So This Is Love

As much as I love decorating things with hearts, Valentine's Day tends to come and go around these parts with little to no acknowledgement. I don't think Andy and I have even exchanged Valentine's Day cards since our first Valentine's Day together. It's not that I don't like the idea of a day set aside for remembering to say your "I love you"s, but this day always slips away into "just another day" despite my best intentions to bake cupcakes or something heart-shaped in honor of the day.

To be honest, Valentine's Day 2013 has to be one of my least romantically inclined V-days of all. For some reason, back in December when I made the appointment, I thought it would be a really good idea to schedule my annual doctor exam for February 14. And let me tell you, there's nothing like a pap smear to really knock the romance right out of you. 

My annual exams tend to be pretty dull affairs (as they should be when one is in their twenties!), but it appears that I may have a monstrous case of white lab coat syndrome which has lead to my blood pressure readings creeping up with each passing year. This time, instead of being sent home with a clean slate of health, I was given instructions to keep a blood pressure diary over the next couple weeks to make sure my high blood pressure readings are simply the result of the clinical setting.

I'm not terribly concerned that I actually suffer from hypertension, although considering that after last year's appointment where my blood pressure first indicated hypertension, I went out to lunch with my mother and ordered a kielbasa with sauerkraut on a pretzel roll with a diet Pepsi, obviously, I could be making better choices regarding my blood pressure and cardiac health.

Andy doesn't share my ambivalence to the whole situation and within an hour of my reporting that he'd have to take my blood pressure about three times during the next week, he'd already found a blood pressure cuff to borrow and arranged a meeting with a medical buddy to learn how to use it.

So no, my Valentine's Day wasn't filled with red roses, chocolate, or love songs. Instead, it was filled with caring and care.

It reminds of a couple from our neighborhood who have weathered many a medical emergency together. Last year, when the wife was receiving care for several weeks at a clinic about 6 hours away, the husband drove down to bring her home each weekend, a total of about 24 hours of driving time for him!

 "Now that's love," another neighbor said when I told him about this couple's weekend trips home.

Actions speak louder than words and often the least romantic actions come from a place much nearer to a heart than any stereotypical Valentine's Day gesture.

Baby, you can take my blood pressure.

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The Truth About Deer Season

Life is full of surprises. If, just a few years back, you'd told me that deer season would be a pivotal moment in my life each autumn, I would have laughed you out of town.

But life with Andy means life with deer season and I think I've transitioned into my role as deer season widow rather seamlessly. I've learned to like venison. I've learned to make a mean sausage.

But I'm still learning. The take away lesson from Deer Season 2012 to date is that deer season doesn't really start on the date determined by the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. (Which, for the record, the firearms deer season begins on November 3 this year and goes until sunset on November 18.) No, deer season actually starts on some arbitrary date in early October.

And that makes some of the cabin inhabitants very happy indeed. 

 

A couple weeks back, Andy proposed a spontaneous overnight trip down to "the big city" to "get away for a little while." Our night "out on the town" ended with us sitting in our hotel room, eating potato chips and ice cream purchased from a gas station because we were both too exhausted to actually go out. By early the next morning it was apparent that Andy's true motivation for the trip wasn't really fun and games. Nope, the trip was strictly business. He wanted to pick up a new rifle and scope in time for deer season. (See above).

  

I really had no idea what happens when your significant other buys a new deer rifle. 

Here's what happens:

Suddenly your significant other starts picking you up from work all the time. But instead of heading home, you end up in a gravel pit or a shooting range so he can sight in his rifle - aka shoot the gun a gazillion times, while making minor adjustments to his scope to make sure the rifle shoots accurately. Your job? Using your keen eyesight and the spotting scope (at left in picture above) to tell him where he hit the target after each shot. This continues until it's nearly dark and the smiles of the picture below are distant memories.

Once the rifle is sighted in, you'll breathe a sigh of relief. . . only to realize that it's time to start scouting for deer season. This means your significant other still picks you up at work, but this time you get to crash through the dense forest until twilight, following skinny little deer paths, watching for buck signs such as scrapes and rubs, all while you're still wearing your work shoes.

Each evening, about 9 p.m., your significant other will announce that it's time for a "deer drive." These exploits usually take .5 - 1 hours and involve driving slowly down the road, watching for wildlife along the shoulders. You'll see foxes, bunnies, even a raccoon, and plenty of deer, and every time you see a buck during one of these drives, your significant other will be so excited that he'll chatter incessantly until you've both stayed up way too late. 

Oh, does it sound like I'm complaining? 

While I'd be lying if I said deer hunting didn't try my patience at times, I'm not so selfish that I don't see the value of Andy wanting to share one of his favorite times of the year with me. There may be times when my eyes glaze over when he goes on (and on) about rifle and scope characteristics. There are most definitely times when I wish I had more appropriate footwear on. But the truth about deer season is that I don't mind that much. There's a gentle lulling quality to our deer drives together and I'm happy to support Andy in his excitement and ambition this time of year.

Life is full of lessons and surprises.And I'm still busy relearning October and November as the partner of a deer hunter.
 

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That Time I Forgot I Was In a Relationship . . .

Sometimes I forget I'm in a relationship. It's no big deal. It's not like I'm running around having affairs. I just sometimes make decisions that really should require both our points of view all by myself.

This winter I was so busy dreaming of this: 

Croagh Patrick - Ireland's Holy Mountain

County Mayo back road

Southern Clew Bay at tide out - Clare Island in the distance

That I failed to considered how Andy might feel about me jetting off to a foreign country for a week and a half this coming April.

You see, there's part of me that still feels like that headstrong, strings free, recent college grad who boldly makes her own decisions without any considerations beyond self. Back in those days, I jetted off to London for six months without a second thought and once I was back in the States, I took not one, but two vacations within the year: a weekend in Vegas and another in Seattle. Considering my uncertain employment status back then, all that jetting around on a whim wasn't exactly fiscally advisable and now that I think of it, I was in a failing long-term relationship when I started (but not when I ended) my stint in London.

So maybe I've just always been selfish and far too willing to sacrifice the health of my relationships for something I want. Erm . . . that's kind of an uncomfortable thought. 

I'm not sure we millenials were well conditioned for relationships. As children of the 90s, we were taught we could have whatever we want and not to let anything stand in our way. This was especially true for girls of my generation. (Hello girl power!) As a generation trained to take life by the balls, relationships, which really do require give and take, can be baffling at times. So what happens when an aggressively independent generation enters into relationships? 

I should say that Andy and my relationship isn't exactly hard work. It's really too best friends shacking up together. But like any relationship, it's still a balancing act as we learn and respond to each others' wants and needs. Decisions like moving, large purchases, or even switching jobs work best when we make them together, or at least discuss them at length. Despite still keeping separate finances, the line between yours and mine has blurred over the course of this nearly four -relationship.

We have plenty of shared interests to keep everyday life together amusing and far from dull. But I see no reason to let go of our unshared interests either. In fact, considering the amount of time we spend together in a small cabin in a very rural area, I think it's okay if our interests and priorities pull us apart briefly every once in a while. It helps keep the cabin aired out, you know?

 If Andy doesn't care to go to the Cities to take in a "Broadway Across America" performance, that's fine, I'll go by myself. If Andy's saving priority isn't a trip to Ireland, that's fine, I'll pinch my pennies and go without him.

You know, I'd feel bad about up and leaving Andy next spring, but currently Andy's working six days a week so he can bank extra days off to use during this fall's deer season. . . .

Maybe I'm not forgetting I'm in a relationship. To each his own, right?

 

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Pie Confessions

So here I sit, sinking my teeth into a bite of banana creme pie leftover from my birthday. I do like me some banana creme pie and I haven't had it in years, but there's another reason why I requested it when my mom asked me what sweet treat I'd like for my birthday. I requested banana creme pie because Andy said he didn't like it.

You see, I'm usually a key lime pie sort of girl when it comes to birthday treats. But apparently Andy is a key lime pie sort of boy and whenever there's a key lime pie in the house, it has a mysterious way of disappearing. When I go into the fridge, expecting to find a third of a key lime pie, I find the plastic wrap all akimbo over the pie plate and a miniscule piece of pie with fork tine grooved sides tipped over in a pile of crust crumbs.

It's no secret that Andy and I are good eaters. Despite being 8 inches shorter and many pounds lighter than Andy, I can often match Andy bite for bite during meals. ((Bless you, metabolism.) But that all changes when everything gets tucked in the fridge and the kitchen light goes out for the night. Andy is the kind of person who thinks nothing of going into the fridge "after hours" to scoop out cold forkfuls of whatever he pleases. If he's especially fond of whatever was cooked for dinner, he'll eat it for breakfast and lunch the next day.

This "no rules" eating shocked me in the early days of our relationship. How could a 9x13 pan of lasagna, enchiladas, or what have you, be gone in less than 24 hours? I was raised in house where dinner was, and still is, a structured event. Leftovers were expected to be reheated and served for dinner at a later date and under no circumstances were you to eat those leftovers before that designated date unless you were specifically invited to. But when I moved in with Andy, leftovers go a lot less civilized. I learned that if you wanted a second piece, by gum, you were going to have to fight for it.

Things have calmed down a bit as we enter our late 20s. Entrees that used to last mere hours, now stretch out over two or three days.  Still, it's not unusual for me to grab the doggie bag I brought home the night before and find 2/3 of the contents gone when I go to eat it at lunchtime.

They say it's a dog eat dog world out there, but around here, it's boyfriend eat doggie bag world.

For my birthday this year, I wanted a truce. I wanted a temporary end to the angry squealing that ensues when I opened up the fridge door and viewed the latest leftover carnage. So here it is, four days after the pie's creation and I'm polishing off the final piece of banana creme pie on my schedule.

Honestly, this whole banana creme pie has been kind of dull. It's not much fun not sharing and anymore I think food tastes better when you've used wile to obtain it.

But never fear, the leftover games begin again tomorrow.

 

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I Am Not The Doctor

"You see it's too much to ask for and I am not the doctor." -Alanis Morissette

You've probably figured this out already, but just in case there's any confusion about this fact, let me clarify: I am not a doctor.

Shocking, I know.

The college I attended is well known for being a nursing school -- so I went ahead and got a liberal arts degree from them . . . see above comment about not being a doctor -- and when people ask what college I attended, but don't bother following up to ask about my degree or career, they sometimes assume I'm a nurse.

Okay, stop laughing.

(Oh, and for the record, Alpha Chi actually was the name of the dorm hall I lived in during college. While Alpha Chi once was a sorority at my school, the sorority ended long before my time when someone died, but the name lived on. Sorry, no sorority sister stories here!) 

While I have a couple brilliant friends who just graduated with their M.D.s (Congrats Sandi and Donna!), I am not a doctor, or a nurse, for a myriad of reasons. Namely, while I consider myself a patient, understanding person, I don't have a whole lot of empathy for those feeling a little under the weather. In fact, on Friday I was accused of "not having a sympathetic bone in my body." Harsh, but probably true.

Andy's not been feeling well lately and every time I pass the bedroom door and spy him lying, pale-faced under the crumpled comforter, it takes me clenching every nerve in my body not to bellow into the room, "SUCK IT UP!"

While Andy would most likely fluff up my pillows, bring me a cool washcloth to lay across my feverish forehead and make some homemade chicken broth to spoon into my mouth if I were ill, I just usually toss a glass of flat 7-Up at the ill person and ask repeatedly if they're feeling any better yet.

I have vivid memories of my father lying on his back on the living room floor when I was little, suffering his way through the flu without any painkillers. I come from a family that, unless you count a genetic disposition for high cholesterol, doesn't get sick too often. A head cold is usually about as ill as we get and that's something you can just power through as long as you have enough Kleenex at hand. We deal it by not dealing it. Whenever someone consistently complains of headaches or backaches or heartaches, or any aches, I usually start to think the person's a hypochondriac.

Sometimes my "we all deal with crappy stuff . . . get over it!" attitude just isn't what an ailing person wants to hear. And sometimes, yes, I wish I had a little more of a "Chicken Soup" outlook on life.

But I am not the doctor.

Still, feel better Andy.

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Bachelor Food

Before we started dating, Andy assumed I couldn’t cook.

Whenever conversation turned to food during those early days when we were working together and getting to know each other, I’d usually eaten one of the following for supper the night before: spaghetti with jarred marinara sauce, rice with veggies, or peanut butter and jelly toast. My diet all through college and the years immediately following graduation consisted of meals that could be made in 15 minutes or less and generated as few dishes as possible.

While I’m still no gourmet, I was a decent cook and baker by the time I embarked for college. But given the choice of whipping up a pan of spinach lasagna or ordering Chinese takeout and heading out to the movies, I’d always choose the latter. There was just too much going on in those days of experimental adulthood to crank out culinary achievements more advanced than chocolate chip cookies on semi-regular basis.

I got to thinking about the phenomena of “bachelor food” yesterday, as I cranked out an old bachelor food standby for lunch: an egg sandwich with bacon and ketchup on toast. While I love me a good egg sandwich, when I sit down each week to figure out a tentative weekly dinner menu so I know what to buy at the grocery store, I have never once written “egg sandwiches” down as a menu item. No one ever plans to make an egg sandwich. It’s one of those things you eat when no one else is around.

I once read a newspaper column in which the author professed meals he ate while his wife was out of town consisted of unheated Pop-Tarts and a glass of tepid water. And remember in Sex and the City when Miranda managed to eat almost an entire 9x13” chocolate cake in a single evening? Left to our own devices, there’s no knowing what we might consider a “decent meal.” No wonder we’ve all been trained to be afraid of singlehood!

Does a relationship really prompt us to eat better? Everyone seems to expect newly married men to gain a few pounds in that first year of marriage. And nothing quite wilts the egg sandwich’s appeal than eating it as a meal in company.

When someone else is around, it seems we clean up our act. We add meatballs to the marinara sauce. The rice and steamed veggies turn into a Thai-inspired stir fry. We don’t mind how the dishes stack up because there’s always someone to guilt into help with clean up. We remember our palates like complex flavors. Suddenly we have a hard time imagining eating toast for dinner.

But as soon as I’m left alone for a night? Heck yes, I’m having a big bowl of pasta tossed with parmesan cheese and butter for supper. That’s right. Not even an accompanying salad or vegetable.

Maybe none of us are as far removed from our cavemen ancestors as we might like to think.

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The Grasshopper and the Ants

We all know the fable about the grasshopper and the ants. Lately at the cabin, it’s been feeling like we’re both the grasshopper and the ants. We’re trying to bring home the bacon and still have lazy long mornings to eat the bacon (with toast and hash browns and eggs, of course).

All week, the bay has been filled with the sounds of summer vacationers and visitors. Motor boats buzz in and out of the bay, vehicles are always passing by on the windy gravel road behind the cabin, and there are plenty of shrieks and splashes come from the neighbors’ docks as people of all ages jump into the warm lake water. It looked like so much fun. Even with full time jobs and various other commitments, we figured if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. With a week straight of warm sunny days, why not pretend we were on summer vacation, just like everyone else.

So we went fishing in the evenings. (That’s unadulterated excitement in Andy’s eyes.)

I took touristy shots of moose on my way home.

We had picnics and toasted ginormous marshmallows.

Now the weather is clouding over and I’m starting to feel like a guilty little grasshopper. I wonder if I could have spent my time in a slightly wiser manner. After all, yesterday evening was devoted to the pursuit of making a blueberry pie. After supper Andy and I went out in the woods to gather the six cups of blueberries we needed for pie filling and returned home to throw together a pie: I made the crust, Andy did the filling. (Easy as pie?) There are no pictures of aforementioned pie because it was inhaled (with the help of 10 people) about fifteen minutes after it came out of the oven. Maybe I should have spent my time doing something more lasting . . . .

But then, if there isn’t time for fishing, or wildlife gazing, or ginormous marshmallows or eating warm, fresh blueberry pie, what is there time for? Happiness springs in many things, most of them little and few of them stem solely from the grand culmination of hard work and dreams come true. Hard work buys us contentment and security, which in turn probably makes us more susceptible to happiness, but we have to be on the lookout for happiness all the while we’re heading down the road to “dreams come true.” If we never acknowledge happiness, how will we know it when we see it?

Remember in Wicked when Glinda sings: 'Cause getting your dreams, it's strange, but it seems a little - well – complicated. There's a kind of a sort of : cost. There's a couple of things get: lost. Despite the virtue of being a little worker ant, sometimes we overlook what the grasshopper had to teach us too. The grasshopper might not have been great at keeping food on the table, but he sure knew how to keep his heart full.

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Night Owls vs. Early Birds

We’ve all heard that opposite attract. I always thought that statement meant extreme opposites. And if we’re talking extremes, Andy and I aren’t very opposite. We’re the same age, grew up in the same town, were in the same second grade class, and worked the same job one summer. And we both grew up eating tofu. How much more similar could it get?

But after a while, you realize that any relationship is made up of little opposing views and practices. Andy likes to have MPR, music, and maybe a movie all playing at the same time. He’s not too picky about what he eats or where stuff gets left around the cabin. I have a fairly low clutter tolerance for both noise and physical stuff. Andy seems to thrive in the very chaos I detest.

Over time, I’ve learned that a day is ruined by letting the dishes stack up or letting the dishes stack up. Of course, some differences we have yet to reconcile, like my unbridled hatred for Prairie Home Companion or Andy’s need to open a new jar of salsa every time he has tortilla chips.

Yet, by far the hardest difference we deal with every day is the fact that Andy wakes up feeling like this:

While I roll out of bed, looking like this:

By the time evening rolls around, I’m feeling much better:

But Andy’s fading fast:

I have read so many accounts from successful writers who get up at 4 or 5 in the morning so they can get a few hours of writing in before they head off to their day job or other obligations. I have tried to be the early bird writer and I’ve had some success with it, but I need so much coffee to get my eyes to focus at 5:30 am that it doesn’t seem worth the expense in coffee beans. So I take heart that Peter Bowerman say in his book The Well-Fed Writer that a big part of why he’s a freelance writer is so he can start his day at 10 in the morning. I’m not fond of sleeping entire mornings away and I like to get up and at ‘em at a decent hour. I generally have pretty productive mornings, but it’s the end of the day when I’m the most functional.

So when I’m getting my last punch of energy, Andy’s thinking it’s high time to turn in for the night. At an earlier stage in our relationship, it seemed as though our sleep schedules should be compatible. Now it seems silly for us to get up and go to bed at the same times. If one of us is awful in the mornings and the other is cranky and ineffectual in the evening, why would we choose to spend those precious moments together?

Now sometimes when Andy goes to bed, I stay up to read or get some knitting done. I like bringing the day to a quiet close after all the necessary tasks are completed. In the morning, Andy does his internet surfing and coffee making without me complaining (much) about the dirty dishes. Sometimes even the most compatible opposites need to beat to their own drummer.

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