A Full Set of Tools

This is the first chance I’ve had in nearly two weeks to sit down and write my thoughts. I was going to title this entry “I’m in Hell” but that would not be a fair representation…

Life isn’t that bad actually. It could be worse. Just turn on the news at any given hour and we are humbly reminded how much worse it could be.

Prior to my marriage, I’d been single for about four years. There were things I missed about companionship… dinner and a movie… inside jokes… sex… a warm body to snuggle up to at night… a full set of tools.

But it wasn’t until I got married again… that I remembered exactly why I enjoyed being single. The remote? Mine. The bathroom? Mine. The closets. All mine.

And you don’t know how quirky you are until you live with another person.

I am a walking contradiction… some of my quirks border on clinical OCD. The dinner plates have to be stacked according to the pattern/color. Glasses have to be placed neatly in a row in the cabinet. Towels have to be hung “just so” on the towel bar. I am constantly straightening. I can’t stand clutter. Clean is king and everything has to be “just so.”

But I never balanced my checkbook, and I would forget to pay my bills had it not been for the miracle of electronic banking. I was always running late and my car was constantly on empty.

And life was good.

I was the mother and the father to my kids. The breadwinner. The nurturer. The handy-man. The hot little single mama that all the women on my block hated because every Saturday morning, their husbands were camped out on their front lawns… watching me mow the grass.

And then one day, I went to work and came home and all of his stuff was in my house.

And it’s been a struggle ever since. Now I have satellite everything. More remotes than I know what to do with. The SPEED channel. Spreadsheets with budgets and spending and savings columns. Stereo/video equipment with instruction manuals that read like War and Peace. Crumbs on the counter from his turkey sandwich. Dirty clothes draped over furniture. Short little man-hairs in the bathroom sink. And a milk carton with barely a swallow left in the jug stashed in the back of the fridge.

I try to focus on the good things.

I love this man. Down to the bone marrow. He is a good man. The kind of man a girl can really count on.

He brings me tea when I am sick. He comes out to the car to greet me and walks me to the door when the sidewalk is covered in ice. He reaches out for my hand in public. He holds the door. He dances with me in the living room. Fast or slow.

These are the things I need to remember the next time he lectures me about shelving the “Blues Brothers” DVD under “Classics” instead of “Comedy."