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 "Today's a big day," Jon said excitedly. It was a Saturday morning -- November 25, 2007, to be exact. We were sitting at my kitchen table eating breakfast, and we had nothing special on the agenda as far as I knew. What I didn't know is that his statement would be my only hint that he would propose later that night. I stared at him quizzically in between forkfuls of my muffin, wondering what he meant. Our two year anniversary wasn't until the following week. I was going to be in San Jose, Calif., on a business trip, though, so I could see him wanting to celebrate early. "Well, you know, this is the first day off that we've both had in weeks," he said quickly, covering his tracks. "I'm just really looking forward to spending the entire day with you." I smiled. "Me, too." "So what do you want to do today, anyway?" he asked, noticeably a little more fidgety than usual. "Your choice. Anything you want." I shrugged and asked, "Feel like watching a movie?" He seemed relaxed by the idea and we spent the next 20 minutes cleaning up from breakfast and debating whether we should go to the video store to rent something, or choose something from our repertoire that we hadn't seen in a while. I'm not quite sure how, but we settled on "The 'Burbs," which in Jon's opinion is "The best Tom Hanks movie on Earth." I hadn't seen it yet or I would've strongly disagreed and pushed a little harder for something else. Not that I didn't like the movie, it just wasn't my favorite. I still ask him why we watched that crappy film the day he proposed. I jokingly say it "marred something that I would otherwise recall so fondly." But Jon contends it was one of his favorite parts, sitting in our pajamas on the couch, wrapped up in blankets watching "The best Tom Hanks movie on Earth." It's very Jon, so it makes me love it, too. I vividly remember him smiling during the movie and announcing "This is so greaaat" every half-hour or so. Afterward, we watched television for awhile and I brought out some munchies: cheese and crackers, deli ham, honey mustard and purple grapes. After awhile, he asked if he could take me out to dinner. I was thrilled at the idea. "I'll just run home and get ready," he said. "You do the same and I'll be back to pick you up in an hour." "But you have clothes here," I protested as cute as I possibly could. I didn't want him to go. "I thought we were going to spend the entire day together." "Just trust me," he said. By the time he returned, I was showered, dressed and sitting on the floor styling my hair using the big mirror in my living room. I heard the door open and close. He fidgeted downstairs with something crinkly sounding, then ran into the kitchen, yelling hello. A few minutes later, he came in to greet me wearing a suit and tie and holding two glasses of Lambrusco, my favorite red wine. "Wowww, you look great!" I said. Fortunately, I had put on my little black dress. He reached out for my hand, pulled me up from the floor, then handed me one of the two glasses. "What is all this?" I asked. "Can't a guy just do something special for his girlfriend?" he asked. "I got you something, wait right there." With that, he sort of ran/skidded along the wood floors into the kitchen. He came back with a present. "Seriously, what is all this!" I demanded. "Happy two years," he said, handing me the little gift bag. "I got you the most beautiful flowers, but I forgot them at home in the fridge." I giggled and sat on the ottoman to open my gift. "I'm sure they're lovely," I said. "But I didn't think we were going to celebrate until I got back from California! I didn't get you anything yet." "I know," he said. "I just couldn't wait." For some reason, I was feeling nervous. He didn't seem like himself and his mood was rubbing off on me. I reached in to open the card and he nearly grabbed it out of my hands. "Read that last," he said. I opened the package to find the next "Sex in the City" series to add to my collection. He knew I was a junkie for that show and I was thrilled. I thanked him a million times. "Now read the card," he reminded me. It was a picture of two tiny trees leaning towards each other. He had written the words "me" and "you" above them. The card read: I love you just the way you are ... willing to put up with me. He signed it and wrote "I usually write a book in the cards I give you, but this time I think I'll just say it." I looked up to see him on one knee in front of me. My hands automatically flew up to cover my mouth and I tried not to faint out of pure shock. He said some of the most romantic and thoughtful things, but I honestly couldn't tell you any of them. I was too overwhelmed to concentrate. At one point, he got so teary that I didn't think he could finish. So I hugged him and said he didn't have to say anything, that I understood. "I have to get through this!" he protested, laughing, and finally produced a gorgeous diamond ring from his pocket and asked "Would you do me the honor of spending the rest of your life with me?" Unable to speak, I just nodded. We both erupted into nervous laughter and he slid the ring on my finger after asking which one it was supposed to go on. The next 20 minutes was a blur. I had a million questions as to how long he had been planning it, when he knew he was going to ask, when he got the ring (which absolutely took my breath away -- it was perfect and exactly what I would've picked out for myself). I didn't even want to go out to dinner. I just wanted to spend the rest of the day with each other. Then he told me he had made reservations at my favorite restaurant, and I was sold. It's this beautiful little granary not too far from my apartment that's been transformed into a fancy restaurant. We ordered wine, appetizers, two decadent meals and two even more decadent desserts. Throughout the entire meal, we whispered "We're engaged." When we got home, we called our families to share the good news. Everyone was thrilled for us. Afterward, following in a tradition set by Jon's parents, we got a piece of paper, wrote the date on it and signed our names on the bottom. We put it in the bottle and displayed it above the kitchen cabinets. I fell asleep, as always, not knowing what the road ahead would bring, but I was happy knowing Jon would be a big part of it. |
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This time of year, I always find myself wishing that my wallet was as big as my heart. But without much expendable income, I didn't think it was possible to make a difference during the season of giving. Sure, I try to do my part by dropping change into those familiar red buckets stationed outside shopping centers, and I donate a dollar here and there to charitable organizations when a grocery store or post office can add it to my bill, but so what? How much good does that do? This year the tug to help others was overwhelming. Probably because for the first time in my life, I have everything I need and I know it. My friends and the money for an appartment. We can afford to put food on the table. And although heating bills aren't the easiest, we manage. So when I took stock of what I had to offer, even though I came up short on the financial end, I realized that I did have some time to spare. So I decided to bake one less batch of cookies and put off the laundry for another day in order to volunteer for a few hours. After giving it a lot of thought, I swallowed my nerves and walked into the Salvation Army's Worship and Service Center earlier this week. The building was dark, and I resisted the urge to turn around, instead stumbling upon a few women preparing food in a kitchen. One happened to be Doris who runs the center with her husband, Larry. I asked if she needed any assistance and, much to my delight, she took me up on the offer. While exchanging small talk, she led me around a corner and into a large gymnasium that easily could've doubled as a toy store. I lost my breath at the sight of it all. The gifts were arranged on cafeteria-style tables shaped in a horseshoe. In front of each table from left to right was a numeric sign in ascending order: 0-2, 3-5, 6-8, 9-12, 13-16. Doris explained that the signs indicated appropriate toys for each age group, but in the hustle and bustle of getting everything ready, some weren't in the correct category. So I spent the rest of the afternoon moving things like Dora games from the teen table to the toddler pile and placing the PG-13 movies where they belonged. To be honest, I left feeling like I hadn't done anything. And because of that, a cloud crept into my chest as I abandoned the task to head to work. Not wanting to leave without saying goodbye, I stopped into Doris' office to thank her for the opportunity. "I didn't do much, but I sorted through all of the board games, video games and DVDs," I said. Just then, she uttered a few words and everything suddenly made sense. "I know it doesn't seem like much, but believe me, it was a big help. That's one less thing we'll have to do tonight. Thank you." I guess I needed to hear it from a woman whose entire life is dedicated to generosity and selflessness. Although she invited me back the next day to watch as appreciative parents selected toys for their children, I knew I wouldn't go. I didn't need see the grand gesture. Now I know that every little bit helps. Even a few coins here and there add up to a lot of change. |
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Paying for heat seems so wrong for some reason. It's like pumping dollar bills into the air. And, yet, when the temperature is cold enough outside to freeze slightly damp hair on the walk from your house to your car, there isn't anything I'd rather be spending money on. I like my fingers to stay their normal skin color rather than a blood-deprived shade of blue, thank you. But last week we got our first real heating bill for our new house. Sometime at the end of October, we reluctantly turned on the thermostat permanently and crossed our fingers that it wouldn't break our budget. Thinking that it would save us money, we set it at a nipple-raising 58 degrees at night knowing we would be warm under our gigantic down comforter. During the day, we raised it to about 65 degrees -- still fairly chilly, but nothing a thick sweater and constant motion couldn't combat. Then we got the November bill which had a whopping account balance of $1,198.05. If I hadn't been shocked into immobility, I think I would've vomited all over it. That's more than our monthly mortgage. Much more. The worst part is that we hadn't even been comfortable. We had been suffering, actually. When it came right down to it, our house was cold. Almost see-your-breath cold. Was a neighbor syphoning off our heat source and running up our bill? Did they have a tropical oasis somewhere on our wallet? Because, if so, they at least could've invited us over to have a fruity drink with an umbrella in it. I love drinks with umbrellas. I've never had one for $1,198.05, but I'm pretty sure it would've lessened the blow somehow. Instead of panicking, I went to my happy place where heat is free and bountiful. I think something snapped in my brain when I opened that bill, which allowed me to pretend it didn't happen. In fact, I repressed the memory so well that I actually turned up the heat to a warmer setting. Hell, if we were going to be paying more than a grand to heat our house every month, we should at least be comfortable, right? When Jon got home, I mentioned it in passing. As in: "So I watched a movie today and Tobin got all hopped up as usual when a character rang the doorbell. It took 45 minutes for him to realize that no one was here. ... Oh, and those new fruit parfait cups we got are awesome! ... By the way, the heating bill is a little over a thousand dollars. ... Oh yeah, and remember the lantern we thought was stolen off our front porch? Ben and Val took it as a joke. I saw it on their porch when I took Tobin on a walk so I stole it back. Now they'll have to re-steal it again." Unfortunately, he siphoned out the correct information from my mouth diarrhea. "OUR HEATING BILL IS WHAT?!" "Oh that. Yeah, I'm ignoring it in the hopes that it will go away. You should try it. It's great." "Where is it?" "What?" "The bill." "You mean the lies? Where is the paper with all the lies on it? That's on the table in the kitchen." Fortunately, Jon looked at the statement more closely to see that it was an estimated bill, not an actual meter reading. I'm not sure how they estimated that our heat use shot up from the bottom of their little grid to exploding off the top, but there it was in capital letters, THIS IS AN ESTIMATED BILL. The next morning, Jon called the gas company and complained. The operator asked him to give her the actual numbers and said we would receive a readjusted bill in the next three to five business days. I was practically shaking when it came. I had fears that it would be higher than before. That if we had kept our mouth shut and paid, we would've saved money. Somehow I managed to ignore the desire to shove the entire thing into the garbage disposal and shred it into pulp. And I'm glad I did. The new account balance was $109.41. It felt like winning the lottery. Tobin and I did a lame I'm-so-happy-we-can-afford-to-heat-the-h "How could they have screwed it up so badly?" "I don't know." "I mean, that's like confusing a compact car with a garbage truck." "Yes. It's exactly like that. ... But this whole thing taught me a valuable lesson." "Oh yeah?" "Yup. If you ignore your problems, they magically fix themselves." |
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We have food! Glorious, tasty, body-sustaining food! Yes, I realize that I live in the most gluttonous country on the planet and can find loads of food at any grocery store. But when your schedule has been so hectic that you haven't actually had time to go, your fridge becomes so empty that you actually notice how nasty the shelves are, shrug and decide to clean it. Our fridge has been about two-weeks overdue for restocking. We didn't worry about filling it before Thanksgiving because we knew we'd be out of town for a few days. And this week was sort of a blur. With all the laundry from the weekend, the Christmas light chaos and extra demands at work, Jon and I just never got around to it. We kept trying to figure out when we would have time and honestly couldn't come up with even one free hour. So instead, we scavenged. When the milk ran out, I made just-add-water pancakes. When the syrup ran out, I used jelly. When the batter ran out, I whipped up some ghetto trail mix with Cheerios, craisens and almonds. When the bread ran out, I nuked a veggie burger, doused it in ketchup and used a fork. When the burger box was empty, I nuked the frozen enchiladas. When the single entrees ran out, I whipped up some mac and cheese using water. Why? Because the milk was still out. Things got beyond barren. A tumbleweed rolling through our fridge would've been an improvement. I probably would've nuked it and doused it in ketchup. And the only reason we still had that is because those gallon drums of condiments Heinz sells thankfully seem to last a lifetime. Even if you're like me and like burger with your ketchup. Right before Jon finally was able to go for the store for us late Saturday afternoon after work, even though he desperately wanted to rest and not go anywhere, we took stock of what food remained. We had a few bottles of salad dressing, ketchup, a withered bag of baby carrots and our trusty Brita pitcher. And the cabinets weren't much better. So when I came home from work Saturday night knowing that Jon went to the store, I flung open the fridge and my eyes practically bulged out of my head. WHAT WILL I EAT FIRST? Strangely, I decided to make some frozen juice. I guess I had been parched for juice because I gulped down practically the entire pitcher. And tonight? Right this very second? The smell of Stoffer's mac and cheese is wafting upstairs from the kitchen. Jon and I are celebrating our bounty the only way we know how: an intense caloric breakfast.
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What is it about vending machines that practically beckons people to them? Is it the artificial light that beams out from the inside as if it's a glow from the heavens? Is it the hum of the device that seems to constantly whisper the Buddhist relaxation technique "Om?" Is it the machine's ability to magically count your money, ensuring that you don't have to do any thinking at all? After conducting some stealthy, unofficial research of my co-workers, I've decided that it's all of those things combined with the promise of one of the most calorie-laden (read: delicious) snacks imaginable for the low, low price of pocket change (read: don't bother dusting the lint off). As someone who's never caved to the lure of the vending machine, the daily ritual eluded me. I watched as my co-workers pumped fistfuls of change into a little slot day after day, sometimes at scheduled intervals throughout their shift. After awhile, I could practically see the thought bubble above their head, "Wait until 4 o'clock ... just a few more minutes ... you can hold out ... just wait until 4 o'clock ... okaaaay ... NOW!" When the clock struck, they'd make like Cinderella and scramble to feed their sugar or caffeine fix before they morphed into a pumpkin or a mouse or an angry gargoyle or something. I decided to discuss my findings with the Vending King: my boyfriend, Jon. "It's like you have a million choices of snacks displayed all nice and organized and it costs practically nothing," Jon explained. "And each coin interval gets you something a little bit better than the last one, so sometimes you have to scrounge around for another dime or nickel, but who's not going to give you a nickel? So, unless you're complete scum, you can pretty much always get what you want." "So you should always be nice to people because they may loan you a nickel so you can upgrade from a bag of Skittles to a Snickers bar?" I asked. "Exactly," he said. Confused by my latest findings, I knew the only thing left to do was to experience the vending machine firsthand. So, one afternoon, when a hunger pang struck, I ditched my usual bag of carrots and made my way to the break room. Equipped with a jumble of coins, I scanned through my options. I'd had most of the contents at one point or another -- M&Ms, Corn Chips, Winterfresh gum -- so what's the big deal? In fact, a list of downsides jumped into my head. I have no idea how long some of those pre-packaged snacks have been sitting in there. And, although the contents appear cheap, I'm pretty sure they're less expensive at a grocery store. And if I pick a delicate bag of chips on the top row, they have to plummet four feet, potentially smashing any remaining full pieces into a dust of salt and grease. Hmm ... but what's that? Take 5? Never heard of it. I scanned the side of the wrapper to read the contents. I made out "chocolate-covered pretzel with peanut butt__, caramel and peanuts." The metal coil covered up what I hoped read "butter." Feeling adventurous, I went for it. Afterall, it was only a 65 cent investment. Just to try and confuse the machine, I put in 75 cents instead of the exact change. Apparently it did better in grade school math than I did because I thought it screwed up when I got two nickels back. Then I realized I was an idiot. Within seconds, I had a chocolately snack that did have peanut butter. And it was absolutely fabulous. I inhaled it so fast that I unknowingly returned to my desk with a smudge of chocolate on my face. (And the only reason I found out is because I returned to the vending machine a few hours later and noticed the spot in my reflection on the glass.) Then I got defensive. So what? So what if I found a new chocolatey treat that I enjoy? It only costs 65 cents! And so what if it has a trillion calories? I saved calories by not eating my carrots! I may not completely understand the lure of the machine -- and I certainly wasn't strong enough to overcome it -- but one thing's for sure: I will never question anyone's need to Take 5 for a vending snack ever again.
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I knew I was in trouble when my boyfriend Jon announced that he wanted one of those giant inflatable snow globes for the roof of his house. Especially because he immediately followed up with, "And maybe we can ask the fire department to borrow their bucket truck to get lights on the three-story pine tree out back. It's too bad we have a fence or they could just drive on the lawn. It might get a little tricky, but it'll look fantastic." Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of Christmas. But Jon thinks he's Kris Kringle. He talks about the holiday year-round, would willingly go without food if it came between that and getting someone a present, and won't settle for a tree unless it's so big it needs to be anchored to the wall. The conversation came up when we noticed a neighbor stringing lights around her doorway. " I guess I'm helping you with your lights this year. I can't wait to wrap garland around the porch," I said. "That'll look so pretty." "And don't forget up the poles and down the handrails," he added. "And draped around the roofline. With lights and bows." "WHAT?" "Yeah, and we need blinking colored lights for the bushes in front and around the side. And I can't decide on which snow globe to get for the roof. There's the Steelers one, the rotating carousel one, and I think someone said they saw one with Charlie Brown somewhere." Lets just say that it didn't exactly match the image in my head. I envisioned a simple garland wrapped around the porch railing, a few white lights on the four bushes out front and a pretty wreath for the door. With a dusting of snow, his house would be fit for the pages of any home and garden magazine. But try as I might to discuss the situation calmly, it came out sounding more like, "NO SNOW GLOBE!" First of all, Jon is quite accident-prone. So the idea of him hanging out a window on the second floor to install something on the roof just doesn't sit well with me. And as for stringing garland and lights around every available surface without taking gravity into account? I know he would get angry when nothing was cooperating and then break out the staple gun and duct tape. His porch would end up mostly silver with tufts of green sticking out at random angles. And after all the staples, maybe two or three lights would work -- if he managed not to electrocute himself. In my haste to prevent that from happening, I offered him a deal. "We can get colored lights and string garland anywhere it cooperates. But nothing on the roof or anything that requires a bucket truck." After mulling it over for a few minutes, he shook on it. "I'm so glad your offer didn't mention anything to do with the tree," he added with a smirk. "But I promise, I won't drill into the hardwood floor, just the walls." Maybe I should've thought everything through a little more thoroughly.
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