A few months ago, I decided to let my hair grow out- for the first time since high school. Then, I got engaged and words like engagement photos and wedding photography joined my world… along with valid fears of my hair and skin being under the scrutiny of 400 eyes on my wedding day. So I did what every woman would do- I bought pre-natal vitamins. That IS what every woman would do, right? Wouldn’t that be the first thing to come to mind? Sure, I thought about regular vitamins (the non-pre-natal kind), but since I’m getting married and I won’t be taking birth control pills, I thought I could kill two birds with one stone and nourish my hair and uterus at the same time. You’re welcome, future baby.
Since taking two vitamins in the past two weeks, I haven’t really noticed a change in my hair health or length. Vitamin regularity would probably be beneficial, but I’m optimistic nonetheless. This week, I’ll try harder to remember my vitamins because if I happen to get pregnant and fat within the next year, I better at least have pretty hair.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
A Flight and Fight with Anger
I don’t normally consider myself a vengeful person. Sometimes though, sometimes when circumstances are just right- when it’s 9:30 pm… in Baltimore… on a plane… on Easter Sunday- sometimes when those are the exact circumstances, meanness washes over me and it’s all I can do not to act out of sheer spite.
Certain situations usually create an atmosphere that’s predisposed to stress- like the Southwest Airlines’ cattle herd boarding process. Oh, it’s great when you can jump on the computer at exactly 24 hours in advance and secure your spot in the coveted “A” group. But, if you’re not near technology, if your best is simply getting to the airport an hour in advance, well then- you’re stuck in the “sucks to be you” C group.
Jon and I were disappointed to see “C” printed on our boarding passes, but I kindled the hope in my heart with the encouraging fact that we were C-9 and C-10. Those are among the first Cs at least.
My head felt like it was cracking open in about five different places and as we stood in line and watched the masses of groups A and B board, we wondered if there would still be two seats together by the time the rest of us rejects got on the plane. The last thing I wanted to do was take my headache and wedge it between some chatter box and some screaming child.
As we boarded the completely full plane, there was one empty seat here and one empty seat there. I kept walking out of denial, when suddenly I spotted the last two seats together. Thank God for 9 and 10. Eleven wouldn’t have made the cut.
Once we reached 10,000 feet, that little “ding” sounded throughout the plane, providing permission to use tray tables and to put seatbacks in their “reclining” position. The fact two inches is referred to as “reclining,” is fascinating to me. Maybe it’s like a placebo. So, I reclined… about 1/2 of the way.
“UH, UH! That ain’t gone work for me. She gone have to move that seat back!”
Seriously? I know she is not complaining about one inch. I closed my eyes.
“I ain’t got no room back here. She gotta move that seat up.”
Don’t you just love when people talk at you and not to you? It was at this moment I made a conscious decision to not move my seat for the sheer fact that instead of being asked nicely to do it, some woman who had yet to speak a word to me was disrespectfully demanding my respect of her space.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder and the young girl sitting next to her kindly said, “Would you mind putting your seat back up?”
“But I’ve barely reclined it,” I politely informed her.
Here she went again: “But we ain’t go no room back here.”
Out of respect for being asked nicely, I pushed the button and pulled my seat back up. But another button had been pushed by this point- mine. Before long, I swear steam was piping out my ears. I recognized it was a petty thing to be so angry over, so I tried talking myself into a more peaceful state. The conversation went something like this:
Seriously… all she had to do was ask nicely and I would have been glad to move my seat back. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have just ignored her. Jennifer, calm down- it’s not important. Let it go. I should just plop my seat back all the way and leave it until it’s time to land! How would she like that? Okay, God- please help me with my anger toward this woman. Give me mercy and kindness toward her.
Jon leaned over and kissed me on the head (unaware of all that had happened). “Are you okay?”
“No. My head hurts, there’s a crying baby on the plane, and this bitchy woman behind me complained that I wanted to recline my seat one inch… and I’ve had to pray about the anger in my heart toward her.”
He gave me a sympathetic smile and squeezed my hand. I closed my eyes and tried to fight the urge to push my seat back. By the time we landed in Nashville, I was over my anger. That was until we stopped and those same people behind us got up and moved past us and everyone else who was patiently waiting their turn to de-board. Airplane etiquette, people… AIRPLANE ETIQUETTE!!!
Even with my splitting headache, I was able to burn a hole in the back of her head with my laser vision. How pitiful that I couldn’t let the better side of my nature win.
Certain situations usually create an atmosphere that’s predisposed to stress- like the Southwest Airlines’ cattle herd boarding process. Oh, it’s great when you can jump on the computer at exactly 24 hours in advance and secure your spot in the coveted “A” group. But, if you’re not near technology, if your best is simply getting to the airport an hour in advance, well then- you’re stuck in the “sucks to be you” C group.
Jon and I were disappointed to see “C” printed on our boarding passes, but I kindled the hope in my heart with the encouraging fact that we were C-9 and C-10. Those are among the first Cs at least.
My head felt like it was cracking open in about five different places and as we stood in line and watched the masses of groups A and B board, we wondered if there would still be two seats together by the time the rest of us rejects got on the plane. The last thing I wanted to do was take my headache and wedge it between some chatter box and some screaming child.
As we boarded the completely full plane, there was one empty seat here and one empty seat there. I kept walking out of denial, when suddenly I spotted the last two seats together. Thank God for 9 and 10. Eleven wouldn’t have made the cut.
Once we reached 10,000 feet, that little “ding” sounded throughout the plane, providing permission to use tray tables and to put seatbacks in their “reclining” position. The fact two inches is referred to as “reclining,” is fascinating to me. Maybe it’s like a placebo. So, I reclined… about 1/2 of the way.
“UH, UH! That ain’t gone work for me. She gone have to move that seat back!”
Seriously? I know she is not complaining about one inch. I closed my eyes.
“I ain’t got no room back here. She gotta move that seat up.”
Don’t you just love when people talk at you and not to you? It was at this moment I made a conscious decision to not move my seat for the sheer fact that instead of being asked nicely to do it, some woman who had yet to speak a word to me was disrespectfully demanding my respect of her space.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder and the young girl sitting next to her kindly said, “Would you mind putting your seat back up?”
“But I’ve barely reclined it,” I politely informed her.
Here she went again: “But we ain’t go no room back here.”
Out of respect for being asked nicely, I pushed the button and pulled my seat back up. But another button had been pushed by this point- mine. Before long, I swear steam was piping out my ears. I recognized it was a petty thing to be so angry over, so I tried talking myself into a more peaceful state. The conversation went something like this:
Seriously… all she had to do was ask nicely and I would have been glad to move my seat back. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have just ignored her. Jennifer, calm down- it’s not important. Let it go. I should just plop my seat back all the way and leave it until it’s time to land! How would she like that? Okay, God- please help me with my anger toward this woman. Give me mercy and kindness toward her.
Jon leaned over and kissed me on the head (unaware of all that had happened). “Are you okay?”
“No. My head hurts, there’s a crying baby on the plane, and this bitchy woman behind me complained that I wanted to recline my seat one inch… and I’ve had to pray about the anger in my heart toward her.”
He gave me a sympathetic smile and squeezed my hand. I closed my eyes and tried to fight the urge to push my seat back. By the time we landed in Nashville, I was over my anger. That was until we stopped and those same people behind us got up and moved past us and everyone else who was patiently waiting their turn to de-board. Airplane etiquette, people… AIRPLANE ETIQUETTE!!!
Even with my splitting headache, I was able to burn a hole in the back of her head with my laser vision. How pitiful that I couldn’t let the better side of my nature win.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Price of Fake Fame
Do you know that for $250 you can hire fake paparazzi to follow you around for thirty minutes? Makes you think twice about buying those clothes, or food, or other things you actually need, doesn’t it? I mean, we’re talking about having a complete stranger trace your every step, bombard you with questions that are none of their business, and blind you with camera flashes… all so you can feel important for half an hour… so you can feel like someone cares about your average life. I’d laugh if it weren’t so sad. Just when I thought our culture couldn’t get anymore self-obsessed…
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Hill of Regret
As Jon and I prepare for marriage, we’ve discussed whether we should be concerned that after a year and half of dating we’ve not had an argument. We’ve asked ourselves if we just repress things or if we just have good communication. We think the latter. Sure, we’ve been frustrated with each other at times, but not so much that it led to a fight- or even a passionate disagreement. The truth is, I just don’t think there are many things worth arguing over. To me, having peace and kindness in our relationship is more important than where we go to dinner, or what movie we see, or any number of other insignificant decisions. Jon has a similar approach I think. He often uses the phrase, “that’s not a hill worth dying on.”
People argue over anything, but the cause is always one thing- we want to be right… we want to have our way. Our selfishness becomes so powerful that suddenly our pride is of more value than the person facing us. Most of the time arguments get resolved… peace prevails… hurts are healed. But sometimes… sometimes learning the lesson is more painful.
I was eight when my stepbrother left to go deer hunting one morning. Some details of that day are vague, some are as vivid as yesterday. Like me being angry with him because I wanted him to stay home that morning, I remember that. I don’t remember what I did most of the day, but I was at my daddy’s house that afternoon when the phone rang. He picked it up and I remember every detail from that moment on. I remember his words on the phone. I remember knowing what was wrong before he told me. I remember every word, every hug, every tear, every regretful feeling of my last interaction with my stepbrother, and every pain in my heart.
I wish I could say that eight-year old girl learned a lesson that day. I wish I could have buried my pride and selfishness along with brother, but difficult lessons are learned through experience… the kind that repeats itself.
I can still see her standing on the porch, her hand placed sassily upon her five-foot frame. She had a level of feistiness for every gray hair on her head. She was my grandmother. We were exchanging snide remarks as I was getting in the car to leave. I don’t remember why exactly. I was eighteen and I suppose the years of her meddling had accumulated, and in that one moment the straw came down. There was no yelling, no fighting… just that passive, cold-shouldered sarcasm. If it were over something significant, I’d remember. But again, we argue over nothing all the time- never knowing when it’s the last time. A few days later, I was standing in my friend’s kitchen on a Saturday night and they called. It was a heart attack- in more ways than one.
Tragedy isn’t kind. It doesn’t let you know it’s coming. There’s no time to clean the house and prepare for its arrival. We just live, going about our daily routine… you don’t hear the car in the driveway, or the steps up to the door… there’s no knocking- the door just comes crashing down and it storms through your heart and your soul and leaves you disoriented and numb… and feeling every ounce of pain possible at the same time. And tragedy isn’t selective. It doesn’t pass you by just because it’s ravaged you before. I know.
I wish tragedy had just not noticed me the last time… had not turned down my street… or stopped in front of my life again. I wish tragedy had not caught me in my self-centeredness. If only I’d known it was coming, I wouldn’t have been unkind to my sister when she called that Saturday morning and woke me up. But I was. It didn’t matter that she just wanted to know what time I was coming home from college that day. She just wanted to know when she could see me. But I was tired… and sleepy… and unkind to her on the phone. She didn’t come to see me, so I went by to see her before I left home. But, she was tired then, and asleep on the couch. I didn’t wake her. I didn’t wake her and I would have given anything if the next voice on the phone had been hers. But it wasn’t. As I dropped the phone and collapsed to the floor, I didn’t think about all the times I had hugged my sister, or told her I loved her, or had spoken kind words to her, or laughed with her. Those aren’t the things that come to mind. It’s those last words. The words I never knew I couldn’t take back… the words that conveyed that something as petty as my sleep was more important to me than she was… the words that teach the cruelty of regret.
So, Jon and I haven’t argued yet. We will, one day. And, I hope it’s not over what to wear, or what to eat, or where to go… but if it is, I hope and pray that I recognize… and remember… and walk down that hill in love and kindness with him- because that "hill worth dying on" means something more to me.
People argue over anything, but the cause is always one thing- we want to be right… we want to have our way. Our selfishness becomes so powerful that suddenly our pride is of more value than the person facing us. Most of the time arguments get resolved… peace prevails… hurts are healed. But sometimes… sometimes learning the lesson is more painful.
I was eight when my stepbrother left to go deer hunting one morning. Some details of that day are vague, some are as vivid as yesterday. Like me being angry with him because I wanted him to stay home that morning, I remember that. I don’t remember what I did most of the day, but I was at my daddy’s house that afternoon when the phone rang. He picked it up and I remember every detail from that moment on. I remember his words on the phone. I remember knowing what was wrong before he told me. I remember every word, every hug, every tear, every regretful feeling of my last interaction with my stepbrother, and every pain in my heart.
I wish I could say that eight-year old girl learned a lesson that day. I wish I could have buried my pride and selfishness along with brother, but difficult lessons are learned through experience… the kind that repeats itself.
I can still see her standing on the porch, her hand placed sassily upon her five-foot frame. She had a level of feistiness for every gray hair on her head. She was my grandmother. We were exchanging snide remarks as I was getting in the car to leave. I don’t remember why exactly. I was eighteen and I suppose the years of her meddling had accumulated, and in that one moment the straw came down. There was no yelling, no fighting… just that passive, cold-shouldered sarcasm. If it were over something significant, I’d remember. But again, we argue over nothing all the time- never knowing when it’s the last time. A few days later, I was standing in my friend’s kitchen on a Saturday night and they called. It was a heart attack- in more ways than one.
Tragedy isn’t kind. It doesn’t let you know it’s coming. There’s no time to clean the house and prepare for its arrival. We just live, going about our daily routine… you don’t hear the car in the driveway, or the steps up to the door… there’s no knocking- the door just comes crashing down and it storms through your heart and your soul and leaves you disoriented and numb… and feeling every ounce of pain possible at the same time. And tragedy isn’t selective. It doesn’t pass you by just because it’s ravaged you before. I know.
I wish tragedy had just not noticed me the last time… had not turned down my street… or stopped in front of my life again. I wish tragedy had not caught me in my self-centeredness. If only I’d known it was coming, I wouldn’t have been unkind to my sister when she called that Saturday morning and woke me up. But I was. It didn’t matter that she just wanted to know what time I was coming home from college that day. She just wanted to know when she could see me. But I was tired… and sleepy… and unkind to her on the phone. She didn’t come to see me, so I went by to see her before I left home. But, she was tired then, and asleep on the couch. I didn’t wake her. I didn’t wake her and I would have given anything if the next voice on the phone had been hers. But it wasn’t. As I dropped the phone and collapsed to the floor, I didn’t think about all the times I had hugged my sister, or told her I loved her, or had spoken kind words to her, or laughed with her. Those aren’t the things that come to mind. It’s those last words. The words I never knew I couldn’t take back… the words that conveyed that something as petty as my sleep was more important to me than she was… the words that teach the cruelty of regret.
So, Jon and I haven’t argued yet. We will, one day. And, I hope it’s not over what to wear, or what to eat, or where to go… but if it is, I hope and pray that I recognize… and remember… and walk down that hill in love and kindness with him- because that "hill worth dying on" means something more to me.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Mr. Karaoke
Me: "So... karaoke on Friday?"
Jon: "Yeah. That sounds good."
"Because they want to join us for karaoke. I think he has a hard time imagining you doing karaoke. Actually, a lot of people say that about you."
"I don't know why people say that about me! I think I exude karaoke."
My roommate: "What does that mean exactly?"
Jon: "You know- to give off a vibe... it's like an aura... like a sparkly aura."
Me: "I think you need to stop using that word, 'sparkly.' Cause that's a whole different kind of aura."
Jon: "Yeah. That sounds good."
"Because they want to join us for karaoke. I think he has a hard time imagining you doing karaoke. Actually, a lot of people say that about you."
"I don't know why people say that about me! I think I exude karaoke."
My roommate: "What does that mean exactly?"
Jon: "You know- to give off a vibe... it's like an aura... like a sparkly aura."
Me: "I think you need to stop using that word, 'sparkly.' Cause that's a whole different kind of aura."
Monday, March 10, 2008
A Haunting History
Jon and I did a lot of “fun” things on our recent trip to Memphis. We ate barbecue, we toured Graceland, we visited friends, saw the Peabody Ducks, and hung out on Beale Street. While I enjoyed all those things, our most memorable excursion was our trip to the National Civil Rights Museum. We spent three and a half hours at the former Lorraine Motel, where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated on April 4, 1968. Even with little knowledge about the Civil Rights Movement, it’s difficult to approach the entrance without a sense of reverence. A stone monument in honor of Dr. King sits below the balcony where a floral wreath marks the spot he fell victim to hate. That remembrance of hate serves as an introduction to a history of it.
The walls of the museum are covered in history… excerpts of letters from slaves, historical documents, photos- faces that permeate you to the core. As I stood and read the words of the oppressed, my heart was filled with various emotions. These strangers… these people with whom I have never had anything in common… these faces of the past… seemed very real and very alive. As a white woman, I stood there reading the words of a female slave… reading words that I could never express because my privilege will never allow me to experience. Tears welled up in my eyes and I had to take a moment to gain my composure. This was the first wall. We had been there all of four minutes and there were so many walls, so many faces, so many words, and so many years ahead of us still.
We walked along, each at our own pace, reading, thinking, feeling. We didn’t talk much- probably because our words seemed worthless in our present company of history. There were so many photographs marking hatred toward the black man, but none so memorable as the one that haunts me still. It was taken in Omaha, Nebraska, 1919. (Warning: This is a graphic photograph and is not for the faint of heart.) I stood in front of this photograph for a few minutes. It wasn’t the horrific image of the black man that haunted me most (although it was disturbing in its own right.). It was the faces of the white men in the photo that pierced my soul. There they stood, some with smiles and smirks, some with blank faces… none with remorse, or an awareness of the cruelty of their beings. There they stood- proud… like hunting buddies after catching their big game. There they stood- without respect, without acknowledgement for the value of life. There they stood, in their superior white skin.
I’m not sure this photograph will ever leave my memory. As disturbing as it is, I’m not sure I would want to forget it, because it reminds me of the nature of hate… the nature of pride… the nature of man.
The walls of the museum are covered in history… excerpts of letters from slaves, historical documents, photos- faces that permeate you to the core. As I stood and read the words of the oppressed, my heart was filled with various emotions. These strangers… these people with whom I have never had anything in common… these faces of the past… seemed very real and very alive. As a white woman, I stood there reading the words of a female slave… reading words that I could never express because my privilege will never allow me to experience. Tears welled up in my eyes and I had to take a moment to gain my composure. This was the first wall. We had been there all of four minutes and there were so many walls, so many faces, so many words, and so many years ahead of us still.
We walked along, each at our own pace, reading, thinking, feeling. We didn’t talk much- probably because our words seemed worthless in our present company of history. There were so many photographs marking hatred toward the black man, but none so memorable as the one that haunts me still. It was taken in Omaha, Nebraska, 1919. (Warning: This is a graphic photograph and is not for the faint of heart.) I stood in front of this photograph for a few minutes. It wasn’t the horrific image of the black man that haunted me most (although it was disturbing in its own right.). It was the faces of the white men in the photo that pierced my soul. There they stood, some with smiles and smirks, some with blank faces… none with remorse, or an awareness of the cruelty of their beings. There they stood- proud… like hunting buddies after catching their big game. There they stood- without respect, without acknowledgement for the value of life. There they stood, in their superior white skin.
I’m not sure this photograph will ever leave my memory. As disturbing as it is, I’m not sure I would want to forget it, because it reminds me of the nature of hate… the nature of pride… the nature of man.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Racist Quackers
A conversation with Jon in the Peabody Hotel lobby in Memphis.Jon: "I think the Peabody ducks are racist."
"WHAT?"
"Yeah. They keep swimming away from all the little black kids."
"Jon, they are chasing the ducks. I'd swim away too."
"No seriously. I think they're racist."
Love, Peace, and Chicken Grease
That’s the slogan at Miss Polly’s Soul Food Kitchen on Beale Street. Jon and I were walking down Beale searching for a place to grab an appetizer when we saw Miss Polly’s. Any place with the words “soul food” and “chicken grease” demands attention. We knew we were in the right place when we walked in and were the only white people in the place. See, white people are tourists in a place like Miss Polly’s- we felt like we had discovered a local’s joint. Every five minutes, I would exclaim, “I LOVE this place!”Although we only needed enough food to tide us over till dinner with friends, we couldn’t resist trying a few selections… fried dill pickles, fried green tomatoes, hot wings, and jalapeño cornbread muffins. Miss Polly’s is not for the faint of stomach! Nor is it the right place for you if you are the consistent salad type. Miss Polly’s is where you go to get your eat on… and we did.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Back to the Beginning
My relationship with Jon began over e-mail. We met on Match.com and after exchanging witty banter for a week or so, we met over coffee at Fido in the Village. I noticed that he was much cuter than his online photo and he noticed, well… he noticed my cleavage. I still have to remind him that my eyes aren’t located down there, but he’s a guy- 100%. We spent a few hours talking, which led to a second date at Rumours Wine Bar. He wined and dined me with wine, crab cakes, and his intellect, then walked me to my car where I let him know about my martial arts training. Date number one: get his attention with my cleavage. Date number two: let him know that my cleavage is off limits, lest he want a spinning round kick to the head. Both were effective attention getters! Surprisingly, he asked me for a third date, so we saw Little Miss Sunshine at a matinee and he took me to dinner at South Street where he had me try fried cheesecake for the first time. Any man who feeds me dessert will win my heart, so we kept dating. Golf dates, dancing, darts, plays, concerts, picnics, trips, and a year and a half later we’re still going out on dates and he finally knows what color my eyes are.
His birthday is February 27th, so I planned for us to go to Memphis for the weekend to celebrate. What says “Happy Birthday” like a tour of Graceland I ask you! So, I made plans… plans to celebrate him throughout the week and plans to take him to Memphis for the weekend. I did not plan on getting sick the day before his birthday. On his birthday I was in bed with a 101 degree fever, could hardly speak, and was in less than festive spirits. But, it was his birthday… and I’m his girlfriend… so I felt the need to “buckle up” and at least go to dinner with him. Sure, I was probably contagious and I sounded like I had strep and Bird Flu- who wouldn’t want to go to dinner with me. He suggested South Street and invited some work friends to join us- a good decision since I didn’t have a voice and someone should be able to talk to him on his birthday.
The next afternoon, I was still on the couch with a fever. He called when he finished work around 8:00 p.m. and invited me to go have a glass of wine at Rumours. Was he missing something? Was my fever and croaky voice not enough of an indicator that I shouldn’t be going out? Apparently not. He was slightly persistent. So I suggested he just pick up a bottle of wine and come over for a bit. When he showed up with a bottle of wine from Rumours, I was surprised. There’s a wine store within a mile of my house and he could have saved about $20, but he’s a man and I stopped trying to understand “man behavior” years ago. So, we had a glass of wine and he went home. Then I went to bed and woke up with hallucinations because… well, cough medicine and Tylenol PM should not be washed down with wine.
My fever was down on Friday but I was still very sick, and we still had reservations and plans for a trip to Memphis. So, I stopped to pick him up around 3:00 p.m.
“We have to take a little detour,” he said. “And I need to drive.”
“Okay. I don’t feel good, so you can drive all the way to Memphis if you want.”
He got behind the wheel and headed toward Hillsboro Village. I wondered what he was doing, but there was so much congestion in my head that it felt like my brain had shriveled up to make room for all the sickness, and I was doing good to know where I was. He pulled up and parked in front of Fido, getting out of the car. I followed him inside Fido. After trying to find a booth, we sat down at the bar along the window.
“Do you want a hot chocolate?”
Was he paying attention to my cleavage again? He knows I drink Chai tea. Why was he offering me hot chocolate!
“No. I’ll have a Chai.”
We sat down to wait on our drinks and he pulled a gift bag out of his backpack.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed there’s been a theme this week.”
Yeah… on Wednesday I had a fever, you asked me out. On Thursday I had a fever, you asked me out. I didn’t think that’s what he was talking about though.
“No… I don’t know.”
He handed me the gift bag and I reached in to pull out a DVD of Little Miss Sunshine.
“Awww, this is the first movie we saw together. But honey, I already own this.”
I couldn’t read him.
So I said, “But you can never have too many Little Miss Sunshines!”
I reached in again and pulled out some martial arts handwraps. At this point, I’m not sure if it was the fever or my shriveled brain, but I was confused.
“There’s a theme,” he said.
And right now, reading this- you’re catching on and you SEE the theme. But at the time, I was sick and I was medicated. There was no theme. I was thinking he was just being sweet to me because I was sick all week.
I reached in and pulled out the last gift- a CD he had made with the date and the words I love you, Jen.
“Awww, you made me a mix tape!” The ultimate ‘I’m into you’ gift.
Then he handed me a card and after reading the first panel, he asked me to wait until our drinks came. After getting our drinks, he let me continue with the second panel, which ended with instructions to open to the third panel.
And here is where the unmedicated parts of my brain turned on. He had written out the details of our first three dates, beginning with date number three at Southstreet. Then, he mentioned our second date at Rumours Wine Bar, and brought us back to the beginning of our relationship at Fido- where some other girl took the hot chocolate I ordered the night we met. He wrote a paragraph of sweet words, having nothing to do with my cleavage, and wrote there was just one more thing to ask…
I turned toward him and he dropped down on one knee, right beside the table where we first met.
“Jennifer Leigh Box, will you marry me?”
It wasn’t the most poetic “yes” with my laryngitis voice, but I managed to get it out. He slipped the most beautiful ring on my finger and we smiled all the way to Memphis… and it had nothing to do with getting to see Graceland the next day!
His birthday is February 27th, so I planned for us to go to Memphis for the weekend to celebrate. What says “Happy Birthday” like a tour of Graceland I ask you! So, I made plans… plans to celebrate him throughout the week and plans to take him to Memphis for the weekend. I did not plan on getting sick the day before his birthday. On his birthday I was in bed with a 101 degree fever, could hardly speak, and was in less than festive spirits. But, it was his birthday… and I’m his girlfriend… so I felt the need to “buckle up” and at least go to dinner with him. Sure, I was probably contagious and I sounded like I had strep and Bird Flu- who wouldn’t want to go to dinner with me. He suggested South Street and invited some work friends to join us- a good decision since I didn’t have a voice and someone should be able to talk to him on his birthday.
The next afternoon, I was still on the couch with a fever. He called when he finished work around 8:00 p.m. and invited me to go have a glass of wine at Rumours. Was he missing something? Was my fever and croaky voice not enough of an indicator that I shouldn’t be going out? Apparently not. He was slightly persistent. So I suggested he just pick up a bottle of wine and come over for a bit. When he showed up with a bottle of wine from Rumours, I was surprised. There’s a wine store within a mile of my house and he could have saved about $20, but he’s a man and I stopped trying to understand “man behavior” years ago. So, we had a glass of wine and he went home. Then I went to bed and woke up with hallucinations because… well, cough medicine and Tylenol PM should not be washed down with wine.
My fever was down on Friday but I was still very sick, and we still had reservations and plans for a trip to Memphis. So, I stopped to pick him up around 3:00 p.m.
“We have to take a little detour,” he said. “And I need to drive.”
“Okay. I don’t feel good, so you can drive all the way to Memphis if you want.”
He got behind the wheel and headed toward Hillsboro Village. I wondered what he was doing, but there was so much congestion in my head that it felt like my brain had shriveled up to make room for all the sickness, and I was doing good to know where I was. He pulled up and parked in front of Fido, getting out of the car. I followed him inside Fido. After trying to find a booth, we sat down at the bar along the window.
“Do you want a hot chocolate?”
Was he paying attention to my cleavage again? He knows I drink Chai tea. Why was he offering me hot chocolate!
“No. I’ll have a Chai.”
We sat down to wait on our drinks and he pulled a gift bag out of his backpack.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed there’s been a theme this week.”
Yeah… on Wednesday I had a fever, you asked me out. On Thursday I had a fever, you asked me out. I didn’t think that’s what he was talking about though.
“No… I don’t know.”
He handed me the gift bag and I reached in to pull out a DVD of Little Miss Sunshine.
“Awww, this is the first movie we saw together. But honey, I already own this.”
I couldn’t read him.
So I said, “But you can never have too many Little Miss Sunshines!”
I reached in again and pulled out some martial arts handwraps. At this point, I’m not sure if it was the fever or my shriveled brain, but I was confused.
“There’s a theme,” he said.
And right now, reading this- you’re catching on and you SEE the theme. But at the time, I was sick and I was medicated. There was no theme. I was thinking he was just being sweet to me because I was sick all week.
I reached in and pulled out the last gift- a CD he had made with the date and the words I love you, Jen.
“Awww, you made me a mix tape!” The ultimate ‘I’m into you’ gift.
Then he handed me a card and after reading the first panel, he asked me to wait until our drinks came. After getting our drinks, he let me continue with the second panel, which ended with instructions to open to the third panel.
And here is where the unmedicated parts of my brain turned on. He had written out the details of our first three dates, beginning with date number three at Southstreet. Then, he mentioned our second date at Rumours Wine Bar, and brought us back to the beginning of our relationship at Fido- where some other girl took the hot chocolate I ordered the night we met. He wrote a paragraph of sweet words, having nothing to do with my cleavage, and wrote there was just one more thing to ask…
I turned toward him and he dropped down on one knee, right beside the table where we first met.
“Jennifer Leigh Box, will you marry me?”
It wasn’t the most poetic “yes” with my laryngitis voice, but I managed to get it out. He slipped the most beautiful ring on my finger and we smiled all the way to Memphis… and it had nothing to do with getting to see Graceland the next day!
Monday, March 3, 2008
Less Than Sound Advice
Conversation with Jon last night.
Jon: “What are you going to do tomorrow?”
“Well, I need to do laundry… and pay bills… and I’ll probably try and rest some more since I’m still not feeling well.”
“You should get in a good workout.”
“Maybe. But it depends on how I feel. It’s hard to breathe with all this stuff in my chest, so I may not be able to work out.”
“You’ve gotta sweat the cold.”
“What?”
“Feed the fever, sweat the cold.”
I laugh. “Do you really think that’s what it says?”
“What?”
“It’s ‘starve a fever, feed a cold.’”
He laughs. “Oh. I think my way sounds better.”
I guess if you’re trying to kill someone.
Jon: “What are you going to do tomorrow?”
“Well, I need to do laundry… and pay bills… and I’ll probably try and rest some more since I’m still not feeling well.”
“You should get in a good workout.”
“Maybe. But it depends on how I feel. It’s hard to breathe with all this stuff in my chest, so I may not be able to work out.”
“You’ve gotta sweat the cold.”
“What?”
“Feed the fever, sweat the cold.”
I laugh. “Do you really think that’s what it says?”
“What?”
“It’s ‘starve a fever, feed a cold.’”
He laughs. “Oh. I think my way sounds better.”
I guess if you’re trying to kill someone.
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