​Pull up a chair, my friends. I’m going to tell you a story. It’s the story of how Hubs and I met. Pretty much encapsulates our entire lives together.
 
It was a cold but sunny February day in a cold area of the country, and I was skiing that day while on call because…I like to tempt fate. (Hey, at reckless speeds, I could go from the top of the mountain to the hospital in 25 minutes, so…close enough.)
 
As per usual, I got in the “Singles” line of the ski lift. You know, the line where you’re skiing alone? Fine. Also, the Singles line because, a few years earlier, I had gladly jettisoned Bad Decision from my life. And had no intention of attempting any more Decisions for a long, long time.
 
So, this guy also got on the lift with me because…singles line. He had a snowboard attached to his foot. Strike one. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt over his thermal shirt. (It >was< a sunny day, but really? Hello, overkill.) Strike two. A helmet and reflective goggles completed the ensemble. Okay, I’d spot him those items, because…safety first.
 
I said my usual “hi, howerya” and settled in to ride the chair up the mountain.
 
Then this man started talking. And didn’t stop. He was hilarious. We >somehow< ended up at the next lift together, and rode to the other mountaintop. By this time, he figured out the whole medical thing, and God bless him, he worked in the words “uvula” and “medulla oblongata” into a casual conversation, thinking he would impress me. It was an obvious stretch, but as dating opening conversations go, I’ve heard worse.
 
Two hours later, we were still skiing/boarding together, having a blast of a time. My phone rang, it was the hospital. Patient needed an urgent procedure for complications of a miscarriage. I had to leave right away. Later, Hubs would tell me he thought that this was a ploy to extricate myself from the situation. We quickly exchanged digits and I left.
 
We chatted during the week and decided to meet up again at the ski park the next Sunday afternoon. I was to call him when I got to the parking lot and he’d meet me there. So that day, I pulled in, parked, and dialed his number. No answer. Huh. Left a quick message, geared up, waited a solid 10 minutes, then went skiing. A few checks on my phone confirmed he didn’t call back. Hey, no harm no foul – a gal can take a message. Loud and clear. Parenthetically, it was a great bluebird day, and I had a wonderful afternoon of turns, much to his later irritation.
 
That night, an email popped up. Something about him losing his phone on the ski lift. Yeah, right. All I could think was, that’s a pretty good excuse. I’d spot him a few points for sheer creativity, but if he didn’t want to hang out, he should just say so. Then the full truth came out when we chatted that night.
 
He had been on a lift when my call came in. In what he describes as “typical Costanza fashion” (he kind of >is< George Costanza – more on this in a few paragraphs). He went for his leg pocket, pulled out the phone, and fumbled it, dropping it about 50 feet down into the powdery snow. A string of creative phrases later, he got off the lift at the top of the mountain and boarded down to where he dropped the phone. There was no phone. (As it turned out, another skier had picked it up. Hubs later called his own number, someone answered, and he got the person to mail the phone back, but that’s a side story.)
 
He begged forgiveness, and I relented, mostly because if the story was false, that was one heck of a creative mind, and if the story was true, his luck flat-out stunk. He redeemed himself by taking me out for dinner the next weekend, and the rest, as they say, is history. Almost...
 
So, the George Costanza reference. Mind you, by the dinner date, I still hadn’t seen this guy without snowboard boots, helmet and goggles. Turns out, this was a smart play on his part. IRL, he wasn’t super tall and yes…Hubs was bald. I remind him periodically about the bait-and-switch move he did there, by wearing the tall boots and keeping the helmet firmly on his chrome dome that first “date”.
 
You know how they say fairy tales come true? Sometimes they don’t abide by those Disney tropes. And that’s okay…
 
PS: We were married 1 year after meeting on the ski lift. That was many years ago.
 
PPS: He still hasn’t stopped talking.

Yup, that's all mine, ladies. Take a step back.  :)

And yes, that's orange + camo. In Hubs' universe, camo goes with >everything<.

What dudes see. (and what they don't see)

Here's the scene: I'm working late, hubs is at home waiting for a Handy Guy to come over and give us a quote for repairs.

My text: Please make sure personal stuff and mess is picked up before Handy Guy comes by

His text: Roger.


I come home after Handy Guy has left. In my bathroom is the untouched mess of hair product, hairdo electronic implements, and assorted anti-old age goops. Oh, and my Pill package is wrapped up inside a crumpled towel. Ah yes, he has removed the offending Personal Item from view but left the messy stuff out. Sigh.  Good job.

Then, as I walk back through the bedroom, I see it: 2 bras and several undies. Just sitting on the dresser in plain sight. Super obvious. Yup.


When asked to describe the logic behind the choices made, hubs said, "I didn't see the clothes."

Right there. Plain sight.

But thank God the prescription was hidden...

Hubby and I were playing the hypothetical/impossible game of ‘what if’ a few nights ago.
 
To understand how ridiculous the game is, let’s call the proverbial spade a spade: Hubs and I are a short and stumpy match made in heaven. While we like to imagine that once upon a time we were ‘elite athletes’, the reality is much different. We’re okay with that fact.
 
But for funsies, let’s go through the list and see what sports might net these two hobbits a gold medal!
 
#1) Archery: Not really. I can’t hit a fly with an oversized flyswatter, and hubs would kill himself with the compound bow.
 
#2) Rowing: While it’s a point of dubious pride that I have pretty amazing, flabby man-arms, it’s a foregone conclusion that a few rows with the oars and I’d be done. Snack, please.

Photo courtesy of Dan on flickr 


#3) Judo: Hubs is super quick to yell ‘uncle’, so nope.
 
#4) Gymnastics: Although these cankles are super sturdy, I cannot touch my toes without rupturing a disk and going into traction.
 
#5) Cycling: On that little seat? Ow.
 
#6) Water polo: You mean “organized drowning”?

image courtesy of vic_uu on Flickr

#7) Hammer throw: Nuh uh. Hubs would brain himself.
 
#8) Marathon: Hahahahahahahaha.  No.
 
#9) Golf: Only if there are moving windmills and bumpers for fun. Although I have heard the capybaras infesting the golf course are super cute.
 
#10) Steeplechase: Is that the one you can do on a horse? If so, then maybe

Image courtesy of Freccero Laurent on Flickr


On second thought, maybe not.... Yowch.

Please understand that my hubby hates shopping with a rabid, seething hatred the likes of which can only be imagined by mere mortals. And if you say anything about either shopping for or wearing a tie, his entire face will split down the middle, his head will rotate and the fires of hell will spew forth from his mouth.
 
So, it’s not a great idea, bringing up shopping, much less for normal, everyday clothing. But now we have a Family Trip coming up, with parents, aunts, and uncles, and it involves wearing more than camos and plaid shirts. (Yeah. He wears plaid and camo. Together. This is what I have to work with, folks. It’s not pretty.) 

(Note the camos + plaid as well as the expression of terror behind that manic smile.)
 



​
So when he wanted to go to the Big City a few hours away to look for fishing supplies at Cabela Mountain Pro Shops?
 
Aha! I had the bait (no pun intended). Now if I could only reel him in.
 
Here’s how it went down. And no, I’m not proud of what I had to do.
 
-- T-minus 1 week until shopping trip to Cablela Mountain Pro Shops. I’m dropping hints about how much fishing gear they have and how the quick-dry, sun-blocking, space-age fabric, ventilated gear will be just >fabulous< for his next day fishing on the local lake. I mention the Family Trip a few times, using subliminal messaging to get him primed for maybe selecting but a shirt or two that could double as vacation-appropriate as well as fishing-specific.
 
-- T-minus 1 day to go. I wait for dinnertime, then mention to hubby that while we are in the Big City, that I needed to get some items that were only available at the Big Mall. He’s watching Seinfeld and grunts in what I take for an agreement.
 
-- We drive to the Big City. Instead of going straight to the Big Mall, we go to an office supply story and get him an office chair. His chair is squeaky and his OCD cannot handle the noise, so he’s happy to get a new chair. He sits in a minimum of 50 chairs, narrows the selection down to 3, and spends the next 15 minutes going from seat to seat, maneuvering the chairs into positions that no office worker will ever require. He finally selects one. I praise him. He’s glowing.
 
-- We go to the Big Mall and park in front of the Discount Store “because it’s faster to get to the mall.” (He has no idea this is a false statement, as he never goes to the Big Mall.) I encourage him to go to the restroom. I know this will work because hubby has the bladder of a prepubescent Chihuahua. I also know that he’s saturated with Fancy Coffee that was obtained right before we hit Big City limits. His nephrons are working overtime to filter that soy-cappu-latte-chino-doubleshot whatever the hell people put in coffee these days.
 
-- We exit restroom and regroup. OH LOOK. We just happen to be in the men’s section of Discount Store. Ok, folks, this is where it gets dicey. I tell hubby we need to get him a new outfit “just in case” and also because his one other shirt/tie/slacks combo is at least 6 years old and I can no longer button the top button around his enlarging middle-aged neck. Panic flashes across his features. He’s scanning for the exit, but cannot find it, because we are IN THE BOWELS OF THE DISCOUNT STORE where no man has ever found his way out alive without his wife helping him. Do not screw with me, I know this Mall and this Discount Store and I know you will get lost, and I know that you will never, ever find the car in that big parking lot, because upon entry into the store, you became disoriented by the smiling salespeople, ubiquitous checkout counters, and racks of bright colored clothing.
 
-- I wander far enough away that hubby has to follow me or risk being lost forever in the Discount Store. In the Dockers aisle, give him two choices (neither of which is #%&$# khaki or god#$^&@ing damned camo print). He gets mad and digs in his heels. I remind him that his ticket out of this hell and into Cabela Mountain Pro Shops is to select an outfit that includes: 1 pair of slacks, 1 matching shirt, and 1 tie. That is all.
 
-- Thank you, baby Jesus, that we find a button down shirt which has an expandable neck button thingy. Whoever came up with this feature is a genius. Or a wife of a guy who hates wearing dress shirts. He cannot recall his shirt size and begins to hyperventilate. The sales lady, bless her heart, FREAKING EYEBALLS hubby from four feet away and spouts off his neck and arm measurements. We go to the dressing room. Holy fitted shirt, Batman! She is 100% spot-on with her measurements. That is a hell of an amazing skill to have right there. He gets the navy blue pants and a plaid shirt. I mention that as a “backup” he should have a solid shirt and a tie. His head turns bright red and the only words he can form are unprintable. I remind him of the promised land of Cabela Mountain Pro Shops. A look of utter focus and determination comes over him and he re-clothes himself and returns to the men’s department with renewed vigor. I use my powers of psychic manipulation to steer him toward the nice gray shirt. He selects the shirt I want, and I praise him for his fashion acumen.
 
-- He cannot find a tie and begins to panic again. No problem, I tell him, we can go to the other Discount Store here in the Big Mall. He freaks out. But then, I mention that we should first eat at the Mexican fast food place he loves more than anything. Boom. Putty in my hands. He’s carrying a bag of clothing he doesn’t want to go get the food he does want so he can go to another store he doesn’t want to enter. Genius.
 
-- Full tummies provide a second window of opportunity, and I remind him that the other Discount Store has the cosmetic items I need. (I rarely wear cosmetics, but he doesn’t know this.) He feels helpful, going to this store now, so that I can get something. I purchase an item I’ll never use, and we move quickly to the men’s department here, where I distract him by waving rayon/polyester/lightweight/quick-drying Hawaiian shirts (his weakness) at him and coaxing him through the “fun clothes” and further into the back of the men’s section....where the ties await.
 
-- Pure genius. Here are the rules of the next step: hubby can select 4 ties, I will pick the one that matches the best. It’s like watching a toddler do calculus and it takes at least 40 minutes, but by golly, he picks out 4 ties. And by some act of God, one of the ties works with navy + gray.  He ends up getting the Hawaiian shirt, too. Fine.
 
-- I leave to browse for 2 minutes. Hubby states he is going to find a shorter line than the one at the men’s checkout counter. I cannot find him. Upon rounding a corner, I see hubby, standing in line at the women’s lingerie counter, looking perplexed and uncomfortable. Flop sweat has broken out on his forehead, but he is almost to the cashier and I can tell he doesn’t want to give up his space in line, even if remaining there involves listening to women talk about underwear and Womanly Things. A kindly older woman with her hands full of plus sized underwires and queen pantyhose is tearing out a coupon from the flyer to give to him. She looks at me with a mixture of humor and sympathy and I nod. When he submits the coupon, he saves 15% and it’s like he has discovered plutonium. The remainder of the day is spent recounting how got the 15% discount.
 
-- Hubby is exhausted, but then I suggest a cookie at the Ubiquitous Mall Cookie Company stand. His demeanor changes, and he’s almost skipping as we go to purchase a cookie and then head for the car. Mind you, we still haven’t made it to Cabela Mountain Pro Shops yet.
 
-- By the time we pull into the parking lot of Cabela Mountain Pro Shops, hubby is a combination of excited, exhausted, full tummy, and sugar high. It’s not pretty. He can’t focus and is mumbling incoherently. We enter the store, and he’s struck dumb, enthralled by the rows upon rows of Fishing Things. An hour later, he re-emerges, the proud owner of two new fishing lures. Yes, folks, you heard right. 2 lures. That’s it. That’s all he ended up getting. Oh, yes, and an outfit suitable for formal occasions or funerals. Hopefully it will last another 6 years until I convince him to shop again.
 
Mission. Accomplished. God, I need a nap.

Just completed a cross-country move 1500 miles from one end of the Earth to a new rural practice/group at the other end of the Earth. At least I'm consistent -- I do enjoy rural medicine. And a new adventure is always fun.

But phew, I'm pooped. It's not my first rodeo with the whole moving thing, but every time there's a big life change, there must be lessons, right? Here goes....

#10) 2 drivers + 2 cars is much harder than 2 drivers + 1 car. Especially traveling through major metro areas together. Note to self: automatically add 20% drive time when it's 2 cars.

#9) One cannot sustain road rage for 1500 miles. Not without precipitating an aneurysm.

#8) Kitties + traveling = tranquilizer. And not for the animals.

#7) There really ARE millions of different combinations of Subway sandwiches!

#6) 2 Subway sandwiches/day x 4 days = unique GI consequences.

#5) Driving 10 hours/day does not feel the same now as it it did when I was 20 and invincible. Now I say things like "dadgum sciatica" and "I have to pee AGAIN?" and "my dyspepsia is firing up again" (see item 6). Yeah, fabulous.

#4) Some midwest cities which shall remain nameless (Omaha) should not be traversed between the hours of 7am and 7pm. 

#3) Folks from Iowa and Nebraska, a show of hands, please. Who there truly understands proper use of the right lane of traffic on the interstate? No hands? That's what I thought.

#2) Ok, so my house always has been the exact opposite of the show, "Hoarders". Even having said that, I still donated/threw away a boatload of clothes/household goods. So how, for the love of Pete, did we have that many boxes to unpack? It's like the boxes multiplied like bunnies on the truck from point A to point B. What >exactly< happened on that truck?

#1) I've lived a few places that are like teetering on the event horizon of a black hole. Seriously. End of the world, each location. But you know what? There are nice people everywhere, all over this country. A smile and a friendly chat brings them out of the woodwork. HOWEVER there is a dark side to the nice people......

Bonus) Within 1 hour of the new doctor arriving in the town at aforementioned end of the Earth, most folks in town will know which house she has moved into, what her husband does, and what personal items she has purchased at the store. No kidding, people I've never met knew all kinds of stuff about me. It's spooky. Good reminder to mind those P's and Q's...