There are a few proven ways to test a relationship. You know, the kind of events that really show what your chances are as a couple--the equivalent of testing a newly constructed tree-house by jumping on the floor you just assembled. If it holds, hey, you've done it! If it falls... sh*t.
Two relationship tests that I know of are moving and putting together Ikea furniture. In almost six years, Tiffany and I have moved three times and put together Ikea furniture twice. (Okay, we actually have built Ikea furniture three times, but one of those times was for our friend. On that occasion, we nailed the back of her dresser on the front. We were able to salvage it, but now the front of her dresser has tiny pin-nail holes all around the edges. We don't count that one--it wasn't our furniture!)
Last weekend, Tiffany and I finally bought a dining room table. Of course, you know from reading past blogs that Tiffany and I live in a one-bedroom apartment. We don't have a dining room. We have a coffee table in front of our couch. But now we also have a corner-of-the-living-room-table-that-we-eat-on.
We'd been looking for a table for a while. Here's how it worked:
"Oooh, look at this table," Tiffany said proudly, calling me over to look at a craigslist ad in her first weekend of looking.
"Hmmm, nah," I said.
Days go by.
"Babe, here's a perfect one," Tiffany said. "It could go right by the window."
"Really? Turquoise? Nah."
More days go by.
"You don't like any of the tables I've shown you!" Tiffany said.
"You haven't shown me any tables I like!"
And that's how we ended up in the car on the way to Ikea.
Ikea intimidates me. When we arrived at the top of the escalator, I grabbed a map. I used to get lost on the highway that circled Kansas City--you can't imagine how easily I get lost in a store with an endless series of fake living rooms, dining rooms, kitchens and bedrooms.
We found the table we liked in the first fake living room. We sat down at it immediately and put our forearms on the surface to assess its size.
"Having a seance?" a woman asked as she passed with her son.
"No, something much more difficult," I said. "Trying to agree on a table."
We loved the table. And what we loved most about the table, besides the fact that it was cheaper than the ones we were looking at on craigstlist, was that it had two leaves that pulled out so that it could be small when we didn't need it and big when we did. In a complicated marvel of carpentry I will never be able to explain, you can pull the leaves out and then lift the middle of the table and push them back under.
And it was that marvel of carpentry that scared us. Because we knew we had to put the table together.
Still, determined--and tired of eating hunched over our coffee table--we bought it. And, of course, what we bought looked nothing like our table. It looked like a gigantic cardboard box because that's what it came in.
Tiffany and I prepared ourselves for irritability. It's what you should do, you know, when you confront a task like this: prepare yourself for the fact that your partner is going to do something fabulously annoying. For instance, in such situations, I am prone to asking subtly undermining questions ("are you sure that's the right screw?") at inappropriate times (when the screw is already in the hole).
But you know what? We didn't get annoyed at all while we built our table. Even when Tiffany took the one Ikea-related task I'm good at--sorting the various screws and plastic thingys--and did it herself.
Because here's the trick. Tiffany is way better at certain things than I am, and, rather than try to prove that I am just as good, I defer to her on those things. I can't read Ikea-furniture assembly instructions because there are no words! There are only pictures and arrows! And I am spacially-challenged. So Tiffany deciphered the instructions and then we took turns putting the various pieces the way she concluded they went.
After that, we had a table.
And you know what I am good at? Making dinner. So I made it. And I let Tiffany help. ;)
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Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Date Night!
When you're in a long-term live-in relationship, date night is a funny thing. Tiffany and I spend every night together, after all. But just because we eat dinner doesn't mean we're on a date. What really happens is a lot of non-date stuff, like, cooking the dinner, spooning the leftover dinner into Tupperware for lunches, washing the dinner dishes and then emptying them from the drying rack so there's room for the next day's breakfast dishes.
In February, it will have been six years since I took Tiffany out on our first date. I was living in Brooklyn with Rob and Howard, my basically-uncles, and Tiffany was living in Boston. She drove down for the weekend, and, on Saturday night, I took her to the museum for a Marilyn Monroe exhibit and salsa dancing. Afterwards we went out for Chinese and my fortune said "You are a lover of words. Someday you will write a book." The next weekend was Valentine's Day. I'd never had a girlfriend on Valentine's Day (okay, I'd never had a girlfriend), so I went to the Wal-Mart near my subway stop and bought a red top I thought was sexy. It wasn't. I haven't worn red since (I have, however, bought other things at Wal-Mart). Oh well. Tiffany took me out for Brazilian food and then to the top of the Empire State Building.
Two weekends ago I decided Tiffany and I needed to go out on a date (don't worry, we've been on other dates besides those first two... let me think here...I'm sure we have...). So I asked her. Actually, I told her:
"Ooooh," I said, reading the Sunday paper. "I'm taking you out on a surprise date Friday."
I ripped off the page where I had gotten the idea so she wouldn't cheat and try to figure out what I'd seen. All week she tried to guess where we were going. I wrote a count-down on the dry-erase board on our fridge above the day-to-day notes we leave for each other:
Four Nights 'Til Date Night!!
--turned on crock pot at 8:05
--LAUNDRY
--check to make sure car hasn't been towed
--love you!
Even I was excited and I knew where we were going (it wasn't that exciting, you'll see).
It was warm all week, but when Friday rolled around, so did the fog. Tiffany asked me what she should wear as she straightened her hair.
"Something warm," I said.
"Are we going to be outside?" she asked, eyes widening.
"Mm-hm," I said, exiting the bathroom.
On the scooter, Tiffany called out all the places she thought we might have been going as we passed them. They were mostly restaurants with, you know, chairs and table service.
"We're here," I said, pulling into a parking lot.
"I can't feel my toes," she said, swinging her flip-flopped feet off the scooter.
I took her hand and led her into a ring of RV-like trucks that local chefs have turned into mobile restaurants. Dozens of people were milling about in the middle trying to decide which truck to hit up for Chinese-inspired buns, El Salvadoran pupusas, and chicken tikka masala burritos. Tiffany and I shared one of each. After every purchase, we circled the folding chairs strewn about the center of the ring but couldn't find a spot to sit. So we ate standing up, taking turns holding the food and blowing into our hands to stay warm.
It was freezing. We had to stand in line for 15 minutes at each truck. The masala burrito was so spicy that we had to buy the pupusa to cool off our tongues. By the time we finished that, we were too cold to contemplate dessert. But it was awesome.
On the scooter ride home, Tiffany clung to me Koala-style to stay warm. We stopped at the 24-hour grocery store and bought a box of hot chocolate. Back at our apartment, we boiled water, poured it over the powder and cupped our hands around our steaming mugs. We shared a gigantic bowl of popcorn.
And we left all the dishes in the sink.
In February, it will have been six years since I took Tiffany out on our first date. I was living in Brooklyn with Rob and Howard, my basically-uncles, and Tiffany was living in Boston. She drove down for the weekend, and, on Saturday night, I took her to the museum for a Marilyn Monroe exhibit and salsa dancing. Afterwards we went out for Chinese and my fortune said "You are a lover of words. Someday you will write a book." The next weekend was Valentine's Day. I'd never had a girlfriend on Valentine's Day (okay, I'd never had a girlfriend), so I went to the Wal-Mart near my subway stop and bought a red top I thought was sexy. It wasn't. I haven't worn red since (I have, however, bought other things at Wal-Mart). Oh well. Tiffany took me out for Brazilian food and then to the top of the Empire State Building.
Two weekends ago I decided Tiffany and I needed to go out on a date (don't worry, we've been on other dates besides those first two... let me think here...I'm sure we have...). So I asked her. Actually, I told her:
"Ooooh," I said, reading the Sunday paper. "I'm taking you out on a surprise date Friday."
I ripped off the page where I had gotten the idea so she wouldn't cheat and try to figure out what I'd seen. All week she tried to guess where we were going. I wrote a count-down on the dry-erase board on our fridge above the day-to-day notes we leave for each other:
Four Nights 'Til Date Night!!
--turned on crock pot at 8:05
--LAUNDRY
--check to make sure car hasn't been towed
--love you!
Even I was excited and I knew where we were going (it wasn't that exciting, you'll see).
It was warm all week, but when Friday rolled around, so did the fog. Tiffany asked me what she should wear as she straightened her hair.
"Something warm," I said.
"Are we going to be outside?" she asked, eyes widening.
"Mm-hm," I said, exiting the bathroom.
On the scooter, Tiffany called out all the places she thought we might have been going as we passed them. They were mostly restaurants with, you know, chairs and table service.
"We're here," I said, pulling into a parking lot.
"I can't feel my toes," she said, swinging her flip-flopped feet off the scooter.
I took her hand and led her into a ring of RV-like trucks that local chefs have turned into mobile restaurants. Dozens of people were milling about in the middle trying to decide which truck to hit up for Chinese-inspired buns, El Salvadoran pupusas, and chicken tikka masala burritos. Tiffany and I shared one of each. After every purchase, we circled the folding chairs strewn about the center of the ring but couldn't find a spot to sit. So we ate standing up, taking turns holding the food and blowing into our hands to stay warm.
It was freezing. We had to stand in line for 15 minutes at each truck. The masala burrito was so spicy that we had to buy the pupusa to cool off our tongues. By the time we finished that, we were too cold to contemplate dessert. But it was awesome.
On the scooter ride home, Tiffany clung to me Koala-style to stay warm. We stopped at the 24-hour grocery store and bought a box of hot chocolate. Back at our apartment, we boiled water, poured it over the powder and cupped our hands around our steaming mugs. We shared a gigantic bowl of popcorn.
And we left all the dishes in the sink.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Let's Pretend
All day long we had been telling her about the magical forest, so when we finally arrived at Muir Woods with our friends and their three-year-old daughter Julia, I felt obligated to... well, make the forest magical.
It wasn't hard to do. After all, the gigantic Redwood trees do seem other-worldly. Walking among the whispery-quietness of them feels like being transported onto the pages of a fairy tale.
Plus, playing pretend is something three-year-olds do really well. On her own, Julia mentioned Tinkerbell--a possible candidate for her Halloween costume-- asking whether the fairy lived in the forest. I couldn't deny the possibility, so I suggested that if she did, she might have a secret elevator in her majestic tree house (it did not occur to me until just now that, duh, fairies have wings... luckily that went over Julia's head too).
After a while, looking for Tink became tedious. Instead, Julia wanted to hide from her parents.
"Let's find a good spot," she'd yell (we were having too much fun to be whispery-quiet, even in the designated quiet section of the woods--apologies to the guests in our vicinity that day) before planting herself directly in her parents' sight and yelling "Surprise!"
Tiffany and I quickly taught her that good hiding spots are ones in which people can't see you. We took turns running ahead and kneeling with her behind fence posts and trees.
Eventually, Tiffany decided to curtail all the lifting-of-Julia-over-fence-posts-and-scampering-behind-boulders, offering up the delicious possibility that we hide by actually becoming the things we saw in the woods.
"Let's be trees," Tiffany whispered to Julia, taking her little arms and pointing them straight up into the air.
"Okay," Julia giggled.
"Let's be the bench," I suggested, lying her down on a bench seat before taking my position on the next bench over.
"Okay," Julia giggled.
"Let's be the forest floor," Tiffany said, and Julia and I dutifully lay down next to her in the dirt.
"Surprise!" we yelled just before the rest of our group stepped on us.
A little bit later, the smallest part of our forest-floor had to go to the bathroom.
Once, years ago while babysitting, I led a six-year old back in time across a sewage pipe suspended over a litter-filled creek. I don't remember how far back in time we were going, but on the way there, my charge slipped, falling into the muck below. I dashed down the side of the creek bed to pull him out.
"I want a bath," he said through gritted teeth, with half of someone's discarded blueberry muffin plastered to his chest.
Which just goes to show. Pretending can only get you so far. One minute you're the forest floor. The next minute you're holding a three-year old over a public toilet. One minute you're an intrepid time traveler. The next you're a babysitter taking a boy for a bath.
It wasn't hard to do. After all, the gigantic Redwood trees do seem other-worldly. Walking among the whispery-quietness of them feels like being transported onto the pages of a fairy tale.
Plus, playing pretend is something three-year-olds do really well. On her own, Julia mentioned Tinkerbell--a possible candidate for her Halloween costume-- asking whether the fairy lived in the forest. I couldn't deny the possibility, so I suggested that if she did, she might have a secret elevator in her majestic tree house (it did not occur to me until just now that, duh, fairies have wings... luckily that went over Julia's head too).
After a while, looking for Tink became tedious. Instead, Julia wanted to hide from her parents.
"Let's find a good spot," she'd yell (we were having too much fun to be whispery-quiet, even in the designated quiet section of the woods--apologies to the guests in our vicinity that day) before planting herself directly in her parents' sight and yelling "Surprise!"
Tiffany and I quickly taught her that good hiding spots are ones in which people can't see you. We took turns running ahead and kneeling with her behind fence posts and trees.
Eventually, Tiffany decided to curtail all the lifting-of-Julia-over-fence-posts-and-scampering-behind-boulders, offering up the delicious possibility that we hide by actually becoming the things we saw in the woods.
"Let's be trees," Tiffany whispered to Julia, taking her little arms and pointing them straight up into the air.
"Okay," Julia giggled.
"Let's be the bench," I suggested, lying her down on a bench seat before taking my position on the next bench over.
"Okay," Julia giggled.
"Let's be the forest floor," Tiffany said, and Julia and I dutifully lay down next to her in the dirt.
"Surprise!" we yelled just before the rest of our group stepped on us.
A little bit later, the smallest part of our forest-floor had to go to the bathroom.
Once, years ago while babysitting, I led a six-year old back in time across a sewage pipe suspended over a litter-filled creek. I don't remember how far back in time we were going, but on the way there, my charge slipped, falling into the muck below. I dashed down the side of the creek bed to pull him out.
"I want a bath," he said through gritted teeth, with half of someone's discarded blueberry muffin plastered to his chest.
Which just goes to show. Pretending can only get you so far. One minute you're the forest floor. The next minute you're holding a three-year old over a public toilet. One minute you're an intrepid time traveler. The next you're a babysitter taking a boy for a bath.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Ode to John Hannon
I don't normally take blog requests--or succumb to friends who are whining about the fact that I haven't blogged about them (actually, there is only one such friend... read on). But my friend John Hannon is mad at me because I haven't blogged about him yet. He's writing mean things on my Facebook page, which I shamelessly use to promote this free blog. I can't have bad publicity, so I'm going to tell you about my first John Hannon experience.
When I was trying to figure out where to go to college, I had pretty much made up my mind to go one place when I decided to take a soccer recruiting trip to Boston University. That weekend, the fall of my senior year in high school, I fell in love with the city. I loved the "T" and I loved that the Red Sox game was playing on a big screen at Faneuil Hall and I loved... that there was a place that delivered frozen yogurt.
This is where John Hannon comes in. See, I met all the girls on the team that weekend... and I met John, the boyfriend of one of the junior defenders, Meg. I was assigned to stay with one of Meg's best friends, Deidre, and on my second night, John Hannon decided my recruiting trip would not be complete without a frozen yogurt delivered from Angora Cafe near the campus.
I had never had Angora yogurt delivered, of course. I don't think Kansas, where I grew up, has yogurt delivery, period. In fact, except for TCBY, I'd never really had frozen yogurt. I was an ice cream girl.
Anyway, John Hannon pulled out the menu with the list of possible toppings and mix-ins for the yogurt. I didn't know what to get, but if I had, it wouldn't have mattered. John ordered for me. He ordered me his favorite: Oreo cookie and York Peppermint Pattie. I loved it.
Either that night or the night before John also made apple tarts, one of his early culinary adventures (he has since gone to culinary school, so he's way beyond tarts now), with fresh apples that he and some of the girls on the team had recently picked themselves. I'd never been apple picking.
So if we follow this logic: John Hannon introduced me to Oreo and York frozen yogurt (delivery!) and fed me tarts made of fresh-picked apples and, therefore, is one gigantic (he's over 6 feet tall) reason I went to Boston. If I hadn't gone to Boston, I'd never have met Tiffany, and you wouldn't be reading this blog. Or you might be, but, it would be whilemygirlfrienddoesdataentry or whilemygirlfriendwritesadcopy or something like that. You get my drift. I'm in love with Tiffany and John helped me find her!
So I guess Tiffany and I owe our relationship to John Hannon.
Or to that freakin' awesome yogurt.
*Please note, John Hannon and his wife Meg are great friends of ours. We haven't seen them since I started this blog or since they had their baby girl Lily and John is just mad because I haven't written about Lily's poop. But when I see her I promise to write about that or something better.
When I was trying to figure out where to go to college, I had pretty much made up my mind to go one place when I decided to take a soccer recruiting trip to Boston University. That weekend, the fall of my senior year in high school, I fell in love with the city. I loved the "T" and I loved that the Red Sox game was playing on a big screen at Faneuil Hall and I loved... that there was a place that delivered frozen yogurt.
This is where John Hannon comes in. See, I met all the girls on the team that weekend... and I met John, the boyfriend of one of the junior defenders, Meg. I was assigned to stay with one of Meg's best friends, Deidre, and on my second night, John Hannon decided my recruiting trip would not be complete without a frozen yogurt delivered from Angora Cafe near the campus.
I had never had Angora yogurt delivered, of course. I don't think Kansas, where I grew up, has yogurt delivery, period. In fact, except for TCBY, I'd never really had frozen yogurt. I was an ice cream girl.
Anyway, John Hannon pulled out the menu with the list of possible toppings and mix-ins for the yogurt. I didn't know what to get, but if I had, it wouldn't have mattered. John ordered for me. He ordered me his favorite: Oreo cookie and York Peppermint Pattie. I loved it.
Either that night or the night before John also made apple tarts, one of his early culinary adventures (he has since gone to culinary school, so he's way beyond tarts now), with fresh apples that he and some of the girls on the team had recently picked themselves. I'd never been apple picking.
So if we follow this logic: John Hannon introduced me to Oreo and York frozen yogurt (delivery!) and fed me tarts made of fresh-picked apples and, therefore, is one gigantic (he's over 6 feet tall) reason I went to Boston. If I hadn't gone to Boston, I'd never have met Tiffany, and you wouldn't be reading this blog. Or you might be, but, it would be whilemygirlfrienddoesdataentry or whilemygirlfriendwritesadcopy or something like that. You get my drift. I'm in love with Tiffany and John helped me find her!
So I guess Tiffany and I owe our relationship to John Hannon.
Or to that freakin' awesome yogurt.
*Please note, John Hannon and his wife Meg are great friends of ours. We haven't seen them since I started this blog or since they had their baby girl Lily and John is just mad because I haven't written about Lily's poop. But when I see her I promise to write about that or something better.
The Extra Burger
I've figured something out--one of the really big questions in life: never have kids unless you're really hungry. I don't mean hungry metaphorically, like, hungry for the unconditional love and support you've signed up for. I mean literally hungry for all the food they won't eat.
I'll tell you how I came by this pearl of wisdom.
I was, after all, once a kid. When we stopped for Dairy Queen or Braum's ice cream cones on road trips as a family, my dad's cone would vanish in seconds and, soon after, he'd reach his hand back between the front seats.
"Let me have your cone," he'd say to my brother and me, "I'll take care of the drips for you."
Brandon and I always handed our cones up. We didn't want to make a mess.
But my dad wouldn't just take the drips. He'd take half the cone, laughing at our bewildered faces.
"Dad!" we'd whine.
"Brad," my mom would say, giving him a look.
"Okay, okay," he'd say. "Next time just the drips."
We used to call my dad The Disposal because of the way he disposed of the extra food on our plates at dinner.
Now that I'm an adult, I've seen the other side of things. Until a few weeks ago, I had never in my life eaten two burgers in one sitting. Back when I was in middle school, before fast food grossed me out, sometimes my brother would pick me up from soccer practice and we would go to McDonald's and order Big Mac meals. I ate that... and the fries and drink that came with it (yes, I know a Big Mac has, what, two or three patties? But still--it's only one sandwich). But I never ate two burgers because I never ordered two.
Then our friends Teresa and Bobby came into town with their children. We stopped at an In-N-Out Burger on our way to Muir Woods. I wasn't really hungry because I had already eaten most of their three-year-old daughter Julia's animal-shaped crackers. But I couldn't pass up a cheeseburger. Bobby ordered burgers for everyone--me, Tiffany, Teresa, Teresa's aunt who was traveling with them, Julia and their five-month old son Peter. Plus an extra burger.
"Who wants some?" Bobby called out as he and I walked over to the table with bags of fries and cardboard boxes of burgers.
We all took one. Except, of course, Julia who wasn't sure about hers and Peter who has no teeth (although he did stare knowingly at my burger as if already aware it was something he might like later on).
Bobby ate his and the parts of Julia's that were edible after she'd dismantled it and the extra one too. But that still left Peter's.
"Come on, Rebo," he said, sliding it down to me. "You've got room."
Well... did I?
It turns out I did--in my for-the-benefit-of-children stomach. You have one too. I guarantee it. And that's why I offer you this advice: work up a major appetite before you bring a child into the world.
I'll tell you how I came by this pearl of wisdom.
I was, after all, once a kid. When we stopped for Dairy Queen or Braum's ice cream cones on road trips as a family, my dad's cone would vanish in seconds and, soon after, he'd reach his hand back between the front seats.
"Let me have your cone," he'd say to my brother and me, "I'll take care of the drips for you."
Brandon and I always handed our cones up. We didn't want to make a mess.
But my dad wouldn't just take the drips. He'd take half the cone, laughing at our bewildered faces.
"Dad!" we'd whine.
"Brad," my mom would say, giving him a look.
"Okay, okay," he'd say. "Next time just the drips."
We used to call my dad The Disposal because of the way he disposed of the extra food on our plates at dinner.
Now that I'm an adult, I've seen the other side of things. Until a few weeks ago, I had never in my life eaten two burgers in one sitting. Back when I was in middle school, before fast food grossed me out, sometimes my brother would pick me up from soccer practice and we would go to McDonald's and order Big Mac meals. I ate that... and the fries and drink that came with it (yes, I know a Big Mac has, what, two or three patties? But still--it's only one sandwich). But I never ate two burgers because I never ordered two.
Then our friends Teresa and Bobby came into town with their children. We stopped at an In-N-Out Burger on our way to Muir Woods. I wasn't really hungry because I had already eaten most of their three-year-old daughter Julia's animal-shaped crackers. But I couldn't pass up a cheeseburger. Bobby ordered burgers for everyone--me, Tiffany, Teresa, Teresa's aunt who was traveling with them, Julia and their five-month old son Peter. Plus an extra burger.
"Who wants some?" Bobby called out as he and I walked over to the table with bags of fries and cardboard boxes of burgers.
We all took one. Except, of course, Julia who wasn't sure about hers and Peter who has no teeth (although he did stare knowingly at my burger as if already aware it was something he might like later on).
Bobby ate his and the parts of Julia's that were edible after she'd dismantled it and the extra one too. But that still left Peter's.
"Come on, Rebo," he said, sliding it down to me. "You've got room."
Well... did I?
It turns out I did--in my for-the-benefit-of-children stomach. You have one too. I guarantee it. And that's why I offer you this advice: work up a major appetite before you bring a child into the world.
Wonderfully Weird
About two weeks ago, I stood with my best friend Zac on a rooftop bar in Santa Fe and waited for Tiffany to arrive with the purse (I hate carrying purses and almost always cram my stuff into hers). When she arrived, along with Zac's girlfriend Kate and Tiffany's sister Melody, I fished my license out and showed it to the bartender who wouldn't serve me my water until I'd shown I was of age.
"Isn't it weird we're adults now?" Zac said.
I peered at him in the bright light of the setting sun. Took in the scruff on his face, the man-ness of him.
"Yes, it is weird," I said.
Tiffany, Kate and Melody laughed at us, but I knew what he meant. Zac and I met when we were four and our moms worked together at a child abuse prevention center in Jackson, Mississippi. Our moms--and a third mom whose daughter Rebecca was born when we were six--became best friends and Zac and I did too. We used to fish for stuffed animals off the top bunk of his bed and speak in pretend foreign languages. Our families only lived in the same state for three years, but the friendship survived the crossing of state lines and even international borders. When Zac and his parents moved to Istanbul for a few years when he was nine, we recorded messages to each other on cassette tapes and mailed them back and forth.
I wanted Zac all to myself, but of course I had to share him with my brother Brandon, who is four years older than us. Thankfully, as we grew up, I got less and less jealous and the age difference between Brandon and us and Rebecca grew less and less important.
For most of our friendship, our parents planned our visits. They controlled the money and navigated their work schedules and our school schedules and our sports commitments and Zac's trips back and forth to Turkey. Since the day we met, our families have spent Thanksgiving together and have a couple of other planned trips a year as well.
Last year, we kids decided to branch out and start a trip for just us, whoever can make it: Brandon, Zac, Rebecca and I, significant others, siblings.
We plan all the travel details and the meals and the accommodations, and we do it all without our parents, which, as Zac pointed out in Santa Fe, makes us adults (even if I still get carded every time I go into a bar).
Of course, lots of other things make us adults too. Like the fact that we're, in order of age, 33, 29, 28 and 22 years old. Or the fact that we live on our own and work real jobs and pay rent.
But we knew each other before adulthood was even something to consider--when we were little-bitty-skinny-legged-kids and bald-headed babies. And that is rich, thank-my-stars-lucky and weird. Wonderfully weird.
"Isn't it weird we're adults now?" Zac said.
I peered at him in the bright light of the setting sun. Took in the scruff on his face, the man-ness of him.
"Yes, it is weird," I said.
Tiffany, Kate and Melody laughed at us, but I knew what he meant. Zac and I met when we were four and our moms worked together at a child abuse prevention center in Jackson, Mississippi. Our moms--and a third mom whose daughter Rebecca was born when we were six--became best friends and Zac and I did too. We used to fish for stuffed animals off the top bunk of his bed and speak in pretend foreign languages. Our families only lived in the same state for three years, but the friendship survived the crossing of state lines and even international borders. When Zac and his parents moved to Istanbul for a few years when he was nine, we recorded messages to each other on cassette tapes and mailed them back and forth.
I wanted Zac all to myself, but of course I had to share him with my brother Brandon, who is four years older than us. Thankfully, as we grew up, I got less and less jealous and the age difference between Brandon and us and Rebecca grew less and less important.
For most of our friendship, our parents planned our visits. They controlled the money and navigated their work schedules and our school schedules and our sports commitments and Zac's trips back and forth to Turkey. Since the day we met, our families have spent Thanksgiving together and have a couple of other planned trips a year as well.
Last year, we kids decided to branch out and start a trip for just us, whoever can make it: Brandon, Zac, Rebecca and I, significant others, siblings.
We plan all the travel details and the meals and the accommodations, and we do it all without our parents, which, as Zac pointed out in Santa Fe, makes us adults (even if I still get carded every time I go into a bar).
Of course, lots of other things make us adults too. Like the fact that we're, in order of age, 33, 29, 28 and 22 years old. Or the fact that we live on our own and work real jobs and pay rent.
But we knew each other before adulthood was even something to consider--when we were little-bitty-skinny-legged-kids and bald-headed babies. And that is rich, thank-my-stars-lucky and weird. Wonderfully weird.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
What We Fight About
Yesterday Tiffany and I spent a few minutes walking around our apartment in stony silence. We passed each other--blank-faced, like rude strangers on the street--in the living room and kitchen. In our bedroom and in the hallway connecting all of the above.
We were in a fight.
Yes, we fight.
Here's what we were fighting about:
We went on a run. It was warm in the city (thank god for San Francisco's autumn summer) so we didn't need layers. We chit-chatted our way through pedestrians and traffic and even tossed in one of the city's steepest hills at the half-way point, reaching the top without air in our lungs and on wobbly legs. Then, we started our meandering way home. And here's where the trouble started: Tiffany and I don't cross the street in the same way. We usually run separately, squeezing our runs in before or after work while the other is already or still at work. With that independence, we've established different rhythms.
At busy intersections with stop signs instead of lights, I time my approach with the cars going the same direction as me. In other words, I speed up or slow down so that I can cross the street with the parallel traffic.
Tiffany asserts her pedestrian rights--with looks in all directions, of course--as soon as she arrives.
In hindsight, I think we would both agree: who the f cares how we cross the street? But yesterday, we did care. Because we were both trying to cross in our own way, we often ended up with Tiffany half in the intersection and me hesitating at the curb waiting for my car. We got some angry waves, and the non-rhythm we had going made us angry too.
"Let's just do it your way," Tiffany said as we approached the next block.
"Fine," I said, knowing full well she thought my way sucked.
In fact, at that particular intersection, my way did suck. The perpendicular truck didn't want us to wait for him to go. He pulled into the intersection, saw us waiting at the curb, and stopped, waving us frantically on as other cars piled up on either side.
I mentally cursed his niceness as we ducked our heads and sprinted across.
Tiffany and I didn't speak the rest of the way home.
My brother sometimes asks me what Tiffany and I fight about. Someone else we know often says, especially in big groups for better dramatic effect, "I tell my therapist all the time the healthiest couple I know is a lesbian couple!" (I'm not sure who should be more offended by that statement--Tiffany and I or straight people. I choose not to be offended by the back-handed compliment. My old soccer coach was famous for those. Once, during a drill in the first week of practice my freshman year in college, I sprinted for a crossed ball, diving to reach it with my head and redirect it toward the goal. I missed. My coach clapped, then said: "That's okay, Rebo, someone more athletic would have gotten that ball!")
Anyway, I often can't remember what Tiffany and I fight about. We don't fight about the big stuff, like money and how to spend or save it. But every once in a while some little thing--like crossing the street--will trip us up.
And, big or little, I guess what matters is how you bring a stony silence to an end. Yesterday, as we walked around the apartment in our sweaty running clothes without speaking, I finally made my way over to Tiffany at the window and stared at her. This is what I sometimes do when I'm not ready to apologize but I am ready to acknowledge that we are not rude strangers on the street but partners in a nearly six-year relationship.
She stared back at me and we broke into smiles.
"That was stupid," she said.
"It really was," I said.
And then we weren't in a fight anymore.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
This Particular Poop of Peter's
(First of all, I apologize in advance to Peter for this. I want you to know, I never would have put this out onto the Internet if it wasn't for your mom's special request. But, as faithful readers know, I've never been able to refuse Teresa.)
It looked something like soft-serve ice cream only it had more texture and was green-ish-brown, like if soft-serve ice cream came in split pea and ground chuck flavor and had smushed bits of split pea and ground chuck spread evenly throughout.
It was coming out of the bottom of my best friend's baby.
Now, I've changed my fair share of diapers. The lowest several hundred dollars of my bank account are the savings I accumulated working as a babysitter on weekend nights and summers during high school. At one time, I was even good at changing diapers. But, as a non-parent, I never got over the embarrassment of having to hold a little human's feet above his or her head while I swiped at his or her bare bottom with moist towelettes and various creams and powders.
Still, even with my experience, I've never seen anything like this particular poop of Peter's (Peter, I love you). Tiffany, Teresa and I were sitting in the breakfast room of a hotel in Sonoma last weekend when it happened. We had just finished one of those breakfasts reminiscent of mornings in the college dining hall in which you keep going back for more just because no one is adding each additional item to a bill. I managed to eat a Belgian waffle, a plate of too-dry scrambled eggs, a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin, a handful of fruit loops, a tiny little cup of yogurt and a banana in the span of about 30 minutes.
Anyway, during that same time Peter, Teresa's 5-month-old, had breast milk. He hadn't pooped in two days, plugged up, I can only assume, from a serious schedule adjustment as he, his parents and his 3-year-old sister enjoyed a few days off on the opposite coast of the country.
Predictably, he pooped, just as we were finishing our multi-course breakfast.
"Phew!" Tiffany sniffed, lifting Peter away from her chest and holding him out in the universal help-I-have-a-dirty-diapered-baby way.
Teresa held out her arms, and I stood up to go. Since we were finished with our breakfast, I saw no reason to put poor Peter through a public changing on the cushion between us. I thought we were headed to the room.
"Where are you going, Rebecca?" Teresa called, easing her child down onto the seat and pulling out diapers and wet wipes in one fluid motion.
"Nowhere," I said, sitting back down.
Teresa pulled Peter's diaper away from his itty-bitty body. And that's when we saw it. Indeed, Peter had pooped. But, more importantly, he was still pooping.
"Oh my god," Tiffany said, peering over Teresa's hands to see the substance oozing out of the boy (Peter, I love you).
"What is happening?" I hiss-whispered. I turned my shoulders and slid my arm across the table to shelter Peter from view.
"I don't think your little hand is going to block this, Rebecca," Teresa said, laughing hysterically.
I looked at my hand. It did appear very small next to the enormous amount of poop piling into the old diaper.
A man paused by our table. I willed him to continue walking without looking our way. No such luck. He turned. And stared at what was taking place on the seat to my left.
"Nothing to see here," Teresa said matter-of-factly, flashing the man a smile and waving him on with the hand that was not directing the flow of Peter's poop.
I, on the other hand, glared at the man and moved my little hand further down the table in the hopes that my forearm might better shield the scene.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Peter stopped pooping. He smiled contentedly as he had throughout the whole process and Teresa folded the bulging diaper up. She handed it to me.
"Can you throw this out?" she asked.
And I did. I took that diaper like we were completing an illicit transaction and tucked it low to my hip, scurrying out of the breakfast room, into the lobby and out the front doors of the hotel, dropping the diaper into an outside trash can.
When I returned, Teresa and Tiffany were still laughing. And Peter was still smiling, as if nothing had happened. And, as far as the world was concerned, nothing did...
Until I wrote this blog.
(Peter, I love you.)
It looked something like soft-serve ice cream only it had more texture and was green-ish-brown, like if soft-serve ice cream came in split pea and ground chuck flavor and had smushed bits of split pea and ground chuck spread evenly throughout.
It was coming out of the bottom of my best friend's baby.
Now, I've changed my fair share of diapers. The lowest several hundred dollars of my bank account are the savings I accumulated working as a babysitter on weekend nights and summers during high school. At one time, I was even good at changing diapers. But, as a non-parent, I never got over the embarrassment of having to hold a little human's feet above his or her head while I swiped at his or her bare bottom with moist towelettes and various creams and powders.
Still, even with my experience, I've never seen anything like this particular poop of Peter's (Peter, I love you). Tiffany, Teresa and I were sitting in the breakfast room of a hotel in Sonoma last weekend when it happened. We had just finished one of those breakfasts reminiscent of mornings in the college dining hall in which you keep going back for more just because no one is adding each additional item to a bill. I managed to eat a Belgian waffle, a plate of too-dry scrambled eggs, a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin, a handful of fruit loops, a tiny little cup of yogurt and a banana in the span of about 30 minutes.
Anyway, during that same time Peter, Teresa's 5-month-old, had breast milk. He hadn't pooped in two days, plugged up, I can only assume, from a serious schedule adjustment as he, his parents and his 3-year-old sister enjoyed a few days off on the opposite coast of the country.
Predictably, he pooped, just as we were finishing our multi-course breakfast.
"Phew!" Tiffany sniffed, lifting Peter away from her chest and holding him out in the universal help-I-have-a-dirty-diapered-baby way.
Teresa held out her arms, and I stood up to go. Since we were finished with our breakfast, I saw no reason to put poor Peter through a public changing on the cushion between us. I thought we were headed to the room.
"Where are you going, Rebecca?" Teresa called, easing her child down onto the seat and pulling out diapers and wet wipes in one fluid motion.
"Nowhere," I said, sitting back down.
Teresa pulled Peter's diaper away from his itty-bitty body. And that's when we saw it. Indeed, Peter had pooped. But, more importantly, he was still pooping.
"Oh my god," Tiffany said, peering over Teresa's hands to see the substance oozing out of the boy (Peter, I love you).
"What is happening?" I hiss-whispered. I turned my shoulders and slid my arm across the table to shelter Peter from view.
"I don't think your little hand is going to block this, Rebecca," Teresa said, laughing hysterically.
I looked at my hand. It did appear very small next to the enormous amount of poop piling into the old diaper.
A man paused by our table. I willed him to continue walking without looking our way. No such luck. He turned. And stared at what was taking place on the seat to my left.
"Nothing to see here," Teresa said matter-of-factly, flashing the man a smile and waving him on with the hand that was not directing the flow of Peter's poop.
I, on the other hand, glared at the man and moved my little hand further down the table in the hopes that my forearm might better shield the scene.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Peter stopped pooping. He smiled contentedly as he had throughout the whole process and Teresa folded the bulging diaper up. She handed it to me.
"Can you throw this out?" she asked.
And I did. I took that diaper like we were completing an illicit transaction and tucked it low to my hip, scurrying out of the breakfast room, into the lobby and out the front doors of the hotel, dropping the diaper into an outside trash can.
When I returned, Teresa and Tiffany were still laughing. And Peter was still smiling, as if nothing had happened. And, as far as the world was concerned, nothing did...
Until I wrote this blog.
(Peter, I love you.)
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