O Lord, Two very different people live in this house. We don’t even agree on how to eat Cheerios. Yet, OMG, thank You that You’ve kept us together for almost 45 years. 😊
Lord, thank you for ripe, melting peaches, especially in peach praline shortcake. Do I also appreciate the 20-mile bike rides Hubby plans in order to lessen the shortcake effects? OMG, I am grateful . . . when they’re done.
Oh my God, thank You for 44 years of marriage! — though wasn’t it only yesterday when I thought 40 was old? Still, it’s nice to know that while Hubby got excited about standing next to an Indiana U. basketball star, OMG, he still likes standing next to me.
Soon after our wedding, Hubby and I discovered crucial differences. A key divisive subject: broccoli.
I had grown up eating broccoli, pretending to munch trees like a powerful giant. I liked the taste. Broccoli was good for me and filling — important in a household with four siblings. What wasn’t to like about broccoli?
In Hubby’s family, no one competed for food or imagined eating trees. His father and brother also loathed broccoli. Drowning it in cheese sauce, his mother insisted they eat it occasionally.
However, my new husband formulated his own broccoli policy, namely, nada.
I adopted his mother’s.
The debate continued for decades.
If my mother-in-law had cooked the President’s meals, he would have tried three bites or been sent to his room.
Like Steve, President Bush probably believed his DNA rejected broccoli. My husband even insisted God never created broccoli for human consumption.
I’d never encountered Scriptures regarding broccoli, with or without cheese sauce. However, several commanded him to give thanks for what was set before him.
Hubby replied with Scriptures that discouraged quarrels.
One day as I typed, deep in Novel Land, Hubby leaped from the hallway, hands thrown open like a spotlight performer. “Ta-da!”
He announced, “I’ve found scientific evidence that taste depends on a person’s DNA—”
“You interrupted my best writing time to diss broccoli?”
“Look.” He offered his laptop.
“I don’t have to look. That writer’s scientific expertise probably consists of blowing up science fair projects with his kid.”
Finally, I read the article. It stated a person’s DNA profoundly affects taste. The author, a bona fide scientist, didn’t sell snake oil or exploding science projects on the side.
I. Was. Wrong.
Daily I become more aware of Steve’s forbearance and generosity … because he reminds me.
Still, the more I pondered his broccoli triumph, the more I questioned: Should our DNA enslave us?
I take bitter-tasting medicines because they’re good for me. Hubby wants his patients to do the same.
Yet he can refuse broccoli, despite its nutritional value, because it doesn’t taste good?
The great broccoli debate rages on ….
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What food inspires debate at your house?
Years ago, when the tall boy in my high school biology class called, I didn’t understand him at all.
Flattered, I small-talked for five minutes before realizing he hadn’t said a word. I left strategic moments for comments.
I babbled about our class’s fruit-fly genetic experiments. My subjects’ Great Escape. The school cafeteria’s subsequent fumigation —
Maybe he wasn’t the scientific type, after all.
Maybe he’d decided I wasn’t his type.
However, he soon called again.
This time, my monologue focused on literature. My English teacher didn’t understand my paper’s crucial insights touting fried chicken’s symbolism throughout Southern literature.
I continued my learned discourse —
Did this sadist call girls just to hang up on them?
Nevertheless, I had seen a glimmer of this shy guy’s meaning: I like you. Do you like me?
He refused it.
This time, he was the one attempting to break lo-o-ong silences. And translate touch-me-and-you-die assurances that I was fine. Fine.
Hubby seemed aghast that he’d married an alien whose language he’d never understand.
Nevertheless, we’d vowed to love each other.
Against impossible odds, we determined to learn each other’s language.
Hubby now understood that I, like all women, said “fine” only when I meant the opposite. We then grappled with another mysterious word: we. Only two letters, it appeared cozy — until used thusly:
He: Sure, we can feed 237 runners.
She: Yes, we will dig the new church basement.
Eventually, Hubby and I understood that if we valued our lives, we would use accurate pronouns.
Throughout the year, unequal estimates of garage wall/car distances and checkbook balances also challenged our powers of translation. But after three decades of marriage, we finally mastered each other’s languages … until our empty-nest purchase: a tandem bicycle.
Hubby’s “Ma-a-an!” didn’t soften the effects of potholes on my, er, anatomy.
My “Aaaaahhh!” meant little to him, riding in front. Fortunately, the pursuing Dobermans ate only one of my ankles.
The tandem initiated a repeat of Marriage Translation 101.
Hey, everyone needs an occasional refresher course.
If Hubby’s pondering deep theological, medical, or I.U. basketball issues, a visual reminder, such as a cartwheel, must accompany my “Dinner’s ready.”
I assume he’ll automatically finish my half-sentences, e.g., “Last month’s letter from the IRS …”
After 43 years of marriage, he should read my mind, right?
Only a lifetime.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your favorite mistranslation story?
No, our pillows.
I could happily sleep with a dozen, but my spouse considers extras speed bumps in the night. So I content myself with daytime heaps of decorative pillows on our bed.
When Hubby makes the bed, he sometimes forgets the universe will implode with the green pillow in the middle rather than the white.
Fear not. I continue to rescue the cosmos.
I also help him regarding sofa cushions. Our geometric pillow must always be matched with the sage green cushion. Never the brick red.
No one should desecrate them with actual use. Both Hubby and grand-dog must understand that the aged, ameba-shaped cushion, stashed under a throw, is reserved for naps. And naps are permitted only when all 30 other pillows can be stacked on a spare sofa.
They are called toss cushions. But no throwing them on the floor!
“OC, aren’t you?” chorus a hundred voices.
The fact I hear voices doesn’t negate my point, which is … uh, yes, pillow power.
We must respect a product that upsets an entire continent. Australian health alerts demand that pillows be replaced every two years or frozen to kill dust mites. One manufacturer even conducted a free pillow exchange.
Pillows can exert power in positive ways, e.g., the OSTRICHPILLOW®. The owner inserts his head into a soft, closed tube, resting the padded “microenvironment” on his desk. Supposedly, a 20-minute nap using the OSTRICHPILLOW® increases work productivity by 37 percent.
Any nap might accomplish this. Still, who am I to deny the combined force of capitalism and catnap?
However, pillows can cause complications. Sleepers lose hours of rest, constantly awakening to refresh their pillows. For only $100, a sufferer can buy one filled with cool gel that reshapes itself. He should, however, take care not to drop it on his toe, as it weighs 14 pounds.
Or, for only $400, one can purchase an intelliPillow. Why so expensive? Because its name starts with a lowercase letter, with a capital in the middle. It also uses a complex air compressor for automatic adjustment.
Ultimate power, however, is evidenced in the classic pillow fight. Taking this ancient concept to a higher level, devotees use pillows shaped like scimitars, battle axes, and hand grenades.
Airline cushions sufficed, however, for passengers on one economy flight who took out lack-of-leg-room frustrations in a mass pillow fight. Hostilities resolved, they celebrated one flight attendant’s deadeye aim with loud applause.
Perhaps if world leaders engaged in a day-long pillow fight, peace might be a step closer.
A powerful idea.
As long as they don’t throw my sofa cushions.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Are you picky about your pillows?
I feel for pregnant moms whose steps slow as the months pass. Although decades have gone by, I remember well those exhausting days. I doubt these lovely young women believe their husbands’ reassurance any more than I believed mine, who told me I was beautiful.
What insanity had blinded his usual astute vision? Seven months pregnant with our first child, I felt like a walking ottoman.
“So if I just walk backwards, nobody will know?”
“It means you’ll lose weight fast after the baby’s born.” A family practice resident at the local hospital, he knew how to handle cranky women in their last trimester.
I kissed him goodbye. Would I splurge and take the bus to my part-time job or ride my bike through our quiet neighborhood? I grinned. Each time I rode up on my three-speed, Mr. Plunkett, an older man in my office, threw his window open in horror.
Mrs. Phillips!” he shouted. “Come in and put your feet up!”
He always brought me a glass of water. Where was my mother? Did my husband really find this acceptable?
But graying skies made a ride risky. Mr. P. might have a coronary if I rode up amid thunder and lightning. So I decided to take the bus.
I donned my pink maternity outfit and slipped into comfortable shoes I’d bought when I no longer could see my feet. I arrived at the bus stop five minutes early, drifting into daydreams of nursery rhymes and rock-a-bye songs.
I stared at my stomach, confused. Sure, I was going to have a baby, but—? I cast a cautious glance behind.
Two linemen, perched atop an electrical pole, hooted at me. And yes, unless I had lost feminine instincts along with my waistline, ear-to-ear lecherous smiles gleamed on their faces.
Blank disbelief washed over me—then a joyous rush of wickedness. But Niceness pointed a finger at me, and I wavered. Should I? Or shouldn’t I?
I turned around and waved sweetly at my admirers, who nearly fell to the ground.
I waddled up the steps onto the bus. As it rolled away, I watched them hugging the pole, trying in vain to hide scarlet, guilty faces.
“Whoa, baby,” I whispered to my stomach. “You’re already knocking ’em off their feet.”
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your favorite prego story?