She Says: My Eight Emotions of Utah

Salt Lake was the second toughest stint in my life. The number of emotions involved in living in a state like Utah are plentiful. In fact, I might now have multiple personalities as a result of our almost four year existence there. Let me define these emotions a little more clearly via my favorite thing … a list.

1. Fear. I’m not usually a fearful person. Sure, bumper cars, murky water, and public transportation get to me. But who doesn’t freak out about those things? Salt Lake, however, scared the sh*@ out of me on several occasions, starting with the night my husband was crunched in an accident involving our precious Geo Prism and some rambunctious teenagers and ending with the fact that our house was haunted. I used to wet my pants in fear as doors randomly opened, footsteps were heard up and down the stairs while I was home alone and shadows floated aimlessly through the living room. It was horrible. Up until my husband named her Clara and joked that she’d run around the bedroom in lingerie for him. I never witnessed that. Which leads me to my next emotion…

2. Annoyance. I never realized that BOTH our cars were totaled during the time we lived in Salt Lake until writing this. Annoying. Several months before we lost the poor Priz, a damn tree branch the size of Paul Bunyon’s giant leg fell on top of our Jeep and literally flattened it. We also had to replace everything plumbing or electrical in the house at some point in time, frequently leaving us either soaked, without water entirely, or electrocuted at the flip of a switch. There was honestly not one week we lived in the house that there wasn’t something to repair or replace.

3. Shock. This could also be considered surprise, but I think shock is more appropriate since it has a more negative connotation. I was most shocked when the children of the lunatic who lived in the home before us stopped by to trick-or-treat at the home they spent the first 8 years or so of their lives in. Not only did they take more candy than any other kids, they both went on and on about how they used to have “friends” living in the house before we moved in an attempt to trick me into thinking they weren’t who they were. Little did they remember that we toured the house while they were in it when we contemplated buying it. Their mother also left hundreds of family pictures with a garage load of crap when she moved out so I was very familiar with who they were. You might not be phased by lying children, but I can tell you this is just a kindly brief example of some of the dysfunctional people that live in this state. I won’t even get into the neighbor who stole our half of a split alley or the couple who used to beat the crap out of each other in the first apartment we lived in.

4. Anger. I was only angry in Salt Lake a handful of times. Most of those times I was pissed at my husband, but I did exhibit this emotion several times at my first place of employment out there. They subsequently laid off most of their employees right before I quit and they are just mad at the world right now.

5. Happiness. I doubled up on drinking in Salt Lake and was always pretty cheery when I was on champagne or Bud Light. I was most happy at happy hour, which I think is a requirement, but also when I was photo boothing it up at the Twilight Lounge or at after work drinks. I was also happy when we went camping, hiked, or played softball with friends.

6. Sadness. I was only really sad three times in Salt Lake. The first was when my husband came down with swine flu. The second was when my Dad was in the hospital for a swollen spit gland back in Seattle. And of course, the last was when I left. I was devastated to say goodbye to the friends I made out there and cried almost the entire 11 hour drive home. I moped several days after I was back in Portland and still miss everyone out there a ton.

7. Excitement. I was excited a lot, and for good reason. I snowboarded a handful of times, which is a favorite past time of mine. I sat next to Adrien Grenier at Sundance. There were loads of great concerts that were hardly populated because most people in Salt Lake don’t know much about music. We went to Vegas more often than what is probably appropriate. Friends had babies. Friends got engaged. Friends came out to visit. And we travelled to Europe and Mexico while we lived there.

8. Gratefulness. This is perhaps the most impacting emotion that came with living in Salt Lake. I was more aware of friendships. I fell in love with all things family. And my relationship with my husband became stronger than ever since we spent so much time together holding on for dear life. I was and am still also grateful for the opportunity to be a minority for the first time in my life. I learned patience, how to better appreciate differences, and to embrace my faith and values in a new way.

So there you have it. My top emotions defined through Salt Lake experiences. I am a better person for having had them. I’ve grown up. I’ve made lifelong friends. And I like my husband even more than I ever thought I could.

And for these reasons, I’ll go back. Just don’t expect me to like the watery beer or that slut of a ghost hanging out at our old place.

Portland, get ready for us.

He Says: Dear Salt Lake

Dear Salt Lake,

It’s been fun. It really has. We’ve had some good times. You took me in with open arms. Well, one open arm and one Mormon arm. But still, at least part of you welcomed me happily, even if the other part received me like a man at a divorced women’s group. You have beautiful mountains and pleasant hikes. Remember the time when we hiked for 8 hours through a riverbed canyon? Or how about when we fished and camped alongside your mountain stream? Those were good days. Many of your people are wonderful individuals too. You introduced me to some great friends. I hope they won’t feel like they have to choose between us and we can all still be friends.

In the end, though, it just didn’t work out. I’m sorry you had to learn this way—me up and leaving in the middle of the night, leaving you a letter like this. Don’t take it personally. It’s not you, it’s me. It really is. But you are crazy. Don’t get me wrong, you gave me some good times; but you’re crazy Salt Lake.

Remember when we first got together? I was studying a lot, but there was that crazy couple that lived above us. I guess crazy is an understatement. He was abusive. We would hear loud thumps sometimes and then soft feminine sobs. No matter how many times the cops were called or he was stared down in confrontation, nothing ever changed. You never seemed to care Salt Lake. You just looked the other way. The cops always left without changing anything. I never understood that. It still makes me sick that you didn’t care Salt Lake.

You gave my wife and I a great house. (Still waiting for someone to invent a sarcasm font for me.) In reality, it will be a great house…for whoever the next owner is. They won’t have a care in the world about it because everything is now fixed. Granted, it is over 100 years old so some things are bound to break, but I just spoke with a friend in London that owns a house that is 563 years old. Yes, you read that right. Five Hundred and Sixty-Three Years! If he’s living there with little problem, you would think the house you gave us wouldn’t have been such a pain. You would think.

There was the previous owner, who left two dumpsters full of trash in the house and stole some of our fixtures before she moved out. Or remember this one? This is good. Remember when there was a plumbing problem and we had your friendly plumber come out to help us? After investigating, he looks us straight in the eye and says condescendingly, “Looks like it’s just your wife’s hair in the shower drain clogging things up.” 4 weeks and $12,000 later, we had removed tree roots the size of small trunks from our plumbing and replaced the entire mainline. We were without water for a month. Just some hair huh? That was classic.

There were some fun shows we went to together. It always seemed so easy to get tickets too because no one went to concerts. That was really nice. Remember the first time we went to a concert together? I went to get us beers and stood in that long line for 10 minutes before realizing I was actually in the line for ICE CREAM! The beer line was next to me and had ZERO people in it. Boy was I shocked! Or, how about that concert when just as we were leaving you dropped a giant tree onto our Jeep and smashed it to pieces. That’s what crazy people do, Salt Lake, but I guess it did give me firewood for the winter. (The entire winter! That’s how big the tree was!)

We had a couple good Holidays together, like that Easter we had with my parents and cousin. That was pleasant. The Halloween we had last year when all of my friends came out was really fun. You remember that? But then there was that Thanksgiving when I was out of town and you just decided to break the furnace. Why would you do that? No furnace? In the middle of the winter in Utah? What were you thinking, Salt Lake? That was not cheap to get a new one.

There was the first night in our new house when you cut the power and my wife and I had no idea where anything was because it was all boxed up and too dark to see. Or the winter night I came home at 2am after a 5-hour flight only to find the outside spigot in the back had burst and water was spraying everywhere. Or the car that smashed into me head on at 35 mph. (I think I still have concussion symptoms from that one. WTF is wrong with you, Salt Lake?) The MCL injury and 4 months of rehab were great, not to mention when you introduced me to Swine Flu. Thanks a lot for that. How are you even friends with Swine Flu?

Remember that time at 3am when you broke the hot water line in our bathroom and woke me up in the middle of the night? Bleary eyed, I had to reach through a stream of scalding hot water to cut the water source. You were really laughing about those burns.

Here’s the thing, Salt Lake. You weren’t good for me. And remember that part I said at the beginning of this letter? When I said it’s not you it’s me? I lied. It’s you. You’re a crazy bitch, Salt Lake. I can’t handle you anymore. Case in point—when you found out I was leaving, you busted some more things in my sale-pending house. A few more pipes, a pressure regulator, punched some holes into my walls…who knows what else.

It’s over, Salt Lake. I tried. I really tried. And we did have some good times, but this is the end. Quit trying to keep me there. Quit trying to get me back. Quit calling. I’m over you. Torture somebody else.

Sincerely,

Me

-Robert Frost

He Says: You Have One Life, Invest It Wisely

There’s an odd thing that has happened to our society. Maybe it’s caused by laziness or maybe it’s caused by apathy, I’m not sure. Maybe it isn’t even something that is new or particular to our society. Maybe it has happened for all of time. Maybe it is a struggle that every man and woman has gone through since the first dawn. Maybe. I’m not sure. I am certain of one thing, however. Whether or not it is something that has been around for ages, it is certainly prevalent in our world today.

And I have to admit; I’m tired of it.

The two greatest assets that any of us have are our ability to love and our time. Everything else that is important comes from these two things. Yet, for some reason, we continually fail to put time into the things that we claim really matter. For some reason, we never place our love into the things we desire. Again, I’m not sure if this is a byproduct of apathy, or laziness, or something else altogether. I am sure, however, that it happens in epidemic-like proportions. For whatever reason, we cannot decide on the things we love individually; and when we do realize what we care about, we fail to invest our time and energy into those things.

You want to move ahead in your career? Then spend the extra hours at work to become an expert in your field. Take time to do more than simply what is asked of you.

You want to have the ideal family? Then put down the remote and spend some time with your wife. Set aside your work and play catch with your boy.

You want to be devout to your religion or your beliefs? Take the time to meditate, reflect and ponder. It won’t just magically happen.

You wish you ate healthier foods and your body was more in shape? Research what foods are unhealthy for you. Learn how to prepare healthy meals. Start taking long walks, going for runs or working out.

Of course, all these things are easier said then done, especially the first part. Knowing what you want, understanding what you truly love is something with which everyone struggles. Passions change and what’s important in your life can seem like a moving target. 10 years ago it may have been career and now it’s family. That’s fine. Your interests are bound to change. What I don’t understand is not spending time on the things that matter to you, whatever they may be.

There is a folk rock band from West London, England called Mumford & Sons. In the last year and a half, they rocketed from relative obscurity into common musical parlance. They rose to such success that recently they were nominated for two Grammy Awards, when less than two years ago they didn’t even have a single album. One of Mumford & Sons’ songs repeats the following lyrics:

“In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die. Where you invest your love, you invest your life.”

Such simple but beautiful lyrics, yet they seem to be far more difficult to grasp than the simplicity of the words. People continually trip over the concept. They have a hard time investing their time and their love into the things that sincerely matter to them. Not to mention everything in our culture points to contradictory sentiments. We’re constantly told to do what feels right. We’re fed the idea that life is short, so have fun. We’re forced to accept that I need to look out for myself, because no one else will. After awhile, we forget that this isn’t who we are at all. We lose sight of what matters to each of us and we fail to invest our time and energy into it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for taking chances. I’m a huge proponent of taking risks. But only risks that are important to you. Don’t take risks you think someone else would be taking. Take your own risks. Decide what you think is important and start investing your love and your time in those things. If you like to volunteer, then do it. If you like your career path, work hard for it. If you care about food, then cook and eat away. If you love your family, sacrifice for them.

Just know that when you do, that’s where your life will take you. Don’t be surprised that if you spend time and care at work, work is what becomes important to you. Or if you put your heart into your kids, your kids are what become important to you. Or if you spend time chasing women, womanizing is what becomes important to you. The things you spend time thinking about will become the things that are important to you. The things you spend your money on will be the things that you want to work towards. The things you place your care into will be the things that you care about. So invest your time wisely.

“Awake my soul. You were meant to meet your maker.”

She Says: Investing For The Long Term

You might be surprised to know, I have a blankey. It’s something one might normally be ashamed of still keeping so close to the age of 30. Not me. I love it. In fact, I can’t sleep without it. Every night it resides soundly inside my pillow case underneath my sleepy head.

How in the world does she sleep with a blankey in her pillow case, bunched beneath her head? Well, it’s not so much an entire blanket. In fact, it’s about 1/5^th of the soft silky fabric that is traditionally sewn around the edge of baby blanket. The rest of it literally dissipated over time, right into thin air. (I would actually imagine most of it was shredded by the lint trap of my mother’s dryer all considering she used to wash everything incessantly, but that’s neither here nor there).

The point of me disclosing that I still keep what’s left of my baby blanket under my pillow is because it honestly is the one thing that has been with me my entire life. This blankey is 30 years old. It’s been drug through the dirt. It’s been spilled on. It’s been washed, dried, and washed and dried again. It’s even been barfed on during a horrendous trip to our family beach house when I got car sick on the three hour ride there. This blankey’s been through a lot. But it’s still around, honestly, because I believe I’ve loved it.

Now call me silly, but when we decided the topic of this blog, blankey was the first thing I thought of when considering the fact that one should put their love and energy into the things they care about most. Why? Because where we invest the best of ourselves is where we get the most reward. Because the people and things we take care of can stay with us for the entirety of our lives if cared for properly.

That being said, I plan to pay special attention to things that I want to be with me for the rest of my life. My friends deserve special attention. My home deserves to be well cared for. My family deserves to be a priority. My husband deserves the most love I have to give. And my blankey deserves to gently reside in my soft pillow each and every day.

And maybe, just maybe, if I care for each right, each of the things that mean the most to me will be with me for another 30 years.

He Says: God Help You Dust Mites

My lovely wife has a problem. She hates dust. I mean hates it. She has a family friend that tells a story about my wife when she was younger. She used to go over to his place to clean when she was a teenager. Apparently, she would show up bright and early on Saturday mornings while he was still asleep. She would pull all the curtains in the house and open the windows. Then she would open the door to his bedroom and say, “Leave or forever hold your peace.” At which point she would twist open a large bottle of bleach and prepare for battle. As this family friend puts it, “The moment that bottle cap spun, you could here all the dust in the house scurrying for their lives…and I quickly followed their lead.” I can confirm the truth of this account. Over the years, I have learned to head for the hills when it’s cleaning day. There’s not a drop of bleach left in the bottle when she’s finished.

I also have a problem. I hate clutter. I mean hate it. I feel anxious and claustrophobic when my house becomes full of clutter. I go on tears where I pick up every dish, shoe, shirt, book, or bag that is lying around the house. I know, this is not very “guy like” of me, but I just can’t stand it. I don’t need to be worried about tripping over a high heel or computer bag every time I enter into a new room. Since when does the centermost point of the living room seem like a perfect place for a jacket? (All of you out there thinking just wait until you have kids, shut it.)

You would think these two problems dovetail perfectly into an immaculately clean house. While the latter might be true, the perfection of the dovetail is up for debate. You see, my wife loves clutter. Well, she doesn’t love it, per se, but she seems to have a tendency to attract it. This constantly drives me nuts. I’m always moving a book from the floor or sliding a bag out of the threshold. On the other hand, she hates how I clean. Her opinion is that it’s not cleaning if you don’t move every couch, table, chair, lamp or shelf. I try to argue that I’m maintaining the cleanliness of the house until the next big cleaning day. She doesn’t buy it.

To add to it, I seem to attract crumbs the same way my wife attracts clutter. They just gravitate toward me. I’m pretty sure I have a magnetic pull that crumbs simply can’t resist. What can I say. So every time a cookie or a bag of chips comes near me, my wife begins to stare at me, watching my every move. I try to do the hand-under-the-mouth move to catch the crumbs. You know, the one that dainty ladies in white gloves do while they’re eating their caviar. I catch every single crumb. Not a drop spilled. I’m impressed with myself. Then I stand up and the couch cushion has crumbs everywhere. Magnetic I tell you. I eat every bite in the same fear that my wife’s old family friend had every Saturday morning.

And don’t even ask about the terror I have during the nighttime bathroom run. For all the females that don’t understand the nighttime pee dilemma, let me explain to you what us males go through. There are some nights when we are woken up by the sensation to have to urinate. After fighting it for about 10 minutes and trying to fall back asleep, we eventually cannot hold it any more and have to make our way to the bathroom. Once entering the bathroom, we have a decision to make. We have suffered through getting out of bed and walking to the bathroom, but we’re still half asleep. To avoid waking up any further, we opt to use the toilet sans light. So there we stand, in the pitch black, prepared for the nighttime pee. It is at this point that a uniquely male fear occurs.

At the moment of streamage, if we hear water, we relax and finish in a dreamlike state. In fact, oftentimes we actually fall back asleep right there in the bathroom and sleep walk back to bed. The nighttime pee was a smashing success. However, if we don’t hear water, but instead hear the sound of porcelain, we freeze like someone that has seen a ghost. Which direction is the edge of the toilet? Which direction is the water? Can I just finish where I’m currently aimed? Am I too close to the edge and I need to adjust? Should I try to reach for the light to assess the situation? It is a truly terrifying moment for males that the muliebrous just wouldn’t understand. Now imagine the trepidation with which I approach the nighttime bathroom break, knowing the dust-Nazi is probably somewhere watching me in the dark.

Such is my life, though, constantly living in fear of a crumb falling from my mouth, a drip falling from my…well…, or lint falling from my belly-button onto the floor. It’s a hard cross I carry, I know. But I carry it well. Nevertheless, I just can’t help but wonder, if I am constantly trying not to drop a miniscule crumb or a piece of atom on the floor, how come my wife never seems to try to put things back in their place? No, honey, really, I love 18 lotions and hair products strewn about the bathroom. I really do. It goes perfectly with the bra you immediately removed after work that is now draped from the television I’m trying to watch.

She Says: Call Me The Foreman, Please

I’m not kidding when I say that I’m obsessed with cleaning. It’s perhaps one of my most favorite past times. I always knew I liked it. In fact, I spent most of my youth cleaning homes of my own family and my parents close friends for a little spare change. Even when I’d get called off to babysit on a random afternoon, I’d spend almost as much time cleaning the children’s bedrooms as I would entertaining the children themselves.

I thank my mother for this character trait and for proving that bleach and a mop really can be your best friends. She taught me how to fold clothes, do dishes, scrub a floor on my hands and knees and even how to implement the most effective way to vacuum a room.

I can honestly say that these tutorials began just out of the womb. I distinctly remember not having the coordination or height to sweep dirt into a dustpan or to communicate my inability to do so around the age of two. Instead of risking my mother’s wrath that afternoon by complaining I couldn’t finish my task, I commissioned siblings to assist. One would hold the dust pan and another would hop on my shoulders to help me push the tall broom around collecting the dirt into the pan. Afterwards, I’d hustled outside to mow the lawn, build a deck or do something equally as challenging before it was time to start cooking dinner.

You can only imagine how my love of and expertise in cleaning has had a place in my marriage. My husband comes from an equally chore-conscious family. But he himself lacks the obsessive compulsive disorder trait that compliments the passion so well. Because of this, arguments over how to clean have sadly arisen on many occasions.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am pleased as punch that my husband faithfully blurs the traditional female slash male home making roles established back when my parents first wed. He expects me to mow the lawn just as much as he expects himself to fold my straight-from-the-dryer delicates. And I appreciate his every effort made to help keep the house tidy. I just wish he’d let me tell him how to do it.

Once upon a time, he called me The Foreman. Unfortunately, this only pertained to how he painted the house because I literally sat watching his every brush stroke. Is it weird that I’d like him to call me the same when he’s sweeping? Or dusting? Or throwing in a load of laundry? Or is it odd altogether that I’d prefer he just watch sports or tinker in the garage while I wash all the windows myself?

The topic is now open for discussion …

Everyone handles sickness in their own ways. Some people lock themselves in a room until they feel better. Others mope around and make sure the world knows they don’t feel well. Others still pretend they’re fine when clearly they are under the weather. We all have our own ways to deal with being sick. Both of us got most likely get our ways from our parents.

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She Says: You Big Baby

I am my mother’s daughter when it comes to dealing with sickness.

She had six children, the youngest of which was 13 pounds at birth. Naturally, the strain of bringing such a child into the world caused her to “have a stroke right there on the table,” as she says when casually telling the story.

She also had ovarian cancer as a teenager and breast cancer in her mid forties. You can only imagine her disposition about having something as simple as a cold.

In fact, I distinctly remember when I came down with a vicious case of the chicken pox as a child. Over the course of a week or so, each morning, my Mother would whip into the bedroom where she had quarantined me. I’d quickly be stripped out of my footie pajamas and wildly dotted with ice cold calamine. Following this procedure, she’d toss me clean pajamas as she tore the sheets from my bed. As I climbed into fresh clothes, she’d dress the bed with new linens, crack the window wider for fresh air, set a glass of 7-up on the dresser, and promptly leave the room.

Of course, she’d check every few hours to make sure I was still alive. Maybe she’d bring in a cup of Campbell’s chicken soup for lunch. But for the most part, I’d remain mostly undisturbed. Not a lot of cuddling, or coaxing, or conversation. I think this standard treatment was probably a good thing, all considering I could have been my sister Erin.

You see, Erin couldn’t swallow pills as a child. This made for a very messy situation whenever she was sick. Eventually, pills would be crushed in a spoon and the powder mixed with water so they went down easier. But for years, my Mother would hand her a Tylenol with a glass of water and a stern, “Here, take this.” As hard as she tried, the girl would constantly gag and sputter trying to consume her medication. The scene always ended with my Mother rolling her eyes and saying something like, “You’re such a baby!”

And I think it only got more intense as my Mother had more children. Proof lies in the instance when my youngest brother Jonathan, a toddler at the time, woke up in the middle of the night screaming bloody murder. When my Mother went to check on him, he cried he’d had a dream where my sister Lindsey had pushed him off the backyard deck. Sure enough, it wasn’t a dream. Not only had he been pushed, but the four foot fall left him with a broken arm that he’d been sporting since that morning. I can only imagine my Mother quipping, “You’re just fine, now go play,” when Jonathan had approached her earlier that day with a dangling limb.

Growing up witnessing such care, I realize I’ve adopted my Mother’s mentality about sickness and injury. And though I do sometimes whine when I’m feeling under the weather, I basically hole up in a room until I’m well, not expecting any form of help in the meantime.

Unfortunately, I expect the same thing from my husband when he is under the weather.  In fact, I pulled a move identical to one my Mother might have when he became horribly sick one afternoon at work. He’d felt so crappy, he actually decided to head home from the office early, to which I simply shook my head and muttered, “Baby.”

Upon arriving home later that night myself, I went into our bedroom to check on him briefly just to make sure he was still alive. He was. So I left and went about the rest of my evening.

Now when it’s been two days and your significant other has not removed themselves from the bedroom due to illness, most think, “My word, what is the matter?” Not me. I thought, “Good boy.”

Eventually, and much to my dismay, I finally decided on day three to go to the drug store to get cold meds and a thermometer. Thank goodness I did, because upon taking his temperature, I found it to be 105 degrees. Yet he was ice cold. “I guess we should finally get you to a doctor,” I lamented.

So we went. And he had a brutal case of Swine Flu.

Think what you will. I look on the bright side and say that him being ignored in a bedroom for 72 hours kept me from getting that flu. And it gave him plenty of time to catch up on his sleep. Or reading. Or whatever it was he was doing in there with no food, no light, and no human interaction.

And so since he survived, as did my siblings and I throughout all those years of tough love during cold season–or just throughout life I suppose, I will continue on with my stellar care-taking skills.

In the end, they’ve made me strong enough to withstand the tonsillitis that hits most every winter, carpel tunnel, asthma, and worse yet, the Brazilian bikini wax. So thanks Mom.

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He Says: Just A Little

The CEO at my company calls me the Iron Man. No, this is not a reference to the Tony Stark alter-ego. And, yes, in case you are wondering, I am bragging. I have missed work due to illness only twice in over three years there. The first time was due to a 105 degree temperature caused by swine flu. The other time was due to a head on car accident. Both those times resulted in a total of three sick days used. Hence the nickname. I take pride in this. Clearly. Maybe too much pride. A few years ago my sister-in-law asked a weird question over dinner one night. “What’s the one thing you are most proud of that no one knows about?” I couldn’t think of a single thing. I had nothing. A few days later, I thought of it. I texted my brother: “I think I have a high tolerance for pain. I take pride in that.” I think he texted me back a smiley emoticon or something. I have worked hard to keep on living when pain or sickness strikes. I’m not talking about devastating injury or disease here, but that’s what it will need to be to keep me from participating in any given day. Again, yes, I’m bragging. (Trust me. I’m going somewhere with this. I think.)

I would be remiss if I did not attribute my ability to weather pain and sickness to my parents in equal parts. To my father, the strength to carry pain and injury with dignity. My old man has a famous saying he would recite regularly to his five boys—“Walk it off.” As in, “Hey 7-year old son, I know your 11-year old brother just took you out at the knees while your 12-year old brother knocked the wind out of you. Walk it off.” Or, “Yea, I know it hurts. I can see your femur. Walk it off. Walk it off.” My dad taught us that only horrific injury could keep us from walking it off. Rarely was pain too great to walk it off. It was a lesson I learned well over the years, although the cussing part of his lessons I am still working on. I think I have heard my dad swear maybe twice in my life. He just never swears. When I would see him smash his thumb with a hammer and watch his face get red and eyes bulge out, I of course learned as a child that smashing your thumb with a hammer makes your head explode if you do it hard enough. As an adult, I have learned the easiest way to relieve that pressure and keep your head from exploding are the magic words F*$& and SH@%. But my father, he never swears. He handles pain gracefully. Thanks, Dad, for making me tough.

To my mother, the strength to face each day even when sick. As a child, my siblings and I did not miss school. We just never took sick days. This was for two simple reasons. First, missing school meant no sports. If there was a game or practice that evening in which you were participating, tough. If you’re too sick to go to school, then you’re too sick to play sports. For gym rats like us, this was a huge blow to staying home sick. Second, missing school meant laying in bed sick with your school books. Just because you can’t sit in a desk at school doesn’t mean you can’t lie in a bed with your text book. You can still go over the materials the other students are learning that day. These two things made the question, “Are you sick?” a much more serious question. At least at school there were friends and sports and goofing off, even if it was more difficult because of the illness. At home? No TV, no video games, no friends. As you might have guessed, we rarely stayed home from school. I can count on one hand the number of times I decided that I was too sick to go to school. I can still see little me laying on the floor of my bedroom in misery, text book sprawled open on my chest, clutching a family size plastic Kemp’s ice cream bucket used as a vomit-receptacle, wondering, “Why didn’t I go to school?!!? At least I would hear laughter!” Thanks, Mom, for making me tough.

(A quick aside: You should know that Kemp’s ice cream buckets were nearly as resourceful as duct tape in my house growing up. In addition to vomit-receptacles, they were used for…Holding cleaning liquids to scrub toilets, floors, walls, ceilings or tables….Organizing nuts, bolts, screws, or nails…Wearing on one’s head as an army helmet…Storing large quantities of leftover chili or soup, because Tupperware was for the rich folk… In fact, they were used for storing rags, G.I. Joe’s, Legos, pens, pencils, art supplies, or really anything small enough to be stored in an ice cream bucket…And last but not least, using aforementioned duct tape to fasten two buckets on opposite ends of hallway walls and cutting the bottom of the buckets out to make a full-court basketball game with a Wilson Stuff ball. You can thank me later for introducing you to the ingenuity my parents saw in the Kemp’s ice cream bucket.)

Which brings us to present day. My father has diligently taught me how to handle pain and injury. My mother caringly taught me how to me be tough in the face of sickness. My CEO calls me the Iron Man. I take pride in my ability to take on sickness and pain. I mean, I’ve just written hundreds of words about it. Clearly I take pride in it. So why in the name of all things good and holy, on the inordinately small amount of times I actually admit defeat to sickness or injury, does my wife act like she needs to toughen me up?!!? (I told you I was going somewhere with this.) I don’t ask for much. I don’t need to be babied. I hardly ever am so sick that I need help. But just a little care on those rare instances would be nice. Right?

When I return from the hospital with a broken collarbone, rather than staring at me sternly as I painstakingly try to remove my shirt, maybe give me a hand. I’m not learning how to live with paraplegia here. I don’t need tough love.

When I’m laying in room with a 105-degree temperature due to swine flu and I’m praying God takes me in my sleep, rather than grimly shoving a bowl of soup in my face with the words, “You need to eat.” Maybe rub my back. I’m not a delusional invalid in prison. We’re not pioneers on the open planes fighting off dysentery and you’re trying to keep me alive.

A little care is all I ask. That’s not too much is it? Is it?!!?

(Note: If I am not back blogging in a few weeks, please alert the authorities. If Buris On the Couch becomes Buri On the Couch, tell them to look under the floor boards first.)

She Says: I’ll Take Change For $1000 Alex

Being married has taught me a lot about myself.

For instance, the fact that my husband intentionally tries not to laugh at witty comments I make just to prove a point tells me I’m funnier than I ever thought.

I’ve also recently learned that I love to be read to. Perhaps it’s the nostalgia bubbling up from long forgotten childhood evenings when my mother or sister read to me before bedtime. But the fact that my husband offered to one night this month was a fun revelation of a new favorite past time.

And though I always knew I liked to sleep, I never knew I needed so much of it to prevent being a raging zombie lunatic day in and day out. I’m pretty sure I never would have discovered this unless sharing a bed with another person every night, who gently reminds me of this disposition, came along with marriage territory.

I could possibly go on for pages about all of these things that a close, honest relationship constantly reveals, but to spare your boredom, I’ll cut to the chase.

When I first thought about this post –what one thing did you bring to the marriage that you needed to change—I instantly thought anger. I was a pretty angry person when I entered into this relationship; scorned by past loves, tense from what life was handing me, and just generally feeling sorry for myself. But the more I thought, the more I realized I was dead wrong. And no one wants to read about a rehabilitated grouch anyway. Snooze fest.

I could have also said being stubborn, being selfish, being snotty, being pessimistic, being stressed, and yes…even…being jealous. But those were things that also complimented the good things in me that, in healthy proportions, would never be damaging to my relationship.

What I needed to change about myself to better my marriage was my relationship with God.

As I say this, I think about the time I met my husband and how removed I was from most any form of spirituality. In fact, I was teetering on the idea of completely removing myself from organized faith and renouncing a relationship with any higher power.

Looking back, I now see why I might have been so angry when I entered into the relationship to begin with. Or why I could have easily said I was also stubborn, selfish, snotty, pessimistic, stressed, and yes…even jealous. There was no time for the self improvement that comes along with self reflection while praying and meditating. I was just going through my life without much of a purpose—which for so long had been a faith coupled with God creating that path to a purpose. I had just given up on it.

So in sum, strengthening my faith has strengthened my relationship with my husband. I know without it, we would struggle greatly. With it, we are able to love immensely.

And it doesn’t hurt to know that in times of need (e.g. lack of sleep from a certain someone’s snoring the night before) a quick prayer for patience and grace can go a long way.

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He Says: Ubuntu

Everyone enters a relationship with baggage and different aspects of their personality that they need to change. Sometimes they are small idiosyncrasies and other times they are faults detrimental to the health of the relationship. The goal of any lasting association, at least in part, should be change. Now let me clarify. The goal should not be the desire to want to change your partner, but rather that you allow yourself to be changed by him or her. This is a key distinction. Too often we see culpability in our significant others when in fact we should be focused on our own dereliction. So, when I say one goal of any relationship should be change, whether that relationship is marriage or otherwise, what I mean to say is that you should always allow these kinships to positively affect you so that you may diverge from past ways. The key to that ambition is allow-ing yourself to be changed. You’re not forcing change, but rather empowering another to profoundly affect you by their love, or their humility, or their peace. Of course, this is not an easy task, especially not in marriage…

There has been a small craze in popular culture over the last number of years: ubuntu. There have been a number of factors that have incited this small fad, including frequent use by famous actors and adoption into computer lingo by Linux. One of the catalysts into pop culture was the 2008 Boston Celtics. Throughout that championship season, the Celtics players and coaches focused on the term ubuntu. They continually repeated the word to themselves and to the media. On their run to a championship, it became a symbol for how they would continually stick up for each other and always put the team in front of the individual. The term became synonymous with togetherness and teamwork. While the ideals they appeared to possess were impressive, this is only a semi-accurate interpretation of ubuntu. Part of the beauty of the term became vitiated through popular use by the Celtics and others.

Ubuntu has its origins as a saying, or better yet as a philosophy, amongst Zulu warriors. An oft-accepted translation of the term: “I am what I am because of who we all are.” Paraphrasing the Noble Peace Prize recipient Archbishop Desmond Tutu, we can’t be human in a vacuum. We are not simple individuals with choices that merely affect ourselves. Rather, everything we do affects the world around us, and everything the world around us does affects us. If you take a moment to think about it, this is an extremely powerful concept. It has unwittingly been applied in many fields of thought with tremendous results. In psychology, how I am nurtured and the world around me affects who I become as a person. In physics, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. In sports or business, the sum is greater than the whole of its parts. And in relationships, I am what I am because of who the two of us are together. Focus on that last concept for a moment. In my marriage, I am what I am because of who my wife and I are. This is a difficult and powerful concept to comprehend. It can be a troublesome truth to accept, particularly for someone like me. More than all the other baggage and flaws with which I entered into a union to the other rambling epistler on this couch, acceptance and understanding of this concept was (and is) the biggest change I needed.

My lovely wife and I are fairly independent, and that is likely an understatement. For an independent person like myself, accepting this necessary change has, simply put, been difficult. When it comes to the world around me as a whole, I find it easy to welcome the fact that I am constantly affected and influenced by it. It is, frankly, not a struggle to appreciate that my family, friends, acquaintances, and even gas station attendants impact who I am and who I am becoming. However, when this concept is applied to a person with whom I am so intimately intertwined, the ease of acceptance and comprehension quickly dissipates. I am who I am because of who we are. At the beginning of the phrase there is individuality, but by the end of the expression all that remains is unity. There is a recognition, a compliance even, that it is no longer me, but us that carry on each day. A concept that I am sure you can understand is difficult for two devout individualists like my wife and I.

When making preparations for our wedding day a number of years ago, one wise man cautioned, “You both must learn how to allow the other to flourish as an individual, while simultaneously discovering the humility to be one as a married couple. Without it, your marriage will not be a success.” The wisdom in these words remains as true today as it did four years ago and, I am sure, will continue to remain powerful in the years to come. Accepting the wisdom of these words can offer a humbling appreciation for the world around. This wise man was offering my beautiful wife and I the wisdom of ubuntu before I even knew it. Without my wife, without who we are together, I would no longer be who I am as an individual. For me, accepting ubuntu in my marriage has been more of a journey than an acceptance really. Understanding that I am because of my wife has been a difficult and fulfilling odyssey, one which I guess I knew we had entered into all along. On our wedding day a number of years ago, the words of Sonnet LXIX by my wife’s favorite poet, Pablo Neruda, concluded our programs:

y desde entonces soy porque tú eres,

y desde entonces eres, soy y somos,

y por amor seré, seràs, seremos.

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since then I am because you are,

since then you are, I am, we are,

and through love I will be, you will be, we’ll be.

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“Yesterday, everybody smoked his last cigar, took his last drink and swore his last oath.  Today, we are a pious and exemplary community.  Thirty days from now, we shall have cast our reformation to the winds and gone to cutting our ancient shortcomings considerably shorter than ever.“

Like husband like wife, we both share the same sentiments as Mr. Twain in this snapshot.

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She Says: I Vote For Daily Resolutions

I’m not a fan of New Year resolutions. This stems from the fact that I rarely keep a resolution for the mere fact that I tend to dream up some general self-improvement initiative that just isn’t feasible. After a while, the “I will work out every day” vow just didn’t seem to fit.

Then we got married and he suggested we sit down before every New Year with a glass of wine and write out goals we had for ourselves for the following year. Then we’d read them the next December and see how we did. I enjoyed this one, particularly because I’d always read my goals at the end of that year and giggle at the idea that I’d once thought about “drinking less” or “buying fewer shoes” when it’s completely against the grain of my personality to do either.

So this year, I’m resolving to not resolve. I’m going to embrace the person I am now and not deprive myself of things I enjoy doing. I’m also not going to force myself to do things I do not want to do – within reason obviously.

As I approach my 30’s, I’d much rather be conscious of who I am as well understand the importance of what I do and the importance of doing those things well. Of course, this doesn’t mean that I won’t still set goals for myself. Or try new things. Or work on improving my person. It just means I’m not going to use January 1 as a catalyst to do so. Every day is going to be my day for conscious living

Welcome 2011…

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He Says: Make Attainable Goals This Year

I’m not a big believer in New Year’s resolutions. Don’t get me wrong, I think we should all constantly look to improve and make goals for ourselves. I just have never been a big proponent of doing it every new year. I guess I should say only at the new year. Maybe it’s because the resolutions that are usually made are rarely kept. That’s probably part of it. They often tend to be such lofty and unrealistic aspirations that it’s no surprise they aren’t kept. What’s that? You plan to work out 2 times a day, lose 80 pounds and not drink a single drop of alcohol in the first three months of 2011? Good luck with that. Let me know how it goes. However, even beyond the fact that most resolutions are made flippantly and the dedication to them seems less than inspiring, it seems silly to wait until a new year to make new goals for yourself. I get needing an impetus to jumpstart the new ambitions you have, and I understand that a birthday or the beginning of a new year may be the perfect time to make those ambitions known, I just don’t necessarily like it. I hate that it causes us to push off changes and goals in the present until the new year is here. That’s probably the reason I least like New Year’s resolutions.

As we’ve discussed previously, my wife and I currently live in Salt Lake City. We are looking to sell our house and move in the spring, though. Having this knowledge that we likely will be moving soon has sometimes had ill effects on simple changes we would like to make, more so on me than my wife. For example, I have tools inside the house and in the garage. I’ve vowed to organize my tools. I’ve told my lovely better half that once I do so, each tool will have a place and should be returned to that place after using it. Have I organized my tools yet? Of course not. I have them on shelves and in random cardboard boxes in something like 14 different places. In fact, when my father was out to visit me last spring, he looked at me like I was the “special” child of his six children. I’m sure he wondered what I was doing during the Sesame Street episode where they taught organization. Don’t worry, dad, I think I was licking the lead paint leftover from the ‘70s on the walls of the house. And so I keep telling myself I will finally organize my tools once we move. As a result, I can never find a screwdriver when I really need one.

This is just one small example of many. I have recently been pushing small things off here and there because I see a perfect time to make those changes; once we move. All the while, these changes remain unattended. I have fallen victim to exactly the same problem I have with New Year’s resolutions. Too often, the coming new year is simply an excuse to push of things that shouldn’t be ignored today. I am doing it myself in a different way. Since we’re at the new year, though, I would like to challenge readers make resolutions you can attain. Don’t go easy on yourself, but be realistic with the changes you can make. Otherwise, you’ll be disappointed by struggling to reach your goals and you’ll give up on them completely in the end, when they were impossible to achieve anyway. Instead, be realistic with the changes you can make in the short term and reach those goals. Then, when you exceed your own expectations and find that you have lost 10 pounds or that you haven’t hugged your porcelain friend once in the first four months of 2011, set new resolutions. Don’t wait until 2012 rolls around. Keep setting new goals for yourself to improve, because as Pat Riley quipped, “Anytime to stop striving to get better, you’re bound to get worse.” If you all can do that, I’ll get out and organize those damn tools…er, maybe after it’s not so cold outside.

If you know us at all, you know that we love the Holiday Season. It’s a great time of year and we love to enjoy Christmas. One of the things that has been interesting to explore together is the merging of past holiday experiences into our marriage.

He Says: Traditions, traditions. Without our traditions, our lives would be as shaky as… as… as a fiddler on the roof!

Oh the Holidays. What a wonderful time of year filled with loved ones, joy and warm greetings. A time when we have hit the darkest and coldest months of year, yet we can smile as we sit next to a warm fire and a radiant tree. Somehow this dark month can become one of the brightest and most pleasant of the year. Every year as we move past Thanksgiving and into the Christmas season, (and yes, all of you who promote Christmas savings or listen to Christmas music before Thanksgiving, I think you should be tried in court for your misdeeds), I get excited. It means egg nog, pleasantries, family and friends, decorations, the smell of pine throughout the house, Christmas cookies and my wife constantly moving every single decoration I hang tree so that it’s in a “better” spot. I can’t help but enjoy the tradition of the season. Raised in the Catholic Church, I think I can say I know at least a little something about traditions. I mean, I grew up a member of the religious entity that, until the 1960s, held its observances in a dead language while the celebrant had his back to all those attending. All in the name of tradition. Wait, have people been complaining that they don’t know what’s actually going on because they can’t understand or hear it? Yea, for like a thousand years.

I can understand the need to clutch onto traditions, though, and not just religious  ones. They’re important. They bring us calm and a sense of rightness. They offer consistency in a crazy world that lately seems to be more interested in the next best thing then having respect for those that have paved the way for us to do some of the remarkable things we are now doing. Traditions help us to remember from where we came and assist us in staying the course of improvement. Even the silly ones. Every year I’m excited to watch a Muppet Family Christmas. No, not a Muppet Christmas Carol, which is an excellent movie as well, but a Muppet Family Christmas. Go out and watch it if you haven’t. It’s great. However, if you don’t have a VHS with it taped from the television in 1988, then you might be out of luck. For some reason, seeing Big Bird befriend the Chef, Gonzo and Animal bunk up on hangers, and the Fraggles pass it on all in one movie just gets me in the spirit of the season. (You may notice I conspicuously didn’t say anything about Miss Piggy. Worst character ever created, Muppet or otherwise. Every year I hope to find some alternate Jack London-esque ending where she fails to escape the grips of the epic snowstorm that delays her arrival to Ma Bear’s. Every year the alternate ending doesn’t come. But I digress). Seeing The Muppet Family Christmas around this time of year is a tradition for me. It’s important, as dumb as that may sound.

An interesting thing happened to my tradition-filled Holiday season a number of years ago. I met someone. Shocking, I know. We had to embark on the difficult yet exciting journey of sharing traditions, and learning to create our own. As many of you may know, this is not always an easy task for couples to learn. I remember the first time I brought my lovely wife back for Thanksgiving dinner. We were dating at the time and much to her dismay, Thanksgiving dinner was at 2:30. She couldn’t believe this. Who has Thanksgiving dinner at 2:30?!!?  As our dating relationship developed into a matrimonial vagabondage, dinner continued to move earlier and earlier to accommodate the nap times of the multiplying nieces and nephews. I think last year I rolled out of bed with a hangover to be greeted by a glass of wine and plate of turkey. Mmmmmmm. Thanksgiving dinner at 9am. But you see, for my family, an equal part of our 2:30 Thanksgiving dinner tradition is reheating the potatoes and stuffing and having cold turkey sandwiches at 6:30. We love doing this. And while my wife may not have chosen this tradition on her own accord, she’s learned to accept it for what it is.

I remember the first time I celebrated Christmas with my wife’s family. We were still dating at that time as well. In my family, the siblings draw names for a gift exchange. My wife’s equally large family bought gifts for each family member. I was terrified by this. As a poor college student, I didn’t know what I would get my then girlfriend, let alone how I was going to afford it. Now I had to buy presents for five future siblings that I barely knew and the soon to be mother and father-in-law? Oh boy. This is going to be interesting. But that’s what they did. And I felt lucky to be included in such an important family tradition. My wonderful in-laws have since gone to drawing names for a gift exchange. I believe the turning point was the year my youngest brother-in-law, who was playing high school football with Taylor Mays at the time, gave everyone a autographed picture of himself kneeling at the 50-yard line in his uniform. The sisters loved it, but I think one of them realized that there might be fiscal inequalities throughout the family members and buying gifts for six people becomes burdensome. So eventually the tradition changed. But that’s the other thing about traditions, they should only remain as long as they make sense to be a tradition. There’s something to be said for the ritual, but if the best argument you can come up with for a tradition is that’s the way we’ve always done it, then something’s wrong.

So my wife and I continue to explore, enjoy and battle each other’s Holiday traditions. As we approach our fourth married Christmas, we’re learning some rituals each of us have brought into our marriage from our families are important. And we’re learning some of them are not so much. We’re creating our own celebrations and carrying on the ones that have been passed down to us. We’re learning how to create traditions that offer us consistency and a sense of rightness, so that we can fully enjoy the wonderful Holiday season as a couple and give that back to others. And many years from now when my grandson jumps up on my lap and asks, “Hey grandpa, why does grandma always rehang the ornaments that you put on the tree.” I’ll pat him on the head and with a disgruntled smile I’ll say, “Well, kid, I’m sure she has some reason for her madness, but that’s what we’ve always done.”

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She Says: Standard Holiday Protocol

We don’t spend Christmas at our own place, so over the years while we’ve celebrated in our parents’ homes, we’ve simply adopted the traditions that they started years ago. However, we have slowly begun what I call standard protocol at our own place during this festive season.  Of course like most, we grab a tree and eat and drink more than we normally should, but there are a few things I particularly enjoy doing that most do not. Again, a list …

1.     Winterizing the house. I love chores. I know, it’s weird. I never tire of folding laundry or cooking or scrubbing floors. So when winter starts to creep around the corner, I get giddy at the thought of raking the last of the leaves before the snow hits. I cry with excitement while I wash the windows inside and out while double checking the seals are still air tight, not letting in the cold air. And I stare in awe as my husband lugs his insulated caps from hose nozzle to hose nozzle, covering them to help prevent the pipes from freezing. And I’ll stop boring you now.

2.     Thanksgiving first. He has a strict rule that nothing Christmas comes before Thanksgiving is over. This includes getting a tree or listening to Christmas music. Since I like to keep Jesus in my heart year round, I do “cheat” and play Hanson’s and Mariah Carey’s holiday albums at least once a month to ensure I’m continually honoring the birth of our Lord. But never when he’s around.

3.     Birds. I’m obsessed with all things birds, especially roosters. As a result, I’ve carried this obsession over to Christmas and crafted boat loads of bird ornaments and decorations by hand. This includes nest-like baskets that I fill with holly, pinecones, and faux snow and strategically place around the house. Although this seems like something a nutty grandmother stuck in the 1970’s might do, it has in fact become our holiday theme and I couldn’t be more pleased with myself for thinking it up – and with him for dealing with it.

4.     Egg Nogaholic. I think if it were possible, he would drink nothing but Egg Nog from October through January if he weren’t so concerned with the caloric intake. I take great pleasure when I see it available right after Halloween and even greater pleasure watching him shuffle up to the milk fridge in the grocery store – smile a million miles wide – to pick up the first carton of the season.

5.     The Stump. Like everyone, we obviously get a tree. Apart from loading it with lights and as many bulbs as we can, we always cut an inch or two off the stump. It sits for a few hours while we decorate. When we finish up, we take that stump, walk it to the fired up fireplace together and toss it in as we quickly share our wishes for the season. I have no idea where we came up with this one … it probably first happened when we were drunk wondering what to do with the magical stump. And I just realized it’s called a trunk, not a stump, but you get the point.

So there you have it. A quick snapshot into the standard protocol we couple with regular family traditions.  I can’t wait to see what we add to the list next year. I’m already thinking I’ll pin mistletoe over every doorway. Instead of it representing the necessity of a kiss, I might say any man who passes under it is responsible for cleaning the toilets that day or giving me a back rub. Clever.

He Says: What Else Could I Be Doing?

I like to always think about what else I could be doing. This is true for the most mundane aspects of my life as well as the most important. It isn’t that I have “grass is greener” syndrome and always think I could be doing something better. In fact, it is the exact opposite. I like to think about what else I could be doing so that I can avoid any sort of “grass is greener” syndrome. If I’m having one of those days at work where I want to be anywhere but at the office, I think where else I might reasonably be. In all likelihood, I would be sitting on the couch watching TV or a movie. Maybe I would be reading a book or working out. Maybe my wife and I would travel to the mountains for the day. All of those options could be really nice, but are they so much better than what I’m doing? I like my job. And I’ve had days I feel pathetic just watching TV, or antsy sitting around reading, or I just have no desire to be in the mountains. Any option I have has plusses and minuses. Everything I could be doing at this moment could be fantastic or it could be a bore.

I find this exercise to offer illumination on my decisions that is twofold. First, rather than just complaining about where I’m at in life, or what I’m doing at any given moment, it allows me to look at the entire landscape of my options. Simply grumbling about what I’m currently doing just enhances the distaste I have at the moment. However, looking at all possibilities most often allows me to remember that this is what I have chosen and I did so for a reason. No one forced me to work today. No one forced me decide to fix up a room in the house. No one forced me to work out. I chose what I’m currently doing and I did so because I either wanted to, or didn’t like the alternatives. Either way, it was my choice, so endure and enjoy. The second benefit evolves directly from the first. Once I remember that it was my choice, I can reassess that choice that I made. Do I in fact want to working in this manner? Why did I choose to fix up the house? Is there a better situation for my wife and I in a city outside of SLC?  Maybe I didn’t think my decision through when I first made it, or maybe the circumstances have changed significantly since I made the decision. The exercise of thinking about what else I could be doing, whether it’s what else I could be doing right now instead of writing a blog, or in a broader context like where I am currently living, allows me to continually reassess the reasons for what I have chosen.

Now, I realize this would not work for everyone. I realize that people who are constantly second guessing themselves or individuals who are maximizers and are always out to please may not benefit from this approach. This may, in fact, do more harm to their daily choices than good. For myself, however, I find it extremely beneficial. So when my lovely counterpart proposed this blog topic, I saw value in the exercise. Don’t get me wrong; I stared blankly at her when she first suggested, “Hey, how about we write about what we would be doing if we were single?” My blank expression quickly turned acerbity when I thought maybe this was her odd way to reveal that she was cheating on me. Then I became dejected thinking about how my wife was leaving me! In a matter of seconds, however, my woebegone disposition quickly came back to reality and I thought, “Yea, that could be an interesting topic to write about.” (If nothing else, it should be worthwhile to document the beginning of our separation. I jest, I jest).

To be sure, this could be a highly volatile exercise to undertake. But when I thought about it, it made sense. I think about what else I could or should be doing with many other aspects in my life, why not in this ever so important relationship that is our marriage? Maybe I will remember how much I love my wife and why I got down on one knee in the first place. Maybe I will discover parts of our relationship on which we can and should improve. In the end, maybe I will understand more fully the current place I am at in my life and where I might be headed. As I began to think about what else I would be doing if I were not married, I realized I had performed this task many times before. Maybe not as purposefully and consciously, but I had thought about it before in one way or another.

For example, about a year or so ago my father-in-law was visiting us in SLC. Somehow the conversation drifted to how my wife and I would be if one of us lost the other. To her father’s dismay, we both agreed that we would probably be quite promiscuous at first. I think we nearly gave him a heart attack to hear that. His first child of six to get married and here she is agreeing with her husband that they would both be promiscuous if the other passed away. How absurd is that? But it was the truth. We both assumed we would most likely be in pain or feel empty and we would look to find comfort in sexual excursions, knowing full well the wanting proposal that this was. I think that response remains true in this instance. Whether I am single because I had my wife and lost her, or because we simply never met, I think my life would be empty. I would lose the daily enrichment she has brought even if I never actually knew what I was missing. I would be empty and plaintive. I would grasp at straws to enrich my life. In this instance, I would be grasping at sexual straws. And from there, the picture just got worse.

I realized I would, in likelihood, throw myself into my work. I would constantly be toiling in front of my computer and missing out on those around me. I would probably drink far too much. The realization of the pathetic man I was presenting to the world would cause me to drown my sorrows and wallow in my impetuous existence. I would likely ignore the friends and family that have long supported me. Thirty years down the road, I saw a distressed recluse whom everyone found to be vexing. At this point, it didn’t take me long to end the exercise of “What if I were Single?” I was frightened by the degenerate I saw. In this holiday season, I felt as if I had been visited by the Ghost of What Christmases Might Have Been, You Schmuck. Needless to say, I didn’t like the person I saw. I didn’t want to think about where I might be if I were single anymore. I wouldn’t be anywhere as lucky… I should be more thankful for what I have. Maybe I need to stretch my hand out across this couch and thank my wonderful wife for loving a fool like me.

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She Says: I Think, Therefore I Am (Married)

I was always a chronic dater. In fact, I have had three long term relationships, each of which lasted several years. This includes the five years my husband and I dated before we were married. Thinking about it, since the age of 16, I have not been single.

Not that I think about being single regularly, if at all. But as we continue to reminisce about the last three years in Salt Lake and the possibility of moving back to Portland, I briefly wondered where each of us would be if we would have made different decisions about our paths since we left the West Coast. This included imagining where I would be—and who I would be if I were still single—living my life without a husband.

It was weird. But it was also entirely possible. What if I had never gotten married?

So, in the spirit of the list-making I love, here are the top five things that would be different if I were still single.

1.     I would be a work-a-holic. I think I might be work obsessed anyway. Or maybe just so inefficient at what I do that I need extra hours after the normal nine to five to complete projects. While I figure out which is the reason for my work ethic, I can guarantee that I would work a lot more than I do now if I were single. In fact, when we did long distance the first year of our engagement, I thought it was actually fun to pick up a serving job to fill up the hours I wasn’t working my marketing position at a start up. Yup, 7 am to 6 pm at the start up. 7 pm to 1 am being a server and doubles on Saturdays and Sundays.

2.     I would be lonely. I grew up in a big family and have always had great friends. I love being with people. Having a husband like mine guarantees I almost always have someone around.  The house feels fuller. My social schedule is never empty if I don’t want it to be.  There’s always someone to answer a question or respond to statement, even if I’m simply talking to myself.

3.     I would spend money… happily.  I’m obsessed with shoe shopping and eating out is one of my favorite past times. Since marriage, however, I would say I’m on lock down. Frustrating, yes. Impossible to respect, no. I get it. But I do often think about how much fun it used to be to buy whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.

4.     I would travel a lot. I used to make day trips to Las Vegas or fly home to Seattle on whim before we got married.  Of course, this was still during the times you could find a flight for $99 roundtrip on Alaska Airlines and my husband was either a student or living in a different city.  But even at $300 a flight these days, I would still save as needed to travel whenever I felt like it if I was flying solo myself.

5.     I would clean more. Or less. For almost two years—right after college while my husband was finishing undergrad and then attending his first year of law school—I lived alone. And one of the benefits of having a space to myself is that I could clean when I wanted, or not. I was welcome to leave the work clothes I’d stripped off after a long day in the middle of the bedroom floor when I felt like it. I could scrub my kitchen clean every morning and never have to be concerned with another person coming in right after and making a mess – or cleaning up his own mess in a way I didn’t like. It was lovely.

With the aforementioned being said, what I realize is that nothing on my list is important enough to have over my marriage. Do I occasionally look back on the freedoms that come with being without a committed relationship? Sure. But all of those things have been replaced with a fulfilling enough love that I don’t particularly miss them. And let’s be honest, if I really wanted to buy those shoes, or work more, or take a day trip to Vegas, I think I’m convincing (also known as sneaky) enough to make it happen.

In the meantime, I’ll make the compromises that marriage requires to keep our relationship working. After all, I’m coming to realize that this is what a happy relationship is about.

It’s never an easy thing–forgiveness. Especially in a relationship with your loved one. They always seem to be making the same annoying mistakes over and over. Forgiving the mistakes simply condones poor behavior. Right? We don’t think so.

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She Says: I Finally Get Forgiveness

I watch Oprah religiously. Like many, I’ve learned a great deal from almost every episode.  I’m being serious.

Recently, Oprah hosted a show featuring Tyler Perry discussing his childhood experience with sexual molestation. Apart from the staggeringly sad topic, I found one sentence Oprah said to be extremely profound.  In the context of encouraging victims to find their own path to healing, she shared that “forgiveness is letting go of the hope that the past can be changed.”

Have you ever heard a more accurate definition of forgiveness?

Outside of the show topic, I began thinking about forgiveness in my own life and immediately realized that I’ve been forgiving in my own relationship the wrong way. In fact, I had never truly forgiven missteps, faults, harsh words, or short comings at all. I’d simple decided to give up on a wrong doing in an attempt to, first, make my husband feel better about his actions and, second, to not have to deal with the problem.

The result? I first became the woman who continued to bring up the wrong doing in the next argument – even when the new argument had nothing to do with the previous one.

“Oh! Oh really? Well YOU! YOU always belch and blow it in my face!” I’d say, for example. In reality, him belching and then blowing that belch in my face  would really have nothing to do with the fact that the lawn hasn’t been mowed in a month. And we know that he doesn’t always do anything wrong or mean or annoying or rude … at least not as often as I complain he does.

When I made a conscious decision to stop bringing up past issues, I’d continue to let the issue fester. Then, anytime he did something, my reaction to that something was amplified tenfold because I was harboring all those other little things I’d supposedly “forgiven.”

The result? We all know. I’d appear completely irrational, ranting and raving about nonsense until he’d walk out of the room completely perplexed. “But I just wanted to know if you could make me a grilled cheese sandwich,” he’d say, for example.

It’s unfortunate that almost eight years into our relationship, it took an Oprah episode to pound the true meaning of forgiveness into my brain. Nevertheless, it happened. And I couldn’t be more thrilled that I’ve matured in my relationship as a result.

“I’m sorry I’m making you sit here and watch a half hour of Pardon The Interruption even though you really want to watch The Real Housewives of Atlanta,” he’ll say, for example.

And instead of throwing it out during the next argument, instead of saving up the irritation from the endless annoyance that is Tony Kornheiser, I will say “I forgive you.” And I will mean it. Because I will be okay with letting go of that hope that that instant could have involved me watching Kim reveal her lesbian love affair to the tabloids.

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He Says: Why Is It So Difficult?

Religions have preached about forgiveness for millennia. There are a lot of different theories and sayings on forgiveness. Gandhi said, and I paraphrase, forgiveness is a quality of a strong individual. People have proclaimed that failing to forgive only hurts yourself, not the one who hurt you. Or that forgiveness is the sweetest revenge. Forgiveness is the letting go of hate and bitterness. Forgiveness allows you to grow beyond what you are. Forgiveness is forgetting the past. And on and on. People have pontificated and pleaded for us to accept the grace of absolution for ages. Yet it still seems to be something difficult for us all to fully grasp. Forgiveness is a very odd animal that seems to bring tremendous freedom and peace, but at the same time is an operose obligation. It makes sense that it would be difficult, especially when the act that breached your trust was devastating and repulsive. But what about the times when the breach of trust was miniscule? What about those moments when a friend or loved one erred to your detriment, but the outcome was not devastating?

To ask someone to exonerate a gross offense is one thing, but we are encountered with small instances that call for forgiveness daily and don’t oblige to compassion’s call. I can’t speak for everyone, although if I were a betting man, (and I am), I’d be willing to bet most of us constantly falter when clemency should be offered. Especially with our partners or spouses. I can’t tell you how many times my wonderful wife has said some seemingly insignificant thing or acted in some remote way that has caused me to be offended. If I took a step back to think about it, I am sure I’d learn more about myself from my reaction than I would learn about her from her action. Yet I regularly choose to focus on the words or action that hurt me, rather than take an introspective look at why I was offended. I simply respond with indignation, anger, dejection, or all three. I focus on the action of my partner and I need her to know why it was wrong. She has to understand how it offended me. I somehow have a distorted view that our relationship will grow if she understands why her action was wrong. It’s not hyperbole when I say that I have our relationship’s best interest at heart. Sure, sometimes it is simply anger spilling over. But often times I am simply thinking that those words or that action were unacceptable and not healthy for our relationship, so my wife should understand this. I’m sure most of are this way. We’re trying to help our relationships, not overtly tear them down. Except that’s exactly what we’re doing.

If I instead focused on my own reaction, I believe I would learn two separate and powerful truths. The first is a clearer understanding of why I was in fact offended. Maybe there is a small regret I haven’t dealt with and a nerve was struck. Maybe I have an old wound and that scab was slightly irritated by the comments. Maybe it was nothing meaningful at all. If I took a step back, though, and looked at my own reaction, I will most likely be more conscious of why I was upset in the first place. And this would be valuable for both my wife and myself. Understanding the root of my own reaction will help me better express it to my wife. Unfortunately, I fear most of the times that I am offended it is due to nothing meaningful at all. There was no profound realization. My wife’s comments or actions simply struck a nerve. I couldn’t believe she rolled her eyes at me. I am upset that she didn’t appreciate the fact that I shoveled the entire walk. I am stunned she would rudely brush by me when I’m frantically celebrating an Adrian Peterson touchdown. How could she?

This brings me to the second truth I would realize if I focused more on my own reaction than my wife’s initial action. My pride had been pricked. And pride is most often a polite way of saying arrogance. I likely have been offended because I feel that my beloved partner should never treat me like that. How could she? How dare she? Right? This reaction is simply arrogance. We all do it. We feel we deserve to be appreciated. We demand we be shown a certain amount of respect. And in one sense, we all do deserve it. We all deserve to be appreciated and respected. Except these aren’t monumental social injustices we’re talking about here. No one insulted our family lineage. No one gravely betrayed our trust. Most often, it’s a simple matter. This is our loving spouse or partner we’re talking about. Maybe our other halves shouldn’t have acted that way, but demanding to be appreciated and respected in these instances is simply arrogance. Our pride has been pricked and we won’t stand for it. This is not a healthy response. This is not forgiveness.

Take what you will from these muddled words. Forgiveness is a funny thing. The larger the transgression the more difficult the conciliation, yet the greater the peace and freedom on the other side of propitiation. However, forgiveness for menial slights should come naturally, especially with those we love. I think I’ll start focusing on my own reaction rather than my wife’s actions. I’m not excited to see the depths of my pride (read arrogance), but it’s the only way our relationship will grow. It’s the only way forgiveness will start to come naturally to me. Besides, she doesn’t understand Adrian Peterson’s greatness, so the celebration is wasted on her anyway.

If you are what you eat, she’s a giant pack of organic cherry tomatoes and he’s a frozen Tombstone pizza. Under most circumstances, some wouldn’t think twice about this analogy. But in recent months, Salt Lake has further proved it provides some of the worst food on the planet, forcing us to become much more aware of what we devour. Instead of succumbing to the fast food, frozen seafood, and wilted produce, we’ve taken it upon ourselves to be more conscious and less lazy about our meals. Here’s some food for thought…

She Says: Butylated Hydroxyanisole … Ick.

Isn’t it interesting how we develop our own personal eating habits?

I work with a gentleman who refuses to eat anything white – cream cheese, sour cream, ranch dressing. I married a man who has a serious aversion to pickles. My best friend might very well be able to live off Corn Nuts and Lightly Salted Rice Cakes. And I, for one, am Vegetarian (and might be Vegan if I could just give up the damn cheese).

I look back to my childhood with fond memories of Top Ramen, Totino’s pizza, fried Bologna sandwiches and homemade chocolate chip cookies. I also look back in terror at the thought of Spinach Fandango, Orange Peel Chicken, and some other atrocious salmon and onions concoction my Father whipped up one night.

Of course, like many, I grew out of the please-don’t-count-to-ten-and-make-me-eat-this-because-I’ll-throw-up-all-over-the-new-tablecloth stage around 12 years old. I simply put my foot down when my parents tried to make me eat something I didn’t want to. Or maybe it was my Mother saying “eat what we made, starve if you don’t,” that allowed me to get away with avoiding that Spinach Fandango she continued to make despite everyone’s bitching. Either way, that twelfth year of my life was pivotal in shaping the eater I would become.

You see, at 12 years old, my family started eating red meat constantly. In fact, I can’t really remember an evening there wasn’t some form of red meat – or any meat for that matter – on our dining room table from 1995 until I left for college in 2000.

One day, when I was up to my eyeballs in meat, I remember going to my parents and declaring “that’s the last time I eat this shit” of the $14.00 steak I’d just devoured.  It felt good. I was being a brat. But for the first time in my life, I’d made a decision about what I was going to consume and when I was going to consume it. I never really looked back.

Enter my husband.

Mind you, he is from Minnesota where I think there are more cows raised for consumption than there are humans in the world. And I’m pretty sure fried cheese curds seem to fall from the sky. He grew up on chicken patties and peanut butter popcorn balls … a diet not too far from my own as a child.

However, he never completely changed his diet as a pre-teen, teen, or young adult (yes, he did try to eat only free range beef after studying abroad in Australia for six months before anyone really knew what free range meant … he gets a high five for that).  But I believe he would continue to eat chicken patties and peanut butter popcorn for the rest of his life if possible. Simple. Easy. Delicious. Nostalgic.

Surprisingly, it only took us about two years together to get on the same page food wise. He quickly realized getting a “burger with chi” as he orders it, is not a necessity at a sushi restaurant – he can get the sushi. I quickly realized … well, I liked my diet and really only came to understand that preparing meat for a meat eater was perfectly acceptable. So I stopped leaving it out of his portion of our dinners and omitted the crying part when we’d grill him up a steak.

Since we’ve been in Salt Lake, our joint eating habits have become even healthier.  Surprise, surprise, the food here is lousy. As a result, we don’t drink soda. We make great attempts to avoid processed foods and create everything from scratch. And as I slowly continue to break him in, my husband grows more understanding of the joy organic foods can bring, even if our grocery bill is twice what it used to be.

So what can be learned for all this yammering? Nothing. Except that everyone should try and make healthier food choices. And I think it’s adorable when I hear my husband order a “burger with chi.”

Learn more about eating healthy from inspirational blogs I like to digest weekly:

Eating Bird Food: http://www.eatingbirdfood.com/

Herbivoracious: http://herbivoracious.com/

Mindful Mama: http://mindfulmomma.typepad.com/

The Daily Green: http://www.thedailygreen.com/

The Raw Divas: http://therawdivas.com/blog/

The Ethicurian: http://www.ethicurean.com/

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He Says: You Are What You Eat

I think I’m what you could call a social eater. When I’m alone, I eat only because I have to eat. Often times, I don’t realize I should eat something until I start getting a little light headed and my blood sugar gets low. Then I know I should eat. Weird huh. I enjoy well made food, though. I really do. I particularly enjoy big sit down meals with friends and family. I could sit with good food and good drink for hours. It’s just that if it weren’t for the good conversation and great company, I would probably just eat a frozen pizza while I worked on something else entirely. I wouldn’t even pay attention to the fact that I was eating. I would merely eat because my body triggered a biological reaction that said I should eat or I will become faint.

I think I’ve trained myself to be this way. You see, I don’t know how to cook. Not at all. My wife is an excellent cook. I mean wonderful. And she is extremely bold at trying new things to improve a dish or to change it in order to fit the occasion at hand. This always amazes me because I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Salt, pepper and maybe garlic if I was getting crazy. That’s all I would reach for if I was trying to spice up a dish. And even then I would most likely use them in incorrect proportions. It’s sort of sad isn’t it? I always think it would be fun to know how to cook, but it’s never been something for which I’ve had a passion. I have a passion for improving and learning in a lot of different areas, but for some reason when it comes to cooking, I think it would be fun, but I never take it any further than that. This, in all honesty, would be entirely fine to me, except that we eat three meals a day. And some of us much more than that. I have no problem with this. I have no problem with people even that eat four or five meals a day. My problem is that we no longer care about what we are actually eating. We are constantly eating. Because we have to and because we want to.  But we rarely think about it.

Isn’t it silly? We eat at least three times a day, yet we couldn’t care less about what we’re eating. What’s the point of that? Speaking about myself, I am disappointed. Yes, Burger King may taste delicious in the moment, but don’t you think there’s a reason you have a horrible headache and are lethargic 10 minutes later? Aren’t you curious why the fourth meal instantly becomes Montezuma’s revenge? Obviously I am not saying anything innovative. There have been individuals in our country shouting this message from the rooftops for years, decades even. And to be clear, I’m not talking about the rampant problem our country has with obesity or overeating. I’m not speaking to that at all. I’m talking about knowing what you are putting into your body. We don’t eat healthy in our country. We look for what tastes good now and don’t worry about the ramifications of later. I guess this shouldn’t surprise me. America eats in an instant-self-gratification manner. It’s how we walk through most every day I guess. I just always hope we’re better than that.

This brings me back to my own disappointment. I am a firm believer in living consciously. I try to practice it every day. Without it, I believe, we become morose and pall. I think there are a couple hundred thousand handfuls of people in our society that could heed the advice of conscious living. I try to make a point to be aware of my surroundings and my actions the best I know how. Yet, for some reason, I ignore what I’m eating 90 percent of the time. I simply eat because… That’s it. I eat because. It shouldn’t be that way, should it? I remember a time when I was more excited to be aware of my surroundings and the things I ate. Nearly a decade ago, I went free range. I certainly was not a leader of this at the time, but it wasn’t like it is now. At that time, you couldn’t even find free range meat in any “normal” grocery store. I remember coming home for Thanksgiving one year and telling my Midwestern Mother that I was only eating free range meat. God bless her soul, she must have went to forty different grocery stores to make sure her crazy, hippy son who moved out West had turkey. But you know what? I gave up. It was too hard and expensive for a college student to succeed. (Especially when the border is calling at 2am, right?) This is weak I know, but even worse, I gave up entirely on being conscious about what I ate. If it weren’t for my wife, I would most likely eat frozen pizza, PB&J, and toast every day. I should be better.

Somewhere along the way we stopped caring about what we were putting into our bodies and we only seemed to care about the taste at the exact moment of taking a bite. Even if that taste disappears one second later, we don’t care. The solution is easy. Take another bite. Continue to take bites until you no longer want to experience the piquancy… My great grandparents consciously came to this country so that my grandparents could have the opportunity to give their family a better life. My grandparents deliberately toiled so that my parents could get an education and give their children the option of following their dreams. And my parents thoughtfully and endlessly worked so that I could mindlessly write a blog. Maybe it’s time I start realizing the options I have before me and understand what I’m putting into my body. Maybe it’s time we all should.