Tag: Love

17Mar

Mortification Monday, Ch. 3

Mortification Monday, v. 1.0 (Disclaimers here)
Chapter 3: Man of my Nightmares

When we last left Bethany and Igor, he had just taken their physical relationship up a notch–in public–leaving her embarrassed, “surprized,” and generously resolving to still like Igor, him being the love of her life past two months and all. But will their passion stand the test of time? Especially now that, merely two journal entries into their relationship, Bethany finds herself considering marriage with another man?

Wednesday, February 19th (Age 12)
“Last night I had a very vivid dream about 23 (or so) year-old Darrell Pritchard wanting me to marry him. There had just been a confrence about dreams having significant meanings, and I’m scared.1 It didn’t help, either, that at the confrence tonight, Darrell sat right in front of me. I don’t know why, but it almost makes me sick to look at him.2 Some people just look like that to me.3 I really hope I don’t have to marry him, but that dream was very vivid and realistic.4 I pray that it won’t come to pass.5

1 Our church religiously followed the 14th Commandment of Southern Baptists (right behind [12] “Thou shalt respect the potluck and keep it overabounding, lo, in bakedeth beans,” and [13] “Thou shalt maketh no less than five altar calls during any one church function, including potlucks”): “Thou shalt conduct frequent conferences in which the congregation will [a] be slain in the Spirit, [b] doubt their salvation and thus rededicate their lives to Christ, or [c] learn about hidden spiritual meanings.” It was at one of these conferences that I learned red-heads have divine powers (::flexes muscle of divinity, no other muscles being available at the moment::). At another conference, I learned that being “slain in the Spirit” generally involves being knocked over the head by an evangelist with very divine muscles. At yet another conference, I learned that demons were living under my bed. (That particular conference turned into a year-long children’s Sunday School curriculum, during which I slept not, nor did I slumber.) And at the “confrence” described in the above entry, I learned that dreams are no different than real life. Think Freud with an oversized Bible, a paisley tie, and the lingering aroma of baked beans.

2 I did know, actually, but was too scandalized to put it in writing. Darrell had one of those blank journals churchgoers use to write down sermon notes or play MASH with their friends, and the cover of his featured Leonardo da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man.” Which has genitalia. GENITALIA! ::12-year-old self goes to throw up repeatedly::

3 People with genitalia, that is.

4 Oh crappeth.

5 It didn’t. In fact, I played in the orchestra for his wedding, babysat his children, and even worked under for him one summer during college. However, I never quite recovered from the shock of dreaming I would have to marry a man with genitalia.

(You really should see how hard I’m laughing right now.)

Next time on Mortification Monday: Wedding plans focus back on Igor, with underlining galore!

10Mar

Mortification Monday, Ch. 2

Mortification Monday, v. 1.0
Chapter 2: Getting Physical

When we last left our heroine, she had finally admitted for the first time in twelve years the depth of her feelings for Igor Dreamboat (his personality, his company, and his theoretical willingness to marry her being paramount). However, two entire months of daily journaling pass without another mention of her soul-mate. Have Bethany’s feelings abated? Has Igor dropped off the face of the earth? Have enthralling family events like the purchase of “Star Wars” on VHS and desserts containing sugar driven everlasting love temporarily from Bethany’s mind?1

1 Yes.

Not to worry. Igor quickly recaptures her attention with a bold move:

Tuesday, February 4th (Age 12)
“Today, in classes, Igor did something which totally surprized me (and embarrassed me a little). We were rehearsing our play for “[play title removed due to identifiable nature]”2 and I was standing 4line next to Igor. Mrs. Dreamboat told me to scoot a little closer, and when I did, Igor put his arm around me — in front of everybody.5 I’ve always6 liked Igor, and I’ve heard from other people that he liked me, but he’d never told me. It’s kind of nice to know that my feelings for him are mutual.7 I still like him just as much, though.8

2 Let’s pretend it was something impressive and culturally insightful, like “Fiddler on the Roof” or “The Vagina Monologues.”3

3 It wasn’t.

4 in

5 Oh, the embarrassment! Oh, the surprize!

6 For two whole months!

7 Those feelings being undying love and devotion, as evidenced by his physically touching my shoulders and my journaling about him incessantly twice.

8 How noble of me to continue liking him even though he showed affection to me. Sign me up for sainthood now!

Illustration Alert: This entry is accompanied by seven hearts, one of which is pierced by an arrow greatly resembling a fork, and two of which have faces [presumably Igor’s and mine, though the female heart has half a perm — wishful thinking?] accentuated by puckered, thrice-Botoxed lips. There is also, inexplicably, the word “HHHHIIIIIIII.”

Next time on Mortification Monday: My dreams foretell a romantic future of… nausea?

3Mar

Mortification Monday, Ch. 1

Mortification Monday, v. 1.0

Disclaimer #1: Do not be tempted to enjoy the following saga of love and heartbreak; it is a tragedy of epic proportions and, as such, tragic. In fact, you will be begging me to end it after the 482nd straight week of teenage melodrama. I promise.

Disclaimer #2: In the interest of not getting sued, I have changed The Boy’s name to Igor Dreamboat. Frequent characters include his mother Mrs. Dreamboat, his younger brother Habib, and various friends whose names have also been changed to protect their identities. (Lucky twits.) Otherwise, just imagine a giant [sic] after every entry.

Disclaimer #3: I was the product of a family that made the Flanders look like hedonistic liberals. (I mean, the Flanders occasionally ate pork products which are specifically forbidden in Leviticus 11. Plus, they knew about beer, which is so heinous a sin that God forgot to mention it in the Bible.) Please keep in mind that I no longer call my parents “Mommy and Daddy” or believe God’s divine purpose for my life is for me to marry Igor Dreamboat.

Disclaimer #4: Editor’s commentary will appear in footnotes.

Disclaimer #5: This is much more painful for me than it is for you.

Chapter 1: In the Beginning
Saturday, December 7th (Age 12)
“Igor is number 1 on my list of boys.1 I’ve always liked him, admired his personality, and enjoyed his company. He said, out of all the girls in our class, he would pick me to marry.2

1Don’t get too attached to the brief and factual nature of this journal entry. I soon master the art of hyperbole. Also bi-polarism.

2According to his mother, who also happened to be my teacher. Please note that this qualifies as a formal proposal. At age 14, he was hypothetically willing to marry me! Out of all the girls IN OUR CLASS!

3, even though there wasn’t actually a 3Dan would like me to point out that not only was this my very first mention of Igor, this was an entire journal entry. Introduction, character development, conflict, resolution, conclusion. (See footnote #1 regarding brevity, etc.)

Next time on Mortification Monday: Igor publicly demonstrates his love for me!

20Feb

When In Rome

When in Rome…

Breathe slowly under the ancient weight of the Colosseum. Inhale the centuries of legend engraved on its stones, the faint anxiety that history waits to repeat itself in this place. Exhale under its watchful shadow, now the keeper of Metro stops, busy streets, and bustling gay bars. Breathe. Stand. Marinate in your smallness.

Colosseum portals - Picasa remix

Let your heart race at the sudden sparkle of turquoise on white, the Trevi Fountain against a backdrop of stars. Caress the sculptures with your eyes, following each curve, each breathtaking intricacy. Kiss for the camera, but really for love. Close your eyes and intoxicate yourself with lips and tingling breath and the sensuous rush of waterfalls at night.

Kissing by the Trevi Fountain

Navigate the mid-morning crowds surging toward the Vatican. Weave in and out and around and through–the tourists with their guidebooks and cameras and perpetually open mouths–the devout Catholics with their quick, reverent footsteps trailing determination like a wake–the vendors with their wiry glances and blatant flouting of personal space. Join a line inside the gates, a line like an eternal wave, carrying you around and up and crashing down finally in the most sacred spot on earth.

St. Peter's Basilica 3

Forget about nonessentials like speaking and thinking and breathing the instant you step inside St. Peter’s Basilica. Just see, look, gaze. Let your eyes understand lavishness for the rest of your body, at least until they overload on gold scrollwork two minutes in. Give yourself mental vertigo by realizing that people, real, living, human humans made this gargantuan cathedral, this redefinition of opulence. Get goosebumps.

Bronze canopy in St. Peter's

Ride the Metro plastered in graffiti. Wander through the open market. Take pictures of funny signs. Ascend slowly to reality; decompress. Come, see, conquer, and leave dizzy with the hope of returning.

TOO MANY Ns

11Feb

Globe Trotters

I’m decompressing from our weekend trip to Milan in the scrumptious glow of a strawberry IKEA candle and trying to remember where I packed my words. Or perhaps I left them behind? As always, I’m wading through the Twilight Zone until all our suitcases are empty. (On that note, grumph.) I know there’s significance in venturing out our front door. I know there’s a vast, luminous value in our impromptu travels, small children and spirits of adventure in tow, and once I’m over car lag, I’ll be able to fully appreciate these steps we take to live in 3-D.

{Gah. Also, Agh. I’ve been trying to finish this for hours, but I might as well be typing on a dinner plate. Did I lock my brain in the trunk? Also, GAH.}

The highlight of my trip was more a sensation than an event, though it was disguised as individually-wrapped moments throughout the weekend. Exploring castle ruins with Natalie–peeking into stone coffins, taunting rabid cats, moat-diving, and running in traditional medieval circles–and seeing her lit up with discovery… Wading through rivers of Carnevale confetti while more was tossed into our hair by short, giggling Power Rangers… Wandering through a National Geographic photo exhibit and suddenly starving for each exotic, breathtaking piece of the earth I’ve never seen…

All the pieces came together on the drive home when I asked Dan what was on his list, his do-before-dying-or-turning-thirty-whichever-comes-first list. He immediately said “travel,” and I couldn’t help smiling. That’s my list too, even above a hot air balloon ride.* We daydreamed the car ride away, talking about Egypt and Kenya, Nepal and Japan and Thailand, Jamaica and Brazil. Surfing in Indonesia, snowboarding the Andes. Losing minor limbs to Amazonian piranhas.

It’s one of the things that pulled me inextricably into love with Dan, our shared wanderlust. It’s why we live in Italy. It’s why we will have to work until we’re 107 because we will have spent our retirement fund on trotting the globe. Which will be worth every penny, absolutely.

*Now 2% more exciting than an afternoon nap!

Bethany's final resting place

(Did I say “peeking into stone coffins?” Because I meant “inhabiting.”)

13Jan

Mastercard’s Got Nothin’ On Us

We sit nose-to-nose in the tiny stone room that some say is the highest point in the city. We share a completely fantastic pizza made from ingredients that should never be put on pizza, like salad. (Daring, no?) We drink imported beer out of thick glass goblets–wine glasses on testosterone, basically–and laugh. We talk about the past and the future and mostly all the bits in between, and when dessert comes, we shut up. (Chocolate soufflé. You understand.) We wind our way through the cobblestone maze of Centro in the rain, holding hands and flirting shamelessly, and when we find ourselves back home, we smile.

This is date night, post-children edition. It is exactly like fine wine–rare and luxuriant, complex and lingering, inhibition-loosening and too expensive to indulge often. Yet as most indulgences are, date night is worth every penny… and then some. (Babysitter: €25.50. Dinner: €40. Half a liter of gasoline: €580.18. A whole evening to feel sexy and pretend to discuss things in an intelligent manner and remember why we like us: Priceless.)

Dating before kids was fun too, though usually less… sophisticated. We used to go to the wondrously horrifying dollar theater about once a week to watch movies we only cared $1 about and contract interesting diseases through the ripped plush upholstery. Afterward, we’d make out in the parking lot and grin when passers-by yelled at us to get a room, because hey, we’re married, even though we don’t look married because married people don’t make out in parking lots, and we already have a room, and ha!

Now that we’re parents two times around and legally Responsible Adults (to elaborate on a previous point, ha!), we tend to do more date-ish things on our evenings out. Dress up, eat at restaurants with real tablecloths, that sort of thing. But we still make out in the parking lot afterward, and I’m reminded every time why I wouldn’t trade our relationship–with its sparks and sand pits, its whimsicality and profundity, its ins and outs and especially the whirling in-betweens–for anything in the world.

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