Ordinary, yet precious


Life is made of moments. Many are magical. Most are merely mundane.

Ordinary life. But within every second of mundane and ordinary, lies the power. The power to be present. The power to choose your words carefully. The opportunity to connect with others. The opportunity to love, show love, and be love. All we really have is this moment.

Life is made of moments. Some day, the moments will only be memories. Time is precious and people are precious and that’s really all we need to know. Treat both as such.

8 years ago yesterday

On Monday night at about 9:30, J-Dub says something to me from across the living room.  Since my ears aren’t exactly what they used to be, I repeat back to him, “Oh crap, you have to get groceries tomorrow???”

He repeats himself.  This time much louder and stressing every syllable as a vein pops out of his forehead, “I SAID,’OH CRAP!  OUR ANNIVERSARY’S TOMORROW.”
“Oh, crap.  It is.”

Now last year, I would’ve known that our anniversary was the next day.  I would have bought a mushy card, and just tried to catch him in forgetting it, since men are notorious for that. But that just goes to show how much a new little wee one sucks every brain cell right from your formerly astute mind.  I’m lucky to remember to turn off the iron these days.

So on June 12th (our 8 year anniversary), we arose at 5:00 a.m.  J-Dub told me Happy Anniversary first since I forgot again, then made me an anniversary coffee before he saddled his horse,  while I stumbled around readying myself and EK for a small road trip to help a friend work his cattle.

I never have made much of a hand in the cattle working department, and now since I have EK (whom one of his friends has nicknamed Sticker.  He says she’s like a little cactus and once she sticks to you…..well, I don’t remember exactly how it goes, but you probably get the idea.)  Anyway, since I have EK, I’m completely exempt from working at these cattle gatherings.  I wear shorts and flip flops and hang out holding the baby.

After the day of cattle work, and getting my car from the shop, and visiting with my mom for a while, we loaded up the baby and  drove to Amarillo that evening.  Since we’re die-hard romantics, we figured we might as well celebrate a little.  So we grabbed some supper and ordered extra egg rolls at Pei Wei, which I pronounce Pee Wee and Jason insists its Pay Way.  Just another petty argument which has helped make the past 8 years blissful.

I’m sure he’s right since he usually is.

No really.
He usually is.

Then we stopped at Starbuck’s for a frappuccino (mine with whipped cream, his without) before heading home and straight to bed for me and EK.  He probably fell asleep in his chair watching Monty Walsh.  Then there came a heck of a rainstorm in the night.

 

me and my honey

And that’s our life.

I raise my frappuccino to simply enjoying morning coffees, spending time smelling cattle hair burning, fussing over how to pronounce a word, rainstorms, falling asleep in the recliner, and of course our little Sticker,  who is bringing our marriage and our ability to love to an entirely different dimension.

I’m so blessed.

 

 

June 12th

Today, J-Dub and I celebrate 7 years of wedded bliss.

He claims it’s only feels like 30 minutes.
Underwater.

He also informed me a few moments ago that my corn-on-the-cob is always kinda tough.  Evidently I cook it wrong.  According to Google, you should boil the water first, then add the corn, return to a boil, cover, turn off the heat and let sit for 15 minutes.

Who knew?

I just throw it all in there and let it boil together. 

Today we honored our love by napping the afternoon away.  I did, anyway. 

Soon we will enjoy a tender steak on the grill with tough corn-on-the-cob.  Then watch Cheers reruns until snores fill the living room.  Mine, of course.

Naturally, seven years is not a great accomplishment, we haven’t reached our silver, golden, or even aluminum milestone, but in this day and age, I’d like to think we’re doing okay.  I asked my sweet beloved what advice he would give others for achieving marital bliss.  He answered, “I don’t know what that is.”

But he came up with a few:

1) Laugh alot—-at each other’s expense.
2)  Say “Yes Dear” often.
3) Come to the blinding realization that your twinkies are her twinkies too, so coming home to the last twinkie wrapper crumbled on the counter is just tough nookies.
4)  Realize you can’t win.
5) Never criticize her cooking.  (Oops)

All jokes aside, marriage can be a wonderful union full of rich rewards.  It takes sacrifice and unselfishness.  Giving of yourself to another and enjoying the ride.

And eating the tough corn-on-the-cob.

I didn’t marry no pimp, that’s fo’sho’

My husband loves New Year’s Eve.  To him it’s a sacred, holy holiday.  To me, it’s just another day.  And another night that I want to be in bed by 9:00. 

In my marriage we don’t fight alot.  We don’t have too much to fight over.    During the past 6 years, the few times it’s turned ugly either revolved around food or New Year’s Eve.  I have finally learned that food and New Year’s Eve are important to J-Dub.  To love him is to love these two events as well. 

For the sake of all that’s good and peaceful,  I suggested we have a few close friends over for a small celebration.    We had a little food, a little drink, and a lot of laughs.  It was so fun, I can’t wait until 2012.

The next night, being the party animals that we are, we went with a couple of friends to a country-western dance in a nearby town.  The music was great, but the crowd was young, and I do mean young.  The thirty-something crowd that I was in was the geriatric group for the night.  The dance lasted until 1:00, but by 12:00 the crowd had thinned considerably ; I imagine in order to make curfew and avoid getting grounded from their cell phones.

In the midst of this young, firm bodied, tech savvy crew, there was another character however.  He wasn’t too young, but he was younger than me.  Probably in his late 20’s.  He wore a goofy knit hat, baggy jeans with holes in the knees, and he had way too much hootch to drink.  He couldn’t dance but he thought he could.  I spent my evening watching this idiot flit around the room, pulling women out on the dance floor and explain to them how to dance  because he was so hard to follow.  He would start out two-stepping (and I use that term loosely) in his converse tennis shoes and frayed jeans dragging the floor, and then suddenly turn and lock elbows with his partner, performing high kicks and attempting scottish dirges, as his trapped partners struggled to maintain an ounce of composure as they were dying a slow death of embarrassment. 

I watched this moron and although I consider myself to be super easy going and tolerant of most kinds of people, I couldn’t stand this guy.  Towards the end of the evening, after he had drank all he had brought, he went to an abandoned table to rummage through all the empty beer cans to see if there was anything left to drink in them.  He picked up discarded cigarette packages in hopes of finding a forgotten cigarette.   In between songs when the dance floor was partially cleared, he would take a run onto the dance floor and slide across the center.  At one point he decided to break dance and he was even so bad mannered as to dart and flit between and amongst the couples enjoying their slow dance without any regard to anyone.  I sat at my table thinking he needed a good punch in the teeth and I was about ready to give him one.

And then he walks over.  He begins speaking to my husband.   The music was loud and I couldn’t make out everything he was saying.  I heard the word “bucks” and I presumed he was asking  for money.   J-Dub shook his head, some more words were exchanged, and he walked away.

“What’d he want?” I leaned over and yelled at J-Dub over the music.

I found out he didn’t want money.  But instead he offered my husband 50 bucks for a dance with me. 

I was appalled.  I can’t be bought!  What does he think I am? Some 2 bit hoochie mama that he can just throw money at and have his way with?

But …..wait……. on second thought…..fifty bucks you say? 

I think I might know a scottish dirge or two. 

And break dancing?  Did I mention I was a child of the eighties?

I don’t know the point of this story.  Perhaps the lesson learned in all this is:

The girls all get prettier at closing time.