Anniversary Advice (to be taken with a grain of salt)

Today’s our anniversary. Ray and I have been together for 26 years, married for 23 of those. As any of my family members or close friends can tell you, I am no expert on love & relationships. But I can tell you what’s worked for us, so here are my tips for staying together:

1. Be competitive. Find a couple that’s been together longer than you have. Convince yourself that time is a false human construct, and that you COULD someday not only catch up to them, but leave them in the dust. Secretly go for their record. Imagine a spectacular prize when you surpass them, like a pound of Kopi Luwac coffee or an extra two hours of sleep.

2. Mix it up. If you’ve been walking around the house in the same threadbare Cornhusker sweats and Moose Drool t-shirt for the past six weeks (or 16 years), surprise your partner by greeting her/him at the door in your grandma’s flannel nightgown and a Snuggie. Variety really IS the spice of life.

3. Don’t hold a grudge. No one, no matter how convinced that time is a false human construct, can go back and undo the past. That blunder(s) didn’t mean as much as you think. It wasn’t highly charged with significance; it didn’t reveal your partner’s true, suppressed feelings, which only you can accurately interpret. It was just a stupid human mistake. Let it go. Concentrate on NOW.

4. Plan time together. No one just HAS time anymore. One has to MAKE time. Take a few minutes each day to look each other in the eye and say nice stuff. Don’t use the time to complain, whine, ask for something, criticize, or gossip about someone else. Use it for endearments, like, “I admire the cut of your jib,” or “You can remote start my minivan anytime, Sailor.”

5. Travel. Sometimes, you need to force yourselves into a small, enclosed space in order to renew your sense of togetherness. And long road trips can be the truest test of a couple’s compatibility: Who died and made YOUR iPod king? This car smells like French fries and gym socks. Are you SURE there are mountains in western Kansas? Pull over…this is SO much prettier than the Interstate shoulder I photographed five minutes ago (repeat every five minutes).

6. Turn off the TV. Television, not religion, is the opiate of the masses (think of religious TV as a lethal overdose). It’s hard to be attentive to your partner, let alone romantic, when you’re snoring in your La-Z-Girl or all “coked up” on Bridezillas, Finding Bigfoot, Ice Road Truckers, or anything on the Food Network. But do set up the DVR to record Justified, and watch it together, religiously, both of you wearing only boxers, boots and cowboy hats.

7. Read together. Read in bed together. Read aloud to each other. You read a Dr. Ruth book aloud in a bad German accent, and she/he will read a Dr. Suess book aloud in a bad Shakespearean actor voice.

8. Don’t EVER fight about money. In fact, ignore money. Pretend you’re independently wealthy. If your partner asks why you spent a ridiculous amount of money on a boxed set of Pema Chodran lojong meditation cards, roll your eyes back in your head and, in a chant-like voice, mumble something about not wanting to roll over budget funds into the next fiscal year.

9. Eat together. I know our society is waaaaay too focused on food, but maybe there’s an underlying reason. After all, food is an expression of our shared humanity, our collective survival, our communal nature. So sit down every day and eat a meal together. In a pinch, Subway or Hy-Vee Chinese will work (but plate it, and use the good chopsticks). If you think it’s impossible, try this: For ONE week, keep track of the total amount of time you spend eating. If you can’t spare some of that time to share a meal with your life partner, it’s time to re-think your scheduling priorities.

10. Laugh together. When I went to the dentist for my first root canal (not that marriage is like a root canal), I was terrified. Then, as the dentist leaned over me, the dental hygienist slowly rose up behind him with a pencil hanging out of each nostril. All that fear melted away. Laugh at yourself. Find an oldies station on Sirius and dance like you’re on Hullaballoo (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amvE30VCk0w). Black out two teeth with a grease pencil and smile when your partner walks through the door after work. Never be afraid to be silly.

Honestly? I’m amazed we’ve made it this far. I’m amazed ANYONE makes it this far. But as Walt Whitman said, “Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.” So tonight, Ray and I will celebrate a quarter-century of miracles. We’ll celebrate with good friends (the minister who married us, and her husband who sang “Blackbird” at our wedding), fine wine, Brazilian food, live music, and lots and lots of laughter.

Treatise on Love

I [heart] you. Blech. Phooey. Let’s not talk about how, on this one day of the year, we will all pause to remember that we love our girlfriend/boyfriend, spouse, partner, etc. (or that many of us forget it the other 364 days), as we stuff our faces with Brach’s mystery chocolates and watch our Wal-Mart roses wilt. Let’s talk about the real deal—the kind of lasting love that takes work, effort, elbow grease. EVERY day is the day for that.

Ray and I have been together for 26 years, married for 23 of those. I don’t think he’d mind me telling you that, like many long-together couples, we are usually somewhere on the relationship Matterhorn—that roller coaster of ups, downs, occasional blessed straightaways, twists, and a black-out tunnel every now & then. There are days when Ray doesn’t like me much—I am decidedly unlikeable some days. There are days when I don’t like him. There are days when we’re both fuming and retreat to our respective hidey-holes for hours of sizzling silence. But we NEVER stop loving each other, and that’s because we’re both committed to the work.

In the giddy flush of new love, humans somehow become convinced (volcanic brain activity caused by too much dopamine, I believe) that love is spontaneous, effervescent…that it magically bubbles up as a refreshing, cleansing mist of goodness & light from cracks in the earth, or it rains down on us in sudden delightful showers of…oh, I dunno…happy, Smurfy, tickly glitter. And yeah, I totally LOVED that all-too-brief phase. But PHASE is the key word.

Once that dopamine rush levels off, you’d better roll up your sleeves. Because suddenly, you’re gonna notice the toilet seat’s up, or he left the space heater on, or she forgot to pay the light bill, or he brought home another stray animal, or…huh? When did you start living in pink sweats and an old gas station shirt?

The real work is holding ever-present in your mind the notion that you signed on for the long haul. Yes, you might throw up going down that next roller-coaster freefall, but once you reach the bottom, you will still be alive (and sometimes, with a renewed sense of the thrill). Most of the time, you have to willfully, consciously, remember what you love about each other. You have to listen—find out about, and tend to, each other’s needs, even when you don’t feel like it. Even when you just downloaded a new mystery on your Kindle. You have to stick it out. As my friend LuLu says, the secret to a lasting marriage is not getting divorced.

I should say here that it takes TWO of you working. Sadly, no amount of working on your own can save love from someone who’s already (mentally, at least) jumped off the ride.

For the rest of us, yes, the bloom WILL come off the rose eventually. This will happen even to those of you deep in the dopamine/endorphin throes, vowing that YOUR love will always be flame & fireworks. But know that in the coming years, if you do the work—and it’s DAILY work—you’ll end up with a more profound sense of trust, an amazing shared history, and a more peaceful and abiding kind of love than you knew was possible.

And I know I’m badly mixing metaphors here, but don’t throw out the rose—every blue moon, it will suddenly, mysteriously burst into full bloom. Just this morning, for example, I noticed that Ray had scrubbed shiny-clean the glass top stove when I wasn’t looking. I smiled and thought, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Midlife Mayhem: to Hell and Back

I know this topic is taboo for many people ("nice" people don't mention it in public), but I’m pretty sure a reality TV show about menopausal women…let’s call it Midlife Mayhem: to Hell and Back…would be an instant hit and a sponsor's goldmine.

For one thing, it would be educational. Perky, oblivious, it'll-never-happen-to-me younger women need to know what's in store. And men forced to cohabit with midlife women would finally make sense of the roiling cauldron their lives have become (some female partners get it but are no less afraid). It would be exciting. Most people would be stunned…enthralled…captivated by the bizarre behaviors of which midlife women are capable. It would be suspenseful. The physical/emotional/behavioral midlife roller coaster ride would absolutely thrill viewers with its unbelievable twists & turns. And special “cliffhanger” episodes could put a bunch of midlife women together in one small, enclosed space. These episodes could involve non-stop baking, wild, uncoordinated hormonal swings, and knitting needles. They could NOT be done live, as they would put a studio audience in grave danger and present liability headaches for sponsors.

One MM episode could follow a couple through a single day at home. Our protagonist, let’s call her Eve, is freezing and cranks up the thermostat. Her partner sneaks by and turns it down. They repeat this several times. Then, Eve’s internal blast-furnace suddenly fires up (fluctuating hormones cause her pilot light to go out, flame on, go out, flame on, etc., throughout the day & night). She breaks out in a sweat, until her hair is stuck to her forehead. She strips down to B & B (briefs & bra) and throws her clothes at the dog. She turns the thermostat to "off." Her head snaps around like a hunting raptor’s until she spots her partner, cowering, quaking, in a dark corner of the living room. She smiles and says, “Want some cheesecake, honey?” About an hour later, just as her partner resumes breathing normally, the cycle begins again.

Infrared cameras will track the couple throughout the night, where the fun continues. Our protagonist alternately hogs all the covers (occasionally adding six down blankets to the pile) and throws all the blankets on the floor on HER side of the bed. She curses in her sleep and does NOT wake up to retrieve the covers, a job that falls to her exhausted partner. This nightmare, by the way, explains why most early TV couples, instead of one marital bed, had paired twin beds—the space between the beds acts as a sort of “safety buffer” for the beleaguered partner. They didn’t call her Mrs. Cleaver for nothing.

Another episode could involve Eve suddenly taking off one day for the regional zoo. For the entire day, no one knows where she’s gone. Frantic phone calls buzz from cell tower to cell tower in an attempt to locate her, while she’s at the zoo, weeping and taking closeup photos of every beastly mother. In between shots, she stuffs her face with greasy popcorn. She tries to climb the fence at the gibbon enclosure. She offers a mother hippo money and a scarf. She tells a drooling tiger about her deep regret at not becoming a ballet dancer. Human parents quickly steer their strollered children away, giving Eve a wide berth. They report her to zoo officials. By the time numerous reports lead zoo security to track her down, she’s driving through McDonald’s for super-sized fries and a chocolate shake on her way home.

The Halloween episode might find Eve's partner hiding all the sharp kitchen utensils, as Eve berates The Entire Planet for its continuing discrimination against women. Her partner runs for the basement, as Eve’s tirade turns personal, condemning her partner for not vacuuming out the toaster. Eve is suddenly overcome with love & gratitude at the mere idea of decorative measuring spoons. She calls sweetly, but her partner mumbles something about “groceries…milk…sedatives…” and makes it out the back door. It’s seven degrees. Eve’s partner is wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants but doesn’t feel the cold. Eve bastes sweet & sour ribs and hums “You Are My Sunshine.”

The Valentine’s Day episode will show the folly of Eve’s partner attempting to say something nice. Eve is still unfamiliar with and horrified by her new midlife body—the carb-inflated monster truck tire around her middle, the thinning uncooperative hair, the wrinkies around her mouth and eyes that make her look perpetually aghast, the flesh that must now (thanks to half a lifetime of gravity) be corralled, hoisted, and carefully positioned in clothes that can only be categorized as “stretchy,” the libido that switches randomly and without warning between “You’ve GOT to be kidding me” and “NOW!” and the failing eyesight that makes her squint like a mole. Through the first half of the episode, her partner makes unsuccessful attempts to pay Eve sincere, heartfelt compliments, finally giving up and taking a nap. Through the last half of the episode, Eve cries and throws dishes because no one ever ever ever says anything nice about her anymore.

I’m telling you, Midlife Mayhem: to Hell and Back would be a blockbuster. It would have everything: love, sex, food, danger, humor, stuff broken or blown up, and all-out war. It would be an advertising dream, sandwiched between Dr. Oz's latest midlife “skin recovery” method and Dr. Ruth's “spice it up” sex advice for folks over 50. 

The show would have an instant, enormous Facebook fan club. Women would sport "I {heart} Eve" hoodies. Kitchen knives would come in pink. Vid clip montages of Eve alternately screaming and cooing would go viral on YouTube. 

YOU would TOTALLY watch it. I wouldn’t watch it, though—I’m kinda “burnt out” on reality (cue maniacal cackling).

The Winter of Our Discontent

This winter will certainly go down in the Annals of the Bizarre here on the Row…a confounding conflagration of calamity…a sheit-storm of Really, Universe? Really?!?

Take the weather. Last week, on the day of The Great 2012 Tuneup (see previous post), it was a sun-soaked, record-breaking, 62-degree day in Sioux Falls. I could have sunbathed in my bikini on the veranda of the Heart Hospital, though that might have been too much (literally & figuratively) for a few too-fragile hearts, scaring them into permanent OFF. 


We’ve had very little snow so far, and the landscape remains mostly brown and gold. No icy roads, no white-out blizzards, no waiting for Tractor Man to dig us out. Corn-fused pea-boys are out fanning their half-grown tail feathers (they won’t have fully grown new “trains” until spring) in the faces of bewildered peahens. And I should be celebrating Mother Nature’s beneficence, but I recently read that the incidence of depression actually increases in northern climes during unusually mild winters, since there’s no snow to reflect what little SAD-preventing light we count on up here. Time to break out the full-spectrum bulbs and vitamin D.

Or take our peaflock. By mid-summer we had 29 peacocks—18 adults and 11 chicks. Then came The Marauder(s). Over the next few months, peas began to disappear. Or we’d come home to a half-eaten carcass. The first couple grisly scenes made us think it was a furry predator. Then we woke to a pile of cleanly-plucked feathers below a tree branch, which  made us think it was a raptor or very big owl. Then finding three or four headless but otherwise intact peabodies (I found the most recent headless peahen today) made us think raccoons. I finally decided that a local thug-critter got word out that the Row is a free, all-you-can-eat pea smorgasbord—a peaffet—and that we’re completely surrounded by predatory wildlife. So I did what any rebel farmwife would do: I wrapped the Roosting Tree with blinking Christmas lights. This strategy worked for a few days, until a squirrel chewed through the wire (paid off by the coyote down the road, I’m sure). Anyway, we’re down to 13 adult peacocks--not a single surviving summer chick. Some well-meaning friends suggest that Mother Nature simply knew I was in way over my head and “helped” me restore balance. But that’s a net loss of 16 peas in ONE season! So while I’m not a violent person, I’m now shopping for a patio duck blind/paintball gun combo.

Back to The Great 2012 Tuneup. In addition to Ray’s heart nudge (“attack” sounds so deliberate), my friend’s surgery to remove what she calls a “non-benign visitor” from her colon, and my other friend’s mom ending up as Ray’s roomie down the hall at the Heart Hospital, my oldest brother has had at least three surgeries on his eyeball this winter to repair (and repair and repair) a detached retina. This is unsettling because (1) he’s in Ecuador, where I can’t just pop over to help out, (2) he has to spend most of his time face-down and isn’t supposed to use his eye for a while, and (3) he makes his living working mostly as an online travel writer, which is hard to do if you’re not supposed to LOOK at anything. Then, Mom had to have a couple of teeth pulled. Dangerous, because I know a person can only stand so much blended split-pea soup before he or she loses it completely and starts trying to train his or her little dog to sing “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Amid all this, I had to keep plugging away to get ready for a new semester. Also, since about New Year’s, I’ve had the South Dakota Respiratory Plague, which means my best friends are Emergen-C, Advil, Puffs, Nyquil, chicken soup and my heating pad.

It's not one stressful event that does us in; it's the pile-up, when we don't have enough time between stressful events to recover or rally. So I’ve been in a sort of stunned pre-hibernation mode lately. I've been “closing ranks,” as my Mom would say. Holing up. Hiding out. Yes, I know there are bigger things going on out there in the Great Wide World and I may be thinking a little too locally. Yes, I know it’s only January. And yes, I know Jack Blizzard’s probably in Wessington Springs right now, having a beer and plotting on his bar napkin a trajectory that will lead him directly to our door. But for now, if I don't answer my door or my phone, it's because I'm curled up in a blanket-wrapped ball, knitting peacock chain maille and contemplating what surely will continue to be one mighty strange winter.

Big and Broken Heart

Back to my “crapshoot” theory of life. Think of any heart attack you’ve ever seen on TV or in films; it probably looked like this: A guy suddenly clutches his chest then drops over dead. As Tim O’Brien’s character Kiowa says, “Boom. Down.” And the guy is usually 150 pounds overweight, and he’s either choking down a ½-pound double bacon cheeseburger at the time, or he’s having a red-faced screaming match with a mobster, right? Well, once again, Ray and I have been lovingly kicked in the arse as a reminder that real life is not like the movies.

Ray had his first heart attack ten years ago, at age 50. Ray is not overweight. He’s fit and exercises regularly. Our diet includes very little fat (and rarely anything but olive oil), loads of whole grains and vegetables, little red meat, as much organic stuff as we can get here in South Dakota, and Ray has been eating only fresh fruit till noon every day for many years. We both drink liters of water daily. Seriously…we couldn’t eat more tofu and tabouli if we tried.

The day of Ray’s first heart attack, he was at work when, mid-morning, he had a bellyache. He thought he had gas, and he felt faint. He called me and said he didn’t feel “right.” I told him to eat an aspirin and I’d pick him up. We went to the ER, and sure enough, he was having a heart attack. By the time the whole adventure was over, he’d had a couple of stents to get some temporary heart-healing blood flow, then quadruple bypass surgery to get around eight blockages in his coronary arteries.

His second heart attack was last week. He’d been having occasional heartburn for a month or more. It woke him up a couple of mornings but went away if he got up and moved around. Then one morning, it wouldn’t go away. It was right in the middle of his chest, and he described it as a slight burning sensation—hence, the heartburn—and he said, again, he just didn’t feel “right.” He took an aspirin and we headed to town to see the doc. An ER visit, ambulance ride, and hospitalization later, he now has a new stent in one of the original bypass grafts that had slowly closed down to around 99% blocked.

Ironically, I had been planning to spend the day of Ray’s procedure with a friend in the waiting room of another hospital, where his wife, our friend, was having surgery that morning. He and my mom had waited with me through Ray’s bypass surgery years before, and it had been a great comfort, so I was looking forward to doing the same for him. Alas, the best laid plans... It all got even more comical when I discovered another friend’s mom three doors down from Ray in the same hospital, in to have her heart meds adjusted. So now I’m calling the whole affair The Great 2012 Tuneup. It will be cause for a new party each January—one with heart-healthy red wine and a delightful assortment of low-fat, high-fiber, organic, flax-encrusted hors d'oeuvres.

Anyway, here’s the thing, people: A heart attack isn’t necessarily a single, sudden, isolated event. It may sneak up slowly, giving little warning signs that most of us would probably ignore. Ray didn’t have ANY of the classical symptoms this time: faintness, shortness of breath, radiating pain or ache in the arms, back or neck, clamminess, cold sweats, tightness or pressure in the chest. All he had was a little heart burn.

Ray’s home for a week of R & R now, and he’s feeling fine. We’re grateful he didn’t need another bypass re-do (they tell us the average “life” of bypass grafts is ten years, after which some patients need the procedure re-done. Since it involves cracking the chest and stopping & re-starting the heart, we’d like to avoid that). We’re also grateful for yet another reminder never to take life—or each other—for granted.

So now we’ll both take aspirin daily. We’ll both carry nitroglycerin in our backpacks. Maybe we’ll institute an evening constitutional to get in a little more exercise. And we’ll pay close attention to anything that doesn’t feel “right.” 

I’m puzzled when I see people whose lifestyles or body conditions scream “heart attack!” but who have NOT furnished a wing in the Heart Hospital, as Ray probably has by now. I'm amazed at the powerful influence of a few crummy genes. I’m befuddled by how crafty, subtle, slow or cleverly disguised a heart attack can be. I’m baffled that it can happen to lean, fit folks leading healthy lives. But then I remember the lesson Life keeps throwing like an adorable little grenade in our path…it’s all a crapshoot.

Get thee behind me, cookies. (Oh wait...)

It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m still in R & R (rest & recovery) mode after Semester kicked my sorry arse to the curb. By early November, I felt weighted down by concrete debris. By mid-November, I was praying cadaver dogs would find me under the rubble in time to gradegradegrade whilst preparing for Thanksgiving. Then, as soon as I was breathing again, it was time to do end-of-semester test writing, student org wrap-up, anxious student calming, and gradegradegrading, whilst simultaneously getting ready for eleven people at the Row for Christmas. This meant also finding time to put up the tree, decorate, and tackle my half-finished pile of homemade gifts: Wine to label, knit hats and malas to finish, cookies & granola to bake, and jam jars to wash and wrap in festive holiday fabric.

Whiny, I know. But it’s all just to explain that from November on, stress led me directly to near-total hermitting and my typical end-of-year CC diet (carbs and coffee). By December, I had a much fluffier silhouette and mild but alarming tachycardia.  Then came the cookies: Chocolate Espresso Spritz, molasses gingersnaps, my mom’s famous sugar cookies, and her delightful cornflake holly cookies (with red hots for berries, of course). Add to that Mom’s gallons of Chex Mix, a little Bailey’s and eggnog to soothe the nerves, and various kinds of nacho cheese doodles & chips, and one can see why, since late December, I’ve been glued to my Lazy-Girl in a carb-induced, heart-skipping near-coma.

  

To make matters worse, I had a long list of things I’d hoped to accomplish over break. But I’ve mostly been watching Finding Bigfoot or Ancient Aliens (that guy’s gotta know his hair makes it impossible to take him seriously, right?), mechanically moving Chex Mix from bag to mouth. Just a big ‘ole furry blanket-covered slug.

 
But hope springs eternal. Tonight, when Ray’s band cuts loose at our Little Town watering hole, I’ll be there with bells on—literally. I will not be making resolutions. I will not be turning over any new leaves. I will gratefully be letting go of stress & anxiety by celebrating, laughing and singing with dear friends. I will be seriously shaking my lumpy, ever-expanding money-maker. I will pry loose the evil adipose from its home on my thighs and offer it up to the dancing goddess of the New Year. 

Tomorrow? Maybe I'll eat a salad. And I’ll bet there’s an episode of Wicked Attraction I haven’t seen yet…

A Very Untidy Christmas to You All!

My favorite Christmas tradition is the total chaos and disorder I remember from my youth—anxious kids up at dawn, shrieking and cajoling to get started, while bleary-eyed grownups stand around in their pajamas, cups of coffee glued to their hands. No breakfast, no ceremony. As soon as everyone's in the vicinity, it happens—that ancient, mystical ram's horn signal audible only to children—and the mayhem begins.

Imagine a cross between a Brazilian soccer stadium riot and a prairie bison stampede. Paper, ribbon, cards & envelopes shoot like projectile shrapnel across the room. Kids turn into circus contortionists as they climb over each other to get at packages on the other side of the tree. Grownups step further and further back from the Circle of Destruction, dumbstruck, still not fully comprehending that they're out of bed. And almost as suddenly as it begins, it's over. Each child retreats to her or his own spot in the living room to pile, sort, stack, count, and start ripping open their booty. The grownups, whose still-wrapped presents now lie scattered in undignified heaps around the room, retreat to the kitchen for more coffee.

One Christmas my older brother and I got up in the middle of the night and pried each of our presents open, then carefully re-sealed them. Our fake surprise the next morning was Oscar-worthy. (The next year, Mom used her own secret code on the gift tags and wrapped all our presents in Knox gelatin and saltine boxes. Touché, Mom.) Another Christmas, when I was living in Lincoln, my friend and I drove to Omaha in the wee hours, then woke my family up at 4 a.m., singing loud, off-key carols. I'm pretty sure most of them have forgiven me.

This Christmas, we had a smallish gathering, since none of my brothers—in Kansas, Ohio and Ecuador—could make it. Foolishly overconfident due to our small numbers, we decided to try polite & tidy. We managed 1½ circuits of round-robin present opening before the confetti started flying. It quickly devolved into a 5-minute shredding frenzy that I watched, agog, from a safe distance. When it was over, the house looked like it had been hit with a Wal-Mart carpet bomb. Perfect! And I lovedlovedloved the soundtrack—squeals, shrieks of surprise, belly laughs, oh-my-goshes, a little knife-sharp familial sarcasm, and occasional spontaneous outbursts of goofy singing.

 

So as I sit in my quiet, post-Christmas cookie & Chex Mix stupor, I can't put into words how grateful I am. Believe me, I know how lucky we are to have gathered—four generations of us—for another loud, messy celebration overflowing with love--the REAL blessing of this and every season.