I’m married. That means I’m not just one person. A part of me died (not saying this is ALL bad) on our “got married” day and I have this other partial human attached to me. And I’m not saying she is part monster or beast or anything like that. I mean that part of her died too and what’s left of her is attached to what’s left of me. It’s a messy situation calling for a big needle and much thread.
Anyway, I can’t do whatever the hell I want like before. I have a wife looking over my shoulder. That’s marriage, for better or worse. I think she would describe it similarly. Marriage just isn’t all Bright and Rosy. Sometimes it’s Dark and Crappy.
The good parts are boring, though, so I rarely write about them. The bad bits suck when experiencing them, but writing about them later can be fun and cathartic. That’s what I’m going to do this morning. With a big creepy smile on my face, I’m going to give you some “dark and crappy.”
But, really, it’s nothing that bad. BAD is what I overheard Saturday night in books-a-million. I sat down with my coffee next to an intense, public argument between a couple in the midst of some financial crisis. I gathered that he spends too much money on hunting gear and has an unpaid for Harley in the garage that rarely gets any ass. He mentioned pulling the kids from private school. Crying, she said she’d rather home-school before she’d put them in public schools. Serious stuff.
Now I feel silly about our problems, but I’m going to trudge on with this. Just because we have no serious problems now doesn’t mean we won’t some day. I mean, I’m sure we will. That’s life.
It’s important to note that we both recycle, Freecycle, compost, drive a Prius, and all of that annoying “tree hugger” stuff.
The dashboard of our car displays the cumulative miles per gallon. Last week we had a real argument about who was responsible for lowering our mpg from 50 to 47.9. Seriously. Go ahead and groan. We argued about an unimportant digital reading that’s probably not accurate anyway.
When we bought the car, she read online about how she could alter her driving habits to obtain the best gas mileage. Later she bragged about her efficient driving performance, while criticizing my gas pedal feathering skills, or lack thereof. I don’t pay much attention to the number and I rarely drive. But this weekend I noticed the 47.9 and, kidding, said “Oh, what happened to your 50 mpg you were bragging about?”
Of course she blamed me even though we were wrapping up a week in which she had driven it 210 miles to work and back and I had driven it 4 miles taking Chloe to a friend’s house. I’m still arguing about it in my head, but, really, who knows why the number dropped and who gives a f*@k, right?
Okay, second story: I mentioned last post about remodeling our family room. This was Jennifer’s idea and she got the project moving by hiring her dad to do most of the work.
Her project created 20 cubic yards of garbage that’s now languishing in a landfill. In the month of garbage accumulation I said NOTHING about how that junk will be sitting there for hundreds of years. I understand her wanting to update the family room; she spends more time in there than anyone. Whatever.
Not our bag of socks
So yesterday in the basement bathroom I felt a strange coldness on the heel of my right foot. I thought There cannot be a damn hole in this sock already. But I looked and, darn-it, there it was, a quarter-sized hole. I peeled it and tossed it into the garbage.
Then last night we were both in that same bathroom and, after spotting the discarded sock, she says “That sock would make a perfectly good dust rag. It doesn’t need to go to the landfill.”
The most awesome part of this story for me is I didn’t say a word. I could have said: “Your recent decisions sent three thousand pounds of trash to the landfill and you’re calling me out for throwing a sock in the garbage?
I lifted the sock from the garbage and set it out (for show) knowing that I’d re-toss it at some point in the next twelve hours.
(I put it back in the garbage this morning. We hire to have our house cleaned and they bring their own dust rags. And if I saved every ruined sock from a family of four we’d have bags full of “dust rags” that would still be with us when we die. Our girls, going through our junk, would be like “Why the hell did our bizarro parents hoard all these old socks?”)
Well, I feel better and I’m out of coffee.