What Bridget Does When Mike Plays Kickball

Summers are generally fairly busy for us. It is the magical time in New England when the weather is bearable, there is daylight until 8pm, and Bostonians pretend to like each other. It makes up for those 15 months of miserable winter. 

Mike likes to spend a lot of this free time engaged in some type of athletic pursuit. Tonight, he is playing kickball (turns out I use the term “athletic” loosely). So on most Thursday nights this summer it is just me and Oscar, kicking back, shooting the breeze. I’m heating up a nice frozen meal. Oscar is playing with his rope. Life is good. And while we both miss Mike immensely, Oscar and I tend to look forward to these nights alone. 

Ok, I can’t speak for Oscar. He’s actually probably miserable right now. But I do know that for me, Thursday nights are a little slice of heaven. Why, you ask? Because it is the one night of the week that I get to watch terrible TV with reckless abandon. 

You see, Mike has no tolerance for reality TV of any sort. He is physically incapable of sitting through an episode of Real Housewives. But not only that, he is also physically incapable of being in the same apartment with me when I watch Real Housewives. 

Because Mike just doesn’t understand why I would waste hours of my precious day losing brain cells. He just can’t help himself from asking things like, “Sweetie, why do you watch this crap?” Or, “Princess, what could you possibly enjoy about these terrible women and their awful lives?” Or he simply looks at me with that look in his eye. The one that says, “I have very seriously misjudged this woman’s intelligence.” He tries to understand. He really does. But it takes a special type of person to really appreciate terrible TV. You could say I am extra special. 

So you can understand why for me to really enjoy bad TV, I have to be alone. It’s like binging. On these precious Thursday nights at home by myself I get to catch up with all my friends. My girl Bethenny, the crazy ladies from RHONY, the even crazier ladies of RHOC, and Kim and Kroy and Kim’s meth-head mom making sure they aren’t Tardy for the Wedding (seriously, worst show title ever). Don’t even get me started on those Kardashians. I could watch them for days. There is something about Kim’s plastic face that just fascinates me.

Basically, if it is on Bravo or E!, I’ll indulge in it. Pregnant in Heels? Check. Interior Therapy with Jeff Lewis? I’m on it. Miss Advised? Don’t mind if I do. Mrs. Eastwood & Company? Well, no. I have to draw the line somewhere. That show is unwatchable. 

Bad TV is my guilty pleasure. And I prefer to indulge in this pleasure in the company of my accepting pooch, Oscar. So this Thursday night I’m looking forward to hitting the couch, turning off my brain, and indulging in a freeze pop or twenty. 

Just don’t tell Mike. He things I’m listening to NPR and reading Book Four of Robert A. Caro’s The Years of Lyndon Johnson while solving a sudoku puzzle and doing pushups.   

Eating Together -- At The Table?

Marriage instantly makes you a family. Granted, it's a small family, but it's still a family. You are now husband and wife. Breadwinner and bread eater. Emergency contact and, well, emergency contact.

Simply put, things change. And of all the places that change happens, none may be more significant than the dinner table. Or, as we used to call it, that white, flat thing in our dining room that holds the mail, Oscar's leash, and our latest dying plant.

But now, it is for chow. Because we don't want to turn into these folks:

Bridget and I do our best to eat together as much as possible. The summer makes that tough. She has a girls' night. I have basketball and kickball. Happy hours happen. But, during most work weeks, we eat in the same apartment at least a couple times. And at least one of those times, we've promised, it will be together at the dinner table. 

Older folks (read: older than 35) might read this and say, "Hey, you should always eat at the dinner table together! What's wrong with you? You damn kids and your MTV! Eat at the table!" Well, we don't. And in today's entertainment- and technology-filled world, I'd be willing to wager many couples and families don't.

There are TV shows to watch, iPads to play with, and Kindles to read. Frankly, it's much easier to turn on classic episodes of Seinfeld (like the Kenny Rodgers chicken one), exploits of Homer Simpson (like this one), and even the occasional Two and a Half Men (like this classic) when things really get stale. (Really, Mike? Two and a Half Men? I'm kidding, of course. That's the worse show ever. You should be ashamed of yourself if you watch it.)

But in all seriousness, we've turned off the TV, stored the iPad and the Kindle, and have started to just talk at the table. And you know? It's been great. We talk about work. We talk about when we want to have kids. We talk about food, vacations, and Syracuse basketball. (Well, not really, but I'd like to.)

Eating together at the table is quality time that we didn't have when our eyes were glazed over watching Jerry dump a girl for eating her peas one at a time. And, it creates a good habit for when we have more than just two (and a dog) in our family.

How often do you eat at the table with your significant other or family?

Alone On An Island -- A Kitchen Island

Bridget was on her own. For weeks, perhaps months, before we got married, she talked about a magical black kitchen island from Crate and Barrel. She talked about how it would help with storage. She talked about how it was sleek, slender, and sturdy. She even tried to appeal to my sense of humor by telling me, in the spirit of The Big Lebowski, that it would really tie the room together. 

Me? I thought it was clutter. I thought it was unnecessary. I thought it was dumb. But marriage is about compromise, so we took some of our wedding cash and headed down the street.

To my surprise, the experience at Crate and Barrel was actually fantastic. (How can getting a kitchen island be enjoyable in any way, right? Seriously, if you live in the area and ever need to make a significant purchase for the home, go see Jeffrey at the Cambridge store. His customer service skills are impeccable.) We found what we wanted, ordered it, paid the extra 60 bucks to have it delivered (because, for some ungodly reason, it weighed 176 pounds in the box), and waited about two weeks. Bridget waited with bated breath. My breath was normal.

Finally, it came. As I was out playing kickball and then drinking at a bar after kickball (I mean, you have to go to the bar after), Bridget started to put it together. Now, she's quite good at putting things together. She threw a complicated bureau together in an hour last year. This time, though, she ran into trouble early. There was one big piece that just wasn't fitting the right way. I came home and tried to help, knowing full well that putting furniture together results in an argument 100% of the time. ("What do you mean these screws are too short? They are the ones that came in the damn box!")

But we made some progress. And the next night, a wild, crazy Friday night for a newly married couple, we turned the final screws on our new kitchen island. (Who says single people have more fun?!) Immediately, Bridget glowed. "Was it everything you expected it would be?," I asked. "Yes! Yes, it's wonderful," she said.

I have to admit I was happy to see her so happy, but now I had to contend with this big thing in the middle of the kitchen. And during the next couple weeks, I had to avoid it. Sure, we actually had more room now because there was less clutter. Sure, it was incredibly convenient to have a table in the middle of the kitchen. Sure, it looked good. Sure, it really tied the room togeth...

And then it hit me. She was right. She was 100%, no-question-about-it correct. And I, sadly, was wrong. The lesson learned? The stuff that makes a house into a home -- like curtains, a nice wastebasket, a new coffee table, or a kitchen island -- really matters.

Now, she wants stools for the island. I think they are unnecessary. I think they are clutter. I think they are dumb ... And I should probably just go down to Crate and Barrel to get them before she crawls out of bed this morning.

FOD (Fan of Death)

A wonderful thing happened last night. After a scorching day and night, we came home from a work outing at Fenway to an unbearably warm apartment and a panting Oscar. Even though it was approaching midnight, Mike bravely ventured down into the depths of our basement to bring out the trusty AC window unit. After some light wrangling, we were set to enjoy a summer of artificial coolant and lower sleeping temps. 

The wonderful thing? This annual event signals the end of FOD (Fan of Death). 

As Mike noted in a previous post, we are a couple that has exceedingly different opinions about comfortable room temperature. I like to be at 72 degrees. All the time. No matter the season. I’ll begrudgingly accept a few degrees higher or lower, but I won’t be happy about it. Mike, on the other hand, enjoys pushing his personal limits of temperature endurance. 

Like the winter when he was still living in Salem but spending quite a bit of time in Cambridge with Oscar and me. It turns out he never turned on the heat in his apartment. EVER. The one time he turned it on all season was when I stayed over and complained about seeing my breath. It was like a meat locker in there. Mike was happy as a clam. 

If I had my way I’d always have the heat at 72, but Mike starts to break out into hives if the thermostat is set about 65. So we compromise. And I wear a lot of unflattering sweatsuits and furry slippers with thick socks. But in the shoulder season, between heat and AC, comes the most contentious time of the year. It’s when Mike installs the big box fan, known affectionately as FOD, in the window right next to our bed. 

FOD is so aggressive it makes me feel like I’m in a wind tunnel. I wake up with chapped lips and a sore throat from sucking in air from what is essentially an industrial wind turbine. And it doesn’t matter how cold it is out. As long as FOD is installed, FOD is running. So it could be an arctic blast and Mike will turn to me, beaming, and say something like, “Oh, Honey, don’t you just love feeling the fresh night air while curled up snug in bed? Isn’t it delightful?”

No, Mike. I don’t like it. It makes me irrationally angry to be cold in my own bed. Trying in vain to read my Kindle without exposing any skin to the ruthless FOD. Wearing multiple sets of pajamas and a ski mask to brave the unyielding gusts of cold air from that damn fan. 

Plus, having FOD installed means that the window is without shades and it starts to get light in our bedroom at sunrise...which is approximately 4AM. Or at least it feels like it is. And then Oscar thinks that it is time for his breakfast and starts his mournful wailing, which eventually progresses to clawing insistently at me with his paws, and then licking my nose until I rouse myself from my breezy slumber to shuffle off to his food dish. 

But these dark times are behind us now. Thank the lord for freon and more reasonable sleeping conditions. Until the Fall, FOD. 

The Adoption of Oscar

I've never been a dog person. Not even close. In fact, I've been the opposite for most of my life. We never owned a dog when I was growing up and a stupid one bit me on the ankle when I was 10. (That's how I remember it anyway.) Plus, dogs are loud, covered in slobber, and full of poop. Who needs 'em, right?

Then I met Oscar.

Oscar is our almost-6-year-old Australian Shepherd. He's the greatest dog on the planet. Sure, he sheds a lot. (Also, I'm allergic to him.) He barks a lot. He bites his leash when you try to run with him. And he's fairly incorrigible. But he turns all of that around when he lays down on your lap and asks you to rub his belly.

Now, it wasn't always this way with me and Oscar. When we first met, I wasn't really sure what to make of him; I think he was hesitant, too. (Who is this man in my house? Bark! Why is he sitting so close to that woman that feeds me and picks up my poop? Bark! Wait, do I have to poop now? Bark!) He nipped my hand the first time I played with him. He has yet to apologize.

But then, slowly, we became friends. I learned how to feed him, how to tell him "no," and how to clean  up after him. (This part wasn't so much fun.) I became his official tennis ball thrower and nap cushion. When I went away on trips, I realized I missed him terribly. And the day he was throwing up instead of eating because he ate a cooked hambone the day before (Note to dog owners: Never, ever feed your dog a cooked bone) was one of the longest I can remember.

That's why the conversation Oscar and I had about his adoption was so crucial. Here's the transcript, mostly in photos:

"Oscar, bud, we've come very far. Since I'm married to Bridget, I think it's time we make it official and I adopt you. What do you think?"

"Really?"

"Whoa. This is serious ..."

"I need a minute ..."

So, I gave him some space. Then, he looked up:

"Okay!"

Of all the gifts Bridget has given me in the last two years of our lives (and the first 2.5 months of marriage), it's hard to identify any better than the dog I learned to love. Even if he still barks a lot.

2 Years Down

Today is the 2 year anniversary of our first date. We remember so vividly because it was game 7 of the 2010 NBA finals (Celts lost. Boo.). Since this is the last year we’ll be celebrating this particular anniversary (3/31/12 will become the obligatory anniversary date from now on and I can’t remember more than one date. It's like a mental block.), I thought it was appropriate to sit down and look back on the past 2 glorious years of coupledom. 

I should point out that Mike hates the idea of celebrating anniversaries because he thinks it is forced and arbitrary. He dislikes milestone birthdays for the same reason. I’m from another school of thought. I appreciate these markers in time, however arbitrary they may be, because they provide an opportunity for reflection. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mike!

The last 2 years have been busy. We started dating, discovered we could stand each other, moved in together, got engaged, planned a wedding, and got married. Mike also changed jobs (twice!), became a pet owner, joined two new gyms, and discovered a love of Cambridge and hipster shoes (“They are just so comfortable,” he says in his defense). I started dabbling in grad classes, did a lot of traveling, and got bangs. 

Along the way, we’ve had some really great moments. Enjoying the best risotto of our lives in Boothbay harbor, eating seafood on the water in Newport, wine tastings in Sonoma, drinking pints of Guinness in Galway, and champagne in the middle of the street in Paris. 

But perhaps more memorable are the regular, day-to-day moments of our lives. Taking Oscar to Fresh Pond. Walking to Harvard Square to grab a drink or sit in Harvard Yard to read. Lying on our couch on a Sunday afternoon napping to the dulcet tones of golf. All the dinners at home, and the quick phone calls to check in, and the goodbye kisses before work. And the heated discussions and crossed-armed arguments (let’s be real, it ain’t all roses all the time). 

These years have passed quickly, and I’m told the pace will only pick up once we procreate and I become a soccer mom. But right now, this life we have is pretty great, and I hope we can enjoy being married and selfish for a little while longer.  

Last night we celebrated by going to one of our favorite restaurants and doing what we like best... sitting at the bar, having a beer, eating delicious breadsticks, and splitting a potato pizza. Oh, and talking. Mike commentating about golf, mostly, but also just chatting about our day and our lives and our future. I wish I could take last night and shove it in a time capsule and bury it in our backyard under the oak tree. But since I can’t do that, I hope that I can at least remember that feeling. The feeling of being newly-married, content, and full of potato pizza. 

Five Reasons Why Being Married Is Different

I was golfing the other day with my good friend, Walter, and he asked me if it felt different. "What? Being married?"

"Yeah," he said. "Or is it just basically the same thing?"

I thought about it for a while. Then I missed my putt by a good four feet. Then I answered: "Dude, it is completely different."

I honestly wasn't sure if it would be. There are obviously two schools of thought here. Some people say it's the exact same thing -- you go back to eating the same meals, going out with the same people, and emptying the same dishwasher. Others, on the other hand, think it's a whole new world. After 2.5 months of matrimony, I've decided that I attend the latter school. And here are five reasons why:

1. The ring. I don't wear rings. I mean, I did when I was 15 and trying to look cool, but those days are long gone. The positive here is that I have something to play with when I get bored. Spinning, tapping, tossing -- it's like a new toy. The negative? Having a ring gives me another thing to remember. It used to be phone, wallet, keys, watch. Now it's phone, wallet, keys, watch, ring. This may seem small, but my responsibility just increased by 20%. Don't tell Bridget, but I've found my ring at the bottom of my gym bag more than once.

2. You feel older. You just do. When you hear about "getting married" when you're young, you think those people are old. They are. And now I am. (I actually like being old, so I'm fine with this.)

3. You have a deeper connection. It's not just about the institution of marriage. To me, it's about the experience of sharing your vows and your intentions in front of close friends and family. Think about it: How often do you cry in front of 50, 100, or 200 people? (Watching Rudy sack the Georgia Teach quarterback in a movie theater is obviously the exception here.) A public display of affection and love instantly makes you closer to your partner.

4. The money thing. Bridget covered this on our blog last week. I may retort with my own account (get it?) at some point. Suffice it to say that figuring out a joint account, going on the same health insurance/car insurance, and taxes are significant changes.

5. You're generally happier. Whenever you have a bad day or get in an argument or the dog poops on the floor, it's just not as bad. You always have support, which gives you more confidence and more joy. It's good stuff.

And those are just five reasons. I believe there are hundreds. Feel free to chime in, if you have any of your own.