::: stream of consciousness whilst awaiting my twentieth anniversary :::

I love celebrations.
I love planning them,
preparing for them,
sneaking around about them
(paying for them, not so much),
and springing them on people.
I love surprises,
both creating them
and receiving them.
My dear husband?
Not really.
He doesn't create surprises,
and most birthdays/anniversaries/holidays,
he's attacked by some virus or bacteria
and sleep overtakes him,
and I am left alone to celebrate.
It's not his fault, but yet I blame him.
It's not his fault, but yet,
every holiday,
every birthday,
every anniversary,
I awake, hoping to find
breakfast in bed,
or a piece of pottery,
or a surprise getaway,
or a love song written,
or even just a letter,
a paragraph,
a sentence.
The emptiness leaves me feeling
selfish.
It's one of my biggest fears about Heaven,
that I'm looking forward to this grand mansion,
this eternal life free from pain and tears
and sickness and anxiety
and worry and fear
and loneliness and hope deferred,
but that I will find, instead, only death
and darkness,
and nothing.
Dear God, I want to lean on you
and find my joy in you,
but this too too solid flesh,
which will not melt,
longs for tactile proof
that I have worth,
that I am known.
In the meantime,
I will create the surprises,
and try not to hope for
too much.

Two Days of Anniversary

Thursday night, Bo informed me that he had taken Friday off work so that he and I could begin celebrating our seventeenth anniversary. I was so thrilled and surprised! The bummer was that I didn't really know what I wanted to do, and neither did he. We're low on cash, so there really weren't a lot of options.

After a bit of thinking, I decided what I wanted to do. I told him that I wanted to go into the Big City and shop for a hand-crank pasta maker. Bo works in the Big City, and since his boss was under a little bit of stress, we decided that he could take part of his vacation day and go get some phone calls made while I did a little bit of shopping, then we would meet back up and do some more shopping together.

So, I awoke Friday morning to meet my walking buddy. We decided to do our Couch Potato to 5K routine, alternating 60 seconds of running with 90 seconds of walking. Because I'm a wimp, we've modified it to 60 seconds of jogging and enough walking to regain consciousness. Kim has so much more endurance than I do, but I'll get there eventually. We did the whole session, eight reps of jogging with walking in-between. I can't say that it was fun, but it did feel good, and I hope we can progress to week two before long.

After jogging, I hit my favorite thrift store, because I like to and because a friend who volunteers there had informed me that she had something for me. I found a new pair of rollerblades for Monet and a couple of other small things for The Baby, and when I got to the counter, I discovered that my checkbook was gone. Bo had taken it out to use and I'd forgotten. My friend stepped in and saved the day, paying for my purchase. She's my goat-grain supplier, so I'll repay her when I pick up goat grain on Monday.

When I'd recovered from the embarrassment of not having my checkbook, my friend directed me to the back of the building, where her car was parked. There, she unloaded a large box of beef for our family! I was so thrilled. Meat is a rarity in our house; I really only buy it on special occasions. She said that her family had been blessed with excess and decided to share. What a blessing! She also gave me several loaves of my favorite bread as well as dozens and dozens of eggs (pasta!). I love how the Lord provides!

I stopped at the library to pick up books on pasta and pizza, my two current obsessions, and headed home. Once there, I did some bedroom cleanup, wrote a blog post or two, then Bo and I took our trip to The Big City, which is about an hour from us.

While Bo worked, I abandonned my idea of shopping and read for a while instead. Then I fell asleep. After a nice nap, I was refreshed. And hungry. So we went to eat--where else?--at our favorite Italian restaurant. This, my dear readers, is a very rare and wonderful treat that I do not take lightly. Only on anniversaries and children's 16th birthdays do we indulge such. It was wonderful, but, if I may be so bold, I do still prefer home-cooking. As long as someone else cleans up the mess. :-)

The rest of the evening was spent in pursuit of a pasta maker that never materialized. I was, however, able to score two very well-priced Playmobil toys for The Baby's birthday, which is fast approaching.

*******************************

This morning, we woke everyone but Houdin, who is not feeling well, and The Baby, who isn't the best walking partner, and we hit the trail. Monet and Sweetheart roller-bladed while Bo, Bard and I walked. I have made an unspeakable deal with Bard in exchange for her walking with me every time I ask, without complaining, for six months. I think she'll do it. And I think she'll like it. :-)

Another quick trip to the library, another quick trip to the thrift store (to donate, this time), and a pitstop at the store for a few essentials--fruit, paper products, etc--and then it was on to our favorite dairy for fresh, raw milk. I've been making yogurt almost daily using delicious whole jersey milk, so thick and creamy that we'll never go back to Dannon! Almost as good as Stonyfield, but without the cream on top (how *do* they do that?). Home to refrigerate the milk, and then off to a couple of shops in town to check for pasta makers.

The first shop had just about everything else--ravioli molds, spaetzle makers, electric pasta makers--but no hand-cranked pasta maker.

The second shop...SUCCESS! After searching SEVEN different stores, we finally found a store just fifteen minutes from our home that stocks three different top brands of pasta makers, accessories and attachments. But the prices were quite high, so I opted to check online.

Home again home again, and we decided to tackle cleaning our fruit cellar and basement laundry room. They were HORRIBLE! They're much better now, but not done. Still, we were able to burn a bunch of boxes/paper/paper products, and we hauled a large bag of recycleables out of the house. It was a nice opportunity to get a bite to eat, so we rounded out our two-day celebration with a sandwich and onion rings (now I'll have to run some more) and headed for home.

Regular family chaos ensued, and now everyone lies sleeping but I'm still awake. Even though my husband was the one who indulged in late-evening coffee. Go figure.

Sunday school comes early, so I'll sign off, go check my yogurt, and try to hit the hay.

It's been a good couple of days.

::: happy seventeen years of wedded blisters :::

Yesterday was a pretty good day, and today wasn't so bad, either.
I'm celebrating my anniversary, you see. At least for another twenty-eight minutes. Even though my dearest one is snoring loudly beside me, I'm still delighting in the fact that, seventeen years ago today, my best friend came to spend the night, every night, for the rest of our lives.

You wait for me while I shop. Patiently, you wait; resting in the car or sitting on a park bench or playing solitaire on that jazzy little phone you have. You wait for me.

You laugh with me. I make self-deprecating jokes, and you puff me up with your laughter. I make you-deprecating jokes, and you laugh just as loudly. I love that laugh, that smile, with the deep dimples you so generously shared with our youngest daughter. I love that you laugh.

You spend time with me. Your first priority is always me, always being with me, always thinking of me first. Don't think I haven't noticed, because I have. It only looks like I don't notice because you spoil me in that way, always giving your time so selflessly to me. I love spending my time with you.

You think I matter. You listen to my thoughts, and my opinions, and my worries, and my ideas. You don't ignore me or belittle me when I need to air my frustrations. You listen and you advise. You support and you uplift. You're my best counselor on this earth. I appreciate that I matter to you.

You teach me. I know nothing about things like football and molecules and algabraic equations, but you're willing to teach me. You tell me what first down and eight means, and I try very hard to understand, because what is important to you is important to me.

You indulge me. You know that I want a pasta maker so you spend a whole afternoon and a whole 'nother evening shopping with me, until we find the very perfect one, and even when you're completely bored and totally sick of the whole idea, you still advise me. And when I realize that the one I want is just too expensive, you explore eBay and call to me to show me what you've found. You care, so you indulge me.

You like my food. You were the reason I learned to cook. I hadn't cooked a real meal before I started dating you, and when I realized that we weren't going to have money for dates, I decided that I would woo you with my food, and I bought my very first cookbook. I made you bread and pepper steak and chicken cordon bleu and pot pies and stuffed tomatoes and vegetable grinders and french fries and anything else I could think to cook. And you loved it. It makes it so much more fun to cook, because I know that you will gratefully devour what I've made for you, and you'll tell me how it can be better, or that it's just perfect. I could stand in the kitchen all day cooking just to hear your satisfied approval. You let me feed you, and that feeds me.

You cuddle me. I remember the time, when we were dating, that you fell asleep on my couch while I took that terribly agonizing phone call, and when it was over, I needed your hug, so I curled up next to you, and without even waking, you opened your arms and pulled me close to you, gave me security and encouragement, even while you slept. I'll never forget that.

You talk to me. From the very beginning, when we were just kids gabbing on the phone, I knew that you and I were two of a kind, people who loved to converse, to pick each other's brains and share ideas. When we started dating in college, that whole experience came flooding back, talking on the phone from dusk to dawn, knowing that you'd fallen asleep on the phone, listening to you breathing, waiting for your alarm to startle you awake. Hours and hours of discussions about religion, faith, belief, music, love, relationships, the future, the past. And it continues still. My favorite pasttime is talking with you, planning with you, dreaming with you, working things out and solving the world's problems with you. I love how you talk to me.

You tolerate me. And all of my wacky ideas, and all of my animals, and all of my eccentricities. When I have an idea that's completely and totally wrong, you don't (always) discourage me. You let me pursue it, let it run its course. And you never, ever, ever say, "I told you so." You're so tolerant of me.

You appreciate nature with me. You stop to look at the stars. You call me to the window to see the hawk. You stroll with me to check the bluebird houses that you built with the kids. You marvel at the sunrise and the sunset. You laugh at the goats, talk to the cats, cuddle the dogs, feed them all. I will always remember the day that I was trying to decide whether we should destroy all the clover in the yard, because I thought that maybe I needed a "barefoot" lawn that the kids could run around on without worrying about the bees. I didn't really want to do it, but I was feeling the pressure to "look good" and thought that I should plant a real lawn with real grass. You called me to the porch to see something you described as "amazing," something you really thought I needed to see. And though I was busy, I stopped to come look. The entire lawn was covered with tiny little frittilaries, hundreds and hundreds of them, alighting on the clover before they continued their journey to who-knows-where. We kept the clover.

You encourage me. When I have an idea or a goal or a dream, you tell me to pursue it. You help me, give me ideas, get lost in the dream with me. Whether it's a coffeehouse, or a houseconcert series, or a book idea, or a blog, you give me the courage and cooperation to pursue it.

You desire me. I know that I get embarrassed and often reject your compliments, but I honestly appreciate how you tell me that I'm beautiful, and you reach out to hug me, and you kiss my face, and you compliment me, and you oggle me. I've had a problem with my appearance for so long that your words are hard to believe, difficult to accept, but I'm working on it. And I'm finally getting to the place where I can believe that, even if no one else thinks so, you think I'm beautiful. Thank you for desiring me.

Of course there's more. But I have to save some for the next seventeen years.

Here's to you, and to us. We've known each other longer than we haven't. We've been married almost half as long as I've been alive.

Happy seventeenth anniversary, Bo. I love you very, very much and can't imagine life without my very best friend.