An Anniversary Post

Today is our third wedding anniversary. I looked it up and apparently we’re supposed to give each other leather.

Ummm. . .

I’m assuming that by “leather,” they actually meant, “blog post.”

I realize that three years is a miniscule span of time in terms of a marriage, at least the one I hope to have. I’m not going to pretend that I’m experienced or have any great insights about it except to say one thing: I like it. I like being married, and I never thought I would. It’s surprising coming from me.

But then, most of my life is surprising to me. Most of the significant events in my life started with me saying, “I’ll never ________,” and then doing exactly what I said I’d never do.

I moved in with CC when the kids came to live with us, and we didn’t get married until about two years later. I thought me moving in was enough of a commitment. In my mind it was; I wasn’t planning on going anywhere, and marriage was just an unnecessary formality.

My first niggling doubt about not getting married came from #3 a few months after we all started living together. She came home from school one day and I could tell something was on her mind. She seemed frustrated. I asked her what was wrong and she replied, “Can I just tell people you’re my stepmom? Cause you sort of are, and it’s just easier than saying, ‘my dad’s girlfriend’.”

I told her, “Of course.”

In that moment I saw how everything had changed- and how things needed to change. I suddenly understood that most parents automatically consider how their personal decisions will affect their children, but in this case it hadn’t even entered my mind. I knew I needed to change that characteristic in myself.

I took an informal survey over an extended period of time while trying to make it not look like I was doing that. I learned that none of the kids were opposed to me getting married to their dad (or at least, if they were, they weren’t going to tell me, which is kind of the same thing because you can only work with what they give you).

As for CC? He was waiting for me patiently.

I was finally ready to tell him my big news. I said, “I’m not one hundred percent opposed to getting married anymore.”

I’m nothing if not romantic. I think he was afraid to breathe, for fear I’d change my mind.

I said, “But I want to be asked.” Logic never plays a part in these things.

He continued to wait patiently. Nothing happened from his end, so I carried on.

Some time later I said, “I kind of started planning our wedding.”

He waited even more patiently.

Eventually, I said, “Hey, you still have to ask me to marry you.”

He kept on displaying his incredible patience. He had heard me rant for a long time about my feelings about marriage, and he was afraid he was going to screw it up and I’d back out.

He also may have wanted to get me a ridiculously expensive ring and was planning on selling a kidney to get it. Perhaps one of my own, without my knowledge.

Eventually, our friend Michelle called him and said, “I found the ring she wants. It’s in your budget and it has a black diamond. Now, do you want to get it, or should I?”

He got it. He asked me. I said yes.

In the spirit of our anniversary, here are my three favorite things about our wedding.

1) Our friends.

They were incredibly generous with their time and talents and did all the work, like decorating and making my dress happen and literally everything else.

2) The Amish Outlaws. Our band.

If you do nothing else, click on that link and check out their website because they’re way beyond awesome. We didn’t have A Song, so they made it be Kung Fu Fighting. With swords.

Friends of ours who brought their three-year-old daughter later heard her describing weddings based on her experience at ours: “First they kiss, and then they hit each other with sticks.”

3) The attendants.

My bridesmaids:

The best man, who did a lot of this:

Some of that:

And eventually, my very favorite part, this:

Ran away during the ceremony. Hauled ass down the beach like he was on a mission from God. We kept on, because that whole “the show must go on” thing is kind of in our blood. We knew someone would catch him and bring him back, and we were sort of occupied with trying to not laugh too much so we could still say our vows. Thank God he didn’t have the rings.

#5 to this day has no recollection of that moment. It truly was my favorite thing about the wedding.

So, CC, today I say thank you for being my best friend and for making me laugh. I love you, and I love our crazy life. I never would have picked this life in a million years, but I’m so glad it picked me.

He Was A Good Man

I wrote before about the Driveway Math Incident, when #5 covered our driveway (and part of the neighbor’s) with the powers of ten, in chalk.

Once #4 also treated us to a driveway makeover.

We pulled into the driveway and our headlights caught a flash of chalk lines. I always like it when the kids hit the driveway with chalk. They’re so creative. I got out of the car and took a closer look.

I was reminded of that bit in the Matrix where the camera shot pulls back and you suddenly understand that the part you were looking at before was only a tiny, tiny piece, and now you’re seeing how vast the creepiness is, like there’s no end to it.

Our driveway was covered in chalk-drawn tombstones. Covered. Complete with names, dates, those horrid Rest In Peace abbreviations, and epitaphs. It was not near Halloween, and at this time we did not live close to the cemetery. I was entirely baffled as to what #4’s motivation was for such an . . . undertaking.

1973-1999 RIP John Fred Stone. He was a good man.

1880-1945 RIP Bob David Thomas. He liked to ride bikes.

1965-2000 RIP Ryan Scott Jones. He failed third grade.

Et cetera, et cetera, on every available inch of the driveway.

I very briefly tried to get #4 to give up a little of her inspiration for this project. She didn’t have much to say except to confirm that none of these were people she actually knew.

Which I guess is a good thing.

I was struck by the facts in these imaginary people’s lives that she deemed worthy to include in an epitaph. Now that we live across the street from the cemetery and walk our dogs there every day, and I’ve gotten more up close views of what people actually do have put on their tombstones, I think maybe I like her ideas better.

CC and I talk about this often when we’re walking the dogs. On tombstones in our (New Jersey) cemetery, there are several Frank Sinatra quotes, many clichés, and a few sports references. There are likenesses of the deceased rendered in granite, along with images of their favorite past times: guitars, cars, deer, more sports. He’s mainly appalled by all these modern trends, so of course I threaten him with what I’ll do if he goes first.

Me: How about, “I had them bury me upside down so the world can kiss my ass?”

CC: Very funny.

Me: How about, “I Did It My Way?”

CC: Only as long as I’m next to one of the other guys that has that.

Me: “He fought the good fight. . . and lost!”

CC: I’m sorry, did you say something?

Me: All of the New York and New Jersey pro sports team logos in a circle?

CC: {silence}

Me: “He fell into a burning ring of fire?”

CC: I hope you go first.

Me: You know, if I get you an obelisk with six sides these would all fit on it. One for each side.

CC: An obelisk, by definition, has four sides. And I don’t think you had six things anyway.

Me: “He was a loner, he kept to himself.” There, that’s six. I win.

In actuality, I will probably have #4 come up with something along the lines of He made delicious pie or He loved meat. And if I do go first, I can only hope he chooses something that would have made me laugh, and perhaps gives some indication to dog walkers that it’s okay if their dog takes a whiz on my plot.

You should check out Clay Morgan’s post on pop culture tombstones at eduClaytion.

What will they put on your tombstone?

Service

Our minivan was due for an oil change this week. Okay, technically it was due for an oil change like two months ago, but we’ve been busy. Go ahead and judge, I don’t mind.

Wait, are you judging me for the not getting the oil changed part, or the owning a minivan part? Because we actually own two minivans. But I also have a ’66 Mustang convertible named Miss Lucy, so get off my ass.

Anyway, we dropped the minivan off for the oil change and to have them check out the power steering, and discovered it also needed practically everything else except for a new engine, a new transmission, and new headlights.

So I put up my 401k as collateral and they began working on it. It took a little while, which brings us to Friday. CC had to be at work early, #1 was going to an amusement park, and I was on my own to pick up the car.

Meanwhile #3 was down with Swimmers Ear and we were out of pain reliever so I had to be speedy. I decided to multitask, and jogged down to the dealership, which is only about two miles away.

I used to live in Arizona, and I used to run for real there. Outside. It’s hot, but dry, so as long as you don’t outright incinerate, you can breathe.

In New Jersey, it’s very swamplike. In New Jersey, I’m fifteen years older. In New Jersey, I jog/walk indoors on a treadmill. My little trek to the dealership yesterday was a challenge.

This is probably also the time I have to mention that I’m a sweater. It’s gross, I know, but pertinent to the story. I sweat far more than the average ~~woman~~ human when it’s humid or when I exercise. Lucky for all of us, yesterday both of those applied.

I go into the service center and it’s packed. Full of people mainly in business suits trying to get their cars together to take on trips for this holiday weekend. There’s a counter with juices and tea and bagels and toast. I grab a paper towel from the basket to mop my brow and go stand in line for Rick, my friendly service representative.

As I’m standing in his line, I begin sweating in earnest. People are starting to cast disparaging sideways glances at me. I’m kind of dripping on the floor and I’m afraid some of it is audible. I only wait about ninety seconds for Rick but during that time, my sad paper towel has become the size of a cotton ball, is totally soaked and shredding because I keep trying to use it in a futile attempt to not look like a completely inappropriate mutant.

I get up to Rick and he says, “Woah.”

I’m trying to act like nothing unusual is happening. “Um, I ran over here.”

He stares at me for a second and then says, “Oh, literally!”

Rick then politely ignores my little problem while going over all the fabulous expensive things they did to our car and I’m just dying a little inside because I can’t stop sweating. Have you ever tried to stop sweating? Totally ineffective.

By the time he’s done, I look like I’ve just completed a Bikram class. My only saving grace is that I don’t know anyone here. We get to the part where I have to write a check. I had jogged over with this little wristlet thing that could hold only my license, my phone, and a check. I need a pen.

So I ask Rick for a pen. Somehow, there are none on the counter. I can tell he is debating whether to offer me the pen in his pocket or go find another one. After the briefest of hesitations, he says, “Here, you can use mine,” and hands it to me. I joke back, “I’ll try not to sweat on it,” because we both know that isn’t remotely possible. Then I look down.

Rick, god bless him, has handed me his Montblanc.

Now that’s service.

Have you experienced any extraordinary customer service lately?

Remember to enter the inappropriate puggle caption contest. The fabulous prize is your very one, ~~once~~ twice viewed DVD copy of Mega Shark Versus Giant Octopus.

#2, #3, and #5 watched it last night. #5 gave it this stellar review at several points during the action scenes: This movie is awesome!

Word.