Ah...the question could be a good thing or a bad thing when house shopping.
When you are ready to buy a house, why is it that we seem to think that Somewhere out there, our Dream House awaits?
My husband and I are finally ready to buy a house. I should say that I was personally ready about five years ago, but that is how it took me to convince him that we were ready.
Often, when you go to look at a potential home, there are people living there. It's still their home. And I love walking into a place that already has Food Smells going. Those soupy, cakey, meaty smells. I don't even want the food, I just want the smell. It's just so homey.
It makes me think of my friend Sonja. She's starting to get interested in cooking, but until then she could use the invention of something I just thought of. They should make a spray for people who don't cook. An aerosol can that, for five bucks, makes the whole place smell like pot roast. Or you could have a fumigator guy come in every three months.
Doorbell rings. "Who is it?"
"Pot roast man!" And he sprays around the house.
"You want me to spray the bathroom?"
"No, that's okay."
"How about under the sink?"
"Okay, maybe just coffee and cake."
Genius.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Shaken, Not Stirred
The real work of two people blending--the behavior stuff--is where things really get interesting. Because after so many years of being by yourselves, no matter how much "Us" paint you throw on top of it, the old "You" still shows through. And that's usually not a good thing.
A lot of guys think the highest compliment they can pay a woman is to treat her like "one of the guys". The whole "Treat others as you would be treated yourself" rule becomes "Treat others as if you were by yourself." They figure, "Surely we're beyond the silly formalities, the need to be civil. Let's relax. Be ourselves." And the women are thinking, "Let's not." Because we know where this leads.
While lying in bed: "Hey!!"
"What?"
"Did you just fart on my leg?"
"Sorry. I didn't know you were there."
See, when you are by yourself, you apply your own standards. It might not bother a man to stand in the middle of the room, drink 32 ounces of club soda, and belch out everything you've eaten since Fall. His Self may not care. Others, however, may.
And if you're with another person all the time, like my husband and myself, every repugnant component of your life must, by definition, happen in front of the other person. There's nowhere to hide. Ever.
So you learn to accept each other. Your best behavior is now and forever reserved for outside the house, and once you're inside, you're free to be the repellent American you really are. That's an implicit understanding. "I know all about you, you know all about me, and it'll be our little secret."
You become a little team. It's the "two of you" against "everybody else". And you look out for each other. Your partner becomes the one person in the world you can go over to and say, "Do I have anything in my nose?"
That's your mutual job: protect your Ugly Truths from everyone but each other. Which is kind of nice, actually. Here is someone who will not only be honest with you, but whose love for you is so great it can withstand looking up your nose. And then they go right back to loving you as if it never happened.
It's ironic that Everybody Else--to whom you owe nothing--is spared from having to see what's in your nose. As if they deserve better. But your partner, the very same person you love more than all others, gets to look right in there and investigate personally. That's their little privilege. One of the many bonuses for signing on for the long haul.
A lot of guys think the highest compliment they can pay a woman is to treat her like "one of the guys". The whole "Treat others as you would be treated yourself" rule becomes "Treat others as if you were by yourself." They figure, "Surely we're beyond the silly formalities, the need to be civil. Let's relax. Be ourselves." And the women are thinking, "Let's not." Because we know where this leads.
While lying in bed: "Hey!!"
"What?"
"Did you just fart on my leg?"
"Sorry. I didn't know you were there."
See, when you are by yourself, you apply your own standards. It might not bother a man to stand in the middle of the room, drink 32 ounces of club soda, and belch out everything you've eaten since Fall. His Self may not care. Others, however, may.
And if you're with another person all the time, like my husband and myself, every repugnant component of your life must, by definition, happen in front of the other person. There's nowhere to hide. Ever.
So you learn to accept each other. Your best behavior is now and forever reserved for outside the house, and once you're inside, you're free to be the repellent American you really are. That's an implicit understanding. "I know all about you, you know all about me, and it'll be our little secret."
You become a little team. It's the "two of you" against "everybody else". And you look out for each other. Your partner becomes the one person in the world you can go over to and say, "Do I have anything in my nose?"
That's your mutual job: protect your Ugly Truths from everyone but each other. Which is kind of nice, actually. Here is someone who will not only be honest with you, but whose love for you is so great it can withstand looking up your nose. And then they go right back to loving you as if it never happened.
It's ironic that Everybody Else--to whom you owe nothing--is spared from having to see what's in your nose. As if they deserve better. But your partner, the very same person you love more than all others, gets to look right in there and investigate personally. That's their little privilege. One of the many bonuses for signing on for the long haul.
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