Someone from Wells Fargo visits my blog every now and then, and whenever I see the "wellsfargo.com" domain in my Sitemeter list, I can't help singing in my head, "O-ho the Wells Fargo wagon is a-comin' down the street oh please let it be for me!"
Except it's not even really me singing this musical gem in my mind; it's the voice of little red-headed, lispy Opie Cunningham.
This doesn't happen when I pass any of the many Wells Fargo billboards or banking branches located around the Twin Cities, so I have no idea why the domain in my site hits list would have such a radically different effect.
In any case, hello, whoever you are. Thanks for reading, and thanks for keeping American musical theater alive in my heart.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Things I found while digging up 56 years worth of weeds, random plants, and debris in the bed alongside my house
- Two non-dairy whipped topping containers (with the bottoms cut out)
- A very old and pliable plastic swizzle stick
- Numerous nails, various sizes
- What appeared to be about half of the paint chips that I painstakingly scraped off my house last summer before repainting
- Several large and frighteningly ugly bugs
- A power line
- A fossilized pocketknife (with the rusted knife extended)
- A chicken bone (or, what I hope was a chicken bone)
- More ants*
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* Gah!! Just when I think they're gone, they start moving closer to my house!
Thursday, June 08, 2006
A New Hope is actually exactly what I need
I really can't believe I'm pulling out a Star Wars reference here... there are many things about which I am a dork (see previous entry for several examples), but Star Wars fanaticism is not one of them. Still, a few minutes ago, it actually occurred to me to wish Obi-Wan would pop in for a visit and pull a Jedi mind trick on me. Except instead of "These are not the droids you're looking for," I'd want him to say, "You don't want seconds on birthday treats" or "No thanks; no more sugar for you."
I do realize, of course, that just developing some willpower of my own would be a whole lot easier than expecting a Jedi Knight to come and solve this problem for me. But that wouldn't be nearly as interesting.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go double-over in pain as the custard-filled donut I had at 10:00, the chocolate chip muffin and vanilla latte I had at 11:00, and the leftover pizza I had at 2:00 all continue the battle they've apparently waged upon each other inside my colon. I'm pretty sure there are mini-lightsabers involved. And a whole lot of kicking and jumping. Ugh.
I really should eat a vegetable or something once in a while.
I do realize, of course, that just developing some willpower of my own would be a whole lot easier than expecting a Jedi Knight to come and solve this problem for me. But that wouldn't be nearly as interesting.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go double-over in pain as the custard-filled donut I had at 10:00, the chocolate chip muffin and vanilla latte I had at 11:00, and the leftover pizza I had at 2:00 all continue the battle they've apparently waged upon each other inside my colon. I'm pretty sure there are mini-lightsabers involved. And a whole lot of kicking and jumping. Ugh.
I really should eat a vegetable or something once in a while.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
What looks like crazy on an ordinary day*
The other day, Maliavale told an amusing story about reprimanding her comforter**, and I got the feeling she was maybe a little concerned that this behavior might call her sanity into question. I would like to reassure her that talking to inanimate objects is entirely normal, particularly when one lives alone, but it occurred to me that I might not actually be the best judge of what is "normal."
My mother used to say that it's OK to talk to yourself, as long as you don't answer. Well, I both talk and answer all the time. Sometimes I even go so far as to have a stern back-and-forth discussion between my logical, rational self and my stubborn, denial-ridden self. It's only one of many things that probably make me at least borderline deranged. There are plenty of others, I'm sure.
Let's start with my clocks. My bedroom clock is, for some reason, in a separate time zone from the rest of the house. This is, of course, a bizarre little mind game, but it's not the one you think it is. I've never understood people who set their alarm clock ahead in order to shock themselves into getting up on time. This, to me, is a flawed plan that would backfire immediately: if I know the clock is fast, why would I forget that and think I'm running late? No, the mind game I've got going has more to do with tricking myself into thinking it's later than it is in an attempt to make getting up very early seem a little less painful. It's something I started several years ago when I used to set my alarm for 5:50 a.m. I couldn't possibly imagine getting up when the hour was still five, but if the clock said 6:10, somehow it seemed a bit more reasonable. I don't get up nearly that early anymore; somewhere along the way, I decided that rushing to my desk thirty seconds before 8:00 is just fine and also that bringing my breakfast with me to work can shave ten minutes off my routine and help avoid the need for a mid-morning snack (or, in Hobbit terms, "second breakfast" or "elevensies"). I still keep the clock set ahead, though, for no reason but simple habit. It baffled and annoyed my ex-boyfriend no end (nearly every time he stayed over, he'd say, "Wait; that clock's on 'Stef time.' What time is it really?"), and it forces me to do some weird math whenever I have to set my alarm for anything other than my usual work time. I know I need to get up by around 6:48 on my bedroom clock in order to be out the door by 7:20 on my kitchen clock, but since I never remember exactly how many minutes fast my bedroom clock is, I can't just recalculate my "getting ready" window from that time. Plus there's the fact that I add a "snooze buffer" ahead of the time I really need to get up, since I can't ever just get out of bed the first minute I'm woken. I'm well aware that I'm making the whole waking-up process entirely more complicated than it needs to be, but see? Crazy. That's exactly my point.
Then there are the weird obsessive-compulsive behaviors I've for some reason developed over the years... like the need to check under my bed (for what? monsters? intruders? that creepy undead baby with the scalpel in Pet Sematary?) before I can get in it at night, or the compulsion to press and re-press the switch for my headlights to verify that they are, in fact, on. At restaurants, I look inside the straw after pulling the wrapper off, to make sure no paper bits ended up inside. (Why?? Has that happened to me before? Would it be so awful and unpleasant if I ever did suck up a small, soggy fragment of paper with my drink? Where does this insanity come from??) And my computer... Look around my cluttered desk and you'd never guess that any semblance of order or organization was important to me, and yet, I need the button for my open Outlook window to be the left-most one on the taskbar that runs along the bottom of the screen. I have, on more than one occasion, actually closed all other open applications and reopened Outlook first, just to get that button back where it's supposed to be. It's lunacy, I know. Stop looking at me that way. I'm no Melvin Udall just yet; I don't flip the light switch on and off or turn and re-turn the lock a systematic number of times before I can feel at ease, but I do realize I may be walking a fine line here. Suddenly it occurs to me that I shouldn't be so hard on the good friend of mine who was honestly bothered that the clocks on her microwave and oven were two different colors. I thought she was loony, but hey--look at me. (In the words of Phoebe Buffay, "Hello, Pot? This is Kettle. You know what? You're black.")
Have I frightened you sufficiently yet, or should I start recounting some of the absurd and improbable theories I've cooked up in my head over the years? Let's see... there was the house near my old apartment that I was convinced was inhabited by vampires, because it had not one single window visible from any vantage point at street level. Since the back of the house was lake-facing, I truly hope that side was not windowless as well, but I wasn't about to trespass and investigate when doing so meant risking a vampire encounter. I'm also convinced that certain seemingly economically unsound businesses surely must be mob fronts... like the "Polka Dot Square Dance Shop" in a neighboring suburb and a place in my college town that sells, supposedly, nothing but seat covers. Let's not even talk about the time I was convinced the ghost of my home's former owner was stealing (or at least hiding) my shoes, because to talk about that would be to again entertain the possibility that I may actually have a ghost in my house, and I don't have to be crazy to be afraid of that.
And finally, there are the things that come out of my mouth at times... things that, if they don't question my sanity, at least prove I'm a tremendous dork on the level of Anthony Michael Hall circa Sixteen Candles. Thankfully, most are things I catch myself saying only when I'm alone (since, again, talking to myself is routine) and not things I ever say out loud to another human. For example, at least twice a week, as I return from work and start thinking about dinner, I catch myself exclaiming, "I'm Starvin' Marvin!" At least it's not a line I use when dining out in public, but seriously, who says that in real-life?
Um, yeah... all these one-date guys I've found fault with due to some weird social foible? Maybe I should seriously re-think which one of us is the freak.
------------------------------------------------
* This post title is actually the name of a book I once read--a book that, incidentally, has nothing to do with any of the insanity I'm outlining here.
** This is neither here nor there and of interest to absolutely no one but me, but I love that the direct page number link on that post is actually my birthday (3/18). :-)
My mother used to say that it's OK to talk to yourself, as long as you don't answer. Well, I both talk and answer all the time. Sometimes I even go so far as to have a stern back-and-forth discussion between my logical, rational self and my stubborn, denial-ridden self. It's only one of many things that probably make me at least borderline deranged. There are plenty of others, I'm sure.
Let's start with my clocks. My bedroom clock is, for some reason, in a separate time zone from the rest of the house. This is, of course, a bizarre little mind game, but it's not the one you think it is. I've never understood people who set their alarm clock ahead in order to shock themselves into getting up on time. This, to me, is a flawed plan that would backfire immediately: if I know the clock is fast, why would I forget that and think I'm running late? No, the mind game I've got going has more to do with tricking myself into thinking it's later than it is in an attempt to make getting up very early seem a little less painful. It's something I started several years ago when I used to set my alarm for 5:50 a.m. I couldn't possibly imagine getting up when the hour was still five, but if the clock said 6:10, somehow it seemed a bit more reasonable. I don't get up nearly that early anymore; somewhere along the way, I decided that rushing to my desk thirty seconds before 8:00 is just fine and also that bringing my breakfast with me to work can shave ten minutes off my routine and help avoid the need for a mid-morning snack (or, in Hobbit terms, "second breakfast" or "elevensies"). I still keep the clock set ahead, though, for no reason but simple habit. It baffled and annoyed my ex-boyfriend no end (nearly every time he stayed over, he'd say, "Wait; that clock's on 'Stef time.' What time is it really?"), and it forces me to do some weird math whenever I have to set my alarm for anything other than my usual work time. I know I need to get up by around 6:48 on my bedroom clock in order to be out the door by 7:20 on my kitchen clock, but since I never remember exactly how many minutes fast my bedroom clock is, I can't just recalculate my "getting ready" window from that time. Plus there's the fact that I add a "snooze buffer" ahead of the time I really need to get up, since I can't ever just get out of bed the first minute I'm woken. I'm well aware that I'm making the whole waking-up process entirely more complicated than it needs to be, but see? Crazy. That's exactly my point.
Then there are the weird obsessive-compulsive behaviors I've for some reason developed over the years... like the need to check under my bed (for what? monsters? intruders? that creepy undead baby with the scalpel in Pet Sematary?) before I can get in it at night, or the compulsion to press and re-press the switch for my headlights to verify that they are, in fact, on. At restaurants, I look inside the straw after pulling the wrapper off, to make sure no paper bits ended up inside. (Why?? Has that happened to me before? Would it be so awful and unpleasant if I ever did suck up a small, soggy fragment of paper with my drink? Where does this insanity come from??) And my computer... Look around my cluttered desk and you'd never guess that any semblance of order or organization was important to me, and yet, I need the button for my open Outlook window to be the left-most one on the taskbar that runs along the bottom of the screen. I have, on more than one occasion, actually closed all other open applications and reopened Outlook first, just to get that button back where it's supposed to be. It's lunacy, I know. Stop looking at me that way. I'm no Melvin Udall just yet; I don't flip the light switch on and off or turn and re-turn the lock a systematic number of times before I can feel at ease, but I do realize I may be walking a fine line here. Suddenly it occurs to me that I shouldn't be so hard on the good friend of mine who was honestly bothered that the clocks on her microwave and oven were two different colors. I thought she was loony, but hey--look at me. (In the words of Phoebe Buffay, "Hello, Pot? This is Kettle. You know what? You're black.")
Have I frightened you sufficiently yet, or should I start recounting some of the absurd and improbable theories I've cooked up in my head over the years? Let's see... there was the house near my old apartment that I was convinced was inhabited by vampires, because it had not one single window visible from any vantage point at street level. Since the back of the house was lake-facing, I truly hope that side was not windowless as well, but I wasn't about to trespass and investigate when doing so meant risking a vampire encounter. I'm also convinced that certain seemingly economically unsound businesses surely must be mob fronts... like the "Polka Dot Square Dance Shop" in a neighboring suburb and a place in my college town that sells, supposedly, nothing but seat covers. Let's not even talk about the time I was convinced the ghost of my home's former owner was stealing (or at least hiding) my shoes, because to talk about that would be to again entertain the possibility that I may actually have a ghost in my house, and I don't have to be crazy to be afraid of that.
And finally, there are the things that come out of my mouth at times... things that, if they don't question my sanity, at least prove I'm a tremendous dork on the level of Anthony Michael Hall circa Sixteen Candles. Thankfully, most are things I catch myself saying only when I'm alone (since, again, talking to myself is routine) and not things I ever say out loud to another human. For example, at least twice a week, as I return from work and start thinking about dinner, I catch myself exclaiming, "I'm Starvin' Marvin!" At least it's not a line I use when dining out in public, but seriously, who says that in real-life?
Um, yeah... all these one-date guys I've found fault with due to some weird social foible? Maybe I should seriously re-think which one of us is the freak.
------------------------------------------------
* This post title is actually the name of a book I once read--a book that, incidentally, has nothing to do with any of the insanity I'm outlining here.
** This is neither here nor there and of interest to absolutely no one but me, but I love that the direct page number link on that post is actually my birthday (3/18). :-)
Saturday, June 03, 2006
I wish I could come up with a title for this without resorting to that "I scream; you scream" line...
I never intended to become a jaded and bitter old woman and yet, nearly every day, I seem to find some new way to be annoyed with the world or suck the joy out of the most benign or even pleasant thing. Soon I'll be saying, "Puppies? Yeah, they're cute and all, but they're just so needy. And licky. And hyper. And..." Wait. I already do say those things about puppies. Which is really fine, because if I'm to be a proper spinster, I'd be in the market for a cat instead of a dog anyway.
In any case, this is not about puppies. Frankly I'm not sure how I got on that tangent. Perhaps it is heatstroke and exhaustion from all the weeding I did today (or perhaps the two ciders I've already had to unwind from said weeding). Where was I? Oh yes. Cynicism. And not puppies.
My latest clue that I'm becoming a cranky old lady is this. The ice cream truck. Or, more specifically, the job of ice cream truck driver. Years ago, I probably would have thought that this was the perfect job. I would have thought about the near-unending supply of frozen treats just inches away from me at all times. I would have thought of the gracious and happy smiles of sweet and angelic rosy-cheeked children and assumed that their happiness would be contagious.
Now, however? Now I see the poor lady driving that little white van down the streets in my neighborhood, and all I can think is, "If I were her, kill me now." It's not just because if I were an ice cream truck driver, I would quite likely weigh 300 pounds. It's not even because I've taken to inexplicable animosity towards most humans between the ages of five and twenty-five. No, mainly, I think, it's the music. I realize they can't install a full calliope in the back of every Good Humor van, but the tinny midi files piped out of the loudspeaker really have to get a bit old. Hearing "Turkey in the Straw" or "When the Saints Come Marching In" in that format (or, any format, really) over and over would surely be enough for me to drive a sharpened ice cream stick straight through my eardrums. Tonight, however, I heard something even worse than "Turkey in the Straw" on constant loop. I heard "It's a Small World." Yes, some bright marketeer has chosen to take what is quite possibly the most earworm-inducing song ever recorded and torture ice cream truck drivers and innocent homeowners with it entirely intentionally. File this under one more thing I really do not understand.
In any case, this is not about puppies. Frankly I'm not sure how I got on that tangent. Perhaps it is heatstroke and exhaustion from all the weeding I did today (or perhaps the two ciders I've already had to unwind from said weeding). Where was I? Oh yes. Cynicism. And not puppies.
My latest clue that I'm becoming a cranky old lady is this. The ice cream truck. Or, more specifically, the job of ice cream truck driver. Years ago, I probably would have thought that this was the perfect job. I would have thought about the near-unending supply of frozen treats just inches away from me at all times. I would have thought of the gracious and happy smiles of sweet and angelic rosy-cheeked children and assumed that their happiness would be contagious.
Now, however? Now I see the poor lady driving that little white van down the streets in my neighborhood, and all I can think is, "If I were her, kill me now." It's not just because if I were an ice cream truck driver, I would quite likely weigh 300 pounds. It's not even because I've taken to inexplicable animosity towards most humans between the ages of five and twenty-five. No, mainly, I think, it's the music. I realize they can't install a full calliope in the back of every Good Humor van, but the tinny midi files piped out of the loudspeaker really have to get a bit old. Hearing "Turkey in the Straw" or "When the Saints Come Marching In" in that format (or, any format, really) over and over would surely be enough for me to drive a sharpened ice cream stick straight through my eardrums. Tonight, however, I heard something even worse than "Turkey in the Straw" on constant loop. I heard "It's a Small World." Yes, some bright marketeer has chosen to take what is quite possibly the most earworm-inducing song ever recorded and torture ice cream truck drivers and innocent homeowners with it entirely intentionally. File this under one more thing I really do not understand.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Taking a closer look at the menu
Last week, for the first time in a while now, I found myself wishing my last boyfriend was still around. It was not because I missed him, however, or genuinely thought he should be back in my life. No, it was because my lawn mower was broken, and I didn't want to figure out how to deal with that on my own.
I'm not playing the helpless damsel-in-distress card here and implying that anything mechanical requires a man to handle it, and anything "homey" is a woman's domain. I really am a better feminist than that. It's just that, while there are plenty of homeowner-related tasks I'll freely tackle on my own*, small engine repair is simply not one of them. [I did manage to replace the mower's spark plug with a bit of advice from my neighbor, but beyond that, there wasn't a whole lot I felt comfortable trying.] My ex-boyfriend, on the other hand, while no expert on the matter, either, would at least have given it a go. Not because he's a man, but because he's all sorts of handy and he owns the proper tools and he's confident with trial and error. I have to say, whatever was missing in that relationship, whatever reasons it didn't last, the guy was terribly useful to have around. Not only was he good at fixing things and installing things and figuring things out; he also owned a truck, which means that even if he'd been unable to fix my ailing lawn mower, he would at least have made it easier for me to transport the thing to someone more qualified for repair. On top of that, he liked to cook, so it's not just the traditionally manly things that made him an asset to my life. Frankly, in retrospect, the scales were probably unevenly tipped in that relationship, and I'm really not sure just what it was I brought to the table.
I'm kidding (mostly). That's really not true. My ex-boyfriend was not perfect (that's really not the point), and I can actually think of several things I contributed to his life (and no, I'm not even talking about the dirty stuff).
In any case, I've been thinking a lot lately about which relationships work and why and which ones don't and why. [I'm sure this analysis has nothing to do with my recent dating spree or with my best friend's upcoming wedding or with the various things I've been reading lately. (No, actually it has everything to do with all of those.)] I don't claim to have any solid and universally relevant answers, but I do have some thoughts on what I think works for me.
Romantic or not, I've never been a fan of that famous "You complete me" line. And no, it's not just because it was uttered by the now frighteningly loony Tom Cruise to the insufferably squinty Renee Zellweger. It's because I hate the implication that I might not be a whole person on my own and I'm searching for that man who will fill in the gaps. Still, as I learned from my reliance on my ever-so-handy ex-boyfriend, I can't deny that a supplement to my skill set would quite often be useful. What makes a successful relationship, then (the way I see it, anyway) is a pair of compatibly intersecting life menus.
Apparently life menus are something Amy Krause Rosenthal wrote about, but I'm only slightly familiar with her work, so it's actually something I read about on Wordgirl's site a few weeks ago. (I hope she doesn't mind that I'm piggy-backing off that.) The idea, basically, is that for all of the gifts each person is given--all the skills and talents and desirable traits that prompt jealousy from friends and enemies--we all have negative traits that balance out the list. For example, I'm relatively good with words (much of the time, anyway; that's probably a dangerous claim to make in the midst of a post that seems to be rambling on to nowhere), but I cannot do "restaurant math" without checking and second-guessing and basically giving myself a headache. I can read a map and be a successful navigator, but my internal compass is not particularly reliable. I have tiny, ladylike wrists and relatively toned arms, but I also have this freakish toe thing that I don't want to go into, and... OK, you get the point.
These are not the traits that are particularly relevant to a relationship, of course, but the concept still holds true. We all know that I don't cook, so a guy with that on his life menu will score some extra points with me. As will a guy who can fix things and install things, who takes an interest in investment planning, and who will call the cable or phone company when there's a problem.** In turn, I'll begrudgingly clean the house (sporadically, at least), do the laundry, balance the checkbook (as long as I'm not in a restaurant), and ensure he can use a comma and a semicolon correctly.***
I realize a lot of my focus here is on tasks (or rather, task avoidance), and I surely don't mean to overlook the obvious other benefits of a relationship (love and companionship and all that). But when you've lived alone as long as I have and have been alone responsible for all the many time-consuming duties that come with being a functioning adult and homeowner, it's hard not to consider the truly practical side of partnering up: the welcome division of labor. I'm reminded, suddenly, of the Simpsons episode where Homer runs for Garbage Commissioner on the platform of "Can't someone else do it?" I imagine that one of the very real benefits of having a husband around is the ability to say "Yes, as a matter of fact; someone else can."
Household job-sharing aside, I do think this life menu idea is valid. Recently, I had more than three dates with the same man (remarkable, yes, I know), but despite our many common interests and almost eerie similarities, it sort of fizzled out. I'm not really sure why, but the best explanation I can come up with is that our life menus didn't intersect. I know I'm just looking for a boyfriend/companion at the moment; I don't need or want to get married immediately, but I'm still at a point where I can't help considering the long term. And when I consider the long term with this one, all I can think is, "Sure, we'll never fight about what CD to listen to on road trips, but one of us has to have a sense of direction." Or, "OK, we'll agree on a restaurant with no problem, but one of us should probably cook once in a while." On top of that, he was also a writer, so my occasional prowess with words wasn't even particularly notable to him. Our life menus (the plusses and the negatives) are identical; we need some variety in the mix. After all, no one really wants to date themselves, right? And that's sort of what it felt like with him.
Maybe all of this is just another way of saying that opposites attract. I've been reluctant to subscribe to that theory, because I think it's hard to have a relationship with someone who shares no common interests or who has a fundamentally different set of values, but maybe those are not the sorts of opposites that cliché is about. Maybe it's about finding someone who compensates for the things you lack or encourages you to grow in ways you wouldn't on your own. Maybe it's about choosing someone whose qualities will mesh with yours to make a successful team (much like I try to pick Trivial Pursuit partners who can pick up my slack in the Sports & Leisure category, knowing full well I'll contribute my part on the Entertainment questions). That, to me, is what this life menu concept helps to describe.
Regardless, until I find the elusive guy whose life menu intersects perfectly with mine, I really am quite fine and happy on my own. I worry that perhaps all this talk of dates and searching makes me sound in some way desperate for a relationship, and that’s really not the case at all. Red's recent post titled Sex & the Single Girl really resonated strongly with me, because I feel exactly a lot of the same things she described.**** I'm fiercely independent, and like Red, I often feel like the "lone wolf" who has a harder time figuring out how to make room for someone in my life than figuring out how to live comfortably on my own. I do want to find someone to share my life with, but I'm not in any rush to force it if it's not right. The search for love shouldn't be like a game of musical chairs, where we all go around in circles until the music stops and then grab the nearest seat just so we're not left out. I don't want to feel pressured to be at some other place in my life just because it's where most of the people around me are. Like Lea Thompson as Amanda Jones in Some Kind of Wonderful, who pondered whether it was better to be with someone for the wrong reasons than alone for the right ones, I'm confident that I'd rather be right.
Oh, and my lawn mower? It's fixed now, without any help from a man (except, of course, for the man who I paid to fix it). I don't need an intersecting life menu for that after all.
------------------------------
* I scraped and repainted the exterior of my whole damn house last summer nearly entirely by myself; remember?
** I can't be the only one who hates talking to those people, right? Is it even possible to call with a quick question or problem without being subject to a series of unwanted sales pitches for additional services?
*** OK, I'd be hard pressed to find a man who's really looking for help with his punctuation, but I had to work that in somewhere, don't you think?
**** Seriously, if you haven't read that yet, you really should click that link and do so, because it's extremely well articulated and relevant.
I'm not playing the helpless damsel-in-distress card here and implying that anything mechanical requires a man to handle it, and anything "homey" is a woman's domain. I really am a better feminist than that. It's just that, while there are plenty of homeowner-related tasks I'll freely tackle on my own*, small engine repair is simply not one of them. [I did manage to replace the mower's spark plug with a bit of advice from my neighbor, but beyond that, there wasn't a whole lot I felt comfortable trying.] My ex-boyfriend, on the other hand, while no expert on the matter, either, would at least have given it a go. Not because he's a man, but because he's all sorts of handy and he owns the proper tools and he's confident with trial and error. I have to say, whatever was missing in that relationship, whatever reasons it didn't last, the guy was terribly useful to have around. Not only was he good at fixing things and installing things and figuring things out; he also owned a truck, which means that even if he'd been unable to fix my ailing lawn mower, he would at least have made it easier for me to transport the thing to someone more qualified for repair. On top of that, he liked to cook, so it's not just the traditionally manly things that made him an asset to my life. Frankly, in retrospect, the scales were probably unevenly tipped in that relationship, and I'm really not sure just what it was I brought to the table.
I'm kidding (mostly). That's really not true. My ex-boyfriend was not perfect (that's really not the point), and I can actually think of several things I contributed to his life (and no, I'm not even talking about the dirty stuff).
In any case, I've been thinking a lot lately about which relationships work and why and which ones don't and why. [I'm sure this analysis has nothing to do with my recent dating spree or with my best friend's upcoming wedding or with the various things I've been reading lately. (No, actually it has everything to do with all of those.)] I don't claim to have any solid and universally relevant answers, but I do have some thoughts on what I think works for me.
Romantic or not, I've never been a fan of that famous "You complete me" line. And no, it's not just because it was uttered by the now frighteningly loony Tom Cruise to the insufferably squinty Renee Zellweger. It's because I hate the implication that I might not be a whole person on my own and I'm searching for that man who will fill in the gaps. Still, as I learned from my reliance on my ever-so-handy ex-boyfriend, I can't deny that a supplement to my skill set would quite often be useful. What makes a successful relationship, then (the way I see it, anyway) is a pair of compatibly intersecting life menus.
Apparently life menus are something Amy Krause Rosenthal wrote about, but I'm only slightly familiar with her work, so it's actually something I read about on Wordgirl's site a few weeks ago. (I hope she doesn't mind that I'm piggy-backing off that.) The idea, basically, is that for all of the gifts each person is given--all the skills and talents and desirable traits that prompt jealousy from friends and enemies--we all have negative traits that balance out the list. For example, I'm relatively good with words (much of the time, anyway; that's probably a dangerous claim to make in the midst of a post that seems to be rambling on to nowhere), but I cannot do "restaurant math" without checking and second-guessing and basically giving myself a headache. I can read a map and be a successful navigator, but my internal compass is not particularly reliable. I have tiny, ladylike wrists and relatively toned arms, but I also have this freakish toe thing that I don't want to go into, and... OK, you get the point.
These are not the traits that are particularly relevant to a relationship, of course, but the concept still holds true. We all know that I don't cook, so a guy with that on his life menu will score some extra points with me. As will a guy who can fix things and install things, who takes an interest in investment planning, and who will call the cable or phone company when there's a problem.** In turn, I'll begrudgingly clean the house (sporadically, at least), do the laundry, balance the checkbook (as long as I'm not in a restaurant), and ensure he can use a comma and a semicolon correctly.***
I realize a lot of my focus here is on tasks (or rather, task avoidance), and I surely don't mean to overlook the obvious other benefits of a relationship (love and companionship and all that). But when you've lived alone as long as I have and have been alone responsible for all the many time-consuming duties that come with being a functioning adult and homeowner, it's hard not to consider the truly practical side of partnering up: the welcome division of labor. I'm reminded, suddenly, of the Simpsons episode where Homer runs for Garbage Commissioner on the platform of "Can't someone else do it?" I imagine that one of the very real benefits of having a husband around is the ability to say "Yes, as a matter of fact; someone else can."
Household job-sharing aside, I do think this life menu idea is valid. Recently, I had more than three dates with the same man (remarkable, yes, I know), but despite our many common interests and almost eerie similarities, it sort of fizzled out. I'm not really sure why, but the best explanation I can come up with is that our life menus didn't intersect. I know I'm just looking for a boyfriend/companion at the moment; I don't need or want to get married immediately, but I'm still at a point where I can't help considering the long term. And when I consider the long term with this one, all I can think is, "Sure, we'll never fight about what CD to listen to on road trips, but one of us has to have a sense of direction." Or, "OK, we'll agree on a restaurant with no problem, but one of us should probably cook once in a while." On top of that, he was also a writer, so my occasional prowess with words wasn't even particularly notable to him. Our life menus (the plusses and the negatives) are identical; we need some variety in the mix. After all, no one really wants to date themselves, right? And that's sort of what it felt like with him.
Maybe all of this is just another way of saying that opposites attract. I've been reluctant to subscribe to that theory, because I think it's hard to have a relationship with someone who shares no common interests or who has a fundamentally different set of values, but maybe those are not the sorts of opposites that cliché is about. Maybe it's about finding someone who compensates for the things you lack or encourages you to grow in ways you wouldn't on your own. Maybe it's about choosing someone whose qualities will mesh with yours to make a successful team (much like I try to pick Trivial Pursuit partners who can pick up my slack in the Sports & Leisure category, knowing full well I'll contribute my part on the Entertainment questions). That, to me, is what this life menu concept helps to describe.
Regardless, until I find the elusive guy whose life menu intersects perfectly with mine, I really am quite fine and happy on my own. I worry that perhaps all this talk of dates and searching makes me sound in some way desperate for a relationship, and that’s really not the case at all. Red's recent post titled Sex & the Single Girl really resonated strongly with me, because I feel exactly a lot of the same things she described.**** I'm fiercely independent, and like Red, I often feel like the "lone wolf" who has a harder time figuring out how to make room for someone in my life than figuring out how to live comfortably on my own. I do want to find someone to share my life with, but I'm not in any rush to force it if it's not right. The search for love shouldn't be like a game of musical chairs, where we all go around in circles until the music stops and then grab the nearest seat just so we're not left out. I don't want to feel pressured to be at some other place in my life just because it's where most of the people around me are. Like Lea Thompson as Amanda Jones in Some Kind of Wonderful, who pondered whether it was better to be with someone for the wrong reasons than alone for the right ones, I'm confident that I'd rather be right.
Oh, and my lawn mower? It's fixed now, without any help from a man (except, of course, for the man who I paid to fix it). I don't need an intersecting life menu for that after all.
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* I scraped and repainted the exterior of my whole damn house last summer nearly entirely by myself; remember?
** I can't be the only one who hates talking to those people, right? Is it even possible to call with a quick question or problem without being subject to a series of unwanted sales pitches for additional services?
*** OK, I'd be hard pressed to find a man who's really looking for help with his punctuation, but I had to work that in somewhere, don't you think?
**** Seriously, if you haven't read that yet, you really should click that link and do so, because it's extremely well articulated and relevant.
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