Extraordinary Thing #32: No Longer Newlyweds

Many lovely things are associated with being newlyweds. Ah love, young love. I know that. But I am so extraordinarily happy that Erik and I are no longer BRAND NEW at this marriage thing. We have been married almost four years, edging into firmer and firmer territory and discovering fewer and fewer unpleasant things about each other and saying (on average) 142 less dumb things a day. I know it’s so easy to gloss over those primitive struggles in a marriage and idealize young love, but today I reread a blog I wrote during our first year of marriage, and it made me really, really glad that we are beyond that stage, that boxing match, whatever you want to call it. I really would not want to go back there for anything. And I still resent that very nice person who fondly described her first year of marriage as being “like butter.” OK. Shut up.

Here is a snapshot of our marriage circa 2008. It is awkward for me to relive; hopefully not as awkward for you to read…

…

Because we don’t have any money, I’ve taken to shopping at Aldi. If you’ve never been to an Aldi, here’s what you need to know. There are only three aisles. Well, four, if you count the half aisle of scrawny produce. You have to put in a quarter to be able to take a shopping cart (apparently knowing you’ll get your quarter back at the end keeps bad people from stealing the carts). You have to bring your own boxes, bags or other means of transporting your groceries home, and you will also do your own packing and bagging. You will be buying generic versions of everything so don’t look for your favorite brands of cereal or syrup. Knowing this ahead of time, if you still want to shop at Aldi, be my guest.

I grew up shopping at Aldi. My mother and grandmother loved that place, and my brother and I always had to go along. We were excruciatingly bored the whole time and always sat on the orange counter where the ladies with plastic scarves over their curlers bagged their groceries. We would crawl around on that counter until our grandmother told us to stop. But my clearest memory of Aldi’s impact on our life was their Kleenex and toilet paper. Aldi sold Kleenex and toilet paper that were made from plywood, or at least it felt like it when they came in contact with your sensitive tissues. My mother exclusively bought Aldi’s products so we never knew what it must feel like to wipe your nose with Puffs or your rear end with Charmin. At least, we might not have known the difference had our grandma not had the softer, name-brand kind at her house down the street, and sooner or later we started begging our mother to stop making us wipe ourselves raw with those stiff scratchy sheets. I am scarred (not literally thank God) by Aldi’s bathroom products. What’s more, I have an aversion to the idea of generic things, because I always wanted the Cheerios, not the Nutty O’s, and the Cheetos not the Cheese Balls, but never, ever got them. Plus, I feel like I’m living in the Great Depression not being able to shop at a regular grocery store.

But when you don’t have money, you begin to rethink your snotty dread of things like generic cereals and orange counters. So I went to Aldi the other day by myself. Erik was still in bed when I left so I braved the four aisles alone. The trip proved quite successful (I even remembered the quarter for the cart) and I returned home with my bags that I’d brought with me, quite pleased with myself. Not only had I saved money, but I had overcome a childhood loathing of a silly supermarket. It made me feel much closer to the ideal of womanhood.

I remained on that cloud until lunchtime. My beloved partner and I decided to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and what would we use to make them, but the new $0.99 bread I had so thriftily chosen? I pulled out the loaf with a carefree flourish. I glanced at Erik and raised my eyebrows, knowing that praise of my womanly virtues would not be far behind.

“I hate that bread,” he said. “It’s so gross.”

The language he chose was a bit strong, or so I told myself as the words punctured my cheerful spirit and the air rushed out of me. I stared at him and said, “It’s not gross. It was the cheapest bread they had. I was trying to save us money.”

“It’s gross, and I hate it.”

Again, those strong words. And wasn’t it excessive for an innocent loaf of wheat bread that we were going to disguise with peanut butter and jelly? “I was trying to save money,” I explained for the second time. Maybe he hadn’t heard me before. I had just been to Aldi. I had just gone shopping at the world’s generic headquarters. The whole point of doing this was to benefit our family finances. Which it appeared, I was singlehandedly saving.

“Why did you have to get this bread, I told you I hate this kind,” Erik said gloomily, stuffing the slices into the toaster.

That was it! My entire trip to Aldi had been a huge, disgusting failure, and everything I bought was wrong. “Stop saying that!” I shrilled. “Stop saying it’s gross!!”

“What is the big deal?” Erik demanded. “I told you I don’t like the bread. I’ll just get my own kind.”

“No! We are a family! We have to share the same bread!”

“No we don’t! I can have my own kind of bread and you can just eat this kind.”

“Do you think I like this kind? I got it because I WAS TRYING TO SAVE MONEY!”

That’s when I broke down in tears. I fled to the couch, sobbing.

“What is wrong?” Erik followed me, clearly baffled. “Why are you crying? It’s just BREAD.”

“You hurt my feelings,” I wailed. “I have feelings about the bread.”

Silence. Then he roared with laughter. “You have feelings about the bread?” Finding the humor that I can’t see in a situation is Erik’s specialty. “You just said you have feelings about the bread!”

I was crying and yelling at him at the same time, sounding kind of like a litter of puppies and a dump truck, when we heard a knock on the door. I quieted my sobs, cowered down on the couch trying to hide my tearstained face and Erik opened the door.

There stood my friend Michelle—holding a vacuum. “Hi,” she said. “I texted you… I thought you might want this vacuum I’m getting rid of… Is this a bad time?”

I suppose bad time described it pretty well. I tried to take the vacuum and hug her but I couldn’t do it without lapsing into gasping sobs again, tears pouring down my face. There I was, caught dead in the middle of a horrible, stupid argument over bread with my husband who was supposed to love me. We were supposed to be happy. This ruined it all. Now the world knew that we were miserable.

Poor Michelle did not know what to do. She patted me and looked around frantically, meanwhile holding the vacuum by the neck like a large animal who might try to escape. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You don’t have to take the vacuum. I’ll just come back later.”

After 15 assurances that my aversion was not to the vacuum, she left it. I finally stopped bawling. Erik apologized for calling the bread gross. Moral of the story? Don’t underestimate the power of bread to evoke painful emotions. And never, ever criticize a loaf chosen by someone dear to you.

Extraordinary Thing #31: Flash Mobs

I think it’s important to do silly things from time to time. I know I need a little levity in my life and for me, that meant dancing in a Flash Mob two weeks before Christmas. I also got to cross it off my Bucket List, which was an accomplishment, and I got a really ugly T-shirt. I think I should get bonus points since I danced pregnant and had people pointing at me.

I know it’s a little late to post this video, since it’s a Christmas song, but here it is anyway.

P.S. My friend Mendi and I were hidden somewhere toward the back, so you won’t catch a glimpse of our sweet moves … But. They were sweet.

Dallas Flash Mob

Extraordinary Thing #30: Finding Out What You’re Having!

I barely slept last night. Was I nervous? Excited? Uncomfortable? Probably all of the above. But I peed at least five times and sat up wide awake at 5, ready to go get my long-awaited 20-week sonogram!!!!!! Eeek!!! Time to find out the sex of Baby No. 2.

(I think Erik was nervous too because he made a bad joke to the nurse about finding out our baby was a monster. Not funny.)

I get overwhelmed during sonograms, and this time, I was lying on the chair watching the baby swim around the screen, and the whole time I was crying, but only one of my eyes was crying. JUST ONE. At least it was dark in there so nobody could see.

So I won’t be one of those people who posts all her sonogram pictures, including the creepy 3-D ones that look like mud creatures. I’ll leave that to my husband. But I will tell you briefly and very calmly that we are having a girl.

A GIRL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So much for serenity. What peace can possibly be found knowing that my daughter will someday go to the prom? With a boy? And how can I ever pass by Baby Gap again knowing that all those girl clothes are in there waiting?

But I’m really excited and happy, and Erik is beyond thrilled. Jack kept pointing at the sonogram pictures saying “baby sister” and then spilled a glass of water on them. An accident? I think not.

Cheers to little girls and new beginnings.

Extraordinary Thing #29: Dressing the Baby Bump

It’s way too easy to sink into a pregnancy style rut.

Reason 1: A lot of maternity clothes are frumpy and don’t fit well (read: jeans!) My figure is practically swallowed whole by maternity jeans, and after I sit down once, the butt is saggy. Gross.

Reason 2: Sweats are so inviting when you are twice your normal size.

Reason 3: You don’t want to spend a lot of money buying cute maternity clothes that you won’t wear in a few months.

This time being with child, I had to take myself in hand. I spent my first pregnancy wearing the same grey oversize men’s fleece every day. Every day. In every picture of me pregnant, there I am wearing the fleece. I even wore it to the hospital to deliver. I don’t know if I realized it at the time, or just didn’t care, but it wasn’t what you’d call flattering. It had the sex appeal of wrinkly elephant skin.

So this time, I refused lose myself in an ugly article of clothing. I decided to find a few signature things that felt like me and weave them into a wardrobe of borrowed items. For me, this addictive staple has been the poncho, which for Texas winters is just perfect. I acquired two of them this Christmas and I doubt that we will ever part (they are compulsively wearable even for non-pregos!). I feel like I’m wearing a blanket but managing to still have an exciting fashion silhouette. I can’t overstate how much I am enjoying this.

Me going places in my poncho.

Extraordinary Thing #28: Out-of-Control Cravings

Tonight I had a MAJOR pregnancy craving, one that completely possessed me, for a warm gooey freshly baked chocolate chip cookie (this isn’t a strange craving but a most powerful one). Erik was out having drinks with friends, so he couldn’t go get me one, and even if I overcame my acute back pain to make a batch of cookies from scratch, I would end up eating all of them and feeling sick. What to do? I sat there obsessing about it.

Things I considered:

-Calling a friend and asking them to go buy me a cookie from the pastry counter somewhere

-Eating a can of chocolate frosting from the pantry

-Making one cookie like the one cupcake that Kristin Wigg makes herself in Bridesmaids

OK, the last option seemed like the best/most rational, so I found a recipe online for a single chocolate chip cookie. Turns out there are people like me who can’t help but gobble all the available cookies and need the self-control and self-indulgence that just ONE giant cookie can provide. So I made the cookie recipe and kind of had fun mixing together the cute, tiny little amounts of ingredients. I waited forever for it to bake, I mean forever. 25 minutes for one giant cookie. WTH?

This perfection is what I got.

I was completely happy and satisfied… until I tasted the cookie. It was gross. Totally gross. Not even my overpowering craving could convince me the cookie was worth eating. I tossed it right in the trash.

Oh man. Fail. And I still have my craving. It’s kind of OK though, because it’s all part of being pregnant, which is like falling into a weird vortex of smells, feelings and hormones. And there’s always a bowl of granola, which I am defeatedly eating as we speak. Sigh.