Domesticus

Over the last three months of our time in a real house, Moby has become a true Lap Cat. And, although this is lovely and we are happy to have his overt affection and appreciation, it almost seems like a different cat. I have to keep him from jumping up on me whenever, or at least not EVERY time, I sit in the Music Room. He demands our attention and physical presence much more than ever before. I grow to ache, trying not to move once he has settled on me, but inevitably I must, or grow stiff and sore. Perhaps this has to do with his age, or that he no longer feels so cramped and in need of space. But he has completely made the transition from an apartment cat into a House Cat. His love is overt and present, without the old restraints. We genuinely thought he would go through this phase of needing reassurance, then it would wane. Instead, he seems more fond of us now than ever, no sign of lessening. I clipped his hind claws today, and although he growled opprobrium, he stayed where he was, and once I was done, settled in beside me again. Our love has deepened, as with the long, happily, married. Trust runs deep. We know each other, and like each other right down, to the bone.


Maybe I would not feel such a deficit from the genetic kin, save that I have experienced this real love. My cat loves me for who I am more than they ever have, ever will, ever could. D loves me more than that.


I pour back the love, only wanting to return more, a boundless desire to balance. An endless, mutual, debt. The House is part of that.


How'd I get so lucky? (I say this a lot.)

Twelveses

Yesterday ran long, and me not up to much. Endured, and all ended well enough. When I got home, D fed me and took care of me, and Moby sat on me, with purpose and intent. Today was hard, but ended soon, to my immense gratitude. I am not exactly superstitious, but I prefer not to taunt unlucky days and actions, like 13ths on Fridays.



Three months today we have been here. Seems impossible, that we've done so much in such a short time. Three months of Moby running around happily. One of his favorite games is Chase, where I run after him, and he hares off, tail up. Stops, watches me, I lunge at him, and off he goes again. The game is over when he flops down and I have to give him a massage. Cat wins. Cat always wins.






This is love, when he settles in on D's shoulder, blissful and content.



We do take care of each other.

Throb

With my shattered heart,
I love you imperfectly,
With every cell throb.

Leap

It wasn't a Leap Day when I proposed to D. Anyway, he said no.

We never wanted to do anything but spend the rest of our lives together. But he was a bit younger, still bound to a military contract, however part-time reserve. Both of us resistant to the societal pressures to conform. His sprung from a religious background that would have him off on a mission, then marrying soon after, with a passel of children to follow. With all the symbols searing, the Ring, the tidy fenced yard, the minivan, the soul crushing job, retirement, then death. For me, it was a deep aversion to weddings, and fear of the kind of marriage I'd just escaped from.

Only someone as amazing as D could ever have allayed my fears. D needed a similar reassurance, and time. Experiences to draw upon. A little distance from his parent's influence. He still needed their approval, their respect. He couldn't do it in the way they expected. And the local wedding traditions were a bit of a nightmare for him. (As for me, when I finally understood them.) Nor would I ever have converted, a temple ceremony an impossibility. He would explain this differently, this is just how I saw it.

Eventually, the idea grew that a legal marriage would not be a bad thing. I always say his father proposed, giving D the nudge, saying "Fifteen minutes in the Bishop's office, make us happy." It turned out to be an hour in their living room, with LDS bishop, and three brothers wearing ties, a balloon bouquet and an angel food cake. I was getting over the flu, and went to visit my parents in Detroit the next day - alone. Still, turned out all right. And we relish our tiny-wedding story.

Well, we've always done the traditional things backward, with a twist. Buying a house last seemed about right.

Came across a cartoon,"If my childhood plans panned out..." Didn't agree with any of the answers, but I like the questions.

My Profession would be,
Actress, in an eponymous sit com. I would be zany. Or I'd be a firejumper, flying planes and rescuing people.

My spouse would be,
Mike Nesmith, of the Monkees. Later, Eric Idle. Someone very funny, with a beard, at any rate.

My car would be,
A helicopter. Or a teleporter.

My home would be,
Um, strangely, a lot like the one I have now, actually. But with a second floor and a tower. Alternately, a lighthouse or windmill house.

My best friends would be,
Geniuses, everyone. And they would live next door, and no one would ever insist on going first, including me. And they'd like games and reading.

My backyard would have,
A pool, with a slide and a fountain and a roller coaster.

All my dinners would include,
Fresh fruit, plums and peaches, cherries and berries.

My kids(pets) would be named,
I never wanted kids, but my cats and dogs would all have wonderful names from history or books, and I would understand what they said to me. Really, I never even named my stuffed animals, offering either descriptive names (bear, turtle) or repeating the same names to adults who asked. So they thought I'd named all my dolls Theresa, but I never called them that. Learning how to name well is an adult acquisition. Even then, not into labels.


Like February needed an extra day.

Entering

Got to come home early, asked B, "may I go home and pack?" She said, "Go." And I went. Which is good because the tension has gotten a bit much for me. I'm decompressing now. With good beer.* When I got home, ate my lunch. They were putting my OR until last, because it looked like we would end in time. And more or less, we did. Although I don't do so well waiting until after 1PM to eat. Took me a while to get food in my face, because when I got home, Moby wanted attention. I picked him up, and he purred in my arms, claws in my sweater, for over ten minutes, not to be dislodged. D heated up the lunch I'd taken with me, and brought home. He got his hug, after Cat. Both seemed to need hugs, as did I. Moby has been rushing out the apartment door, as if to say "Ok, you're going, I'm off as well!" I may well just walk him over in my arms, as long as I can get his harness found and on him. He so hates the bag, and the car.

Yes, we are moving two blocks away. This does make it somewhat easier.

We're both pretty stressed. Not as bad as before the move to Boston. But all the paperwork and financial stuff is hitting us in a new spot. Ow, ow, ow... ow. But this really is not, as a whole thing, as bad as many of the issues we've dealt with before. D's shattered elbow, for one. Just very different. So many times we say ".... um, dunno." Like about what kind of outlet we need for the dryer, or who to hire for the chimney, or how to close the doorless garage. Puzzles for the brain, suggestions gladly accepted. Got a reference for a good plumber. He had shaky phone skills, but that's alright. That's not what he's being hired for. Wanted to go to the house tomorrow, but that isn't possible. Next week, at earliest.

Closing tomorrow. Funds are wired to the Title Co. Getting my signing hand warmed up, the opposite to the one with the dicky thumb. (Dicky thumb doing well, still using the brace at work to prevent re-injury.) Another day at work, then, well, we're off. Oh, best news so far, there are people in line for our apartment, so we might not have to pay lease breaking penalties nor an additional month of rent. Which means a comfy chair! Whoo-hoo!




We'll be fine. 'Don't worry, 'bout a thing. Cuz every little thing, gonna be alright.' P (really need better pseudonyms, like Writing as Jo(e) uses) at work sang this along with me as it played in the core on Monday. She related a story of a couple moving, a boatload of people showed up to help them move, and wife had a come-apart about too many hands not in her control. Full on panic attack, apparently. I assured P that if 30 people appeared to help us move, and everything got dumped in the living room, I'd be a happy pig in shit, indeed. Wow, wouldn't I be. I know how to deal with a pile of crap. As long as it's all in the right house. P is lending us the furniture moving straps, hopefully. If she forgets them Thursday, I may call her and insist she just come and help us move. Could really use her energy. My gods, the woman is a top, she cannot stop.

Drove by House twice in our last errands today, it really is a nice place. Made me smile just to look at. When D first saw it, on our way past to another Open House that day, it caught his eye. I have proposed that we take a few meaningful items for the first time. Not to be magical, but for the psychological comfort of seeing this as our home, and telling House that it will be our Home, so that we always look on the difficulties as our Careful and Compassionate honor to perform, not a hateful burden. House will be our Home. D plans to take in a guitar first, me, my tea and kettle. Maybe some incense, and a moment of asking permission, and entering gently. Respectfully, kindly. Some cat toys, ask it to be kind to it's new guardian and god. House needs to know it's loved, for what it is. As we all do.




*

Three out of the four ingredients in Simon and Garfunkel's third album make this Belgian-style farmhouse ale a perfect golden beverage with festive herbal notes.

Tissues

Moby chasing the tissue paper.





Slept, full, restful, normal sleep. Still dark when I woke up, I feared it would be 0400, or 0300, maybe even earlier, and the clock had fallen on the floor. But I had to hit the bathroom no matter what. When I came back in pulled the clock up from behind the table, it read "0700." I felt like I'd found money in my coat pocket. I finally, actually, made it through the night, and came out rested.

I also thought about the clock. It's shaped like one of the original iMacs, purple - like the actual imac I had. The alarms haven't worked for a while, but the clock is otherwise in as good a shape as it was in 1997.

D sometimes makes us sausages for breakfast. Got irritated with how they roll, making it problematic to brown all around. So, I offered him the lemon juicing stone. Works a treat.


Found this over at TYWKIDBI,

Carl Sagan was Jewish by birth, but a nonbeliever in practice, although he denied being a frank atheist:

"An atheist has to know a lot more than I know. An atheist is someone who knows there is no god. By some definitions atheism is very stupid."
In reply to a question in 1996 about his religious beliefs, Sagan answered, "I'm agnostic."

Here is a very touching comment by his wife Ann Druyan:

"When my husband died, because he was so famous and known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me - it still sometimes happens - and ask me if Carl changed at the end and converted to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again. Carl faced his death with unflagging courage and never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don't ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief and precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that we were alive and we were together was miraculous - not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance… That pure chance could be so generous and so kind… That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space and the immensity of time… That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me and it's much more meaningful…

The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other and our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don't think I'll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful."

Twenty-one

Today, as I wrote the date, I looked at the sort-of familiar number. Finally occurred to me that yesterday was the 21st anniversary of our deployment, and the beginning of our relationship. We'd gone out to meet with our real estate agent, and a mortgage guy at an unrelated open house. Because the house we saw Saturday fit us rather well. We wound up chatting with both of them for a long time, since no one showed up to see the house they were actually showing. So we learned about how the real estate thingmabob works a bit more, and told stories, all casual but to a purpose. And, gods help us, we put in a bid for that short sale* house. Earnest money and everything. Got pre-approved for the loan. Apparently, we are a good risk.

We are both a bit terrified, expecting to be screwed over, cynical. But telling our story helped put it in perspective. Starting with our first date - Gulf War I. Moving out to Boston precipitously, our friends sending our stuff along later because our mover didn't even show up. On the way home, I thought about how much easier it is to be a good nurse to reasonable people. I have to think it's the same in every profession. We do our side of the work, listen carefully, pay attention, try not to be stupid. Make other's jobs easier. Sometimes their response to us is just salesmanship, but often, it is genuine affection.

Our impression is that our agent , L is a pro, and a decent human being, and we are most likely right. We could be wrong, but she has a good reputation, as we have heard going to other open houses from other agents. "Oh, her! Oh, she's the best!" "Oh, my L!" Fortune favors the prepared. I think it also favors the generally kind, by and large, on the balance. Not in any way a guarantee, of course. But nothing in life is.

L was very excited, to the point of exclamation mark abuse in her email to us to tell us we got in the first bid. I'm holding back on excitement, because of my Pooh experience. But I am quietly glad that we have a chance here.

The rest of the day, we simply stayed close to each other, talking a lot, holding hands, keeping each other calm, planning our holiday dinner with D's parents. Whatever happens, we'll make it work. This house, or another later.

And today, we remembered, and realized we'd celebrated appropriately, even if we'd forgotten.




*Mis-named, since they take a long time to work through.

Perpetual

Pestery thoughts. My mother wanting to see me, which is unlikely. I'm not about to spend my precious vacation time going to Buttfuck, Texas to visit people I don't much like. I certainly do not want to inflict this bunch of kin on my beloved D. More, I would not want any of them here. I'm not convinced it will be a good idea for me to have reestablished contact. Had to, for the sake of my own integrity. The price may prove very high in peace of mind. Well, somethings just have to be paid.

The idea of unconditional love, un-reciprocated love, seems to me akin to perpetual motion machines. A lot of people convince themselves it's real, because of a core lack of understanding. It's seductive, it's so appealing. That it can't work doesn't stop a lot of people from believing that it can. They can keep on pouring out love, without ever getting anything in return, forever. A never emptying bottle. It's magic, martyrdom, a mystery. It's insulting bullshit. My reconnection should have been treated with wary courtesy, not full flood "love." I'm not the prodigal son asking forgiveness.

Even many, or most, parents, (who I am willing to believe) are overwhelmed with a rush of protective urges toward their children, need to turn that pure emotion into a genuine interest in that small person, and accept interest in return. Because the better analogy to real love is of an electrical circuit. It has to go around, not just from one to another. And energy has to be put into the system. One must give, and accept in return, each has to strive to be worthy, and take everything given, and give everything in return. Both should feel hopelessly indebted, getting the best of the deal, unutterably grateful.

Even parents, maybe especially parents, if they want to love and be loved by their offspring all their lives, need to take that instinctive emotion - which needs another word, and gradually transform it into a real, loving, friendship. I've seen it happen, so I do know it is possible. My Massachusetts cousins seemed to do it by gradually including their children among the friends, until they were full friends, with only the memory of being kids in the relationship.

Real love is a verb, to treat each other lovingly. Anything else is a scam, a delusion, a wish. And wishes are as useful as wax screwdrivers and cotton candy anchors. And perpetual motion machines.

End

It's The End of the World as We Know it (and I feel fine) is Our Song. In the circumstances of our courtship, this seemed perfectly reasonable. Reminded of it today, and it still seems apt. Unromantic, but very Us.

Keep wanting to figure out how to plot my Fortean Novel of the Post Apocalypse, still stuck. Not about to be raptured, wouldn't want to spend five minutes with those folks who think they will be, not to mention eternity. Anyone wanting more eternity than this moment has clearly not thought it through.

Crashing, rolling thunder through in the wee hours of Friday, and Moby leaning against my leg didn't stir. Extremely unusual, to the point that I strained to feel any movement, breathing. Eventually he stirred slightly, to my relief. Apparently just utterly crashed, too asleep to care even about lightening and thunder. D never heard it either. And yes, I did check noaa, to confirm that it had happened.

Strange dreams about The Queen having died, and I got an informal tour of her apartment that was under renovation. Nice place, but not an interesting view out the large windows. Turned out she was alive, and I told her my view in Boston was much better. She was doing very difficult acrostic/number crossword puzzles with Stephen Fry, in pencil, which he kept erasing. I then moved across the country to a very white room in a house, had trouble with the locks. Brought with me two to four small dogs that used to belong to the landlady, but were mine now. Woke up to Moby draped across my knees.

Went to hear Vieux Farka Touré at the Living Traditions Festival last evening. Sadly, the amplification was extreme, added to high pitched tones in the stopstopithurts zone. Outdoor free concerts are always a mixed bag. I'll stick to recordings. Still, we had a lovely walk, the rain had abated earlier in the day, and the air was mild and welcoming.

Skin

Being home. Never felt at home in my original house, never safe, never at ease. In my first apartment, I was home, but achingly lonely. Having a roommate in college apartments was always unsettling. The bad marriage felt more like a home I didn't know how to define - at first. It became worse than any lack of home, it became an anti-home, dangerous, hostile.

I was teased in Basic for referring to the barracks as "home." But, that was where my stuff was, even though it was mostly not my chosen stuff - all green and issued. But a good wool blanket, a toilet and shower - close enough to being home. I had very low standards. A safe place to sleep, warmth.

Once I met D, I began to know what home could mean. Peace at home. The whole time we were away*, I found acceptance and safety in his arms, needing no other home. Together, we would live in numerous apartments, and although I felt displaced, I never felt homeless.

I remember when we got off the train in Boston, and could not find my cousins who had promised to pick us up. I broke down and wept in exasperated exhaustion for a minute, pulled myself together, and we talked about what else we could do. (Turned out, we'd just picked a bad door, and found Elizabeth and Ed a few minutes later.) Desperate, yes, alone, no. I'd brought home with me, and there we were.

I can see that it would be more difficult to find home in one's own skin alone, but I can also see a way. Where one is one's own home, and others visit, come and go. And the home inside myself has grown as well as the one I share with D. I always prefer him near, but I think my home is myself, and he is part of it, but not all of it. We are a home together, we are each of us capable of being a home unto ourselves. With a cat, of course.


The geology class is excellent. I am finally really understanding the science. I think I finally get the idea of metamorphic rock. Not metamorphorical rock (like Pratchett Trolls.) It's wonderful to be taught by someone knowledgeable and passionate. Learning about a foot wall vs a hanging wall, gneiss and schist.





*Activated to army service for Gulf War I.

Trust

Over the last year, less, Moby (never a lap cat) has taken to curling up beside us, even between us, on the sofa. We have long felt that the proof of our being good people to him, is that he trusts us. And this trust has grown, so that I can have my hand on his tum, on his face, and he falls deeply asleep. It occurred to me today that he has also earned our trust. I have my arm exposed to his claws and teeth - he could easily do significant damage. I know he won't, save in extremity, by accident. This is one very asleep cat. I bopped his nose with my finger accidentally, and he did not so much as flick an ear.

The best friendships grow slowly, layering trust upon trust.

Pan

Last night:
Warm, windows open. Inside all day for me, another long day, but it's all income, and I can't complain too much. I was the runner, the opener, the turnoverer, the break giver, the clean upper. Got home by 1830, worn and welcomed.

That is the best part, that D always brings me home. Despite my fiddling with putting away my baggage and taking off shoes, and bitching about my day, he waits until I pause, then eagerly greets me and hugs me. It is a wonderful life, to be always wanted, embraced, welcomed. I am unspeakably grateful, to know where home is, always. I never forget it was not always so for me, that for long years I had no home. Twenty years on, and I still value this proof of being beloved.

I've been thinking about values, about what values matter. Certainly not family or religious values. I remember my mother talking about a new married couple choosing each other first. About how my brother didn't value family over friends. All about a vague kind of precedence. I never quite understood it. Loving one's father because he is one's father. Assuming love (should love ever be assumed?) due to genetic proximity. This very idea offends me. I've never been much motivated by money, only the security that sufficient money brings. I'm not a believer, not a joiner, not a fan of institutions as an ideal.

I value kindness, competence, serious attention to one's work, and great amusement at the vagaries of life. I value expressing love in any form as many ways as possible. I value art and wit and intelligence, as well as critical thought. I value care of the helpless, children, pets, the elderly. I value respect of those who have earned it, and gentleness for those who have not. I value discipline and self control, and those who know they have no control over anyone else. I value thoughtfulness and curiosity.

This morning:
Thinking about a discussion on another blog years ago, commenters getting hot under the collar about using a dishpan, the consensus that everyone uses them and they are useless. Their reasoning mostly in the negative - that their mother had one, neighbors, and they could not see why.

I use one, my mother did not. I remember having to plunge my hand into the cooling, greasy water to pull the plug, and retching as I did so. The water in the large sink lost heat very quickly, and I've broken glasses on the porcelain - a treacherous accident. So, when I got on my own, I bought a plastic pan to put in the sink, like my aunts did. Uses less water - that stays hotter longer. I've never broken anything on the softer material, and when I'm done, the dregs get poured down the disposal cleanly.

I remember a story from the infamous Reader's Digest, of a woman who cut the ends off the roast. (Yes, this was a very long time ago.) When asked why, she can only say she thought it has something to do with the flavor, because her mother always did it this way. The mother simply says her mother always did it. The grandmother is asked, and she replies "Because that was the only way to make it fit the pan I had."

I've never been any good at memorizing, it takes a huge amount of effort and time for me to get a short poem in my head, or a phone number. But if I know why something does what it does, why someone was given that name, why that number, it stays forever, clear and connected. It doesn't even have to be a big important why. Much of what I do at work is protocol, we do it that way because it works well enough, and simplifies complex tasks so as not to confuse others. The tourniquet has two hoses, one blue, one red. In this place, we always use the red one, unless both are needed for a bilateral surgery. Then we use Red Right, Blue Left. It really doesn't matter, as such, but prevents inflating the wrong one on both sided cases, and keeps the one not connected from being accidentally used - to no effect - on the rest.

Why do you do what you do?

Clouds gathering, proof that the mild day will be shoved aside for at least one more snowstorm. At least it doesn't stick around down here on the valley floor.

Paper

"So, whatcha doing?"
Don't worry, just a hot bath.
"Damn, humans are weird."



On paper, we did not look good. I was (am) seven years older, then in the middle of an unfinished divorce, "experienced" as they say. As was known in the unit. He had not had so much as a girlfriend before, religious (ostensibly), aside from our part time army gig, neither of us had a profession, degree, or decent job. That would take a while. Different backgrounds, apparently different values. And yet. And yet, we fit. Surface problems only. We do what we can to keep our impact light, given that we are city dwellers. We value wit and education. We are neither of us motivated by money - though it would be so much easier if we did a bit. But we also husband our resources, save money, live moderately, have little interest in ostentation or luxury. D loves having milk about, me - tea and good beer. We agree about everything important, saving only our taste. In food. Literal taste. Even that, I've learned to like peppers, he's, well no he hasn't really come to like any other vegetables. He'll always give my cooking a good go. He loves that I know about art, I that he knows about music. To start with. After so many years together, it's hard to figure out which of us got which ball rolling. Our lives joined, and we share our lives. Moby joined us, and centers us.

I really love that we are good with sharing from plates at restaurants. I eat his carrots, he eats my olives*.

*Now, now. don't be dirty you.

Imperfection

Often, I write about D, and how glad I am to be with him. Warm, easy as breathing, supportive and protective. I've been in a really nasty relationship. I know what bad looks like. Nothing about my life with D is bad. There are hard bits, for both of us, no question. No two people can live together in perfect agreement and harmony, but thorough good will and appreciation turns irritations into endearing quirks.

I once thought I loved someone who was unworthy. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I was not in love. So much work, so much compromise of myself, a drain on my soul, but I thought, "sell while you can, you are not for all markets." He was an addict, and one never feels so overwhelmed as when one is the addiction. Extremely seductive, especially to the young, inexperienced, and already abused or deprived. It never lasts, one is doomed to be less than the addict craves, but once caught, escape is a steep, hard, contradictory climb. I knew, but I thought I deserved no more, and had no idea how to get out. My foothold was his malice, which never matched the honeyed words. I can forgive anything, but malice. That speaks to character.

D is incapable of malice. I am, or was, but never against anyone I love, and even against those I have reason to hate it takes extreme provocation. Neither of us enjoys hostility or confrontation, although I have had to learn to face it, and he can throw a punch if necessary. We never fight. Which is not to say we never disagree, or miscommunicate, or get exasperated with each other. We just refuse to hold ill opinions of each other.

We get out of step, a bit neglectful, or tired, or distracted, cranky, and have to reconnect, wake up, put our heads together. He always welcomes me when I get home (met me at the car in the parking last evening. He'd been watching for me from the window.) I always greet him when he gets home. This is the deal.

We disagree on food a lot, but we've found meals we both like. He doesn't see housework, but would never complain of my slapdash cleaning. When I'm injured, I have to remember he's not a nurse, by training nor inclination, but he does pretty well, and pays attention. And I'm sometimes too much of one when he is ill or injured. He takes care of anything that can be done online, and indulges me in my distaste for making phone calls. Children make him very anxious, but he always treats them with careful dignity. He orders in restaurants for me when I am exhausted and tongued tied.

Not perfect. Perfect for me.

Twenty

This is the date. Twenty years ago today is the date on our orders, when we officially began. A celebratory lunch seemed called for. A trip to Burger King would be appropriate, the place to eat on base, but neither of us were up for that. So we went to our regular favorite, the Iguana Rojo, again. It's festive. Uncharacteristically quiet there today. They didn't have decorations up when they opened, new items show up intermittently, organically. Always good to find new treasures in old places.

Gracias

Thanksgiving was not a holiday in my childhood. It was the day mom declared she did not cook, everyone fended for themselves, after watching the parade on TV. It was her declaration of Canadian-ness, since that was not a holiday she grew up with, even the Canadian version. She cooked big meals with family over for Easter, Christmas, New Year, birthdays, even Mother's Day when we didn't spend it on the road visiting both grandmothers. Thanksgiving held no official place in the Catholic calendar, either. This was always fine with me, it was usually a mellow day. Even on the occasions when we braved the cold to see the parade in person, with cocoa in a thermos, and came home to warm up and nap. And not have to spend any of that time on hard pews.

Twenty years ago, I spent the holiday with friends, knowing I was being shipped off to Gulf War I a few days later. There is the time before then, and my life since then, neatly bisected, if not evenly. The best bits have all been since then. Because every day since has been with D. And I'll take the hardest moments with him over any good moments without him. And every Thanksgiving since has been with him, and his family.

For the last twenty years, D and I have been together, the odd day when out of town we at least spoke to each other. The actual anniversary we count as the Friday after Thanksgiving. That year, 1990, we got home in May, moved in together the next year in July '92. Thanksgiving of '93, D's parents still not happy that we'd deferred a wedding, not at all getting that we felt perfectly happy with being common-law married.

So, that Thanksgiving Day, in their living room, D's dad looked at us and said, "Ten minutes in the bishop's office, make us happy." And then, the clincher, "We'll pay for the license." D looks at me and says, "What do you think?" Since I'd already proposed to him the week we moved in together, and he was in no way ready, I was not going to take a proposal from his father. So I dragged him off to the den in his parent's basement, and we talked about marriage, and weddings, and he actually knelt in front of me, and we agreed this was a good idea. I wanted to be sure he wanted this, for himself, no pressure, a chance for him to hold at 'no,' or at least, 'not yet.' He assured me that he did want to marry me, as long as it wasn't going to be A Wedding!

Not having to worry about the cost of the license helped. I already had a plane ticket to visit my parents right after finals, so we decided on the day before, December 15. (For many years we struggled to remember that date.) We got the license, D got his suit pressed, I had my blue dress ready.

Coming off finals and the flu, still ill and feverish, we drove to his parent's house.

D's parents made his three brothers at home put on ties and sit on the couch, D's mum made an angel food cake and had balloons. We gave our formal vows, already having lived by the ones we found most meaningful for three years before, and signed the legal papers. The LDS bishop said magic words over us, off the cuff, as per. Including a lot of stuff about being faithful to each other, which confused me, and had D wanting to say "Buddy, you got something to say, just say it, or we can take this outside!" The bishop also kept trying to get us to face the family, with his back to them, rather than all of us with our sides to the sofa. He failed. We were back home within two hours.

Our friend Dusty told us, "Congratulations on your capitulation!" We took it as the perfect response. I went back to class in January and told people we'd gotten married, which shocked, I'm still not clear why. Our friends who were a bit hurt at not being invited ("No one was invited...") brought forth our apologies. We resolved to have a reception for friends when we could afford it. Three years later, we did.

This is the wedding I think of as perfect, nonpareil, a paragon to compare against all other weddings. Because I felt no qualm, not a moment's hesitation, at vowing to spend my life beside this lovely human being. I knew what wrong felt like, this was everything else.

Last night, D turned to me and says, "In two weeks, we will be at 20 years!" This feels very good indeed, textured, nuanced, joyous. We could not call any part of our relationship "rocky." The rough spots have pretty much been external, or directly attributable to D's ADD, and my behaviour exacerbating the symptoms. We just get on, always have. We pour our hearts into our lives together, and both feel beloved. Astonishing to both of us that we've done so well, created such peace together.

A whole holiday to express the overwhelming gratitude at finding each other. And the bottomless well of gratitude to each other.

I'll be making cranberry sauce to bring there this year, my usual.

Bonsai

Because water is always better found in a bucket!


One of our anesthesiologists told us he was making dinner that night, claims he is a good cook and even cleans up after himself (and I believe him) but that his wife hates when he cooks. Says maybe she feels threatened (dubious, but possible.) Which sparked a conversation among the women present about husbands who not only don't cook, but seem to think dinner appears as if by magic. And for the one man, who was in the military for so long, making a meal a consideration is an alien concept. I do relate to that, however bad the food, not having to think about where the next meal was coming from made serving in the army a lot easier, quality of the food aside. What few cooking skills I had, atrophied badly during that time.

The guy, now retired from service, is not taking well to civilian life, especially not with a religious wife and slew of children. I can't tolerate him, in no small part due to the contemptuous attitude toward me. But I keep thinking about long term military service, and what it does to guys (maybe women, I have no data points there.) My brother was retired Air Force, and I saw the same phenomenon. It makes teenagers into men. Men of about 22 years. If they stay in until retirement, they seem to stay at about that level of emotional maturity and day-to-day practical coping. Grow up fast, then stop. Not all, but it is a discernible trait. Saw it in my brother. See it in this guy from work. Bonsai'd, apparently formed, but small.

When we are in our early 20s we are adults, baby-adults, just starting out. So much goes on for the next decade, when we have to occasionally go hungry because we didn't budget properly, or took too much cash out of the ATM, or bounced a check, or couldn't make rent and had to face a landlord who threatened to evict, or didn't have boots all winter - only soft cloth shoes that hurt our feet and let the snow in. Hard lessons, that we had to solve ourselves, and take the consequences until the next check came, or didn't. Getting fired, or quitting a job, and having to find another one. Being sick alone. Needing to make our own lives from scratch. Lessons, opportunities to grow and change and figure out what we are made of, what we are capable of. A lot happens between 22 and 50, really.

I was 26 when I joined, and only the reserves, and a medical unit, which is as far as can be from the core military as one can get and still be in, I'd already been coping for a long time. Oh, I went through basic training with other regular army recruits, ran and froze and lost sleep right along with them, for two months. But I was already complete as a person, that experience was fire testing. The younger women had a much harder time, mentally, than the older ones. We mostly had other plans, the Army was a means to an end. Education, income, whatever. The younger ones, not so much.

Six years later, I was out, and back on my own completely. Paid for about half of nursing school, helped pay the rent, got to meet a lot of people, including beloved D, and made me think differently about the world. Lots of important stuff that I'd already been working on, got hammered into a useful shape. If I'd gone in at 19, when my brother tried to recruit me, I didn't have anything thought through yet. No grist for the mill.

D made dinner this evening, wouldn't let me help. I withdrew, and all his hedging made me wonder if I was going to eat at all. Turned out delicious, and I was prepared to be glad and grateful for any charred old thing on the plate. I love that he takes on responsibility to feed us both. He's always been grateful for anything prepared for him, even my nuking a frozen burrito for him. I'm glad to be fed, and occasionally pampered. We don't take anything for granted.

Maybe a lot of men who marry early, to traditional women, similarly fail to develop parts of themselves, as their wives stunt themselves in other ways. Traps are always easy to get into.

Par

Some of the miniature golf art was more art than miniature golf. But it was all funny, whimsical and very, very interesting. D and I once played Glow-in-the Dark miniature golf. This was sillier.



Erin & Nick Potter, Untitled.
This one is very hard to see properly, but reminds me of a strange house on Halloween. A monster tree instead of a front door, with three gaps at the bottom that were almost impossible to get the ball through even by hand. Nicely spooky, not so successful as a course for a ball to traverse. We both just took a 6 on this.


Take it Easy, Kisslan Chan.
My favorite. Par 1, once you take a good look at it. All slopes lead to the hole. Getting the ball back out requires clambering over it. There was another with this basic idea, but hidden behind plywood walls. An angled ramp into a conical housing, hole in the center. That one has a handrail to get in and out with. But it was completely unphotogenic.


Pissing in the Wind, John Bell.
Yeah, good luck. We both tried once, just in case we got lucky, then gave ourselves a 6. Well, on this one, we were warned.


Three Graces, Nathan Florence.
This one was strangely photogenic, fairly straightforwardly playable, probably the best balance of any.


The hole was directly underneath her feet. As I just noticed, where she is pointing.


And Whiskey River, as so often happens, churned up the best quote for this post.

"Zen's greatest contribution is to give you an alternative to the serious man. The serious man has made the world, the serious man has made all the religions. He has created all the philosophies, all the cultures, all the moralities; everything that exists around you is a creation of the serious man. Zen has dropped out of the serious world. It has created a world of its own which is very playful, full of laughter, where even great masters behave like children."
- Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

Reuben

D's parents took our dress clothes with them in their car, since they were driving to the wedding, and we were flying and packing light and tight. We'd gotten a garment sleeve to make this easier. We left them in that bag for the return trip. As I hung them up, I knew it would get forgotten, and considered leaving it across one of the beds. But I decided this might be a bit insulting, and trusted that they would look. Not only was my instinct right, but D's mum left her dress as well. Not sure if it was put in the bag as well, or hung up beside and forgotten. But D's groom/brother retrieved the items and sent them on. We drove out to their place this morning to get them.

My one, very slight, regret, is that I did not hold onto the blouse I wore, for the rest of the trip. It's very cool and comfortable, and a touch dressier than my solid T-shirts. Now that the event is over, I think it will get a lot of use. I feel rather elegant in it. Well, for me.

D making himself a sandwich of roast beef, turkey, provolone, sauerkraut on a roll, solemnly informs me that it is not a Reuben. I reply, "But it is Rubenesque." He assents. He is quite the purest on what is, and what is not, a Reuben. To wit: Corned beef, sauerkraut, rye bread, thousand island dressing (Russian dressing or mustard acceptable variants.) It can be a good sandwich, but without these elements, it should not be called a Reuben. I'm just glad I've got him eating the Claussen sauerkraut, which doesn't stink awful to me, like every other brand he's ever gotten. Personally, I can't touch the stuff. Nor rye bread, and I'm not a big fan of corned beef either.

I have been known to make him a real Reuben, including toasting the bread.

Whoop

High winds and hot. Reluctant to venture, we took our glad rags to D's parents to take via car, to the wedding. A suit is best not rolled into a gym bag. So, suit and pants, skirt and blouse, tie and shirt, all pressed, hanging in a garment bag and riding in their car. FIL going to be wearing a rented tux, poor guy. He's not overjoyed. Probably doesn't help that this is the last of his sons to marry, and the 8th wedding of his offspring. The shine is off, so to speak.


The parents-in-law are getting older, and less patient of the whoopdeedoo of a formal wedding, even with for their dear son. Especially since it involves their second trip west in as many months. Which means we are off the hook for the Sunday gathering (which we were going to passively ignore anyway) and definitely not required at the foto-shoot. They just don't care anymore, at least not enough to try to make us do more.

They are disappointed that all the sons won't be in the photos, but two (of five) are absent for spouses with health issues anyway. Leaving us less encumbered as a result. Hard to see them so tired and stressed, though. We are on alert to keep them cheerful, and cared for, I think. Fair enough, I'm good at being bulldog. With D and I, and his other brother and SIL, we'll protect 'em. Bridegroom Son is going to be busy and blinkered. But with their back-up, I will gladly take on the role of bad-guy protector. I got no problem with that at all. Uh uh honey. I'm on it. I'm thinking my SIL will be as well, with our gentle spouses nodding approvingly. They both married hard-headed women, and like it like that.

I defend the bride, since this is a wedding disguised as a reunion for her extended and scattered family. And she and BIL are a sweetly well-matched couple. But first, I take care of the 'rents. MIL hurt her knee last month, and I became her nurse, so she gets dibs on my protective instincts. Thems the rules.

UPS guy, that knows D from the library, at our apartment building today. D says hi, UPS guy tells me D is "A keeper!" I agree, of course. Tell D on the way out he seems to have 'kept' so far. Lovely to hear him chortle. Nearly twenty years together. Eighteen years living together as of tomorrow. Nearly seventeen years legal. MIL touched that we still have the mylar balloon she got for the extremely low-key wedding we had in their living room, and remembered the angel food cake she made for us. Well, of course I remember my wedding day, no matter how simple. I had not a moment of doubt, not the slightest qualm. I wanted to live my life with D, no doubt, no hesitation. I was sick with the flu when we signed the papers, my memory a bit blurred from fever, with all the brothers (save the oldest, long ago moved away) on the sofa, made to wear ties (not by us) and with the local (Mormon) bishop to officiate. But I have definite, if congested, memories. Yeah, I'm glad we got married, and grateful beyond all belief.

I still think ours the most perfect of weddings. The start of a great marriage. Hey, I had a dress. Blue. Results that count. I regret not a moment spent with D, he is my blessing and my great joy.

Given up on cleaning today. Will do the rest this long weekend.