Oh God, Why Me?

A few weeks ago, I saw Kevin Nealon’s stand-up comedy show, during which he shared his reaction to last year’s devastating wildfires in Southern California that destroyed dozens of homes.  He recalled how, when walking out of his multi-million dollar beach home, he discovered a thin layer of ash coating his brand new BMW and sank to his knees in despair, tears streaming down his face, clenched fists raised to the sky, screaming “Why me?”

Never has a joke so perfectly epitomized the way I live my life.  If I’m not taking things for granted or blowing problems out of proportion, I just don’t feel like myself.  I thrive on negativity.  Mine is a life defined by imaginary hardship.  But every once in a while, something legitimately bad will happen, and with it comes a moment of clarity: hey, my life is actually pretty great – or at least it was until about five minutes ago.

I had one of these trauma-induced epiphanies last month.  I haven't mentioned it until now because I was waiting until my husband and I had both sufficiently recovered from the ordeal.  It all started with a bottle of pink champagne.  That might not sound like the makings of a terrible tragedy, but champagne bottles are in fact extremely hazardous.  Exploding champagne corks can fly at a speed of 50 miles per hour and are one of the leading causes of traumatic eye injuries.  If the cork is defective, it might explode before you’ve even removed the wire cage, as my husband learned the hard way.

When it comes to remaining calm in a crisis, it turns out that my husband is much better than I am, but I think that’s because he didn’t have to look at his own eye.  Every time I glanced over at him and saw a giant pool of blood where his pupil and iris should’ve been, I had to stop what I was doing and breathe into a brown paper bag, while he just rolled his eye at me.

As I was driving him to the Emergency Room, I couldn’t help but think, “Why wasn’t I happier ten minutes ago?  Life was freakin' awesome ten minutes ago!  I should’ve been overjoyed!  I should’ve been celebrating!” ... Oh, wait, that’s exactly what we were doing.

Upon arriving at the hospital, a normal person would probably feel relieved, but I am not a normal person as far as hospitals are concerned, having once been a victim of medical malpractice.  When I was fifteen, I broke my leg playing softball, and a simpleminded ER doctor slapped a cast on me without ever bothering to examine my ankle, which had been shattered and was subsequently left untreated for months.  Now, when I hear the words “Emergency Room,” I don’t think of a safe haven where miracles are performed and lives are saved; I think of a chaotic, nightmarish place where exhausted, overworked, poorly trained non-specialists “practice” medicine on unsuspecting patients.

Thanks to my traumatic past, I am now the worst kind of patient.  When dealing with doctors, I have to perform rigorous background checks, I repeatedly question their intelligence, I demand second opinions, and I always have a list of 50-100 questions that need answering.  The doctor who was attempting to treat my husband’s eye looked to be about ten years old, and I questioned everything from his faulty instruments to his choice of painkillers.  (I was right about the painkillers.)

I’ll spare you the grotesque details of his treatment, but I can assure you that eye injuries are the absolute worst.  Imagine having to sleep sitting up for weeks, waking up every hour to take eye-drops, and having to keep your head completely still – which means no walking around, no bending over, no sneezing, and some nice person has to wait on you hand and foot and act as your chauffeur.  It also means that you’ll have to wear an eyepatch so that you don’t frighten young children.

Luckily, we already owned an eyepatch.  A genuine pirate’s eyepatch!  Embellished with the traditional skull and crossbones.  I thought it made him look very handsome.  And, he was suddenly able to command the attention of any room.  No one forgets the guy with the weird eyepatch!  When we would go to our local coffee shop, the barista would take one look at us and say, “Iced soy latte and an orange juice, right?”

There were a few other good things that came out of the experience.  On April Fool’s Day, we got to tell our friends and family that my husband had been severely injured by a bottle of girly champagne the night before.  That was fun!  And, of course, I now have a new phobia to obsess over.  I was at a bridal shower a few weeks after the incident, and when the host started popping champagne bottles, I reacted the way one might if a deranged lunatic had started waving a gun around.  I’m strongly considering wearing protective eye goggles 24/7 for the rest of my life.  With the right hair and make-up, I think I can pull it off.

Anyway, now that my husband is mostly recovered, I’m back to taking things for granted and getting upset over frivolous things.  And, God, does it ever feel good.

Love & Adventure in the Caribbean

I’m currently on vacation in Turks and Caicos.  I desperately needed to come to this remote Caribbean island in order to escape the stress of being at home all day, every day with nothing to do.

Interesting fact: This particular island served as the lair for two notorious female pirates during the 1700s.   I was hoping that the resort would offer some kind of pirate class where I could drink rum and wear an eye patch and learn valuable skills like fencing and picking locks and winning bar fights.  But sadly, the activities seem to revolve entirely around health and wellness.  Think raw food, yoga, meditation, and holistic spa services.  For a not-so-small fee, I can have someone pour a steady stream of hot oil over my forehead.  Sounds like a barrel of fun!

So far, our most adventurous activity has been trapping cockroaches in our hotel room.  I naively assumed that such a fancy resort would be able to afford an exterminator, so it came as quite a shock to find myself standing on top of the bathtub in bare feet in the middle of the night, yelling for my husband to wake up and come save me from giant marauding insects.  He did eventually come to my rescue, armed with running shoes and an overturned trash can – ideal for trapping oversized bugs.  If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.  I really couldn’t have asked for a more romantic way to celebrate our third wedding anniversary.

The trash can approach worked pretty well until we ran out of trash cans.  At that point, we decided to complain and demand a new room.  The manager apologized and gave us a nice upgrade, so we’re trying not to hold a grudge.  We even left a note behind on each of the overturned trash cans that read “Attention: Giant Cockroach Trapped Underneath” so as not to startle the housekeeper.

Tomorrow we head back home, and I have to say I’ll be happy to get back.  Nothing makes me appreciate being stuck at home all day more than being somewhere else.

Happy Valentine's Day / Flu Season!

It’s been a rough week.  My husband and I have both been battling some sort of mutant cold virus.  We’ve been whining back and forth for seven straight days – I’m exhausted.  To make matters worse, my fancy new laptop suffered a meltdown after only two months of use (I must’ve been writing something furious!) and is in the shop for repairs.  So, I hope you’re not expecting too much from this blog post.  You’re bound to be disappointed.

As it happens, my husband makes a similar disclaimer before every Valentine’s Day.  He hates the idea of having to show his love on a particular day by standing in line for overpriced flowers and dining at crowded restaurants.  He’d much rather get me a gift when he doesn’t have to.  Once he bought me an iPod for no reason and left it on top of the vacuum cleaner where I would be sure to find it, so I know he's capable of being romantic.  But when it comes to Valentine’s Day, I’ve learned not to get my hopes up.

The first year we were dating, he bought me a Valentine’s Day card but never actually gave it to me.  I found it six months later when I was helping him move.  The year after that, he bought me a single, half-dead rose from a homeless guy outside of Grand Central, thus avoiding the long line at the florist.  I must’ve given him a hard time about it, because the following year he went out and bought me a dozen red roses – on February 13th of course.  I took a picture so that on future Valentine’s Days, I could just look at the photo.

After we got married, we started a tradition of not being together on Valentine’s Day.  Two years ago, he went on a ski trip with co-workers.  Last year, I went on a girls’ trip to Nashville.  This year, he’s playing in a hockey game, although I do get to see him during the day.  This morning I told him “Happy Valentine’s Day” between sneezes, and in return, he handed me the Kleenex box.  While he’s playing hockey tonight, I’ll be at home alone watching The Bachelor.  And, actually, after the week I’ve had, I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.

Executive Household Manager

The other day, I went to the doctor and had to fill out a bunch of forms, one of which asked for my current occupation.  Hmm, tough question.  After some deep contemplation, I decided on “freelance writer / executive household manager.”  I purposely avoided using the term “housewife” – it makes me think of a 1950s subservient woman whose sole purpose is to fetch her husband's slippers and wait on him hand and foot, and that is definitely not part of my job description.

I consider marriage to be more of a partnership, and since my husband has a more demanding work schedule, it’s only fair that I take on more of the responsibilities outside of work: cooking, cleaning, shopping, running errands, making travel reservations, managing our social calendar, etc.  But I want him to remember that I’m performing these tasks because I want to contribute, not because they’re expected of me.  If I feel that he's grown too accustomed to home-cooked meals, I make it a point to disappoint him; the next time he’s hungry, I’ll hand him something freezer-burned and completely unrecognizable and say, “Here, heat it up yourself.”  Then if I choose to cook dinner the following night, he appreciates it more.

One might think that these non-work related tasks are trivial and not stressful, but you’d be mistaken.  It can be downright challenging to plan a vacation when you’re both cheap and have a taste for luxury.  And considering that my husband and I are both reclusive misanthropes, creating a social life for the two of us requires some serious effort.  Finding couple friends, arranging events, convincing my husband to show up… it’s no easy task.

Grocery shopping might sound easy, but it can be incredibly frustrating and time-consuming, especially when you take into account my husband’s phobia of running out of things.  As soon as the mustard bottle gets to be one-third empty, he gets all panicky and starts to cut down on the amount of mustard he uses, rationing it out as though he’s trapped on a deserted island and the mustard is the only thing keeping him alive.  He’ll look at me with fear in his eyes and say, “But what if I want a hot dog and there isn’t enough mustard?  You have to go get more mustard!”  In order to avoid such a scene, I have to constantly monitor the status of all of our food items, which come from three different grocery stores.

It's a struggle, yes.  But by efficiently running our household, I alleviate my husband’s stress, thereby allowing him to be a work superstar.  I seriously doubt that he would be as successful as he is without a lifetime supply of his favorite super-soft socks – made from 100% viscose – that shed black lint all over the carpet.

For the most part, I don’t mind being in charge of our non-working life.  Like most women, I’m a natural multi-tasker, I’m organized, and I like things done a certain way.  My husband, on the other hand, has a strong aversion to planning and the minutiae of daily tasks.  He handles the stress of his job remarkably well, but if you ask him to organize a Saturday night out, he’ll completely fall apart.

When we got engaged, he was more afraid of the wedding planning than of the actual wedding, but I was completely in my element.  Obviously I put myself in charge, although I did make the occasional attempt to delegate.  In the beginning, I emailed him an incredibly detailed to-do list, full of links and suggestions and timelines, and he replied with the following email:

Subject: COULD NOT DELIVER: RE: Wedding To-do list

Your message could not be delivered. The recipient's mail server was unavailable or busy, or perhaps he doesn't like responsibility.

I don’t mean to say that he never helps me with anything.  He totally does.  Sometimes it requires a little arm-twisting, but other times he does it on his own accord.  Like the other day when I was planning a trip for our third wedding anniversary, he actually volunteered to book the flights.  When he was done, he forwarded me the flight confirmation and pointed out what great times and seats he managed to get.  I was totally impressed… until I realized that he had booked the wrong destination.  “Um, honey, we’re going to Turks & Caicos, not Grand Cayman.”  Now, see, I would never make that mistake, but I guess that’s why I’m the executive household manager.

Busted!

My husband and I have both been working from home for a couple of years now.  It’s easy to get distracted when you’re at home all day – especially when you have a partner in crime – but I like to think that I have some self-discipline.  Sure, I take frequent breaks, but they’re all short in duration.  Work still comprises the bulk of my day.  At least that’s what I tell myself.

Yesterday, some very official-looking regulators showed up at our apartment unannounced to chat with my husband about his business.  When they knocked on the door, my husband and I had just woken up and were still lounging around in our pajamas.  We had just invented a really fun game where we hit balloons with hockey sticks, so the living room floor was covered in birthday balloons.

The regulators noticed how flustered we were, so they apologized and pointed out that in my husband’s paperwork, he had listed his office hours as 9am to 5pm, Monday through Friday.  My first thought was, “Wait, is it seriously Monday already?”

My next thought was, “Oh my God, I’m the laziest person ever.”  It was official business hours, and there I was loafing around in my pajamas, playing with balloons, with my computer turned off.  I had been caught red-handed.  Even though they had come to talk to my husband and not me, I felt like saying, “Okay, regulators, you got me. The jig is up.”

Thankfully, my husband is a true professional and immediately switched into business mode.  While he addressed their questions, I hid behind my laptop and tried to look busy and focused, but all I could think about was how lazy I was.

At some point, my husband mentioned that I was a writer, and one of the regulators pointed to our artwork and asked if I was a children’s author and whether I had done those children’s book illustrations myself.  I heard my husband explain, “No, that’s just our taste in art.”  After an awkward silence, he added, “She writes humorous essays.”   I was about to appear in the doorway waving a copy of the small-time regional magazine that I had been published in when the guy asked, “Oh, like for The New Yorker?”

Long. Deep. Sigh.  "No, I have not been published in The New Yorker.  As I'm sure you've deduced by now, my writing career is a sham.  But, hey, look what I can do with this hockey stick and a balloon!"

I have since vowed to start working at coffee shops or the library or even the building lobby – anywhere where blowing up balloons is frowned upon.

Seven Years Ago Today

Earlier this afternoon, while I was staring at the calendar and counting the days until I can start watching television again, it occurred to me that exactly seven years ago today I put on my working girl shoes and started my first full-time, permanent job.  (Well, “permanent” in the sense that it wasn’t a summer internship.)

The job was in New York, working for a boutique financial consulting company.  There were only twenty employees, mostly young, single, mathematically inclined individuals like myself.  I was scheduled to start in January, when the company had its annual retreat.  So that’s how I began my career: on a party bus, with a bunch of geeks, headed to Vermont.

That was also the day I met my husband.  He was originally supposed to interview me, but thanks to a lucky turn of events, he was out of the office that day.  Given his obsession with spreadsheets and my complete lack of Excel knowledge, I’m sure he would’ve been dead set against hiring me.

But as it happened, the first time I saw my husband, he was sitting in the front of the party bus, typing away on his little laptop, while the rest of us were playing drinking games.  I remember thinking that he looked very smart.

An hour into the trip, we stopped at Hooters.  I took the opportunity to check in with my parents, who couldn’t wait to hear how my first day on the job was going.  “Yes, Dad, everyone is very pleasant and professional.  We just stopped for, um, coffee.”

Once we were back on the road, one of the guys coerced my future husband to join our game of Quarters. (If you’ve never played Quarters before, it’s pretty simple: you try to bounce a quarter off the table into a cup, and if you succeed, you point your elbow at someone, and that person has to take a sip of beer.)  I don't remember our first interaction, but I’m really good at Quarters, so I like to imagine that it involved me sticking my elbow in his face and ordering him to drink.

When the bus finally arrived in Vermont, my co-workers and I waded through a sea of empty beer cans and stumbled into the hotel parking lot, where the two senior partners were waiting to greet us.  First on the agenda: company pictures.  The photographer was already there, so I had exactly ten minutes to change into my business suit and practice looking sober in front of the bathroom mirror.  Here is a blurry, low-resolution copy of my individual photo:

It’s actually not a terrible photo.  When the pictures went up on the website, we all sat around the office trying to discern who was the drunkest, and I don’t think my name was mentioned once.

After our drunken photo shoot, we went to a party hosted by one of the partners.  My future husband was the only person who didn’t attend.  He claims that he missed us as we were leaving and didn’t have anyone’s phone number, but he’s never been one for parties, so I doubt he was very torn up about it. Meanwhile, I was having a wonderful time shotgunning beers with my boss and betting him that he couldn’t scale the two-story brick fireplace.  (FYI, I was right.)

Hands down, the best first day on the job ever.  Three years later, that wonderfully dysfunctional company was bought out and disbanded.  And a year after that, I married the guy with the laptop.  How fitting that at this very moment, he’s sitting across from me, typing away on his computer and looking very smart, while I try to think of something more fun to do.

Battle of the Sexes

My husband and I are both competitive, so naturally we keep track of who is better at what.  For example, I’m better at scuba diving, beer pong, and removing hot toast from the toaster oven.  And he’s better at ice skating, poker, and spinning a pen.  We’ve even gone so far as to compare IQ scores – I lost by a few measly points.  After another thirty years or so, I suppose we’ll tally up the results and declare an overall winner.  Until then, it’s anyone’s game.

Recently, I admitted defeat in the breadwinner category.  With his marginally higher IQ, he was always the favorite to win it.  At least I can say I earned the higher salary for a few glorious months.  It was a year after we started dating, and I received a promotion and a sizeable raise.  At first, he was thrilled for me, until he heard the amount and ran the numbers in his head.  He was careful not to ruin my moment; he immediately took me out for a celebratory dinner, during which he alternated between praising my success and pouting in silence.  In return, I was careful not to rub it in; I only brought it up once, maybe twice a day for the first month or two.

But alas, my breadwinner status was short-lived.  His wages soon surpassed mine, and the gap has been growing ever since.  Not to worry – the Bureau of Labor Statistics insists it’s perfectly normal.  Apparently, only 25.9% of wives earn more than their husbands when both are employed.

Perhaps this is because more women are drawn to artistic pursuits than to, say, math or computer science.  I used to be the counterexample, but I eventually cast aside my math books in favor of creative expression.  This brings up another point.  Perhaps women are more prone to changing their minds, and as a result, spend more time backtracking and less time climbing the corporate ladder.

Anyway, whenever I feel bad about earning less than my husband, I remind myself (and him) that the situation could still change.  And if it does, I will be more than happy to share my success with him.  If I win the Oscar for best original screenplay, I’ll let him hold my purse while I’m on the red carpet!  And if my blog eventually takes off, he can quit his job and be my assistant!  Well, in any case, I’ll always be the better scuba diver.

Win Your Dream Job

In my search for a new career, I stumbled across this Ultimate Job contest seeking “a romantic couple” to travel the world for a year and test out honeymoon destinations. Last year, 30,000 people applied for the job, and the winners (Denise & Mark) were chosen based in part on their superior blogging skills. See, who says blogging is a waste of time? The couple also appears to meet the “romantic” requirement, as they are in hot pursuit of the Guinness World Record for most vow renewals (currently 83). Think you can top that? The contest is already taking applications for 2011.

Of course, I’m not convinced that spending 24/7 with one’s spouse is the ultimate dream job. As someone who has worked with her husband twice and continues to share a tiny home office with said husband, I can tell you it’s not for everyone. Not to mention, traveling can be stressful. My husband and I fight more on vacation than we do at home. One of our most trying relationship moments occurred after missing a flight and getting stranded in Mexico City. On the plus side, I finally got to use all those Spanish swear words I memorized in college.

Despite my concerns, I showed my husband this contest and suggested we make a video application just for fun. (This is the sort of thing that happens when you work from home.) He questioned the point of this, since he already has his dream job. Bastardo.