This weekend marks the anniversary of my marriage to the man who inspires the majority of my writing. We’re nearly two decades in and we have reached a very happy place. We get each other’s moods. We may not always like them, but we get them. I can finish his sentences, but more in a, “do you remember what the hell I was just saying?” context than an, “I love you so much I can read your mind,” context. And we share these two amazing offspring who both inspire and infuriate, without really trying.
Through the years, we’ve become very practical people. OK, so through the years, I’ve become a very practical person. He still has pie-in-the-sky dreams that make me want to tie him up in a closet and/or take away his debit card. Having lived for many years on one income, I became the Queen of the Budget and doled out each penny with a sharp eye on the bank balance. But he is like a snake oil salesman and though I am diligent, occasionally a GPS boat system or kayaks-for-all slip through the cracks, gliding in on the slippery, snaky oil.
Scarred from many a verbal lashing after such grandiose purchases, Brian is wary of buying me anything. Unless I have specifically asked for it, there is a good chance that I will stress over the cost or complain about the frivolous nature of the item in question.
One Christmas Eve, whilst last-minute wrapping one of my gifts, he stopped and stared at me, exasperated, “You know, normal women don’t ask for brooms and dust pans for Christmas.”
“At what point did you think I was normal? Are you really wrapping that with duct tape?”
I’ve been accused of lacking a romantic side. Or even a romantic portion of a side. I am completely comfortable with that claim.
At a certain point, probably the point when I was tandem nursing and sleeping about 43 minutes at a pop, I lost any desire for romance and just wanted a good night’s sleep. Just one. Without anyone crying. Or touching me. Or speaking to me. Or looking in my general direction. Romance was about as likely to happen as any of the aforementioned dreams.
Being a fairly uninspired shopper, Brian slowly, but happily, accepted that it was not a trick, nor did I have any secret agenda. I, in fact, did not want a fancy piece of jewelry or a dozen long stemmed roses (can we talk honestly about the odd practice of giving dead things to someone to express your love? It’s sort of creepy.) And this is a man who does not shop for his own socks. There is no way he should even be allowed in a store that sells women’s clothing, let alone purchase any, for me or anyone else.
According to the husband, this makes it exceedingly difficult to shop for me. And with our anniversary, Mother’s Day and my birthday all falling in close succession, he spends those weeks lamenting my obstinance.
I have to be honest here, it’s not that hard. There is no secret, no crazy plan designed to make him guess what I’m thinking or, God forbid, feeling. Just make my life easier. Here are some useful tips:
1. Don’t expect me to cook dinner. Don’t even ask me to think about dinner. As a matter of fact, don’t even let dinner happen in my house.
2. Do a load of laundry. That doesn’t mean shoving stuff in the wash and turning it on. It requires the extra steps of taking the clean, wet laundry and hanging it up, removing it from the line when it’s dry and — here’s the kicker— folding it and putting it away.
3. Clean something. Whether inside or out, with two kids, three dogs, two cats and an 80-year-old house, something is ALWAYS dirty, falling apart, weedy, broken or just plain gross. Check an item off the six-foot-long to-do list.
4. Tend to your children. Don’t forget a child who needs to be picked up from work, or dropped off at dance. And for the love of all that is good and holy, if I happen to have the audacity to pick up the telephone and attempt to speak to a person that does not live in our house, when a child comes to you, looking for me, don’t tell them where I am. Lie if you must. Tell them I developed narcolepsy and cannot be disturbed. Or let them assume I have run away to live with kids who don’t hang coats on the back of chairs and call it “away.” Whatever it takes, just don’t let them come to me and ask a question; a question that is in no way an emergency, imperative or even pressing. You could maybe even ask what he or she needs.
5. Now this one’s the big one, the Grand Poobah of all gifts. If you want to have a very happy, nearly giddy, and grateful-enough-to-give-you-a-gift-in-return wife, let me sleep. For a whole entire night. Eight glorious, beautiful, amazing and mythical hours, in a row.
A couple of years back, I surprised Brian with a two-night hotel stay. I trucked the kids over to my parents. I a bottle of wine for the room. I even made dinner reservations. This was an unprecedented and thrilling event. All I asked in return was one night of sleep. I begged. Unless the entire hotel was aflame and we were in imminent peril, let me sleep. Even a small fire would be all right. I’m fairly certain there are fire extinguishers in the room. I was willing to exchange first degree burns for a solid nights rest. There’s a reason sleep deprivation is classified as torture.
Though you’d think after all of these years he would be able to read my mind, (just kidding, he can barely read my lips when I’m speaking at full volume) I think this list offers several viable options. I’m all about making life easier for the man whom I love and adore. Happy anniversary, Brian.
Oh — and another good one is booze, served over ice.
Poolside cocktail
1 ounce vodka
2 ounces watermelon juice
a splash of seltzer
mint leaves
Crush one or two mint leaves in the bottom of the glass. Put ice in the glass. Pour vodka and watermelon juice over ice. Top with a splash of seltzer and mint for garnish. Then, pretend you’re in the tropics. Alone.
Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.
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