Stupidly went to see that newest Twilight movie last night and came home ready to sign Poor Kyle and myself up for couple’s therapy, so convinced was I that my marriage was crap.
My husband has been reading lately.
Reading a lot.
In the past two months he’s read four books, which maybe is not a lot for some people but it’s more than I’ve seen him read during our entire four years of marriage so yes, he’s reading a lot.
And you know what?
I think it’s super hot.
When I was in junior high I always fancied I’d marry a real swanky kind of guy. Doctor, lawyer, you know the dream. Elitist. White collar. In the end I married a truck driver-slash-heavy duty mechanic, and the collar doesn’t get much bluer than that, except maybe for plumbers.
But I respect a person who puts in a hard day’s work, whether scraping plaque off of teeth or grease off of lug nuts, so once we became a couple it never mattered to me that Poor Kyle’s career choice didn’t match what my 13 year-old self thought it should be. I loved him and his work ethic, and that was that. Heck, I’m probably not near as beautiful as he always thought his wife would be.
Plus, just because he’s not a doctor doesn’t mean he’s not brilliant. He is. He could be a doctor if he wanted to be. (Too bad I can’t be more beautiful if I wanted to be. Poor Kyle really got the short end of the marital stick on that one.)
But anyway, he’s not been much of a reader thus far in our marriage, so it surprised me when, on our last trip to Arizona in October, he wanted to visit Barnes and Noble. It surprised and also thrilled me. He bought a book, one to do with computery stuff, and devoured it. Then he bought Dave Ramsey’s newest book, and devoured that. Next he read one of Dave Ramsey’s older books and again: devoured. Now he’s devouring Steve Jobs’s biography on our iPad (poetic) and I kind of can’t get enough of it—of him. Of this new-and-improved highbrow him.
It’s kind of like how I feel when I see him listening to Stuff You Should Know podcasts instead of country music.
I love that he’s spending his free time learning about stuff that interests him. I love that today he chose to spend six hours of his one day off a week reading an intelligent book instead of zoning out in front of the xBox. I love that we have a whole new world of topics to discuss: “What’s happening in your book?” “Steve hasn’t started Pixar yet.” “Dave says to invest 15% of your monthly income into well-rounded mutual funds.” “I just figured out how to add fasldkfjsdlf fwoeiuradcnasdf sakdfjadkthreoiqa;lcm computer jargon who-knows-what to my such-and-such program and it worked like a charm!”
And so on.
I loved my husband long before he developed this insatiable thirst for books.
But now that he has, I’m more convinced than ever that I was right to love him all along.
Don’t have a Saturday Steal? THAT’S ABOUT TO CHANGE.
Mesans will be thrilled to know that today, Saturday November 19th, my sister is hosting a private boutique/fauxtique. What is a fauxtique boutique, you ask? It’s the Liger of shopping experiences. Adorable home furnishings, way too low prices (in my opinion, but that’s what makes it so wonderful for you all), and the opportunity to meet my most excellent of sisters.
Get all the deets here: fivetoninefurnishings.blogspot.com
Guess who’s busy?
EVERYONE IN THE WORLD.
Guess who still manages to blog daily despite their business?
EVERYONE IN THE WORLD EXCEPT ME, apparently.
Everywhere I look blogs are getting better and better while mine sits and stagnates. But today I thought that instead of whining about it I’d do something about it. Not my most original post, perhaps, but it gives you something to read on the toilet anyway.
(Idea swiped from my friend Maureen:)
What if I were to get pregnant? I think I might have a nervous breakdown. Pregnancy sounds awful to me, and even worse is that it leads to parenthood, which I know for a fact would send me right over the edge.
What if I could have any job in the world? I would write about it.
What if I had a day to myself? I would waste it being depressed that it would be over in a day.
What if I could get married all over again? I wouldn’t.
What if I could live anywhere in the U.S.? I struggle with this all the time. New York City, in the woods miles from civilization, or on some glorious beach. Those are the three options it always boils down to, and those are the three I can never decide between. But logically I would move back to Arizona because that’s where my family is and I miss them.
What if I were to have more children? How many more? Poor Kyle is quite the handful as it is. (Jokes. [But not really.])
What if I could have any talent in the world? Is being content with the talents I have considered a talent? If so, I want that one.
What if you met me in real life? Lots of people have lived to tell the tale. Some haven’t.
What if I went back to school? I would get straight A’s. Anything less is a waste of money.
What if money weren’t an object? We’d all be on the barter system and that would be sweet. I’d trade pre-written blog posts for food.
What if I could meet one celebrity? I’d like it to be Oprah because I think she’d like me and Oprah’s friends pretty much have it made.
What if I could only shop at one store for the rest of my life? I really think Target would have everything I would ever need. Possibly Costco. But I don’t know that Costco would accept pre-written blog posts in exchange for huge quantities of toilet paper…
What if I could choose an animal/pet? Oh, fine, I’d let Poor Kyle finally buy his thousand-dollar bullmastiff and name it some human name like Jane. It’s what he always wanted. I secretly think he just wants someone better to cuddle with.
What if I could go on a trip right now? I’d make it a good one because it’d probably be my last for a really long time. Australia? New Zealand? Ireland? Prince Edward Island?
What if I had to choose between a house cleaner and a professional chef? HOUSE CLEANER. I actually kind of like cooking and would like it even more if I didn’t have to split my time between it and cleaning the house. Definitely a house cleaner. Anyone who’d choose otherwise cannot possibly be sane.
What if I had the option to get plastic surgery? I am mostly against plastic surgery on account of my deeply entrenched feminist and post-post-modernist ideals, but I do confess I would at least talk to a surgeon about the possibilities of erasing my butt chin.
And really, can you blame me?
My Saturday Steal for the weekend is this day. Happy Remembrance Day/Veteran’s Day to all who celebrate it. I hope you got the day off like I did. It’s my first official paid holiday since starting my job, and I don’t know when I’ve ever been so grateful for the veterans. War sucks, but free days are just delightful.
I feel it would be disrespectful to waste this free day stressing about Saturday Steals, so I’m not. If you have a steal, the list is up and will be all weekend. If not, don’t stress—the veterans wouldn’t like it.
In unrelated news, sometimes I get the undeniable urge to throw large rocks at my husband’s head.
The violence is unsettling but very real.
I know it’s irreverent to talk about violence on Veteran’s Day, but I had to get it out. I really think if there’d been anything solid and heavy (yet light enough to launch) within arm’s reach last night Poor Kyle would be bruised this morning.
There’s really nothing more to say about that. There were no rocks at hand and Poor Kyle lived to play his racecar game another day. Still married to me, but that’s his problem, am I right?
Happy Day.
I’m proud to be American.
But I’m a little embarrassed of Arizona.
Although I am no longer a registered voting resident of Legislative District 18 (includes Mesa west of Gilbert Road to Tempe, excluding Dobson Ranch), I still feel responsible for the well being of my state. My people.
Lately, though, I find myself cringing, just a little, when I claim it as my home. How can I be associated with a place so crude? So blatantly heartless? The whole SB 1070 fiasco, the bill that left hundreds of Arizona businesses cut off—boycotted—simply because they lived in a state that could be so downright mean…that was embarrassing.
I try to be compassionate. I wish more people would.
And that’s one of the reasons—the main reason, really—that even though I can’t vote in Arizona any more, I support Jerry Lewis (yes, his name is really Jerry Lewis) for Arizona Senate.
I know Jerry Lewis personally, have been a guest at his house, have been a student in his classroom, have associated with his family and know him to be a fine, fine person.
However, that alone is no reason for you to vote for him. You might not know him. You can’t take my word for it.
But his stance on illegal immigration is compassion, not cruelty.
So I would vote for him on November 8th if I could.
And I hope you do, too.
••••••••••••••••••••
Where I grew up, in Mesa, Arizona, many of my peers and their parents and their grandparents used the word Mexican as a degradation.
“Those Mexicans,” they’d say, spitting the word like Nazis might spit Jew. Like they couldn’t get the foul-tasting word out of their mouth fast enough. Like it was poison.
There was a robbery at the Circle K down the street: “You can be sure it was a Mexican.” Someone left her bike in the front yard at lunch time and it got stolen: “Some Mexican took it.” “You don’t want to get any Mexican renters; they’ll tear the place up in no time flat.” Watch out for those Mexicans. Mexicans.
But I was raised differently. My parents, both fluent Spanish speakers after being immersed in Central and South American cultures for foreign missions, had seen some of the world. Had travelled it enough to know that not every brown-skinned person was a Mexican. And that even if they were, what would be the big deal? That sure, there might be crooks who happened to be Mexican, but that badness could exist in every race and nationality, American included.
And goodness existed, too.
Mexican is not a dirty word. It should not be made to be a dirty word. And though many people try to instill it with hate and disrespect like that awful N word, it remains, to me, a simple statement of nationality.
Mexican immigrants to the United States—illegal or not—are there because they want to be. Because they feel such suffocating desperation in their circumstances that they will do anything to be there. Sometimes they break the law to be there.
And breaking the law is bad.
But I don’t blame them.
•••••••••••••••••••
I was ten years old when, on a trip to visit family in El Paso, my parents drove our turquoise Ford Taurus across the Texas/Mexico border into Juarez, a city just minutes away from my grandparents’ house. As we forged the Taurus further and further away from the relative prosperity of our native country—the country where we (who weren’t even anywhere near wealthy) were unimaginably blessed, seemingly at random, to be born—my sister and I, usually so pitted against each other, stopped fighting over pillows and chapter books and cans of Sprite in the back seat. We grew quiet. My sunflower seed intake dwindled with each turn we made until eventually I stopped cracking the salty shells altogether. The David’s bag laid neglected at my feet. I couldn’t stomach them anymore.
Not in the face of that.
As I stared out the backseat window, I was transported to a different world. Sprawled throughout the city in every direction were the saddest conditions I’d ever witnessed. Grimy. Shambles. Shacks. Homes made of cinder blocks. Corrogated tin. Plywood. Cardboard. Cardboard? Yes.
At first I thought they were sheds. My grandpa had chicken coops in his backyard that looked remarkably similar. Chicken coops—where his chickens lived.
Mom, why do they have so many sheds?
Those aren’t sheds. Those are their houses.
Nuh-uh!
Yes.
They live there?
Yes.
Really, Mom?
Yes, Camille. Really.
Really really?
Yes.
Dad? Really?
Yes, Camille. Yes.
Really.
We were quiet for the entirety of our little road trip. The thrill of buying Chiclets and soda in real glass bottles had died away, overshadowed by the four and five year-old children hawking necklaces, bracelets, windshield wiping, blood (it seemed like they’d sell their blood for money) in the line of cars waiting to cross back into the United States.
The line going back was enormous. Twenty times longer than the one to get into Mexico.
Why is it so long, Mom?
…
Mom?
…
Why do you think, sweetheart?
•••••••••••••••••••
Yet here we are. The ’90s are passed, so long ago now it seems like they were really just a dream. Did that all really happen? Zack and Kelly, poofy bangs, watermelon Laffy Taffy? I don’t eat sunflower seeds anymore—haven’t in years. I stopped wearing overalls, I brush my teeth regularly. I wear a bra now. I’ve changed, grown up, learned some things. We have phones that tell us the weather. It’s 2011.
The year 2000 came and went and the ten year-old girl who couldn’t imagine even being alive during the year 2000 has lived—thrived—well beyond it.
But for the majority of Arizonans, even for the majority of my own relatives, Mexican is still—unbelievably, but yet I do believe it—a dirty word.
Really?
Really, you guys?
Really.
Image from here.