Telling a Story

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” Anne Lamott

I first read Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird over thirty years ago. It’s one of the best writing books of all time, because it’s also a great life book. 

The quote above is one of its most powerful pieces of advice. 

And it’s why I stopped writing personal stuff the first time.  

It started with an actual bird. 

I don’t like birds. Really. I saw Hitchcock’s The Birds way too young, and it scarred me for life. The fact that I even read Bird by Bird is honestly a miracle. 

But a number of years ago, there was this blue jay that showed up outside of my window all the time. 

(Probably because of the bird feeder on the porch below, which I was against. Because I really don’t like birds.)

That blue jay kind of grew on me. I won’t say I started to like him, but I did enjoy seeing him out my window. I even looked him up to make sure that’s what he was; All About Birds made him sound pretty cool. 

So, I mentioned my growing appreciation for this (one, specific) blue jay to my husband. 

I mentioned it because I thought it would be a safe topic of conversation. I thought he would appreciate my progress in getting over this childhood (childish?) dislike. 

Instead, I got to hear about how mean blue jays are. How I was wrong to like blue jays. How if I was going to like a bird, this one was the wrong one to choose. 

I always chose the wrong bird. The wrong tone. The wrong words. The wrong topics. The wrong TV show. The wrong way of cleaning. The wrong . . . I was always wrong. 

I remember staring at my husband as he went off about blue jays. And I remember thinking, what a fucking asshole. 

In all the times he had ranted at me, loomed over me, yelled at me. . .I had always thought of it as my fault. I accidentally triggered him. I used the wrong tone. I put something where he couldn’t find it. I did something wrong, so he was allowed to yell. Somehow, I’d become convinced that this was ok. 

And then he got mad at me for mildly enjoying a blue jay, and I realized that just maybe it wasn’t. 

Every time I tried to write after that first crack in the foundation he’d carefully laid, I got lost. Even when I tried not to write about my marriage, it wormed its way in. And I was in no position to own anything that was happening to me, so I couldn’t just write about how badly my marriage was going. 

Even now, I’m not sure about sharing this. Even though the marriage ended emotionally quite a while ago, even though he’s dead, I’m still apprehensive. 

But Bird by Bird opens with this line, “The very first thing I tell my new students on the first day of a workshop is that good writing is about telling the truth.” 

I can’t guarantee that any of my future writing will be good (although I am hoping it will be much better than this piece). But I do know I had to tell this truth before I could write anything else.

The Taffy Incident

Many years ago, a lovely distant cousin gave us some authentic Jersey shore saltwater taffy in a pretty box. Unsurprisingly, since it was new, the kids didn't like it. I'm not a huge fan either, so it lived on our counter for weeks.

WEEKS, I tell you.

For a while, the amount in the box seemed to be shrinking regularly, so I didn't begrudge the box's place on our counter space. Much.

But then came a week where the amount in the box didn't get any smaller. I assumed that Hot Guy had eaten all the flavors he liked. I assumed that the box was just taking up precious counter space in our tiny kitchen. So I threw it away while Hot Guy was at work and I had a rare kitchen cleaning fit.

I had no idea how much my husband apparently loves authentic saltwater taffy.

"WHERE'S MY TAFFY?" he yelled from the kitchen while I was trying to convince the kids that they really did want to go to bed.

"The trash!" I replied cheerfully as I tried to brush Hugmonkey's new teeth.

I'm not an expert on marriage, my friends. But I can tell you that if you throw something your spouse likes away, even if you had a perfectly sensible reason like he hadn't been eating in for weeks and it was probably all stale and the clutter on the kitchen counter was driving  you bonkers, you should not do it this way. 

"WHAT??????" I know he didn't actually fly up the stairs, but it certainly felt that way. Suddenly he was sort of looming in the bathroom doorway and he looked pissed.

If this was a Lifetime movie, this is the scene where we'd find out the nice guy is actually violent and evil, that's how creepy it seemed. Fortunately, this is not a Lifetime movie and Hot Guy is neither violent nor evil, but he is really, really, into taffy. Apparently. Because he's bought like taffy like twice since. 

The gravity of the situation was beginning to sink in, so I launched into a long explanation of my reasoning.

Unfortunately, my reasoning mostly boiled down to, "The kids threw 8 million tantrums today, I'm exhausted, I just wanted to have a clean kitchen, I have PMS and that box of taffy was getting on my last nerve for some unfathomable reason."

Pro Tip: Start with an apology.

"WHY DID YOU THROW MY TAFFY AWAY?" was his reply. Clearly my explanation was not effective in getting him to forget about the taffy and pity me for the tough day I'd had.

In fact, nothing made him forget about the taffy, folks.

Not even approximately 8 years.

That's right. Even though he's only bought taffy 2 other times in the last 8 years, which seems suspicious if it's something he loves SO MUCH,  he still complains about it regularly. 

He still brings it up so often that the kids will joke about it, even though none of them remember the actual taffy incident.

A few days ago I threw away some gravy.

In my defense, this gravy was approximately a milliliter's worth at the bottom of a measuring cup left out on the counter. Okay, I'm not sure milliliter is correct. I'm old and never learned the metric system properly. But it was definitely less than a quarter of a cup. 

Not even an hour later, I heard, "WHERE'S MY GRAVY?" from my life partner.

I've learned something since the taffy incident, friends. I didn't start with, "How was I supposed to know you were saving the gravy left in the bottom of the measuring cup?" I started with an apology.

And a plea that instead of periodically yelling, "Where's my taffy?" he could now yell, "Where's my gravy?"

I think the apology worked, because he stopped yelling about gravy pretty quickly. But the plea didn't. He's still bringing up taffy whenever he loses anything.

Sigh. I left half of a taco shell on my counter when I cleaned up last night. Just in case he was planning on coming back for it. 

If you ever show up at my house unannounced, please don't look at my kitchen counters. Deal? 

Friday I'm in Love: My Husband

I'm not saying that my marriage is perfect. I'm not saying that there haven't been moments where I've wanted to throw shoes at his head. I'm not saying that he never complains about some of my quirks.

Pretty sure he was complaining about my taking so many pictures when I took this one. 

But you know what?

At least I didn't have to make Hot Guy 300 damn sandwiches to get a ring.

Not that I was all about getting a ring. I actually couldn't have cared less about a ring. I was perfectly happy with my single status. Maybe it was a consequence of getting an ill-fated ring very young (and almost getting an even more ill-fated one even younger), but I'd already learned that getting the ring doesn't make you live happily ever after. In fact, some guys turn into real douchebags once they put that ring on your finger.

Which is another reason I love my husband. Not only did he propose without me having to prove my worth in sandwiches, he did not immediately give me instructions on how to behave to make him happy. Unlike, say, Joe Gorga of Real Housewives fame, whose wife Melissa has written a book about how to have a hot emotionally and physically abusive marriage*. No, seriously.

I didn't mind her whole bit that men are usually more chill if they're getting laid regularly, or even that sometimes you should have sex even when you're tired or whatever. But her suggestion that, when a wife says no,  a husband should turn her over, rip her clothes off and have sex with her anyway? That's called rape.

Then there's the part where she talks about how she's secure enough to handle her husband's brutal honesty, but how if she gives him any flack, he loses it. That's called emotional abuse.

Oh, and how about the fact that she never poops when he's home? It's like she's aspiring to be Barbie.

And if all that wasn't horrifying enough, he has never fed his kids or changed their diapers. Ever.

Just typing that made me tear up with love for Hot Guy, who understands that respect goes both ways and that parenting is a partnership.

And people wonder why we still need feminism.

*I really, really want to understand how this book got published. I would like to slap the face of the person who okayed it.

Bitchy Partners Anonymous

(Recovering When Your Male Partner Is Injured While Sledding With the Children)


Step 1: Relief. Thank God he rolled off before he hit the tree.

Step 2: Concern. How bad is it? Should we go to the doctor? The ER?

Step 3: Gratitude. It's not bad enough to go to the ER. He'll be fine soon.

Step 4: Sympathy. It seems like he's in a lot of pain, poor guy. Cracked ribs must really suck.

Step 5: Patience. Yes, over-the-counter pain killers can make you feel better. I'll get them for you.

Step 6: Commiseration. Yeah, it's terrible when your core is injured. Like when you have a c-section or 3.

Step 7: Frustration. You can handle sex but not taking the garbage out?

Step 8: Annoyance. Do you have to yell every time you feel a stabbing pain? I was sleeping, dammit.

Step 9: Envy. I want an excuse to be as grumpy as I feel.

Step 10: Appreciation. At least I'm not in terrible pain.

Step 11: Prayer. Please let him never get hurt again.

Step 12: Acceptance. I accept that I am powerless over my husband's injury, mood and ability to function.

Happy Anniversary

Hot Guy and I are celebrating our anniversary today, because tomorrow (our real anniversary) we will celebrating the 4th of July (because my hometown is weird like that). Also, my parents have the kids.

After doing a lot of cleaning (and we don't even have impending visitors. Hot Guy feels we should stop living like trailer trash. I say I would much rather live like people with servants, but he claims that's not in our budget) we retired to the patio with books and drinks.

It was quite peaceful, except for the occasional blast of illegal fireworks. Which is sort of like our old neighborhood in KC, except there it wasn't always fireworks. Anyway, given the time and the relative quiet, I was able to reflect upon the reasons that I love Hot Guy.

1. He's hot. Duh.

2. He's pretty understanding about my pathological need for alone time.

3. And about my crush on Tim Riggins.

4. He's funny.

5. He's an excellent father.

6. He cooks.

7. He can fix things.

8. He can answer all the kid questions I can't.

9. He's incredibly outgoing.

10. He can remember exactly when Pickett's charge was, but not when the next pediatrician appointment is.

11. He never hides anything.

12. He accepts me exactly the way I am. (Except for the cleaning issue. Which I guess is sort of understandable.)

13. He lets me pick out his clothes.

14. He knows how to help around the house.

15. He can sing.

It's Like My Binky

Hot Guy calls it "the big black". How I love it. It's huge, round and insulated. It has fallen down stairs, fallen into the trash and been left in hotel rooms. I have violent feelings when other people try to use it. When Hot Guy uses it, I want to smack him. It's MINE. It's my favorite. And I earned it, dammit.

Sure, it's probably petty to get so upset about a cup, but I don't care. I love that cup. I got it at the hospital where I gave birth to Lovebug and I've been overly attached to it every since. It's not just that it's black instead of some brightly colored advertisement for 7-11 or Quik Trip (which, for the record, kicks 7-11's ass). It's not just that it reminds me of giving birth to my middle child (aka the least dramatic and traumatic of all of my children's births). It's that I've declared it as mine.

When Hot Guy and I first moved in together, I discovered that my collection of large, refillable, insulated cups was depleting. He would take one and leave it somewhere, comfortable in the knowledge that a new cup was only a few bucks and a short drive away. I tried to get over it. After all, it's not like I was emotionally attached to the cups, right?

Enter "the big black" a few years later. It looked so cool, Hot Guy conned the nurses into giving him one too. Which he subsequently left somewhere. And I declared that the other big, black cup was MINE. He was not allowed to take it anywhere and I really didn't want him to use it at all.

My cup has survived these last 4 years, mostly due to my vigilance. At first, he avoided it completely. But eventually he'd use it if it was in the drying rack and he wanted a quick drink of water. I tried to let it go, especially when he'd just hand it over if I asked for it. Even though sometimes he'd suggest that I drink water from it too. If the Goddess had wanted me to drink water when I wasn't exercising, she wouldn't have invented Diet Pepsi.

Anyway,  it's getting worse. The rest of our supply has been decimated, and our local 7-11 doesn't seem to have them. This morning I caught him drinking cranberry juice out of it. I am very concerned that his next step will be to take it with him somewhere. Then I may have to kill him.

I know, I know. It's a cup. That's Hot Guy's argument. Why get worked up over a cup?

I don't know. Maybe when I wind up in chocolate rehab my therapist can help me figure it out. But for now I'm asking you, internets, how can I make sure he keeps his paws off of MY cup?

I Don't Blame You Angelina, But I Still Don't Like You

The other day I was watching an episode of Mercy (because I am addicted to watching TV on Hulu and I ran out of shows I normally watch and it's kind of like Grey's Anatomy but with nurses) and I had a flashback to my single years.

In the episode, one of the nurses thinks she's found this wonderful guy. But it turns out that he's married, which she discovers when his wife and her two friends humiliate her at a restaurant (worth noting: one of the trashy, loudmouthed friends was played by one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. . .typecasting, yes?).

You see, once upon a time, I too met this great guy. He was gorgeous, rich, smart, funny, charming and kind. And he thought I was awesome.

Would you like to know why?

It wasn't really my own looks, smarts or charm (not that I was a loser or anything, but this guy. . .WOW). It was because I already knew he was married.

So I wouldn't date him. We'd run into each other, we'd flirt, he'd buy me drinks and then I would go home. And he thought that made me the greatest thing since sliced bread. I thought it made me . . . .not an idiot. So I'm not saying I was in the position of the girl on the show - I was not dating the guy and I knew he was married - but if his wife had been bothered by the unknowing women he WAS dating (yeah, that's a euphemism) or by his friendship with me. . .who do you think she would have gotten pissed at?

That just seems so wrong to me. HE was the one betraying the marriage (or not, to hear him tell it she was off doing her own thing as well but I never ran into her) like the guy on Mercy. . . . and Brad Pitt. (C'mon, we all know he cheated with Angelina. We may have gotten over it, but I will always be on Team Aniston.)

What do you think? When a guy cheats, is it really because of some seductive woman? Or is it because he's a cheater?

Don't Worry Hugh, I've Got Permission

Recently I've heard people say things like, "Don't tell my husband that I just want to see that movie because Hugh Jackman's in it," and "My wife thinks I just agree to see chick flicks because of her, she doesn't know about my crush on Rachel McAdams."

And I shake my head.

Hot Guy and I don't have secret crushes, we have permission lists.

Like, if I ever get a chance to be naked with Hugh Jackman, I have permission to go for it. Likewise Jon Stewart (okay, mostly I just want him to talk to me, but I'll be naked if that's what it'll take for him to talk to me.). And if I get to do Ben Affleck or Matt Damon, Hot Guy will be really happy for me, as long as I tell him the details. Really.

He has my permission for Drew Barrymore and Sandra Bullock, plus some others I can't remember. But not Christina Ricci. He thinks she's on his list, but she's not. I think she's weird. She seems like she'd go all stalker or something.

Anyway, I suppose my point is that Hot Guy and I discuss our crushes openly. Possibly even eagerly. And even though I'm the chubbiest I've ever been and am pushing 40, I am never threatened by his crushes. Why would I be? The vows talk about forsaking all others, not forsaking all sexual fantasies.

When I was in high school, there was this boy I really, really liked. Surprisingly, we actually started dating. All was fine until he was in a play with this girl that he had a crush on. No, he didn't dump me. In fact, he was a perfectly attentive boyfriend. It was just that I could tell that he had a crush on this girl, not that she was interested. But it bothered me so much that I dumped him.

I spent the next year and a half regretting it. 18 months of wasting being a cute little thing because I was hung up on a guy who was never going to trust me again. Genius, I tell you. Though  it sure got me over being jealous about somebody's crushes.

But I'm starting to wonder if Hot Guy and I are in the minority. Do you hide your crushes from your spouse? Or do you have a list?

One of Us Has Issues

Very early on in our relationship, Hot Guy rearranged my refrigerator. As all it contained was breakfast food, condiments and diet Pepsi, I didn't really think much about it. If he wanted to bring food over and cook it for me, who was I to complain about the organization of my refrigerator? Besides, it was so cute how much interest he took in it.

Now, of course, I make breakfast and lunch for the kids and myself every day. A lot of times I have to make dinner (or, you know, an attempt at dinner) too. The refrigerator is usually full. So - and it was just a coincidence that Hot Guy was out of town - I rearranged the fridge and freezer the way I like it. I like to have things organized because my short-term memory is shot from lack of sleep. Sorting things by category allows me to find things quickly, which makes me happy. And cuts down on the whining. The kids appreciate quick service.

Anyway, now Hot Guy is back. And what did I discover on the breakfast shelf of the freezer this morning? Chicken nuggets. I mean, sure, the kids probably WOULD eat them for breakfast. But they don't. The chicken nuggets had been on the meat shelf. With the other meat. Like should be put with like. In rows. With the oldest ones in the front. Because that's what makes sense, right? RIGHT?

Already his expensive Parmesan has moved from the cheese shelf to right in front of the yogurt.

I think his system can be summed up as, "Wherever I can put it quickly". He says it has to do with being a cook. Either way, it means that stuff gets forgotten as it winds up in the back. And you always have to move stuff out of the way to get what you want. And it just looks messier. Not that he seems to care. He has absolutely no respect for my system.

So, which one of us is the problem here? Do you have an organized fridge? Or do you think I'm weird?

Why You Should Watch Friday Night Lights

I've mentioned my love for this show before. It's FINALLY back on regular TV, after a fall on DirecTV only. I stayed up late last night just to watch it with Hot Guy - it's one of the few shows we both like.

Anyway, one scene showed the coach's wife Tami coming home from a LONG day at work. He's slumped in a chair watching TV as she goes on and on about her day. He says she'll be able to handle everything and how great she is and she responds with:

"You just want to get laid."

Who has NOT had that conversation? Who has never felt like your husband (or wife, for that matter) is just humoring you in hopes of getting laid that night?

Sometimes I forget that the people on Friday Night Lights are not actual people, that's how well-written and well-acted it is.