If My Backyard Could Talk, it Would Sue Me for Negligence

Children are like gardens, and in this analogy, I am totally unfit.

Which is why I will never be a parent--because evidently, when one is responsible for more beyond one's own self, one cannot frolic about the continent for months on end, completely ignoring one's offspring (even if one's offspring happens to be a 20 square-foot plot of land in one's backyard). I suppose while I was gone my husband would take an active role in the nurturing of our garden. Which was foolish, really. Aside from the initial tilling, he's done nothing to help the garden flourish (doesn't that sound an awful lot like pregnancy?).

I don't know why I expected my husband to care for our baby--he never wanted kids [vegetables] in the first place. The only reason he even tilled a month ago is because he likes things that go "vroom" and I promised he'd be rewarded. He even told me when I left, "Don't expect me to sit around here watching your garden all day watching the dirt--I have work to do. I probably won't even get around to watering it."

So I don't know why I was so shocked when I got home and peeked in the backyard. Indeed, my children have taken my negligence as a personal affront, and are acting out to get more attention from me. In my absence, they've taken to hanging with the wrong crowd--real seedy, weedy sorts of characters. And by "weedy" I do mean weeds.


Six foot tall weeds, in particular.

Gone are my perfectly straight rows--they've become overrun with weeds and grass and ants, and a particularly ugle neon green sort of caterpillar. Seriously. Try--just try--to spot the tomato plant underneath all this foliage:


I spent four hours weeding this morning, and it's only a drop in the dadgum proverbial bucket of what's left to do. And I used to find gardening so...fulfilling.

Which is perhaps why I'm so overwhelmed. I mean, to go from this:

To this:

And back to this:

Well, that's just depressing.

The Unarguable Truths of Road Trips in the Company of Poor Kyle and Camille

In the two and a half years of our relationship, Poor Kyle and I have taken more road trips together than I can feasibly count. And since the new duty of “trailer fetcher” at the shop has fallen upon him, the number of our road trips together is increasing exponentially. Even as I type this on the stark white MacBook ™ my parents gave me for Christmas last year, we are trekking our way through the plains and grains of northern Nebraska.

We’ve nearly talked about everything there is to talk about (lasting an eternity together beyond this point will take a miracle [or a lot more birth control]), and consequently I’ve had a lot of quiet, contemplative time on my hands. Of course any time I have any time at all, I can’t seem to help but write a blog in my head. It gets annoying, but at least it’s something to do—I’d rather read my own words than some of those trashy tabloids they sell at the Flying J for two dollars apiece.

Here’s what I’ve decided while driving through Nebraska:

The Unarguable Truths of Road Trips in the Company of Poor Kyle and Camille
(in no particular order)

-I can be right in the middle of recounting a fascinating tale to Poor Kyle, but if he sees an interesting truck or trailer on the same road we’re traveling, he will—without fail—whip his head around and gawk as it rolls by, completely losing focus on my story. I have come to accept this as fact. Usually I react by continuing the story (in turn forcing Poor Kyle to pretend he’d been listening all along).

-If Poor Kyle is writing in his logbook, keeping track of mileage or even simply fiddling with the GPS, he will not listen to a word I say, should I attempt to snare his attention. It is physically impossible for him to multi-task. I’ve never seen it done; he has never done it.

-Poor Kyle is a faithful—faithful—keeper of the windshield:

Case in point.

-I have, on occasion, been known to suggest interesting topics of conversation on our road trips together. Rather, I consider them to be interesting topics of conversation. Poor Kyle, on the other hand, views this as “picking fights.” He may be correct in this assessment, but in my defense...he is lugging me all about the country in a baby-poop coloured Carhartt ™ hoodie. And he didn’t necessarily set out any ground rules ahead of time.

-Poor Kyle and I will never agree on what constitutes “good music.”

-Poor Kyle will always trust the GPS (he calls her “Tips”) more than he will trust me. Sometimes I hate that little British snob.

-There are nineteen white reflector poles in between each green mile marker on the highway (give or take a few on account of drunk drivers running them over). I can count miles with my eyes closed, shutting them right after seeing “MILE 258” flash by, and opening them precisely as we approach “MILE 259.” Sometimes I do this for so long that I cannot stop unless the vehicle does; it makes my head hurt.

Mud Tastes Dirty

I have a newfound respect for truck drivers.

When I first met Poor Kyle, he was a semi truck driver. Clean shaven and hygienic though he was, I always felt like he could do so much more with his life than drive a truck around the country. I mean…any person over the age of 18 could drive a truck, right? [I was also slightly bitter that I only got to see him two days out of the week—that might have had something to do with my prejudice towards his profession.] A few months after we met, though, he quit his job on the road to work in what is now our lifeblood—The Family Business. His new job with The Family Business would still be dealing with semi trucks—just not driving them. And the hours there were 8-5, which was much more conducive to a newborn relationship. Needless to say, I supported the career change, and to this day, I silently cross my fingers that he will never go through a mid-life crisis, grow a crusty handlebar mustache and buy a $200,000 Peterbilt to go touring the world for some transport company. It’s one of my greatest fears [along with tile mosaics and the texture of raspberries].

Anyway, since then, we’ve taken countless—and I do mean countless—road trips together. There have been only two situations during all those trips that I’ve taken the wheel, and they were short-lived situations at that, because Poor Kyle likes to drive—he really does. He likes machines with wheels, and he likes things that go “vroom.” Stereotypical as it sounds, my husband is the spouse who deals with the vehicles. I’m okay with that; it means I get to play the alphabet game with myself, and hook up the MacBook to type my blog’s nightly post.

This past month, though, Poor Kyle got a new assignment at The Family Business. The company is dipping its proverbial toes into the pool of “buying and selling trailers of all shapes and sizes.” Poor Kyle is the one who gets to pick up the trailers from Oregon and Idaho, and haul them back to O, Canada. The GPS is the one who gets to navigate these excursions. And I am the one who gets to go along for the ride.

Yesterday marked the maiden voyage for the new shop truck (it’s a big white Ford Fsomething50), and we’ve been on the road for hours. And hours. Now that I’ve experienced firsthand what a truck driver’s job entails, I am eating mud. I would like to publicly announce on the World Wide Web for all to read:

I am sorry I ever considered truck driving to be a cop-out of a career. Do people need a degree to do it? No. Should they? Absolutely—it’s that complicated. Did you know that truck drivers have to account for every minute spent on the job—whether driving or not—in fifteen minute increments? I didn’t. They have to record their every waking moment in something called a “log book.” Log books are scary and involve carbon paper, and I try to stay far away from them. Also, trucks hauling stuff—depending on what kind of truck they are—are only allowed to carry 12,000 lbs. on the steer axles, 30,000 lbs. on the drive axles (of which there are two), and extra weight is a giant problem involving load shifting, axle lifting, and great big fines. Whatever an axle is…

On top of all that, the only commercial areas with parking lots big enough to accommodate semi trucks are, naturally, truck stops (Poor Kyle is partial to the Flying J). And though the selection of energy beverages is actually quite impressive at said truck stops, I’ve been hard-pressed to find food with any real nutritional value here. Strangely, though, the Flying J always seems to have a handy supply of hard-boiled eggs. I’m a poultry lover myself, but I would actually rather eat toilet paper from the Flying J than a package of under-refrigerated hard-boiled eggs that have been sitting there for who knows how long.

So please: truck drivers of the world, accept my apology. Most of you are greasy because you have mean old dispatchers who push you to your limit of sanity, and you don’t have time to stop for a shower. Most of you have giant bellies because the only food that appeals to you while on the road are XXL cans of green flavoured (yes, they’re calling “green” a flavour now) Monster and a jumbo bag of David’s sunflower seeds. Most of you are angry with life because you don’t have your sweet wife sitting shotgun—in fact, she’s probably at home complaining to your best friend about how you miss all the kids’ hockey games, and your marriage is really taking a hard hit for it all.

I apologise for thinking ill of you.

To My Lover

I know. Love, right? I'm sick of it. I've always sworn that anything I write should be for entertainment purposes--I have very little interest in writing words that aren't funny. Believe it or not. I've just posted two serious love letters right in a row, and understandably, nobody's liked them. I need to stick with humour. Don't know why I forgot that.

Unfortunately, I have to write just one more love letter; it would be very rude to write a series of love letters right before St. Valentine's Day and not include one to my husband of four months [especially since I've spent too much money on groceries this month, and this post is going to be the only valentine he gets from me]. But tomorrow, it's back to funny business.

Dear Poor Kyle,

I love your face. Especially when it's shaved--all the way. Come to think of it, I love your face while you're shaving it. I've always wondered if you make those ridiculous faces only when I'm watching, or if they really are necessary in order to get all the nooks and crannies.



In fact, your face has a lot of nooks and crannies. I am fascinated by your smile--the way your face etches deep lines from the edge of your nose to the corners of your mouth. Everybody who doesn't get Botox has the same lines, but I like yours best. I wish I could number the crinkly eye wrinkles you get when you really, truly smile; I would count them if you would ever sit still long enough.



I love almost everything about you {I'm not one of those e-Harmony girls who will daftly say "I love absolutely everything about you." That's not even possible. It's not how I roll}. I don't love when you get mad at me for trying to warm up my feet by wedging them under your legs at night--it's cold in Canada, for goodness' sake. I don't love that you won't run the 5K with me--it's only five Ks. And I don't love thinking about the time you wouldn't hold my hand at that yard sale we went to last summer. Yes, I still remember it--I almost broke off our engagement because of it. I remember most things.

But...I do love you--I'm pretty sure marrying you was the right choice (okay...I'm 100% sure). Happy St. Valentine's Day, Poor Kyle.

Love,

Me

The Me in Me

In honour (or maybe a better term would be "begrudging acknowledgment") of St. Valentine's Day this week, I am going to write a series of love letters.

But first, a tangent:

Perhaps people may be wondering why I don't seem to care much for St. Valentine's Day. "What has she got to whine about? She's newly married and brimming with bliss. This should be her best St. Valentine's Day ever." Yes. It should. But. I still cringe when I think back to the fifth grade when I had to give everyone a Scooby Doo valentine, even Evelyn who brought her mom to the "Talk About our Bodies" day at school [and "talk about our bodies" they did {I've hated "the awkward" for as long as I can remember}]. Of course there were the insecurities that maybe I wouldn't get valentines from everyone, which would be the ultimate disgrace, since it would mean the other kids would be going out of their way to snub me. And then there was the sting of disappointment when, really, none of those valentines were at all juicy or exciting. No budding romances to be had.

Then in junior high and high school, I suffered through the oh-so-common indignities of not receiving any Cuddle Bugs or Cootie Cuties or whatever it was that, like, the Pom & Cheer club totally sold for, like, only a dollar, right? Y'know? Pom & Cheer girls got out of homeroom to deliver these secret admirer valentines. I remember Jazlee and Lorna and Rachel and the gang would always get gaggles of goodies, whereas I really...didn't. It was fine, though, because I was raised by clever parents who taught me that literacy was a Great and Natural Escape. So I wrote poems--bitter diatribes for me and my fellow "slighted" girls. Bitterness works wonders; it heals all wounds. I really believe that.

If Lindsey would ever get her act together and clean out the shed and find for me "Ode to St. Valentine's Day," I would gladly post it here for all to read. It was a real masterpiece. I think it started out:

Pain, misery, squalor and muck,
All of these qualities prove that boys suck.

Or something. Later on, it seemed that no matter how many dates I accepted or boys I kissed, I always ended up "between relationships" on the 14th of February. Which is no fun at all, for a young adult who otherwise dated often enough. The more thought I gave it, the more it bothered me that the world would have the nerve to announce a holiday in honour of love. Why was it necessary to give flowers on a holiday? Being the exact same thing all the lovers worldwide are doing, I soon came to think of the tradition as cliché, blasé, and a variety of other chic-sounding French words. And two years ago, four months after meeting Kyle, we got into one of the biggest fights of our relationship of St. Valentine's Day, because of my forward-thinking ideas and notions. It was wretched.

This year, though, I am married {weird}. High on love and drowning in all my newlywed bliss, right? It should be the best St. Valentine's Day of my life. But the me in me won't get my hopes up. I'm almost more married to the bitterness than I am to Poor Kyle--let's face it: I've known it longer and more intimately.

So that's it. All the gory details of why I struggle with the holiday that we all know and...love?

In the end, it wasn't a tangent at all, but my entire post.

{"Poor Kyle" Uncovered}

Why "Poor Kyle?" It all started during our engagement, when he was often the unfortunate outlet for all my pent-up pre-wedding stresses. Now that the wedding is over, the name has continued to seem...fitting. Because, of course, he's married to yours truly, which means he has to put up with me for the rest of his life, and the rest of eternity after that (God willing). When I say, "Poor Kyle," I don't mean that Kyle is financially poor since marrying me--in fact, I spend less money than he does at Costco, and on more practical products. When I go to Costco, for example, I usually come away with boneless skinless chicken breasts, fresh produce, some bulk canned goods (building up that years' supply), dryer sheets, and perhaps a treat like pot stickers. For a total of [usually] right around $100.00. When Kyle goes to Costco, he fancies buying thousand-dollar tool boxes and thousand-dollar tools to go in them. Financially, I may very well be the best thing that ever happened to Poor Kyle.

Emotionally, however, I suspect I am quite draining on my significant other. I have feelings, after all...and on both deeper and broader levels than Poor Kyle's. When he thinks something is sad, I find that same something to be heart wrenching. If he thinks something is cool, I likely think that same something is the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me. If we disagree, he gets over it, because that's how he was raised. If I am unhappy for any reason, I dwell on it (thus making me exponentially more unhappy, and--I know it's pointless, okay?). I'm a dweller. I stew, brood, and dwell until it physically hurts, and then I blow up and start the whole process over again.

It's a lot to keep up with, for a guy who likes "things that go vroom" as much as he does (like them, that is. Poor Kyle doesn't "go vroom." Very often.). I mean, here's a guy who once bought his mom chocolates for St. Valentine's Day--and charged them on her account at the pharmacy [I know. They still use the Honor System here in Mayberry]. Here is a guy who, despite receiving links, emails, and phone calls with specific items I'd love as a wedding gift, nevertheless found nothing to get me [maybe he forgot we were getting married?]. It's okay, of course, because he was gift enough.

Poor, poor "Poor Kyle."

As an aside, the song playing--"New Soul" by Yael Naim--is the best tune I've heard since Regina Spektor made her way into my life. Listen closely. I'm blogging about it tomorrow.

He Loves; He Loves Not

Poor Kyle does not care for mushrooms. To say that he "does not care for mushrooms" is putting it mildly. In fact he hates them.

I like mushrooms. I like cream of mushroom soup, both in casseroles and just plain. (Kyle also cringes at the word "casserole.") I like mushrooms, both uncooked and cooked, fried, baked, stuffed, and fresh. In Chinese food, on a pizza, or sauteed as a side dish with fancy steak dinners. I like mushrooms.

I do. I like them. I buy them. I cook with them.

Today, however, I made the tragic error of not chopping them up finely enough to disguise the fact they were in my salad. That was the first time I'd done that--maybe subconsciously I assumed Poor Kyle was learning to like them, since he still ate my spring rolls with mushrooms ground up so small they could have been anything.

The first time I made this mistake incidentally happened to be the first time Poor Kyle refused to eat even a bite of the dish I prepared. At first he attempted to pick the offending fungi out of the green salad. Moments later, however, he declared, "They are everywhere. I can't even find one scoop without them!" Throwing the tongs down on the table, he moved on to eat the rice, chicken, and overcooked green beans.

Just like that, I suddenly felt I'd become the wife of a child.

He regretted it immediately; I could tell. He tried to lighten up the conversation, and complimented me heavily on my Caribbean Jerk Chicken. I was almost ready to forgive his tantrum, but then I remembered how he threw those stainless steel tongs with such fervor, and I re-committed myself to the cause of not smiling.

I still love him, to be sure. After dinner he cleared the table, rinsed his dishes *and* put them in a dishwasher, and gave me a giant hug from behind as I stood at the sink [that's very "I Love Lucy," isn't it?]. But I knew that was all the apology I was going to get, so I turned around and hugged him back.

(As I type this post, he is reading over my shoulder and denying he ever felt any remorse.)

But the point is, we are married. Like, totally.

I love Poor Kyle. There is something about him, when he's really excited about...oh, I don't know...Christmas, or a new X-Box controller...that reminds me of Ren and Stimpy--or is it SpongeBob? I can tell when he's in a good mood because he'll drum his hands as fast as he can on the nearest surface--sometimes the kitchen counter; sometimes his stomach. Often, when we get to watch a new DVD together after work and dinner, he's so excited just to be lounging that he does this goofy little dance--he stands pigeon-toed, tosses his head back, and swings his arms back and forth. It looks strangely like an Aristocat's dance, and it's completely contagious. He teaches me to let go of dramas on which I would normally dwell. He forgives my trespasses much sooner than I forgive his--or my own.

Poor Kyle and I--we can [and sometimes do] communicate wholly in one-syllable words and grunts:

Me: How was your day?
P.K.: Meh.
Me: That bad, eh?
P.K.: Yup.
Me: Guh.
P.K.: I know.
Me: I love you, too.

See? We just do.

My conclusion of this in-depth study? I like mushrooms--but I love him.