My husband Michael is no saint. Thank goodness, because neither am I. Somehow I wonder if saints are really all that much fun. I’m pretty sure I’ve never met one, I guess because I just don’t run in saints’ circles.
Unlike my images of a saintly day—perhaps sitting erect on a carved wooden pew or perched on the edge of a cloud or a stone cherub fountain, contemplating—Michael and I mostly putter around the house in our grubbies happily tending to chores, minding Calvin, cooking meals, watching movies, warming ourselves by the fire, or glued to our laptops. We do all this as if performing some sort of silly dance, spinning and looping around each other, sometimes in a kind of do-si-so, and occasionally stepping on Rudy the dog since he is always under foot. Our relationship is copacetic and loving, even in the most stressful or irritating circumstances—that is—except when we get the grumpies.
We both get the grumpies. I've mentioned them before. I get them in the mornings because of my perpetual state of sleep deprivation and my want for coffee, like an addict who needs her fix. Michael gets them at the end of the day when his blood sugar drops below acceptable levels, especially if he misses his daily bagel and whatever else he eats for lunch—or doesn’t. We seem to manage most of the time, however, to bite our tongues or steer clear of the other when the grumpies rear their ugly heads—though that's not guaranteed.
Perchance, in the grip of the grumpies, we should stumble and let out a cantankerous shriek or stream thereof—or more likely an ill-tempered F-bomb—it usually only takes about five minutes with our nose in a circle on the chalkboard for one or both of us to apologize, or grovel. Yes, forgiveness is one of Michael’s greatest virtues, and he’s not bad at apologizing, either. I suppose I can say the same for myself. It's comforting to know that when we need to let off steam—and inevitably one or more of George Carlin's seven words you can't say on television—we don't judge each other. It's just how we survive this crazy circus we call life.
So, we ain't no saints, we're just a couple of loving, cussing, do-si-doing fools.
Unlike my images of a saintly day—perhaps sitting erect on a carved wooden pew or perched on the edge of a cloud or a stone cherub fountain, contemplating—Michael and I mostly putter around the house in our grubbies happily tending to chores, minding Calvin, cooking meals, watching movies, warming ourselves by the fire, or glued to our laptops. We do all this as if performing some sort of silly dance, spinning and looping around each other, sometimes in a kind of do-si-so, and occasionally stepping on Rudy the dog since he is always under foot. Our relationship is copacetic and loving, even in the most stressful or irritating circumstances—that is—except when we get the grumpies.
We both get the grumpies. I've mentioned them before. I get them in the mornings because of my perpetual state of sleep deprivation and my want for coffee, like an addict who needs her fix. Michael gets them at the end of the day when his blood sugar drops below acceptable levels, especially if he misses his daily bagel and whatever else he eats for lunch—or doesn’t. We seem to manage most of the time, however, to bite our tongues or steer clear of the other when the grumpies rear their ugly heads—though that's not guaranteed.
Perchance, in the grip of the grumpies, we should stumble and let out a cantankerous shriek or stream thereof—or more likely an ill-tempered F-bomb—it usually only takes about five minutes with our nose in a circle on the chalkboard for one or both of us to apologize, or grovel. Yes, forgiveness is one of Michael’s greatest virtues, and he’s not bad at apologizing, either. I suppose I can say the same for myself. It's comforting to know that when we need to let off steam—and inevitably one or more of George Carlin's seven words you can't say on television—we don't judge each other. It's just how we survive this crazy circus we call life.
So, we ain't no saints, we're just a couple of loving, cussing, do-si-doing fools.
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| Halloween 2010 photo by Michael Kolster |
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