There's Nothing Wrong With Ohio.

When travelling, it is of utmost importance to obey the laws of the land upon which you enter. In Qatar you can't expose your knees or shoulders. In Thailand you must wear undies at all times. In Blythe, California, you are forbidden from wearing cowboy boots unless you actually own at least  2 cows. Use of or even just possession of confetti is illegal in Mobile, Alabama, and in Los Angeles, silly string can earn you a fine of $1000 and\or up to SIX MONTHS IN JAIL. You can be fined in Australia for swearing. You can do hard time in Arizona for shooting a cactus. I don't know why you'd shoot a cactus, or even wish it harm, and I certainly don't want to find out what happens when you tell your hulking cellmate that you got 25 years for cacti-related offenses. At the very least, your prison nickname is going to be pretty lame.

So in a way, Ohio is doing the courteous thing by providing helpful poems to help tourists obey the laws of their land. "Drive sober or get pulled over" being a popular one quoted over and over along highway billboards. Getting pulled over actually seems like the best-case-scenario when driving non-sober, so it's a funny consequence to emphasize, but it gives you an idea that they don't really approve. And in fairness, it's hard to find something that rhymes with "a steering column through your solar plexus!" (drive sober in your lexus? praise god you're not in texas?)

Another favourite was the ubiquitous "Click it or ticket" buckle-up campaign, although it's hard for me to imagine that we still live in a world where stating this is necessary. You may as well have declared "murder is frowned upon here" because honestly, in 2014, who the hell is driving without a seatbelt? Anyone? Actually, I think I personally would get more use out of the murder-is-bad reminder because I don't think there's any event in the world that would cause me to drive unbuckled. You get in the car, and without even thinking about it, you're just buckled, it's that automatic, happens in less than 3 seconds. Even if there was a dire emergency, it would take longer to think "Will I save time by  not buckling up?" than to just do it already and get on with it.  Even if you had a large piece of scrap metal protruding from your chest, making the seat belt strap less than comfortable, you gotta think: a) why didn't I call an ambulance? b) I'm already in pretty serious condition, so let's make double sure we don't add a steering column to the problem! c) I'm already bleeding out, so I suppose a little seat belt chaffing isn't the end of the world d) it would be really silly to get pulled over for this while doing 178km\hr to the hospital. So I think it's safe to say that we're all buckling up, and if there truly is some moron out there who isn't, I'm guessing a snappy poem isn't going to enlighten him (and neither will a ticket). But murder? Well, I consider myself basically a lamb and only sometimes a lion, and rarely ever a homicidal bitch. But I suppose I can imagine a scenario in which case I am feeling like someone needs to die. I've been angry. I've been chip-deprived on day 3 of a heavy flow. I've made pie crusts by hand. So yes, the feeling is not unknown to me. I don't think I'll ever act on it, but every now and then, a gentle reminder wouldn't hurt.

Love and Dirty Bandages.

I was in the shower, but not under the spray, howling like a crazed, feral animal caught in a trap. Big, gasping moans, guttural screams, panicked sobs. I was fresh from an agonizing and mutilating surgery and was paralyzed in pain. My husband, Sean, stood holding my towel, unable to help. My body, overwhelmed with hurt, was shutting down.

We should have been in Paris. We planned to arrive in time to imbibe champagne for my birthday, and then to walk along the Seine in summer,  eating buttery food  by day and watching the city twinkle around us at night.

Instead we went to Ohio, "medical tourism" we're calling it, to see a specialist who carved me up, and left me looking like a Walking Dead victim. In bleak moments I wonder where those hunks of flesh have gone. Burned up, I suppose. Meanwhile, I am a half-eaten burn victim, screaming with every step, trying hard not to let anything touch any of my exposed parts, trying to stop the angry blood vessels from spilling, trying to soothe the regenerating nerves, trying not to catch glimpses of myself in the mirror. Instead of the Eiffel tower, I have my own bloodied sheets and not much else.

Except. Except I have discovered this new side to my husband. Sean has always been a very sweet and patient man, but the truth is, when it comes to love, we don't speak the same language. Sean is a man of few words and no emotion. Strike that. Seemingly no emotion, we'll say, because I know if he were here, he'd protest that he does feel. I just don't see it.  It seems that he is not moved by anything, not particularly passionate. He never cries, but he's also never overcome by joy. I am his opposite in every way. So though I never doubt that he loves me, we sometimes struggle to really express it to each other in ways that the other will recognize. Sean loves me by filling my car with gas and giving me the good parking spot and emptying the dishwasher. I love him by planning elaborate, romantic trips. And when I spring them on him, practically panting with excitement, he can often muster an "Oh, neat" but it always falls short of what I'm expecting. Which is just my way of saying: I do the things that I'd want, and he does the things that he'd want. It has taken time, but we are learning each other's language. We're becoming bilingual.  He's not much for sentiment. He's a doer, but those things that he does are translatable: I love you, Jay.

Now I have been reduced to being his dependent, and his patient, and a terrible patient at that. Sean has become my nurse, one more gentle and delicate than I ever would have guessed. We could easily have a nurse visit the house to take care of my wounds. The bandaging is a never-ending battle, but Sean insists on doing it all himself. He winces when I wince. He soothes me when I'm hyperventilating. He waits me out when I can't take anymore. He never flinches. The sight unnerves me, makes me horrified and sick, but he looks in my eyes and tells me I am beautiful. The smell, he assures me, is the bandages, not me. I worry that I haven't shaved, or plucked my eyebrows, and he tells me that I am natural and lovely. And I believe he believes it. He hasn't lost his temper with me, not when I've lashed out, taken the pain out on him. He calls me brave and strong.

He's gone back to work - a lawyer you don't hear about in jokes, the kind that does true and honourable work - and he worries over me constantly. It is I who must reassure him. I am managing with the apples and the drinks and the pills that he has left. I lie very still, pray for sleep, and count the hours til he is home. I assume that work is a reprieve for him, a small breath of fresh air, but he's still coming home, happy as ever to see me, to spend time with me, even if it means browsing Netflix again, and watching as I fall asleep halfway through a 22 minute episode of god knows what.  He brings me gifts, big and small, so I know that he has  been thinking of me. Recently I unwrapped a piece of costume jewelry from a store he knows I love. It is a pendant that I already own. I laugh. Maybe someone else would be annoyed that their husband hasn't noticed this piece hanging on her wall (if not her neck), but I know the truth: he saw it and knew instinctively that it was me. Perhaps subliminally he remembered it, but at the very least, he knew I would like it, and clearly I have. Twice.

We have this thing, he and I, a mutual distaste for schmaltz. We can never be too mushy. If he says I love you (which is rare unless post-orgasm), I typically respond with "You better." Now I hear myself saying "You must."

So it's not France. But it turns out to be kind of romantic, if you look at it a little cock-eyed. We have discovered new ways to love and be loved. And there will always be Paris.

Best Couple Ever

A little while ago I asked that you spare us a minute and vote for us in a contest my husband was inspired to enter for "Best Couple Ever."

Very sweet of him, and very sweet of you to oblige us.

I've found myself reflecting on this notion of the "best couple", a silly notion, and a title impossible to bestow because although voting is anonymous, some of our generous friends and family have let us know we have their support despite being from very fine couples themselves.

Love is not a contest.
Marriage, as you may know, turns out to be this incredible, complex little thing, each one so unique that you can never truly know what it's like if you're on the outside looking in, and even the two people in question can spend a lifetime trying to figure it out . Even as insiders we sometimes struggle to uphold the very values and goals that we ourselves aspired to in the rose-coloured vows that we took. Married or not, any long-term relationship takes some work.

Love and marriage do not exist in a vacuum. Ours exists within a framework of all the successful relationships around us, and even the ones that have come to pass. In fact, I think I've probably learned more from the "failed" relationships, my own included, because these have all started out in the success column and slowly (or explosively!) made their way into the black. Is it luck? Experience? Willingness to look the other way? Settling? Grit? Fate?

I am probably too old and too married to still not really know what love is. I only know how it feels: like I'll take the bad times because of the good. Like I'll do whatever work is necessary to keep that fluttery feeling. Like I belong curled up in his arms. Like my life is terrific without him, but way better with.

Are we the best couple ever? Probably safe to say we are not. But we are getting better, because every day I hold his hand, and every day we still choose yes.

I am the world's worst patient and Sean turns out to be a gentle and patient nurse. Ladies and gentlemen, I do not deserve him.