Spousal Semantics

I like to walk. In the morning, at night. Both are good.
My DH likes to walk – sometimes. He says he likes to walk in the morning and also in the evening.

The only problem is the semantics of the terms ‘morning’ and ‘evening.’

You see, to me morning means before 6:30 a.m.

To my husband, morning means after 8:00 a.m. I should caveat that walking for my husband is a weekend activity. He is after all, the breadwinner in the family. I am the maker of peanuts (but not the ones causing all of the salmonella poisoning). My earnings are more like peanut shells now that I think about it. But I digress.

By 7:30 a.m. the day is half over, the birds have been chirping, the bees have been buzzing and I have gotten two loads of laundry done – folded if I am on a real roll. I like to get up before the sun and get busy, stop and smell the flowers, listen to the gentle stretch of the leaves as they unfurl their strong green tendrils and wake to another day. I like to become one with the morning. I like to say hello to the bunnies nibbling sweet grass near our home. I like to listen to the soft coo of the morning dove gently wake her spouse.

And speaking of spouse, I do have a technique I have used for years to try and gently coax my DH from the ether world of deep sleep. I give him a gentle kiss on the cheek and a gentle massage along his back.

This is where once more, semantics differ. What I refer to as a gentle loving kiss upon the cheek of my slumbering beloved, my DH refers to as a ‘power suction peck.’
What I refer to as a gentle nudge, DH refers to as an SSR which stands for ‘shake, rattle and roll.’
Now, being that he is of the left hemisphere species and I am of the right hemisphere species, we sometimes are left in a quandary.

By the time my gentle attempts at rousing DH from his supine state take hold, the sun has placed herself high in the sky and is beaming way too bright for this fair skinned maiden to even fathom walking in her Vitamin D-enriched rays.

‘Not to worry’ I console my DH who by now is bright eyed and ready to start his day at an hour where most of the work of the early morning has been done and stowed.

“We can have an evening constitutional,” I say to him with a loving and caring smile.
Being the patient and obliging husband that he is, my dear sweet DH agrees. But the look on his face sometimes is more like someone in a state of well, kidney stone passage.
And thus, the day passes.

Until the appointed walk time. For me night is 6:30, 7:30 p.m.

For DH, it is anything up until the point of actual darkness. Semantics.

I try and explain to DH the wonders of an evening constitutional: the owls calling to each other, the moon silently making her entrance into the night sky. Not to mention the silence of moment, with crickets as a sweet serenade and backdrop to the growing peace of the evening.
But alas, semantics once more creep into the moment and I must bat my lashes such as they are and croon sweet nothings to ask my DH to accompany me on a walk through the trails that surround our home.

It is lovely and calming and very Zen - but alas, once more, the two shall be but ships passing in the night, one heading north, the other heading south.
Recently, my DH and I were on the walking trail that parallels our home and one of the garage doors was open letting us peer in where we were greeted by the sight of a very large television screen and a man on an exercise bike, or maybe he was sitting on the couch. My eyes being what they are, it was hard to tell.

“Now that is what I call a set up,” said DH.

“A place to escape from all the noise and chatter inside the house, a place of one’s own, where you can do what you want, when you want…”

Indeed, I thought to myself.

He didn’t need to say another word. I got his message. Virginia Woolf I am not, but I am happy to walk by myself in the peace of my own company.

Hrmph!

Mother Love

The Monster Mash has nothing on me. I can take the most mundane task and turn it into a freakazoid of an accident in no time flat. It becomes a matronly dance all its own.

Take for example, my attempt to make nice and healthy lunches for DH and DS. As I opened up the refrigerator door, a jar of mayonnaise hurled itself upon my ankle- the one still black and blue from the encounter with the corner of the bedpost the night before.

Lucky for me the container while full, was plastic, making the pain less than that of a glass container. At least this is what I am telling myself as I take comfort in not having to pick up globules of glass in addition trying to ignore a throbbing appendage.

After retrieving said mayonnaise jar from the floor I proceed to take out the turkey meat and the carrot sticks and edamame and cheese. I then lovingly cobble together sandwiches made with fiber-enriched wheat bread whose packaging assures me that it provides 100 percent of the daily recommendation of fiber and vitamins. Nothing is too good for my boys.

I glance down at the aforementioned ankle which now resembles a doorknob in a motley collection of green and purple hues. Quite lovely actually. For an injured ankle.

I proceed to take the lunch pails- insulated rectangles of orange and grey- drab in comparison to my ankle I must admit- and add ice packs to the lunches stopping to think that maybe I should take an extra ice pack out of the freezer for my ankle. But then realize I have no time to be pampering a self-induced injury. I have lunches to prepare, beds to make, laundry to do as well as get myself to work on time.

I add a small bag of Pringles chips to each lunch which now contains a decrusted sandwich complete with a slight smattering of a mustard mayo spread and a healthy helping of turkey meat and a protein rich slice of cheese, cut in two (triangle shaped versus the more ho hum rectangle version). I add a bottle of water to each along with a bag of veggies composed of edamame and mini carrots.

I also provide a plastic (recycled no less) spoon and a container of apple sauce (organic) to round out the lunch made with TLC for each of the men in my life.

I deliver said lunches to appropriate pick up stations: for DS- I deliver his to his backpack. To DH, I deliver his to the front door next to his shoes, where he can easily pick it up on his way out the door.

Having done my domestic duty I then begin the rest of my day scurrying about. Off to work, grocery store, dry cleaners, post office, the usual.

The day goes on and before I know it, the evening meal is upon us. DS, DH and I sit down at the table and give thanks for the meal and chat about the day. My DS, with his big brown eyes and truly engaging smile looks over at me and says, “Mom, I know you work really hard on giving me a nice healthy balanced lunch (if he only knew…) but really, do you think you could up the ante on the junk food? The kids at school all have these amazing unhealthy lunches, and well, mine is just so healthy…”

The broccoli spear on which I was munching lodged itself in my throat at this very moment of his utterances….I will have to finish this story later. 911 may be needed this time….

The Wrong Direction

We had a swim meet today. It is usually guaranteed to be a half day event. Which leaves the other half of the day to complete chores: grocery shopping, laundry, miscellaneous errands - like the dry cleaners and holiday preparation – in this case preparing for Thanksgiving and the family and friends who will help us share the day.

My hope was that my DH (Dear Husband) would happily escort me on my trip to the lovely large warehouse known as Costco in this part of the world. It is such a huge place that I need the support and encouragement and raw brute strength of my dear dear husband in undertaking this task.

As host and hostess we are in part responsible for beverages, which means cases of things like water and soda and perhaps a bit of alcohol. In other words, heavy items: that need to be picked up, placed in cart, placed in car and then transported to home and into the house and disseminated. This fair maiden requires Sir Galahad and his steady hand.

So I had these big plans. I hoped to get a head start in the myriad of things that need to be done to help celebrate this happy and enjoyable day. So I thought. So I hoped.

While I was getting laundry started (necessitated in part from the swim meet where towels and bathing suits sometimes as many as four or five depending on how cold it is outside (we can’t have our child stay in a cold suit when it is cold outside) require a washing.

Well, after starting the aforementioned load and then turning my attention to my husband who was I thought, changing his clothes after a long warm morning in the sun, I entered the bedroom to find him not in the right direction. I mean, I was hoping to find him ready to undertake the outing I had planned for us- which as my dear dear husband he should be able to read my mind. The fact that I didn’t mention my plans to him does not count. I am a female. Enough said.

But alas, his direction was anything but vertical – more along the planar – one dimensional horizontal frame one could say. With the most curious of sounds emanating from his blow hole – excuse me - nose.

If I could have figured out a way to record said sounds and upload them to this website I would have….

Alas, the right direction – out the door, off to errands and productivity was not meant to be.

What is it with the male species and directions? Whether asking or following…questions to be pondered…perhaps as we stroll the aisles of Costco we shall discuss and dialogue – assuming he ever wakes up from his slumber….