Wednesday, February 25, 2009

A Groovy Kind of Love?

Depends on how you define groovy, I guess:

adj. groov·i·er, Slang
You can sort of mostly tolerate one another's presence most days.

I was sifting through my email folders today, in particular the one devoted to DH, and began reading some of our years-old e-correspondence.

Um, seriously? We
acted like that? Spoke to each other like that? Sent long, chatty, lovey-dovey emails? Daily?? Now it's like, Pick up some damn bananas on the way home. TTYL.

Actually, bananas are too sexual. Maybe chicken. Chicken isn't sexual.

I mean, we're not quite at the hallway sex stage (you know the old joke, where you pass in the hall and say, "F@ck you"), but we're far beyond the days of
ye olde pleasante emailes. But it's not all bad, don't get me wrong. The whole honeymoon stage is fun and all, but it's nice having my head out of my ass again, too. Get way more done this way. And maybe "groovy" wasn't quite the word I was looking for. Maybe... quirky is more appropriate.

Yes - the Quirky Love sort of stage. Where you have grown to - if not appreciate, at least tolerate, and quite possibly poke fun at - your partner's quirks. And while I personally am Certified Quirk- and Eccentricity-Free, DH is a bit of an odd duck.

Nope, not pupating. Just cold. Always, always cold. There are actually only two seasons in our house: Not Cold, and Cold. Cold began on September 9 of last year, and hasn't let up since. I know this because I eat oatmeal for breakfast most days.

On September 9, 2008 I whipped up my weekly pot of Scottish oats and ladled it into serving-size containers, which I left
to cool on the kitchen counter while I did other things around the house. I popped back into the kitchen to find DH with a half-dozen Gladware containers of hot oatmeal stuffed under his clothing.

Me: blank stare
DH: "I'm, uh, cooling your oatmeal?"
Me: blank stare
DH: "Okay fine! I was cold!"
Me: more staring
DH: "Don't put this in your Christmas letter."

And I most certainly didn't, honey.

But, dear reader, you may be wondering how I know it's still Cold.

It's a funny thing, really, that the house gets so damn cold during the day. The baby and I are downright shivering by noon most days, but we power through, wear lots of layers, the usual.

Now, we do have a programmable thermostat. I, however am not a program-the-electronic-devices sort of gal. So DH takes care of that sort of thing. And the manner in which he took care of it is this: the furnace is set approximately to "Serengeti" starting at around 3pm - shortly before DH generally returns home from whatever it is he does out there in the real world - then once we're all nicely cooked, subsides to a more reasonable "Bermuda" overnight. Finally, a brief blast of "Mojave" from shortly before DH is scheduled to get out of bed in the morning to when he steps out the door. Then, DH has the furnace programmed to turn off. Poof! Magic! No more heat.

The baby and I, remember. At home all day, every day, allllll winter long. What kind of jackass furnace programming bullshit is that?

But that's just one of his quirks, I guess. And if I can love him for that, surely he can love me for my new quirk: refrigerating his underwear.

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