Hey honey, I broke the disposal.

Seth and I have an on-going rift about the garbage disposal.

I discovered one day, as I threw mushroom caps into the sink for disposal, that he doesn't think we should actually be using this appliance.  I turned around from the stove to find him shoveling the scraps into his hands to throw in the garbage.

Me:  What are you doing?
S:  I'm throwing these away. 
Me:  They can just go down the disposal...?
S:  Some stuff is way too fibrous to go down the disposal.
Me (with a snicker and a pre-eyeroll look on my face):  Too fibrous? 
S (immediately on the defense):  Yeah.  I'm just trying to prevent wear and tear.  You know what?  Let's just both mind our own business with regards to the disposal.  And not talk about this anymore.
Me (voice dripping with sarcasm):  Yep. You're right.  Those mushrooms are WAY too fibrous to go down the disposal.  And you know what?  Let's prevent wear and tear on the washer and dryer too.  We can just start going to the laundry mat.  Also, we should probably stop using the toaster, the coffee maker, the toilets, and the computer...might as well save them too.  Cool?
S:  You are the worst.

And with that, we agreed to stop talking about our own disposal preferences.  I used it (for normal stuff, like egg shells, carrot and potato shavings, the occasional scrape of a plate...) and Seth didn't.  

After we had the "too fibrous" discussion, I felt weird every time I turned on the disposal, like Seth was quietly cursing me.  It's not like I could hear him over that satisfying chop, gurgle and whir.  So in the evenings, to avoid what I was sure was Seth's disapproval, I would just flip it on and off real quick, then figure the rest could wait until he went to work in the morning.  Until one morning, when I flipped the switch and nothing happened but a low, humming sound.  "Shit!" I thought.  "Shit! Shit! Shit!"  Now I would have to tell Seth it was broken, at which point his overuse argument would come in very handy.  

I could not let that happen. Obviously.  So I quickly found my resolve and decided I would fix it before Seth ever found out it was broken.  I summoned my neighbor Jenny, handed her a beer, swore her to secrecy, and then we got to work discussing our knowledge of disposals.  We had none.  But two college graduates could figure this out, right?  Surely my degree in economics would be helpful, and Jenny, being a brilliant high school English teacher, could rely on her own prowess. 

Jenny and I took turns, bravely plunging wrist deep into the bowels of the sink, which everybody knows is the worst idea ever, obliterating the number one rule of fixing disposals.  We found three noodles and a piece of an egg shell.  Perplexed, we each cracked another beer, and while I Googled "Fix the Disposal so My Husband Doesn't Win this Fight", Jenny cleared out the stuff underneath the sink.  

We tried EVERYTHING.  We tried to turn the blades from beneath with every size of Allen Wrench available to us, we checked the fuse box, we punched the reset button.  No matter what we did, the blades did not budge.  They had quite literally grinded to a halt, like every woman's digestive system while on vacation...zero movement, no hope of evacuation.  

We gave up before Seth came home and caught us with our hands down the disposal, but I still wasn't ready for a full on admission.  Fortunately for me, his non-use meant that I had time to keep up the charade of a fully functioning garbage disposal until it better suited me to tell him.  

Which I've decided is...right now.  Hey honey, I broke the disposal.  

But don't you worry.  I already fixed it.  While you were at work, I dabbled in the profession of plumbing, and I totally nailed it.  I'm the best appliance repair-woman you've ever married, and don't you forget it.

SAME CAR!

We play a game in my family called "Same Car!"  It goes like this:

• If we see our same car (a Honda Element), we yell out "SAME CAR!" and if it's the same color as ours (black), we yell either "SAME CAR! DOUBLE!" or "SAME-SAME CAR!"
• If we see a car like my mom's (LL calls her "Nama"), we yell "NAMA CAR!"
• Then there are the occasional other vehicles thrown in... "Toddfather Car!", "Miss Jenny's Car!", "Jack and Will Car!"

Whoever yells first, wins. And we keep score of how many cars we identify.  Every day. Because this is a family of fierce competitors.  Just last night while playing UNO, Lakeland laid a draw two on her dad and said "Boom. I am JACKING fools."  (I realize and appreciate that this type of expression is inappropriate for a three year old. Unless we're playing cards. She's allowed to talk shit while playing cards, and she follows this rule fairly well.) We pretty much turn anything that can be remotely competitive into a competition.

Anyway, back to "SAME CAR!" There are dire consequences if you misidentify a car.  They involve dropping and doing push-ups, wherever you may be at the time of your blunder. For instance, while walking to the car from the grocery store, I busted out "Nama Car!" and was immediately called on the carpet for my error.  But I play by the rules, and so I set down my items right there in the parking lot and did 3.5 push-ups. LL was as delighted to see me pay up as she was to have corrected me. 

The other night, Seth (a.k.a. Best. Dad. Ever.) mentioned that he'd like us to take Lakeland on a special trip.  To a car dealership.  So she can yell out "SAME CAR" or "NAMA CAR" 80 thousand times. Which would make her, and all of us really, so very happy.  I think we are going to take her for her birthday. 

Technology ruined everything this morning...

Prior to 9am this morning, I got to watch a new episode of "People Acting Like Assholes" and here's your recap, in case you missed it:

Act 1: People on Their Smartphones While Driving

Seriously.  Stop. Doing. This. A young woman nearly rammed into a fellow driver this morning not once, but twice because she just couldn't be bothered to stay in her own lane.  When I pulled up next to her at a red light, guess what she was doing?

You are not behind the wheel of a feather.  You are behind the wheel of two tons of steel, rubber and glass.  You could kill someone. Put your phone in the back seat if you have to, but please, please...stop the madness. 

Act 2:  Parents Teaching Children to be Robots Instead of People

As he was walking his son into preschool this morning, I heard a dad say: "I'm sorry I put the wrong movie in the car this morning. Which movie did you want to watch?"  "Peter Pan!" whined the tiny Mr. Roboto.

Really? OK, number one:  I'm pretty sure that choosing the "wrong movie" does not warrant an apology from a parent to a preschooler.  Save your sorry's for real parenting failures.  And number two: Does your kid need to watch TV for the 15 minutes it takes to get to school?  Here's a novel idea.  You could use that time while both you and your child are strapped down in the same place at the same time, with no other distractions except your Smartphone, to speak to one another.  This is the perfect time to ask your kid questions, to teach them something new, or to sing stupid songs together.  If you don't want to talk to your kid, I get it.  I do.  So hand them a book.  Or some crayons.  There is enough technology in their world already.   

Normal People Stuff

LL's first day of school.

Ever since Lakeland started preschool, there have been:  

A.  A bunch of snow days and 2 hour delays.  As of this writing, she's been in school for a grand total of 22 hours.

B.  A bunch of people that have asked me what I'm doing with myself now that I have all of this newfound free time.

This got me thinking.  What have I been doing with all of this free time?  And I figured out I've just been doing normal people stuff.  The following are 5 things I've done in my 14 hours of free time.  (Figure on 1/2 hour driving to and from school each day because I refuse to make her a late person even though lateness is my natural tendency, and because I am terrified of being late to pick her up.)

1.  This. Right here. Blogging. Boom.

2.  Dishes and laundry.  Without interruptions.  Holy. Shit. I am the Flo-Jo of chores.

3.  Watching "The League", which you really can't watch with a kid around, even a sleeping kid, because it's so horribly and hilariously offensive.  And yes, I realize I'm 4 years late discovering the show...I keep excitedly asking people "Hey!  Have you ever watched 'The League?"  And they're all, "Yeah.  I've watched it.  All. FOUR. Seasons." (Seriously though, if you haven't watched it...so funny.)

I heart you, Terry Gross.

4. (To culturally balance out #3) Listening to NPR.  Like, actually listening and gaining information and finding myself engaged and entertained.  I forgot how much I love Terry Gross.

5. There is no #5.  It's only been 14 hours, people!

The Queen Size Bed Fight

If there is one thing Seth and I agree on, it's that we failed at sleep training Lakeland when she was a baby, resulting in three-plus years of her sleeping either in our bed, or on the floor right next to me. Plus, as exhibited, the occasional odd spot...

On an etch-a-sketch...

Straight upright on a couch...

In a restaurant...

About six months ago, I got this idea that we should get a queen size bed for Lakeland's room.  Despite what Seth might say, I had good and valid reasons for wanting to purchase a giant bed for a three year old that never, ever slept in her room.

To wit:

• Perhaps a big, cozy bed would be the magic spell that coaxed her to sleep through the night and stay out of our room?
• If we got a bed with underneath storage, we would no longer have to trip over 47 thousand toys.  
• It might be nice to have a place for our guests to sleep.

In the midst of making Valentines...

In transit...

Anyway, I started subtly planting my agenda while secretly shopping Craigslist, and eventually brought it to Seth's attention that it was my intention to get a new bed in Lakeland's room

While coloring...

at some point.  I was guilt ridden that we were providing such lackluster accommodations for her.  And by "accommodations", what I mean is that we threw her infant mattress on the floor and called it good.

For my part, I thought the mattress on the floor was awful because: 
1.  It was too small for her.
2.  It was too sad...sleeping on a mattress on the floor (on a permanent basis) is like squatting in your own home.
3.  It looked shitty, aesthetically speaking.

Seth thought the mattress on the floor was great because:
1.  It could be moved around to provide "fun" locations to sleep.
2.  He used to sleep in weird places when he was a kid, so she might like to as well.
3.  After hearing my argument that the mattress was too small, he measured her, and then measured the square footage of her mattress, and then he measured himself and the square footage of half of our mattress, and concluded that she had more allotted sleeping area than he did, and therefore it was plenty of room.  (Which was smart of him to do by way of argument, but I still thought it was a bit dickish).

Look at this poor thing...

So then I started taking pictures of her sleeping next to her mattress after falling (albeit not far) off her bed and landing on her toys. See what I'm saying?  Not cozy.  Not comfy.  The poor thing has an octopus jabbing her in the back, and she's laying on a plastic sand bucket.

This is why, night after night, I'd make a cozy little nest for her  next to my side of the bed.  And at some point, upon waking in a pile of toys, Lakeland would stumble in with her blanket and lay down and go right to sleep. 

Then I found out that it bothered Seth that Lakeland was in our room.  Every night.  For over three years.  Like, really bothered him.  He said it was because she should be in her own room because she's not a baby, and because our room is for us, etc., etc., etc.  I'm pretty sure part of his angle was that, with Lakeland out of our room, there'd be a chance of morning sex.  Pfffffft... we're not dating anymore, honey.

In the end, we did what we always do, and made a deal/bet.  (Some married people call this "compromising" but we do better competing.)  Lakeland had to spend ten nights in her room, in a row, by herself, and she/I would earn a big girl bed.

Our bet did not include parameters on how I could go about executing this task.  So I went out and bought a king size bottle of Benedryl...ten days later, that bed was mine.  I mean hers.

Seth, I am quite sure, would have a different take on this scenario.  Well guess what?  This is my blog.  He can get his own forum.  

DO sweat the sad stuff.

About a year and a half ago, I had my first ever bout of depression.  Actual, real depression.  Though the symptoms were mild, to me it was frightening, embarrassing and, in my opinion, completely unwarranted.  What had I to be sad about?  My fantastic family?  Enough money to eat well and live in a place with two bathrooms? Recognizing what I was feeling proved difficult because not only was I new to being emotionally unfit, but I also felt my sadness was so very self-indulgent.  I know people who struggle with depression, and those people have actual problems and real reasons to feel what they are feeling.  I was merely having a lengthy pout. 

My depression presented as a wet, heavy cloak draped over my shoulders.  It slowed me down, dampened my joy and made me uncomfortable in my skin.  It wasn't debilitating, but the heaviness really limited my positive emotional experiences.  Stuff that would usually have made me laugh my face off only elicited a smile and maybe a chuckle.  I didn't have a good counter-balance anymore for dealing with unfavorable events either, so when something sad happened, my heart would plummet and grief would wash over me.  Mild irritation at people or situations turned to something short of rage, but definitely past bothersome.  With support from my husband, family and the few friends that I managed to talk to about how I was feeling, I went to a doctor and was diagnosed with mild, situational depression and was given a prescription for an antidepressant.

For me, taking a pill meant handing over control of myself and my feelings to a drug; putting my trust in a chemical.  A little white pill and a lot of cigarettes became my personal floatation device, and I got to thinking that that was pretty fucked up, given that I had perfectly capable arms and legs with which to paddle.  It just so happened that my limbs were rather weak at the moment.  Maybe they just required better training to carry me through this part of my life?  That's when I became very, very good friends with the gym.

Running, strength training and most importantly, group fitness classes have literally become my antidepressant.  I have sweat, run, boxed and weight-lifted my way away from pills and nicotine.  Only naturally produced "feel good" hormones stream through my veins.  Every trip to the gym floods my brain and my body with enough endorphins and oxytocin to regulate my mood.  I can actually feel it every time I walk through the doors. 

I have the unbelievable fortune of going to a gym staffed with world class and class act instructors.  Gone are the days of the bouncy 19-year-old aerobics instructors wearing leotards, leg warmers and full makeup.  The women that teach at my gym are athletes with the strength of lionesses and the hearts of humanitarians.  They are educated, driven and innovative.  They are so good at what they do that droves of people gladly get out of bed at 7am on a Saturday morning to be with them for 60 minutes.  They are so good that if you aren't 10 minutes early, you won't get a spot in their class.  They know that they can't make you challenge yourself, that they can't force you to push past your limits.  And they don't have to.  The good ones, the really good ones...they create a hunger that makes you want to put more weight on your bar.  They beget your trust and you learn you can hold your pose longer.  They build ambition so you have a need to keep pushing yourself.

There is one instructor in particular for whom I feel a tremendous amount of respect and gratitude.  She is my therapy.  She is my campaign manager against drugs.  I don't have a boss, or co-workers, so her voice is the one I hear most often besides my husband and daughter.  She recently said that 90% of the time, people don't hear what she says in her classes.  But we do...that's why we're there.  Her voice carries us through pain.  Through uncertainty.  Through fragility.  And we all come out on the other side of 60 minutes stronger in heart, mind and body.  60 minutes.  It's amazing that the actual chemical makeup of a person can be changed in 60 minutes but that's exactly what happens.  In my case, and I cannot be alone here, she has strengthened me in life changing ways.

I have several morals to this story.  One is, if you feel sad, try exercise.  Sweating is a most powerful elixir.  I know that it won't take the place of drugs if you need them, but it sure as hell won't hurt you.  Two, if you feel lonely, try to get in a room with a bunch of strangers.  You don't have to talk to anyone to get the positive effects of a group working toward a common goal.  I didn't open my mouth for months and months and still, during and after each class I felt less alone.  Three, if someone's work is exceptional and you have benefited enormously from the time and effort they've put in, you should thank them.  Thank you, Kate.  Your talent is unmatched, your beauty soul deep.

Romantic as a rock

Seth and I don't do romantic stuff, like exchange foot rubs and back massages.  We don't usually buy Christmas, birthday or Valentine's gifts for one another.  We rarely surprise each other with candy or flowers.  We are decidedly unromantic, at least conventionally.   

If we do buy candy, the purchase is a result of careful consideration and collaboration.  For instance, we thoughtfully discussed if we should buy the bucket of Jelly Belly's at Costco.  (No, we should not.  But let's.)

Flowers arrive rarely and randomly, and are from me, to me, though I have had Detroit Redwing players send me flowers upon the team's arrival to the playoffs, and I have had Detroit Tiger players deliver bouquets on opening day.  It's possible those were from Seth, but I like to pretend they were from Sean Casey and Tomas Holmstrom.

My idea of a romantic gesture is to make sure Seth always has apples and clean white t-shirts.  So not so much romantic, but more of a daily affirmation that I love him and think of him.

I thought really hard for several days, and I came up with "Seth's Top Five Most Romantic Gestures or Gifts Because Ten is Way Too Many".  And here they are:

5.  He bought me the perfect necklace for our wedding day, after I'd gone shopping and spent $7.00 on a fake that would most probably turn my neck green.  I was in tears when I opened the box.  It was an unbelievable gift, given in such a simple way.  I was putting sheets on the guest room bed, and he walked in and said "You deserve real pearls on your wedding day."  Well, I started sobbing, and I think it's safe to say that he was not expecting this very girly reaction from me, which must have made him quite uncomfortable, which made him resort to smirkily reciting the time-honored, and oh so classic "pearl necklace" words of wisecracks.  So it was more like half romantic, half 'I'm about to marry a 14 year old boy who makes crude jokes at inopportune moments.' I think it still counts.

4.  From April through October, when I drive to Michigan (or any trip that takes more than an hour), Seth makes me a list of all the good baseball games that'll be on XM radio, including the times and the stations. Not romantic for everyone, but makes me swoon.

3.  Once, when I returned from an out of town trip late in the fall, I arrived home to find that Seth had gotten all* of my Christmas** boxes*** out of storage**** for me. 
         * At least 15.
       ** He HATES Christmas.
     *** Boxes = 30 gallon totes.  Heavy, awkward totes.
  **** Lugged from 15 stories below our apartment.  In an elevator, but still.  Long hallways.

2.  He always, always says "Goodnight, babe.  I love you." before he goes to sleep.  Even if I'm already sleeping (or he thinks I'm sleeping, which is how I know about this).

1.  When I'm sick with a head cold, he makes me a special garbage bag for used tissues.  It's a paper grocery bag placed inside of a plastic grocery bag.  It's a very bizarre thing to do, but it's one of his ways of taking care of me, and it sure feels nice. 

I am glad today, and every day, that I married my best friend.  I'm glad that we care for each other in small ways daily, instead of in big ways quarterly.  I'm glad that we both love baseball.  And camping.  And cards.  Or we'd both be married to other people.