Happy Anniversary

Today is our wedding anniversary. Seventeen years of marriage. Nineteen years of togetherness. Hubby says some days it seems longer than that. He's a funny man. That's part of why I love him. I am attracted to his humor, his kindness, his gentleness and his physical form. They say opposites attract, and in our case that's true. We are very different.

As the song says, he's a little bit country. I'm a little bit rock n' roll. He's a little bit of Memphis and Nashville. I have a whole lot of Motown in my soul. He wants symetry. I like uneven edges. He wants white walls. I like color. I like to live for the moment. He doesn't. I'm a dancer. He's not, unless there's a little bit of liquid courage involved. He frets and worries about everything. I don't worry until I see flames or get a call from law enforcement. He's an early riser and bounces out of bed as a "Ready Teddy", as he likes to say. I, on the other hand, have to be pulled out of the covers with a pry bar and sheilded from light until I've slugged around the house for twenty minutes. I'm the liberal in this family, and he's the conservative. I'm telling you, we could not be more different. This created some tension early on in our relationship, especially when I realized he alphabetized his canned goods. I discovered this when he admonished me for putting the "C"orn next to the "T"apioca pudding. I laughed because I thought he was joking. He wasn't and at that moment, I had my doubts our relationship would survive, but it did.

Our relationship has been unique from the beginning. Not only are we very different, he is a decade older than me. Even the way we met was kind of odd. We met during a murder trial. Romantic isn't it? I was a reporter, and he was a parole officer. I kept seeing him at the courthouse during the trial. We made googly eyes at each other for several days, until the court reporter, acting as a go-between, finally relayed our interest in one another. He was kind of shy though, and I got tired of waiting for him to ask me out, so I called him up and asked him for a date. Did I mention I'm assertive and he's not? He went, and we have been together ever since. It's been a great nineteen years. Difficult at times, but great. Our differences keep things interesting. I have worked that alphabetized canned good thing out of his system, thank God.

In true "married for a long time fashion" our plans for today include an exciting wait for our new refrigerator to be delivered. That big truck from Lowes should be here any time. Hubby will spend the morning hooking up the water line. I will wash three loads of laundry and drop his mother off at the beautiful shop. Those of you who are single or newlyweds will think that's incredibly boring. Those of you who have waded through marriage for several years will nod your head in approval and understand our excitement about a new refrigerator. Don't worry. We have planned a dinner and a concert to celebrate in a couple of weeks. The timing for a romantic dinner just didn't work out this weekend. Those of you married for a while understand that, too.

American Justice

The scales of justice are sometimes wobbly. That's the conclusion I reached after serving on a jury yesterday. We spent a really long day in trial and a long time in deliberations last night before settling on a verdict. It was tough...and tiring.

People sometimes ask me if I miss being in journalism. I don't really, but I do miss attending court proceedings. I love a good trial, especially a murder trial. I've covered several, and I never fail to be fascinated by the process, the drama and the interaction between the families affected. If I were young and single, my dream job (other than being a Rockette) would be freelance writing about high profile trials. I even met Hubby at a murder trial-more on that this weekend. I enjoy legal dramas, legal thrillers, legal novels. I could spend hours immersed in a John Grisham book. Of course, none of that fiction is like the real thing. The real thing is even better. So, it was with great enthusiam that I opened my notice for jury duty recently. I'm that much of a nerd. I was probably the only goober in the pool of people gathered yesterday hoping to get picked. Arnold Horseshack couldn't have been any more eager than I was. You see, I've been called for jury duty before but never gotten chosen. My job in news and Hubby's career in law enforcement gave me an automatic boot from any case. I would show up, only to be quickly turned away. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. This time, though, I have a different job and Hubby is retired. I was cleared for take-off and survived the strikes. Finally, I got to see the inside of the jury room and take part in that process. It was much tougher than I thought it would be. It is an incredible responsibility to know that you are holding someone's future in your hands. And the future of his family.

We heard a child abuse case, and to make a long story short (which I'm not very capable of) neither side presented a very good case. The police investigation was weak and so was the prosecution and the defense. Throughout the testimony my opinions on guilt or innocense kept sliding back and forth. I truly had mixed feelings when I entered the jury room. We stayed in the jury room a long time and in the end decided on not guilty. For the sake of the child we hope we did the right thing. I think we did the right thing. We followed the law. That was what we were charged to do. I wish I were completely comfortable with the outcome. I'm glad I got to serve, and I hope we tipped the scales in the right direction. I just wish they weren't so wobbly.

Building A Marriage

What's the secret to a good marriage? A good carpenter. Carpenter Ricky is my new best friend. He's the man who's going to save my marriage by building our deck. There are a lot of things Hubby and I do well together. Remodeling and construction are not among those things. Every time we start a project, we risk beginning World War III. It's true. There are some things married folks should just not do with each other. The Hulas should not wallpaper or build together.

We picked up on the wallpaper thing as newlyweds. The house we were renting had a butt ugly bathroom, and the landlords gave us permission to paper it. It was a small bathroom. It was a hot day. It was uncooperative paper. The first couple of sheets rolled off the wall and into the floor. I blamed him. He blamed me. Ugly words were spoken, and I finally suggested that I could finish that little project by myself. Hubby agreed and headed for the yard. Three hours later my bathroom was blue, but I wasn't anymore. It was right about this time we discussed him teaching me to shoot his guns too, and we decided that perhaps that was another thing we shouldn't attempt together because of the liklihood that one of us might lose a foot.

Over the years we have attemped many a remodeling project. It always produces a lot of pain and suffering. Like the time we redid the kitchen, and it was completely taped off and unavailable for three weeks. We are cranky people when we are hungry and have to survive with a grill and a cooler. Or the time we refinished the floors and the fumes from the lacquer made us delirious and unreasonable with each other. It was kind of like that cemetery scene in Easy Rider...without the nud*ty. Even small do-it-yourself projects create chaos around here. There was the time we refilled a waterbed, lost our grip on the hose and ended up spraying water all over the bedroom.

We started planning this deck back in the Spring. We were going to build it ourselves, but Hubby wanted one thing, and I wanted another. He couldn't see my vision. Granted, I probably shouldn't watch so much HGTV, but I wanted so much more than just a rectangle with sideboards. I wanted layers, angles and built in seating. I wanted....a hot tub. As usual, I wanted grand. He wanted simple. We can build simple. We can't build grand, not without professional help. After months of measuring and fussing, we surrendured and called in the big gun...Carpenter Ricky. In 24 hours, he had a plan drawn and a cost estimate. God bless him. He starts next week. In a matter of days, I'll be lounging in my outdoor entertainment area and soaking my muscles in my "Oahu Lounger". Is marriage counseling always this expensive?

"Wearing" Me Out

We haven’t finished a full week of school yet, and we’ve already had a fight in our house about school clothes. The second day of school started with a 6am battle over holey jeans and a short shirt. That’s too early in the day for an argument. The school has toughened up its dress code, which doesn’t bother me at all. With all the hormones floating around the high school, I’d be happy if they had to wear nun habits and burkas every day. The new dress code seems very reasonable, but to low-rise jean lovers and bare midriff teenagers it smacks of communism. Jeans can have no holes or fraying, and tops must cover the stomach at all times, even when you’re reaching for something or bending over. Nothing wrong with that, except that three-fourths of the clothes made for teenage girls these days don’t meet the dress code. Teen Angel loves her holey jeans, but I’m not about to leave work and pick her up from school because she didn’t dress up to snuff for classes. I decided Friday that a shopping trip was in order to prevent any more morning clothing battles, but I knew it wouldn’t be easy to find the right stuff.

I’ve posted before about my clothes shopping frustrations. Let me just say that shopping with a teenager requires a whole lot of patience and a margarita or two. It just makes my head hurt, and it’s harder than finding clothing for yourself. The hoochie mama styles refuse to go away, and necklines hang lower than my kneecaps. Anything with decent coverage has some kind of goth-like logo, a Marilyn Manson picture or vulgar saying. I cannot let my child wander into Hot Topic unattended anymore. On a recent mall outing she came out of there with a T-shirt that said “I pooted”. “I pooted”? I didn’t realize it was cool to share that with others now. And to think I’ve been denying it all these years.

Part of the problem is that teenagers work in most of these stores, so you have to battle their influence when your kid is trying on clothes. The clerk in a store that sells jeans for prices higher than the national debt raved about a pair Teen Angel tried on Saturday. “They fit great,” said Perky Clerk. Now these pants were as tight as the bark on a tree and were riding five inches up Teen Angel’s crack. When I gave her the “what the heck are you thinking” look she feebly added that they tend to loosen up with wear. Not enough to meet the school’s dress code or MY code. Show us the next size up, please. And do you have any jeans cheaper than a 2003 Toyota Camry? Did you know $98 jeans are pretty common in some of these stores? Unbelievable. We managed to emerge from the mall several hours later with four new pair of jeans, a few shirts and some tank tops to go under anything that might be too low or two thin. I was tired, but I didn’t feel so bad because I obviously wasn’t alone. It was a big day for back to school buying and parents were all over the mall, shopping for their kids. There was a fight in every dressing room. I saw one mother battling it out with her teenaged daughter over a pair of jeans. She was pretty angry, and a few people were giving her dirty looks. Not me. I wanted to walk over, give her a hug and tell her that I understood. She could probably use that web address I found for ordering muzzles. That’s one accessory that the school will probably allow, don’t you think?

Teacher, Teacher

The beginning of school last week has made me think quite a bit about teachers during the past few days. I have several teachers in my family and circle of friends. It has forced me to look at teachers in a much different way than I did while growing up. I now know that they are human, that they put their pants on the same way I do and that they make mistakes, too. When I was a kid, I put my teachers on a pretty high pedestal and had a hard time understanding their flaws. My sixth grade teacher was incredibly grumpy, barked at us all day and picked her nose. I still don’t understand the booger habit, but I now know she had a very dysfunctional family at the time and probably needed to be somewhere other than a classroom filled with 30 rowdy kids. If I had had her family, I would have been crabby too. She wasn’t a very good teacher, but she was the exception. I was fortunate to have many good teachers.

There was Mrs. V. who would feed you crackers and a carton of milk if you happened to miss breakfast. She understood the connection between a good breakfast and good grades long before the Department of Education. Mrs. T. taught fifth grade with a wonderful sense of humor and a hug even for the kids who weren’t the hugging kind. She knew some of us needed more hugs than others. Mr. T. (no relation to Mrs. T. or the man with all the gold chains) ruled with an iron fist but was really creative in the way he taught fourth grade. He had a nifty homemade electronic gizmo that lit up when we got our multiplication tables right, and he brought his boa constrictor to class when we studied reptiles. We also had a moon pie and RC Cola party for meeting some goal, although I can’t remember what it was now. Mr. B. let us listen to the radio in his homeroom AND play paper football if we had our work done. He also overlooked the fact that we girls sometimes read romance novels tucked into our textbook during English class. Mr. M. taught me geometry with the patience of Job. God bless him for dragging me up to a B in his class. Mrs. L. quizzed us on the twelve comma rules every day of my senior year until everyone made an A on the quiz. She said we would need them for the rest of our lives, and she was right. She was also right about that “chewing gum makes you look like a cow chewing cud thing”. Mrs. B. fueled my love for art and music in my early years. She could take books of wallpaper samples and turn them into art projects for months. Mrs. S. made me take her graduate level grammar class in college even though I didn’t want to. She said I needed it, and she was right.

My favorite teachers were all folks who pushed me to excel with a firm hand, a caring heart and a warm smile. I’m grateful for everything they did for me, and while I now understand why weren't perfect, I still put them on a pretty high pedestal..because they belong to be there.

The Search is On

We have begun the search for a new refrigerator, and at the rate we work we should have it installed by Christmas. That's because Hubby has a particular process when it comes to buying these kinds of things, and it takes f..o..r..e..v..e..r. I'm pretty decisive when it comes to buying appliances. I walk into Lowes, look at my options, consider my budget and pick whatever matches my other appliances and gives me the most bang for my meager bucks. When our washing machine pooped out, I had a new one picked out, delivered and introduced to our dirty underwear within a day. However, advance notice of an impending appliance disaster triggers Hubby's research process that takes weeks and causes my hair to gray faster than usual. It's really better for me if we don't know a break down is coming.

Our refrigerator was purchased new in 1983, a year after I graduated from high school. It came with this house, and we paid $50 for it. We figured it was worth the $50 if it lasted another year or so. That was in 1994. It's been running on borrowed time for a while now. In fact, we have avoided talking about it so as not to aggravate the appliance gods who require a sacrifice whenever you have a spare dime in your pocket that you'd like to spend on something else. Kind of the "out of sight, out of mind" approach. Recently, the refrigerator started making an odd sound. We hold our breath and lock eyes every time it kicks off and on, wondering if this electric wheeze is the last. We think the compressor is going out, and we'd rather buy a new fridge than pay $600 to fix the old one. I braced myself when we came to this conclusion this week because I know what lies ahead; multiple trips to the store and reams of reading. Oh, and daily reports on his progress. I don't want this much organization in my life. It makes me nervous.

Hubby made a trip to Lowes Thursday and scouted the options. He then sent me by the store yesterday for my first sweep. In the meantime, he consulted the bible of big purchases, "Consumer Reports". Not the magazine..the annual directory. Hubby refuses to buy anything that doesn't get a good rating in that book. He reads...and reads...and reads. He compares brands ad nauseum. By the time we've finished this process, I will have heard the pros and cons of 27 different models, half of which aren't even in our budget or available to us. We visited Lowes after church today (third visit if you're counting) but didn't advance our search because Hubby couldn't remember the heighth of our old refrigerator. We came home, measured and spent an hour on the internet finding models that will fit in our kitchen. I had big dreams of a honkin' big white fridge with a freezer on the bottom. Those were dashed when we realized our kitchen cabinets are too low for anything bigger than 22.6 cubic feet. As usual, replacing something in a forty year old house is like trying to put a round peg into a square hole. Everything has to be modified, planed, squeezed or twisted in order to fit the dimensions of an older home. You usually have to settle for "good enough" instead of "awesome". I'm okay with that. I just wish it wouldn't take us weeks to get there. We settled on one model today that we both like, but if the past is any indication, we should have at least two more trips to the store and one or two rounds of reading before we can place an order. If I'm lucky, our old one will crap out tomorrow, and I can just pluck one off the floor of Lowes and be done with it. It would be like Christmas...in August.

The Sounds of Silence

For the last three months I have awakened long before Hubby and Teen Angel and quietly, peacefully gotten ready for work. I like calm in my morning. In fact, I would prefer to have complete silence until I am ready to leave the house. I’m not a cheery riser. It takes me fifteen minutes to crawl out of my cocoon and put my feet on the floor once the alarm has rung. And I do need an alarm. I’m not one of those crazy people whose body adjusts to a certain schedule and awakes itself at the appropriate time. Pfffftt! Not happening. Never. I’ve worked all kinds of schedules and my body will sleep as long as it’s allowed, no matter what the clock says. Once I’m up, I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to look at anyone. I just want to slip into the day at my own quiet pace. I’ve enjoyed that for the last twelve weeks...until today. My summer vacation from morning chaos ended on this first day of school.

Teen Angel started high school today, and I can already tell our morning routines are going to tangle on a regular basis. We share a bathroom, and we both need to get ready within the same hour. The fact that she wanted to make a good impression at school or at least not stand out in an embarrassing way added to the stress this morning. Apparently, I did not iron her shirt well enough because there was a small crease in the front of the shirt that was hardly noticeable to an adult but obvious to the teenage eye. It seems her belt couldn’t be adjusted right, and I may or may not have helped with that issue. I’m just not sure based on the response I got. Let’s just say I tried. Blemishes needed covering and hair was being tamed when I walked out the door. I put it in God’s hands, gave Hubby a kiss and wished him luck with the drive to school. That four minute drive can be tricky. Among the travesties he committed last year were: pulling up too close to the school doors in the rain, arriving two minutes too early and playing embarrassing “old man” music with the windows cracked.

Hubby called me immediately after the drop off to let me know that he had almost committed the worst offense imaginable to a fourteen year old. It seems the gas light in the van came on yesterday, but he got busy and forgot to fill up, so he almost ran out of gas….in front of the school….on Teen Angel’s first day of high school. Gasp! Can you imagine the drama that would have caused? It was bad enough when I drove her to school registration last week in Papa T.’s pickup truck with the cracked windshield. You would have thought I had hog tied her and rolled her down to the school in a barrel from the way she carried on. Running out of gas would have brought on screams heard in the next county.

Deep down I know I should relish the chaos. Four years from now, when she heads off to college, I will get all the silence I want. No “Good Charlotte” blasting at 6am. No rants over bad hair, and no arguments over clothing. I’ll long for some noise; for someone to debate the merits of Fergie’s new song with and for someone to tell me how ugly my shoes are. It won’t be there, and I’ll miss it. Silence is gilded.