In a strange twist of fate, I've somehow become a runner. Nobody--myself included--would have likely predicted that. But, odd as it may be, I enjoy running and feel pretty good at it. I'm also in need of clear goals to maintain enthusiasm about most things, so I regularly run local road races to keep myself going.
My Wife does not consider herself a runner, but she, too, is goal-oriented. Running, for her, has become a way to push herself physically and raise her fitness level. This has had a significant impact on me, since My Wife now has her eyes on road races, too.
At her suggestion, we've got our sights on a 10-miler in February, which I ran on my own last year. As part of the training for that, we ran a cute little 5K in small-town Lovell yesterday. What a delightful race, with less than 100 participants and almost everyone knowing everyone else. In windy, sub-freezing conditions, My Wife ran a wonderful race, finishing 3rd in her age division. Her enthusiasm also motivated me, and I had a good race by my standards. We hung out in the American Legion Hall afterward, watching the awards ceremony, eating home-made refreshments, and chatting up the locals.
We didn't win one of the Thanksgiving turkeys that they raffled off, but we walked away winners by every other measure.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Presidential
I just need to acknowledge that My Wife was in on the Obama movement before it was even a movement. She was calling for him to run for president during his speech at the 2004 Democratic National Convention.
Thank goodness he listened to her...
Thank goodness he listened to her...
Showtime
My Wife loves to go to the theater. I'm certainly a fan of live productions, as well, but I sometimes take a bit of nudging to get motivated to go. She's always ready to nudge. Actually, it's not even just theater, since she loves alternative films at art movie-houses just as much. As much as we both love the movies, we don't actually go out to see them that often. However, when we do go out, it's often just as much about where the movie is playing as it is about what the movie is.
As a side note, she even had a role in a community production of The Crucible, for which she learned how to knit. That's some serious method acting.
At any rate, we've just come off of three shows in four days, all initiated by My Wife. On Saturday we thoroughly enjoyed Jesus Christ Superstar, performed by the Poland Community Players at Poland High School. We saw another production of JCS at the Maine State Music Theater last spring, and I loved it. (All part of my goal of becoming a Jesus scholar.) The Poland show had students in all of the main leads, which was fantastic, and we were both impressed by the quality of the show.
The next night we zipped down to Portland to see Wait Until Dark at the Portland Stage Company. My Wife loves the Portland Stage Company, and I can see it's only a matter of time before we're season ticket holders. I agree it will be a worthwhile investment, although I'm looking to also leverage season tickets to the Portland Sea Dogs AA baseball team out of the deal...
On Monday (with Tuesday off for Veteran's Day) we returned to Portland, ate huge amounts of sushi, and then took in Rachel Getting Married, at Portland's best alternative movie theater, The Movies on Exchange. (Among others, we went there to see Fahrenheit 911 on opening day, and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.) I believe My Wife wanted to see this flick -- despite my lobbying for Kevin Smith's Zack & Miri Make a Porno instead -- in large part because it was directed by Jonathan Demme. We have our own Demme story because of her.
A few years ago, she ushered us off to another quirky theater, The Magic Lantern, without telling me what we were seeing. Turns out we saw Demme's remake of The Manchurian Candidate. The reason it was cool was that My Wife had under-the-table information that the director, himself, was going to be there to speak after the film. He's got a lake house nearby. Who knew? Sure enough, after the movie, Jonathan Demme popped up and stood in the aisle for twenty minutes commenting on his films and answering questions. Talk about your personalized Director's Commentary. It was the sort of thing I just LOVE, and we even won cool Manchurian Candidate sweatshirts. (Which, ironically enough, I found myself accidentally wearing on election day this year.)
This is the kind of thing My Wife makes happen.
As a side note, she even had a role in a community production of The Crucible, for which she learned how to knit. That's some serious method acting.
At any rate, we've just come off of three shows in four days, all initiated by My Wife. On Saturday we thoroughly enjoyed Jesus Christ Superstar, performed by the Poland Community Players at Poland High School. We saw another production of JCS at the Maine State Music Theater last spring, and I loved it. (All part of my goal of becoming a Jesus scholar.) The Poland show had students in all of the main leads, which was fantastic, and we were both impressed by the quality of the show.
The next night we zipped down to Portland to see Wait Until Dark at the Portland Stage Company. My Wife loves the Portland Stage Company, and I can see it's only a matter of time before we're season ticket holders. I agree it will be a worthwhile investment, although I'm looking to also leverage season tickets to the Portland Sea Dogs AA baseball team out of the deal...
On Monday (with Tuesday off for Veteran's Day) we returned to Portland, ate huge amounts of sushi, and then took in Rachel Getting Married, at Portland's best alternative movie theater, The Movies on Exchange. (Among others, we went there to see Fahrenheit 911 on opening day, and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.) I believe My Wife wanted to see this flick -- despite my lobbying for Kevin Smith's Zack & Miri Make a Porno instead -- in large part because it was directed by Jonathan Demme. We have our own Demme story because of her.
A few years ago, she ushered us off to another quirky theater, The Magic Lantern, without telling me what we were seeing. Turns out we saw Demme's remake of The Manchurian Candidate. The reason it was cool was that My Wife had under-the-table information that the director, himself, was going to be there to speak after the film. He's got a lake house nearby. Who knew? Sure enough, after the movie, Jonathan Demme popped up and stood in the aisle for twenty minutes commenting on his films and answering questions. Talk about your personalized Director's Commentary. It was the sort of thing I just LOVE, and we even won cool Manchurian Candidate sweatshirts. (Which, ironically enough, I found myself accidentally wearing on election day this year.)
This is the kind of thing My Wife makes happen.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Making Sausage
One of the great things about living in a place like Maine is that you get opportunities people in more populous places don't dream of. Back in February, for example, when My Wife and I went to our town fire station to take part in the Democratic Presidential Caucus, I walked out as an Obama delegate to the state convention and My Wife was an alternate. How did that happen? After the voting, the guy running the thing said, "Who wants to be a delagate?" and we raised our hands. Pretty cool.
Flash forward to May 30. We arrived, along with a traffic-jam of others, at the Augusta Civic Center for the big event. My Wife, as an alternate, was told to report to the Cumberland County meeting area so that she could be upgraded to delegate status if some delegates didn't arrive. Cool. Indeed, she was quite keen on becoming an official delegate and casting her vote in what Jon Stewart, on the Daily Show, has deemed "The long-running Bataan Death March to the White House."
Since Cumberland County is Maine's largest county--and since the ol' Augusta Civic Center ain't exactly the most state-of-the-art and spacious facility--it turned out that the alternate meeting area was actually a set of bleachers way up in the third level of the arena. The bleachers had their advantages. Namely, that we could watch the speakers and events happening on the convention floor as My Wife waited to get 'upgraded.'
They also had their disadvantages. Namely, that by the time the amplified sound ricocheted itself around inside the building a few times and got to us, it was pretty much impossible to understand what any of those speakers were saying. It was like we had all suddenly become Charlie Brown trying to figure out what the heck the adults were talking about. Oh yeah, and another disadvantage was that we were sitting on BLEACHERS! Not so good for the back.
So, we made small talk with all the other alternates, and chuckled at the guys who were trying to get signatures on the medical marijuanna referendum. These guys had somehow wandered up into the nosebleed section, and I'm not sure that the thin air was helping out the coherence of their sales pitch.
At any rate, for about five hours--let me repeat this fact and assure all readers that it is not an exaggeration: for about five hours--we were repeatedly told that in about "five or ten minutes" the list of delegates would be finalized and the necessary number of alternates could be upgraded. And we had to pay for coffee. Suddenly the democratic process (or, to be fair, I should say the Democratic process, since surely the Republicans were kickin' back with free Starbucks at their event) didn't seem so awe-inspiring.
But, My Wife acted the whole time as if everything were great. No complaints, no resignation, just good old grassroots political enthusiasm. Which paid off. Finally, sometime around 3:30, she was officially, somewhat magically, turned into an honest-to-goodness delegate. Two hours later--having moved to the convention floor where we could understand the people talking and actually had backs on our chairs--we cast our primary votes for Obama, helping him to officially win the Maine delegate race by a 2:1 margin. Whoo-hoo!
Of course, My Wife's enthusiasm and dedication to the process shouldn't really be a surprise, since she picked out Obama's potential long before I even knew who he was. She said he could be a legitimate contender long before he entered the race, and she stuck by his side back when I was saying that nobody could defeat the Clinton Machine. As so often happens, My Wife was right, I was wrong. Nonetheless, both of our votes counted at the Convention.
Just as they will in November, when we finally get this country back on the right track.
Flash forward to May 30. We arrived, along with a traffic-jam of others, at the Augusta Civic Center for the big event. My Wife, as an alternate, was told to report to the Cumberland County meeting area so that she could be upgraded to delegate status if some delegates didn't arrive. Cool. Indeed, she was quite keen on becoming an official delegate and casting her vote in what Jon Stewart, on the Daily Show, has deemed "The long-running Bataan Death March to the White House."
Since Cumberland County is Maine's largest county--and since the ol' Augusta Civic Center ain't exactly the most state-of-the-art and spacious facility--it turned out that the alternate meeting area was actually a set of bleachers way up in the third level of the arena. The bleachers had their advantages. Namely, that we could watch the speakers and events happening on the convention floor as My Wife waited to get 'upgraded.'
They also had their disadvantages. Namely, that by the time the amplified sound ricocheted itself around inside the building a few times and got to us, it was pretty much impossible to understand what any of those speakers were saying. It was like we had all suddenly become Charlie Brown trying to figure out what the heck the adults were talking about. Oh yeah, and another disadvantage was that we were sitting on BLEACHERS! Not so good for the back.
So, we made small talk with all the other alternates, and chuckled at the guys who were trying to get signatures on the medical marijuanna referendum. These guys had somehow wandered up into the nosebleed section, and I'm not sure that the thin air was helping out the coherence of their sales pitch.
At any rate, for about five hours--let me repeat this fact and assure all readers that it is not an exaggeration: for about five hours--we were repeatedly told that in about "five or ten minutes" the list of delegates would be finalized and the necessary number of alternates could be upgraded. And we had to pay for coffee. Suddenly the democratic process (or, to be fair, I should say the Democratic process, since surely the Republicans were kickin' back with free Starbucks at their event) didn't seem so awe-inspiring.
But, My Wife acted the whole time as if everything were great. No complaints, no resignation, just good old grassroots political enthusiasm. Which paid off. Finally, sometime around 3:30, she was officially, somewhat magically, turned into an honest-to-goodness delegate. Two hours later--having moved to the convention floor where we could understand the people talking and actually had backs on our chairs--we cast our primary votes for Obama, helping him to officially win the Maine delegate race by a 2:1 margin. Whoo-hoo!
Of course, My Wife's enthusiasm and dedication to the process shouldn't really be a surprise, since she picked out Obama's potential long before I even knew who he was. She said he could be a legitimate contender long before he entered the race, and she stuck by his side back when I was saying that nobody could defeat the Clinton Machine. As so often happens, My Wife was right, I was wrong. Nonetheless, both of our votes counted at the Convention.
Just as they will in November, when we finally get this country back on the right track.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Spaghetti
One of My Wife's students organized a fund-raiser for a local food pantry. A spaghetti supper. Problem is, nobody bothered to tell the world that this was happening, so the event was in danger of coming and going without anyone showing up.
Now, keep in mind that My Wife does not seek out chances to speak to strangers.
"Let's go over to the ball fields and see if we can get some people," she said, and we were off to drum up some business. She walked up to people left and right.
"Not sure if you're interested, but there's a spaghetti supper over at the high school to raise money for the food pantry,"she said over and over. One man was so impressed he pulled out his wallet, apologized for not being able to attend, and handed her $40 for the cause.
Anything for the cause. That's my lady!
Now, keep in mind that My Wife does not seek out chances to speak to strangers.
"Let's go over to the ball fields and see if we can get some people," she said, and we were off to drum up some business. She walked up to people left and right.
"Not sure if you're interested, but there's a spaghetti supper over at the high school to raise money for the food pantry,"she said over and over. One man was so impressed he pulled out his wallet, apologized for not being able to attend, and handed her $40 for the cause.
Anything for the cause. That's my lady!
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Blueberry Coffee Cake
My Wife, always fearless in the kitchen, created an amazing blueberry coffee cake to take to a brunch with friends. We needed to be there by noon, so she got up that morning, found a recipe on the internet, and whipped it up. That amazes me. If you know her cooking, you shall not be surprised to hear that the taste was just as miraculous as the speed of creation.
Later that night, I mentioned that nobody had volunteered to bring morning snacks to my Literacy Coach training at UMaine that week.
"Would they like the blueberry coffee cake?" she asked.
In my mind: "Hell, Yes!" To her: "Sure they would."
"Buy more buttermilk on your way home tomorrow, and I'll make it again."
And so, on Tuesday morning I drove to Orono with a huge plate of fresh-from-the-oven blueberry coffee cake. My Wife, unsatisfied with the crumble topping, had made modifications to the recipe. I wondered how anyone can improve on perfection.
There are only eight of us at these training, and usually the morning snacks get picked at, but most of the food there, destined for staleness. By the end of this day, not one crumb remained of the blueberry coffee cake.
My instructor, Marcia, with everyone's agreement, said, "Tell your bride"--as she always refers to To Wife--"that the blueberry coffee cake was exquisite."
The kitchen, to my great shame, remains a place of mystery for me. Fortunately, I'm married to a woman who works magic there every day.
Later that night, I mentioned that nobody had volunteered to bring morning snacks to my Literacy Coach training at UMaine that week.
"Would they like the blueberry coffee cake?" she asked.
In my mind: "Hell, Yes!" To her: "Sure they would."
"Buy more buttermilk on your way home tomorrow, and I'll make it again."
And so, on Tuesday morning I drove to Orono with a huge plate of fresh-from-the-oven blueberry coffee cake. My Wife, unsatisfied with the crumble topping, had made modifications to the recipe. I wondered how anyone can improve on perfection.
There are only eight of us at these training, and usually the morning snacks get picked at, but most of the food there, destined for staleness. By the end of this day, not one crumb remained of the blueberry coffee cake.
My instructor, Marcia, with everyone's agreement, said, "Tell your bride"--as she always refers to To Wife--"that the blueberry coffee cake was exquisite."
The kitchen, to my great shame, remains a place of mystery for me. Fortunately, I'm married to a woman who works magic there every day.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Culture Club
I'm really good at puttering. I can kill an entire weekend (okay, I usually DO kill an entire weekend) puttering around the yard. Dealing with firewood, mowing, shoveling, raking, whatever. I can pretty much tool around from sun-up to sun-down. We're locked into The Winter That Killed The Spirits Of the Northeast, and I'm ready to just roll with the punches. More snow? Guess I'll shovel the roof.
My Wife has slightly higher expectations for how to spend the weekend.
Thank goodness.
So here's the rundown of how My Wife brought a little culture into our lives this weekend.
Friday night, we watched Sling Blade. In my defense, I brought it home from the library. But I also brought Con Air and Men in Black 2, either of which I would have gladly zoned out to. My Wife chose the Oscar winner. Good choice.
(A side note: as an avid movie buff, I must say that you NEVER go wrong choosing a 'great' movie [say, Shawshank Redemption or American Beauty] over an easy-to-watch movie [like Wedding Crashers or Armeggedon].)
So I hadn't seen Sling Blade in about eight years, but it was even better than I remembered. Of course, we were both crying by the end and thinking about how we, as a society, measure the value of each other. Those are the kind of thoughts that a great movie should stir. And to think I was quietly hoping she'd pick Con Air. That's exactly the reason why it's better that she chooses the flick.
On Saturday, we met up with one of My Wife's students and had a double-shot of enrichment. First we traveled to the art theater in Portland to see the French film, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. (Please note what I wrote above about seeing 'great' films.) It was truly thought-provoking and inspiring. So much so, that the next day I bought the book that the movie was based on. Then, we spent two hours at the Portland Flower Show. In addition to seeing lots of pretty flowers, I got some tips on improving my lawn, gathered some ideas about building the perfect birdhouse, and realized that I need to get a birdbath. Good times. Most interesting about the whole day was talking to an incredibly bright 18-year-old student. I learned more from her in an afternoon of casual conversation than she could ever hope to learn from me. As we worry about the state of education in America, we need to remember that there are still students like this in schools all across our country.
And, to top it off, we returned to Portland on Sunday with two of My Wife's friends to visit the Portland Museum of Art. Yes, that's right: the Museum of Art. Now, forget that fact that my mom is an art teacher. I just don't go to art museums. Not that I don't THINK of going. It's just that in the end... well, I'm usually too busy doing something with firewood or snow. So, after five years of talking about going to the Portland Museum of Art with not much belief that it would ever happen, all of a sudden I found myself there. And it was fantastic. Among many other exhibits, there was an amazing installation by a Maine sculptor who creates unbelievable art out of nails and spikes. Nails and spikes. Now that's my kind of art. It was very cool. And, I might venture to bet that we'll go again. In less than 5 years.
It was certainly an enriching weekend, all thanks to My Wife. (Although, in my defense, in the middle of all this high-brow action, I did manage to climb up on the roof and clean of the two feet of snow and ice that were about to collapse into our bedroom.)
If you haven't seen The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, you need to. Right after you re-watch Sling Blade.
And go to a museum: art is cooler than you remember.
My Wife has slightly higher expectations for how to spend the weekend.
Thank goodness.
So here's the rundown of how My Wife brought a little culture into our lives this weekend.
Friday night, we watched Sling Blade. In my defense, I brought it home from the library. But I also brought Con Air and Men in Black 2, either of which I would have gladly zoned out to. My Wife chose the Oscar winner. Good choice.
(A side note: as an avid movie buff, I must say that you NEVER go wrong choosing a 'great' movie [say, Shawshank Redemption or American Beauty] over an easy-to-watch movie [like Wedding Crashers or Armeggedon].)
So I hadn't seen Sling Blade in about eight years, but it was even better than I remembered. Of course, we were both crying by the end and thinking about how we, as a society, measure the value of each other. Those are the kind of thoughts that a great movie should stir. And to think I was quietly hoping she'd pick Con Air. That's exactly the reason why it's better that she chooses the flick.
On Saturday, we met up with one of My Wife's students and had a double-shot of enrichment. First we traveled to the art theater in Portland to see the French film, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. (Please note what I wrote above about seeing 'great' films.) It was truly thought-provoking and inspiring. So much so, that the next day I bought the book that the movie was based on. Then, we spent two hours at the Portland Flower Show. In addition to seeing lots of pretty flowers, I got some tips on improving my lawn, gathered some ideas about building the perfect birdhouse, and realized that I need to get a birdbath. Good times. Most interesting about the whole day was talking to an incredibly bright 18-year-old student. I learned more from her in an afternoon of casual conversation than she could ever hope to learn from me. As we worry about the state of education in America, we need to remember that there are still students like this in schools all across our country.
And, to top it off, we returned to Portland on Sunday with two of My Wife's friends to visit the Portland Museum of Art. Yes, that's right: the Museum of Art. Now, forget that fact that my mom is an art teacher. I just don't go to art museums. Not that I don't THINK of going. It's just that in the end... well, I'm usually too busy doing something with firewood or snow. So, after five years of talking about going to the Portland Museum of Art with not much belief that it would ever happen, all of a sudden I found myself there. And it was fantastic. Among many other exhibits, there was an amazing installation by a Maine sculptor who creates unbelievable art out of nails and spikes. Nails and spikes. Now that's my kind of art. It was very cool. And, I might venture to bet that we'll go again. In less than 5 years.
It was certainly an enriching weekend, all thanks to My Wife. (Although, in my defense, in the middle of all this high-brow action, I did manage to climb up on the roof and clean of the two feet of snow and ice that were about to collapse into our bedroom.)
If you haven't seen The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, you need to. Right after you re-watch Sling Blade.
And go to a museum: art is cooler than you remember.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Medical Miracles
I just got over the Cold of the Decade. I survived only because of My Wife.
I had been up in Orono for most of the week at Literacy Coach training, and began to feel sick on Thursday. I returned home Thursday night with symptoms intensifying. Headache, chills, feverish. The usual junk. I dragged myself through school on Friday, knowing that I only had to make it until 3PM. We had no major plans for February vacation, which was fortunate.
I'd planned a post-Valentines (and "sorry we don't have better vacation plans") 1-night get-away to the Inn at Long Lake in Naples for Saturday evening. My Wife graciously expressed excitement about this adventure, although it involved only a 10-minute drive and my health was deteriorating by the moment. We picked up cold medicine on the way.
We did have a delightful evening, dinner, and breakfast at the Inn. My Wife pretended not to notice as I blew my nose every five minutes. Very romantic.
And then we returned home for the most unexciting vacation in history. My Wife, for the next eight days, fully devoted herself to two tasks: nursing me and completing a huge data project (her second job). I would occasionally move from the coach to put a mug in the dishwasher, only to collapse again in an exhausted malaise. My Wife made my every meal, kept the tea flowing, and absorbed my every complaint. At night, I moved into the spare bed, so my coughing and sweating wouldn't keep us both up all night.
By the second weekend, she had logged over 60 hours of data-entry time. We canceled our trip to watch the University of Maine hockey team and, instead, spent over five hours in the Bridgton Hospital Emergency Room trying to find out if I needed antibiotics. I'm not sure if I did, but they didn't give them to me. They did give me a nasal spray that caused my eyes to crust over and I woke up blind at 3AM. I gave up on the nasal spray.
My Wife loves vacations. And, with the snow-bound winter we've had, she desperately needed some sort of change of scenery and a little bit of fun during her week away from school. She didn't get it. Instead she got a helpless, sniveling complainer, who needed 24-hour attention and care. And a major work project that had to get done.
Did she protest? Did she walk out? Did she drink herself into a stupor?
No.
She did was she always does: she took care of us both.
Thanks.
I had been up in Orono for most of the week at Literacy Coach training, and began to feel sick on Thursday. I returned home Thursday night with symptoms intensifying. Headache, chills, feverish. The usual junk. I dragged myself through school on Friday, knowing that I only had to make it until 3PM. We had no major plans for February vacation, which was fortunate.
I'd planned a post-Valentines (and "sorry we don't have better vacation plans") 1-night get-away to the Inn at Long Lake in Naples for Saturday evening. My Wife graciously expressed excitement about this adventure, although it involved only a 10-minute drive and my health was deteriorating by the moment. We picked up cold medicine on the way.
We did have a delightful evening, dinner, and breakfast at the Inn. My Wife pretended not to notice as I blew my nose every five minutes. Very romantic.
And then we returned home for the most unexciting vacation in history. My Wife, for the next eight days, fully devoted herself to two tasks: nursing me and completing a huge data project (her second job). I would occasionally move from the coach to put a mug in the dishwasher, only to collapse again in an exhausted malaise. My Wife made my every meal, kept the tea flowing, and absorbed my every complaint. At night, I moved into the spare bed, so my coughing and sweating wouldn't keep us both up all night.
By the second weekend, she had logged over 60 hours of data-entry time. We canceled our trip to watch the University of Maine hockey team and, instead, spent over five hours in the Bridgton Hospital Emergency Room trying to find out if I needed antibiotics. I'm not sure if I did, but they didn't give them to me. They did give me a nasal spray that caused my eyes to crust over and I woke up blind at 3AM. I gave up on the nasal spray.
My Wife loves vacations. And, with the snow-bound winter we've had, she desperately needed some sort of change of scenery and a little bit of fun during her week away from school. She didn't get it. Instead she got a helpless, sniveling complainer, who needed 24-hour attention and care. And a major work project that had to get done.
Did she protest? Did she walk out? Did she drink herself into a stupor?
No.
She did was she always does: she took care of us both.
Thanks.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Sports Medicine
Sunday was a big sports day. I had a 10-mile race to run in the morning, and the Patriots were playing in the Super Bowl that night. My Wife wasn't running in the race and she doesn't particularly care about football. Still, she gave her whole day to me.
She drove me to the race, dealt with parking, and made it to the starting line to wish me luck. An hour and twenty minutes later, as I hobbled across the finish, she stood cheering and yelling for me. She waited while I cooled down after the race and ate the goodies they had placed out for the runners. Then, she drove me home, listening patiently while I droned on about race details that exactly nobody would find interesting.
That night, she cooked an incredible barbeque pork dinner for the Big Game and sat and watched with me through the first half. She went upstairs for the second half, definitely making the right decision to leave me alone as the Patriots eventually lost in the closing minutes of the game. She was consoling and gentle as I came to bed and kept checking in with me the next day to make sure I was doing okay.
Now, the notion that a grown man would get bent out of shape about a football game is pathetic, I agree. However, My Wife knows that such things do matter to me. All season long she had made every concession so that I could plant myself on the couch (or, more often, pace up and down the living room) during every game. While I love to rant about how T.V. dictates too much of our lives, she never pointed out the obvious irony of my game-day devotion. And, when this season came to an incedibly disappointing end--even I was surprised by how hard it was to take--My Wife has been by my side to let me vent, and rant, and wax philosophic about something that, even I must admit, does not deserve this much emotional energy.
And she never complains. Boy, I can't wait until next season...
She drove me to the race, dealt with parking, and made it to the starting line to wish me luck. An hour and twenty minutes later, as I hobbled across the finish, she stood cheering and yelling for me. She waited while I cooled down after the race and ate the goodies they had placed out for the runners. Then, she drove me home, listening patiently while I droned on about race details that exactly nobody would find interesting.
That night, she cooked an incredible barbeque pork dinner for the Big Game and sat and watched with me through the first half. She went upstairs for the second half, definitely making the right decision to leave me alone as the Patriots eventually lost in the closing minutes of the game. She was consoling and gentle as I came to bed and kept checking in with me the next day to make sure I was doing okay.
Now, the notion that a grown man would get bent out of shape about a football game is pathetic, I agree. However, My Wife knows that such things do matter to me. All season long she had made every concession so that I could plant myself on the couch (or, more often, pace up and down the living room) during every game. While I love to rant about how T.V. dictates too much of our lives, she never pointed out the obvious irony of my game-day devotion. And, when this season came to an incedibly disappointing end--even I was surprised by how hard it was to take--My Wife has been by my side to let me vent, and rant, and wax philosophic about something that, even I must admit, does not deserve this much emotional energy.
And she never complains. Boy, I can't wait until next season...
Monday, January 14, 2008
Snow Day
Last night, My Wife hoped for a snow day. The snow-gods concurred, and we are home as the snow pelts down in near white-out conditions. So, how does she celebrate this gift from above? Does she sleep in late? Does she read a book? Does she curl up on the couch and watch t.v.? No, she comes right down and begins her school work. She dreamed last night about a way to motivate her A.P. students, and now she's working to make it a reality.
Such motivation turns me on.
Such motivation turns me on.
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