{Stinky Ham, Man}

I can always tell when life gets too hectic and our schedules start bursting at the seams. My hubby and I start fighting. Well, maybe, fighting isn't the right word. It's more of a blow out, where he lets out all the stuff he's bottled up for months, and then I begin to slowly simmer at his unkind words. 

And simmer. And simmer. And simmer. It's a quiet rage that might scare you, my friends.

One time, we fought about stinky ham. I wish I kidding, but I'm not. So, here's the thing, and maybe not a surprise for those in my inner food circle, but I'm terrible with leftovers. Terrible! Also, I'm super finicky about expiration dates. I don't really think that's a marriage deal breaker unless, of course, you're married to my husband. 

He loathes, hates, absolutely detests that I will push aside older lunch meat for more recently purchased goods. I cannot even stand the thought of sniffing stinky lunch meat, more less tasting it. I feel nauseous just writing this. Gross.

The blowout begins simply. I was at the counter making sandwiches for the kids with new ham, but there was a few slices of old ham straddling some string cheese way back in the fridge. I know because I pushed it back there getting to the new stuff. He realized this, eventually, when he went to make his own lunch and we were almost finished with ours. Things went WAY downhill from here. 

We went from talking about stinky ham (somewhat rationally) to transitioning to how he always gets stuck with the "leftovers" with everything in this family (not so rational and at a louder decibel). He is always last on the priority list. He is always picking up my slack. He is always compromising while I just do whatever I feel like all the time. At one point, I think I actually saw him gag as he stuffed the stinky ham sandwich in his mouth to prove his point. He always has to eat the shitty, stinky ham!!!

It's hard for me to know, quite honestly, how stinky ham translates into not feeling like your a priority in some one's life. It's weird man-talk and I always feel like I can never quite digest it in the moment. But it's heartfelt. Also, incredibly hard to hear. 

Your husband, who you are absolutely wild about (well, on your better days at least), thinks he's at the bottom of the barrel in your life. It saddens me. It really does. I also get frustrated because I feel like I am showing him love in all kinds of way, including his love language of words of affirmation, but apparently I'm missing the mark.

As with any relationship, it helps to remember it dips down with the stinky ham, but it also cycles back up again, if you can hang on tight enough. You just keep working on it. You try not to hold on to the hurt. You move on. You also call your husband every time you are at the grocery store to tell him you love him because you are about to buy new ham you will definitely eat before the stinky ham. This is the cycle of life and love, my friends. There is a lesson in all things.

P.S. I really do hate stinky ham. True story.

{Scent Blowing Box}

This is my Christmas box. It's my hubby's unique creation made with love and lots of hours. It holds my two candles that I always burn from my favorite candle shop, 5B and Co., in Weston, Mo., with a hole in the middle for a scent-blowing fan. I, of course, can't feel the fan, but my husband assures me it's the gem of the whole project. I'm not so sure.

The top also slides off at the side, so I can place my matches and wick dipper securely inside. It's sealed pretty tight, so unless I bulk up on muscles in the new year, I doubt I'll be able to open it by myself. This is fine with me because the wires to the fan got tangled both times my husband removed the top to show me all the amazing things inside.

Do I love it? Well, I definitely love the idea of it. A person who loves me enough to try to make the perfect gift knowing his percentage of failure is really high. He does it anyway despite my lack of trust, negative comments (even in the blog-a-sphere), or irritation at his gift-giving history. I'm not sure I deserve that kind of love with my current Christmas attitude, but I feel honored that he keeps on loving me amid the beautiful peaks and hurtful valleys of our life. That's the really special part. The box is just scent-blowing fluff on the mantelpiece.

{One Perfect Gift}

My hubby is a great guy. Unfortunately, he's a terrible gift giver. I only mention this because Christmas is coming and, against my better judgment, he's convinced me we should bring back the tradition of giving each other gifts. I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret this.

Last Saturday, I came home from running myself ragged looking for his perfect gift and he was sawing wood in our living room (yes, in our living room, but I don't have time to even touch on that emotional hot button). He has cut, sanded and bolted a medium-size box together with a lid that slides off the top. Inside is a fan, secured with wires from one of our kid's remote-controlled cars. He says it will be my one perfect gift this Christmas. All I can think about is why anyone would need a fan inside a closed box. It's ridiculous and exactly my husband.

I still remember the first Christmas gift he ever gave me. We had been dating six months and it was our first official gift exchange. I opened the box to the largest size jeans I had ever seen with BOSS written down the side of the leg and a matching bright yellow shiny top. It, too, carried the word BOSS across it. It left me speechless. I later asked if he would mind if I took it back to the store to exchange it for something more my style. He let me, reluctantly, and he still mentions to this day that I exchange all his great gifts.

Oh, I wish that were the case. I was not able to take back the large frog figurine that shot water out of it's mouth while croaking nor the 20 miniature cactuses planted in the heaviest pot ever known to man. I kept those, but each time I passed them in the house I asked myself the same silent question---does he know anything about me? How is it that we've been together 15 years and he seems utterly clueless about my tastes, interests and wants?

That's why, a few years ago, I suggested we just focus on gifts for the kids and forgo our personal exchange. In some ways, he seemed relieved. I always thought he was relieved, however, because he didn't have to brave the stores to find a last-minute gift for me. I'm starting to wonder if he felt relief because he no longer had to carry the burden of my major expectations. I didn't want an expensive gift, or a hard to find gift, or an off-the-wall gift, but I did expect something even more difficult from him. A perfect gift that said he knew the very essence of my soul. Somewhat selfish and certainly unattainable, huh?

Since I've come to that revelation this week, it's been a lot easier to look at all the parts of my unfinished Christmas box scattered across the kitchen table. Frustration at the loss of a $50 "perfect" gift has been replaced with love and understanding for the unselfish heart of the maker. It's a big ole' mess, but it's mine. He's a big ole' mess, but he's mine, too. While I'm still not sure what this fan in a box is going to turn out to be, maybe my hubby is finally right about this one. It will be my one perfect gift this Christmas.

Sweet Nothings in My Ear

My husband is a talker. From the minute I arrive home, he's talking about some random part of his day, like the crazy lady that cut him off in traffic or this hysterical joke he heard on the radio. He is so passionate when he speaks, too, as if this is the only thing in the world he wants to be doing---talking to me.

Most of the time (and this will sound terrible, I know), I just tune him out. I'm busy getting chores started, or supper ready, or homework done. Kids are circling me like vultures. He plants himself next to me in the kitchen, or wherever I might be, and keeps going on and on with his stories. I occasionally hear something of interest and insert a thoughtful question that sends him into another half-hour monologue. Noise, and more noise, always in my ear.

My husband has now been gone for four days on a mission trip. There is no cell phone coverage where he is working, only heat and years of oppression. It's been the longest span we have ever gone without talking in our 14 year relationship. We have four more days to go. On the first evening, I was so giddy with the silence that I sat on the couch with no television, radio or computer to distract me. Only the candles buzzed slightly around me as I caught up on all my celebrity gossip. The change felt miraculous.

It's gone downhill since then. I miss my husband something fierce in almost a panicked kind of way, as if this stretch of silence is permanent instead of just a week in our lives. I never would have expected that I would miss his endless banter, or his dirty socks under the coffee table, or his looks of pure mischief before he goes chasing after our kids. I miss the noise. I miss his chaotic energy. I miss, sadly enough, the flawed man. He makes our house a home.

That's the really screwed up part about life, I think. No, correct that. That's the really screwed up part about people. We want we don't have, but then when we get it, IF we finally get it, we often want it to go back to the way it was. We hurt others, we even hurt ourselves, in search of something better. Turns out, it was pretty damn good right here.