My Marriage Is Slightly Ajar

It seems every co-habitating couple, whether they be spouses, lovers, friends or blood relatives, has a list of peeves regarding the idiosyncrasies of the other. Seeing as this is my blog, it would seem appropriate that I ignore my own annoying habits and focus on those of the other(s) that I live with. If you can't paint a rosy picture of your self as a flawless, always cheerful bundle of joy on your own blog, what chance will you ever have?

But alas, today I blog to admit to you that Dave's number one complaint about me is not only real, but hugely annoying. Even to myself. For years Dave has always cited my inability to close drawers/cupboards/cabinets as his biggest peeve whenever we have those half-joking, half-threatening conversations with other friends about the follies of living with another human. It's not that I open the drawer/cupboard/cabinet completely and then just walk away. It's that I close the cabinet almost completely, leaving roughly 1-4 inches of space. And that tiny margin is apparently just enough to push Dave near the edge of insanity.

Until recently, I balked at the idea that I was this annoying. And that I was so absent minded that I could possibly be whirling through the house leaving drawers/cupboards/drawers partially ajar. In response to all my indignance, Dave started graciously pointing out when a door was ajar. "See, honey, this is what I was talking about." And I'd laugh. Give me a break! Anyone could have done that! You, for instance! Or Falcor...he's very sneaky! But me? Doubtful. Very doubtful.

In response to my continued and more defiant indignance, Dave started pointing out every ajar drawer/cupboard/cabinet with a bit less grace. He would follow me through the kitchen silently but angrily closing what I had left open. There was heavy sighing, raised eyebrows, condescending tones. And I replied with eye rolling. In other words, this was a very high level, adult discussion on household matters. I continued to find it hard to believe I was so willy-nilly with closing since I'm usually quite strict about tidiness. And I justified that even if the odd drawer/cupboard/cabinet was left slightly open, it was nothing compared to wet towels on the bed or jam in the pantry (jam goes in the FRIDGE, I don't care what country we are in).

And then one day last week, I sat in the kitchen of my parent's house eating my daily bowl of tomato soup while my sister prepared her lunch. And after she took a plate from the cupboard she closed it...almost. And when she grabbed a fork from the drawer she closed that, too...nearly. And this pattern continued throughout the kitchen until 4 or 5 drawers/cupboards/cabinets were left slightly ajar. I was flabbergasted. And when I pointed it out to my sister, she looked at me in complete and genuine confusion. She, too, had no idea she was doing this dastardly deed. This is apparently a genetic disorder, although I assume it is recessive since my mom would rather die than leave drawers open.

So I started to pay attention to myself. I found myself stopping each drawer/cupboard/drawer before it was completely closed. Purposely pulling back. And I realized in my head it made sense...having the door slightly ajar would make it easier to reopen if I needed something else. Tomorrow. What the hell is wrong with me?

And so I'm here today, on my own blog, pleading guilty to literally thousands of counts of slightly ajar drawers/cupboards/cabinets. David, I'm sorry. This doesn't mean I forgive the wet-towel-on-bed or jam-in-pantry incidents of the past, but it does mean that I am equally as annoying. If not more so, because I really copped an attitude for a while during my 'denial' phase. The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, right?

A Watermelon Basket, A Dirt Pie

As the saying goes, when the cat's away, the mice will play. In this scenario, my sister, Dave and I are the mice. Since the three of us are all on a temporary stop-over at my parent's house, we're once again living under their rules. Truth be told my parents are cool as hell, and it's not all slavery and drudgery over here. But still, what kind of grown-up kids would we be if we didn't have part while they were away?

When considering that the youngest 'child' living in this house is going on 23, we thought a more grown-up party was in order. So we invited over some friends for a barbeque. We hit up the internet for some ideas, braved the grocery store on Saturday afternoon, and whipped up some treats.

Alley took the appetizer route, and made bean salsa. Not only was the recipe amazingly easy, it had fiber, protein and a general sense of delicious health. Which was good, because I took the dessert route. The recipe, inspired by my mother-in-law's Dirt Cake, was also easy, but the only small aspect of 'health' came from the pathetic attempts I made to choose reduced fat or sugar free ingredients. Who am I kidding?

I'd also like to make sure you take special note that not only did we include watermelon, a bonafide fruit, in our spread, but we cut that watermelon IN THE SHAPE OF A BASKET. Seriously, we went all Martha Stewart and shocked even ourselves.

Behold, the Dirt Pie. (flowers courtesy of Jess)

The thing about having grown-up parties is that wine is often served. Wine and spirits. And some beer. And it's not that adult parties are different than youth parties in this regard, it's just that at the adult parties this is completely legal. Ten years ago, I was drinking Boone's Farm as my wine of choice, today I just choose something classy...from my parent's collection in the basement. But some things about parties don't change. Good friends, good times, good food. Some music, lots of laughter, and eventually...rowdy dancing in the kitchen. Cheers, to being young forever!

How I Feel About Feeling Sad

Those who know me, and many of you who read my blog, might find it hard to forget that I don't like sad movies. I don't like really violent movies. Or love triangles. Or tragic love lost. Generally, I don't like movies that end in a way that isn't suitable for me. And because suspense makes me tense, I find Google to be an excellent tool in easing the tension. You can call me lame or lacking in appreciation of the arts, but I reply by saying that I watch the news. And read the paper. And it's sad and violent with love lost and hurt and pain all the time. I'm a social worker, and by trade and by nature I read people's pain, scrutinize, mistrust, and absorb. I need my entertainment to lift me up.

So despite my aversion to certain genres, I found myself sitting on the couch last week with my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law's boyfriend (don't ask) watching The Constant Gardener. I know, I know, it came out in 2005, but for me that constitutes a new release. Normally, if it were just Dave and I, I would have vetoed this film on principle. But out of familial obligation stayed seated, and because I was comfortably seated I couldn't access the internet to spoil the ending for myself. So I watched. And I loved it.

There was suspense. Love lost. Tragedy. Human suffering. And I didn't even shed a tear. And I loved this movie. I loved the music, the scenery, the characters, the adventure, the content, the lesson. So many of the moments were sad, but there was happiness in the ending (the biggest rule of all: HAPPY ENDING). Almost every rule I have about what I will and will not watch was broken, but I wanted to rewind and start again. What's wrong with me? Hormones? Change of heart? Delirium?

And then I realized that when I take stock of my list of favorites (ie: books, movies, etc) that there is a fair bit of sorrow involved. To Kill A Mockingbird, Everything is Illuminated, Shawshank Redemption, The Time Traveller's Wife, Loving Glances. Within those books and movies lies injustice, love lost, death, war, abuse, racism. Even my favorite no-brainer movie, Love Actually, has it's fair share of my much maligned love-triangles and unrequited desire. So what's the point of all these preferences if I don't actually prefer them?

When I reconsider my list of beloved books and films I realize that while they may, at first glance, break all my rules, they have one common thread. Through all the sadness comes a message of hope, humanity, unconditional devotion. All of these pieces have at least one moment of humor that leads you to smile, if not outright laugh. My rules still stand, generally speaking, with the caveat that in order to find the exceptions to the rule, the rules will have to be broken. I'll have to watch movies that are potentially sad without the redeeming qualities that make them acceptable. I'll have to peep through interlocking fingers and keep Wikipedia on hand to handle the suspense. But if I find, even once a year, an exceptional exception to add to my list, all the palm sweat will be worth it.

What I Have To Admit To You

As I spend a part of each day considering job openings, pondering career paths and dusting off my resume, it's hard not to reflect, although purposefully briefly, on the big picture. What do I want in life? Where is this job going? Where could that one take me? What is my passion? These questions are enough to make an educated, married, twenty-something's head spin Exorcist style. But after a conversation with the lovely Caitlin, who's head is spinning in a similar manner, I realized this might not be *SHOCK* a problem exclusive to my crazy little realm. Girls of the world, let's dish.

Every now and then you watch an Oprah about some wunderkind who started a charity at age 7 to send medical supplies to third world countries. Said child then began to pursue his/her lifelong dream of becoming a doctor, a goal which they completed by age 24, the passion for which they never doubted or lost. And then you'll read the blog of a witty woman who has children, and loves it, and loves them, and shows a true passion for motherhood and family life. And then you realize that while you want a career and look forward to a family, you don't have that kind of passion for either. You never want to be CEO, you have no desire to be the president of the PTA. You aren't lazy. You're not a baby-hater. But you are also not a work-a-holic, nor do you have what they call 'baby fever.'

The strangest part about these realizations is that I actually feel guilty over them. I feel guilty that I'm not completely driven with concrete goals for my current or future career. The time and resources invested in my education are still serving me well, and I'm proud of my accomplishments. But I don't feel the need for a career to supplement my identity. I want a job that I love. I'd like to find a field I can excel within. I want to take pride in my work, but I never want a job that takes over my life. I want to feel satisfied with my role as a person, but I don't think my occupation has to be the only way to find that satisfaction.

After meeting Dave, I started to warm up to the idea of my potential role as a mother. Having a uterus makes me eligible, but having an over-analytical, paranoid and slightly selfish soul made me hesitant to put kids on my radar. Luckily, my partner and I have the same timeline for our future family, but I still don't have that gung-ho motherly instinct. And no matter how many people tell me 'Just wait, it will come', I know it never will. At least not in the way that I see it manifest in other women. I won't be wearing clever t-shirts indicating the cuteness of the fetus I carry, and I don't want cartoonish drawings of my family made into decals for the windows of my SUV. I will love my kids, I will change my ways, but I know myself (and the mother from whom I was born) to realize that motherhood for me will not mean a cracked-out, Kathy Lee-esque enthusiasm for all things widdle-baby or mommy-wommy. And sadly, somehow, these truths seem impossible to say in a room of women my age. So cowardly am I, I say it here instead.

I have nothing but love for those friends of my who are incredibly dedicated and extremely successful at their careers. I am so happy for those of my friends who have found a wonderful niche in motherhood. I am in awe of those who manage to have a drive and force that fuels passion for both. But I've reached a point, a moment, a corner. And what I have decided is that I don't have to meet the expectations of my friends, family, society, or Utopian feminist fantasies. I have hopes for the future, plans to execute, places to go. And the lack of specific drive that I have for career or child-rearing funnels directly to another place (near my spleen?) and translates into a general passion for life. I want to be happy, safe, fulfilled. I want to be well-rounded, well-read, well-travelled. I want to spread myself thin enough that I can cover all kinds of interests, thin enough that light shines through, thin enough that I can still fit in my wedding dress someday in the distant future. And mostly, I want to be able to say all this without shame or fear of eye-rolling, without hesitation and concern for the disappointment of others. I want to say it and have my loved ones know that I am not judging them...and hope that this makes them feel free enough not to judge me. It's hokey, it's idealistic, and probably overly simplistic. Exactly the way I want it.

The bottom line of what I want to say is this: I can't do it all. I can't have the ambitious, ferocious career and the Donna Reid, Martha Stewart home life. Can't do it, don't want it. I want to wake up in the morning ready to give 'er, not needing a pep talk and some uppers just to find the time to smile. Can I find this? We shall see. To be continued...

Source.
Source.

When It's Over

On Wednesday, the Detroit Red Wings won the Stanley Cup in Game 6 against Pittsburgh. While this sentence might seem redundant to those of you who read my blog from within the border of the Great Lakes state, many of my readers abroad might be saying "Oh...really?" or perhaps "Oh...who really cares?" And while it may be obvious that those Detroiters and Michiganders who have devoted many a long season to loving the Wings are elated, it can also be said that all lovers of hockey are now experiencing the crash that befalls them after the high of a heated playoff battle. In other words, Dave is obsessed with hockey. And so far, I have only met one Canadian that didn't share that passion. Even if their team of choice doesn't end up in running for the cup, there seems be some kind of plan of succession so that their new favorite immediately falls into place once the original is defeated. Something like how the Vice President steps in if the President dies, the Secretary of State for the Vice President, and so on. Since Dave's beloved Jets left Winnipeg years ago, he now defers to preferring any Canadian team unless, ironically, it's the Montreal Canadiens. In that case he cheers for the other guy.

And now, it's over. After four rounds, 2 months, innumerable broken teeth/noses/egos and 21 final periods of hockey, the winner has been decided. And the added bonus of my home-state taking the cake, I'm also simply thrilled with the fact that I don't have to watch any more hockey. Until September. At least. No matter how culturally ingrained hockey is into the soul of a girl from Northern Michigan, a lady has her limits. A lady's limit, in fact, was reached in about...February. Because not only did I spend one night a week sitting, as I know I've mentioned, essentially outdoors watching David's games, it also so happened that the 'North American Sports Network' was one of our only English channels. And hockey, as it would turn out, is a North American sport. Between the Bundesliga, the NHL and that one random game I watched in the Netherlands, it's enough. I'm done. And I won't miss it.

So when the people of Detroit wake up in a champagne induced stupor tomorrow...or the next day...they'll find me ready and waiting. For baseball.

Cross Your Fingers, Count Your Stars

As per usual, the Spring has brought with it a lot of decisions to be made. Decisions about how to spend the off-season, where to spend the off-season, which trips to take, friends to visit, TV series to catch up on. And hanging most weightily over our heads, as is also usual, is the decision about where we will spend the next season. The factors are many, the pros meet the cons, the roller coaster ride of emotions shows no signs of slowing. And while this choice might be a bit more weighty than some of the others we face throughout the year, it most certainly pales in comparison to some that we will have to decide on in the future. And so I ask myself, lists, Googling, and calculating aside, how do we make life's big choices?

I envy those who can pray and hear a reply or read the answer in the chicken bones or trust in the wisdom of the Magic 8 Ball. I think faith and superstition serve greatly the purpose of keeping our heads cool while we ponder. These invisible forces exist in our minds to help us rest assured that a choice WILL be made and that the decision will be the right one. Unfortunately for us, we've never been able to trust either faith or superstition enough to receive that calming effect through the deliberation process. Sure, we wish on eyelashes and savor every 11:11 while knocking wood, but I don't feel confident that any of those activities does much of anything, let alone leading me to the answer I seek. It's a habit, a comfort that works the same way as putting on your favorite sweater when you're sad. And the decision is still left undecided.

The time honored tradition of making a lists of Pros and Cons doesn't seem to help us much either. While the list is often useful and visually pleasing, we've never yet made a list that actually contained an answer. Because although a list makes everyone feel more productive, some aspects of a decision just can't be written down. Intangibles, I think they're called. And in my nebulous mind and with Dave's wavering desires, the intangibles are innumerable. Feelings, thoughts, views, proximities, and taste of the water make putting pen to paper near impossible.

What about omens? Good omens, bad omens. You can find them anywhere. In anything. You see a TV show, a billboard, hear a song that mentions the name of someone/something/somplace that relates to your decision. You trip over a stump while thinking of one choice, you find a dollar while thinking of the other. Does this mean something? Everything? Anything at all? For me the possibility that the answer to my question could possibly be, but may not be, found in any object/sound/sight that I cross paths with throughout my day is overwhelming and impossible to live with. The distillation of all that data would render me unable to make a decision. Ever. I picture myself with a calculator and a typewriter and a magnifying glass trying to find the pattern in the omens, and all that work is making me sweat. And I hate sweating for no reason.

And yet here we are, a place we arrived at by making many big and small decisions along the way. Some as recently as this morning, some a decade ago, some on Monday (I should not have eaten all that potato salad). And now that we are again facing choices that could put us somewhere else in a year from now, I ask myself, how did we get here? And the answer is murky, confusing and unclear, just as many answers are. We trust our gut. We weigh the choices. We realize that sometimes our gut is a coward and cannot be trusted. We reweigh the choices, controlling for various variables. And then we sit down, breathe deeply, and do it. Push the button, send the e-mail, make the phone call that decides the something. The relief is sweet yet disconcerting because closing the door on the decision making process opens the window just a crack for doubt, regret, doublethink. But for that moment, that day, that week, let it in, let it out, let it go. And get ready to do it all over again.

Levels Of Manitoba

If you've ever been to Manitoba, or even heard of it, chances are that your destination was Winnipeg. Winnipeg is an interesting, ever-growing city in the midst of the plains that span from the western border of Ontario all the way to the western half of Alberta. It's a stop along the Trans-Canada and the junction of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers. There's culture and sprawl, sports and crime, diversity and segregation. In other words, Winnipeg is much like every other large city in North American, with it's own twist. And while it's not an uninteresting stop on the prairie tour, saying that Winnipeg is Manitoba is like saying that Detroit is Michigan. We all know it's not that simple. (Yoop Yoop!)

In a province of under 1.2 million people but over 250,000 square miles (two times the size of the UK) it's not surprising to hear that Winnipeg gets most of the glory. Roughly 700,000 of the 1.2 million people live in the capital city. The next largest city, and the origin of my husband, is Brandon coming in at a whopping 40,000. In fact, besides Brandon and Winnipeg, there are only three cities in the entire province with a population over 10,000 people. In other words, it's a vast space with long stretches of...nothing. And while it can be disconcerting for the more urban among us to drive such long, flat stretches without encountering a sizable metropolis, I find the distance between people (distance that is filled with lakes, prairies, forests and fields) peaceful and lovely. But I do need more than one Diet Coke if I have to drive all the way across the province, and you better make it a 2 liter if I have to cross into Saskatchewan. The point is that you won't get to know Manitoba unless you know some small towns, some really, really hard to get to, small-ass towns in the middle of, well, nowhere. You have to meet real people who have to drive ridiculous distances to get to a normal-sized airport. That's where the real story is. (Some Yoopers might relate to this.)

Genetically, I'm predisposed to a fascination with geography. And so the fact that polar bears, sand dunes, a glacial lake bed and prairie dogs can all be found within Manitoba's borders peaks my interest. But the real reason I enjoy my stays here has to do with my interactions with strangers. Sure my entire in-law family and all of my husband's friends treat me kindly. But friendly greetings, "Hello", "Good morning", "Lovely weather isn't it?" (no, it is not) from the mouths of every stranger you pass in the street are more telling. I'm a Midwestern girl at heart, and the hurried pace of the East Coast nor the contrived aloofness of the West Coast feel natural to me. I'm from a place where strangers are just people you haven't met yet, and once you do you discover that your cousin is married to their neighbor's sister-in-law. You're practically family! If I drop something, my kind of people will pick it up and run after me. In an elevator, my kind of people will break the awkward silence by asking where I got my shoes. And so, I gladly greet the citizens of Manitoba in a similar manner, since they seem to speak my language in that regard. I practice my Canadian accent while nodding and exchanging weather-related pleasantries. I miss the water and varied elevation of my hometown, but I appreciate the warm reception I get in David's.