There is an awakening–of sorts–when first you meet your other.  A tingling wave of emotion as loneliness melts away against the warmth of his smile.  Just the hint of light breaks at first–a beacon of promise.

And then something–you can’t exactly be sure what–sets it off.  An undeniable spark that pops like the fourth of July.  The crackle grows louder in your ears with each passing second.  It’s exhilarating and frightening all at once because you can’t put it out of your mind oh but you know–you’ve been taught–fire isn’t something to be played with.

Like fires do it grows.  What began as but a flicker feeds on the underbrush of desire…the willingness to fall in spite of the risk.  And then–quite suddenly–you have on your hands a raging inferno, burning hotter than anything you’ve ever known.

Time passes and with it, those flames subside.  Still, the whole is quietly sustained.  Smoldering embers fueled by the refusal ever to let go.  To ever go back to the without.

Like the gentle rocking of a ship, or the tender sway of the breeze it carries you away to someplace you’ve never been before.  You wonder at the familiarity of it.  How something so new and undiscovered can feel so much like home.

From your perch in this place of comfort you find the freedom to try new things.  Go to foreign places.  Chart a course undiscovered.  Knowing all along you have a soft place to fall, should you.

You wake up to a lifetime of new days only slightly different than the ones that came before, but worlds apart.  You never know what might be around the bend, but you’re eager to find out.

And with each passing day–with each new tomorrow–you know, even better than you knew before, that, indeed, your heart is no longer your own.  It’s shared now, between the two.

The way it was meant to be.  All along.

Happy anniversary, love.  You’re so totally my other.

In case the title didn’t give it away, it’s Jeff again and I’m back for another fill-in assignment. This time, I wanted to let you all in on something I’m sure you never knew. Darcie is, hands down, the sweetest person I’ve ever met, albeit in her own unique way. She is kind, gentle, and walks closely with Christ. All of this being said, she also has the potential to corrupt. I spent 25 years of my life without ingesting a single drop of alcohol. These weren’t 25 years of being sheltered. 9 of them were spent in the Army amongst some of the hardest drinkers I’ve ever seen. Also, my parents drink, my friends drink, and I am not morally opposed to it – it just wasn’t for me.

I escaped got out of the Army in March of 2005. To this point in our year and a half of marriage, Darcie lamented the fact that she always had to drink alone. Apparently the advantage of a permanent designated driver didn’t outweigh the benefits of a drinking buddy. However, I still held fast in my teetotaler ways.

I’ll never forget driving home from work on my last day wearing the uniform. I walked in the door and for the first time in my 25 years of life, I decided that a nice cold drink sure sounded nice. While I can’t say for certain that it was completely caused by her insistence, I like to point to that as the source – after all, I’ve never been able to tell her no. It might have been the fact that I wanted to drink on my terms, or that after 9 years in uniform, I had enough stored-up reasons to spend the rest of my days in a drunken stupor.

I’ll never really know for sure, but – I do know that Darcie at least contributed to my transformation from a Designated Driver into an enjoyer of wine, beer, and spirits. So, that is how my wife corrupted me. But, for the record, I’m not complaining.  Just sayin’.

Yesterday was the first time in a long time that I didn’t make my writing goal.  I didn’t work out, either.

I hate those days.  They make me feel plain slothful.

I’m a creature of habit.  I wake up and get the kids off to school.  I write.  I make breakfast for Jayce and we read from Stuart Little while we rock in his chair.  I exercise.  I do dishes or pay bills or schedule appointments.  I pee the dog.  I write some more.  I brush teeth and dust and tie up loose ends.  I make lunch and do more dishes.  Jayce goes off for quiet time and allows me two {mostly} uninterrupted hours to write.

It’s the normal hum of my day.  It’s comfortable.  Easy.

But yesterday was off.  We had kindergarten round-up and an orthodontist appointment.  There was still the quiet time–mid afternoon–cut out for writing but the writing didn’t come.

And so what did my husband do?  He had dinner ready when I walked in the door from the orthodontist’s office.  After dinner he sent me off to chug towards my missed goal.  Then, last night before we snuggled into our respective punctuation marks in bed (I’m a question mark, he’s a comma) he says:

“So, about tomorrow morning…”

I already made lunches.  I’m going to get Cassie on the bus so that you can just get straight to writing.  I want you to make up your missed words.

Quite possibly–quite assuredly–my husband is one amazing man.

Waking up to him eases the blah of slothful days.  The promise of a lifetime of wake-ups soothes the sting of kindergarten round up.  Because three books from now–an empty nest from now, we’ll still be.

And what could be better than that?

My husband and I don’t exchange gifts.  Ever.

Not for Christmas.  Or lovey-dovey Valentines.  Or anniversaries.  Not even birthdays.  Not.  Ever.

I’m not one of those wives that expects–or even wants–flowers.  Flowers die.

Nor do I want jewelry; it’s burdensome to wear.

If I want chocolates I’ll stop by See’s and pick out my own.  All milk.  No dark.

Ask either of us and we’ll tell you why we’ve opted out of the obligatory exchanging of gifts: it’s pointless.  It might be different if each of us worked and had separate incomes and separate checking accounts.  But we don’t.  We have one pot to which all of our funds are deposited and from which all of our funds are dispersed.  So dipping into it to buy each other, well, anything, just seems counter-intuitive.

We’re more the save-until-we-can-afford-the-best kind of peeps.  Rather than whittle away our hard-earned dollars on frivolous trips to the local (shoddy at best) county fair, we save for knock-your-socks-off trips to Walt Disney World.  We don’t stop for Starbucks or hit local drive thrus; when we go out to eat it’s very much a conscience decision that involves either heavily discounted happy hours or a bogo coupon from the entertainment book.  In short, we go big or we go home.

Today is Jeff’s birthday.

I didn’t buy him anything.  Not one single thing.

I did, however, plan a treat for the two of us: rock climbing.  At a gym, not on a cliff. (We don’t go that big).

I also made him whole wheat cinnamon rolls and the most delicious egg casserole ever.

Dinner and dessert is his choice, too: turkey enchiladas and homemade apple crisp.  Oh.  And maybe a Modela Especial.  Or two.

This post will suffice as a card. So here goes:

Baby, I know you know this, but since it’s your birthday and all I’m willing to put it in print.

Without you in it, my world would be grayscale.  The sound of your voice smooths the jagged edges of my broken days.  There isn’t a soul I’d rather sit through 4th grade musical performances with.  Or with whom I’d rather traverse the airports of America with our umpteen suitcases and gaggle of children in tow.  You are the cinnamon to my sugar, the front porch to my sittin’.  The course of my life was irrevocably altered on the day you were born–like a magnet.  To fight it is futile, this much I know.  Believe me; I’ve tried.

I love you.  When you’re funny and stubborn and piddly.  When you sleep at me.  When you’re smack dab in the middle of over-explaining?  I love you then.  Even when you’re all meaned up in the middle of Disney shirt or magnet making.  I love you then.  When we’re running from grocery store to grocery store in search of organic this and whole wheat that?  I love you.  I love you for arranging everything just so in the ice chest while I climb into the air conditioned (or heated as the case may be) car.  I love you for working overtime when you can, and lamenting it when you can’t.  I love you for making my chop chop salads just the way I like them.  And for fixing the blog/computer/TV/car/stupid leaky water softener.

I love you for being my man.  For always always always being my man.

You light me up.  Fill me in.  Stretch me out.  Make me whole.

Happy birthday baby.  You’re it for me.

Last night, Jeff dreamed that we were having an “anniversary reunion party”.  As the distinguished guests of honor, we were led to a woodland path and directed to stroll the winding trail.  He explains it as being similar to a nature walk–only instead of admiring natural fauna and wildlife along the way, we were treated to meet’n'greets with Disney characters.  And, um, really?  Is there a better way to celebrate an anniversary?  I think not.

This, my friends, is the man of my dreams.

His dream, no doubt, was influenced by the fact that we are spending yet another anniversary in a Disney destination.  But still, any man who dreams of Disney-themed anniversaries?  A man worth his weight in gold, if you ask me.

We picked up our “Happy Anniversary” buttons from Guest Services yesterday.  We’ll wear them proudly today.

We’ll experience Haunted Mansion Holiday–the Jack Skellington’ized version of Disney’s classic attraction.  We’ll undoubtedly have countless well wishes from Cast Members, thanks to those buttons we grabbed yesterday.  We’ll eat barbecue with Woody.  We’ll close out the evening by viewing the new “World of Color” show at Disney’s California Adventure.

Could this day be any more perfect?

Nah.  This is the stuff memories are made of.

Happy six year stretch, love.  The best is yet to be.

He’s baaaa-aack.

Not that you ever knew he was gone.  Seems I have an aversion to announcing to the wide internets that my husband is out of town on business.  You know, inviting the crazies and all.

He’s back now.  After four long days away, in Dublin, Georgia.  Which has nothing on Dublin, Ireland, I’d venture to guess.

We welcomed him back to the madness with a spaghetti dinner–the mess from which likely rivals that from a full-fledged food fight.

I missed him.

No. Not just because there were eight-legged creepie crawlies to extinguish and smelly trash receptacles to lug to the curb.

I miss him when he’s gone.  I don’t sleep right–awaking to every little bump in the night.

We’re one of those couples that go to bed together (I mean literally people, don’t let your minds wander) every single night.  We brush our teeth side by side before methodically stripping the decorative pillows from the bed and pulling back the comforter.  Every night, we crawl under the sheets simultaneously, both of us exhaling the second our heads hit our respective pillows.

And then we talk.  Sometimes for just a moment or two, and sometimes long into the night.  Either way, it’s a ritual I’ve come to require, in order to drift slowly to dreamland.  We’ve taken a stab at the ritual via phone, but it just isn’t the same.

Tonight, though?  I’ve got the real thing.  And after three virtually sleepless nights, something tells me I’ll sleep like a baby.

I’m curious, though.  Am I a wimp and a wuss all rolled into one?  Do you lose sleep when/if your spouse has to pick up and go for a day or two?  I’ve heard tell that some wives actually enjoy the time alone.  Is it thoroughly disgusting that we lie in bed talking every night?  Or is that a pretty standard thing for married folk?  On which side do you fall?

Yeah, so I totally performed my wifely duties tonight.

Um, no.  Not those wifely duties.  Ahem.

I mean the wifely duties where I run around in the 107 degree heat all day, picking up ingredients for the perfect dinner.  And then I come home and clean house and make a totally organic, from-scratch dinner and dessert.  All because one of Jeff’s good friends from high school was passing through Arizona and was able to stop by for dinner.

So, yeah.  I totally knocked it out.

And, between you and me, I didn’t mind.  Not one bit.

Because this was the first of Jeff’s BD (before Darcie) friends I’ve ever met.

It was nice.  Like, nice, in a really, truly nice way.  Delightful.  Refreshing.  Lovely.  Really and truly.

Because, also between you and me, I’ve not had the greatest reception from my husband’s peeps.  {And, for the record…no, they don’t know what they’re missing}.  MovingRightAlongThough.

So I may have been just a touch gun-shy going in.

It was unnecessary though.  Both he and his wife were as friendly and gracious as could be.

I wish I could explain to you–within the parameters of this page–what a breath of fresh air it was, to be treated so warmly.  To feel so thick in the conversation.  To feel so purposefully included, as opposed to so purposefully excluded.  To feel so…welcome.  {Also for the record, yes, it is possible to feel unwelcome in your own home}.

We loosened up over margaritas.  And then stuffed ourselves with turkey burgers and home-fries.  And by the time I dished out the lemon bars I realized we’d been lingering at the table–deep in laughter and conversation–for a couple of hours.

The icing on the cake though?

When they left?  Jeff’s friend scooped me up in a side hug and told me Jeff’s a lucky man.

Indeed.

But then again, me too.  No need to tell my husband that part though.  Better to leave him thinking he owes me one. ;)

Forgive me if this is TMI, but I just have to share.

Jeff and I had a little post-midnight rendezvous last night.

TMI?  Probably not.  Once I tell you precisely what kind of rendezvous it was.

The clock showed 1:15 when I awoke to the sound of what could easily have been mistaken for a yelling child, coming through loud and clear on the baby monitor.  Jeff heard it too.

It only took me a minute or two to get my bearings and identify the noise.

The same, however, could not be said for my thoroughly confused husband, who turned the volume of the monitor way up, all whilst trying to concentrate through the fog of interrupted REM.

He must have lived a privileged childhood or something because he had never heard the sound before.

I, on the other hand, must not have.  Because I easily deciphered the howling.

Or meowing, if you will.

Assuming that one could refer to the obnoxious noise of a cat in heat as meowing.

It’s debatable.

Once I told Jeff what it was he asked (in his cranky sleepy voice): how many are there?

How many whats?

Cats.  In heat.

Oh.  Just one.

There’s gotta be more than one.

Why?

Because clearly the one making that noise is getting hers. {You’ll have to forgive me for not expounding on this.  Three generations of my family read this blog so I’m leaving it at that.}

Ahem. That is not the noise she is making.

Well why is she doing that then? {Because clearly I’m the feline reproduction expert}.

To attract a mate.  Duh.

Well no wonder.

No wonder what?

No wonder she’s been at it for so long.

Why’s that?

Because she’s sending them running the other way.

We spent the next thirty or so minutes trying to figure out a way to drown out the noise.  My selfless husband considered using the noise canceling headphones he hijacked from me long ago.  The flaw with his solution was that it sort of left me hanging.  And he should have known that if mama ain’t sleepin, he ain’t either.

So we settled on the “rhythmatic” ocean waves CD we purchased long ago.

But it didn’t take us long to remember why it goes unused.

It’s less rhythmatic and more jarring.  Not so conducive to white noise if you ask me.

I was trying to make do though, and drift back to an elusive slumber.

But apparently the waves were disturbing my comedic husband, who decided to toss in random seagull impersonations.

Needless to say, there was not a lot of sleep to be had in our bedroom last night.

There was a lot of wishing for BB guns though.

Followed by a rant about why our neighbors should spay and neuter their cats.

And since I couldn’t beat him by doing my best to stay silent so as to summon sleep, I decided to join him.  I reminded him how just a couple of weeks before I’d told him how a stupid cat in heat had kept me up half the night.  His response then had been that he’d never heard a cat in heat.

At least now you can say you’ve heard what a cat in heat sounds like.

I’d rather be able to say I know what a dead cat sounds like.

Me too.

With any luck, the coyotes will be hungry tonight…

Earlier this week I was trying to be the 9th caller in a radio contest, the prize of which was a fly-away to NYC to see John Mayer in a private concert.

I was intoxicated with the idea of a private John Mayer concert in NYC.  In no small part because I tend to turn to putty in the hands of John Mayer’s voice.  Not that his voice has hands.  But if it did, I might be inclined to let them get to at least second base.

So anyway.  I didn’t win.  And as I was pouting over the not winningness, my hero of a husband said something that prompted me to drop the tortilla I was busy frying and turn to him with the big doe eyes that I can’t help but put on when his sweet factor increases tenfold.

You want to know what he said?

He half mumbled, “probably saved our marriage.”

You know.  Because had I won the private concert, John Mayer would have been powerless against my beauty.  So much so that–once his eyes met mine–he’d have been unable to complete his set.  He’d have let his guitar fall to the ground and he’d have pulled me up on stage into a passionate embrace.  He’d have instantly dropped his latest A list movie star girlfriend and begged me to leave my husband and family and hit the open road with him.

Because, you know, I’m all that.  And a bag a’ chips.

Or.  Not.

The point, though, is that my husband thinks I am.  And he lets me know it.  Every single day.

The feeling is mutual by the way; I often wonder how I lucked into him.

A man who preemptively brings me a blanket because he knows I’ll need it.

A man who cuts the raw chicken every night because he knows it makes me squeamish.

A man who invents board games for our family weekend in the mountains.

A man who worked to acquire a taste for wine so that we could enjoy wine tasting events.  Together.

A man who fiercely defends his family when we need defending.

A man who works just as hard at home as he does on the job.

A man who brings me laughter, peace, security, friendship, and confidence.

A man who both grounds and frees me.  All at the same time.

So thankful, I am, for this man.

So in awe of him I remain.  So inspired by.  So in love with.

Happy birthday man of mine.

And PS. {Ain’t nobody turning this head of mine.  John Mayer included.}

Five years ago today I awoke to the sound of rain dancing on the rooftop.

I got in the car with my mom and we went to Trader Joe’s in search of the perfect Calla Lillies.

I had Mexican for lunch.  Including a giant blue margarita.

I naively handed over tiny silk flowers and a photo I’d printed off the internet to a hairdresser that I’d met the first time that very afternoon.

Five years ago today I was the bride in a sunset ceremony.

I held hands with my daughters, as they walked me down the aisle.

I melted when my husband-to-be was moved to tears as he attempted to recite the vows he’d written.

I gave my heart to my best friend.

Five years ago today I made the best decision I’ve made in a long, long time.

And today, five years later, I am so very thankful I did.

Happy Anniversary Naka.

Lovewa.

Best Friend.

All the time in the World.  Still.