I’m really discovering that if I skip writing here–even a day or two–I really start losing ideas. It gets harder. I start thinking that I can’t do it. That I’ve lost my mojo. Which is really funny because I don’t think of myself as actually having any mojo. If I did, it would probably be the wrong version or the wrong size. According to my girlfriends, it’s a freakin miracle that I managed to get dressed correctly, let alone do it with any mojo.
Personally, I think that mojo is for wimps. Just get up, put your feet on the floor and start moving. Some days, that’s the best I can do. And some days, that’s more than enough.
So, Saturday was mine and Dear Husband’s 16th wedding anniversary. We celebrated by going to Minado and eating our weight in sushi. Wouldn’t it be great if this is how we celebrated?
But in reality, it really looked more like this. I’m not complaining. In fact, I’m glad. If it had been like the above picture, I would have likely had to shave and probably needed to get a new pedicure. I take that back. I don’t think Dear Husband would have been paying attention to my pedicure.
We finished having a direct impact on the ocean wildlife shortage in the world around 6 pm and I will be damned if I’m going home at 6:30 on my 16th wedding anniversary. No way.
Because I’m trying to follow some of the dressing instructions that my girlfriends had given me, I had decided it would be a good thing to wear a cute pair of kitten heels on date night. I was a little worried when I first was told about kitten heels, but was more reassured when I found out they actually weren’t made from kittens. In actuality, I think they are called that because after a few hours it feels like tiny little kitten claws are digging into all your toes and that the small furry, evil mammal is actually chewing on your ankle. Now I had been smart enough to wear elastic-waisted pants–it is all-you-can-eat sushi, but the kitten heels slowed me down. Next time–sneakers. Another downside was I hadn’t been smart enough to wear socks with my shoes–apparently that’s a fashion “no”, so we couldn’t even go across the street and bowl. Yes, bowling. For our anniversary.
Being that Saturday was POURING down rain–I mean, torrential, end-of-the-world, build an ark kind of rain, we didn’t want to do too much driving. We needed to do something local. So we decided to go Walmart and walked around.
Dear Husband and I have survived the salad days–heck we’ve survived the ramen noodle days. Lord, he’s survived my cooking. When we were “almost” married, Dear Husband-To-Be came home for dinner. I think it was during one of the many times I was unemployed and I was making my attempt at being both domestic and frugal. I didn’t do either well back then and I’m not much better now. But I was making an effort and cooking the first of our 5,000+ future pasta dinners. The spaghetti was done and I was getting ready to reheat some of the sauce in the refrigerator. When I opened the jar, it was a little bit, uhm…fuzzy? Sort of like one of those science experiments gone terribly wrong. Being young and well, young–the contents in my refrigerator was rather limited. Oh, right, like YOU haven’t ever eaten cereal for dinner. I’m thinking it likely contained a lemon (that in hindsight, was probably as moldy as the spaghetti), a jar of pickles and a stick or two of butter.
I was smart enough to know that I couldn’t do anything with the lemon or pickles, but I did think, “Great, butter. I’ll do some garlic, butter noodles. Aren’t I the smartest future wife in the universe? Dear Husband will be so impressed to see that I can still whip up a dinner with such limited options.”
In reality, he was likely impressed that I hadn’t managed to burn down the apartment while I was boiling the noodles. So I’m busy making witty banter while I toss the noodles with the butter and garlic. I decide to make it all fancy by adding some other spices–a little bit of oregano, some white pepper, some onion powder, some cloves.
Oops. Cloves? Did I say cloves? Okay….maybe a little more garlic and pepper will cover up the taste of cloves.
Maybe a lot of garlic and pepper will work.
I tried everything. I think I probably added the lemon and pickles in an effort to make it edible. You know what? Nothing worked, it still tasted like spaghetti and cloves.
And Dear Husband-To-Be sat there and ate the whole thing.
I learned something that night. I learned that Dear Husband WAY more forgiving and generous than I am. We quickly decided that my numerous skills did not extend to the kitchen and Dear Husband has taken over most of the cooking duties. Whenever I get tempted to try my hand at a meal, DH reminds me that the smoke detector is not a kitchen timer.
Now, some 16 years later, we are walking the Walmart aisles, shopping through the dredges of Halloween costumes (already being pushed aside for the Christmas ornaments, but that’s another blog entry) for our offspring. The Boy wants to be Hades–not exactly something you can pick up at the Halloween store. Okay, you probably can get some version of Hades there, but not the version that lives in my son’s head. In the past he’s been the Loch Ness monster (in the lake), a minotaur, a space cop (again, a version from his brain, not reality), and an alien coming out of a vat of toxic waste. Believe it or not, we were actually able to reuse some of the Nessie costume for the toxic waste costume. And, he wasn’t the only alien coming out of a vat of toxic waste at his school parade. Go figure.
After 16 years, Dear Husband has seen me at my best and my worst–and not just when I’m making dinner. He’s made me a better person while still accepting the person that I already am. He appreciates my sense of humor and sense of style. He’s learned I would rather have more computer RAM than flowers or jewelry, and that my favorite gifts have been a vacuum (well, it IS a Dyson), and a frying pan.
It really doesn’t matter where we are or what we are doing. I’d pick shopping in a Walmart with Dear Husband than doing anything else in the world. In the 16 years, we’ve buried family and created our own. We’ve pulled apart and pulled together. We’ve lost our jobs, and our minds, but never our sense of humor. We are successful partly because we secretly suspect that no one else will tolerate our kind of crazy. In another 16 years, we’ll likely have lost more jobs, more minds and sadly, more family, but hopefully we will have been raised to grandparent status, where apparently we will be able to do no wrong (in just 16 years–that can’t be right). And even though we’ll be slower and older, I’ll still want to go to shopping at Walmart with my best friend.