Life lessons

Last Thursday after we got back from her post-cataract surgery exam, my grandma cut a bunch of lilacs from her bushes and gave them to me. Then she shoved a ten dollar bill in my bra. I fished it out and double checked that it was only a ten though, because the day I drove her to her cataract surgery, she had slipped me a hundred. And since there's no arguing with my grandma (because even though I left that hundred at her house, I STILL wound up with it), I accepted the ten and lilacs and kissed her papery soft cheek in thanks.

She apologized that she had nothing cooked or baked, and instead she whipped out fresh strawberries, grapes, pineapple, bananas, crackers and peanut butter to snack on. I let her fuss and fix me a Diet Coke. I sat with her for a while and chatted while she buzzed and offered and never sat still. Even with a blurry bum eye, she insisted I eat something, drink something, have anything I wanted.

And when it was time for me to go, her face visibly fell in disappointment. She asked if I had to leave, and as much as I wanted to stay, I had three babies at home who needed dinner and anatomy homework that needed finished. She profusely thanked me for just driving her to her appointment, and I told her I'd see her soon.

I don't see my grandma as much as I should. And I can brush it off and say I'm busy, and I am, but that's really no excuse. Grandma turned 76 in March. She just had cataract surgery on her left eye, and they want to do her right eye this summer. She battles high blood pressure and high cholesterol. She's getting spacier and more forgetful. She's relatively healthy, but still. 76.

***

The husband's mom passed away last month. We got the call in February that she had liver cancer. Over the next month, she went from sounding completely like herself to being admitted to the hospital to being not awake to not being alive. In one month. She was 58.

The husband and I got to see her before she died. He drove down on a Monday, and after the husband's sometimes hourly reports, I flew down to be with him that Friday. She died on Saturday. She was pretty doped up and was on a ventilator, but she reacted to voices and touch. I held her hand, which is an exact replica of the husband's even down to the fingernails, and whispered into her ear. I told her that she was a good mother-in-law. I told her she was an excellent mom who had raised three awesome kids, but that she shouldn't worry because I'd take care of her son and grandbabies. It was hands-down the hardest thing I've ever done.

My mother-in-law and I weren't the bestest of friends. We didn't fight or argue or not get along, I just held onto some rather large grudges that prevented me from opening up to her and really talking to her and being a friend. But let me offer a word of advice, don't do this. Don't be an ass over things that have happened years ago. Let shit go. Really. It does no one any good.

I realized as she lay in her hospital bed in the ICU that I'd never gotten to ask her when she everything I wanted to know about the husband. Things only moms know. Like when did she potty train him? Was it an arduous process? Did she cut the crusts off his sandwiches? We had talked a little about when the husband and his siblings were little, but I know we didn't cover everything. And now I'll never get to ask.

We're still dealing with her passing. We're still reeling from the fact that it all happened so fast. And while I'm not the-glass-is-half-full kinda girl, I'm trying to find the silver lining in all of it. If anything, she's taught us not to take people for granted. Don't assume the people you care about will be around forever. Patch up past arguments now. Visit them, tell them that you love them and appreciate them. Pick up the phone and ask your grandma how her lilacs are blooming. You'll make her whole damn day, and maybe you can ensure that when she dies, your heart will break from the loss and sadness instead of being consumed whole by regret and guilt.

Tips on what not to say to your hysterical wife

I was headed home this morning from school and hopped on the interstate. A few minutes into my trip, my mini SUV started to shudder and sound like it might explode. I turned down the radio to hear better and nearly barfed. I was sure the engine or transmission or some other Major Car Component was about to blow. Except even I know most Major Car Components are located in the front, you know, under the hood, and this wasn't coming from there. I slowed down, and as I did, I figured out it had to be a tire.

In a sheer panic, I slowed down even more, frantically checking mirrors to see if I could get over. By luck, I was near an exit and wobbled over to get on it. I was hoping beyond all hope to get off the exit to a gas station or something, but the shuttering and gawdawful noise was worse, so I stopped where I was.

Upon further inspection on the side of a goddamn interstate with cars going way too fast, I saw it was that same tire that was flat in September. The tire place fixed that tire instead of giving me a new one which I still say is fucking stupid. It had a big, fat screw in the tread. Why risk patching that shit?

And did I mention that this tire blew? It wasn't just flat, it was completely shredded. Like, a wheel with large pieces of rubber hanging off of it. Like, if I'd kept going, there would've been sparks. Like, a rhinoceros had decided to use my tire as a chew toy. Like, I COULD HAVE DIED.

So when I called the husband, nearly hysterical and all shrieky, he told me he'd be there in just a few to help me change the tire. Because yes, I'm a dumb girl who can't do it herself. I know the mechanics, I've seen it done a ton of times, but hello...hysterical, way too fast traffic, shredded rhino tire. Come on.

Anyway, here's the lesson of this whole post: When your nearly hyperventilating wife whose pants may be a little wet calls you in a panic because of rhino tire, traffic, blah, blah and she's mad and upset and says, "I hate this fucking car! Hate it!" it is NOT appropriate to say all logically and superior-like,

"Well, it's not the car's fault, and that's totally irrelevant."

I mean really.

The turkey should've totally been the national bird anyway

The husband is on thin ice, people. I always knew he was never fond of turkey (if that's even POSSIBLE), but to have him declare it publicly like that...woo. I don't even know, man.

I adore turkey the whole year, but Thanksgiving is like, the pinnacle of turkeydom. Yes, there were those few years of the pale, anemic, dry turkeys, but I've encouraged my mom change her roasting ways. Now our turkeys are toasty brown, crispy skinned, and oh so juicy. Meat falls off the bone and is perfectly seasoned. Not bland and boring as the husband insists.

I'm not even sure I can be with a man who thinks otherwise.

Besides, let's talk about mashed potatoes. When I merely suggested this year that we make another kind of potato dish rather than mashed, my family, including the husband, nearly rioted. I calmly offered up several other options...scalloped, roasted, casseroled...and was met with angry stares and the threat of looting. COME ON. We eat mashed fucking potatoes all. the. time. They're not even that tasty! They're simply a starchy vessel on which to eat cream and butter. We can actually eat cream and butter in better forms!

But whatever. All I know is that I will be bringing two homemade maple pecan tarts to my mother's for Thanksgiving. And I'm thinking that slices of tart will only be handed out to card-carrying turkey lovers who can convince me of their utter adoration of the bird.

Selfish? Weird? Obsessive? Maybe. But a marriage is at stake here.

Of fortune-telling and being shot in the face

There's no way for me to top the husband's tenth-year anniversary post. He sums everything up so fluidly and eloquently, no? Exactly everything I feel is written right there. 311 and and Yahweh. Verbatim, baby.

I will say that yay! ten years! Amazing. And amazing that I still like him. A lot. He's funny. His eyes are a lovely shade of dark blue. He's scary smart. He makes cute babies. So here's to another ten and beating all the odds.


Happy anniversary.

I think they grow overnight

As the husband mentioned so eloquently in his last post, my mom kept the kids overnight for us on Friday. We haven't spent a night alone together since Thanksgiving, when we begged my mom to keep them so we could head out at four in the morning to shop on Black Friday. Let this be a lesson for those who want multiple children: it makes finding free childcare difficult.

We had more fun than two parents of three in their 30's and almost 30 should have. There was eating a restaurant that little people aren't even allowed into. There was Velveeta cheese dip with tuna (I gagged while typing that) and lots of laughing until someone (okay, me) almost peed her pants. And when we finally were done, spent, so tired we could barely walk, we dragged ourselves home and into bed and fell asleep. There was no staticky baby monitor in the background, no tip-toeing, just crawling into bed and crashing. It was lovely.

We slept in. With no one to feed breakfast to, no diapers, just sleep. Until 9:30. Yeah. It was all the sleeping in we could muster. We're so used to getting up early, that even being up until 3:00 AM the night before couldn't make us sleep until noon. Who needs more than six hours of sleep? THE WEAK, THAT'S WHO.

After we ate a leisurely breakfast together, we went to fetch our babies. They were glowing happiness, having been spoiled rotten by grandma and grandpa. We listened as my mom told us how sweet and behaved they were and how much fun she had had with them in the eighteen hours we were gone.

I watched them playing in the front yard, chasing and laughing, still on a grandparent's house high, feeling refreshed and calmer than I had in a long time. So when Big D ran up to me, pink-cheeked and grinning, and asked, "Did you miss us? Did you?" I could honestly say that yes, I had.

A phone call

What've you been up to?

Oh, I'm trying to clean the house.

I thought you cleaned the house yesterday.

Nooo...

But it was clean when I came home!

Oh, hell, man! It was straightened up! I meant clean...like scrub toilets, hose down a shower, mop...that kind of thing.

Gah! You should just speak English!

Preparing to vacate

I have a list a mile long of shit to do before we leave for Arkansas on Friday. I know I'm going to forget something. I keep referring to my five or six lists, but I still feel panicky. And the funniest part of the whole thing? The kids are most excited about the fact that the hotel we're staying at has a pool.

I've reminded the husband several times of the money would could save if we just stayed in an Indianapolis Super 8 or something. We wouldn't even use that much gas! No ten-hour car rides! I could afford the digital SLR I've always wanted! And the best part? His parents wouldn't be there!

He isn't amused.

He just wishes

The husband has decided to start his very own blog. I think he's witty enough, but I won't blogroll him until he proves himself to me. That means regular, funny, insightful updates, buddy. And despite what he says, there won't be any "sick competition" between us.

That's because you can't compete with me at all, suckah!

Ahem.

So yeah, okay, there may be a little competition. It's why I got married: so I could compete with someone worthwhile on a regular basis. Oh, that and the insurance savings. You know, whatever.

Top secret blog and oh yeah, the husband's a butthead

So I think this blogging thing is going okay. I mean, I'm having fun most of the time. It's gotten tedious once or twice, where I've sat down at the computer, completely overwhelmed with OMG! WTF do I write about?! I think I even have a regular reader or two (hi you guys!). The husband also reads daily and LOVES pointing out spelling or grammar errors. Helpful, that guy.

But he's it as far as friends and family goes. I haven't told anyone about this blog. And from reading others' blogs, that seems a common theme. I don't know why I don't want to tell them. I don't really write anything bad about anyone (save for that co-worker or two, but even that hasn't been awful). The thought just squicks me out a little. I guess eventually I'll spill it, but I'm not quite ready to just yet. There will be a time when it's right, and I'll want to, I'm sure. Or not. And they can just stumble upon it themselves. Whatever.

The husband is fully aware that I don't want to share this little blog yet. We've talked about it. But since he's 32 going on, I don't know, TWELVE, he likes to drop little references to past posts around my parents. The best one? We were hanging out at with my mom the other day while Big D and Smella shared a package of fruit snacks. My mom pointed out how they do loooove some fruit snacks. The husband agreed, saying, "Yeah, it's like kid crack, huh? Ice cream is my crack."

YEAH, I CAUGHT THAT, THE HUSBAND.

It didn't even register on my mom's radar. I refused to make eye-contact with the husband, so I'm not even sure if the jerkface was smirking or not.

All I know is that I know a whole lot about the husband. Like, those kinds of secrets only whispered to each other in the dark while lying in bed together. And we're going next month to Arkansas to visit his parents. I'd hate to have some non-sequitur tidbits slip out of my mouth around his mama. I mean I'd really, really hate for that to happen.

Coworker of the Day

So this isn't about one of my coworkers, it's one of the husband's. And maybe I should say "Former Coworker of the Day."

The phone rings at the husband's work, and it's for L. After he finishes the call, he tells T the manager that he has to go pick up his stepdaughter at school because she's sick. T tells him that's fine. But before L leaves, he picks up the phone and from what T could hear on his end, sounds like he calls his mom, "I have to go pick her up. You can't do it? Okay, okay, I'll go. Yeah, no problem, love you, bye." Except something happens when he hangs up the phone, and it rings again. The secretary answers, and it's the local time and temperature number playing its recording. She redials the number he just dialed to make sure, and yes, he called the local time and temperature line. LIAH!

I guess that he's had to leave work early several times before, and everyone at the husband's work is pretty tired of it, so they let him go but call the temp agency he works for to let them know they won't be needing him anymore. The temp agency handles the rest of it for them.

This should be the end of the story, but no. L calls the office later and talks to T the manager. He had called to apologize for leaving work like that, but hey, man to man, "I pooped my pants and really had to go home."

T, because he is the manager and he's Very Professional says, "Well, thanks for calling me, L, and I thank you for your honesty."

But dude. You still don't have a job. You a) lied, and then b) lied about pooping your pants, or c) ACTUALLY pooped your pants.

Happy Tax Day, baby

Today the husband turns 32. I've known him for eleven whole years. I met him in February 1997, a couple of months before he turned 21. Since we met on the Internet (which is a whole 'nother story), we really only communicated through IRC, email and the occasional phone call back then. He went out that night to party hard, and I remember being a little worried for him and a little jealous and sad that I couldn't be there. I adored him even after only knowing him for two months, but since it seems a little, I don't know, impossible to adore someone you've never even seen in the flesh, I kept that to myself. But he came back safe and sound if not a little hung-over, and we eventually moved in together, married, and have celebrated all birthdays together since (I'll have to write out the whole sordid tale later).

So 32 isn't one of those huge milestone birthdays, but it makes me think of his 21st and how long ago that was and how stupid and young we both were and how I absolutely wanted to be with him but didn't want to tell him and scare the hell out of him, because once again, two months over a computer, blah, blah, blah. I still adore him, but luckily, I don't have to be scared to tell him now.

Happy birthday. I love you bunches. Ya dork.

Whew.

I finally had that much-needed break (shout-out to the husband for suffering through three kids all alone). It was cooling and refreshing and I feel so much better. Or maybe it was just the fact that it was raining. I dunno.

I'm not sure the husband realizes how much I need to escape like that, because he occasionally gets, I don't know, grumbly, about me leaving for the night. But I ate a grown-up meal at a relatively grown-up restaurant and I didn't have to share. If I had ordered something hot, I would've eaten it at that temp (shout-out to lettuce wraps though. Not hot, but still delicious). I had real grown-up conversation with two women I absolutely adore. I come back after a few hours out and actually miss the offspring and husband. I sometimes want to sneak into the offsprings' bedrooms and nuzzle their heads. But I refrain. Because they're asleep and it's SO rude to be woken up by your mom nuzzling your head. Seriously.

I have two more days off of work (shout-out to Becca the schedule maker. I needed three days off in a row) before I start a five day stretch with another three days off. The weather's gorgeous today, so we're heading out to bask in it. I'm hoping to birthday shop for the husband tomorrow and not eat myself silly because I've lost four pounds since Tuesday morning (shout-out to Weight Watchers, I guess?). Back to the grindstone Sunday, but for now, I'm out.