Tag Archives: Marriage

The Murraying Kind

I don’t think this is my daughter’s first time around.

Although she’s only 3 in this life, I’m pretty sure she’s had a crack or two at this planet, previously.

If I had to guess when her last life here on Earth took place?  I’ d say somewhere in the 1950s.

Because she has the soul of the Perfect Housewife.

She’s been able to crack eggs, one-handed with no shell bits in the bowl, since she was one and a half.  Last year, she asked for her own vacuum cleaner. (I didn’t think she was serious.  She was.)  Her grandmother called me while The Girl was at her house, asking when we’d baked pies.   I laughed out loud.  (We don’t make pies, we buy them.)  She went on to explain that The Girl was using an old-fashioned, crank-handled apple peeler.

(Image from here.)

With no help.  And no instructions.

I had no explanation.

The Girl is never without a baby doll, who she is potty training and diapering and burping, and no she can’t just leave them and come have lunch because she is responsible for them, duh.

And when she’s not taking care of her babies, or cooking, or cleaning,

she’s playing Marrying.  (Which, in her own particular dialect, comes out sounding more like “Murraying”.)

I do not understand.

I have never, ever pitched marriage to her as a plan.  I’m not against marriage, per se.  I just don’t see it as a destination.  But I think she does.

She finds weddings fascinating.

She marries everything to everything else.

Barbie & Ken get married.

Her spoon and her fork get married.

When left with nothing else, she’ll even marry crayons.  (Can you imagine Blue talking about the wedding night to his blushing bride, Red? “Oh, I am gonna color you so hard.  You won’t be able to tell where the Blue starts and the Red ends.  When we get done there’s just gonna be a big puddle of purple left, you dig?  Aw, yeaaah!”  Anyway…)

We had a moment, tonight.  To be by ourselves and talk.

I asked her why she wanted to get married.

She just smiled.

I asked how old she thought she should be, when the deal goes down.

“How old were you?”

I told her I was 23, and that was too young.  She nodded, agreed.

“Are you going to marry a man or a woman?”

She laughs, looks at me like I’m slow.  She will marry a boy, she says, because she will want to have babies.  I start to explain that families with 2 moms can have babies, and families with 2 dads can have….but she senses this explanation is going to be bigger than she has patience for, so she tells me she will have 2 babies.  One will be named Tito, the other Apple.  (P.S., the boy is Apple.)  And she tells me that one day Tito and Apple will have babies, and that she will be their grandma, and….

I interrupt.  “You know, you don’t just get married.  You have to be married.  And when you get married, you promise you will stay married.   For your whole life.”

She tells me she knows that, stops just short of rolling her eyes at me.

And she tells me that’s why she is going to marry a nice boy, so she will like him for her whole life.

“What would a nice boy be like?”

According to The Girl, a nice boy will kiss you on the forehead and buy you fries and pick up the babies when they cry and open the car door for you.

(Image from here.)

She’s not entirely wrong, you know.  She’s kind of got a lot of the elements figured out, already, at the age of 3.

Nearly as figured out as I did at the age of 23.

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The Heart Wants, What It Wants

Owen and I have been together for a long time.

 

Long enough to have pissed each other off, on occasion.

 

(On several occasions.)

 

 

Hard to believe, but there are things about me that bother Owen.

 

 

The way I will spend our last dollar on a book, and act incredulous when he gets mad about it.

The fact that I hate celery, and refuse to let him put it into any of his (awesome) cooking. 

My nearly ESP-like way of knowing the exact moment he’s invested in a TV show, then changing the channel.

 

Make no mistake, though, he irritates the fuck out of me, occasionally.

 

 

He’d always wait, a minimum of 3 years, to tell me he’d hated a hairstyle.  (As in, “Remember the ‘Rachel’-do you tried to rock in ’94?  Did.  Not.   Work.”)

 

Then, it took him another 10 years to slowly leak the details of what he thought might make a decent hairdo.

 

“I like you in long hair.”

“I don’t really enjoy bangs on you.  They make your face look all squished.”

“I like to see your ears.  I don’t trust people when I can’t see their ears.”  (That one makes me want to look at our health plan, see how much psychiatric coverage we have.)

 

So, I’ve put it all together.  Using his guidelines, this is what I’m pretty sure Owen wants to see on me:

 

 

OK, baby, I’ll do it for you…

The Arborist Regrets

Remember the arborist?

 

(God knows, I do.)

 

He sent a Christmas card.

 

One of those glossy, picture cards, with “Happy Holidays” printed at the end.

 

Do you realize what this means?

 

I am in possession of a picture of this man.  That I can look at, anytime.  In the privacy of my own home.  And I didn’t have to do anything stalker-ish to get it.

 

(Oh yeah, his wife and kids are in it, too.  But the look on his face says he’d ditch them all in a second for a shot with moi.)

What’s This, Then?

 

That? Oh, that’s the soapy residue left behind when my bubble burst.

 

In my backyard, there is a tree. Or rather, my backyard is a tree. A 40 foot spruce, that litters my yard with pine cones and blocks all sunlight to a patch of the neighbor’s prized lawn. Every time there is a serious gust of wind, I know the tree is going to come through my bedroom window. The tree must go.

 

My husband, Owen, has been doing some work for an arborist. (No, not that one.) They’ve worked out a deal, to trade tree care for plumbing. The arborist came over to assess the situation. I didn’t know he was coming; I just looked out the window one morning and saw my husband talking to a stranger.

 

And then the stranger turned around.

 

Oh. Holy. Shit.

 

This guy was gorgeous. Uncomfortably so. Hot in a manly man kind of way. In an “I fix shit and I’m strong and the wattage of my smile powers small nations” way. If he’s not already, he ought to be in one of those hot firemen calendars, but not the oiled-up-waxed-chest-we’re-actually-aiming-at-gay-guys-but-thanks-for-your-interest calendars.

 

Wow.

 

I am in the middle of making lunch/getting the boy’s school snack ready/pulling my fighting kids apart. I curse my lack of shower (or tooth brushing) (or hair brushing) (Never stop by my house without calling first). Clearly I am in no condition to go outside. So I stay in the kitchen, hoping neither the arborist nor my husband notices my trance-like staring.

 

The arborist leaves, Owen comes into the house.

 

“So, that’s the tree guy?”

 

“Yeah, he says he can probably do it…”

 

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME HE WAS FREAKIN’ HOT?”

 

“You think he’s good looking?” Owen smiles.

 

“Um, YEAH!?!”

 

“Hmm.” Then his smile gets a little bigger.

 

“You think he’s hot, you should see his wife.”