Marriage Surprise #1

Marriage surprise #1:

Marriage is a (mostly) silent, continual negotiation of all habits, inclinations and opinions.

A couple of panic-y days before our wedding, I remember thinking dang, I’m supposed to stay right here with him…like forever.  I can’t leave and he ain’t leaving.  We stuck. 

The first few weeks after the blessed day, I did spend a few nights at my own house.  My Suga Lump sat me down and explained (rather impatiently) that married folk actually, or usually, live together permanently.  It was a hard concept.  

I had lived mostly alone for several decades and was used to solitude, eating what and when I wanted, doing house projects ‘when I got around to it’, and sleeping when I wanted.  Some long-time married folks told me that sort of life sounded like Heaven. They weren’t helping me.  

It terrified me to think I was going to be shackled to a man the rest of my life.  To quote the relentless Roseanne rerun ads, I was a prisoner without possibility of parole.  There were lessons I had to learn.  

Before I got hitched, I seldom watched TV and only four years ago learned that TV’s are now ALL flatscreens.  And by the way, NO ONE wants a 5,000 lb dinosaur of a TV like I had.  Nor the TV armoire it lived in.  To quote Gomer Pyle, “Goh-lee”.

I’m learning that having the TV on is OK.  Noise is OK.  I have learned I don’t have to live like a monk under a vow of silence.  I can wear Airpods and watch my Ipad.  I can go into another room.  Heck, I ‘m deaf as a stump anyway so I can take the hearing aids out.  Solitude problem solved. 

He watches his old Western shows when I’m busy elsewhere and I turn the TV off when he is out.   

Seriously, how many times did Little Joe get accused of something the townfolks were going to hang him for?  And any girl who remotely liked him got killed.  I wouIda kept a low profile there, Joe.  Just saying.

And I have learned that watching TV with my Suga is beautifully fun and comforting and he even puts on closed captioning for me.  My favorite time of day is putting a couch pillow on his lap and snuggling under a blanket while Frazier throws another bad dinner party.  Sigh, heart, kissy.  

Suga Lump eats on a SCHEDULE.  He’s a big guy and when he doesn’t eat a FULL MEAL for breakfast by 8am, lunch at noon and dinner at the early bird special hour of 5:30, there is extreme hangry-ness to pay.  He denies this of course, but I have seen the rounded eyebrows, determined steps and shark-dead eyes that accompany the lack of food in the belly.  He. Must. Feed. 

I’m learning to stay out of the kitchen when Mr. Hangry is cooking.  I’m the Chief Critter Feeder so I have at least four or five furry ones following me everywhere in hopes of getting a snack.  Best case scenario is he gets annoyed with the pleading little faces, worst is when they stand right behind him and get tripped over.  

My big lab mix loooovvveeesss to lay her gigantic body on the exact spot right behind of any human as if she is dying of hunger.  She is at least 20 pounds over her recommended weight, and it would take your and my lifetime added together for that doggo to starve.  We are pawns in their master plan to get us to stumble and spill whatever we are having down their starved, deprived little throats.  

I am the lowly chief bottle washer and he is an excellent cook. No diet books in sight, he believes there is no such thing as enough bacon grease, cream sauce or rib eye steak.  Those are the mainstays of the Martin household plus black-eyed peas, cole slaw and butter.  Lots of butter.  And bacon grease.  And more bacon grease.  And butter.

I blame him entirely for the ten hard, icky pounds I have gained in the year since we have been married.  As a perpetually single woman, my eating plans were limited to scrounging around mouse-like in the pantry nibbling a bite here and there, or cooking a big pot of soup, getting tired of it, and throwing most of it away.  I usually had some boxes of leftovers from dinner dates which eventually grew hairy arms in the refrigerator.  Not the date, the leftovers.  Usually.

I say, “We have to eat AGAIN?” at least three times a week.  But it is nice to have home cooked meals, even though he starts planning the next meal as soon as the dishes hit the dishwasher.  

I’m learning to weigh my words carefully when mentioning some rando home improvement idea.  One year and a few months of marriage and he has built (by himself, no help) a lower deck, side stairs to our existing deck, a firepit, and a tool shed/barn.  

Inside he replaced my electric stove with a gas one, installed a new dishwasher, put up many, many shelves, fixed the washing machine and air conditioner, wired and added some new electrical outlets and completed several upgrades to our camper and truck.  

I know when he starts putting little lists and numbers together in his notebook to back away and throw him a bottle of water every now and then.  I figure by next year he will have built a third floor onto the house.  He. Cannot. Stay. Still.  

The house and yard are looking great.  And I do enjoy camping!

Mark is, as I mentioned, a big guy.  He physically takes up a lot of room walking around, and I kinda like him so he takes up my attention when I see him. After our millionth hug and love you soooo much smoochy woo newlywed interactions, I find myself parroting “Am I in your way?” in a vaguely snarky manner and pushing past him.  Apologies Suga, Imma work on that.  

We have a king sized bed.  It gets awfully small sometimes.  Mark isn’t entirely at fault here, because Queen Lola, the smallest and most fierce of all doggos, sleeps between us.  Her Majesty sleeps sideways, and she will kick repeatedly should we dare to touch her feet with our foul bodies.  Peasants never know their proper place.

Now that it’s cold outside we have nightly guest appearances by our cats Roxy and Billy Bob.  Just about 4am, we can count on a slight jump on the bed followed by a single loud meow from Roxy the Cat.  She insists trying to French kiss me.  I do love my Foxy Roxy, however I also see her cleaning her bottom quite often so the midnight love thing ain’t working for me.  I am often having one of my personal summers (aka hot flashes) by then and struggling to get arms and legs back under the covers while fending off her advances.  I imagine I hear snickering from the human side of the bed.  Dislike.

Just as Mark and I are getting back to sleep about 30 minutes later, we feel a second much heavier jump.  Billy Bob, our adopted Garfield cat wants to lick my uncovered appendages while drooling on the sheets. I push him down to the foot of the bed and get back to making a sleepy.

Just as I start feeling blissfully unconscious, I hear a russling. Then another, and another, getting closer together then a yowl starting low and getting louder.  

Cat fight.  Rocky 6 is happening at the foot of our bed.  My Husband is probably hoping to get an annulment. It’s a little too late for that and we aren’t even Catholic.  

We decide we watched enough Rocky movies to skip the ending.  He asks what I want for breakfast.  We have to eat AGAIN?

I love that man.