Fight Normativity - Take Another Shower

The first thing I do when I roll out of bed, other than setting my feet upon the cold, wide plank boards of our bedroom floor, is to stumble down the two flights of stairs to the shower. 

I love taking showers. They're refreshing, relaxing (a different kind of relaxation than the slumber I just left), and a time to unwind and prepare for the day. Some mornings, I wake up too late and end up taking a shower at night, before bed. But not usually. That consistently gives me Einstein-like bed hair in the morning. Being that I don't ever look in a mirror and my sweet bride thinks I'm beautiful in every way imaginable, I usually don't discover this until later that evening.

But, say I took a shower in the morning. When I arrive home after work, I walk past the bathroom and my whole being yearns for that hot water rushing over my soulless self. My feet play tricks on me, trying to move me in the direction of the lavatory. But then, a click in the back of my brain jerks me back to my normative reality:

"You already took one this morning!!"

The problem with that thinking is that my body has already considered the possibility of the shower. Now that logic has stepped in, the physiological relaxation process that had already started then feels the need to reverse itself. This takes ample brain power. Always victorious, I walk the other direction and find myself oddly more exhausted than when I arrived home.

Now for the tossing of the normativity shackles...

Take another shower!!! I will. I'm going to. I need it every so often. You probably do as well. If it's a bath you're into, then do that instead. Heck, mix it up, take a shower in the morning and a bath in the evening. 

I tip my hat to my well-relaxed and healthy readers.

Love,

I. C.

Valentine's Day with My Bride

Tonight, we are putting the kids to bed. Then, we'll go to McDonald's. We might even go crazy and get Kid's Meals - just for the toy. Heck, ice cream cones too!

Then, we'll go home and enjoy a bottle or two or three or so (who counts after three!?), sitting in front of the fireplace. 

Then we'll fall asleep.

Kristine will wake up the next morning with a hangover and I will laugh at her. She will slap me. I will laugh harder. She will kiss the slap mark, which will be enormous, being that she works out every day, something I can't do because it hurts and I don't do things that hurt me.

The kids, after hearing the slap, will come into the room and see Mommy kissing my cheek and will walk away, confused as to why a simple peck sounded like a very hurtful slap.

Then, we'll go back to sleep. The kids will get their own breakfast.

The day will be perfect.

My Night With My Bride

Kristine went to school. I stayed home with the kids, as usual. She had made them supper and I arrived home late, pushing some project at work.

After class, she called me and said she had to go get a few groceries. I asked her to come home and we could go together after the kids went to bed. So she did.

We went to Wal-Mart and smelled candles. They were all gross, but she bought dozens anyway. Then they smelled good.  

Then she bought a few pairs of delicious thongs (ignoring my protests about money), a utilitarian bra (is there another worthwhile kind?), and a few groceries. After that, we happened upon the aisle of tea.

Tea is good, here in Minnesota, where it's cold and snowy for 11.5 months out of the year. That other half-month finds us 'Sotans cowering inside by the fire, listening to the drowning whine of mosquitoes, the unofficial state bird. Oddly enough, all babies in this state are born exactly nine months later. I'm not quite sure when that month is, because I lost track of our babies after we had two, on our way to six or whatever we ended up with.

Then, we went through the check out line. The few groceries became a $168 bill and we whistled our way to the car, the parking lot smelling like flowers and cupcakes, coming from the candles in the cart.

On the way home, I begged Kristine to go out with me to get a drink. I had walked past a twelve pack of Heineken and, even though I'm not a huge fan, got thirsty. We ended up at Carbone's in Farmington.

The parking lot had three cars in it. We were the third. 

"Lots of people here," Kristine said.

At that exact moment, the door of the bar swung open and a gentleman walked out.

"Even more popular now," I retorted.

We entered and found a table. About a half-dozen, swearing regulars, yelling about a jacket used to flick a bean (I have no clue what the context was) were sitting at the bar. They acknowledged us with their drunken looks. The bartender came over and offered us drinks, informing us the kitchen was closed.

We were hungry, but decided two beers on an empty stomach might do the deed. The manager of the establishment was walking around, vacuuming the floor. It was 11 at night.

We dove into conversation. Pleasantries were exchanged. Phones were fondled. Then more pleasantries. Mid-sentence, the manager walked up to us.

"You guys want a pizza?"

"The kitchen is closed, we thought."

He shrugged. Then he helped us order a pizza, personally made it, and brought it out to us. A few minutes later, he popped back over and slapped a slice of his new creation, Stroganoff Pizza, onto the table, then stood there, eagerly waiting for our verdict. My god, that was a good slice! His eyes twinkled and his vacuuming became just a bit more efficient after we gave him the thumbs up and mumbled exclamations with our mouths full.

Other employees came and introduced themselves with one even telling us her life story. She's 32 and just got out of a 9-year relationship. No need to worry. With her confidence, she'll be fine.

Then, we went home and fell asleep, wrapped up in each other's arms.

Did I mention that I really love my wife? Okay...now I did.