Lovers and their loving love

Battle scars.

I’m having a bad day. Nobody (besides Joe Lantana) is dying, I’m not getting evicted, and my car (cross your goddamned fingers!) is running, often dependably. Still a bad day. When Dan left for work this morning we were in a fight. No phones were thrown (this time), we weren’t evening yelling, but there was an unhappiness that sat between us even as we hugged goodbye. The uneasiness about this is only compounded by the fact that I am sleeping away from home for the next three nights. (Religious retreat.) (Not really.) With Bec and husband Jeff away in California for work, I am playing the role of responsible adult and will be getting Molly fed, bathed and to and from school until Thursday night when they get home. (I stay there versus having her at my place because they’re 45 minutes away and I question my ability to get Molly to school on time---or at all---from here.) So it’s not like there’s really time to make up if you know what I’m saying. (Really I just mean make up, the non-italicized way.)

I won’t get into the specifics of the fight (except to say that I was right) and I am confident that the whole to-do will be to-done by lunchtime. In fact, I already called him to say, I love you and let’s move on. Can you say bigger (GIANTER , MAMMOUTHIER) person? But despite having made peace for the sake of making peace, I’m still a bit troubled by the whole thing.

The only reason I write about it here is because, well, I’m thinking about it. I arrived here today wondering if I would talk about how I’m being brainwashed by The Secret, or my love for all things Suze Orman, or how yesterday I listened to the Yankees game on the radio with Dan while playing John Madden (whom I kept calling Steve Madden) football on X-Box and think I should be nominated for some type of best wife award, or about how Dan and I replaced my windshield wipers and now I’m feeling ready to open our own garage, or that the winter clothes are officially unpacked and hanging in the closet, or how I’m wondering about getting an IUD, or about how I’m falling off the gluten-free wagon and gained three pounds in one weekend, or how I’m wondering how to nonchalantly slip the IUD thing into conversation on this blog.

I arrived here thinking I would just Spew some randomness in an effort to post something (the creative process of the world’s finest artists, I’m sure) but I’m not feeling like being all tangent-y. I’m in a bad mood and I’m pouting and that’s all I’m capable of on this particular Monday morning.

Usually I would leave this stuff out. I’ve depicted plenty of lovely, tender moments Dan and I have shared because they really happen and it’s nice to capture them. But it seems a bit false to portray a seemingly perfect union when the truth is that sometimes Dan is a douche and I am a (GIANTER, MAMMOUTHIER) bitch. That’s what I was thinking about when I sat down to write this morning. I readied myself to feign insightfulness or humor or irreverence when really all I had to offer was cranky. I can’t get in the habit of faking it. (So. Many. Jokes: 1) That’s what she said 2) Like I did with Dan all weekend or 3) I guess there weren’t that many.) Really though, I can’t write about being all honest, blah, blah, blah, and then skip the hard parts. I didn’t want to write a screw-the-gas-bill-I’m-turning-on-the-heat filler piece. I wasn’t ready to move on from my state of general crappiness.

Now I am.

Melliterary Spew:

I got stuck in six-hours of Columbus Day Weekend traffic on Friday, that’s why I’m late. I’m still working on The Bookish, that’s wazzup. I missed some writing days last week due to a two-day visit (and a three-day hangover) with GBFFE Mattie and sister Dirty Chirl, but it was worth it.

Also notable is that Dan and I saw Steve Martin play the banjo with The Steep Canyon Rangers in Boston last week. (Hoping to write more on this.) The neat part for me was that writer Dave Barry opened up the show. As a kid, I used to seek out his syndicated humor column in the Providence Journal every Sunday morning. I would grab the newspaper off the porch (the Issues and Ideas section, was it?) and sit next to the heater on the kitchen floor where I’d drink my coffee (if the in utero consumption doesn’t count, I’ve been on the stuff since about 11-years-old) and laugh my face off. The real treat though was when my family would travel to my grandmother’s house in Miami and I could read his column in the actual newspaper (I think his picture was in color!) for which he wrote, The Miami Herald. I loved his writing, still do, but more than that I couldn’t believe that this was his job; that this was a job. Funny essays? Once a week? Tiny picture next to it which could not possibly show my thighs? Sold. I used to try to emulate his writing style and, thinking about it now, I realize what an effect the guy had on my writing. (Sorry, Dave.)

Even though his opening ended up being mostly a funny question and answer period with Steve Martin, it was a neat surprise to see him in the flesh. (I had no idea until the day of the show that he would be there.)

I can’t help but think it fits into all the hero talk I’ve been doing lately. That's Melliteray Motivation.