all in fun

Since we've become man and wife, Ben has either

a) decided that he needs to pull out all the stops in the realm of teasing me, to remind me of why I fell in love with him and thus ensure our marriage will be life-long, or

b) reckoned that since I'm his wife, in addition to wearing the burqua for which he's been lobbying--nay, haranguing--I should be subjected to daily shocks, pesterings, and other depravations as a sort of wifely hazing.

c) started worrying that being married is a step away from losing all the magic of our early relationship, and decided it's his responsibility to top such high points as the bag of potatoes
and the battery-free remote control.

So, since our wedding, here is the first of many gems that've happened:

We're sitting for a house with an awesome view of City of Refuge. [I'm still putting together my House-Kit, full of fun activities for the house to do. It's decorated with rickrack and sequins. This note for Stephanie.] In addition to the spectacular sunsets, other-worldly views of moonrise over the ocean that half-awaken me at 2 a.m., and cable, including all the HBOs, we have the treat of a sweet-tempered dog named Nutmeg. If all my students had half her personality (and intelligence, there, I've said it), my job would be a cakewalk.

Last night, the tranquility of my post-hot tub (solar-heated) shower was shattered by the jangling of something metallic. The jingling of knives as the home invader, preparing to attack, pondered which would most efficiently disembowel me? The huge key ring of a night janitor escaped from the mental asylum, having just disposed of my husband and now ready to join me in the tub? These are actual thoughts that go through my mind when I hear strange noises.

No, I realized it was Nutmeg. But where was she? Why would she be in the bathroom? Wait, could Ben have collapsed in heap in the kitchen, and still be lying there for a coma-inducing length of time like Shelby in Steel Magnolias, all due to my neglect and self-indulgently long shower? I was just about to peek out of the shower curtain when I felt it brush against my leg and something soggy land at my feet, followed by a confused bark.

I looked down into the tub and saw Nutmeg's sodden chew toy, scanned up and saw Ben's grinning face as he squeezed out, "Attack, Nutmeg! Attack her! She stole your toy!" between giggles.

Is he mad? Emotionally retarded? Or simply a loving husband, trying (in his way, like King Kong pawing at the blonde lady) to show me he cares?

Either way, he's trying to show me my place as a wife. And that place is alternately a) cowering in the shower as a 75-pound dog wonders why someone is commanding her to "bite a leg," or b) spending my Friday night pontificating on his every move and trying to figure out how best to show that I truly appreciate the joy (childlike as it may be) that he brings to my life.

After the ecstasy, the laundry

[As part of my new blog revitalization plan, there is supposed to be a photo here but my TWO cameras aren’t working, and I’ve agreed not to use either Ben's camera or computer in the interest of keeping our marriage alive. Picture this: piles of cardboard boxes all askew, overflowing with gift wrap and beach towels and shredded ribbons and boxer shorts and bottles of hot sauce. Also one pair of electric blue Speedos--trunks, not banana hammocks--that must belong to someone.]

When I worked at the bookstore, I found a greeting card with that quote (from some California Zen white guy) and a cool photo of a shack with towels hanging on the railing. I thought it was a neat idea, and tacked it above my sink to remind me in the morning that whatever fun had been had the night before, I was starting a new day, cleansed and open to all possibilities, blah blah. Also that I should have removed my makeup before bed.

A few months after Ben and I started dating, he remarked that he had always thought that card was weird, reading it as an overtly sexual reference. He implied that it indicated I indulged in conspicuous promiscuity and had to remind myself to do the laundry. I don't know what exactly he meant. My mind was more pure, I suppose. I thought it was a reminder of being ever-vigilant of the present moment, and in finding joy in the mundane necessities of life, like laundry. Not even thinking about what might have soiled said laundry, necessitating its washing. Anyway, it embarrasses me to think about because my parents had just visited me in my apartment when Ben said that. We were still in our Being Blunt phase.

Whatever connotations were intended, I still like to think of this when I’m facing mountains of stuff that would be demoralizing and depressing if not for approaching them as incipient form within formlessness, a chance to take pleasure in sorting and pondering, another safe outlet for my OCD.

Also, these 'mountains' of things to be sorted, organized and wiped clean of Hawaii Decay (yes, even brand-new things are susceptible to mildew) are primarily gifts. Those that aren't are reminders of the immeasurable gift Ben and I were given by our dearest friends coming to join us for our wedding, which was, thus far, the best week of our lives. So it’s not like I’m facing a mountain of papers to grade. That will be in nine days. I got a job, and now it’s time for the laundry.

The real testimonial thank-you post still to come.

Pnewlywed Pneumonia & a Honeymoon Hangover

First of all, Ben has pneumonia and/or bronchitis. Thanks to Doctor Erick and Nurse Jenn who “ratcheted” Ben’s health from “Dismal” up to “May Live” with their melted-cough-drop concoctions, frank discussions of bowel functions, and other tireless efforts. For a hypochondriac married to the son of one, a few days with two medical professionals was the best gift we could have asked for. That, or a home IV kit.

There’s nothing worse than abruptly returning to your everyday life and confirming your suspicion that it would blow in comparison to the one magical week out of which you have just staggered, only to find:

• a closet full of mildew than your husband claims makes it impossible for him to sleep in your marital bed (we both secretly think, Yesss! Free at last)
• A refrigerator full of insufficiently wrapped gruyere cheese that must now be thrown away
• Shockingly, no notice in the mail that you have won any of the wedding-related sweepstakes you entered in the last eight months via wedding websites that are now spamming the bejesus out of you
• that Hawaii is hot, bug-infested, and unbearably humid when you aren’t trying to defend it to visiting friends

But there’s nothing better than slowly leaning back against the bolster of the recent past, letting the memories wash over you as you shudder with wonder that you have ended up as part of what must be the kindest, gentlest, badass-est, most generous group of friends ever to be assembled in the Pacific Rim—nay, the world.

To count among your friends:

• a librarian so artfully organized she has inspired subscriptions to Real Simple and ignited a dozen envious discussions of her aesthetic sense and Flickr site
• so many medical professionals (some of whom you pressed into duty on your honeymoon) that your family has started referring to every friend they don’t know as “that doctor or nurse”
• not one, but several, gentlemen who can genuinely be described as “unemployed…but brilliant”
• those who have walked among us as mortals but share wisdom only Bookworkers could know
• two college friends who have been asked to prove their loyalty time and time again (we're in the friendship mafia), and have always done it, often requiring air travel)
  

-- is something very few people can do. I think.

More of this list to come. Now I must go offer ice water (which he claims is my best dish) to my Husband (I’m sad that I can no longer call him “my Betrothed"), who has been watching Oz on DVD for the past six hours. I sure hope he doesn’t shank me!