A Confession

I bought Ryan some cologne that I loved so much that I started wearing it myself everyday until one day he said, "This cologne is running out really fast. Even when I don't wear it."

Mouthy

I have a dentist appointment tomorrow. I'm sort of excited about it because, for the first time in my life, I've been flossing regularly. I'm not sure how I got things to click with me and dental floss, but it's now part of my morning routine. The other day I ran out of dental floss and felt mild panic until I was able to locate some more. Ever find yourself thinking that people will never change? Well, I'm living proof that yes, Virginia, there is hope for the infrequent flossers of the world. Now I no longer have to cower in the judgement of the chatty hygienist as she retrieves particles of roast beef circa 2007 from my teeth while we talk about the weather, the price of gasoline, our respective summer plans and everything but the fact that I'm totally disgusting.

I have to say, though, my history of semi-annual flossing has served me well. I've only had a few cavities as an adult, significantly fewer than Ryan who flosses more often then he has bowel movements. Seriously, the guy is always flossing, even if there is no floss available. He goes into total MacGyver Mode when he feels the need to clear the pathways between his molars. The list of strange items he has used to floss with includes, but is not limited to the following:

• loose threads from clothing
• drinking straws
• paper clips
• torn pieces of plastic cup lids
• torn pieces of shopping bags
• printer paper
• envelopes
• business cards
• elastic
• fiber optic cable
• headphone wire
• pencils
• car keys
• tinsel
• Easter basket grass
• real grass
• wheat
• uncooked spaghetti
• measuring tape
• jumper cables
• fingernails
• corn husks
• twist ties
• fishing wire
• action figures
• refrigerator magnets
• CD covers
• floppy disks
• spatulas
• magazines
• clotheslines
• barbed wire

Okay, so maybe a few of those I made up, but the point is that Ryan flosses a lot. And in the most unusual ways. And unfortunately, his extreme flossing practices have brought him little success in the realm of anti-cavity-ism compared to my previous methods of microscopic food storage. His victory has only been in moral superiority.

But, of course, that's all changed. I'm a regular flosser now. Tomorrow it will be noted on my official medical records. The hygienist may even let me take two prizes from the treasure chest filled with an endless supply of neon-colored junk from Oriental Trading Company as a reward. We'll chat about the usual nothingness and really mean it this time, instead of using it as means of avoiding the elephant in the room. Specifically, the one lodged between my #3 and #4 bicuspids.

I'm giddy with anticipation.

What about you? Do you floss regularly?

Fourteen Years and Counting

Today is our fourteenth wedding anniversary. On Saturday, we picked out cards for each other at Target. Anniversary cards are especially hard for me to select. Do you go with the funny? Do you reach for the sincere? Where is the card that says, "I am equally amused by and enamored with you," and could it have a chimpanzee on it? 'Cause I like cards with chimpanzees.

As I type this, there are two squirrels on the tree outside, chasing each other round and round the bark of one of our trees, creating quite a distraction as I try to write. I don't think they are married yet, because it's 2:47 in the afternoon. Married squirrels usually chase at night, on the weekend, when the baby squirrels fall asleep early and there's nothing on TV. Sigh.

Today, I searched the Internets for a quote I remember liking from Garrison Keillor on marriage. He said, "In general, the rules for marriage are similar to the rules for being in a lifeboat on the open ocean: don't crowd each other, no sudden moves, and keep all disastrous thoughts to yourself. "

It's pretty sound advice, I think. I may pass it on to the squirrels outside who have made their way to the lawn and, in the process, transfixed Lucy who can't help but dream of what squirrel tastes like. They seem as if they have no plan at all beyond the chasing. I should help them.

If I added my own advice to Garrison's it would be to pass the time on that lifeboat by doing an awful lot of talking, listening, and encouraging each other. Hold hands. Don't force the other one to play games to pass the time, because he doesn't like to play games, he really doesn't, no matter how many times you ask. Oh, and one more thing: wear sunscreen.

The squirrels have disappeared, Lucy has settled back down into the seat cushion beside me, and I am off to celebrate fourteen amazing years with my best friend. You know, right after I print off this blog post and staple it to the tree. You're welcome, squirrels.

Love Is Sometimes Hard to Explain

I gave him a swirly, romantic valentine card in spanish. Neither of us speak spanish.

He gave me a valentine card with a cow on the front. It was almost as good as the bunny card of 2007.

Happy Valentine's Day, everybody!

Like Kenny Rogers, For Example

Ryan: Do you like my beard?

Me: I really like your beard.

Ryan: I'm thinking about keeping it, but I'm not sure exactly how to maintain it.

Me: You need a beard mentor.

Ryan: I do. I really do.

Hollywood Flashy Crap

I talked with Ryan via Skype yesterday. He was filling me in on all the Polish 411. The old town in Warsaw is amazing, he said. So far the food hasn't been spectacular, but the views, city, and people make up for it.

Later in the conversation, I asked him how people dress. I would like to blend in when I'm there and look less western, since the news channels can't shut up about the elevated terror threats in Europe directed at Americans.

"They dress pretty nice," he said, "but very toned down. Black, brown, gray. That stuff."

"Okay," I said, making mental wardrobe notes.

"I wouldn't wear all of your Hollywood flashy crap, like you're headed to a magazine shoot."

Ahem?

He said that for my safety, right?

Maybe Leroy at the post office was speaking for the Universe when he told me, "There's no need to vogue."

(My non-vogue passport photo.)

I Have My Hair Enlightened About Every Six Weeks

Me: It's taken a few years, but I finally have my hair where I want it.

Ryan: {groans, rolls eyes} Oh my gosh, that is so shallow.

Me: That is not shallow!

Ryan: That is so shallow.

Me: You didn't let me finish. I meant spiritually. I finally have my hair where I want it spiritually.

Retraction

Me: Remember a few days ago when I said that I was going to try and lose five pounds before our vacation?

Ryan: Yep.

Me: Well, what I actually meant to say is that I'm going to try and gain five pounds before our vacation. And, so far I am right on track. It's really looking like I'm going to make it.

Is There a Doctor in the House?

People often ask me what it's like to be married to a psychologist. Does he ever try to analyze you, they wonder?

And I say, no, he doesn't try to analyze me. The closest he ever comes is occasionally, when we're discussing something, he says, "If I were your therapist, I would probably ask you about ______." And then I throw a dirty sock in his face. (Because he's right.)

It's even more fun, during other arguments conversations when I say to him, "If I were your therapist, I would ask you about ______." He loves that. (Because I'm right.)

One time, in the depths of his lengthy clinical education, he said to me, "You are the most mentally healthy person I know."

I beamed with pride. I considered it a ringing endorsement. Four out of five dentists agree.

A few jaded years later I thought, Well, that was a clever thing to say! And then I imagined him writing secret articles for prominent psychological journals: Marriage Experiment, Year 13: Wife Still Crazy, Still Unsuspecting.

The truth is, sometimes I'd like him to be my therapist. I'd like to lie on the couch with him perched on the leather chair nearby, pen in hand, listening to my delicate thoughts. I'd like him to formulate my entire life story, sympathetically explain all my idiosyncrasies, and carefully solve all of my problems. Except that if he did, I'd probably throw a dirty sock in his face. Or a frying pan. But, no worries, because he wouldn't do it anyway. He's all into "ethics" and "boundaries" and crap like that.

I do, however, ask for his advice. He's a very wise advice-giver. So wise, in fact, that sometimes he says, "I don't think you really want my advice on this."

And I say, "Of course, I want you to tell me that I'm right! I mean, of course I want your advice!"

And he says, "Put down the dirty sock."

In Sickness and In Health

As it turns out, while I was running away from Responsibility the other day, I was running blindly into the arms of Diarrhea. (What? You didn't want to know that?)

EPIC diarrhea.

The kind of diarrhea that has you pulling your hair, shaking your head, moaning, and saying, "There can't possibly be anything left in there to poop out!"

Ryan is really at his best when I'm sick. He came home from work Wednesday to find me on the couch with a look of agony on my face. "Does it help to have that look on your face?" he asked.

Yes, actually, it does.

At my request, he made mashed potatoes for me to eat. He walked into the family room where I was stationed (a short sprint from the bathroom) and held the bowl out to me, leaning with the rest of his body, turning his head away, to keep outside my germ space bubble.

"Thanks," I groaned.

"Don't touch me," he said softly, handing it off and shuddering.

It was a beautiful moment between us.

A Baker's Dozen

I have been married for thirteen years today. My wedding day was sunny, though insanely cold and windy. It was a jam-packed day--the ceremony followed by a wedding breakfast followed by an evening reception with photo shoots interspersed. Ryan and I left our wedding reception and drove directly to McDonald's for cheeseburgers; we were starving, not having eaten a bite all evening. Then we drove to our apartment, counted the money that had been shoved in Ryan's tuxedo pockets all evening, and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Thirteen years later, we still fall into an exhausted sleep most nights, though we've given up McDonald's cheeseburgers for their slightly lower-calorie sister, the hamburger. We've created a life together that continually amazes, entertains me, and leaves me indebted to my younger self for trusting my inexperienced gut. I never could have imagined all that has taken place in the years in between then and now, the ups and downs, the victories and losses. He is still my closest and dearest friend. He still makes me laugh. He still makes me feel beautiful. He still doesn't clean the toilets.

I Know You Love Me, But Do You Think I'm Funny?

Me: Did you see my new header?

Ryan: Yeah.

Me: Do you think it's funny?

Ryan: Yeah.

Me: With the talking butterflies?

Ryan: Yeah.

Me: And one butterfly wants a burger?

Ryan: Yeah.

Me: Were you, like, laughing out of your chair when you saw it?

Ryan: . . . . . . . . . .

Me: But still, it's pretty funny, right?

Ryan: Yeah.

Me: Like, quirky funny.

Ryan: . . . . . . . . . .

Three Things About My Love (Belated Valentine's Edition)

1. I believe that being in love means full support of someone else's goals, dreams, and pursuits. It's doing whatever it takes for however long to make one statement truer than any other, "I never could have done it without you."

2. I believe that being in love means letting the person you love be exactly who they are, and never trying to change them into a version of themselves that you think you might prefer. No changies. No reversies.

3. I believe that being in love means taking only a little piece of the chocolate chip cookie on the counter, leaving the rest for your sweetie. And then later, when you walk by the cookie, you may find that he has taken only a little bit of the cookie, leaving some more for you. And that is called being in love. Or maybe that is called being on a diet together and neither of you should be eating any of the cookie in the first place. In that case, the half-eaten cookie really has nothing to do with love and more to do with a guilty lack of self-control on both parts. But it's definitely one of those two.

Care to share three things about your thoughts on love?