Half of My Stuff

Stuff that happened when I got married.


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Consider the daffodil.

I met my wife in 2003, the week the Iraq War began while I was on spring break in Lake Havasu, Arizona. With authority you can say that this is an inauspicious beginning.  Why? Because Lake Havasu is the inspiration for the lake in the movie “Piranha,” the plot of which is: you’re introduced to a bunch of people who deserve to be eaten by prehistoric fish–and then for the next 90 minutes prehistoric fish eat them.  And the Iraq War is pretty much everyone’s least favorite war.

I met my wife at the end of the week, when a friend of mine threw water balloons at her and her friends, then invited me to meet the girls they threw water balloons at later that night. We bonded over Jack Handey quotes which we traded back and forth for hours.

In 2005, we started dating. I told her I loved country songs, she informed me she was a huge Red Sox fan. Meanwhile, to this day I know 5 country songs by name, and she has no idea who Bobby Valentine is. It’s all part of a process. When you meet someone on a lake filled with douche bags, the day after a war starts, you tend overcompensate by bullshitting small stuff about yourself, in the same way that spackle can be considered bullshit for drywall.

Then comes the long process of letting all that stuff fall away. Now that you’re in love, it’s best to let the other person know you did not donate a kidney to a dying orphan. It was actually a case of Campbell’s Soup you donated to a hungry orphan. At least for now it was. A few months from now, that Campbell’s Soup will become a pair of old shoes your mom donated once in the 80’s to some kid who probably still had their parents. But it was your mom and they were your shoes.

As that spackle is removed, you like what’s left much more–it’s genuine, stronger and it’s true character. You’re yourself.

But once all that inward bullshit is gone… it then starts to redirect outward in the form of reckless consideration of the other person’s feelings. I once bought my wife tulips, proudly boasting “Look at what a good boyfriend I am. I got you your favorite flowers.” She smiled, hugged me, kissed and thanked me, telling me how considerate and caring I was to make the effort to get her favorite flowers in the entire world.  She assured me I was a rare find. Few men are like me.

Then five minutes later I remembered it was daffodils that were her favorite, not tulips. “Were you pretending?”

“Sweetie, they’re both yellow. I can see how that was confusing to you.”

The most common occurrence of this happens because I do most of the cooking. My wife will come home from work, greeted with dinner. When she says: “This is such an interesting flavor,” it’s really her euphemism for “There’s so much salt in here I’m worried my kidneys are about to shutdown.”

To her credit, she will call me out on a lot of things–I apparently load the dish washer like a moron who has never played Tetris–but I’ll never be criticized if I’ve done something nice. Which is sweet of her, but typically that’s how you treat children. Oh, you made me a sandwich with eggshells and shotgun casings? Yummy! Sure, be nice now, but sooner or later you’re going to have to eat that kid’s sandwich or put him up for adoption.

For her sanity, my wife needed to drop the act.  Besides, I am a huge believer in getting the crap criticized out of me in order to get better. No pain, no gain.

Then the other day I was making her favorite food, salmon. But wanting to do something special, I made a lemon glaze with, among other spices, cumin. By itself cumin smells like an unbathed hippy. And my wife’s palate is such that she’s very sensitive to some flavors, hippy armpit being one of them. So when she came home, smelled salmon, and found me singing “You’re only cumin, born to make me taste…” to the tune of Human League’s song Human,  she froze up.

And in that moment I remembered, she doesn’t like cumin, I’ve probably just ruined salmon, her favorite food. How is this going to play out? Will she smile at me, say I’m an epicurean mastermind–a palate pioneer, never wanting to seem ungrateful that I cooked for her?

Needless to say, it takes a long time to be exactly who you are in a relationship. It was Jack Handey doing the talking when we first met. It was my wife talking when she finally said “I’d prefer not to have that flavor combo on salmon again.”


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The Elevator of Past Self.

Last week, I rounded the corner in my building’s lobby and made eye contact with a guy who was standing on the only working elevator… just as the doors were starting to close. This is how the game begins.

On an elevator when you hold the door for someone you’re a hero. You get a really surprised “Thanks!” You feel good about yourself. But that feeling fades fast as you are stuck with the door open for 95 more seconds, stragglers keep turning the corner waving for you to “hold it,” and once you’ve held it for one person, you’re obliged for the rest. They keep getting on, and on, and on– like it’s Noah’s Ark for people with bad timing.

But this guy? Down his eyes go toward his iPod, and he lets the doors close before I can reach the elevator.

It’s fine. I’ve played that game before too.

He’s doing it wrong, by the way. You’re supposed to get in the elevator, flatten yourself against the side of the car, out of the line of sight of anyone, and hit the ‘close door’ button as many times as possible. The game gets really exciting when you hear someone running to catch it, yelling “Wait, no no no! Hold it!” They’ll see an empty elevator but hear that taptaptap reaching an incredible fever pitch the closer they get. To add to the excitement, and as a justification, I used to tell myself that that person running for the elevator could be a murderer.

But this guy? He had his iPod going. So he never hears the exciting part. He wasn’t even hitting the ‘close door’ button, either. Just stood out in the open. So arrogant.

It reminded me of a past version of myself I never got to say goodbye to. It was a simpler time then. Our cats were kittens and would sometimes run up to me, throw up at my feet, and run off. I’d stare at it for a second, hope my future wife hadn’t noticed, then move to the other side of the room, and pretend to be asleep.

I gave myself a hardy pat on the back when I outgrew this instinct and can now proudly say “Honey, I cleaned the mess instead of letting the other cat eat it up.”

Admit it, that was good teamwork on behalf of my other cat.

There were even simpler times, were I’d take a shower, go to work, come home, and find I had left a soaking wet towel draped over the bed. Never consciously though. It’s like I’d blackout and become an 11-year old idiot. But I’d hang up the towel and blow dry the bed, hopefully before I get caught and subsequently shamed by my future wife into not being allowed to use towels anymore.

And the simplest times, instead of being the one to tip the overflowing garbage in that unspoken roommate game of trash can Jenga, (because if it tips over you have to take out the garbage), I would just flush whatever I was going to throw out down the toilet.  I’d finish the last cup of coffee, not replace toilet paper, and then eat your leftovers.  I was the worst.

But those days are behind me now. And those elevator doors are metaphorically closing on that simpler time of being a worthless slob. With about 12 inches left, before they’ve closed completely, I see that smug bastard smile at me. It’s my former version of myself’s way of saying bye. Saying bye forever to grown up Brian.

“Good bye, inconsiderate former self” I said as the doors are about to close shut–

They have 3 inches to go in our goodbye when they open back up. A woman was standing in the car, off to the side, a place normally designated for hiding and taptaptaping the ‘close door’ button. She’d seen me at the last second, and with an “Oh my!” hit the button.

“Thank you!” I said, staring at the guy as I stepped on and hit the button for the 5th floor. Guy’s eyes went wide and did not move from his iPod’s screen. He forgot the cardinal rule of elevator; it needs to be agreed upon by everyone on the elevator if you’re going to screw over the late person.

I stood right next to him, and did what anyone would do in my situation. Stared at his head and hoped it would suddenly explode. He could sense this and tucked his chin into his chest.

Then the elevator dings for his floor. The 2nd floor. The floor that is 15 feet above the lobby. “Take the stairs next time, pal.” Is what I didn’t say to him, but should’ve. “Common courtesy? More like rare courtesy with this guy.” Is what I didn’t say and am glad I didn’t say and nobody should ever say.  But still, I should’ve said something.

Anyway, I know where he works now and on what floor. So, if anyone is looking for me, like my boss or co-workers, I’m going to be spending my mornings on the elevator, holding the door for everyone else, and making sure that guy takes the stairs.

This is the new Brian. A more courteous Brian. And he has a thirst for petty revenge.