I remember when I first moved to Georgia and became acquainted with the fresh hell that is the palmetto bug (motto: we're too genteel to admit we're roaches!), at some point as I sat huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth and trying to find my happy place, I had this vaguely reassuring thought about how "at least they don't have those awful little house ants." You know the ones I'm talking about, right? Every summer in New England, there would be a beautiful morning when you would wake up, listen to the birds chirping, go downstairs, and discover that your entire kitchen was now covered...
Otto and I enjoy a fairly egalitarian relationship, I think, which is mindfully arranged through cooperation, compromise, and the fact that we both really like each other and try hard to be helpful to one another rather than being lazy or assholes. I don't see us ever writing a marriage guide, or anything ("Step 1: Don't be an asshole. Step 2: Remember Step 1!"), but it seems to work pretty well for us. Sure, I do the bulk of the cooking, but that's because I'm home a lot more often than he is, and also because I really enjoy cooking---NOT because I'm female or because he can't or won't...
Last night Otto and I went out on a date. A DATE. LIKE ADULTS. It was very exciting, because I don't know if you know this, but it is very easy to get caught up in work and kids and life and leaky pools (still leaking!) and strawberries and "there's nothing on TV... oh WAIT, have you seen that Netflix has this ENTIRE SERIES here??" and forget to do things like this whole mythical "nurture your marriage" deal. Speaking as someone whose second job has become pulling weeds and harvesting snap peas, I often wish I could just water Otto and pull on... wait. This metaphor is going someplace too...
You know what's weird? This coming weekend will mark Otto's and my 6th year wedding anniversary. Married for six years! And still speaking to each other! And also making out occasionally (you know, when there's nothing good on television)! This makes me an expert on all things remarriage and such, of course. Except not. At all. Naturally this means that I have a new post up over at Alpha Mom, all about the secret to successfully blending a family. My advice is worth exactly what it costs you! (I hope you'll come check it out, anyway.)
Otto and I were having some quality time on the couch last night, by which I mean that we were each sitting there on our respective laptops while half web-surfing and half watching the news because WOW, the news last night, yeesh. Typical Friday night, in other words. (Uh, except for the fugitive in a boat part. That was not typical, just the part where we were on the couch. Obviously.) ANYWAY. I don't remember when I was doing online. Probably I was on Facebook; more specifically, probably I was on Facebook playing Scrabble. (According to Monkey, that's all I ever do, you know.) But Otto,...
When I was about Chickie's age, I was busy chewing my way through everything Stephen King ever wrote. The freakier and scarier, the better. This came up when I tried to convince Otto to watch Bates Motel with me the other night; he's not so much a fan of a series that is fairly unapologetic about the amount of blood and gore, whereas I love it. I found myself explaining that---for me---there is catharsis in stories filled with terror. I get to experience all the fear/loathing/panic my body can handle WITHOUT having to relate it to my own particular life, and afterward, somehow my brain goes,...
Otto is a visual person, and I am a make-with-the-many-words person. Somehow we manage to communicate pretty well, though occasionally I'm sure Otto wishes I would just stop talking and every so often I do feel compelled to ask how a visual guy ends up deciding that THAT shirt looks okay with THOSE pants. These are minor blips. On the whole we have managed to forge our own language, an awesome perk of having known each other for nearly two decades dozen years (whoops, hey, we've known each other over half our lives). Today Otto surprised me by suggesting we go out to lunch, which was a rare...
To be filed under Things I Never Thought I'd Be Blogging About At My Advanced Age: Breastfeeding. Specifically, I have to tell you something about back when I WAS breastfeeding. You know, a dozen years ago. I have teenagers; let me tell you about my breast milk! That won't embarrass anyone AT ALL. But it's germaine to the topic at hand, which I solemnly swear to circuitously reach in due time. Probably. More specifically: When Chickadee was a wee floppy baby, I breastfed her, and I also pumped now and again because I truly bought the hype that formula was THE DEVIL, as young mothers who know...
Here is where I consciously choose to get away from The Heavy because I just need to, and we all pretend that's perfectly logical and seamless and not weird. Yes? Yes. Sidebar: Chickadee is supposed to get on a plane in a few hours. As of this moment, that's still on schedule to happen. If you wouldn't mind just, you know, crossing all of your fingers and toes that she shows up here tonight, that would be super swell. And it's really not even for me; Monkey told me all he wanted for Christmas was for his "sissy" to be here with us, and then I melted into a puddle of goo, and that means it's...
