mastering

Two bits of this damp weekend:

1. Yesterday, I took Ryan to a colleague's house where many fleece-wearing men regularly meet to brew a hundred gallons of beer. The garage seemed like a lovely escape--art prints tacked to the walls, a collection of moldy classics in a glass fronted case, a desk with photographs pinned beneath glass. And movement: coolers full of steaming grains, small propane burners with kettles blackening, the smell of brew wafting into the chilly spring air, snow flitting down as background distraction, hoses flushing and purging and, of course, taste testing from batches previous. We brought our wedding mead along as well, were told it's not actually terrible and that mead is even better when aged a few years. In fact, it had mellowed. We're hoping Ryan can join in again this summer when another batch moves through; he's intimidated, but I have a feeling he'll learn a great deal.

2. Ryan's master's defense is coming up this week, which means he truly needs to finalize his thesis. We spent yesterday afternoon together on the sofa; I read his work out loud and we corrected verb tenses, parallel structure issues, and smoothed out his syntax. I had to re-read much of it; I got lost in his phrasing and the strange acronyms and references. Fortunately, he was adorably patient. I tried to explain, "An infinitive..." and he'd give me a lopsided grin, shooting his finger in the air and enthusing, "And beyond!" I would tell him he needed word variety (increases, increases, increased) and he called from his study, "My cinnamon finder isn't working!" I suppose these are all tidbits that are more endearing for me, for a witness, (ah-hem, for someone who loves him unconditionally) but I think, when it comes to a master's thesis, you can exude one of two things: you can stress and be a general fright, or you can be playful, and this is how he chose to be, this is how he brightens my days, this is how the sun was shining, even when the world around us was gray and wet.

dreaming

Sometimes I wake from dreams, from nightmares where Ryan has left me for someone else, where he is indifferent to the way my heart has exploded in my chest. When I wake, the dream still lingers, and if I am lucky, he's still there, and I press myself against him, relieved at the untruth of it all. Sometimes he's already gone to work, and I am left wallowing in the dregs of that dream, regretting the visitation.

Sometimes I dream of old boyfriends. My first boyfriend, my Byronic hero, who gave me a birthday kiss on the cheek, whose Converse carried him on the dull linoleum in flight. I wake up guilty, even when it's only the still innocent glimpses we had when we were twelve. Even the phone terrified me then.

Last night I fell asleep thinking of our lost student, of the boy whose death has broken the hearts of my own kids. I thought about the act of suicide and of lost things--fatherhood, college, the unfinished woods project his classmates have taken on.

Next door, our neighbors were having a party, guests spilling onto their patio, their laughter elbowing into my somber thoughts.

Late at night, we lie awake, staring at the dim memory of the ceiling. We are within our own heads for a time.

Read: Lullaby of the Onion. Monologue for an Onion.

the thinly wrapped package

It's Not You, It's Your Books: Article on New York Times about dating and books.

I used to give boys I dated a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. It was successful, to some extent, though there was one boy who stared at me dumbly and said, "I can't read." (Or was it, I don't read? There was a romantic savior-aspect in the illiterate dating the literature-infatuated. Nonetheless, it didn't last.)

I gave Ryan a copy of The Bell Jar. This was an ultimate sort of test he passed--after all, it's more of a cultish classic with young women as opposed to befuddled young men. But he read it, claimed to like it, though I think the Ani Difranco mix tape won him over much more.

If I were to gaze at my husband's nightstand and judge him solely for its contents (significantly frightening dust bunnies, antiquated alarm clock, and usually an escape novel or two), we would not be together now.

I'm of the opinion that it probably doesn't entirely matter that tastes do not converge. I wish we could discuss a good film after watching it, but I do love his smile, I love the way we linger after dinner at the table and talk about things. I don't mind that he will read a poem and smile blankly afterwards.

He'll come with me to a Shakespeare Festival. On Saturday, he's attending a book release party with me. Good company. What more could a gal want?

Happy Birthday, Love of My Life

Twenty nine things about the birthday boy:

He gets green beer on his birthday. He has a great Irish first name, but won't tell you his middle. He is incredibly strong, but you'd never know it by looking at him. He's also incredibly good at packing, especially when it comes to moving vans, which makes things a bit easier on those miserable moving days. He's a GIS analyst, which means he's involved with map-making and computers, and if you asked me anything more about it, I'd probably stare at you blankly. Which is essentially what he'd do when you asked him anything about poetry. But he's incredibly good at what he does, his bosses tend to adore him, and he enjoys it, so sometimes I forgive him for being such a workaholic. He homebrews his own beer, but we haven't made a batch since our summer mead. His favorite beer tends to be HoneyWeiss, and he's recently started to enjoy red wine. But his favorite drink is Pepsi, and I think if he had to quit caffeine, he'd be a bit more feisty than when he had to quit smoking. He quit just a month or two after I did (what? six years ago?) and in that in between time, he'd tease me and taunt me "just to make sure you really wanted to quit." Which means, essentially, that he can be a real brat, and I'd attest to that six years after quitting--he still likes to push buttons. I would say he's a dog person, but it's not just that--he's an animal person. Other people's dogs are overjoyed to see him--my parents' dogs, his college friend's dog, his parents' dogs. Sometimes that play Sylvia hits a little too close to home. When I first met him, I was initially attracted to his talent on the guitar. When we bought our house, we really wanted to have two additional rooms to be "ours"--mine is a poetry / writing / guest room, and his is a little den that contains most of his computers and guitars. Before we went on our first date, we used to write each other letters, even though we lived fifteen minutes apart, but he worked the night shift at a gas station--among the gifts we gave each other were an Ani Difranco mix tape, a copy of The Bell Jar, and a CD of his own guitar music. He doesn't like to play covers. Our first date was an overnight trip, which may have seemed strange, but it seems typical of us now--dinner, a walk down by the river, then from Green Bay to Milwaukee where we watched Othello and fell asleep on a friend's sofa. He actually slept in the reclining chair, letting me have the better spot, and he woke up with a little drool. The next morning, he looked at an apartment for the following school year, and the real estate agent asked if we were a couple; we blushed and she said we'd make a cute pair. The next day, I left for Hawaii with my family and missed him furiously. We love to travel together and have been to: Oregon, Lake Tahoe, New Jersey, NYC, Colorado, and Alaska together. I hope our map eventually extends to other countries--he'd most like to go to New Zealand, Ireland, or Iceland. What I love the most about him is his generosity and humble nature. When we have guests over, he tends to overdo his host duties, which means we rarely see him in the evening, as he's always cutting cheeses or doling out drinks. I love his laugh. I love how he makes me laugh. I love how he's always supported me emotionally and encouraged me on my journeys. I love that I get to spend the rest of my life with him, and every day I feel as if I am the absolute most lucky person, as if the fates made a mistake, an accident pairing me up with him, but I'm not going to tell if you don't.

photos from a birthday weekend

Ryan's birthday is Monday, St Patrick's Day. We spent this weekend with a full house--so many good friends, old and new.

it begins to melt

It's that time of year: the snow has really begun to melt in earnest now. The yard is swampy, full of fall revelation (having two dogs is deliriously wonderful at this point--can you hear the sarcasm?--and the regret at not being more diligent in the autumn?), and I don't mind the process, since I know the result: green. I promise to celebrate it, celebrate the grass, celebrate the open air, celebrate the shifting from here to now.

Last year, at the start of March, evidence of true snow: here and here and here. By the end of the month, we were outside, relaxing. (And then, with the point-and-shoot.) I love my photo-a-day for evidence of the change in seasons; I can anticipate when I'll see bloom again.

Yesterday, I spent enough time worrying about next year I physically made myself sick. And today, I realize how ridiculous that was--I am destroying the insides of myself, shredding my organs in worry. I am afraid I won't get off the wait list (so close is so hard); I'm afraid if I leave for Florida or Boston, I'll put my relationship in jeopardy and I'll miss home too much; I'm afraid if I do low-res, I'll regret not going full throttle in the same way.

But today, I am simply going to look forward to some of the delights in my near future:

- This weekend will be a long celebration of my husband. His birthday coincides with St Patrick's Day, and we have guests coming throughout the weekend: Mike and his dog Dallas on Friday, and on Saturday: the Winona gang, only one of whom is still in Winona, along with my girl friends Chris and Kelly (and Kelly's husband). I am also excited about some of his presents--I know he does not read this blog, so I can tell you: I ordered seeds so we can grow our own hops along the tall fence in our backyard and I've commissioned a piece of artwork to celebrate the love and luck we've had together (among other more mundane things).
- In exactly one week, I will be on my way to New Orleans with my best friend. Even though we've been close, sister-like, since we were thirteen years old, we have yet to take any significant trip together. We were very lucky--I had points to redeem on my credit card for airline miles, and she has a friend who is stationed down there. I am in dire need of regular travel (I blame this fully on Nikki and my grandmother, by the way, for inspiring me to seek out life in other corners of the globe). Palm Beach is a distant memory.

I am feeling quiet again, the need to reflect, to unfurl, just as those bits of leaves will, just as the blossoms will, just as the garden will do. I hadn't been as aware before--that hibernation of winter, the rebirth of an emotional self in the spring. I love this time of year; there is so much anticipation.

where my husband joins me

We are halfway and the night is warm. My husband flew in this morning, made it despite a canceled flight, haggard and adorable.

I started a new notebook while I'm here, and I'm addicted to it, jotting down little thoughts, images, bits of poems. I have the tendency to want to separate, to put things into little categories. I like life in boxes, even though I hate "other-izing," I hate the idea of pigeonholing. But I don't mind shouting from the rooftop what "things" I am--poet, wife, teacher, whatnot. And siphoning those selves off--to the photo a day blog, to the duo photo project, to the poetry blog. It becomes addictive to thematically link my life; I had a dream journal, a writing notebook, and a diary-type place. Now it's all lumped together--the flex and bulge of redesigning life, I suppose. I want to keep it simple, but my tendency is to sprawl.

I love existing in words for a week. I love to glory in it. I've been introduced to some wonderful poets via coursework and readings thus far--Major Jackson, Kim Addonizio, Thomas Lux, and my instructor, Malena Morling. All I want to do is read, read, read poetry this week. My only writing is sporadic and snippet-like, and that's OK. This week is about soaking it all up, absorbing the intelligence of others, hope for my own future as a scholar and writer of poetry.

love & other catastrophes

Above are some of my favorites of the ones I've taken.

Have you seen the movie? It's one of my favorites, Love and Other Catastrophes. Among other things, one of the protagonists must wander from building to building on campus, bumping about, trying to get the drop slip signed.

I always think this: Harumph, love and other catastrophes whenever a string of little bitty frustrating events occur, sprawling out in your morning. I think of it as one event causes another, as events act and react, as the culture of me and my propensity to knock into walls and tabletops backfires. I am always bruised and don't know why; it usually is from my gracelessness before.

This morning I woke up to a flat tire. (This always happens when my husband leaves to go out of town--darn you, and your adventures--and he just kissed my head good-bye at four thirty this morning.) Flat, as in, rumble rumble, rim-to-the-ground flat. My third in as many years, I believe. My second sitting against the wet pavement of our driveway; the last time, I simply called in for the day (an hour commute doesn't really help), but today, I got a ride. (And the first time, in the middle of no where, and two high school girls pulled over to help me change it--I was so struck by their kindness.)

Thank goodness for the locality--the less-than-a-mile, the local shop picking up my car as I work, the easy pick up of a teacher at the corner, just after the school bus goes by.

And I lost a contact somewhere on the way out the door, so I am half-blind, or rather, half-fuzzy. I squint at my students' power point presentations, hope it all makes as much sense to me as it does to them.

I could go on: our garbage, which I struggled with last night, was not picked up, was tipped over instead. My father is coming for the reading tomorrow, and he wants to watch a Packers game, but we don't have TV (as in, no cable, no reception, just an addiction to Netflix), which presents a pickle. I don't like it when my husband leaves. I overslept; I dreamt that I would arrive at school after the bell (nothing like white cats and prophecies). Zephyr, the destroyer of all things, took down every single coat and scarf and whatnot hanging in our mud room and made a shredded bed out of one of my canvas bags while I was in the shower. (He's quick, that bugger.)

You see, if I hum to myself, Love and other catastrophes..., I am a little less hands-up-in-the-air frustrated. There is no frenzy, no chaos. There is take-it-one-step-at-a-time and it-will-all-work-out-anyway, a kind of peaceful, methodical pace to resolution. I wish I could say my husband's mantra of, No use getting upset; there's nothing you can do about it would be my saving grace, but sometimes, when he says that, I have the urge to kick him in the shins.

But the film, with all its little stumblings, the plot that reminds me of me, bouncing off the walls of life, is so "feel good," so upbeat and such a pleasant, peaceful, smooth viewing that I can't help but smile thinking of it. Smile and think, "Well, I have an ending like that too."

Life is too good to concern oneself with flat tires and lost contacts. (Especially when everyone in this town, helping me, giving me rides, dropping keys off and whatnot, makes me want to open my arms and give my town a big hug.)

Last night I had a smaller reading through Intermedia--the Writer to Writer folks did a final presentation of what we've been up to over the semester's mentorship work. I read my series of poems about my grandfather, and I think it went well. Husband could make it to this one (since he's out of town for tomorrow's longer reading), which was nice, knowing he was there, warm and content in the audience. I got to hold his hand afterwards, pinch his leg just before in nervousness. I love having him cheer me on in his own quiet, supportive way.

This is something that I am forever amazed at: Since I completed my undergraduate degree, I have floundered a bit with the future. First, I was going to pursue my MFA. I had my AWP handbook, I had my list of colleges, I sought a job to keep me afloat for my year off, and then I panicked. He held my hand, comforted me in my confusion. I realized it would be just as hard to find a decent job when I was done with an MFA as it was then. The MFA wouldn't get me anywhere; I knew this. So I contorted and shivered and found myself in the M.Ed program. I taught. I missed my writing. I wrote. I wanted an MFA again. I hated teaching at Old High School after a while. Then I found myself here, and it was only supposed to be for a year, so husband stood by me again as I confessed I wanted to go back to school, that this long term sub gig was perfect, and I didn't know if I'd return to teaching again. Newly married, with a mortgage, he said OK. This takes a big leap, since finances are becoming intermingled. But now I'm at another one of those ping pong moments: I now have eighteen applications out there (nine regular programs and nine low-residency) and the possibility of me returning to Local High School grows stronger. And he stands by me. There isn't a leaning from him, even if I ask, and I think that is right. When I mention going away for graduate school, a long distance marriage, he tells me to apply, that we'd figure it out. When I mention working here and doing the low-res MFA, which means loans, he says to apply, that we'd figure it out.

And now I want to hug him, press him close to me, but he's up in the air over Kentucky now.

For now, I'll just work my way toward four working tires, a new contact, and an optometrist appointment. For now, I'll just hum, love and hum and other catastrophes and think of tomorrow and reading. And think of Saturday and sleeping in. And Packer games, apparently.

He doesn't know I notice, but I do.

Last night, he crept into bed hours after my light went out. I was half awake at the sound of his clothing slip to the floor, his feet slide under the covers. My lavender sleep pillow had slipped, and he gently nudged it back across my eyes. Why did something like that seem so kind, so tender? His motivation probably had more to do with his not wanting to wake up with it under the small of his back (again), but it felt different. A little gesture, while I was sleeping.

This, I think, is what it comes down to when you've been with someone for nearly-eight-and-a-half years (just a few weeks until that gem of a milestone; I feel like I'm in elementary school, where each half year counted, as opposed to now when every moment away from the year before, or the decade before needs to be ignored): we settle into something that is comfortable, we don't mind that pajamas are on before the nine o'clock news, and the sweetest thing we can do for each other is cook a warm meal, ready when the other gets home.

And this is January in Minnesota, which means a great deal of hibernation. Many flexible pillows, downy blankets, mugs of steaming chai, and thick books. It means it hurts to breathe through your nose and your hair freezes at kinky angles, stuck straight out like wonky icicles, and you remember why most normal people own a blow drier.

I am lucky, this year--a five minute commute, no drama program to plaster my eyes shut at night, and a methodical way of grading-while-students-are-small-group-discussioning.

I've been reading Kate's blog, Sweet Salty, enjoying all of her older posts, her first born, her life in Canada, the gorgeousness of her prose in the face of something horrifyingly difficult, and I came upon this post. And I thought to myself about the purpose of blogging--why not just keep a journal on the computer? I can still record the day, still keep it quick, still post pictures. Why do this so publicly?

In the first few days of Blog 365, I'm probably not so wise to be questioning why I keep a blog. I'm supposed to feel spurred on, excited.

I just feel a bit flat and dull.

I think that's what happens when I stumble upon good blogs with good writing (and good photography). They make me want to write myself (to create art myself), but I always feel so indescribably boring (and incapable) up against them. And then one of the good writers questions keeping the comments on--the monastic feel of simply writing, knowing there is someone reading, but they don't need that validation.

(Why do I need that validation?)

This is one thing I'll always admire about my husband: he is humble. I have never worn humble well, even if I'm a fairly mediocre being and ought to have adapted by now. But he's so immensely good at what he does--his drunken colleagues tell me so at holiday parties--and it was his musical talent that made me trip over my Doc Martens and look at this boy, think, wonderingly, "Lucky the girl who gets him."

i love this picture of us ...

... and I can't remember if I've posted it before.

one month anniversary

Tomorrow: Songs of Innocence and Experience.

Tonight: A dinner out, to the place that seems so comfortable, where we sat with glossy menus, slick with condensation and conversation of apartments and houses. Talk of this weekend, of driving plans, of email trees and the moon's globe. Talk of internships at small poetry presses and how sometimes I think about what I'd do if I wasn't a teacher and how I'm not sure that would be any better or worse.

Finding ourselves a year old and thinking about what happened six years ago: Where we were. In the shower, he knocked, said a plane hit, and I thought it was nothing, just like the fire alarm in our apartment building a few days before, calling me out of the shower again, my hair crackling with soap, our cats mewling in their kennel. Leaning over the balcony, wondering if the fire trucks arrived yet, nothing--a false alarm. But this, six years ago--he was working downtown and called into work, I was attending a poetry workshop, my final portfolio course for undergraduate school. I spent the day on the futon, watching the news ticker, obsessed with small changes, and he played video games, obsessed with escaping.

What I tell my students: about how I read an article on The New York Times online about how some people are tired of the memorials. I tell them about the Amiri Baraka poem and watch them gasp and then I have them write about the responsibility (if there is any--what do you think?) of writers after events such as these: after Hurricane Katrina, Pearl Harbor, the sniper in the DC area, Virginia Tech, the 35W bridge collapse, the war in Iraq. I'm very interested to hear their responses; I'm very afraid of their responses; I'm very excited to read their responses.

But, for now, I have to think of how I will use my forty six minutes with Blake--this, from someone anxious to teach AP Literature, and now is faced with a course that is essentially discussion and lecture driven--which bits to keep, to leave out, to find them interested?

Happy one month to me and him. We are counting again (though we still tout the eight years; after all, this is truly a big accomplishment, I believe) and today, he brought me flowers.

eight years, this day

1. The story of how you met.

When I was in Green Bay these past few weeks, my mother told the story of how she met my father. She told of how a friend of hers called, saying these two boys wanted a tour of Boston and her friend told her I get the tall one (so obviously not my father). I was so surprised--this whole time I'd been telling a myth, that my parents met on a blind date, and that my mother was actually a fill in for a girl that got sick. Had I imagined this? Or was this a story that my father told?

The Fiance and I have a complicated, tangled story that isn't as interesting as a blind date, or even a tour of the Boston swan boats and hidden literary places. But here it is:

I was a freshmen in college, attending a local school for a year before I transferred, hoping to stay closer to the person I was dating at the time. We broke up in the fall, a very tumultuous break up with much melodrama, and the breakup had the added downfall of coming the day after my nineteenth birthday. I was living at home, and as well all know, this wasn't entirely the best idea given how often clashes occur. I was going to move out with Mandy, but she bailed on the last minute, and in her stead, she offered a guy who worked at a store in the mall across the way from her--a guy I barely knew, but had spoken with a few times and he was in the same situation--desperate to get out of his parents' home.

I moved in with Bill in March, unhappy that I'd even stayed back a year, wishing I had gone ahead to the college I'd wanted to attend (Iowa) and not allowed a relationship (that ended) to keep me in town. Through Bill, I met all kinds of crazy people, people that will come to our wedding, people that will stand up next to us, people we love a great deal. And a few months after moving in with Bill, I met The Fiance (who went to high school with Bill). He wasn't supposed to be in Green Bay either; instead, he was supposed to stay in Duluth, where he was going to college, where he'd promised to live with the guy who is now his best man (Mike bought a house in town and The Fiance had even gone house hunting with him), where he'd signed up for summer courses. He hasn't been clear about why, and as far as I know, he's not really sure, but, in his words, he "freaked out" and decided to transfer schools (this only lasted a semester and he eventually returned to Duluth). But his coming home that summer was necessary for us to meet, to fall in love. Without my lingering, without Mandy's backing out, without The Fiance's impulse to come home, we'd have never crossed paths.

I was dating someone else at the time, someone in the "complete loser" category--not so smart, did a lot of drugs, a person who cared about me but wanted to know what we'd do when I did go away to college, and I could only evade his questions. And this boy would come over, and The Fiance confessed to how he was jealous, which means he must have noticed me before I realized it, and I do remember one night when he came to our apartment and I was technologically intelligent in showing him how to hook his computer up through the VCR so we could watch a pirated version of The Matrix. (Little did he know, I'm a techno-moron. What a disappointment.) Steve was there that night, the guy I was dating, and I sat holding his hand. I remember The Fiance that night too, such a contrast to the guy I was dating.

Since it wasn't asked, I'll go ahead and tell this: there was one night that summer, I believe it was in June, when The Fiance and I somehow became linked. I don't know if it was purposeful on his part or not, but we ended up talking all night, stumbling around the place we fondly called Wiggins (where some of those favorite people lived, in a duplex on Wiggins Way, and now they live in California and we're lucky enough that they'll attend our wedding), taking shots of tequila and drinking out of a beer someone ashed into, watching the sun rise. The Fiance invited me to dinner with our friends Jeff and Lani (Jeff will be one of our groomsmen), but then he slept through the date, after I sat dressed up, waiting in the apartment, our friends drifting in and out. I remember everyone shocked at The Fiance being so bold as to ask me out--he's terribly shy, and I hope they thought it was sweet. Bill did threaten me a little, telling me that if I broke The Fiance's heart, he'd be pretty angry. I'm proud to say I didn't, and I hope I never do; his heart is so precious to me.

2. How long have you been together?

Eight years ago today we had our first date. My longest relationship before that was nearly-two years; his longest before me was three weeks. It was in high school, and they only kissed. I like to tease him about that.

3. Do you have a song?

Nope, so it's been hard trying to figure out that first dance song. At first, I thought Etta James' "At Last" would be good, since I was so patient waiting for him to ask me (I think Kelly and he might differ on the "patient" part!), but we wanted to go with something a little less popular as a first dance song. I think we're going with "Be Here Now" by Mason Jennings. A little more rocky to dance to, but definitely fits us and I think the attitude we need to have going into this relationship. There's another song ("Forever my Friend" by Ray LaMontagne) that has the lyrics "Forever my love, forever my friend," but it isn't danceable, unless you consider pathetic bouncing a dance style, which he might. :) I tried to convince him that it was our song, but he was having none of it. I guess you can't just decide these things. There are songs that make me think of our earlier days, like Dave Matthews' "Two Step," which brings me right back to that summer.

4. Five traits that are different from yours in personality and how they compliment me (or vice versa).

This is a pretty challenging one...

- The Fiance likes to mull things over; I am impulsive. We balance each other out, and thus far, we've managed some of the biggest purchases (house, reception location, etc.) without any major scuffle. Of course, some decisions have taken longer then I'd like, but those decisions... well, he's worth it.
- Going into our relationship, The Fiance was much more patient then I was. He rubbed off on me; I managed to survive two years of teaching high school thus far. I think that's a strong indicator that I am more patient. :)
- This isn't personality as much as it's interests, but he is a math/science nerd, and I am a languages/arts nerd, which makes for new conversation, and we'll see how those interests develop in our offspring.
- I think the way we've dealt with our puppies is reflective on how we will be different in dealing with children. He is more ready to give Zephyr a chance then I am, but I've fortunately convinced him Z is not just yet trustworthy (hey, we've all seen the evidence). I'm more inclined to be nervous about things; he's more inclined to allow for risks. So if we have boys, I'll just have to squeeze my eyes shut as they fling themselves off strange structures and hope he knows what he's doing. :)
- He's more disciplined then I am. This is a trait I'm fairly jealous of... He can stay on task for a very long time at something, which I think frustrates him when I don't do as well; he has a very let's-get-this-done attitude, especially with daunting tasks, like moving. I want to rest and not overwhelm myself. It's good, though, because things get done. He's my motivator sometimes.

5. What is the sweetest thing he has ever done for you?

There are so many I could list, so many little things, so many things that are big and wonderful and logical--the night he stayed up with me after my sister's accident (how he drove me to the hospital at six in the morning because I was so freaked out); the night he stayed up playing Gauntlet with me, trying to help me fall back to sleep after a drunk slammed into my parents' minivan and totaled it; (so much to do with nights and cars) but the big one is this:

When I lived in a studio apartment just blocks away from the university, my phone went out. This was before cell phones were the norm, so I had to walk down to a convenience store to call it in and fell asleep, unhappy I couldn't have my nightly long distance phone call to The Fiance or at least send an email (good ol' dial up connection). It was something like seven or so in the morning when a knock came at my door... I stumbled around, trying to find my bathrobe (I slept naked, after all) and opened the door, finding The Fiance, bloodshot eyes, staring back at me. He had driven the five and a half hours from Milwaukee to Minneapolis, leaving at two in the morning after he hadn't been able to get a hold of me by phone. He was worried about me; I pulled him into bed and we slept until well past noon.

We're big into little surprises, big romantic gestures, but mostly, good time together. We love traveling, discovering, exploring together. And he makes my heart melt all messy gooey all over the place.

6. Do you compliment each other in ways of handling stress? Does he calm down when you stress out and vice versa? Or do you both wig out and wind each other up?

What a very important and very amusing question! :) I say this because, as I drove home last night, I was speaking to him on my phone and had to get off the phone with him because he was irritating me. No one can push my buttons like The Fiance can. No one quite knows my buttons like he does.

But no one can wrap me in comfort like he can either. He's so perfect and wonderful when I need him to be; he pushes buttons generally when I'm being ridiculous. I was stressing out because I was tired of making decisions (a symptom I am assuming many brides are accustomed to--I hope I'm not alone?) and said I was done, that I would do whatever anyone else wanted. We can go to Winona the Sunday I return from North Carolina, if that is what everyone wants to do. My bridesmaids can wear flip flops, if they want to. I don't care! And I think I was getting a little tantrum-ish because he asked if I was stomping my feet as I was saying these things. :)

Well, yes, sure I was.

But he's often good about stressful situations, as long as I'm not off my rocker about it. I called him while I was in Green Bay after my mother and I had a particularly unpleasant moment, and he was so good about it, but I also wasn't a nutty hyena as I was telling him what had happened. He listened (didn't try to solve it!) and told jokes (the most perfect and hilarious kind, making fun of the situation, threatening to put yellow and orange and navy buttons on a dress for me) and was generally the exact kind of person you'd want to tell about a crazy moment you had with your family.

When he's stressed, he's not as splayed out as I can be. He's very quiet about it and just says, "I'm stressed. I need to work on this." Very matter of fact. And I try to be as good as I can, without dancing about, wanting too much attention.

7. What is his favorite thing about you?

Um, that I change the bedsheets once in a while and I put up with that weird clicking noise he makes when he sleeps?

I can't really answer this one without asking him, but he tells me that he's proud of me, and that makes me feel very warm inside. I think he's pleased that I'm decent at my vocation and I know he likes that I'm creative. I think he didn't expect that I'd be as wacky as I am, but that's part of my charm.

8. If you could possess one of his traits as your own, which would it be and why?

Ah, one wonderful thing about a partnership, I believe, is admiration. I really do think The Fiance is one of the finest human beings, and I know I'm biased, but I also know many of my girl friends would agree that I will end up with an incredible person, a very, very good person to be with. I could just crawl into his big ol' heart and play house, it's so welcoming and huge.

There are two things, and I hope that's not cheating too much:

#1: His patience. I know he gets frustrated and annoyed, but he's also able to not let things get to him, which is something I wish were true about me. I get distracted, like a little raccoon (or one of my students with ADD), or, if it's not working fast enough, I give up. He's got this great work ethic and this giving nature that will keep him at something for a long time. And his patience leads to his generosity, and it's all just very, very lovely.

#2: His humility. He's a very brilliant person, I think, but he's quiet humble about it. And I really admire that. He's also quite the talented musician, and again, very humble and modest. If I feel like I've been doing a good job teaching, I sometimes say, "Hey, I think I'm not too bad of a teacher." Or if I write a poem that I'm proud of, my chest might get all puffy. I like to drag him to the computer to see the pictures I've taken that miraculously worked out. Heck, I've got this blog to tout that kind of stuff.

9. Also, do you ever get "sick of each other" and how do you handle it?

I actually don't get sick of him, and though we appreciate the small breaks we get with the changes in geography, I don't think we'd be restless if we didn't have them. We don't see each other as much as I think we'd like, and when we are home, we often are both working, so we are in the same room, but concentrating at our tasks at hand. I'll let you know if I do get sick of him though. :) We have a pretty subtle and quiet relationship most of the time.

10. First date.

When we first met, he started a job at a gas station for the summer that gave him a ten at night 'till six in the morning shift, so I started writing him letters, sometimes enclosing books, sometimes music. He wrote back, and there was one night when he called me and asked breathlessly, "Can I take you out to dinner some time?" I can't imagine the courage he had to muster to ask this question.

We went to Z Harvest, which is a lovely little restaurant in Green Bay, and then for a walk along the river. He said he had to go to Milwaukee to sign a lease for an apartment and invited me to come along. So our date was in two cities, and we watched Othello at a friend's place and sat on the balcony looking up at the stars. I think we both got something like two hours of sleep, snoozing on a friend's sofa, and I felt so self conscious sleeping in front of him just as we started dating. The next morning, the realtor asked us if we were dating, and we apparently both turned pink. The following day, I went on a cruise to Hawaii with my parents for a week and wrote him things every day, missing him, and humming along the volcanic paths, falling asleep to a CD he made me of songs he'd written.

11. First kiss.

I wish I could definitively say I remember when this was, but I'm pretty sure it was a few weeks after that first date... we were lounging around at my apartment and he leaned in and there it was, so sweet, so gentle.

12. First time one of you said "I love you."

It was him, which is funny, because he was the one to take the longest on all the other decisions. It was in that first month, and I don't think I said it back, not just yet, but it wasn't long after. We were pretty crazy about each other from the start.

13. When did you "know"?

When we walked into the house we bought, I tingled. My body felt it, I knew. This was the house I wanted to turn into a home with him.

When I met The Fiance, and we began to bond, I knew. It was before our first date, even, and maybe it wasn't that I knew we'd eventually marry (though I think that was pretty clear in the first few months, that if I didn't marry him one day, if he'd have me, I would be a fool), but I did know that no matter what, I wanted him to be a part of my life. My whole life.

14. How do you think your life will change once you are his wife?

I'm not sure. Our lives feel pretty married as it is, what with the house and the pets and the finances and all. I can't wait to call him my "husband" though! And I am looking forward to raising a family with him and growing old with him. I think he's the perfect partner for me, and I'm so lucky.

15. How is life different where you grew up then where you live with your fiance?

The environment at my parents' house is very different from the environment we have here. I think the focus is different and the conversational style is different too. The Fiance and I are fairly laid back, very comfortable, and we try to resolve issues in a low key way. I think, growing up in Green Bay, there was a lot of yelling, and that doesn't happen here. I'm not saying one way is better; it's just a different way of expressing. I'm happier when it's quieter, when we can talk things out, and when we get upset, we generally just cool off and deal with it when we're a little less nutty. That's the main difference--the way anger and irritation are dealt with. And I think, in turn, the way love is dealt with is different, too.

16. Where does he hide those muscles in his skinny body?

Heck if I know. He has terrible eating habits. And when I say this, I don't mean, he doesn't eat enough vegetables each day; I mean, he often doesn't eat any vegetables all week, or fruit, and he can come home and announce that all he has eaten thus far was a Snickers bar and too much Pepsi. (Twitch, twitch.) Then he'll have a burger or pizza for dinner and a couple of beers, the little turd. He also doesn't work out. But he is uncannily strong, indeed. And there's not a lot of fat. Maybe all that clicking and typing is a work out for the arms, but if that were true, all this blogging would make me much stronger then I am, so who knows? What a turkey.

17. How did he ask?

One year ago today: We went to visit his sister in New Jersey and mine in New York City (now moved to Austin). We were in the city on the hottest of days, sweat tricking down to every crevice, and after surviving the heat of the boat trip over, we settled beneath an elm tree just next to the Statue of Liberty. We had pretzels and lemon ice and I leaned back against him. He covered my eyes with his palms and said he lied about getting me an anniversary present. When he pulled his hands away, there was the ring and he whispered, "Will you marry me?" Such a quiet proposal in such a dramatic place (and yes, I recognize the irony of our location).

Thanks for the questions, all! This was fun. :) (And goodness, a prize to you if you read this whole thing! Perhaps I'll bake you a German Chocolate cake!)

He brought me flowers when he came home from work today. I have been keeping fresh blooms by the kitchen sink, but since I've been gone for the theatre course, I haven't kept up. Pink and white blooms, spilling into the sunlight, so light and perfect. Small things to carry around, like a locket to my heart.

I've been told I have a thing about showing you pictures of the dogs and flowers...


Summer is so perfect for sitting outdoors, for watching the sun set, for drinking a beer. I spent a good deal of my afternoon getting my fingers dirty, pulling up a week's worth of weeds, continually amazed at how quickly the sprouts are growing, becoming plants, becoming producers of actual vegetables, while I am gone. Even The Fiance's corn has grown, and though it is not as high as we would hope, we might actually see some kind of miniature results. We may have tiny buds, tiny ears to celebrate. The zucchini is already coming in full force, which is no surprise from last year, but this plant in the end of our garden is shooting all kinds of shapes at us--bulbous, elongated, all stunning, all curious.



My sister and I have begun discussing some changes to our blog. Her little slice of Texas is currently wading in a significant amount of water, somehow throwing the internet off, so she can only send email with her phone and occasionally go on the net at her boyfriend's place. We had originally planned to give each other assignments each week, trading off, and post pictures with that theme, but the regular Mondays have been difficult for her, and lately, with all of my travels, difficult for me as well.

I think the idea of the blog is working well: a way for us to creatively communicate when sometimes we aren't as good with our words. So we don't want to end the project, but shape it more to our ability and interest. 3191 was the inspiration for this project, and what I find striking about this webpage is not just that the photos come every morning, but also that the photos speak to each other, have conversation. So while we are not in a place to have a set time for our photography, I think what we will glean from this admiration of mine is the conversational tone, the way our pictures can speak to each other, and still allow us the space to grow as photographers.

I think the idea is that she'll send me a "packet" of photos each week (maybe seven?) and I'll go through my own to see which pairings might be the most compelling, the ones that seem to connect. Since I clearly am very regular about posting (here and on my photo a day), I don't think this will be a problem! Please let me know what you think, once things get going over there.



Our mailbox now has been littered with little creamy envelopes, each with a brown bird flirting with our address--the RSVPs are arriving. Each "will not attend" makes my heart sink a little, though each person has a valid reason; we knew our attendees would be a surprise either way, given how far flung our friends and family have become. It's lovely to have such a myriad of places to visit, but difficult when you want a reunion.

I've also added another member to our overflowing party: Marie, an exchange student we hosted from Germany ages ago and who returns every summer to stay with my parents for a month, will be my personal attendant. I told her it was mainly a decorative title, as I have seven bridesmaids, but with eight girls and two mothers and grandparents as well, I'm sure there will be plenty of nuttiness to keep her on her toes. :)


It's good to be home, if only for a while: hydrangea are in bloom, big puffy balls outside church doors, and in the window of a drug store downtown, red-white-and-blue along with all signs of red wings are in the windows. It is our city's 150th anniversary this summer, which means all kinds of small town pride, puffed up chests, little parades with banging bass drums, bands, and banners. It's nice to be in a place that has a holiday stroll just after Thanksgiving every year, a place that has cookie cutters in the shape of the town symbol, that is known for so much: shoes, pottery, hanging flower baskets. You can arrive on a train or a boat; we rest just on the Mississippi. There are bed and breakfasts, inns, and an historic hotel. Emerson wrote on Barn Bluff, there are hints of Twain along the river, and the Anderson Center hosts poets as well as a printing press. I am falling in love with this town, which is so good, because next year I will teach here, and soon, we will raise a family here too.

surprise visits & random thoughts

My mother let me leave a little early this weekend. She took the kids to Comedy City tonight, in a rain storm, and I drove back, with two devil puppies snoozing all the way home. They made plenty of messes on my parents' carpet (that is, Zephyr did) and every time they wrestled, my parents' ancient Madison would start yelping herself hoarse. It was much like living in a dog kennel.


This meant I was able to surprise The Fiance, which is such a lovely tradition in our relationship. I remember when we first started dating--he lived in Milwaukee and I was in the Twin Cities, and that five and a half hour drive was committed by one of us every weekend but one (and two times we surprised each other). I had found a ride to Green Bay from some random college kid and borrowed my parents' car and parked it in a friend's garage and waited in the apartment of said friend across the street... I had another friend cajole him into coming across, which he was very reluctant to do, as he can be borderline hermit, and when he spotted me on the balcony, he jumped, and later swore he thought he was seeing things.

This time, I just called him on the phone and barraged him with strange questions and finally let the dogs into the yard and said I had two more: "Do you miss me terribly?" and "Will you help me bring things in?" This last one didn't go as smoothly as I expected because he said, "It depends on when you arrive tomorrow." I was expecting him to get it then, but I'll forgive him this one time.

Especially since he didn't mind that I ruined one of his white t shirts when I stuck my own head through the head hole to give him a kiss. This, I am sure, was a strange little picture, with our dogs leaping like circus clowns, and a two headed monster, sloshing a glass of wine about, the sprinkler filling the dog pool to overflowing.


Lucky things: going home a day early, having a mother who is an immensely talented seamstress and team teacher, wishing your Grandmother a happy birthday and wishing you could be there with her to celebrate but being so glad she is in your life, a fiance who holds you with such talent you swear the world disappears, finding two blank notebooks for writing poetry in, a copy of Autobiography of Red just waiting at the bookstore for you (you didn't want to read the library version anyway), taking a picture of a butterfly so close you could reach out and hold it in the cup of your hands, finding a patch of clover on the Saint Norbert campus as you sit down in the shade.


I've decided that my disconnect last week directly correlated to my overzealous napping I've been doing recently. I know bone-healing is a lot of work, as is teaching turbo-smart kids many hours a day, and I fully recognize that Penelope and Zephyr like to lick and whine and beat at the bars of their kennel (that's just the untrustable Zephyr in the kennel; Penelope graduated long ago, though the glasses incident makes me second guess my princess thoughts about her) when the sun comes up, but this napping must stop.


Today I had my ninth (tenth?) medical appointment since February. Again with the x-rays, only these didn't make me writhe in pain, and the technician was much more gentle. I wore this strange skirt around my stomach, in case I was pregnant (I promised her, with my mood swings this week, it was impossible, but she wanted me to make the fashion statement anyway). It turns out I am healing well, could take off the brace as soon as I was ready (I popped it over my head just as he was finishing his sentence, which made him laugh), should be fully healed in three to four weeks (I still can't straighten it all the way and certain movements make me double over, reminding me that I did indeed take a face plant nearly two weeks ago), and indeed, I can probably go zip lining on my honeymoon (dang! ... I mean, yay!).



As many of you already know, my mother is making my wedding dress, which definitely makes her a superhero in my eyes, especially as the date is just over a month away. She made a "rough draft" (as she called it), and while I felt grumpily rotund, it was pretty amazing to see that muslin train behind me. (It didn't help that our EA [Educational Assistant] asked, "Is Chelsea big too?" to my mother yesterday. She doesn't have a tact filter; I don't think she is intentionally mean, though it did sting a bit.)

She's making the dress as one generally makes wedding dresses--a Frankenstein's monster of patterns, taking a ruche here, a train there, a sweetheart neckline, or maybe some cap sleeves there. It's such a blessing to receive this gift. (Now, if only I could feel as beautiful as the dress will be...)


And after I took this week's picture at my sister blog, I turned around to my adorable little posse, looking back at me. I love that Zephyr offered to take the wheel; he is kindly making up for his quirky appetite.

i know, i just missed you

On some levels, in this blog, I am very honest and open, and The Fiance's mother confessed she sometimes feels voyeuristic (I'm not sure if she was referring to my blog specifically or those in my sidebar, but you get the idea), and I know it drives me nutty when folks are cryptic in their blogs about major turmoil. Note that this is not any form of major turmoil--you only need to know that The Fiance did something that made me "sad in the heart" and will manage to get over eventually. It's not something he did that was purposeful in intent, and after explaining to him how it hurt me, we are now working toward moving past it.

Anyway, I've spent the past week in Wisconsin alternately being furious with him and missing him furiously. Perhaps this incident had the best of timing. I came home late last night from Emily's rehearsal dinner (I plan to put up a separate post about that next; for some reason, I like my posts to thematically be separate, so if Em wants to forward those images and words on to her family, the family doesn't have to wade through my moment with The Fiance). We crawled into bed, talking about what happened, me explaining, getting reassurances, telling him why it would make me upset (so I didn't seem so unreasonable--I am irrational too sometimes) and he kept telling me how much he loves me, etc.

And I said to him, "Why do you keep smiling? This is serious. I'm really hurt."

And he said, "I know." And then, "It's just that I love you." And, "I missed you. You're smiling too."

"I know," I said. "I love you and missed you too."

I think it's interesting how we can ache so much and be so furious and feel so betrayed and it's easy to stay mad from a distance, but the minute I drove up to the house late last night and saw the shadow of him beneath the garage lights (and even though this is what I fumed about on the drive home, because Emily had agreed that she would be upset too), my heart leaped up, so thrilled was I to simply see the outline of him, so happy was I to finally sink into his arms.

And he was so sweet and careful of my bum arm. It'll be nice to be cared for over the weekend. All is well in the house of chaos, and today, we will watch one of my favorite people in the world marry the love of her life.