Home, Husband!

At some point all marriages with two or more offspring reach the point where it's mostly about the kids. “I’ll meet you at the soccer field” becomes the most romantic invitation ever!

Every morning I shave my legs with high hopes, fantasizing about a glass of port and the kids going to bed early. But by the time evening comes around with its homework, dinner prep, and sports practices – and very little quality time with my guy - I’m exhausted and feeling that the day was a waste of good makeup. Suddenly I’m cuddling my mattress, snuggling my blanket and whispering into my pillow about just how much I love my bed. And the kids are still up!

I heard that just running errands together can be beneficial for a busy couple, but I think one recent jaunt to the grocery store -  where we got into an argument about spending more time together - belies that advice.

It doesn't help that our home is so small there is no privacy from the kids. The desktop is in our bedroom, for crying out loud! Maybe we could just slide the mirrored doors closed and neck in our bedroom closet. Or at least talk about taking a dream trip far, far away for our anniversary during which we'll sleep 12 hours every night and have hanky-panky in the middle of the day when we're still feeling peppy!

If I can't have more time with my spouse - if I can't literally stand by my man more than five minutes during the day - then I think I know what I need to curb my loneliness.

I need a home husband.

People (egotistical/delusional men? weary wives relieved to foist their man off onto someone else for several hours?) coined the term "work wives" to describe intelligent, efficient, pleasant women who make the work place run smoothly. My husband has two or three of them, the filthy polygamist! 

Well, I’ve decided I need a man about this house who I see more often and speak with regularly. 

We can discuss world affairs, the latest Netflix series and talk about what we did over the weekend. I can delegate tedious tasks to him like fishing in the garbage disposal for a clog. He can make coffee, and I’ll dictate my novel to him. And he won’t balk at the occasional paint or carpentry work. 

If I get real lucky, he’ll like long walks in the country, enjoy opera and be an excellent gardener.

Yeah right! Enjoy opera?

Who am I kidding here? 

I'll just go meet my man at the soccer field. Maybe there's time for a quick kiss.

Perfume for sale! Tree Hugger or Fresh Bread

There are legends of people who don't wear deodorant, because others assure them that their natural scent is so enticing, deodorant or cologne would only corrupt it.

My dad used to say fresh alfalfa was my mom's natural smell, and his expression clearly showed that he thought it was the best scent in the world. He made rabbit fare sound romantic!

I recalled this the other morning while lying in bed. My hair smelled really bad. I had spritzed myself with perfume the evening before, and the perfume had mixed with natural oils and big city particulates in my hair, making my crowning glory malodorous. I'm surprised my husband didn't move to the couch during the night.

My husband has a good scent. I joke about finding his sweet spot, behind his ear or on his neck beneath his whiskers. I'm pretty sure he could go a good three days without a shower and not offend me.

However, my scent comes from whatever Mother Nature decides to slap on me as soon as I step out the door after my shower. If there is even the slightest breeze, heat, humidity, pollution or dirt around, I end up smelling like dust, exhaust fumes and wet, decaying leaves. My skin and hair just soak it up! I suppose it's nature's way of claiming me, but no matter how romantic being an outdoor girl sounds, it certainly reeks! Even my expensive perfumes are whipped into submission by my inherent tree-hugging wild woman.

Maybe I should only hug Eucalyptus or Cedar trees from now on?

My husband, chivalrous as he is, actually told me recently that I smelled good - late in the day, too - but I'm pretty sure that was only because I had skipped my usual make-up routine, and he was grasping for something to compliment.

Fresh alfalfa? I'd be happy just to smell like stale cheerios!  I don't smell like anything fresh unless I've just pulled a loaf of bread from the oven.

Anniversary

My husband and I just celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary. We spent the evening at home over a simple meal of cheese, meat, fruit and crackers and an inexpensive bottle of champagne. We had cheesecake for dessert and watched the 1961 film The Hustler starring Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason on Netflix.

I was glad to be at home, but it wasn't what I thought I had wanted.

After arranging for a babysitter, I spent the days leading up to our anniversary trying to find the perfect date at the perfect location. It wasn't enough to go out for a nice dinner; what on earth would we talk about that we didn't already discuss at home? Seeing a movie was so ordinary. No, this was our 15th, and I wanted  an exciting celebration. I wanted to dance the night away. Unfortunately, the usual place wasn't open on Thursdays.

I tried to find another, even better location: a place not entirely patronized by single twenty-somethings or by pretentious party-goers who cared only about fashion and status; a venue not too dark, claustrophobic, or bizarre in its design; a DJ who would play music we might actually care to dance to. 

My husband, meanwhile, was researching other options in case dancing didn't work out. He and I got into little arguments as we searched for our celebratory place, growing more frustrated the harder we looked. It seemed neither of us really cared too much for the other's suggestions.

Slowly, as irritation mounted, I began to realize my priorities were all in the wrong place. Because it was our 15th, I didn't believe we could just dress up and have a few drinks and a steak dinner. It wasn't enough to simply be in each other's company. I wanted excitement, motion, electricity, a unique night to remember.

What snapped me out of it? The fact that my youngest daughter passed her stomach bug on to her little brother. As the day drew closer, it began to look less and less likely that the date night would happen.

Instead of feeling disappointed, I was relieved. My expectations had gotten out of hand. I was glad to be free of them, brought back to earth by children clutching their bellies and complaining of cramps. 

Ah, this is what it is all about, I thought. It wasn't about what dress I would wear with what heels, or which venue would cater to our kind of crowd, or whether or not we would eat a fancy dinner and pick up a bottle of Dom Perignon. It was about the family we had made together, and the fact that comforting our sick kiddos was more important than any night out - even on our 15th. 

I thought about my own parents and how outrageous my expectations had become in light of many of their anniversaries.

How many times as a child did I see my parents walk wearily in the front door on the summer evening of their anniversary, hot and tired from a long day working in the humid Tennessee woods! They sat in their old chairs in the living room eating a very ordinary meal, holding hands. Many years, we kids performed a sort of play or sang cute songs while wearing costumes for their amusement beneath a homemade sign that cried, "Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!"

They never complained about the meal or the entertainment all those simple years.

15 is just a number, I realized; a nice rounder one, sure - but just another step on the journey of love. Thankfully, love's journey doesn't require glitz and glamour and expensive treats. The journey is not about increasing expectations year by year. It's about recognizing and appreciating simple pleasures and blessings in your life, holding your children close while they cry or laugh, learning to place the good of those you love above your own good, and about gratitude for the years you've spent together building a family and being in community.

Just being together, it turns out, is more than enough. 

Nerdy girl and her man

Love and Oldies

Oldies music reminds me of my first true love.

My first love is also my latest love: Matthew.

We used to listen to "oldies" all the time while dating: The Guess Who, Three Dog Night, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Mamas and the Papas, Chicago, Elvis. The oldies are even older now these more than 15 years later.

I used to sing These Eyes to him in his car or room after we got together...perhaps not the most appropriate song for a budding relationship...and he used to sing The Glory of Love to me over the phone as we managed being more than a thousand miles apart.

Maybe I find myself frequently listening to oldies again because summer is approaching, and that season most of all embodies the tone of music from a bygone, seemingly more carefree age. I associate it with our June wedding and our first months of marriage. But all this nostalgia with its back beats, harmonies, peppy tempos and teenage love homages has me thinking not just about the beginnings of love but about its evolution.

The honeymoon is never over, I believe. Rather, it's seasonal, too - a surprise vacation from the mundane, but one very hard to conjure or manipulate to your desired schedule. When it shows up fickle paradise must be recognized and embraced, clung to. You have to abandon all your hang ups and relinquish them to joy.

This bliss can be recaptured for a few moments when you spy your spouse being adorable, looking cute in his new Adidas soccer gear or realize anew that his smile as it ignites his large eyes is truly winning; it won you. Sometimes if you're lucky it shows up on your anniversary over a bottle of fine champagne. It can even show up when the kids are around, playful but skittish.

Fear never leaves love completely. It sneaks around at its vulnerable borders, a mischievous stalker ready to throw cold water over any situation. It will ruin these little returns of paradise, steal them away greedily, and chip away at trust. Fear would like you to keep your protective distance from your spouse, terrified of being hurt or lied to someday, scared stiff by stories of betrayal from friends and associates. It paints with messy, garish and broad strokes to highlight every imperfection, change and unknown variable as the years progress, as love progresses.

What, after all, is this mature love they speak of?

Sometimes you think Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes' song If You Don't Know Me By Now is the most appropriate theme for your 15th anniversary... or 10th...or 20th.

Yet true love is still worth the risk and occasional heartache and irrationality. These eyes of mine still see my man and love him.

All this oldies music for me recalls an era of first dates, first kisses, first sparks, the first time we held hands while on the way to gamble at a horse racing track, and that's a bit of honeymoon recaptured.

That's the glory of love.

My nemesis, a Smartphone

On Valentine’s Day I found my husband snuggled up in bed with his cell phone. I always knew they were having a sordid affair.

I thought he was still sleeping when I snuck back into our bedroom only to be greeted by the sight of his Smartphone cupped lovingly in his palm. On the universal day of love, that darn phone got the first expression of devotion.

He was blatantly romancing that phone, I tell you.

And I hate it. If I am ever left alone with that thing, I can’t vouch for the consequences of my jealous behavior, especially if there’s a toilet or taser gun around.  

Often of an evening, as I watch him caress its screen and stare at it in obvious appreciation, I ask myself, What does that thing have that I don't have? But too well do I know that it provides my husband with the kind of company that I cannot:

It never argues over directions. It provides them placidly, and he doesn’t even object when it redirects or gives orders
.

It doesn’t speak unless commanded, but when it does, it never nags or raises its ladylike voice in irritation.

It provides an endless array of apps and games for his amusement during those ever so long commercial breaks, plus access to all the knowledge the world has ever known whenever he’s feeling slightly bored or quizzical.

It entertains him for long stretches in the bathroom.

I simply can’t compete.

If I detest the phone, I’m certain it feels the same about me. Whenever I try to scroll across its screen with my thumb, it jumps, protests and encourages me to plagiarize websites by asking innocently if I want to copy their material, forcing me to hand it back to my husband. When I tap it with my nail, it mocks me as it bounces the icon around.

And it ignores me. My husband mysteriously doesn’t get my texts for sometimes a half hour or more after they’ve been sent. Maybe it considers messages from my flip phone beneath it.

Recently, I tried to call him at the store. He had his phone on him but though he had glanced at it only moments before, he didn’t hear the call. He only saw the notification that he had a voicemail. From me. Again.

That phone is laughing at me with a gleeful ringtone that I think I hear late at night while everyone else is asleep.

He says I should try to get along with it. Treat it nicer. Learn to use it properly. Speak to it with respect instead of calling it stupid. Maybe then it’ll give priority to my calls.

But I’m afraid the animosity is too great, and I feel the great woman-versus-technology battle brewing.

If ever my husband asks me to move over in bed, so the cell phone can rest from its hard day’s work someplace other than the floor or dresser, I’ll know it has arrived.

If ever he invites it to dinner, setting a place at the table with its charger, I’ll know the time has come to pull the plug on my rival.

If he ever tells me that he and the phone are going for a walk, just the two of them, on a moonlit night, well…

Perhaps I’m just a crazy, jealous girl who needs her own Smartphone, so I can understand the infatuation. Maybe I should hold my own fascinating conversations with Siri, share my most intimate moments with a a piece of technology, do all my best writing with the help of a tiny keyboard.

Nah.

I could never respect anyone who expects me to tell them what to do all the time, who doesn't even know how to show emotion.

I could never fall in love with a dummy.

Big Foot, Brad Paisley and an Honest Man

Love means never having to say you're sorry

My hormones ate the housework, the cheese and, possibly, the children

Charlie Chaplin, Meet the Love of My Life

This is the story of when Matthew and I first met in person. I dug it out from the archives to share with you in honor of our wedding anniversary this week.

Yesterday, I was watching my husband's face as he listened to our good friend. She was telling us lively tales about couples she knew, and his smile in response was broad. Of course, a true smile, as opposed to just a contrivance of the features, ignites the eyes, has magic. My husband's smile is a million watts; it could illuminate the city of Phoenix in a blackout. It could exert a superhuman power to influence people if he unleashed it fully. I am mesmerized by his handsome face when he smiles, and I wonder sometimes if he can see my blatant admiration and therefore wonders why I don't act upon it more often.

Seeing his smile yesterday made me desirous to share a story of the September evening we met in person eleven years ago. I brought Charlie Chaplin along for the occasion, and Matthew smiled.

Maybe it was because we had only spoken on the phone for a few short months with a few thousand miles between us. Or maybe it was because he had implied during one of those friendly conversations that he was unimpressed with the picture I had sent to him, my very own Mr. Darcy (she's tolerable, I suppose...but not handsome enough to tempt me), but I sure as heck wasn't going to show up to our first face-to-face meeting alone.

My sister Annie had orchestrated our meeting by asking Matthew within moments of seeing him for the first time, "Do you like brunettes?", meaning me. Having introduced us via old-fashioned telephone network, she was coming along to officially introduce in person, of course. In fact, a legion of curious friends, family, and people I did not know were coming on my blind date - a chance to go out for Mexican food in a Tex-Mex town, enjoy margaritas and watch the spectacle of two young people getting to know each other at no risk to themselves.

I needed additional support, though. Dumb support. I needed Charlie Chaplin, that talented, lighthearted fellow. So I took him with me. I didn't ask; I just cut him out of a magazine, dressed as that lovable tramp, folded him up and carried him out to my sister's car where he lay on my lap during the drive downtown to San Antonio's River Walk. When we exited the vehicle, my sister cast me an incredulous look.

"Don't bring that," she said and pointed in disapproval.

I hesitated, but nope. Though 20, I would be a child. I needed my talisman. So we walked into the restaurant, Mi Tierra across from Merchant Square, with Chaplin all wrinkled and sweaty in my hands.

Through the double doors, and there he was by the bakery cases. Matthew who I knew by voice and by a dark picture of him in ball cap, standing by a grill with a barbecue utensil, smiling. Matthew, the Catholic to my Protestant, the Hispanic to my whatever-the-heck-I-am, the young professional to my bum writer.

He had on the worst long black shorts. He was very casual actually. Chaplin was more dressed up than he. I, on the other hand, had something to prove after the picture I'd sent of myself - hair mussed, holding my pet rabbit, and my cousin behind me with red glaring eyes and a wicked smile. My folks jumped to the conclusion that I had sent that ugly picture of myself to sabotage all hope of a relationship with a normal guy. Honestly, I don't know if I did or not. I had certainly said as many stupid things as possible to sabotage it. But whether I had subconsciously done myself in or not, I had my pride, and I was not going to be found lacking in the flesh. That night I was going for the make-him-weep-and-apologize-for-implying-you're-ratty look. With my short printed summer dress, dewy face and basket-weave heeled sandals, I hoped I had succeeded. If Matthew's million-watt smile was the indication, I had - though I could discern no signs of remorse for earlier implications. We stepped toward each other.

I don't remember what was said in those first moments. At least not until I shifted Chaplin from one hand to the other in order to shake his hand.

"What's this?' said Matthew.

I regretted my company then, but I held it out and said nervously but with chin pointed, "A talisman."

It was my misfortune that on the other side of Chaplin was an advertisement for southern whiskey. Jack Daniels to be precise. It was this that Matthew saw first, and he and his friend Nathan began to tease me.

"So you bring a picture of whiskey to our first date? I guess you like your alcohol."

I flipped it over.

"No, Chaplin. I love Charlie Chaplin."

"Oh, sure," he said with that smile. I was too flummoxed to appreciate it.

We soon made it into the bar to wait for our table. I lost track of Chaplin after that. I don't know where he went or what he did. Maybe I shoved him into the depths of my purse with just the Jack Daniels for consolation, but I no longer worried about him. Nor did I need him except perhaps to distract one of my sister's coworkers who turned to me and said genially, "If things don't work out with this, maybe you could meet my son. You two would hit it off."

Matthew was right there across from me. I glanced at him and back at her and mumbled a polite response.

When we finally sat down to dinner, I made sure, very gracefully of course, that Matthew settled on my left, my best side. It would have been very unfortunate if he'd taken a seat on my right; you can see how crooked my nose and mouth are on that side, and I try to surprise people with my flaws little by little, so there's a better chance of acceptance. I remember worrying about my profile, and also worrying about whether I was pronouncing the entrees right from the menu of "authentic" Mexican food. I didn't know then that, although his pronunciation was good, Matthew didn't actually speak Spanish at all. Ah, well. I got splashed with the light of his bright smile every time I got nervous over my words, so all in all, my embarrassment was worth it.

When the evening wound down, and we strolled slowly out of the restaurant, our tongues momentarily tied, Matthew guided me over to sit on a bench beneath the gloam of a tree. Shielded from the flourescent glare of the street lights, he asked me out on a date for that Thursday night, just the two of us. I didn't say no. Perhaps I had a premonition that all was going "to work out with this".

It was less than a year later that I met him before the altar and was greeted by that smile I love so well, at its most brilliant. The photographer caught the moment and gave me my favorite wedding photo. In that picture and in moments shared between us, Matthew's smile is destined to make me feel like a day-dreamy schoolgirl for years to come. Nothing's better than that.

Not even Charlie Chaplin.

Sunlight on the Forest Floor: Marriage

I found it a little ridiculous that the media made such a huge deal about the couples Pope Francis married more than a month ago. They pointed out that some of the couples had been cohabitating; one already had a child. They declared that Pope Francis is so much more open, and this is an additional sign of change (for the better, they would argue). They hinted that similar couples might have been booted out before, shunned, and denied the power and fulfillment of marriage.

Marriage to them is merely a choice, I suspect, to enter into a visible contract. What they don't understand about marriage made all the difference in their interpretation.

....Read More

Losing It In Tandem

Guest post by Daniel T Hylton

I am shocked - shocked! - to know that I am sixty years old. And my lovely wife, though she doesn't look it, is fifty-nine, for crying out loud.

Wasn't it just last week that we were teen-aged lovers, standing beneath the lilacs in front of her father's house, stealing kisses as her brothers made the porch light flicker?

Alas - no, we are no longer so young.  But, really; how did sixty get here so fast?

This year, I was made to know my age, like it or not.  Back in March, three days before my sixtieth birthday, I was squatting down, watching my grandson play a game on his bedroom floor.  My legs began to ache, so I stood up - too quickly.  I blacked out and over I went, performing an exquisite face-plant on the carpet, breaking my nose, three teeth, my jaw in two places, and my skull in one.  These fractures, though of a hairline nature and consequently inoperable, nonetheless allowed an infection in which temporarily ruined my health and destroyed nearly all of 2014 for me.  I have never been so sick for so long in the whole course of my life.  Sixty, apparently, for me, anyway, arrived like an out-of-control locomotive.

Now, my lovely wife has never had a good memory, nor an ability to manage time.  These aren't new developments, no product of age; they were true when I met her - and she was seventeen at the time.  So, I always figured that if she started to slip mentally, I might not notice, at least for a while.  What concerns me now is that I might not notice her starting to lose it because I'm beginning to slip.

I have always possessed a great, precise, and wonderfully dependable memory.  Don't take my word for it; ask anyone that knows me.  It's been a blessing throughout my life.  Now, however, I'm a bit concerned.  Here; allow me to illustrate with a story which is, sadly, true.  A few months ago.....

In July, we went to a family reunion which was held at a large hotel in Nevada.  Karen and I stayed in the "new part" of the hotel, a section that had recently been added on to the main building.  Because of this we were required to take two different elevators in order to get to our room which was on the fourth floor, one from the lobby in the "old part" up to the second floor where we would then angle around a corner and board a second elevator to go on up to our room.

In my defense, it must be noted that both hallways - the one on the second floor, and ours, up on the fourth, look exactly alike, same carpet, same mirrors, same paintings, same everything.  Bear that in mind, if you would.  Besides that, remember, I had just busted my head on the bedroom floor a scant four months earlier.

One morning, Dad and Mom wanted to meet their children in the coffee shop by the lobby for donuts and hot beverages.  Karen, who had worked very hard right up to the moment we left on the trip, was given leave to sleep in while I went down to join my parents, brothers, and sisters.

We visited, laughed, and talked while consuming way too many donuts and enjoying cappuccinos, lattes, and the like.  Finally, after a couple of hours, I decided to go up and retrieve my lovely wife so that we might begin the day's festivities.

I got on the elevator, went up to the second floor and, still chuckling at my older brother's anecdotes, slipped off the elevator and went down the hall to "our" room.

Now, we were in room 4017.  Leaving the elevator, forgetting to angle around the corner, I went straight down the look-alike hall to the look-alike door of 2017, pulled out my room card and then stared in disbelief at the key slot to our room.

There was a blue "guest has checked out, please clean" tab stuck into it.

Well, more than a bit annoyed, I indignantly yanked that sucker out and slid in my room card. 

Nothing happened.  No green light telling me to go on in.  Nothing but red. 

Even more annoyed, I knocked, calling for Karen to answer.

Nothing.

Knocked again.  Harder.  Yelled again.  Louder.

Tried the key card again.

Nothing.  

Knocked again.  Yelled again.  No answer.

I was really annoyed now - and a bit worried.  The whole situation was beginning to get me rattled.  

I mean, locked out of my room, sign says we've checked out, my wife won't answer.  

What's Going On?

I was rapidly climbing the emotional scale toward high dudgeon.  I looked around.  Two doors away, one of the ladies that do housekeeping was standing by her cart, frowning at my display of distress.

"My wife is in there - we haven't checked out!"  I told her, too loudly.  In my irritation, I waved the blue tab at her.  "This thing is wrong!  We have not checked out!"

Her frown deepened.  She tried to explain to me that such matters weren't really in her purview - and that I needed to go down to the front desk to straighten it out.

This only heightened my sense of confusion and worry.

"No!"  I yelled.  "Listen to me!  My wife is in that room!  We have not checked out!"  

Way too loud.

Her eyes widened and she slipped back into the room she had been cleaning.  And shut the door.  And threw the safety bolt.

Just then, I remembered my cell phone.  I whipped it out and dialed Karen's cell.  And - thank God - she answered.

"Honey - open the door!"  I told her.  "I'm right outside and my key card won't work."

"Okay," she replied.  "I'll be right out."

Relieved, I hung up and waited expectantly by the door.

Nothing.

Minutes passed.  Where was she?  What in the world could she be doing?

What in Heaven's name is going on?

While once more rapping my by-now severely bruised knuckles yet again upon the door, yelling for Karen to Open Up, For Crying Out Loud - my eye fell upon the number, and, at last, my brain flipped over and slid into its proper slot.  

Crap, I thought, crap.  What an idiot - and an obnoxious one, to boot.

Glancing guiltily toward the room that sheltered the terrified housekeeper, I skulked down the hall, slunk around the corner, and took the elevator up to the fourth floor.

Where my key card, unsurprisingly, worked.

Karen was safely inside, sitting on the bed, looking up at me as I came in with what can only be described as an exceedingly puzzled expression on her pretty face.  I swear, at that moment, she looked like she was hearing the Twilight Zone theme song blaring loudly and insistently in her head. 

"I opened the door," she said.  "Where did you go?"

"I was in the wrong hallway," I explained.  "Why didn't you call me back on my cell?"

She blinked.  "The wrong hallway?"

"Yeah, I got off the elevator on 2 and, you know how the halls all look the same, and I forgot that I had to get on another to come up to 4, and, anyway - why didn't you call me back?"

She stared at me for a moment longer, still trying to process my explanation, and then frowned down at the cellphone in her hand.

"Because I couldn't remember Nevada's area code," she said.

I stared back at her and felt my residual frustration evaporate and a grin take possession and spread out over my features.  "Honey," I replied gently, "our phones are not from Nevada.  They're from Texas - like us.  Besides, all you have to do is activate the one that says 'Daniel'."

"Oh," she said, then.  "Yeah."

When it finally dawned on the both of us what had just happened, well, we laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and.....

"We can never tell anyone," she giggled, wiping her eyes.

"I know."

She grew serious then.  "No - I mean you can never tell anyone - okay?"

"Okay," I agreed.

And I won't, either, as long as my memory holds.

Birthday Attitude, Spoiled and Sweet Romance

This month I turned 35, and I decided at last to become a diva. It's a late start, I know. It's also a little challenging, because I have never dyed my hair, use a blow dryer and curling iron only on Sundays, am too cowardly to use liquid eyeliner, don't buy designer clothes (not even at reduced prices), and have never in my whole life - brace for this! - gotten a manicure or pedicure.

But true divas know that you can keep your naturally flat, boring hair, eclectic style, smeary eyes, and uncured nails and still knock the town sideways with your attitude. And I've got that in spades - especially at certain times of the month. Ask my husband.

So I prepared for my diva birthday by throwing out my previous down-to-earth plans for hiking and picnicking with my family and instead demanding that Matthew take me out to an ultra fancy restaurant, one like we have never known in all our married life. Though previously my frugal tendencies might have gotten in the way, I was about to turn 35, an age known for reckless enjoyment of surf and turf dinners.

I threatened to get my hair professionally done for the occasion. Matthew didn't flinch. He said I could get a mani/pedi, too - maybe even take a friend for moral support if I had a fear of uppity strangers filing my nails and exfoliating my feet with sharp utensils. So, as any true diva would, I demanded, "Why? Do you want me to get a manicure? Do you think I need one?"

"No, I don't think you need anything. I just thought it would be nice."

"Well, I hate fake nails!"

"You don't have to get fake nails. They can do stuff with the nails you have, you know."

"Like what?" I asked suspiciously.

"Paint them."

"Oh...well, I can do that myself."

I skipped the forbidding mani/pedi and began devious diva plans by dragging my clan to the mall a week before my birthday, so that my entourage could help me pick out a new, enticing perfume for the date night (having just discovered that my man was so-so about the one I had been wearing). Inexperienced as I am in this, I caved in to sentimentality when I spied Elizabeth Arden Sunflowers in a perfume boutique. I jumped, clapped my hands like a simple girl, and exclaimed, "Ooh, you have Sunflowers?!" It wasn't even expensive, yet I had to have it. My brother Nate and sister Annie had bought it for my birthday when I was a teenager, and one spritz of that bright perfume took me straight back to Tennessee. Named as it is after big, yellow, happy flowers, its whole essence warmed me.

I knew a different, more expensive perfume was Matthew's favorite, so I asked with puppy-dog eyes and clasped hands, "Do you mind, Honey?"

He didn't. He understands I'm a sucker for nostalgia. I almost suggested we get both, but I wouldn't be greedy. So I dropped a hint about Christmas.

Afterward, I forced my peeps to shop for a pair of curvy jeans (because real divas have curves), and we spent in excess of $40 on the dark-washed, long-legged pair which made me feel quite naughty.

To top off a truly lovely, successful shopping trip, Matthew bought me a box of chocolates, all dark, and I stuffed some in my mouth before we even got home, as any self-respecting diva would.

***********************************

There was something about this birthday. I don't fully understand myself what slapped me silly over this number. 30 barely got a nod from me, but 35 felt important. I would like to say my desire for a special evening was because I wanted to celebrate years of continuous blessings, because my life has been just that, but it wasn't that pure. Insecurity pinched my brain, too.

With a recent promotion at work, Matthew has been traveling more and has attended some very nice work dinners with his fellow professionals in town and out of it. Those fancy dinners made me jealous, I'm sorry to admit. Were all of Matthew's decadent meals to be eaten with coworkers? Was I destined to become the boring, homebody wife, not quite a bona-fide writer, with whom he ate take-out pizza on the occasional Friday night?

That was why I requested the fancy restaurant, and I wanted him to choose it for me. I wanted pampering; I wanted romance; and I wanted to make memories together over our own delicious entrees. Plus, I had a little black dress, purchased on a whim months before, that I had yet to wear. It would be perfect.

My 35th was on a Saturday, and we were going out on Sunday night. Though there was a small misunderstanding about who was supposed to find the restaurant, by Friday afternoon Matthew had it all planned.

My husband snuck out of our bedroom Saturday morning and kept shushing the kids, but I had trouble sleeping in; I was too excited. Some minutes after I heard my family leave for the store, I went out to see the birthday sign my children had made for me. I picked out each contribution to the banner easily; they all have their own distinct artistic styles and color preferences. The sign was so beautiful that I sent my husband a praising text.

I was cleaning our house for the new babysitter when Matthew and the children walked in with flowers, balloons, and a very tall salted-caramel mocha, my favorite. As I sipped my skinny, decaf mocha with whipped cream, slowly getting the jitters, Matthew told one of the kids to retrieve a small bag for him from their toy cupboard. Inside was a bottle of J'adore, that other expensive, sensual perfume.

"You shouldn't have," I told him bashfully. "We're going out for that fancy dinner."

That afternoon he made my cake while I watched an old movie with the kids, and later I painted my nails a deep coral color and became so mesmerized by them that I held my hands out in front of me like a sleepwalker, admiring them wherever I went. Having been years since I last painted them, I forgot how pretty they could look.

That day I was joyful, and there could not have been a better finale to it than to eat the pumpkin-chocolate cake that is my forever birthday cake. It has veggies, chocolate and spices without yucky frosting to mess the glorious combination up. The recipe is HERE.

***************************

Matthew advised me to bring a shawl on our date. That was confusing. October in Phoenix is like June in other places. But I grabbed a fiery orange-red pashmina.

I had curled my hair, and for once it really turned out. It must have had something to do with that Freeze Hold hairspray I borrowed from my son. My new black dress, turquoise jewelry and older but sexy black heels complimented each other nicely. I did a smoky eye that didn't look like it'd been applied with a crayon and wore red lipstick.

We drove to Scottsdale and pulled up in front of Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. That was completely unexpected. Birthday confetti was thrown on our table. We had a veal ravioli appetizer that elicited sighs of satisfaction. We drank wine, and after one glass I was ready to sleep in that circular booth for a couple hours (it was already 8:30pm, after all), but then I ordered onion rings with my crab cakes - yes, onion rings - and they were the most delicious breaded onion slices I have ever had. Matthew and I both devoured them, and their wonderful seasoning perked me right up. The steamed mushrooms also were heaven, but the desert they brought with my name written beautifully in chocolate - in chocolate! - was truly divine.

Matthew took me on a short drive after the restaurant, and my anticipation and confusion grew as we slowly made our way up a manicured road to a golf club. It was deserted. As Matthew bent over his phone anxiously, I realized we weren't quite where we were supposed to be for the second act of our evening.

He soon found the place off a winding side street. It was a Hyatt Regency resort, hidden by gigantic palm trees, like sentinels in the darkness. Holding Matthew's hand as we threaded our way through the immaculate grounds and pristine lobby, I wondered why we were there. Were we going to see a jazz concert? Go dancing? Have another decadent chocolate desert? Were we getting a room?

Matthew asked the ladies at the concierge desk, "Where are the gondola rides?"

"You're taking me on a gondola ride?"

I felt a little weak in the knees.

The rides were in the small man-made lake behind the ridiculously ornate adult pool. Matthew had to jimmy the pool gate to gain access. Here more gorgeous, skyscraper palms marched beside the sparkling water. We turned a corner and spied the gondolier in his tell-tale striped shirt, black pants and mustache. Two couples were there before us, so we sat on the broad lip of a fire pit that sparked our clothes and smoked our hair, but its warmth was welcoming and romantic. I was grateful for it and the shawl and Matthew's encircling arm, despite the fact that he kept pinching my bum.

The enchantment increased when we heard the gondolier's powerful voice singing Italian somewhere over the water.

I was excited when out turn came, giggling over my difficulty in stepping down into the gondola with those shoes and that dress. We faced away from the gondolier who said after a minute, "So, obviously we're dating..."

I laughed. "We're married."

He asked if it was our anniversary. My birthday, I told him.

"I knew it must be special occasion. Both dressed to the nines."

He sang Happy Birthday to me, but I didn't recognize it - despite the fact that my name was mentioned - because it was sung slowly in Italian. We then told him we had been married 13 years, had two girls and two boys, and he told us of his own five boys and one daughter, the one his wife had been waiting for.

"Now, Hillary, where are you from?" he asked. He said I had an accent. Matthew and I laughed. I have been accused of having an accent all my life, but people are at a loss to place it. Am I French? Irish? Spanish? English? I've heard them all. I usually tell them Tennessee, and they respond skeptically, "Well, maybe that's it..."

Next he serenaded us with a charming Neapolitan song about kissing, explaining that in it a man was describing his girl's sweet little mouth with its cute pucker and how he couldn't resist it. It was performed so well in his clear tenor as we slid through that dark water beneath a crescent moon and stars, I was inspired and would have passionately kissed Matthew, but the gondolier was watching and seemed a little nervous we might get amorous.

As we stepped out at the end, he told us we didn't look old enough to be married 13 years with four kids, and I thanked him profusely, assuring him that we don't hear that often. Then Matthew and I strolled past the magnificent pool once more and through the rest of that grand resort, holding hands, headed home.

It was such a wonderful, unexpected gift from Matthew, the memory of how he surprised me with an idyllic gondola ride on my birthday. My 35th was really special, more so than this diva could have dreamed, thanks to my romantic man.

Etiquette Nazis

If you don't say "Bless you!" when someone sneezes in this house, you're likely to get cursed. Unless you're a guest, of course; then we'll generously make allowances for your pitiful rudeness while making faces behind your back.

The whole "Bless you!" thing isn't my pet peeve. It's Matthew's, my chivalrous husband. For years of our marriage, I suffered under his cruel tutelage as he lambasted me each time I didn't say bless you when he manfully sneezed. Now I'm so scared not to bless people that I nervously cry, "Bless you!" when anyone passes gas, coughs or burps in this house.

For quite some time I thought it was Matthew's upbringing that dictated this strange adherence to a, pardon me, somewhat out-of-date practice. I mean, really! When people used to say bless you in the Middle Ages it was because they thought you were likely going to die, and they wanted you to know they wouldn't harbor any grudges when you're poor sneeze-racked body was lowered into the ground. But as for my man's family, I soon discovered it wasn't actually their thing, because you can sneeze until you're blue in the face or go into a seizure around those fine people, and they wouldn't bless your disease-ridden cat. It's not because they don't care, I believe, but because they are simply far too pragmatic to think you might die from that common cold, dust inhalation or allergic attack.

Regardless from where Matthew's obsession with sneezing sympathy stemmed, I have now been well-trained and am stuck for life compulsively blessing strangers at the movie theater, whispering bless you at church during the priest's homily, and on frequent occasions when my bum kids won't take notice of my own sniffles, pitifully consoling myself with a, "Bless me..."

But don't pity me too much, I beg of you, for I have my own etiquette insanity that I have forcibly hoisted on my man in return. It's a little thing, really, and it goes like this: when I speak - no matter what nonsense I say - I demand a response of some sort. It can be a rhetorical question, an observation, or a simple statement, but you'd better acknowledge me. I blame my need for validation on the fact that I was the youngest and most ignorant of four kids. (I still am.) Even when I dramatically uttered cuss words in order to be heard, I was merely laughed at.

So, you see, I can say, "Meatloaf - it's what's for dinner!" and I expect my man to politely respond with an, "Umm, umm, good!" even though the guy can't stand meatloaf - not even with quality ketchup on it.

If I pointlessly comment on the duration of the hot weather here in town, I will burn holes in his head until he answers it with, "107? Yep, toasty."

Because I spend all day with a preschooler and most of the afternoon with arguing, school-weary children, I crave back-and-forth conversation and the assurance that I still have interesting things to say to adults without imitating the whining or shrieking tactics of my little ones. Therefore, I often end long discourses on the state of world affairs or thorny personal conundrums with a You know what I mean? or  You hear what I'm saying? in order to elicit the response I crave. Even with the most inane utterances on the most mundane things, I must have a response. It may seem like I am talking to myself when I muse, "I wonder why these plates overheat in the microwave?", but if you don't answer me, Bucko, one of them is likely to crash on your head.

All this reflection makes me wonder, though: is it good manners to force anyone save your own children to observe their manners? Is it right, for instance, to do what my four-year-old does a millisecond after he sneezes and yell indignantly, "No one said bless you!" before anyone had a chance to say it, or sarcastically mutter as my man has been known to do, "Thank you for all the bless yous..." or glare at my husband as I demand, "Well?" to get that assurance that he really is following every word I utter? In short, are etiquette Nazis all that polite?

Nope, we sure ain't. But if you do indeed die from that common cold, you can rest assured that you will have a thousand of our "bless you!"s to send you on your merry, blessed way.

Selfish

Tonight I finally made the muffins I've been meaning to mix up this whole week.

Not too many years ago, whenever my husband Matthew left for work, he always had a little baggie with some homemade goodie in it to take to work. Eating breakfast at his desk, other managers would find him, perhaps hoping for leftovers but always astounded by the fact that his wife would do such a thing for him each week.

"You're spoiled," they told him enviously.

I suspect my man just felt well-loved.

It's not surprising that acts of service is one of the languages illustrated in Dr. Gary Chapman's book The Five Love Languages. I recall reading a while back that it is a common one with men. They feel loved by an evening meal all ready when they walk in the door, a pot of coffee when they wake up in the morning, their favorite blueberry muffins to snatch on the go.

Sigh. I want to speak this love language, but I have a speech impediment called selfishness.

With each baby born into this family, the chance of a morning pastry became slimmer and slimmer. Yes, I was busy for quite some time with those little ones and royally exhausted, but now I think I don't bake as often because there are other things I would rather be doing: reading, studying, writing, and cleaning.

And that evening meal? Blah. I have never loved to cook savory food. I am not enchanted by new recipes I find on the Internet. I would be enchanted by eating them, because I love consuming interesting food, buuuut....if I were left to my own devices, if every man in this house had to fend for himself, I would likely have for dinner each night what I have for breakfast most mornings: cocoa with whole grain toast. I am not picky. I am a grazer, and if anything can save me from actually cooking (not baking, mind you), then it sounds good to me.

Selfishness.

As for that pot of coffee, I do indeed try to be good about that. But there has been many a morning when Matthew has woken up and asked, "What? No coffee?" I may have actually remembered to wash the pot and pour in some water, or I may have put coffee into the filter while waiting for water to drain through our pitcher, but somehow I didn't get the job done. And if by sure luck, a trick of the mind, I have completed all the steps, I will then forget to actually pour him a cup of coffee. Then, when I see him get up, I will attempt to bulldoze him out of the way to be the one to pour just so I can have the credit for being so loving.

Let me tell you, the guilt is killing me.

My kids know how to lay on guilt, but my man does it just as well.

And, honestly, I know it; I'm selfish.

When I am writing and my kids come to me for just a drink of water, I get irritated. If I am reading and studying, puzzling over some issue I'm trying to resolve or some newspaper article, I do not like to be disturbed, so I get very snippety at a mere question. When I am cleaning or cooking, and the kids ask me to play, I want to cry, "Why do you think God blessed you with siblings!"

Brother, I'm selfish. I feel burdened by it, convicted by my full awareness of it. But I don't know how to escape this nasty craving for time and peace and creativity and mental stimulation all for myself. And where in the name of all that is green on this green earth can I find that blasted balance? I want to feel good about what I am doing at every single moment - writing, reading, cleaning, being silly with my kids (though, actually, I usually feel good when doing that). I do not wish to feel that I should in fact being doing something better and for someone else, more noble and loving than what I have chosen. I'm guilty.

One day while beating myself in the head with a cheese stick during my Danny Sammy's post-nap tantrum, I complained to God, "This job is so aggravating (motherhood) - ag-gra-vat-ing! Why is it so hard?"

Then I felt a gentle but firm nudge to look at my blessings, to look at the healthy children and food and love that fill this house, and I promptly prayed, "Father, I'm sorry. Never mind. Thank you for all we are blessed with."

Damn, I have it good! Why am I so selfish?

How my life's great love affair is like an Austen romance

I don't think it's been evident here yet, but I'm a rabid Austen fan. I have a great friend, Holly - my very stylish. artistic friend - who supports me in my addiction, even so far as conspiring with me to drag our men to England for a literary tour.

Recently, I've been reading North and South, by Elizabeth Gaskell, on Holly's suggestion and watching the BBC series adaptation. It is a tale worthy of Austen, if not quite written with her flair and humor. It borrows heavily on the themes in most great love stories written in an age when society still believed in honor and God and character and men behaving as gentleman and women being ladylike. It's hero, Mr. Thornton, could stand proudly beside Mr. Darcy, Captain Wentworth, and Fairfax Rochester (Of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte) as his equals - tall, proud, passionate heroes skilled in making female readers admire them for their violent declarations of love to indifferent, strong-willed, highly-principled women.

And so I thought, Well, I have a romantic hero in my life, and, crying out loud, no one's more fit to be a spirited, opinionated, principled heroine than I am. How is our great love affair like an Austen/Bronte/Gaskell romance? Let me count the ways:

We met when he came to the country, I went to the city, and I became a governess to his ward (aka illegitimate child)

Actually....well, uh, no. My sister met him a few thousand miles away, and he thought she was quite pretty (the handsomest woman in the room, as Mr. Darcy would say), and she, married and blond, asked if he liked brunettes.

"Umm....why?" he wanted to know.

"I have a little sister," she told him. "She's a brunette."

And he thought, If the sister looks like this one, I'm in luck.

I was Proud and Prejudiced.

My sister Annie gave my number to a strange Texan so he could call me long distance? Boy, was I mad. My dad and I railed for half an hour about how "these things" never work out, while my mom stood to the side and said wisely, "You never know. Give it a chance. Let him call."

He did call, the bold guy, and I learned he was newly baptized Catholic, and I freaked out like any self-respecting Protestant would do for no good reason, wailing to my dad, "He's Catholic! A Catholic! Catholic!"

I was not handsome enough to tempt him

Once I got over my paranoia, for weeks we talked regularly, agreeing not to send each other our photographs. We planned to meet blindly for the first time in person at San Antonio. But I couldn't stand it, and I found the most unflattering picture of myself and sent it by the next post. It was a photo of me and my cousin, both with red eyes and disarrayed hair, and I was holding my pet bunny squashed against my face. The rabbit looked tame enough. I looked feral.

I thought the photo was an authentic representation and was utterly humiliated when Matthew told me in a subsequent phone conversation that he would now have to "wait and see" how I looked in person, whether I at least sometimes had decently coiffed hair, etc., and that he felt certain I had sent a bad picture on purpose.

I vowed, with my wounded pride, never to dance with him at a ball - even if he did ask me - while Dad, eager to marry off his youngest daughter so he would never again have to hear about her weird dreams, claimed I tried to sabotage the relationship before it could begin.

We first saw each other at a country ball, and there was an interfering middle-aged lady

Actually, it was a Mexican food restaurant, and - phew! - there was no chance of dancing, so my vow was safe. Matthew's friend had already informed him that I looked much better in person than I did in that atrocious picture. I could tell that Matthew thought so, too, as I walked by the pastry counter for our first romantic encounter.

We were with a large group of people, and one of them, a stout, well-meaning saleslady, told me over aperitifs  - right in front of my hero - that if our date didn't work out, she had a young relative to whom she would gladly introduce me.

I tried to be as changeable as possible

One day I flirted and was sweet and encouraged him, the next I acted as if friendship and respect were all he could gain if he worked hard. That's a woman's job; we do it well.

I wore a fancy gown, and he was speechless

We had a lunch date, and as soon as the door opened, I knew my power, one might say. He just stared. I was surprised by his reaction, because I had in no way engineered it. It was a simple cotton turquoise dress - no low bodice, satin or lace - that my sister had given me, a hand-me-down. I don't even think he knew why he liked it so much on me; it was just one of those magic moments.

There was a Wickham/Willoughby character

His name was Winters, a highly appropriate name, and he sold private planes for a living. He was dark, suave and debonair, had a fancy estate and an SUV with seat warmers that made me extremely nervous and fidgety on the drive home after our only date. Later, he told me that though he appreciated our stimulating, intelligent conversations, a man and woman should make "apple pie" together. He also asked if I shopped at Victoria's Secret and told me that Matthew had once robbed him of a valuable family living.

We were not suited.

Right before Matthew was to come visit at Christmas, I saw this man trying to ensnare another young lady at the mall and was reminded of how he had charmed me once. After climbing the escalator and calling mournfully, "Winters! Oh, Winters!" under the rain-spattered skylight, I got a sharp reproach from Dad for my silliness. So I murmured with a dignified air, "Go, go. I would not wish you back again." Or something like that.

Dad and daughter were close

My dad and I were buddies. We shared a love of writing, books, chocolate and nature and a passion for talking about God. Still, he did not say bitter-sweetly, "I could not have parted with you to anyone less worthy, Hillary, my dear." No, during Matthew's Christmas visit he suddenly announced, holding a wine glass aloft as if to celebrate, "Watch - these two will be married before the year is out."

I think he was ready to let go.

I had no family connections or fortune

I didn't even own a vehicle or know how to drive...mainly, because I had no money and failed my eye exam.

Though I didn't go sightseeing at his New Mexico family home with my kindly aunt and uncle after rejecting his hand, I did call his Acura "my car" on our second date touring his alma mater. I still don't know how that came about, but I was more embarrassed than Elizabeth on the beautiful grounds at Pemberley, I can assure you, and he teased me mercilessly.

There was a woman with a beautiful voice ready to take my place

An old girlfriend, she didn't call until a week after our wedding (oops - gave away the ending). A close escape, because I didn't want to resort to sticking my hat pin in her bum or pushing her into the nearest koi pond. Stooping to such unladylike tactics would surely have hurt my dignity. Any how, she had a beautiful genteel voice as she asked to speak to my husband, and he got on the phone and said as abruptly and bluntly as Darcy would have done, "I see you just met my wife."

I didn't refuse him but I tried to run away

He did not declare his love for me under a huge old tree or find me alone in the drawing room, because we didn't know where a drawing room was in Texas. Knowing my fondness for long country walks and exotic animals, he took me to the zoo. I noticed his heart beating wildly just before he proposed to me in a little sitting area by a large blue parrot. I tried to flee, crying, "No way! No way!" He kept a firm grip on my hand.

On our wedding day as we at last stood before the Catholic priest, his smile was more brilliant than Mr. Darcy's by far. But he always did have more of Bingley's jovial nature than Darcy's sternness.

****

But unlike the great literary heroes, Matthew never enthralled me with ardent words of undying passion or talk about his suffering. He never stalked the town piercing people with his intense gaze; no, I have to get him really, really mad for that. While dating he did tell me that he compared all women to me and couldn't find anyone like me, but to me that only meant he was still looking - to which I thought, Ha! Good luck, mister. I'm original, alright.

He's a true man, and I know very few who can speak about their feelings as well as women writers have them do in fiction...unless, of course, they're writers themselves. But he did give me his sports watch when I left San Antonio and swear he would give me anything in his possession (even the Acura?!). He also kept a token of me, a cheap little necklace I'd forgotten at his apartment; something I didn't find out until much later.

Once we got married, he found less use for words then before he'd won me. Now he communicates his adoration by smacking my fanny or squeezing my thighs while I'm cooking dinner. The only time he ever says pretty things spontaneously is...cough...never mind.

He has Thornton's business sense, Bingley's steady good nature and Darcy's reserve. He is nothing at all like Rochester...unless...well, there was that time he asked if I was willing to move to another state and be his mistress (I told him an emphatic No), and he did buy me an expensive bauble when we'd barely been together a month. But he's unique. He's my hero - tall, even-tempered (one of us should be), amiable, God-fearing and dark-haired as I knew he would be.

We're made for each other, Mr. Ibarra and I.

Three Funny Things, too

1) My husband had drawn a map to the soccer field on my van's dusty window, but when we showed up at the park, my daughter Ana wasn't even sure it was the right one. We turned away from a playground and circumnavigated a huge field where we stopped at every softball practice to ask if they were playing soccer, which they weren't. I was anxiously herding my four kids around with balls, scooters and tricycles, shouting for them to Come on!. Other moms stared after us, congratulating themselves that they did not have four kids, could tell a game of softball from a game of soccer, and could juggle a water jug, tricycle, purse and preschooler better than I could.

Eventually we spotted the soccer practice - right behind the playground at the entrance to the park. I told everyone to make a dash across the field as I waddled after, spilling the water jug on my cellphone and urging my littlest to use the legs God had given him. My stress level was high and the child-rearing karma so unbalanced that I wasn't surprised when I heard the squelch of my tennis shoe sinking in a mud pit before I hit the sidewalk.

Still, our 4,237th misadventure came to a close, and my daughter was finally reunited with saner, more patient people: her coaches.

2) I told my husband to have a good day at work.

"You, too," he replied with irony.

"Yeah," I said languidly, recalling soccer practice. But then I called after him, "I am going to have a great day. I believe it!"

I turned around, and my little Danny Sam, picking apart an orange slice, said matter-of-factly, "You'wre not going to have a great day. Thaz sad."

I threw my head back and laughed: The Ides of April, delivered by a three-year-old.

3) My littlest guy thinks his good looks are a gift to the world.

He looks up at me in the morning light with those big blue eyes and golden hair and I declare, "Danny, you're so handsome. I love your new haircut!"

He casually replies as he turns away, "You're welcome."


This list was loosely based on Clare Law's blog, Three Beautiful Things. I always enjoy visiting her site, because I never fail to be reminded to enjoy each day and to take the time to relish all the silly, cute, sweet, unusual and beautiful things my kids do - and to laugh at the misadventures. It's all about accumulating the laugh lines.

Matthew, not Gerald (how I traded a dream for my dreamboat)

I went to my ninth-grade prom for the food. Yes, I did. No surprise that I went stag, though it is a bit ironic considering I'm a girl.

Anyway, I got there expecting fancy fixings and was hugely disappointed with the trays of store-bought sandwich cookies, crackers and cheese. Pathetic. I was so discouraged by the offerings that when a boy actually asked me to dance, I replied grumpily, "Isn't that your girlfriend over there? Why don't you dance with her?"

My parents later asked how I enjoyed the dance. I responded with a tirade about the poor buffet. They laughed. So many times in my childhood they laughed...with me, of course; I was a merry child.

You see, as a teenager when I got only measly professions of so-so admiration while boys groveled at my sisters' feet, I was fine with it, because I was sure I would someday marry my perfect man. I wasn't thinking so much about good looks, adventure or stability. I was thinking about food and the avoidance of a certain kind of labor. For the perfect man for me, I was certain, was a French Chef named Gerald, or Gerard.

Why a French Chef named Gerald? Well...

Chef - because I needed to eat decently, something which I've always loved to do

French - well, aren't they the best? Why eat simply decent when you can eat extravagantly? Cheers!

Gerald - there's no good reason

As a child I was never at my mother's elbow learning how to cook. I was, however, at her elbow to ask when food would be ready, to snag a pinch of pastry dough, swipe some noodles, or to purloin a spoonful of pancake batter.

My sisters told me that I had the appetite of a horse, and I don't think they meant it as a compliment. It would have been practical, burdened with such a love of food, to want to learn the art of cooking. And I should have. My only excuse is that our kitchen was always so hot, and it seemed to be a place where by-standers were expected to work at preparing food or cleaning dishes.

I did eventually discover that I could make chocolate chip cookies - my one culinary skill. If push came to shove, I could subsist on cookies, canned Bean w/ Bacon soup and green beans, and bananas until I met Chef Gerald.

Then when I was twenty, I bungled the dream. I fell in love with a handsome business professional named Matthew, and he firmly believed in the adage Give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, he'll eat for a lifetime. So he prepared his mom's spaghetti for me one evening; then he gave me the recipe. We got married and lived happily ever after a few months later.

Except....

six days a week for that first year of marital bliss we dined on microwaved potatoes, Tuna Helper and frozen pizza. On the seventh day we ate spaghetti and chocolate chip cookies.

Now almost thirteen years on in our union, things aren't that bad in the sustenance department. We eat plenty of fruits and vegetables, raw fruits and vegetables. When we feel creative we steam them (not the fruit). I have learned I can work a bit of magic with most things that require batter. Life would be easy if supper could be whipped up every night and poured into a mold, or if it could be breakfast fare - pancakes, biscuits, waffles, eggs. I can happily make breakfast for dinner every day, but I have to exercise caution in my zeal. Every once in a while, I see the look in my Man's eyes, hear the panicked cry of, "Hold the breakfast! Please!" 

It's just too bad that I was never at my mother's elbow, that I never learned to be a martyr of meal-planning. I preferred to be out running in nature, writing mysteries with a eye-patch-wearing-girl-detective, or even cleaning dishes to the tiresome business of putting two savory ingredients together. That's why this past Valentine's Day, the options for dinner were waffles, spaghetti or pizza. We ate pizza (for the memories, of course).

Yes, cooking should be a labor of love, and how I love my Man and my kids!

But every now and then - once or twice a day - I do wish I had a very altruistic cooking friend, Chef Gerald, in my life.

Knee-highs and Flannel

"Are those my pajama bottoms? Yay! Throw them to me!" I exclaimed.

Matthew was folding laundry when I spotted my faded flannels with little snowflakes on them. I couldn't help but be excited. I'm used to being warm in the Arizona desert, and the nights have gotten brisk lately - about 65 degrees. I thought all my leg cozies were dirty, so I was more than happy to trade my shorts for the pjs.

"What...these sexy things?" asked my Man sarcastically, pitching them to my chair.

This is how honesty happens: a woman betrays her love for her flannel pjs, and the man in her life says what he really thinks before he can help it.

"What's wrong with my flannel pjs? You don't like them, do you?" Then I added accusingly, as if he were insulting my best friend, "You've never liked them, have you?"

"They're alright. I get why you like them - they're warm - but why don't you go and get something nice to sleep in for my Christmas gift this year?" Smile, wink-wink.

Ah, this was bad! He was giving up the hope of snazzy electronics, polo shirts and dangerous tools to bribe me into buying more attractive sleepwear! It was enough to make me re-evaluate the appeal factor of knee-high socks and old soccer shorts, another bedtime ensemble of mine in which I'm certain I look absolutely adorable.

It's unfair. I'm sure men in arctic climates are happy with less...or more. When their lovely, hardy wives pull off their insulating layers of down, seal blubber and deer skin at the end of the day, I'm sure those men feel the heat at that first peek of long johns underneath. It's only because I live somewhere that doesn't know the true heart of "winter" that I am expected to dress to impress even while I sleep.

Okay, I'll be fair. It's important to care about what your spouse thinks. My Man grew his moustache ten years ago, because I like facial hair on men. I'm wearing a sexy, red dress to his company Christmas party this year, despite some reservations, because he loves it on me. And one of the first things I did when we married was to dig out all his long jean shorts and ask that he give them away, asap. When he told me he hates Capri pants on a woman, I stopped wearing them.

Because I absolutely want to be appealing to the love of my life, just as he does for me.

But I love my flannel pjs and knee-high socks like I could never love a pair of Capris. It's just possible that if I give them up, I'll end up growing out my leg hair for warmth each winter.

So there's the rub - the bristly, cold rub. Sure, I'll find and wear a chemise (Elizabeth Taylor, Cat on A Hot Tin Roof) to our winter bed IF I can wear knee-high socks, flannel bottoms or woolly legs beneath it.

Who's the sex kitten? Uh, the woman with hairy legs in that satin negligee. Yeah, baby!

Fried and True

When my husband and I first got married he knew how to cook his mom's spaghetti, cornbread, cube steak and also tuna helper, and I knew...well, I knew how to make cinnamon-chocolate chip cookies. We were meant for each other.

For that first year we ate lots of frozen pizza and tuna and baked potatoes in the microwave - uh, microwaved potatoes, I guess - and cookies. Anyway, one night we thought we'd get creative and have hot dogs. And my husband trusted the woman who thought "sweet things" was a major food group to make them.

I went into the kitchen, got a frying pan out, and decided to make those hot dogs the way my family used to take them. I split them down the center, heated some oil in the pan, and splayed the dogs open-faced in it. I waited until they were nicely curled at the ends and seared to perfection.

I brought the finished product in a bun to my husband, and I was completely insulted by his horrified expression after all my hard labor.

"What the heck is this? What'd you do?"

"I fried them."

"Fried them?!"

I tried to explain to him about cultural influences, culinary ingenuity, and honored family traditions, but while I was talking he went to find a sauce pan and boiled himself a new hot dog. Therefore, I didn't have an opportunity to tell him about my barbecued bologna heritage, but I figured that was a revelation best saved for the future.

These many years later, I no longer fry hot dogs, and I don't even eat bologna unless I'm visiting relatives. I won't touch Tuna Helper, but I do feed frozen chicken nuggets to my kids occasionally. I know how to make cornbread, spaghetti and cube steak - ha! I'm crazy about spices, and if it were possible to OD on cinnamon and nutmeg, I would have gone to re-hab years ago. Our family eats lots of raw fruit and steamed or grilled veggies, but I still microwave the potatoes.

I've learned, sadly, that one can't bake a whole meal. I think it goes without saying that hot dogs are best left out of the frying pan. But please don't doubt the great and growing ambitions I have in the realm of my kitchen, because you can bet ya that one day I'll realize them when I get over my fear of raw meat, sharp knives and French cooking. Maybe someday soon I'll even share the few good recipes here that I execute easily and well.

Until then I'm sending you over to A Lady in France. She shares easy recipes (French recipes!) like this ONE, and she also tells wonderful stories like this ONE. Today, she happens to be sharing Part Two of a captivating story about Paris written by Daniel Hylton, my dad.

As for me, I must get cooking, literally. Tonight I'm making grilled chicken, Parker House rolls, and sweet potato souffle. Haha, so there, and wish me good luck!

39 Years

My beautiful, headstrong mother had just barely turned 18 when she married an even stronger-willed, intellectual man of 19 in 1973. My parents both wished they could have been married a couple of months earlier, but my grandfather sent Mom to visit some relatives in Canada that summer in order to give the couple time apart. According to my maternal grandfather, Dad showed up nearly every day at their house in Idaho, wanting to know when his bride was returning.

Maybe Grandpa thought things had moved too fast, because by their third date Dad told Mom that he loved her. Though her initial response was a hesitant, "I like you alot, too," they were soon engaged.

Both my parents said the wedding was a blur because of stress, jitters and family drama. Dad said he only remembered going in for the kiss and the walk together back up the aisle.

The fact that my mother was so stressed was largely due to the fact that she didn't wear her dream dress. She had purchased her dress months before at a small bridal boutique. When she returned from her Canada trip, she went to collect it, and the dress was brought out to her. Only it wasn't Mom's dress at all. It was an entirely different style and two sizes too big. The unscrupulous shop owner asserted rather awkwardly that it was indeed the right dress, but my mom, horrified and too angry for words, knew the truth: the woman had sold her dress to someone else, probably because they offered to pay extra, while she was away.

There was no time to find another, but Mom was marrying the love of her life. So she took the dress that the shop owner offered her with no hope of having it altered. It is obvious in the pictures that the dress is too large, but she is radiant, and her exquisite veil is perfect against her lovely, clear skin and soft brown hair.

At least her going-away dress, the one my father bought for her, was her own choice. She wore it when they left the church in Dad's truck for their simple honeymoon. No one, I believe, would call Council, Idaho exotic.

As my parents gradually built their life together - having children, growing spiritually, forging careers, pursuing dreams, and eventually settling in Tennessee - they would not have any opportunity for exotic trips. Unless you count St. Louis with kids in tow. I complain that my husband and I have never gotten away yet, but my parents went years together with nary a date.

For their anniversary each year, we kids used to put on a song and dance show, directed by my big sister Vinca, to honor and entertain them. I remember them coming home in the summer evening from work, exhausted. We always had a homemade sign high on the wall with an exuberant and colorful, Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad! They sat down in their adjacent arm chairs and held hands as we came out in our costumes - Hawaiian shirts one year for Beach Boys' songs, miscellaneous stuff for a Wizard of Oz theme, etc. - and tried our best to be cute and talented in order to remind them, Who needs a night out when you have four such adorable children?

My mom told me recently that one year they did try to have a romantic picnic at a lake for a change, but all the fish in the lake had died. You couldn't get within half a mile; the stench was so terrible. So they came home and spread a blanket on the living room floor for their romantic lunch. You do what you have to do, in the spirit of the occasion, and it's easier when you truly love each other.

Only in the last several years have my parents had grand adventures in faraway places. My mother is one of the foremost diamond salespeople in the country, so her company sends her to a luxury resort every year, usually in some tropical place. And my big brother sent them on a trip to Paris more than a year ago, giving them some of the best days of their life together, or so they told me. Of course, I did venture to think before that disclosure that having us four kids constituted the best days of their lives. But I have yet to see Paris, so what do I know?

As a young man my dad prayed that God would guide him to the right woman for a wife, and he jokes that God brought him the one woman saintly enough to put up with him. To his delight she also happened to be beautiful, steady, gracious and optimistic. She sees him for the intelligent, talented, passionate and temperamental guy he is. They're still chasing their dreams together and looking forward to their 40th anniversary next year.

My anniversary wish for my wonderful parents is that they will someday return to Paris and enjoy more of their best days in that city of lovers that suits them so well.

Odd

Last night I was comparing Luke Skywalker to George Washington, and I caught the look in my Man's eye. That look, dammit! I'd know it anywhere, because I've seen it in the eyes of my fellow humans a few thousand times in my life. I'd seen it in his family's eyes and the eyes of my own kin - what on earth? Where'd that come from? Did she just say that? In public? Before us? Before strangers? Why is she still talking? The look said, to be brief, She's weird.

Did your siblings ever tattle on you for being weird when you were a kid? No? Mine did. "Mom! Dad! She's acting strange again!" To be fair, it was warranted. I was the one talking aloud to herself with accompanying hand gestures. The kid pretending a tiny vial of sample perfume was my secret agent communication device, and I'd run around the corner to have a classified conversation with my handler - when I was 12. I was the girl who sang to the boy she liked while he was standing in line for recess with all his friends in sixth grade. Good thing I was odd AND confident.

My best friend in grade school got me a birthday present, a key chain that proclaimed, "I'm not Weird! I'm Gifted." Well, I'd like to say that that is true, but so far there's been no evidence to support the gifted assertion. And I've gotten used to the periodic looks of weird from my family, friends and strangers. I can even shrug them off, explain to myself that they don't understand my special point of view, but the one person who can never give me the look or say the words is my Man. It hurts. He promised to love and adore me the way I am - forever and ever, I Do. Weird, warts, and all.

So last night when the kids had gone to bed, I gave him a talking to. He denied the look (probably remembering my tirade when he had actually said, "You're Weird," to my face a few years ago), wearily claimed he didn't remember thinking what must have inspired it. In my turn I told him that if he's irritated by what I have to say, he should come up with his own contributions to the conversation.

He responded rather disdainfully, "Star Wars is not my thing."

"Well, don't give me the look then."

He looked away.

I let him off with just the warning.

I remember a conversation he and I had a week or so ago inspired by some television show. I said, "If we had known each other as kids, you wouldn't have had anything to do with me. I was too strange. You wouldn't have liked me."

"No, you wouldn't have liked me."

"Sure, I would. I would have tried to be your friend, but I would have scared you off."

"You would have found me too boring," he asserted.

There was a pause as we looked at each other with something like mutual admiration and embarrassment, and then we burst out laughing. Because it was true, of course. We wouldn't have gotten on together then, oil and water personalities. But somehow as adults it works out, A strange girl and her quiet, steady guy.

As long as he never, ever says I'm weird.