Joe Mauer’s bat. (And no, I have not made up any of these individuals). These men aren’t referring to seemingly behavioral and emotional changes that occur because of a particularly sound reason. These men realize, as we inconsiderately say too often, that there are times when their moods and emotions swing irrationally.

Now I am not advocating the opportunity for us men to be angry, boorish, and imperceptive. I am not asking for allowances for men to be ferine. We do far too much of that as it is. (And by we I mainly refer to my own behavior). I am advocating, however, that there are hormonal, chemical, and physiological changes in men that cause us to have different moods. These changes may occur isochronously, but I believe them to be very real. So I propose as supposedly inimical genders that we all agree to this. Us men will admit that we have feelings. We will be more open to hear about them and maybe, just maybe, share them. While you women admit IMS is real. And if we both start to recognize these things, maybe we’ll all start to understand each other just a little bit better.

Zzzzzzzz…

The average individual sleeps upwards of 25 years of their life. That’s nine thousand one hundred and twenty-five days. There was a time when anyone that even lived that long would be considered an elder statesman. But that’s how long, on average, we currently sleep in our lives. 25 years. Yet, somewhere between the quarter and halfway point in life, many of us agree to share sleeping quarters with another individual on a regular basis. For many of us, we do so every single night. Naturally, some habits and tendencies are formed through a quaterlife. Naturally, some arguments arise once your comfortable sleeping arrangements have been disturbed. Naturally, we’re going to write about it.

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She Says: Because There’s No Window

Most people have probably never thought about the best sleeping stint of their lives. Many a morning, you might wake up and think “man, I got a good night’s sleep last night” and move onto the rest of your day refreshed. I, on the other hand, do recall a series of my best night’s sleep that occurred over the duration of 4 years. A stint that I have yet to relive.

It was the summer before my freshman year at Holy Names and my parents had finally realized that 8 people living in a three bedroom home just wasn’t going to make the cut any longer, especially with three teenage females and technically one restroom. I say technically because the master bath in my parent’s room was where we all showered. Outside of that, the six children were left scrambling for time in the main bathroom of the home.  Anywho, we found a five bedroom three bathroom home that summer and finally, after 14 years of sharing a bedroom, I had my own sanctuary.

Now this sanctuary was unlike anything you’ve ever seen. And for some reason, the moment I laid eyes on this particular bedroom, I knew it was mine. It resided in the deepest depths of the house in the finished walk out basement right across from the laundry room. I loved it for four distinct reasons:

1. I could easily sneak out of the house through the downstairs door without my parents ever knowing, whether it was to see my uber cool boyfriend or traipse to the backyard for a cigarette—yes, I did smoke in high school from time to time and I completely regret it now.
2. The room had its own heater. Added in the 1970’s when the basement was finished, I can still picture it today—about 8 feet long by 6 inches high, taupe in color, with a large white dial. Oh, and you could fire that puppy up to pump out over 90 degrees of heat on any given day.
3. There was no window. Now some might think it’s insane to want a bedroom with no window. But for a mischievous teen who was often up to no good, a windowless room was an all out blessing.
4. It was the second largest bedroom in the home, perfect for housing at least 8 girlfriends for a sleepover. It also had a walk in closet where suspicious paraphernalia (including aforementioned boyfriend) could easily be hid.

It was in this amazing windowless room that I received my best night’s sleep throughout high school.  On the chilly Seattle nights, I often lit the heater to full capacity, roasting under a pile of blankets. In the summers, the room was always perfectly cool, allowing me to sleep through the night on even the hottest evenings. And because it was windowless, there was no telling what time it was. I could pass out at 8 pm and wake up at noon the next day without any problem. It was heaven, and in it, I was a little hibernating bear angel thingy.

College days were just the beginning of chaotic sleep for me, as it seems it was for most. One can pull an all nighter, head to a 9 am class for a quick hour or two of learning, and then run home to stay in bed the rest of the afternoon until it was time to rally again. My sleeping schedule was never what it should have been to be a healthy and productive student, but I survived.

But there are no days like recent days that I long for the silent, warm bedroom that allowed such amazing night’s sleep. You see, even more disrupting than college, my husband is today’s reason for sleep deprivation.  I give you yet another short list now, this time of reasons I struggle to hit the REM stage every night:

1. The damn fan. When I first spent the night with my husband on, ah hem, our wedding night, he seemed to toss and turn endlessly. Mid sleep, I inquire if he has a problem. “I need a fan,” he replies. “Hot?” I ask. “Nope, I need the noise,” he says.  And so it began. My husband, you see, grew up with a fan running on full blast all night long to provide white noise. He cannot sleep without one on. Unfortunately, I can’t sleep well with one on. The nights of a cool basement room in the summers and a toasty one in the winter have turned bedtime into a chilly tornado, no matter what time of the year.
2. The loose sheets. I love being warm when I sleep. Sweltering, actually. And part of what perpetuates a warm sleep is having the covers tucked as tightly as possible around you. My husband, though, literally panics when any portion of blanket cannot easily be slung across his body. Bye, bye tucked sheets. Hello slippy slidey blankets.
3. The invention of the iPhone. When I go to bed, I want to go to bed. I might read for a handful of minutes until my eyes are too heavy to finish a chapter. Not my other half. He whips out his iPhone and plays game after game or reads article after article, holding the phone above his head as the blinding white light glows across the room. Oh, and did I mention that he tends to scroll through pages and games in such an aggressive way that he shakes the whole bed. I didn’t mention it? Well he does.
4. The poke. Yes, we all know what that means. As I mentioned before, when I go to bed, I want to go to bed – or at least that’s what’s on my one track mind. More often than not, I’m half asleep by the time I make it upstairs to the bedroom.  Now I’m not saying that I dislike the poke or that I’m a prude and don’t allow it (though I’m sure my husband will complain otherwise). What I’m saying is that when I arrive in my bedroom, I’m already working my ass off to not get blown back out the door by the damn fan, be blinded by the iPhone sitting on the side table, or cry thinking about how chilly my feet will be without sheets tucked around them. So when that poke arrives, and it does every night, you can imagine what I’m thinking.

All this being said, I’m hoping at some point my husband will be willing to move back to my parents home someday. We can take over the bedroom I loved so much as a highschooler. We can get the beds old people get.  You know, the ones that look like a king bed but once you take off the duvet, you see it’s two weird adjustable twin beds smushed together. This way, I can tuck in the sheets on my side and he can leave his loose. I can pump the heat, so it’s warm, and he can keep his beloved fan on his side of the room, blowing that warm heat around while he enjoys the white noise.

And then we can sleep. And sleep. And sleep. And be little hibernating bear angel thingys in there together.  Because there’s no window.

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He Says: I Can’t Sleep

Before I begin, I need to explain a couple of things to help our readers understand from where I’m coming. First, I grew up in a large family. When I was young, I shared a room with my three older brothers. We had two bunkbeds in a room so close to each other that you could nearly roll over and be in the other bed. When you are the parent of four young boys sleeping in such close quarters, you devise a way in which the others will not wake up if one child begins to stir in the night. My parents’ praxis was the box fan. If you are unfamiliar with the standard box fan, there are three settings. Low—the setting that is somewhere between two and five times as loud as your typical ceiling fan. Medium—this setting simulates the sound of about four hundred humming birds hovering nearby. And High—this setting, I have no doubt, was established by scientists researching at Boeing laboratories in Seattle in order to find the closest approximation to replicating the sound of a 747 engine. To the chagrin of every individual that marries into my family, my siblings and I were all habituated to sleep with box fans on airplane mode.

The second thing you need to understand is that I tend to think, and overthink, more than any reasonable person should be allowed to do. I analyze every word that is said to me throughout the day. I plan every aspect of even menial tasks, such as the most efficient way to make a turkey sandwich so that I can maximize my lunch hour. I don’t know how or why this developed, but it makes sleeping difficult since my mind is always moving at 100 mph. When I was a young teenager, I self-diagnosed myself with insomnia because I had such difficulty falling asleep. This, of course, was a farce, but the troubles I had in turning my mind off in order to sleep were real. In those same teenage years I had so much trouble sleeping that the bout of mononucleosis I had sophomore year of high school, (and consequently chronic fatigue syndrome after my doctor’s misdiagnosed my illness three separate times), felt like a gift from above. I actually wanted to go to sleep. I looked forward to it. In fact, one of my greatest accomplishments to date is falling asleep sitting up in the doctor’s office waiting for my second misdiagnosis. I was amazed I was able to fall asleep so easily. In the years since, I have tried relaxation methods, breathing exercises, pills (natural and otherwise), alcohol, reading, meditation, and magnetism (curative and tactual). What I have found tends to work most appropriately for me is to go to sleep immediately when I feel sleepy, so long as that moment is after 10pm. Sometimes this means I go to bed right at 10pm and sometimes it means I go to bed at 2am. This may seem odd to most, but this is how I consistently sleep.

As you can imagine, these idiosyncrasies of mine cause some ache for my wife. I fully recognize that. I appreciate the concessions my wonderful partner makes for my own comfort. But there are two sides to this mundane story. What hasn’t been said is that my other half can fall asleep at any time, in any situation. She has the ability to fade into REM the moment she closes her eyes. In fact, in our first few years of dating she fell asleep so many times while watching movies we had rented that I refused to rent movies any more. We would only go to the cinema. I thought this was a brilliant plan until one evening she dozed off right in the middle of the theater. You get the point? My wife can fall asleep any time she wants. She can even fall asleep at times she doesn’t want. I think this beautiful gift, coupled with my abject curse, should in the very least grant me some leniency.

Now that you have an appropriate understanding of the facts, I can finally explain the situation. To begin with, my wife somehow developed an ill-conceived belief that the bed should be split directly in half. (As a quick interlude, anyone who is wondering why we don’t cuddle every night clearly is (a) a female or (b) a male within the first year of a relationship who still believes that cuddling always leads to sex).  Mind you, I am no less than twice as big as my loving bride. Yet, somehow, she presumes that sharing a bed together means sharing it equally in half. I have come to accept this over time, even though I am twice her size. But it doesn’t end there. Most people would assume that an agreement to split the bed in half would involve some kind of split down the middle. Not for my wife, however. She curls up into the smallest ball you can imagine near the upper regions of the bed like some kind of contortionist. Then she concocts an argument that she is using no more than one-fourth of the our matrimonial resting place and I am being bed-greedy. Mind you, 60% of the “free bed” space I am supposed to be utilizing is underneath this ball-shaped wife. Somehow I am required to sleep at the foot of bed in order to maximize space or incurvate into some sort of “C” shape in order to spoon.

This doesn’t even begin to explain the asperity I will incur if she wakes up from her slumber. The wrath that emotes is what Steinbeck must have experienced from Vitis. If you are ever roped into a situation that involves waking up my wife, I pity you. Nothing you currently know can prepare you for what will happen. And she wonders why there are nights that she wakes up still asleep on the couch. These nights typically involve an attempt by me to gently and lovingly rouse her to go upstairs, a few curse words from her and incoherent slurs towards my heritage, and me wandering off in tears. I also haven’t begun to illustrate the amount of heat my wife emanates while she sleeps. I swear our bedroom must be somewhere near 110 degrees when the night ends simply due to the furnace that sleeps next to me.

But here’s the odd thing. When I travel for work, I can’t sleep for the life of me. No matter how I try, I lay awake. I long for that feeling of being unbearably hot. I restlessly ache for the opportunity to be berated incoherently. I can’t help but desire to angle awkwardly across the bed for maximum space. I guess that’s what marriage should be about. Forming new habits that appear crazy to the outside world, but work for you and your spouse. So I guess we will continue driving each other crazy when we sleep, but somehow also finding the craziness necessary. Life’s too short not to find it necessary. And we’re spending a third of it asleep.

 FGVTSW7KJQC9

Them’s Fightin’ Words

Every couple fights. It’s inevitable. When you are around someone that much, you are going to have disagreements. Or worse, you are going to have fights. Couples that have been together 20 plus years smile at the fights of new couples. Young couples just can’t seem to see the forest for the trees. Like us. Ultimately, however, the fights are going to happen. If done right, we think they need to happen. The problem is BOTC rarely fights right. Or fair for that matter. Here’s a glimpse into the fights that happen on The Couch. Most likely, one of many glimpses.

 

She Says: Socializing vs. Drinking vs. Arguing: Our Nights in a Nutshell With A Moral

Let me preface this entry with a few simple facts. My husband and I like to socialize. My husband and I like to drink when we socialize. My husband and I will get into an argument 9 times out of 10 when we drink. Therefore, almost every time we’re socializing, we end up disagreeing if not all out fighting about something.

After dating for close to 5 years and married for approximately 2 ½, I can say that I think we might have finally learned to better manage this issue of socializing vs. drinking vs. arguing. Yes, it took roughing it through the following drunk debacles – ending with the most recent event we’ll get to shortly – for the light bulb to not only flicker on, but crack us over our immature heads in an “ah ha” moment:

Exhibit A:

The first time I went back to Minnesota for an in-law visit one winter, my husband managed to win a bicycle – yes, a whole bike – in a neighborhood bar’s “Big Bike Give Away” (or something equally lame). In celebration, said husband got obliterated. In this fine form, he proclaims that he is riding his new bike all the way to his parent’s house where we were staying. He also instructs me to drive, solo and in a random town I don’t know, the Buick we took down to the bar earlier that night.

Everyone leaves the bar. I assume my loving husband will wait a minute to give me directions home. But alas, as I walk out of the bar, he has already sped off onto the snow speckled highway.  Oh, and for some reason, he decides that night is not the night to pick up his phone when I call.

Alone, cold, and pissed as all hell, I hop in the Buick and take off imagining that that night might be the night God performs a modern miracle and lights the path back to my in-laws’ house. Not so much … that night He had a sense of humor and, 15 minutes into my random drive, lights a path to my idiot husband swerving up a road on his brand new bike. Lucky me.

You can only guess how this story ends.

Exhibit B:

The T-Room, a local University of Portland bar, saw a lot of me in the four years I attended undergrad. Yes, she saw me dance on top of her tables in embarrassingly short skirts. She let me lay across the handicapped bathroom stall as I purged myself of her incredibly strong mixed drinks. And she fed me the most amazing breakfasts the mornings I thought I wasn’t going to live another second with “a hangover like that.”

She, however, had never seen my wrath quite as malicious as the nights I appeared with my husband slash then boyfriend. The night she, nor my husband or I, will ever forget was the night I walked into the bar with a friend. As I sat chatting with, oh lets call him Johnny, I randomly spy then boyfriend across the bar leaning against a table. And leaning conveniently against him, chest to chest, was a dirty skeezer he’d had a slight fling with while studying abroad.  Oh, and their faces were mere inches apart.

Suddenly my vision of the room fishbowled, zoning in on this hideous scene. I hear Jonny saying “it’s okay … he’s just talking to her … no need to get so mad … blah, blah, blah, blah.” I stand. I target. I walk. As I approach the former lovebirds, I notice that their hands, his right and her left, are both in the purse slung over her left shoulder. So what do I do? I grab that damn handbag and throw it across the bar. Shocked – I’m not sure from being busted or from how good my arm was – my husband pushes away from aforementioned dirty skeezer and faces me to inquire “what are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” I rebut.

You can only guess how this story ends.

Fast forward to Exhibit C:

This last Halloween, my husband decides that he is going to invite a young lady out with us whom we both met while she was waitressing at a local watering hole. And when I say young, I mean 21. She agrees and brings a date.

This date is already eying my husband up and down from the second he walks in the door. I assume it’s because my husbands costume includes a dirty wig, pleated khaki pants, and a cabbage patch doll in a sling. I was wrong. Moments later, I find out it’s because this pretty young thing has told her date that my husband has hit on her but that for some reason I must not care because we keep inviting her out places. Good start to the night for me.

So I drink. And I humor her. And I glare at my husband. And I drink.

And my husband has no idea that I am building up this ammunition to fire at the slightest wrong move he makes. Lucky for him, he just keeps drinking. And dancing in his goofy pleated pants. And drinking. And dapping hands with a few basketball buddies he invited. And drinking.

At the end of the night, we’re both three sheets to the wind and I give him the skinny on the sequence of events I’ve watched unfold.

You can only guess how this story ends …

 

Actually, on this one, we don’t fight. I don’t act like an insane priss and storm off. He doesn’t pretend like he wasn’t doing anything wrong and that I’m irrational. We leave the issue alone after I told him what happened. Then we go on enjoying our friends and each others company for the remainder of the evening.

I will say, the next day did entail a few under handed comments from me, which were immediately followed by eye rolls and comments about his innocence. But ultimately, we waited until lunch hour on Monday to really talk. And it was by far the most productive lunch meeting I think I’ve had in my marriage career. As ridiculous as it sounds, we were both perfectly calm and able to talk about issues we’ve had with each other around other people – particularly of the opposite sex. We both made an effort to listen. We both made an effort to be honest and concise about issues when we talked. Since, we’ve both admitted that through that lunch hour, we’ve made huge realizations about each others behavior.

All in all, I joke about exhibits (and believe me, the list goes far beyond Exhbit Z … but that’s for another post), but in the end, what I got out of the whole instance is this: Do not discuss high stress problems in high stress environments. Wait until you’re alone, in logical mindsets, are prepared to be brutally honest, and to receive brutal honesty in return.

So long to fighting under the influence. Although I can’t swear off chucking a purse or two from time to time.

He Says: We Need To Talk

The four most dreaded words to a man in any relationship: We Need to Talk. They are demoralizing and defeating at the same time. It doesn’t matter if the moment before those terrible words the relationship is on Cloud 9 or immersed in Phlegethon in the outer ring of the Seventh Circle. Those seemingly insignificant words are chock full of meaning. Maybe it’s the word “talk” that scares us men. Maybe the word “need”—a condition or situation in which something is required or wanted—is what we fear. No matter what it is, when women say those words of discomfiture, only one thing goes through the minds of men. As the all too hilarious comedian Dave Chapelle put it, all we men think is “Fu-!” I’ll  let you finish the thought yourself. The odd thing, though, is that I think this thought runs through men’s minds even if they are the ones that have to initiate the “We Need To Talk” conversation.

Maybe women are the same way and hate these talks as well. But I suspect otherwise. I have a sneaking suspicion that my wife loves saying those words. I have a niggling belief that women relish in the opportunity to put us men in our respective places. I realize that we men usually deserve it because of our constant stupidity, but women don’t understand the difficult blood-flow management that is required to maintain both heads with maximum efficiency. While women seem to love these talks, us men can’t stand them. Even when we are the driver of the We Need To Talk talk. We’ll try to find any way out of it. So she screamed expletives at me for thirty minutes for accidentally dropping my dirty fork on the carpet. We’re cuddlin’ up for a movie now. It’s water under the bridge.

I had one of these moments last week. It was horrible. I knew my wife and I had to talk, but I tried to think of every way around it. I couldn’t sleep all night because I was trying to talk myself out of it. “It’s really not that big of a deal,” I told myself. “You’re over over-reacting. So there’s six different things that have been really eating at you. So what? Just get a good night’s rest and pretend they never happened.” The problem was, I couldn’t. The next day these things we’re still really eating at me. I knew my wife and I had to talk about them. We had to address them for our relationship. Don’t get me wrong, these were very small, menial problems. In fact, they weren’t even problems. But they still had to be out in the open. As much for me being able to share my own current concerns with these issues as it was for my wife to know that they existed (and vice versa).

Well, the next day, after a mostly sleepless night, I was still trying to talk myself out of having the conversation. Early in the workday, we agreed to have lunch later that day. The next three hours I battled internally about whether I would “ruin” our lunch. I walked to lunch and John Kerry-ed the entire way. I got us a table for two and agonized about my next move while I waited for my lovely life companion to arrive. I think most men that truly care about the success of the relationship they are in go through he same pain. Maybe not to the same extent, but in all probability they try to avoid initiating the We Need To Talk discussion. What kind of sadist would enjoy being the initiator of that talk? Right men? To make my avoidance issues worse, my wonderful counterpart is a very strong and opinionated woman of Italian descent.  I knew anything I said at lunch would be thrown back in my face. I knew she would make me realize that I have acted in ways far more deserving of this talk than her. I knew I was in trouble. But I knew we had to have this talk.

The thing is, none of that happened. My wife hardly said a word in objection. There was never one “Yea but…” or “C’mon!” or “Well what about…” Not one. In fact, my better half was silently compassionate. And I’m sure it wasn’t because she agreed with everything I was saying. The things I wanted to discuss were really not that big of a deal. She could have easily put me in my place, but didn’t. And you know what? The lunch was incredibly humbling. Not for her. For me. Here I was bringing up these issues that were miniscule in the grand scheme of building a life with another person and my wife didn’t protest in the least. She simply listened, looked across the table, and said, “I understand. I’ll work on it.” Any anger or hurt I had melted away. Every word I had just said seemed ephemeral.  I spent the entire walk back to my office not thinking about our conversation, but thinking about ways I could better love my other half. My wife’s compassion left me unable to focus on anything other than my own shortcomings and how I could be a better husband.

Now maybe that was her plan all along. She is a very intelligent, plotting woman and I wouldn’t put it past her. In the midst of an argument, I’ve seen her flip the script on me so fast that I didn’t know which way was up. But even if it was her plan, how can compassion be a bad plan? It made me realize that I could use more compassion in my life. In every aspect of my life. Couldn’t we all? The epitome of compassion in our lifetimes, Mother Teresa, once said, “Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. Be the living expression of kindness: kindness in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your smile.” My wife took a page out of Mother Teresa’s book. I should do the same. We all should.

The Vegetarian Wants Pig, The Lawyer Wants Single Ladies

Married or not, many relationships require each partner to make sacrifices at some time or another. In our recent session on the couch, we drummed up thoughts about things we tend to give up to make the other person content and keep a peaceful marriage. Thus, the following is a recount of things we each want, but cannot have thanks to each other. It really is a vicious cycle.

She Says: There Is Always A “Yes” Somewhere Behind a Man’s “No” … So I Keep At It

Compromise. When I first got engaged, everyone told me that it is compromise that makes the marriage work. What a little piss ant of a word for such a ginormoous responsibility.

Every morning, noon, and night I have to be – er, I mean, get to be – conscious of my husband and his needs. In the olden days, when I was single, I would walk around the house buck neked after a shower. Today, the blinds are slammed closed as I am lectured about the dangers of peeping toms. In the olden days, I could manage a lazy Sunday going about my own business watching Dirty Dancing (R.I.P. Johnny Castle) or Ferris Bueller’s Day Off at my leisure. Today, Sundays are preoccupied with a husband pacing the living room floor in his Vikings jersey as he either curses or applauds his team.

More often than not, I rarely hear about the perils of sacrifice from other married couples. But because I am not a member of any of those other married couples, I will proceed to share (aka bitch) about the top three things that are  off limits now that I have a life partner. And yes, these are in order of things that I throw the biggest tantrum about due to my high level of desire for them:

3. A miniature pot belly pig. I mean, have you seen these things?

First off, I have allergies and have never had the luxury of smooshing my face into the soft fur of a cat, or wrestling with a brand new puppy. I break out in hives and wheeze like a big loser.  So when I saw these little porkers a few months ago, I fell in love knowing that a miniature pot belly pig would perhaps be my only chance loving a pet without dying – literally.

However, one mention of it to my husband and it was all over. I tried everything. I named the potential pet Lolly to try to get him more attached to the idea of a new family member. I begged for three days straight. I even said I would suddenly end up “accidently” pregnant. After all, if he didn’t want a pig, I’d need something to love.

The only response that I continue to get? “The only pig that will be in this house … the bacon I eat for breakfast.” Sad, I know.

2. The remote control. Now, before you say “get over it, it’s a remote,” let me shed some light on my complaint. If my husband is watching TV, alone or with me, the remote absolutely 100% must be in his possession. His obsession with the remote is so bad, I actually had to wait until he left for work one morning to sit down and learn how to use it and our DVR. Before that day, I can honestly say I didn’t even know what it looked like. And even though I know how to use it, I still have to make requests to him to watch a certain show, to turn the volume up or down, or to record Oprah for me most of the time.

Now perhaps this doesn’t sound so bad. And to be honest, it isn’t the end of the world since I’m not a big TV person. But the mere fact that my husband demands I hand over the remote every time we sit to watch a show is pretty damn annoying. I mean, what does it matter that it lays on the table closest to me? But what has become even more annoying is that he wouldn’t always just hold the remote. Some days, he – brace yourself – actually chews on the end of it while watching TV. Still not that bad, you say? Well, what if I told you he tends to use the button side to scratch body parts? Face. Foot. The back of his neck. You name it, our remote buttons have seen a lot of action.

Don’t believe me? Just last week I got so fed up with knowing our remote was basically a petri dish of god knows what, I sprayed the hell out of it with Lysol. Later that night, as we sat to watch an episode of Family Guy, my husband takes one look at me – tongue hanging out of his mouth, eyes squenched like he’d just eaten an whole lemon – and said “did you clean the remote or something?” Yes, he’d once again shoved the end of it in his mouth only to be met with the raunchy taste of cleaner. I laugh just thinking about it.

1. Shoes. I have to be nice on this one because I still do purchase shoes. Just not in the quantity and frequency that I’d like to. At one of my most proud moments, I owned over 300 pairs. My mother called me Imelda Marcos. I beamed every time she said it.

My husband, however, just shakes his head.  That shake alone lets me know that bringing home a new pair of shoes is better left unmentioned. Therefore, I now know the importance of the three p’s of shoe shopping: purchase, protect, and produce. As in buy ‘em, hide ‘em, and then sport ‘em when there’s little likelihood they’ll be noticed. Soon enough, I’ll have worn them enough that they’ll be just like any other shoe.

After all is said and done, sure, these things pale in comparison to what some people may want out of their partners. But the day I get a pig, new shoes, and am allowed to hold the remote any time I want will be the day hell freezes over. Which makes me want all three of them that much more.

He Says: Allah Forbid You Should Have!

When my wife proposed the latest blog topic, I was stumped. I couldn’t think of anything. I racked my brain and could not think of one thing that I wanted, but couldn’t have because my wife wouldn’t let me. Now don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things that I would like to have, but don’t. There are also a large number of things that I would probably have if I wasn’t currently married, but the decision not to have them are a mix of joint decisions, wise financial insight, and a realization (with some help) that I am probably better off without them. And I know what some of you meat-head males are thinking: “There’s nothing you want that you can’t have now that you have staunch monogamous attachment?” Well, ignoring the redundancy of your question, the answer is no. Nothing. Not even a threesome course dinner prepared the moment I get home from work or an anally retentive clean house. There is nothing. Really.

(Quick aside: If you got the reference in the blog title, then you’re a bigger Disney movie dork than I am. My favorite movie of all time? Robin Hood. Hands down.)

Again, there are plenty of things that I have given up in order to make this relationship become as wonderful as it is, as I know there are also countless things my wife has sacrificed as well in order to remain blissfully in love. But in my mind, these things are different than that which we set out to write. Our intention was to write about the three things we want that our spouse won’t let us have. And truthfully, there is nothing that I want that my wife has put her foot down and said no. There is no breakfast bacon named Lolly that I can’t have because of the morganatic life I now live. (And no, I have not read “She Says” yet. But I am positive ugly old Lolly is on that list. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that Lolly is the sole reason this entry has been created).

Where does that leave us? I have nothing to say about this topic because there is nothing in my life that snugly fits into the criteria. Well, what kind of attorney would I be if I couldn’t carefully contort the words into a form more befitting? It’s all semantics right? (I think Einstein coined that phrase). So, rather than the three things I want that my wife won’t let me have, here are my two things that I would have if, god forbid, my wonderful wife had never entered into this joyous pilgrimage with me. Oh, and if I started Google.

1. An office that smells of rich mahogany with many leather bound books.

I know; I am simultaneously a nerd and a prudish snob. What can I say? I will someday have this office. There will be a floor to ceiling bookcase with one of those rolling ladders used to grab the books that are really, really high. There will be an eye-level 48-inch flat-screen in order to watch the game, the news, or Best Week Ever (one of my sister’s favorite shows). There will be a wall mounted TV in case another game is playing at the same time. (And you didn’t have to ask. Of course this office wouldn’t work for Sundays in the fall or Thursday through Sunday in March. There will be a man cave in the basement with a fully stocked bar for those days. We’ll get to that). If you stop by my office, you will be invited in to sit on my leather couch. If music is your cup of tea, I can quickly consume the room with the majestic sound of Canzonetta sull’aria or Single Ladies. To make sure you aren’t left wanting, I will immediately offer you a glass of 1982 Château Lafite and a Cuban hand-rolled in-house by my personal torcedores. How dare you call me a prudish snob.

2. A basement bar with every sports television package available.

Due to the economy, the need to be fiscally responsible, and the fact that the Vikings are so good this year they’re on national television practically every week anyway, the Buri’s Couch is no longer playing NFL Sunday Ticket. However, if I was somehow unfortunately single, my basement would be a magnificent sanctuary to enjoy the sporting world. Four TVs would adorn the far wall. To your right would run a 15-foot bartop. Behind it a fully stocked bar. On the left wall runs a full-length shuffle board table. A dartboard with metal-tipped darts immediately to its right. Directly in front of the TVs are a wide assortment of the most comfortable couches and chairs imaginable. Behind those couches are two high-top tables with chairs and a poker table. Sitting on the wall next to the poker table is a telephone. Pick it up. It’s connected directly to my Vegas bookie. Immediately behind these tables is a perfectly level and oiled foosball table and beautiful pool table. What’s that smell you ask? Oh, that’s simply the house chef cooking up any meat you could possibly dream of. Burgers, dogs, brats, chicken, turkey, ham, pepperoni, beef, steak, pork, sausage, ribs, salami, wings, rinds, goat, frog, kanga, scorpion, bat. He does it all. (And yes, I have had every kind of meat just listed). This wonderful Elysian Fields will be able to provide any sports game imaginable. You want to catch the Dockers play the Geelong Cats? We got it. Nowhere to watch the All Blacks match against Papa New Guinea? Come on over. Dying for a place to show the World Footbag Association championship? You know it. And to top it all off, all guests will be offered their own headset in order to listen to the television of their choice. While everyone is enthralled by the First Round upset of IUPUI over top-seeded UNC, you can rest assured that you’ll be able to listen UCLA’s 40-point blowout of FAMU.

So there you have it. Those are the two incredibly small things that I have always wanted that my wife forbid me to have ever since we entered into this nuptial peregrination. The shackles run deep.

Don’t Need No Baby Daddy Baby Mamma Drama…At Least Not Yet

We thought we’d try something new for this BOTC post. Of our three readers, one of you may like it and two of you may not. The following is an actual email exchange between Him and Her throughout the past week. There was no agenda or organization to this email exchange. This is simply a window into our narcissistic, barmy life.a

She Says: What is it with everyone wanting to have babies right now? And everyone asking us when we’re having kids? … I think they think because we haven’t, we can’t.

He Says: What’s up Seinfeld? Nice intro. I think it was a whole lot worse when we first got married. We were getting a lot of questions at that time about when the babies were going to start coming. It was almost as if the second we became married we had a responsibility to the world to begin reproducing. I realize that a power couple of our stature would probably make some sort of super baby, but we’ll hold off on that for now. Here’s an interesting thought, though–what other things in life have similar reactions from people?  Let me explain. We got married and then people immediately began asking when we were going to have kids, as if one naturally followed the other. What other things elicit a response like this? Here’s the criteria:

1- The two situations, while having a thread of connection between them, are really non-sequitur. For example, many married people do have kids, which is the thread of connection, but that’s an inappropriate logical leap. There are plenty of married people that don’t have kids and plenty of single couples that do. So the one doesn’t really follow the other. On the other hand, asking a parent if they will home school or send their kids to public or private school is a much more natural question to ask because kids must learn, so it wouldn’t fit the criteria of being non-sequitur.

2- There is an overwhelming amount of similar responses or questions. It’s not just one or two people that respond in this way, but a startling number of people to the point that you almost question yourself for thinking any other way.

3- The questions or responses are seemingly inconsequential. In other words, we’re not looking into deep societal or political issues. No one is going to be emblazoned with passion or anger because of the question. The questions are harmless in nature, but after it happening so many times in a row, become noticeable and annoying.

That’s it. Those are the criteria. Here’s what I can come up with off the top of my head.

~ Asking a married couple when they are going to have kids right after they are married.

~ Asking a college graduate what they want to do with their life. It seems like it makes sense, since they are just finishing one stage of their life and moving into “the real world,” but it reality, what does “what I want to do with my life” have anything to do with graduating. I’m almost 30 and I still don’t know what I want to do with my life. I know 40-yr olds that still don’t know. Why does everyone ask college graduates ad nauseum some variation of this question?

~ Asking a dating couple when they are going to tie the knot. This one is similar to the baby one, in the sense that marriage can often be the next step after dating, but there are many people that date for plenty of other reasons. In fact, I would bet there are more people that date for other reasons than marriage than there are people that don’t. Why is it always assumed that marriage is the logical next step?

I’m sure there are plenty for the second two thirds of life as well, but my experience in that area has been limited thus far. You have any suggestions for this list?

She Says: Er … you went all lawyer on me with all this talk of sequential questioning and deductive reasoning. To be perfectly honest, people will ask these questions for one of two reasons, or perhaps for both reasons: 1. They have nothing else to say in a chitty-chatty conversation so they drum up a typical “so … about the weather” inquiry, or 2. because they are selfish. 

I say this keeping in mind that many a time I have inquired with someone about a next step simply because I have nothing else to say or am selfishly trying to figure out their personal business. Case in point, a lunch date with a new girlfriend. She’s newly divorced and previous topics have been beaten to death, so I quickly inquire “So what will dating look like for you now?” And .. cue the tears (hers, not mine … although I could have cried from awkwardness at this point in time).

 

In reality, I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was saving myself the pain of a silent lunch because I hate quiet, lame conversation and I wanted to know how quickly she intended to hop in the sack with the next guy.

 

It’s the same that could be said for someone who asks us about when I plan to squeeze a ten pound human out of my lady parts. They more than likely have nothing else to say to us, or it’s my mother –or the like–who really, really, really, really, really wants her first grandchild. People that know us well, know that there will be a day at some point in time where we’ll either say “we’re having a kid” or “we’re flying solo on this one so we can rock out and travel and drink all the time.”

All I have to say is that people in general should be careful of the kids question, if not for the sole reason that some people cannot have children–while desparately wanting a biological baby–and can be very scarred by the circumstance. One of the worst feelings occurs when you ask a couple about procreation and they stare blankly while saying “we actually just found out we’ll never be able to have kids.” Ouch.

He Says: Before I respond, I hope by “flying solo on this one” you mean in the Biblical sense or the Spice Girls‘ sense. Because if not, this would be a very strange forum to broach the conversation.

Back to the discussion, however. I think you missed what I was trying to get at. My point was that friends, family and society think it is a natural step to go from marriage to kids, but that’s not really the case. The one doesn’t necessarily follow the other. So despite the fact that someone is bored or filling awkward silences doesn’t change the fact that they are making a logical leap from one occurrence to the other with only a tentative thread between them. But now I’m boring even myself.

You brought up the situation of awkward questions or comments, which made me think of this situation that happened to me the other day. You obviously know I love the show “How I Met Your Mother.” Well the other day there was a line that I found humorous and wanted to text to another friend who also enjoys the show. What line was it you ask? I’ll tell you. “I will plow her like a corn field.” Now, you know I would never get into such crass and raunchy humor as that, but I also enjoy puns, so I couldn’t resist laughing. Anyway, here’s the awkward thing. When I went to text the line to my buddy, I accidentally texted it to another friend I play basketball with. Unfortunately for me, this friend is married with kids and has an open marriage with his wife. He is convinced that monogamous relationships just don’t work. Again unfortunately for me, he now thinks I accidentally sent that text to him, but that I was out cheating on you that night. Awkward. Can’t wait to see him again and try to explain why I sent that text. No, I wasn’t cheating on my wife, I swear. I’m just a big dork and I was texting a line from a sitcom.

That brings up an interesting topic, though–open marriages. (And no, I’m not interested in one in the least. Don’t get so excited). I think most people would say they don’t work. I wouldn’t come down with such a definitive assessment, but I do tend to think there probably needs to be more of a business relationship at that point. By that I mean that there probably has to be a reason such as kids or money keeping the couple together. Either they’re staying together for the kids or they’re staying together for financial reasons. The divorce is just too expensive and splitting up would hurt their current income. (Think any high-powered politician. Zing!) I will say this, however, one thing that is commendable for couples in this situation is that at least they’re being honest with each other and recognize the situation for what it is, rather than cheating on the other or not addressing the situation at all. There’s something to be said for that, right? (I think the Love Doctor’s Love Bytes blog to the right just self-combusted).

She Says: Well first and foremost, the couple you’re addressing doesn’t have an open marriage. He cheats on her. She probably has a sneaking suspicion, but she stays with it for whatever reason–she has low self esteem, she wants her baby daddy to be around, or she just plain doesn’t care.

Secondly, this part of the conversation brings us full circle on the topic of having children. I would never have one to save our marriage or to keep a husband around. A baby can be a distraction and more often than not, you see couples divorce after 30 years (or realize they’re complete strangers) because their kids are out of the house and they’ve spent so much time parenting, that they’ve forgotten to pay attention to one another. Point being, people will have kids for all sorts of reasons – unfortunately. For myself, however, I want to have kids when I know I’ve checked off the list of things I’d like to do that having a child can sometimes make difficult, if not impossible. I’m ready to travel, to get smarter, to learn more about home making, to rediscover the things I like doing but ignored because I was work obsessed, to take care of myself, and to better understand my husband so if and when we do have a child, we’re on solid ground as a couple.

So for all the people determined to convince the childless how great having a kid is, we know. We know they’re cute, and cuddly, and could be money makers or someone to be proud of, and then some. But let’s face it … I’m pretty cute, and pretty cuddly, and could be someone to be proud of too. So for now, I’m sticking with myself, and that husband of mine.

Come Fly With Me

We apologize for our one-month hiatus. The end of the summer kicked in and we needed every last minute to enjoy ourselves. Well, we’re back for your own personal enjoyment, all three of you.

;

She Says: Quit Kicking My Seat: The Oblivious Traveler

I love to travel. I hate the part of traveling that requires one to get from point A to point B. Not because I don’t enjoy a quick plane ride every once in a while, but because I hate 90% of the other people that I’m required to travel with. I blame it on the unconsciousness amongst us that can be characterized in the following categories:

1. The parent who can’t discipline.

I am not a parent. I cannot speak to the stress parenting may cause. And I cannot speak to that stress which may lead to nonchalant reckless parenting. I did, however, grow up the second of six children. And I do know that all six of us were very well behaved, particularly in public places, and especially on trips.

There was no time for dilly dallying. There was no time for tantrums in the hope for a McDonalds stop. And God forbid we ever crazily run up and down the aisles of any place, smashing into those around us.

So it begs the question … why the hell would a parent allow a child to continually kick the seat of the person in front of them and then get offended when that person turns with a forceful “get your child under control” glare? C’mon people. The airport and the plane are not park, a circus, or even your home for that matter. Quit adding to the stress of traveling by letting your kids rage out of control and annoy the crap out of everyone simply because you’re too tired, lazy or stressed to manage it.

P.S. Bribing your child with candy should never be an option to get your child to behave while traveling. In case it doesn’t click, candy + small confined spaces + little entertainment = disaster.

2. The personal space defy-er.

We all know him. And most of the time, he’s pretty friendly and may even recognize that he’s cramping your space. However, when push comes to shove, he will never try and be accommodating to your needs even though he knows he needs two seats or that he shouldn’t have snuck on three carry-ons.

Regular three-hour red eye trips from Portland to Minnesota left me most bitter toward the personal space defy-er. He crowds or outright takes the armrest the entire trip (note to travelers – if someone has the middle seat, they get both arm rests as a courtesy for being smashed between two people … it’s just flying etiquette). His bag, which should be under the seat, is actually in your foot space. He hovers above you when it’s time to take his stuff out of the overhead bin. He clumsily pulls himself out of his own seat by grabbing yours to steady himself, shaking you from your cat nap.

The list goes on and on and on. It’s simple, keep to yourself and remember that you’re not the only one on the plane.

3. The talker.

A hint for those who do not wish to get stuck in a compromising situation while on a plane: bring your iPod.

I don’t know anyone who has traveled and not experienced the talker. They come in two different forms: 1. the person on either side of you who incessantly blabs on about nothing, all the while missing your subtle cues that you don’t care, and 2. the person in your general vicinity that was never taught about “indoor voices” as a pre-schooler, hence spewing forth every thought with their fog horn mouth.

The only remedy for this situation is brutal honesty (which may come in the appropriate requests of “can you please lower your voice?” to the fog horn mouths or “I’m awfully fill in the blank here … think “tired,” “stressed,” annoyed”) and not in the mood to chat so I’m going to listen to some music” to the incessant blabber.

Good luck.

4. The “I can’t take a three gallon jug of arsenic on the plane?” security line spaz.

If I had gun for every security line spaz I encountered at the airport, there would be no more security line spazes.

A show of hands for those who know about 9/11. A show of hands for those who watched any news regarding new security measures taken to ensure safe flights post 9/11.

All of you? Great. Then why in the hell are there still people who act like a deer in headlights when they walk through security lines in airports? It’s not brain surgery and you don’t have to fly regularly to know the drill.

Just last week I watched a woman with a gallon sized, jam packed zip lock bag complain when a security guard explained she’d have to discard several items that were contained in 8 oz. bottles. For those who do not know the rules:

“Liquids and gels must be in individual containers of three ounces or less and placed inside one clear, quart-size, plastic, zip-top bag. The TSA emphasizes that containers should fit comfortably into your bag, and that only one bag is permitted per passenger. If you need to bring more than three ounces of any liquid or gel substance, it should go into your checked luggage.” Read here for more.

Of course she cried and said how much she loved her new 6 oz. tube of Vasonline and how she hated to let it go, all the while the rest of us stood there barefoot and dumbfounded while she held up the line.

Get to know airport protocol, please (this includes how to use a kiosk to check in and print a boarding pass). It makes lines quicker, security guards nicer, and the whole world a better place.

There … my rant is done.

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He Says: An Airline I Can Appreciate

My wife and I fly often. Since last New Year’s we have flown 47 flights combined (not counting layovers and transfers) and we have another 2 in the next month. Naturally, there are people that fly far more frequently. I realize that. However, I think saying we fly often is a fair assessment. 47 flights in 7 months can take its toll. Not to mention how much more expensive tickets are than just 10 years ago. (How come people say “Not to mention,” and then immediately mention it)? I remember my sister and I were able to fly PDX-MSP roundtrip on Sun Country for just $69 back in 2003. Roundtrip! Now you’d find yourself ecstatic if you found a ticket for that same flight for $200. That’s a steal. Additionally, the hassle of getting to the airport, checking in, security and boarding make flying an event. But I’m not telling you anything you haven’t already known for all of the Ought’s….Zero’s? (We never did figure out what to call this decade did we)? So what’s my point?

About one year ago I flew Southwest Airlines for the very first time. To be honest, I was not too happy with having to fly Southwest, but the company I had just joined flew them frequently, so I was stuck with this airline. I wasn’t excited about the free-for-all seating arrangement, of which I could only choose coach, or the separate terminals they have in some cities, such as their placement in the Humphrey Terminal at MSP. In just one short year, however, I am now a big advocate for Southwest Airlines. So much so that when I recently had to take Delta for a flight on which I would usually fly Southwest, I was annoyed. At a time when airlines are hiking prices, charging for bags, cutting snacks and drinks (not to mention meals—remember that?), and seemingly lacking in any sort of service, it seems Southwest understands that I am the customer. They haven’t once treated me like they are doing me a favor, but rather they treat me like my business is something they value. They treat me like they are pleased to have me onboard.

Let me offer a recent example.

About a month ago my wife and I flew home from a wedding. We had a plane change in Denver. Unfortunately for us, there was a maintenance issue with Shamu, so we didn’t leave on time. On top of that, there were severe storms in Denver, so we had to circle the airport for about an hour. When we finally landed at 9:55pm, my wife and I, along with another couple that had the same transfer, were resigned to the fact that we had missed our connection by about 15 minutes. To our delight, however, they had held the plane for us. They even made sure our checked bag made it over too. What was a minor inconvenience of a short delay for all the other Southwest passengers saved my wife and I from the much larger inconvenience of missing our flight and spending the night in Denver. Southwest is one of the only airlines that would have waited.

I know this is not a typical entry for me, but I had to share my experiences in the past year. I have been impressed and pleasantly surprised with Southwest Airlines. Changing tickets is a cinch. Cashing in frequent flier points has never been easier. Most importantly, for me at least, their service has been unfaultable. As long as Southwest has a flight to the city I am flying, offers the ticket at a reasonable price, and continues to appreciate that I chose them over the countless airline options I have before me, my business is theirs to lose.

We’ll Take Two Bud Lights And A Membership

While attempting a very familiar thing, also known as drinking, we happened to learn something new about Salt Lake upon arrival, also known as the membership. Read on to learn more about this Utard law recently lifted.

He Says: 21? Then You’re a Member!

About a year and a half ago I stepped foot into Utah for the very first time. A few months later I came back for my cousin’s wedding. My cousin is a Midwest transplant to Salt Lake City (much like I am). He met the love of his life and got married out here. The night before the wedding was my first real introduction to Utah. After a nice dinner with my family, we decided to venture out into downtown Salt Lake at 10pm on a Friday night. After the first two drinking holes we tried to visit turned out to be closed—(yea…have a moment to take that in and fully comprehend…Friday night…10pm…downtown…in a major city…all right you got the picture? Perfect.)—the third place we walked into welcomed us with open arms. Well, kind of.

We stepped one foot into this debaucherous house of ale and we were immediately informed that we must order one appetizer. My wonderful mother exclaimed, “Perfect!” as my sister added, “Not a problem!” before the stern door greeter could finish his drinking requirements. “You must order one appetizer each,” he finished. But we just ate dinner good sir, we are not very hungry in the least. No dice. You see, this pleasant establishment was more a restaurant than a bar. So by law, they were not allowed to serve us alcohol without a minimum amount of food being purchased. In the great city of Salt Lake, in order to serve a patron drinks without eatables, a bar must charge a membership fee. A one-week membership typically costs $5, the normal cover charge for a popular establishment on a popular night. This was for all bars, however, every single one. All the way down to your 5 stool hole in the wall on a Tuesday afternoon. That is, or was I should say, until July 1, 2009. Those days are over!

I know your excitement is less than overwhelming, since this concept of memberships is absolutely foreign to you, but you don’t know how great it is not to renew the 15 memberships my wife I possessed last year. You don’t know how wonderful it is to drive home from work and think, “I’m gonna grab a beer and catch the end of the game,” and not have to drive across town to Lumpy’s because I was a member there. And I have only lived here for a year. I can’t imagine how excited those of you that have suffered longer must be. Driving down the road and getting a frosty beverage is now only 50% more difficult than it is in the other 47 contiguous states. For me, that’s something to celebrate.

The title to my blog is the words to a banner currently posted outside of a local establishment. I saw the banner walking into the bar and thought, “Clever.” I know. I’ve clearly lived here awhile when I can enjoy a joke like that. Why, you ask, does enjoying that joke mean that I’ve been in Utah awhile? Simple. That’s not even a joke! It’s not funny in any part of the U.S. except in Utah. But, alas, Utah is where I currently reside and I find that banner clever.  (A local but more universally humorous slogan is that of Park City’s Wasatch Brewery for their Polygamy Porter: “Why have just one?”) Salt Lake City has some wonderful things to offer. That being said, it has numerous pitfalls that any state that fails to successfully separate church and state will encounter. Sadly for them (or maybe for me), in my mind the greatest of these is the inability to accept the warm embrace of alcohol.

As I sit here sipping my glass of lower-than-normal-alcohol-content Cabernet, I can’t help but smile because the repeal of the membership law is proof that SLC is getting there. In my one year here, I’ve come to believe that the major problem with this city is that everyone else is a few drinks behind. Maybe they’re finally catching up. Add in the fact that they have not so slyly lessened the alcohol content of my drinks and maybe all of us can meet somewhere in the middle. As I moralize to you while sitting on my soap box (let’s face it, someone who enjoys alcohol as much as myself isn’t standing), let me, in the words of the late great Frank Sinatra, help you understand why memberships, prohibition and an empty glass all cause me to yearn for greater world in which we live, “I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. They wake up in the morning and that’s the best they’re going to feel all day.” I for one refuse to let grogginess and bad breath be the paramount feeling for my day. I expect more of myself. I expect more of my day. I expect, well, grogginess and bad breath at the end of the day as well.

She Says: “Hey! Does anyone have a membership to his bar? … Nah? Alright, I’ll get one!”

I am a member of many things. Look in my wallet and you will see my Costco membership card (probably my favorite of them all), my Birkram membership, my Blockbuster membership – the list goes on. I love being a part of things and proudly jam each and every card bearing my belongingness in my teeny tiny wallet.

When I moved to Salt Lake a year and a half ago, I purposefully shredded the memberships to an assortment of clubs and groups in Seattle and Portland, thinking I would not need them for quite some time. A thinner wallet, to me, meant a new beginning. New things to try, new places to find belongingness. Turns out, in Salt Lake, that not only was I going to refill my wallet with gym memberships and the like, but I would soon be collecting membership cards to bars. You heard it folks, bars.

Now, before you pick your jaw up off the ground, listen to this: for the first year I lived in Salt Lake, I had to hand over my drivers license to each and every door man and woman in the state of Utah to not only check my age, but to then copy all pertinent information into a “system.” Once this process was complete, I then had to hand over a wad (wad = approximately $12) of cash, completing a “membership” process. Mind you, one only has to do this once a year (depending on the type of membership purchased – I always nabbed an annual pass) at each bar visited. Nice for some, not for me, as I was continually visiting new drinking establishments, trying to figure out which were worthy of my attendance. It doesn’t end there though. Many of these bars actually had the balls to charge a regular cover on top of said membership fee already in their hands. (Lift jaw from ground, the story will get saner soon, sort of).

“Why a membership?” you might ask. Rumor has it that it 1. deters citizens from drinking, 2. allows the fine Mormons of Salt Lake to keep tabs on who is drinking since all the “system” information is accessible to them (God forbid one of their own get caught in a bar), and 3. provides additional funding to the LDS church (they would consider this “bleeding the beast” – taking money from non-LDS sinners to fund their own agendas. Read Under The Banner of Heaven for more information on this principle).

Though I have never spoken to a Mormon who will admit this or would even admit knowledge of this “Big Brother-esque” tactic, I cannot for the life of me think of other reasons memberships in Salt Lake exists. Not to mention no other state in this fair land has a membership policy such as Utah.

The good news is, after all my ranting, that the law has finally been lifted. All in all good, but the alchomohal is still at the level of lame since it does not have as much kick as everywhere else (no joke, I have friends who have driven five hours to Wyoming to get normal liquor). In addition, to replace the membership law and further protect non-drinkers from temptation, all new drinking establishments – restaurants included – must build eight foot walls around their drink stations so no one can actually see those amazing beer caps being snapped off a cold Bud Light, or those shiny vodka bottles a-splish-splashing around while making a Greyhound. Oh, and drivers licenses are still scanned so one’s information can continue to be tossed to the church for good measure. We just don’t have to pay them to babysit us now.

Congratulations, Utah, you made everyone think you’re one step closer to normal. Unfortunately, you have a long way to go.

Ten Things We Miss About College

Yea, yea, yea, we know. A top ten list is a paltry literary crutch. Deal with it. Here’s our top ten reasons why we miss college…

She Says: This List Could Be Infinite

When my husband first asked me what I planned to write for this blog, my smart ass remark was “I’m going to jot down the top ten things I miss the most about college, like we agreed.” Obviously discontent with this response, he pushed, “I know, but really, what top ten things will you write about?” Annoyed at his attempt to pry his way into my post before it was even posted, I quipped, “I only know one of the top ten things I miss so far, and it’s casual sex.”

I quickly ran into the next room and grabbed his Mac, knowing he would chase me down and tackle my witty little self if I didn’t have something valuable in hand to deter him. So here I sit, Mac in hand, reminiscing on some of the best days of my life.

The top ten things I miss most about college – in no particular order:

1.    Beer Pong. Yes, perhaps a little trashy, but I was damn good. So good, in fact, that I was in a league that hosted the games at my house for two years … much to the dislike of my three roommates.  I distinctly recall hitting the winning cup on several occasions. I distinctly remember this amazing game being a great excuse to get drunk. I distinctly remember … well, little else.

2.    Taco Bell. How did Taco Bell become such a staple in the life of a college student like me, you ask? First of all, I weighed no more than a buck ten in college and seemed to be able to eat all the Taco Bell I wanted and never gain weight – unlike my stints at Subway and DQ which always seemed to pack on the pounds. Second of all, it was cheap as hell – a bean burrito with sour cream and a nacho supreme amounted to a mere $2.09 when I was in school. And finally, it  was open 24/7 so the fourth meal always worked perfect after a night at the T-Room.

3.    Speaking of the T-Room … who doesn’t love their college bar? As a UP student, one could not make a trip to the T-Room on a Thursday night without seeing all their closest friends and scoring mad deals on Bud Light.  Plus, with the regular treat of John Stapleton, the one man cover band, even the most prudish of students ended up on the dance floor (or atop a table) by the end of the night.

4.    Your neighbors are your classmates. As a grown adult, it’s easy to wish for the college days when you were invited to a BBQ and it was right next door. Throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, grab a rack, and walk 10 feet to what would inevitably be a great evening.  Nowadays, our neighbors are young LDS couples that sneer as we sip wine on the porch while we watch them let their cats pee in our garden. And no, they don’t invite us to BBQ’s. Fun stuff.

5.    Music. If you grow up in Seattle, it’s pretty tough to not have a good grasp on the music world. I listened to everything imaginable, or so I thought. It wasn’t until college that I was introduced to some great musicians and had my computer constantly playing something. Plus, with such great bands coming through Portland every weekend and playing at small venues like The Roseland Theatre, I had the privilage of seeing some great shows – Howie Day, O.A.R., 311, Method Man, Gavin DeGraw, and G-Love and Special Sauce – with just a few handfuls of other fans.

6.    Naps. I have not taken as great a nap as the last one I took in college. Not only were they easy to squeeze in, they were never really just naps. I could take a three hour snooze mid-day and push through the rest of the afternoon like nobody’s business. The fact that my roommate and best friend both got Mono and slept incessantly as well helped a lot. Even in my most sick, exhausted, or hung over state post college, I struggle to get any shut-eye during the day.

7.    Vacations. As an adult, I think vacations are just as great as they were in college, but very different. In college, road trips ran rampant throughout my schedule. They were cheap, quick, and some of the most hysterical moments of my life happened in my rusty red Geo Prism.

8.    Online videos. I was in college long before YouTube made headlines, so for me and my 20 pound Dell laptop, downloading sketches from wherever the heck we used to download them from was great entertainment. Cue Miss Muffy and the Muff Mob, the crazy Strawberry Shortcake wannabe rapper that kept many friends and I rolling for hours on end.

9.    Intramurals. While I was not quite as involved as that husband of mine, my glory days as co-captain of the volleyball team were profound. When I wasn’t spiking people’s faces off, I was dabbling in kickball as well. My only regret is that I didn’t play softball, as I now realize after three seasons on a corporate team, I am much better than I thought I was, dang it.

10.     Intense learning. Now, before I begin, I will disclose that I was an Organizational Communication major (insert chuckle here). However, I also minored in Business and did take some relatively intense courses throughout my college career. I was always up for the challenge and actually miss the long hours in the library lunching and studying with friends as we prepped for exams, presentations, and papers.  I would take the most torturous group study sessions over a day in the office anytime, where the risk of getting a C on a test is always much more appealing than getting fired for not providing top of the line work.

I could go on forever, as ten doesn’t quite sum up the great days that made up my college experience. However, I will end here out of fear that if I continue, I’ll divulge too much information that would result in the Buri Couch being lit afire. Maybe after we get to know each other a bit better, we’ll detail the top ten craziest moments of college if we can miraculously narrow it down somehow…

He Says : COLLEGE!

My father always laughs when college students explain how tough they have it. My wonderful old man is a university professor and he has heard the college sob stories for over 30 years now. Anybody older than 22 knows that the “problems” you encounter while in college would be happily welcomed by anybody older than, well, 22. Our society has created a gentle universe to bridge the gap between adolescence and adulthood. Ignoring the fact that many societies historically have offered a similar nexus to adulthood at the age of, oh…thirteen, we offer our youth, between the ages of 17 and 22, a holding pattern of four years (or five for some of us, but who’s counting). Only afterwards is it time to become an adult. No quick push out of the nest into free fall. No rite of passage by a knife to the abdomen. We have college.

And you know what? It’s beautiful.

The top ten things I miss about college, also in no particular order.

1.    Studying things that have nothing to do with anything. Adults rarely do things just because. Some do, but it’s always impressive to see a grown man or woman learning a new skill for the hell of it. Will my career ever need me to use the extreme close-up I learned in film class? I highly doubt it, but it is still one of my favorite classes from undergrad.

2.    Taking a day off. Just today I was thinking how nice it would be to just take a break. Not a vacation, just a 24-hour break. Drive to the mountains and forget the world I have created for myself. Did I do it? Of course not! Responsibilities. Oh that dreaded word. In college, there is nothing that is so important that it can’t be put off until tomorrow.

3.    Friends always next door. One of the best things about college is that there’s always a friend nearby. This Cheers-like existence is clearly a fabricated reality, since many of the friendships revolve around Edward 40 Hands or the Real World/Road Rules Challenge, but the fact still remains, you can always find a buddy (or a sibling) to hang out with at the drop of a hat.

4.    Friday afternoon drinking croquet barbeques. Friday afternoon dri wha? You read that right. In real life, our drinking centers around celebrations. In college, our celebrations center around drinking. I miss the days of the weekly Friday afternoon drinking croquet barbeque. Even if half the time I’m pretty sure I drank all of the necessary ingredients for vomit.

5.    Being able to do without thinking. As an adult, every action and outing has to be thoroughly thought through and considered. In undergrad, you try something simply because you never have before. This isn’t to say actions are devoid of consequences in college, but individuals are still trying to discover who they believe they are. Dancing in the quad, a new look, or walking barefoot in the grass are all actions that take little thought. As an adult, “I have no rhythm,” “That look just isn’t me,” or “I’m not a hippy” are all excuses resting in the back pocket. Maybe who I think I am shouldn’t box in who I’m becoming.

6.    Exercise. I still exercise regularly, but it takes a conscious effort. In college, there are classes, clubs, intramural sports, practices, or pick up games galore at the tip of your fingers. It will never be that easy again.

7.    Mentally stimulating conversations. It always seems kids in college think fascinating thoughts more so than adults. Obviously some of that is due to the intellectual environment Uni endorses and some of that is due to responsibilities we adults bear (there’s that word again), but there is so much more intellectual excitement from someone in college. Granted, some of that fervor is overreaching phrenic dribble, but it’s still intellectual excitement nonetheless. I had a teacher in high school that commented once on a time he observed from a distance a colleague inspecting a coffee mug with fascination. My teacher had zero interest in the mug itself, but was enlivened by his colleague’s fascination in it. Maybe there’s a grain of simple truth in this Mother Theresa-n approach to life. If someone I know is excited about something, regardless of how inane it may seem, that alone should be enough for me to be excited as well.

8.    Coffee and cigarettes. Ahhhh, the sweet caress of a cup of black coffee and a cigarette. I am no longer a smoker, although I will indulge after a large quantity of drinks at a grand celebration, (or what I call Friday night—am I right or am I right?). There was nothing quite like sitting 200 feet above a river at 7am in the morning with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

9.    Travel. The wise old man I referred to in my opening often muses that he has yet to be able to find the study in Study Abroad. The truth of the matter is there is no other time in life that we can travel the world so easily, at such a subsidized rate. At Uni, I was able to travel to Fremantle, Perth and Sydney, Australia, tour Thailand and both islands of New Zealand, and visit Shanghai and Bejing, China. The options for travel are abundantly accessible to college students.

10.    Life never gets in the way of life (copyright B.D.) Certainly this is a whimsical view of youth. There are plenty of things in our collegial years with which we get bogged down and by which we are distracted. Likewise, there are plenty of responsibilities requiring careful attention throughout adulthood. Here’s the thing. While some of these responsibilities are true and virtuous obligations that a good soul could never eschew, some of these avocations are nothing more than limitations that others or we ourselves emplace. While a house, a car, a job, a reputation, or any countless number of things can be truly good, they should never define who we are. I have to remind myself daily that my life shouldn’t get in the way of living.

The Pig Pen

We were as shocked as anyone when the Swine Flu got as out of hand as it did. Initially thinking the media was sensationalizing the outbreak, we couldn’t have cared less about the spread - until the mister himself got it. Don’t worry, he lived.

Here’s the story…

He Says : This Little Piggy

“CDC Chief Says US Expects More Cases, Deaths to Grow”

“Drug Companies Race to Produce Vaccination”

“W.H.O. Raises Global Threat Level”

“Containment Seen as Unfeasible”

“How Bad Could It Get?”

If you guessed that these are headlines taken from the apocalyptic thrillers 28 Days Later, V for Vendetta, Dawn of the Dead, I Am Legend, and The Day After Tomorrow, you are absolutely wrong. They are all recent headlines from major news publications. I’m sure you have forgotten already, but we recently had a terrible epidemic. The world as we knew it was ending. Every country was going to close its borders forever in fear of proliferation of the terrible Swine Flu.  I know, I know. You’re as tired of hearing about the Swine Flu as you are about Michael Jackson. “Not another Swine Flu commentary!” That’s what you’re thinking right now. I know it. And I promise, I won’t mention Swine Flu anymore.

H1N1 virus. Those headlines above all refer to the H1N1 virus. I know you have moved on from that terror, but I have not forgotten. I will never forget. You see, I was stricken with this terrible virus and I have never been so sick in my life. Granted, I have not lived very long and I have not experienced severe illness in my short time on this planet. However, I have had food poisoning three times—once from shrimp left out on a wedding buffet table, once from the drinking the water in Franz Josef Glacier, New Zealand, and once from eating the Orange Chicken at the Freddy’s on Ida and Lombard in Portland—and if any of you have had food poisoning, it’s not really that fun. Let me tell you, though, food poisoning was a walk in the park comparatively.

H1N1 hit me hard about a month ago. I went from feeling near 100% one day, to a hallucination-filled fever the next. (Believe me, not the hallucinations you might hope for). My temperature hovered near 105° for over 35 hours. You read that right- nearly 105 degrees! To give you an idea of how awful I felt, after being quarantined in a bedroom for almost two days, I came downstairs and told my wife, “Honey, I feel great. Let’s go for a walk.” She took one look at me and thought better of it. She took my temperature and, after a 103.2° reading, she insisted I go back to bed. The thing is, I really did feel good. With a 103.2° temp, I was experiencing relief.  For two days there was so much pressure in my head that I honestly thought fluids were being pushed out of my eyes and ears. I’m not trying to gross anyone out, it’s just the simple truth. For two days, each bite of food I took felt as if every muscle and joint in my body were being simultaneously stabbed with thousands of pins. And that was just the two worst days. That’s not even explaining the third day when my wife and I walked 50 yards and I was out of breath. Or the near fainting when I stood up on the fourth day. Or the ensuing upper respiratory infection from my weakened immune system the following weeks.

I know, most of you are thinking I’m exaggerating because, well, I do that. But I’m not. It was miserable. Here is a text I sent to a good friend after I was out of the worst of it, verbatim:

“Think of the worst sick you’ve ever been, add to that the worst hangover ever, and multiply by 100. I understand euthanasia now.”

Well, you will all be glad to know I feel great now. And even if you aren’t glad to know it, that knowledge is still vexatiously crowding the RRP of your neurotransmitter vesicles at presynaptic terminals. Unless, of course, you have anterograde amnesia. Obvi. I’ll continue to clog up your short term memory with this information—I have five siblings. Of the six of us, three have been bedridden with the likes of Trench Mouth, Blepheratis (read Blufferitis), and Swine Flu. (So I lied, I mentioned it one more time). You read those right, and, no, I didn’t make up any of those names. I didn’t know they existed either, but apparently they do. The other three siblings better look out. If Long Nosed Ear Infection, Inconsiderate Armitis or Swamp Crotch exist, you will be afflicted. You can count on it.

It’s cliché, but you never count your health as a blessing until you lose it. (Did you ever notice the irony in how cliché it is to say it’s cliché)? For everyone out there experiencing a much more severe illness then H1N1, or that have a friend or family member seriously ill, you have my deepest sympathy and prayers. Health is a beautiful gift that we often take for granted, much like friends or family. Count the blessings you have, they’re more abundant than you think.

Let me leave you with this, lest you become grief-stricken by my recent suffering, which I am sure you all are. One of my ever-caring brothers told me amidst my H1N1 affliction, “Bummer, sorry you got that. But I am excited to tell my kids that their uncle was affected by the great pandemic of 2009.” So, I got that going for me…which is nice.

She Says: Swine Flu, Schmine Flu – Until It Hits You

Three months ago, we left ground zero – Mexico that is – and got back to the U.S.  to be met by parents concerned we were hit by the Swine Flu. We had no clue what the hell they were talking about until we turned on the news.

Sure enough, there was a fantastic shot of the most obnoxious people in the world, Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt, sporting barely there masks while on the beaches of Mexico (hint, hint Speidi … normally you wear the masks a bit tighter, but lets keep that advice private in the hopes you both get it for life and never return to the public eye).

Funny, the news in Mexico didn’t start publicizing the outbreak until weeks after we left. No patrons enjoying the buffet at The Dreams Resort had a problem handling food without gloves.  No one at the bar seemed to care the bartender merely rinsed glasses after a use to fill it with another drink and pass it on to the next person. And certainly, no one needed to think twice about donning a mask to the airport on their way home.

Somehow, we ended up in the clear and even encouraged friends to keep their scheduled vacations to Mexico joking, “Swine Flu, Schmine Flu, you only live once!”

Thankfully, underplaying the seriousness of the illness to friends and family didn’t end in disaster for them. Just for a husband, my husband, who somehow contracted it at the beginning of June, months after we left the very place where the breakout supposedly began. Perhaps it was karma coming back to bite us in the ass – or my husband in the head, lungs, stomach, and back. Or perhaps it’s because we live in Salt Lake where it always feels like terrible weather, disease, and trouble sneak up over the mountains and get trapped in our great, nasty valley.

Regardless of where it came from, it certainly came hard and fast in a way that no other sickness I’ve seen does. Two days out of commission and quarantined in the master bedroom with no signs of getting better, it was then we decided to take said husband to the emergency room. Within minutes of a rapid flu test (P.S. who invented the rapid flu test? Obviously someone that enjoys getting large apparatuses shoved into small holes), a nurse announced a positive result for H1N1. Lucky for us, the candid doc exclaims, “It’s fine, I don’t think you’ll die from this.” Thanks buddy.

After a swift dose of TamiFlu, the household was back on its feet and ready for the next crazy week of whatever was ahead. Now it’s just a matter of getting that Rupert Grint back to business … what would we ever do without Ron Weasley?