Flower Power

Often bright. Typically colorful. Usually aromatic.

And always effective.

Flowers, for whatever reason, are the secret to a woman's heart, affection, and, most importantly, forgiveness. I can't say I understand it. To me, it's sort of silly. The process is typically the same:

• You present the flowers.
• You get a hug and a kiss.
• The flowers just sit there for a week or two.
• You throw the flowers in the trash.

Wouldn't women rather have something more practical like an iTunes gift card or a fantasy football team? Something that brings joy for more than a fortnight? 

I bought Bridget some flowers the other day. You can see them right over there. They obviously weren't very expensive, but they made Bridget really happy. I suppose it's because there wasn't really any reason for me to buy them. I was at work and decided to walk home on my lunch break with some flowers. After all, it's the thought -- those moments of complete surprise -- that really stand out in the long run. She had this big, old smile on her face when I walked in. And she has a really pretty smile, so that was nice. But it made me think two things:

1. Why flowers? What the hell is the big deal with flowers? Naturally, I went to Google to find out. I found a study that explained flowers make women more receptive to romance. In a nutshell, the study (from France, of course), said women were more likely to accept an invitation to a date if flowers were in the room. Eh. Good, I suppose, but that didn't really get at the root of my question. What was it about flowers that made women so happy? I found another study -- filled with three experiments -- that showed flowers really do make people happy. Yet another study, this one at Rutgers, said there were three possible theoretical explanations: a simple learned association, flowers could be part of an evolutionary response promoting food search, or flowers are specially evolved human sensory mood enhancers. (Put on the lingerie and turn out the lights!) Although not very romantic, it seems there's a lot out there to explain this flower phenomenon.

On to the second thought that crossed my mind ...

2. Why don't I buy flowers more often? I suppose every woman probably asks this of her mate. It only costs somewhere between 10 and 50 bucks, and the warm feeling lasts for weeks. Just buy me some more damn flowers, right?! Well, the thing is, that would really cheapen the whole thing. It would become expected. So, I'm sorry, dear Bridget, you won't be getting flowers every week. But from time to time, they'll show up at your doorstep. It'll (almost) always be a surprise. Because I think is that's spontaneity, that sporadic show of emotion, that makes flowers such a powerful force. It's either that or the food search thing ...

My Husband, the Roommate

My wonderful husband’s recent post about chores got me thinking. Thinking about just how important this division of responsibility is to the health of our relationship, and to my overall happiness.

When I met Mike, I was in a place where I was really enjoying being alone and independent for the first time in my adult life. And I very clearly remember thinking that the only way I would be in another relationship is if that relationship made my life easier instead of more complicated. Because my life as a single lady was proving to be really terrific. There is something so delightfully liberating about only having to worrying about your own mess, literally and figuratively.

But then I met Mike. And the thing about Mike is that he is just a really great partner. And this manifests itself in some very boring but very important ways. Chores, for example. When you are falling in love with someone I think it is rare that you fall in love with the way they take out the trash. And when you are making a checklist for the qualities to look for in your future spouse, it is likely that “funny” and “attractive” rank higher than “great toilet scrubber”. But for me, these things really matter. And the fact that Mike cleans the house and makes dinner and takes Oscar out for his final pee of the night is perhaps more important to my happiness than I care to admit.

I don’t think that I appreciated this when Mike and I first started dating. In fact, I thought he was kind of a weirdo because he insisted on cleaning up before, instead of after, dinner. Like, “Let’s let this pasta get cold while I scrub this pot real quick.” And the fact that there was no clutter in his apartment kind of freaked me out. But, luckily, it turns out that Mike is not the serial killer I feared he was, but is just a very neat person. And that works for us. Well, truthfully, it works better for me than for him because I tend to be messier and he is in a constant low level of stress because of the socks I leave in the living room. But I digress.

What I’m trying to get at here is that I’m finding that our marriage functions on two levels. There is the foundational love level. The, “We have the same hopes and dreams and we are crazy about each other and want to spend the rest of our happily ever after together” level. But then there is what I will call the “roommate” level. This is the, “You make my life easier because you just took out the trash” level.  And since Mike and I spend an extraordinary amount of time together in a 750 square foot apartment with a very furry and very needy dog, this is the level that we operate on a lot of the time. And if things aren’t working on this level, it all falls apart. It’s not the most romantic thing in the world, but it is real life.

I’m not going to sit here and say we’ve got this thing down. I mean, there’s obviously the sock issue, which could still prove to be our undoing (I swear I’m working on it, Honey). But the basic building blocks are there. And more importantly, we’ve worked out a division of responsibility that feels fair and reasonable for both of us. Yours may be different. But the important thing is that your life feels easier instead of harder when you are with your partner. Because yesterday, when I was lying on the couch nursing a hangover from the fabulous wedding we went to the night before, I was thanking my lucky stars that I ended up with a man who gladly did the grocery shopping and made dinner so I didn’t have to. In return, I promise to listen to an endless amount of fantasy football grousing. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

Sometimes I Say Dumb Things

Bridget and I got in an argument on Saturday. It wasn't a big argument. Most, if not all, aren't. But this argument, when it comes right down to it, had one major cause:

I said something at the wrong time.

It wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I didn't call her a name, ask her if she'd gained five pounds, or insult her mashed potatoes. I simply asked her to move her dirty socks from the living room floor to the laundry. (I may have actually said, "Hey, do we always leave socks on the floor now? Is that our new thing?") Sounds harmless enough, right? As I learned, it's not what I said, it's when I said it.

Now, let me step back for a second and talk about my communication skills. To be honest, I think they're quite good. I tend to be open, honest, and direct. If I like something, I'll tell you. If I don't like something, I'll tell you. Twice. As a writer/editor by profession, I have to be fairly skilled at stringing together sentences and  knowing where to put, commas. (That was a joke.) I've also put in a lot of work on my presentation skills since I'm lucky enough to work somewhere that encourages this personal development.

In a nutshell, I'd give myself a solid B+/A- when it comes communication in my life. But with Bridget on Saturday, you can just put a nice, big "F" on the top of my report card. Why?

Well, let's break it down:
1. Bridget had been up since 4 a.m. (girl stuff) and wasn't feeling her best. (So you think I'd be very cautious with what I said, right?)
2. I had just come in from a run and had some energy. ("Let's go! Let's get things done! Woooo!")
3. I think every problem is black and white. There's a problem and there's a solution. (Hint: That's not true.)
4. I'm an idiot sometimes.(See No. 1.)

Now, could Bridget have been a little sensitive? Sure. She gets that way sometimes. But the little argument taught me a big lesson: Before I open my mouth (which I do often), I should think for, oh, at least 2-3 seconds. Is Bridget not feeling well? Will the sun come up tomorrow if those socks are still on the floor? Can I just pick up the damn socks?

Sadly, I'm quite certain this will happen again. I'll misread a situation and ask Bridget if she wants to have a salad instead of a juicy burger or if she meant to put on so much eye makeup. Empathy, unfortunately, doesn't come as naturally to me as sarcasm does. But I can keep trying and, when necessary, apologizing.  Most dudes are good at that ..

Choosing Chores

First off, this picture is stupid. And this couple is full of crap. No one gets excited (!!!!) about chores. No one smiles when they do chores. And no one uses those perfect "chore clothes" like bandanas, cuffed jeans, or well-worn waffle shirts. So I really dislike this couple.

I don't, however, dislike chores.

This may seem odd (particularly to the fairer sex that may be reading), but I have always felt good about getting things done. I used to turn around when I was mowing the lawn because I could see what I'd accomplished. Same goes for washing a dish or vacuuming a floor. Food scraps are disappearing and dirt is being sucked. There's progress.

Now, it's not that I look forward to doing these things, but I think my willingness to do them makes Bridget's heart smile. Often, as I'm doing something to better the apartment, she says, "Who's the best husband?" (And I'm fairly certain she's referring to me.) I truly believe the breakdown of chores is one of the most important parts of a relationship -- marriage or roommates. No one wants to live with Pig-Pen. No one wants to live in a sty.

So here's our breakdown, which I think has contributed to a very successful 5.5 months of marriage:

Mike: Take out the trash, pretend to know how to fix things, cook (most of the time), vacuum, and grocery shop

Bridget: Do the laundry, put furniture together, cook (the rest of the time), pay the bills, and clean the bathroom

There is, of course, some overlap (she often comes grocery shopping and I often fold towels), and I didn't include stuff like dusting, unloading the dishwasher, or cleaning the floors, which are usually coin flips. But this breakdown plays to our strengths and, for the most part, keeps us both busy, content, and free of aggressive dust clouds.

So what do you think? Who is getting off easy? And, more importantly, how do the chores break down in your humble abode?

My Fantasy Football Widow

Let me start by saying, "Sorry, Bridget." Every year, it's the same. We spend the months of spring coming out of our cocoon, spending time Kindling in Harvard Yard and shuffling off to some vacation destination. During downtime, we spend our free time watching entertaining television -- stuff like the "The Newsroom" and "Happy Endings." (Please don't knock "Happy Endings" until you try it.) Then summer comes and we fill our schedule with more trips, exercise, weddings, romantic dinners, and care-free love. Sweet, right? Awww. They are so in love.

Then two words happen: fantasy football.

Now, I wouldn't call Bridget a fantasy football widow, but ... actually, yes I would. That's exactly what she is. Like so many loving, understanding partners, she stands quietly by as I pore over statistics and stress about whether to start Jordy Nelson or Eric Decker. (Seriously. If you're knowledgable, who should I use in Week 1?) And the thing about football is that it takes a while. It takes a while every Sunday and it takes a while every year. Provided my fantasy teams (I have two) don't stink, I'll be making lineup decisions up until Christmas.

I should pause and say something here: "Sorry, Bridget."

I started playing fantasy football 10 years ago. As a sportswriter in New Hampshire, I joined the league at our newspaper. I left the newspaper, but never left the league. And now, a decade into it, I head up to Keene once a year to see old friends, make my picks, and pretend this year will be different. (Spoiler: It never is. I stink.) I've been in several other leagues and now act as commissioner of my work league down here in Cambridge. And I absolutely love both of them. I love the trash talk. I love "owning" a whole new group of players every year. I love reading Matthew Berry's Love/Hate columns.

Now, it's not that I don't love Bridget when the season kicks off. I do -- very much -- but it's safe to say my priorities change a bit. Want to go out for dinner? I would, but the Saints kick off in 20 minutes and I have Brees. Want to take Oscar for a walk? I mean, I do, but I kind of need to watch Sidney Rice for the next three hours because I'm down by five points and he just needs to catch one damn touchdown.

So, again: "Sorry, Bridget."

Bridget, as always, does her best to like my hobbies or at least suffer what I'm doing. She'll sit next to me while I watch useless pre-game shows and does a great job of cooking up some delicious meals every Sunday around 2 p.m. But I know deep in her heart, she wishes her husband wasn't so into fantasy football. She wishes it was just a hobby and not an obsession. But, well, she kind of signed up for this when she said, "I do."

Someday, something may change. But for now, this is the best I've got, darling: "Sorry, Bridget."

Wanderlust

It was apparent fairly early on in my relationship with Mike that people began to realize that he was, well, different. That things were fairly serious. And that he was, quite possiblly, a permanent fixture my life.

And I remember very clearly having a chat with my mother in her kitchen, mugs of tea warming our cupped hands, and her asking, "So, do you think Mike is The One?"

I smiled, blushed, nodded, and went on at some length about how wonderful he was (I'll spare you the details).

But after a pause, I looked up and admitted that there was one thing that was a leetle bit of a concern. Kath looked at me with a furrowed brow, "Yes, dear? What is it?" She clutched her mug a little more tightly, waiting for me to reveal that he liked to wear women's underwear, or he was filing for bankruptcy, or he tortured small animals for pleasure.

"Well, Mom, he doesn't TRAVEL." She looked at me, perplexed, and nodded for me to go on.

"He's never left NORTH AMERICA," I explained. No response from my mother.

"I mean, he doesn't even have a PASSPORT!" I continued, convinced I was finally communicating the direness of the situation.

In her face, I saw utter bewilderment. And perhaps a little exasperation. It seems that maybe after 30+ years of marriage you start to think there are bigger fish to fry than disagreements about where to spend your next vacation.

But for me, the issue of travel seemed very real. When Mike and I first started dating, I don't think he had ever taken a vacation. Certainly not one that required the boarding of a plane. And as a result, he had weeks of vacation time socked away. I found this completely appalling. Why wouldn't one take a vacation? Why would you choose to go to work instead of go to a tropical island, or an exciting new country, or even just a cabin in the woods? What was wrong with this man?

But as differences go, I quickly realized that I could deal with this one. And in the first year of our relationship I took off and did some pretty intense solo traveling. And I came to terms with the possibility that my big trips may be behind me.

Then Mike proposed, and as a last hail mary pass, I decided to book a trip to Ireland for his Christmas present. In my twisted little brain I just couldn't envision getting married before Mike had acquired a passport.

To my utter surprise and delight, Mike loved it. I cannot express to you how happy it made me to sit next to him as he drove our tiny, tiny little rental car, on the wrong side of the road, through the narrow country lanes of Ireland. He frolicked with sheep. He drank Guinness. He bought aran sweaters.

And on the trip I realized that Mike and I are still growing. That we still have much to teach each other. And that there is no one I would rather be on this journey with.

Oh, and also, that maybe I should keep my inane concerns to myself so as not to anger family members.    (Sorry, Mom.)