From Bliss and Blisters (In the Making)...
Written shortly after our wedding, i.e early marriage/prebaby-- after moving to Sacramento. Maybe early Spring 2009.
"We are snacking on cold waffle bits from this morning’s breakfast out of a plastic baggy. The crickets in the two gecko tanks behind me are completely still and completely quiet, which is completely unusual. I think they might be coming up with a plan, via group telepathy, of course, to escape the certain death-by-giant-reptilian that mercilessly awaits them. They’re just standing altogether on top of the mock rock cave and half log that the bumpy, green ladies hide in, just standing there… being bugs. Bugs are eerie, especially when covered in calcium powder and standing so still they’re disinteresting to the cat. I am desensitized to cricket death. This is probably the fault of Hollywood. When we first got the geckos, before we were married, we would morbidly watch them pounce, pulverize, and attempt to swallow with brittle, twitching cricket legs hanging out of their mouths. I’ve always silently been grateful that the human process is more graceful and civil, at least from the point of the grocery store on. My husband is in the kitchen, gracefully making hamburger helper. I have to “remind” him to make a vegetable too… In real life, gravy’s not a vegetable.
“You’ve never had this stuff before?” he asks reasonably stunned.
I almost always play sous chef to his lead, trying to work quickly and help him stress about the timing of dinner a little less. Ninja Kitchen Jill works quickly and silently- putting perishables away, clearing the counter as he works, cleaning a pan or utensil, and always putting a large cup of water next to the stove while giving him the I know you need it look. Then she disappears in a brief cloud of smoke that rapidly vanishes with show-stopping sparks. He always feels like he accomplished all of this himself while cooking and I am more than happy to oblige him because it definitely helps him enjoy his creation more. So this is what marriage is like. Sometimes I think about how he’d get along being a bachelor. Would he drink unlimited quantities of apple juice? Would the grounds in the coffee maker grow penicillin? What would his refrigerator look like? Ketchup, 10-meat pizza, eggs, 7 containers of juice (all apple or orange, all open), 2-month old leftovers, stinky half and half that’s “still good”, cheese of some sort, beer. He does have excellent taste in beer, I contentedly and quite proudly admit. He’s not a Coors Light kind of guy, unless camping, when everyone enjoys diluted beer and calories don’t count anyway because, well, you’re in the forest. He carefully pours and savors each cold glass, telling me about the flavors, what it feels like on his tongue as he takes the first few sips, holding the glass or bottle out so he can analyze the color or label, or perhaps for some hidden camera running for a candid beer commercial for which he could potentially make thousands. He does this with wine too, even when I am having a glass with him. We have to have the same kind of glass or he’ll go nuts. He likes to share. He went to Kindergarten twice, maybe that’s why he’s so good at it. I like him. I guess I’m okay at sharing, too. I think I’m supposed to now. If I eat, he has to eat, even if I’m shaking and have the blood glucose level of dirt and he’s just had Thanksgiving, he’ll eat with me. I think it helps him somehow. He’s one of those people who, if he sees your food, he wants it. You people drive me mad. I was skinny and way too passive growing up, when the sheer, striking speed of my metabolism dictated to me that I should eat constantly. I used my elbows as weapons and mastered a mean growl so I could try to put some meat on my scrawny bones. Thanks to post-high school, baby-prep womanliness, my hips are now ever-so-slightly curvy and momma-ready. He likes it. I think I do too."
