I’m just going to say it. My husband is just like my dog. I don’t mean this in the “all men are dogs” sense, but more in the sense that they have a lot in common, more than I originally believed was possible between man and canine. As I have observed this dynamic duo in my household over the past two years, I have learned quite a bit about why good dogs and good husbands should be considered women’s best friends, in addition to diamonds of course. Both provide opportunities for us to learn about ourselves in ways that are both amusing and introspective. They force us to view ourselves as someone else would and take note of the image that we project to others. My husband and my dog sense when I am vulnerable as well as when I am up for a good time. With dogs there is no pretext; if you do the right thing and treat them well, they are in love. With husbands, much is the same.
My observation of this phenomenon began when my husband brought home a tiny black mutt that had been found in a box with his brothers and sisters in a Taco Bell parking lot. The puppy was so pathetic looking with his mangled tail and too-thin frame, but my husband grew attached to him immediately. My husband broke all the house rules about puppies that we had established for our first dog, who was now about 3 years old. He felt so bad for this poor creature that he allowed him to get on our new white chairs, a decision that would later prove a big, costly mistake, and to sleep in our bed. The two of them were thick as thieves and it soon became obvious that these two specimens, my dog and my husband couldn’t be more similar unless they were actually brothers by birth. Having done a little research, I know that this is still not possible, except maybe in Korea, but with cloning going the way that it is, it’s only matter of time really. Nevertheless, it became immediately evident that these two would alter my outlook on life in ways that I could never have imagined.
To begin with, both my husband and my dog are social butterflies. They need people around at all times. I however tend to be more hermit-like in personality. Watching Pride and Prejudice or The Notebook on my couch with a cup of ice cream and a glass of pinot grigio is my idea of a good time, sad as that may be. However, at least once a week my husband invites his friends over for a post-college-aged game of beer pong or to watch football on our massive, man- sized TV. Or he goes out to the bar with some friends. He lives to tell loud, raucous stories, to anyone who will listen and most of the time, the whole bar is given the opportunity, due to his lack of an inside voice. However, my husband just thinks of this as a growing audience, the more the merrier. Unfortunately, not all parents with children will necessarily agree.
My dog is similar in nature, not so much in the beer drinking aspect, but in the sense that he eagerly anticipates interaction with others. He stares out the window, anxiously hoping the UPS man or some unwitting teenager selling magazines for his supposed soccer team’s trip to Thailand will hopefully stop by, giving him a chance to let them know that he exists and is ready to hang out. Both gain energy and enthusiasm from these activities that turn an otherwise boring afternoon into one that allows them to share their gregarious personalities with others. As a result of their incessant need for constant companionship, I have realized something about myself. In order to make friends, you have to put yourself out there. My husband didn’t come by his friends magically or with some sort of prayer to the gods; he went out there, in public, and talked to other people. While I am friendly and personable in a confined space like a job or a classroom, it is when I leave the comfort of those walls that I falter. I fear the rejection of someone only liking me for what I bring to my career or my education but not as someone with whom they have other things in common. As my dog has shown me, if at first you don’t succeed just jump on the next mailman and see if he wants to play.
In addition, my husband and my dog have taught me the importance of physical contact. By nature, I’m not really touchy feely. I was never that girl that hugged her friends whenever she saw them or wanted to hold hands with her boyfriends in public. It’s about personal space, sometimes germs, but really about my bubble, as one camp counselor called it. I don’t like to feel boxed in; I need to know that there is a way out of every situation. For example, if you never hold someone’s hand then you never feel guilty about letting it go when it gets too clammy or you just saw them wipe their nose with the other and you wonder if they already did that with the one you’re holding. I just feel better with an escape route. My dog, on the other hand, has to be on your lap, practically crawling into your skin, or jumping in your face at all times. We have started to refer to him as shadow, because every where you go, you are certain to see a little black dog trailing behind you. My other dog is not like this; she is more like me. She knows when to approach, but although friendly, prefers her own space as well. I have had to adjust to this constant need for affection that our youngest dog craves at all times, seemingly unaware of the world around him.
My husband is similarly a contact junky. He likes his hugs, not just from me but everyone. I did not grow up with men who needed that constant physical contact and I suppose I didn’t know what to do with it at first. He needs to sleep with his feet touching mine or his arm wrapped, actually more like heavily draped, over my body. In the beginning, this made me a little nervous. What if there was a fire and I couldn’t escape from underneath the weight of his arm and I wasn’t quite sure how to change positions or roll over. It felt a bit like a trap or some sort of Survivor test. While his desire to be affectionate was a bit uncomfortable at first, I realized that it offended him when I pushed him away during a hug or when he tried to show his love through a kiss in public. I have also learned that allowing people to show their fondness for you isn’t all that bad. Sometimes you need a hug and shouldn’t be ashamed to admit it. It allows you to let people in to the side of you that does get vulnerable and needs support. The feeling of another body giving you its strength and support when your own is dwindling has incredible healing powers. Both my husband and my dog have shown me that it is ok to depend on other people and rely on them for comfort and it is also acceptable to show people that you love them by just being there, sitting on their feet or letting your hand touch in a crowded movie theater.
Thirdly, I have come to recognize the importance in celebrating the small events in every day life because of my dog and my husband. Granted, it is not exactly difficult to convince my husband to drink a toast to honor a significant moment in either of our lives, but he has shown me the value in appreciating even the minor successes. As a coach, each new recruit for his team is worthy of shouting, a loud run down of this child’s achievements, and numerous excited phone calls to his friends and fellow coaches. Every time he receives praise from an administrator or person in a position of authority, he becomes like a giddy teenager who has just been told that a boy likes her. I, on the other hand, tend to be more reserved. I appreciate acclaim and recognition for a job well done, like anyone else; however, I usually see life in more of a big picture sense and one pat on the back or positive moment doesn’t necessarily evoke the desire to celebrate.
Like my husband, whether it is the opportunity to go outside and play or the sound of the cookie jar opening, my dog bounces around like he’s won the lottery. He has a slight resemblance to Tigger, of Winnie the Pooh fame, as he pops up and down on his hind legs as if this was the first time he has been let out of the house or the first and last cookie he may ever eat. They share the ability to recognize that each day presents the prospect of great moments and that they should be seized in that moment and not deliberated on in order to see how they fit into the grand scheme. Getting a cookie or a new player are great accomplishments right then, so what if there’ll be other cookies or players. As a result, I am learning to laud those little triumphs that make each day better, whether its getting everything I need at the grocery store or having just one person read my article and enjoy it. These seemingly miniscule reasons to celebrate are what make up the big picture; after all, they are each pieces of the final mosaic.
Lastly, try everything at least once is a motto that I have learned from my husband-dog team. I once came in to the kitchen to find my husband tasting one of those fancy dog cookies with the icing on them, just to see what it was like. I think he would have eaten more of it, as the dogs stared at him with pleading eyes to share, if I hadn’t stopped him. When I asked him what he was doing, he simply stated that he wanted to know what it was like. Although a little disturbed by the fact that my husband would eat and even enjoy a dog cookie, nevertheless I realized in that moment that my husband always went full steam ahead, guns blazing into everything. He might not succeed, but he was willing to give it a shot. He took a job in a place where he knew no one, leaving a city full of friends, a great house, and his wife for 6 months, in order to attempt to live out his dream. He was fully aware of the sacrifices but also acknowledged what he would be missing if he never tried. Similarly, my dog will jump into a freezing stream and come out like a dogsicle with ice hanging off his coat with no realization that anything is wrong with this image. Other times he’ll run straight up to the muzzle of a much larger canine just to see if he’ll play. No qualms, no fear, just the desire to know what will happen. Both of them are slightly hedonistic in their pursuits, the desire to be pleased and happy pervading all else.
While I love a good adventure, moving to a new state, visiting a foreign country, skydiving, etc., all of these activities have outcomes that are predetermined. I know that I will eventually return home, or land, hopefully, back on solid ground. However, I much prefer the sense of stability that my day-to-day life provides. I like knowing that I have a job that I am good at and can pay the bills without issue. The thought of dropping everything to pursue my dreams with no thought to income and having that much faith in my own abilities is not something with which I have ever been comfortable. As I watch my husband and my dog, I have discovered that nothing is gained by sitting on the sidelines. Watching the water in the stream isn’t nearly as much fun as splashing head long into it and knowing that a dream job is out there is not nearly as enjoyable as taking steps to pursue it. Even if the end result is too cold or unsuccessful, at least I can’t say that I didn’t try.
In the end, while diamonds may be some women’s best friends, I believe that my two best friends are far more valuable. Don’t get me wrong, my husband and my dog can both create huge messes and make inappropriate noises in public, but the lessons that I have learned about myself simply by being around them are worth every dirty sock and torn up piece of garbage. I know that the stained carpeting and mountain of dishes left in the sink, while frustrating, are by-products of two spontaneous, loving, fabulous creatures. They have teamed up to bust me out of my shell and show me the true worth of every single day. I know that we have all found each other for a particular reason, although not necessarily obvious at times. Sparkle is nice, but I’ll take scruff and slobber any day.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Microwave Disaster-AKA My Husband
Growing up, the microwave was the main kitchen appliance in our household. It was great for making most of our meals-take out Chinese, heating up soup, etc. I think we would have starved without it. It’s not to say that my mom was not a good cook, it is just that it was not really her thing. She has many fine qualities, but kitchen creativity was not at the top of the list. As a result, I became quite proficient over the years at using the microwave to make everything from sweet potatoes to vegetable dishes. I bathed in the extra radiation that pulsed through my body as I stared into the magic heating box willing my foods to be cooked faster. I could not imagine life without the microwave. Then I met the man who would be my husband.
I had found the only person of my generation who did not grow up with a microwave. Correction, the only person of my generation that grew up in a developed country and was college educated. Furthermore, he grew up in a major metropolitan city, Chicago, for instance, and not in the rural foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. Now, I did not find this out immediately, but a series of events led me to this remarkable discovery. Just a few weeks into our relationship, my husband-to-be, came to my apartment to hang out and eat dinner. I had made lasagna earlier in the week and put individual pieces in the freezer to eat for leftovers. It was my first chance to show my new boyfriend that I could cook. He took out a piece of the lasagna and asked me how long it should be put in the microwave. I told him about two minutes and went back to the cookies that I was baking. Everything was fine, for now.
Later, as we were watching TV he took a frozen brownie out of the freezer and this time put it in the microwave without first requesting a duration for the defrost. I realized this about a minute into its reheating. In the middle of our conversation, I suddenly darted out of my chair and asked him for how long he had turned the microwave on. It was just as I had feared; he put the brownie in for two minutes as well. “Turn it off! “I shouted at him.” It was too late. When he opened the door to the microwave, the brownie was ablaze. So what was my husband-to be’s fight or flight response? He slammed the door on the smoldering brownie and ran away. Great. I’ve got me a real superhero here, I thought.
Well, the damage had been done. Smoke billowed out of the microwave door and left a gray, acrid haze hanging over my 750 square foot apartment. We did what any logical people would do; we stopped and dropped, just as we’d been taught in kindergarten when the firemen visited the school. As we lay on the floor below the smoky air, we contemplated our next move. Obviously, we couldn’t sit in the apartment any longer as our lungs were already beginning to burn. “What were you thinking, putting the brownies in for that long!?” I asked him. His response made everything clearer, “ I didn’t have a microwave growing up.” I’m not sure if it was the bitter aroma permeating the air or sheer shock that made me almost faint. I thought he was kidding. Who didn’t grow up with a microwave? Any self -respecting child of the ‘80s was all too familiar with microwave popcorn and heating up a bowl of Campbell’s condensed soup. Who was this guy, I thought? What kind of Podunk town did he come from? I didn’t know if this was going to work.
Well, a few weeks later, after the cloud of gray smoke had evaporated from my apartment and most of the ash had been removed from the major surfaces, I invited my husband-to-be back over, although now I retained an air of caution whenever he was alone in the kitchen. We stood in my claustrophobic cooking space baking those fantastic peanut butter cookies with the Hershey’s kiss in them. I put him in charge of melting the butter. I had already learned my lesson about giving him strict parameters on microwave usage from the aforementioned experience. I handed him the butter and the cup to melt it in. I thought I had my bases covered this time. Wrong again.
He put the butter in the microwave and turned it on to the assigned time; however, about 5 seconds in, I heard something pop and explode. “Are you kidding me?” The voice in my head yelled. “What is it this time?” I nervously opened the microwave door to find that he had not taken the metal wrapper off of the butter sticks and, no surprise to those microwave savvy individuals out there, but the metal had exploded. “Why did you leave the metal on?” “I didn’t know you couldn’t put it in the microwave,” he explained. The look on his face was so pitiful and frustrated with himself that I couldn’t be angry. Amazingly, my top of the line Target microwave managed to withstand this torture, how is beyond me. We quickly removed the exploded butter and its casing and I sent my htb out of the kitchen for several weeks.
As I thought that these kitchen catastrophes were limited to my apartment, I soon learned that I was not alone. By now, all of our friends had heard of my htb’s miniscule microwave knowledge and were on high alert whenever he was around. However, one day at work, he escaped surveillance and put a paper Christmas plate with a helping of a tasty holiday treat inside the microwave. All of this sounds fine except that the plate had the shiny trim around the outside that indicates some sort of metal was involved in its creation. Sure enough, about 15 seconds into the heating, that plate and its contents detonated as well. As smoke wafted out of that microwave in a déjà vu moment for my husband and all those around him, I can only imagine the defeat in his eyes as he realized that he was never safe in the presence of a microwave. It took some explaining about the seemingly harmless paper plate and its fancy metal edging, but eventually my husband-to-be came to the understanding that while he excelled in many aspects of his life, appliance aptitude was not one of them.
I learned two very valuable lessons about men or at least my man from these experiences. 1. The old saying, if you want something done right, ask a woman still applies. While this appalled me as a member of the generation that saw more women entering the workforce and leaving the kitchen behind than ever before, somethings might just be genetic. 2. Most important, some men are either incredibly inept when it comes to the kitchen or mind-blowingly maniacal. Maybe this whole, I don’t know how to use a microwave shenanigan was really not my boyfriend actually lacking that much common sense, but it was actually a clever ploy so that he could retain the services of someone else to cook him food while he played video games in his underwear. While I haven’t yet figured out to which category my husband belongs, I am sure that with numerous household appliances to be tackled, I’ll figure it out.
I had found the only person of my generation who did not grow up with a microwave. Correction, the only person of my generation that grew up in a developed country and was college educated. Furthermore, he grew up in a major metropolitan city, Chicago, for instance, and not in the rural foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. Now, I did not find this out immediately, but a series of events led me to this remarkable discovery. Just a few weeks into our relationship, my husband-to-be, came to my apartment to hang out and eat dinner. I had made lasagna earlier in the week and put individual pieces in the freezer to eat for leftovers. It was my first chance to show my new boyfriend that I could cook. He took out a piece of the lasagna and asked me how long it should be put in the microwave. I told him about two minutes and went back to the cookies that I was baking. Everything was fine, for now.
Later, as we were watching TV he took a frozen brownie out of the freezer and this time put it in the microwave without first requesting a duration for the defrost. I realized this about a minute into its reheating. In the middle of our conversation, I suddenly darted out of my chair and asked him for how long he had turned the microwave on. It was just as I had feared; he put the brownie in for two minutes as well. “Turn it off! “I shouted at him.” It was too late. When he opened the door to the microwave, the brownie was ablaze. So what was my husband-to be’s fight or flight response? He slammed the door on the smoldering brownie and ran away. Great. I’ve got me a real superhero here, I thought.
Well, the damage had been done. Smoke billowed out of the microwave door and left a gray, acrid haze hanging over my 750 square foot apartment. We did what any logical people would do; we stopped and dropped, just as we’d been taught in kindergarten when the firemen visited the school. As we lay on the floor below the smoky air, we contemplated our next move. Obviously, we couldn’t sit in the apartment any longer as our lungs were already beginning to burn. “What were you thinking, putting the brownies in for that long!?” I asked him. His response made everything clearer, “ I didn’t have a microwave growing up.” I’m not sure if it was the bitter aroma permeating the air or sheer shock that made me almost faint. I thought he was kidding. Who didn’t grow up with a microwave? Any self -respecting child of the ‘80s was all too familiar with microwave popcorn and heating up a bowl of Campbell’s condensed soup. Who was this guy, I thought? What kind of Podunk town did he come from? I didn’t know if this was going to work.
Well, a few weeks later, after the cloud of gray smoke had evaporated from my apartment and most of the ash had been removed from the major surfaces, I invited my husband-to-be back over, although now I retained an air of caution whenever he was alone in the kitchen. We stood in my claustrophobic cooking space baking those fantastic peanut butter cookies with the Hershey’s kiss in them. I put him in charge of melting the butter. I had already learned my lesson about giving him strict parameters on microwave usage from the aforementioned experience. I handed him the butter and the cup to melt it in. I thought I had my bases covered this time. Wrong again.
He put the butter in the microwave and turned it on to the assigned time; however, about 5 seconds in, I heard something pop and explode. “Are you kidding me?” The voice in my head yelled. “What is it this time?” I nervously opened the microwave door to find that he had not taken the metal wrapper off of the butter sticks and, no surprise to those microwave savvy individuals out there, but the metal had exploded. “Why did you leave the metal on?” “I didn’t know you couldn’t put it in the microwave,” he explained. The look on his face was so pitiful and frustrated with himself that I couldn’t be angry. Amazingly, my top of the line Target microwave managed to withstand this torture, how is beyond me. We quickly removed the exploded butter and its casing and I sent my htb out of the kitchen for several weeks.
As I thought that these kitchen catastrophes were limited to my apartment, I soon learned that I was not alone. By now, all of our friends had heard of my htb’s miniscule microwave knowledge and were on high alert whenever he was around. However, one day at work, he escaped surveillance and put a paper Christmas plate with a helping of a tasty holiday treat inside the microwave. All of this sounds fine except that the plate had the shiny trim around the outside that indicates some sort of metal was involved in its creation. Sure enough, about 15 seconds into the heating, that plate and its contents detonated as well. As smoke wafted out of that microwave in a déjà vu moment for my husband and all those around him, I can only imagine the defeat in his eyes as he realized that he was never safe in the presence of a microwave. It took some explaining about the seemingly harmless paper plate and its fancy metal edging, but eventually my husband-to-be came to the understanding that while he excelled in many aspects of his life, appliance aptitude was not one of them.
I learned two very valuable lessons about men or at least my man from these experiences. 1. The old saying, if you want something done right, ask a woman still applies. While this appalled me as a member of the generation that saw more women entering the workforce and leaving the kitchen behind than ever before, somethings might just be genetic. 2. Most important, some men are either incredibly inept when it comes to the kitchen or mind-blowingly maniacal. Maybe this whole, I don’t know how to use a microwave shenanigan was really not my boyfriend actually lacking that much common sense, but it was actually a clever ploy so that he could retain the services of someone else to cook him food while he played video games in his underwear. While I haven’t yet figured out to which category my husband belongs, I am sure that with numerous household appliances to be tackled, I’ll figure it out.
Oh Christmas Tree
In every relationship there are always some events that make you wonder about the person with whom you are involved. Sometimes they are incidents as simple as watching him wear socks with sandals in public for the first time, seeing him eat pizza covered in Russian dressing, or noticing how he avoids stepping on a crack in fear of breaking his mother’s back. Maybe he made a fat joke in the presence of your not so svelte aunt. Not only do we question this other person, but also we question ourselves and what it was about us that attracts a man who has so little fashion sense or relies on elementary traditions to determine the course of fate. Well, in the onset of my relationship with the man who would become my husband (believe it or not), I stumbled upon my own relationship conundrum.
To truly understand the succeeding occurrence, it is important to get a real feel for my husband. First of all, he graduated from a well-respected liberal arts college and got his master’s degree from a terrific university, so he’s no dope, at least academically speaking. In addition, he played football throughout high school and college and coached both football and lacrosse for several years after. Let’s just say, he is not a small, unassuming individual. He has the build of a football lineman: six feet tall, broad shoulders and a bit of extra weight around the middle, which we fondly refer to as additional abdominal muscle. He is loud, boisterous, and the center of every event from my own family’s Thanksgiving dinner to trivia night at the local bar. Up until the following event occurred, I had only seen the fun, macho guy mentioned above; the guy who owned at least 15 t-shirts from Goodwill and referred to the ones without holes as his nice ones. This was the man whose only apartment decorations were a collection of fancy beer bottles, such as Miller Lite and Budweiser. Then, we got our first Christmas tree after almost a year of dating and my entire view of him began to change, sort of.
I grew up Jewish in a very Jewish community. As a result, I had only seen Christmas trees from afar, by that I mean, driving down the highway that led out of our little Hebrew hamlet. However, I had always admired the beauty and symbolism of the festive season that they conveyed. We even had a Hanukkah bush one year; a sad little piece of flora with thin branches and leaves and tiny blue lights, but it didn’t quite give you the same sentimental feeling. It wasn’t even in the fir family, so I don’t know whom we thought we were fooling. It kind of stared blankly back at you as if to say, do you really think this is a good idea?
Therefore, when I started dating my husband, who grew up with a strong Catholic background, I was excited to get a tree together. As a teacher in a southern city, my students brought me ornaments each year for the holidays, even those of them that knew that I was Jewish. I soon learned that many children in the south assume that every religion has a tree from Hindu to Jewish and there wasn’t much sense in persuading them otherwise. As a result, I had amassed a small collection of apples and schoolhouses on thin loops of string that longed for a place to be displayed and I had sadly let them down for years. Now, I could finally, proudly display my limited ornament collection the way that it was meant to be.
Before beginning to assemble our Christmas icon, I had no idea that my husband knew anything about Christmas tree decorating let alone would actually prove himself to be quite an expert at it. Clearly, there were many sides to this man and I had only observed stereotypical guy exterior. I was about to be very surprised by what I discovered lurking underneath.
Soon after we picked our tree from the Booger Mountain, no joke, tree sellers, I realized that this was no slap on the ornaments and the tacky colored lights production.
First, he insisted that we go to Michael’s craft store. My hulking, former-football player boyfriend carefully perused each and every aisle in search of the perfect style and size of silvery ribbon with gold trim. I’d previously only seen this level of attention devoted to his fantasy football picks. I thought I must in a parallel universe. Next it was on to Target for matching ornaments, all in gleaming shades of red, silver, and gold. Only white lights for him, and the ribbon had to be laid around each level of pine branches just so. While I ordinarily would have questioned his sexual orientation as I watched his beefy hands daintily hang ribbon and coordinated ornaments, I’ll admit, I actually was quite impressed. For a man who couldn’t pick up his socks and believed that the kitchen fairy came to put his plates in the dishwasher, to see this level of care and consideration for his Christmas tree was endearing. I started to look at him in a whole new light.
We sweetly put our wrapped presents underneath the pine branches, as any young couple would do. We watched TV with all of the lights turned off and with just the twinkling of the Christmas tree to light up the room. In spite of my very Jewish aunt’s recrimination, “You’d better not get a Christmas tree,” I was delighted with my inaugural one. It was not like we went to mass or I started taking communion, I simply enjoyed the splendor and beauty of my first real tree. Sorry mom.
Eventually the Christmas season came and went. Then, so did New Year’s. Then, so did the Super Bowl. But what did not leave was the Christmas tree. Since it wasn’t in my apartment, I really had no say as to the departure date of our slowly withering holiday symbol. I did speculate a few times, that perhaps it was time to bid adieu to our Christmas friend, but my husband-to-be (HTB) just kept insisting that he would do it soon. As we neared Valentine’s Day, even he realized that enough was enough. However, now the concern became, “What will the neighbors think as they see me taking my Christmas tree out this late in the year?” All of a sudden, my gregarious, I–only-have-one–volume-and-it’s-not-quiet boyfriend became embarrassed about what people would think of him. So, the Christmas tree continued to drop its once bright green needles into a pile of growing brown strands on to the floor of his apartment.
Several days later, I got a phone call from my HTB. He had an issue; his garbage disposal was broken. Let’s just say this was not his first run in with a kitchen appliance, so this didn’t completely surprise me. My logical question was, “What did you do now?” However, the response I received over the phone that day was far from logical or even within the range of common sensical.
“I was trying to get rid of my Christmas tree,” he replied, as if that explained everything. Immediately the image of our seven-foot spruce protruding out of the tiny black abyss of a garbage disposal in the middle of his kitchen sink popped into my head. “It’s not a wood chipper!” I vehemently shouted at him over the phone. “Are you crazy?” I knew at that moment that while my htb had amazed me with the mirage of his impeccable attention to detail when decorating our beloved tree, this was the man that I was actually dating.
Not only had he attempted to dismember our seemingly perennial pine tree in the gaping jaws of the disposal, but also he had discovered the limitations of an overused, decrepit apartment appliance far too late. I quickly drove over to assess the damage and try and determine an appropriate course of action that wouldn’t result in his getting evicted.
As I opened the door to his apartment, the overwhelming scent of pine nearly knocked me back out the door. It was as if he had been manufacturing Pinesol inside his tiny abode without the benefit of fans or ventilation. Water was now oozing both out of his overflowing sink and the dishwasher. Yes, he had tried to rinse the pine pieces down the disposal only to have the pipes clog and burp pine needles and tiny wood chips.
He didn’t know what to do; I think he truly believed that this would solve his out-dated Christmas tree issue. The look on his face was pure devastation and confusion. I told him that he had to call his landlord, but he did not want that man to think he was nuts. Too late for that, I thought to myself.
After much convincing, he agreed to call the landlord but refused to be in the house when the repairman arrived. I can only imagine what that man thought when he entered the empty apartment to that aroma and the scene that awaited him in the kitchen.
That was the final straw. Later that evening my husband-to-be skulked out in the middle of the night, leaving a trail of dead, crunchy pine needles in his wake, to take the Christmas tree to its final resting place beside the garbage dump.
You would have thought this experience would have served as a red flag warning me about what I was getting into. The first blip on the radar, so to speak. And though the mirage of this man who was so meticulous and circumspect about one aspect of life, the Christmas tree, evaporated when faced with trials of everyday existence, I realized that having him around would only make life that much more interesting and invite more unexpected and amusing experiences into my world than I ever could have imagined. That is why, in spite of his limited Christmas tree logic, we got another festive fir the very next year, although this time, we managed to get it out of the house sometime before the Super Bowl.
To truly understand the succeeding occurrence, it is important to get a real feel for my husband. First of all, he graduated from a well-respected liberal arts college and got his master’s degree from a terrific university, so he’s no dope, at least academically speaking. In addition, he played football throughout high school and college and coached both football and lacrosse for several years after. Let’s just say, he is not a small, unassuming individual. He has the build of a football lineman: six feet tall, broad shoulders and a bit of extra weight around the middle, which we fondly refer to as additional abdominal muscle. He is loud, boisterous, and the center of every event from my own family’s Thanksgiving dinner to trivia night at the local bar. Up until the following event occurred, I had only seen the fun, macho guy mentioned above; the guy who owned at least 15 t-shirts from Goodwill and referred to the ones without holes as his nice ones. This was the man whose only apartment decorations were a collection of fancy beer bottles, such as Miller Lite and Budweiser. Then, we got our first Christmas tree after almost a year of dating and my entire view of him began to change, sort of.
I grew up Jewish in a very Jewish community. As a result, I had only seen Christmas trees from afar, by that I mean, driving down the highway that led out of our little Hebrew hamlet. However, I had always admired the beauty and symbolism of the festive season that they conveyed. We even had a Hanukkah bush one year; a sad little piece of flora with thin branches and leaves and tiny blue lights, but it didn’t quite give you the same sentimental feeling. It wasn’t even in the fir family, so I don’t know whom we thought we were fooling. It kind of stared blankly back at you as if to say, do you really think this is a good idea?
Therefore, when I started dating my husband, who grew up with a strong Catholic background, I was excited to get a tree together. As a teacher in a southern city, my students brought me ornaments each year for the holidays, even those of them that knew that I was Jewish. I soon learned that many children in the south assume that every religion has a tree from Hindu to Jewish and there wasn’t much sense in persuading them otherwise. As a result, I had amassed a small collection of apples and schoolhouses on thin loops of string that longed for a place to be displayed and I had sadly let them down for years. Now, I could finally, proudly display my limited ornament collection the way that it was meant to be.
Before beginning to assemble our Christmas icon, I had no idea that my husband knew anything about Christmas tree decorating let alone would actually prove himself to be quite an expert at it. Clearly, there were many sides to this man and I had only observed stereotypical guy exterior. I was about to be very surprised by what I discovered lurking underneath.
Soon after we picked our tree from the Booger Mountain, no joke, tree sellers, I realized that this was no slap on the ornaments and the tacky colored lights production.
First, he insisted that we go to Michael’s craft store. My hulking, former-football player boyfriend carefully perused each and every aisle in search of the perfect style and size of silvery ribbon with gold trim. I’d previously only seen this level of attention devoted to his fantasy football picks. I thought I must in a parallel universe. Next it was on to Target for matching ornaments, all in gleaming shades of red, silver, and gold. Only white lights for him, and the ribbon had to be laid around each level of pine branches just so. While I ordinarily would have questioned his sexual orientation as I watched his beefy hands daintily hang ribbon and coordinated ornaments, I’ll admit, I actually was quite impressed. For a man who couldn’t pick up his socks and believed that the kitchen fairy came to put his plates in the dishwasher, to see this level of care and consideration for his Christmas tree was endearing. I started to look at him in a whole new light.
We sweetly put our wrapped presents underneath the pine branches, as any young couple would do. We watched TV with all of the lights turned off and with just the twinkling of the Christmas tree to light up the room. In spite of my very Jewish aunt’s recrimination, “You’d better not get a Christmas tree,” I was delighted with my inaugural one. It was not like we went to mass or I started taking communion, I simply enjoyed the splendor and beauty of my first real tree. Sorry mom.
Eventually the Christmas season came and went. Then, so did New Year’s. Then, so did the Super Bowl. But what did not leave was the Christmas tree. Since it wasn’t in my apartment, I really had no say as to the departure date of our slowly withering holiday symbol. I did speculate a few times, that perhaps it was time to bid adieu to our Christmas friend, but my husband-to-be (HTB) just kept insisting that he would do it soon. As we neared Valentine’s Day, even he realized that enough was enough. However, now the concern became, “What will the neighbors think as they see me taking my Christmas tree out this late in the year?” All of a sudden, my gregarious, I–only-have-one–volume-and-it’s-not-quiet boyfriend became embarrassed about what people would think of him. So, the Christmas tree continued to drop its once bright green needles into a pile of growing brown strands on to the floor of his apartment.
Several days later, I got a phone call from my HTB. He had an issue; his garbage disposal was broken. Let’s just say this was not his first run in with a kitchen appliance, so this didn’t completely surprise me. My logical question was, “What did you do now?” However, the response I received over the phone that day was far from logical or even within the range of common sensical.
“I was trying to get rid of my Christmas tree,” he replied, as if that explained everything. Immediately the image of our seven-foot spruce protruding out of the tiny black abyss of a garbage disposal in the middle of his kitchen sink popped into my head. “It’s not a wood chipper!” I vehemently shouted at him over the phone. “Are you crazy?” I knew at that moment that while my htb had amazed me with the mirage of his impeccable attention to detail when decorating our beloved tree, this was the man that I was actually dating.
Not only had he attempted to dismember our seemingly perennial pine tree in the gaping jaws of the disposal, but also he had discovered the limitations of an overused, decrepit apartment appliance far too late. I quickly drove over to assess the damage and try and determine an appropriate course of action that wouldn’t result in his getting evicted.
As I opened the door to his apartment, the overwhelming scent of pine nearly knocked me back out the door. It was as if he had been manufacturing Pinesol inside his tiny abode without the benefit of fans or ventilation. Water was now oozing both out of his overflowing sink and the dishwasher. Yes, he had tried to rinse the pine pieces down the disposal only to have the pipes clog and burp pine needles and tiny wood chips.
He didn’t know what to do; I think he truly believed that this would solve his out-dated Christmas tree issue. The look on his face was pure devastation and confusion. I told him that he had to call his landlord, but he did not want that man to think he was nuts. Too late for that, I thought to myself.
After much convincing, he agreed to call the landlord but refused to be in the house when the repairman arrived. I can only imagine what that man thought when he entered the empty apartment to that aroma and the scene that awaited him in the kitchen.
That was the final straw. Later that evening my husband-to-be skulked out in the middle of the night, leaving a trail of dead, crunchy pine needles in his wake, to take the Christmas tree to its final resting place beside the garbage dump.
You would have thought this experience would have served as a red flag warning me about what I was getting into. The first blip on the radar, so to speak. And though the mirage of this man who was so meticulous and circumspect about one aspect of life, the Christmas tree, evaporated when faced with trials of everyday existence, I realized that having him around would only make life that much more interesting and invite more unexpected and amusing experiences into my world than I ever could have imagined. That is why, in spite of his limited Christmas tree logic, we got another festive fir the very next year, although this time, we managed to get it out of the house sometime before the Super Bowl.
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