Super Water Warrior

Who needs a toddler when you have a Spouse who will provide mess, crankiness, cute moments, and hours of entertainment, AND has the added benefit of being able to get in the car and pick up the dry cleaning if you’re too tired? Today the Spouse and I were in the grocery store shopping for necessities. While I looked for alfalfa sprouts and over-priced organic yogurt (good health is reserved for the rich…the rest of the masses have to eat sugary Yoplait) he came bounding across the linoleum carrying none other than the nefarious SuperSoaker 30 of childhood ambushes and summer camp games.

We need this, he said, it would be very useful for our home…our 690 square foot home. I’m still a newlywed so I acquiesced, knowing in the back of my mind that after a year or two I would look back and wonder what I was thinking.

The Spouse proudly carried his prize around the grocery store and into the car, and when we arrived home he tore into the brightly colored packaging, impatiently trying to unwind all the twisty ties. Once liberated from its bindings, he hastily filled the squirt gun with water, pumped, primed, and then whisked outside where he proceeded to squirt the entire exterior of our condo balcony. Every spider living on my potted geraniums was dispatched of with ruthless precision. Ladybugs and beetles could not withstand the wrath of the squirt gun. Every plant was watered with cold acuracy.

Victorious, he returned; socks dripping, hair flying, baby-blue eyes flashing. He stalked into the bathroom and subsequently soaked the shower stall. He was helping me clean, he told me. It’s better than having a hose because you can take it inside.

Right now he is hunched over his laptop, writing code, with his glasses reflecting the sunlight so I can’t see his expression. I think he might know I am writing about him. He’s probably checking my blog from his location at the dining room table, and thinking he is pretty smart for preempting me. Little does he know…

There is a gray man who works in my office. A small, self-contained man, with neatly trimmed hair, shaved chin, and pressed clothes. He looks like he pays his taxes on time, does yard work on the weekends, drives a well-tuned, reliable Japanese car – probably an Accord. Even though his name is written in a Plexiglas plaque next to his office I never remember to read it. When I pass his open door, it is all I can do to keep from stopping to gape at the bare walls, the slate-colored computer screen, the books neatly arranged on their dust-free shelf, and him, sitting like a little puff of fog behind his stony desk. Somehow it has been arranged that the lighting in his office is half as bright as the light in the other offices, and is distinctly…gray.

No matter what color of shirt he is wearing, his complexion resembles young cement. As he walks through the halls the color around him seems to drain away, and his cold gray eyes never show any light when he greets people, greyly, without smiling.

I spend a shameful amount of time thinking about this gray man. I wonder if he always looked like this or if it is because he has been working here at ACME CORPORATION for too long. I wonder if he has a gray little wife and two shadowy children. I wonder if he can see in color or if, in his gray world, everything looks as bleak as he does. I wonder, not without terror, if I will be as gray as him someday.

I noticed a curious thing as I was driving around on Phinney Ave in Seattle, the day before Easter. I had every intention of re-visiting my new favorite boutique, The Frock Shop (the only boutique I have ever heard of that is affordable, check it out Seattleites: 6500 Phinney Ave. N. - http://www.shopfrockshop.com/ ) and after spending about 20 minutes trapped in University District traffic I was intensely frustrated when I became embroiled in an entirely different kind of traffic on Phinney, near the zoo.

The cause of this congestion? Mothers. Mothers everywhere.

Hair in pony-tails, pushing strollers, dragging toddlers and diaper bags and sometimes evening fathers, they migrated to the zoo in a slow, nose-wiping, scolding caravan. They clogged the crosswalks, snapped at impatient drivers, and herded their broods across uneven Seattle streets like geese with goslings under their wings.

Apparently the zoo hosts an annual “Bunny Bounce” every year on the Saturday before Easter. I later looked up their website and read that the Bunny Bounce offers exciting times, with “amazing egg hunts for children ages 1 to 8, crafts, bunny encounters, an egg ‘n’ spoon walk, photos by Team Photogenics and eggs-citing zoo programs throughout the day”.

Slowly I inched my vehicle through the crowd, looking out for large headed children that might try to dive under my tires. As I rounded the side of the zoo I saw something else. At the West entrance was a loosely assembled crowd of sign-holding protestors. If I wasn’t so busy trying to keep from squashing children with my car I would have paid closer attention to their signs, but they said something to the effect of “save the bunnies” or “don’t buy bunnies” or “bunnies can’t bounce when they live in your garage” or something.

An hour later I emerged from, another fabulous boutique called Lil Paisley with a green and gold vintage necklace clasped in my sweaty palms (also affordable and terrific – I swear this shop is smaller than my office cubicle: http://stores.lilpaisley.com/ ) and dodged giant raindrops as I jumped into my car. The unseasonably warm rain disturbed me. Although rain in April…or July, or September, was completely normal for Seattle, 70 degree weather and rain was eerie. I meditated on this as I drove home again, once again past the West entrance to the zoo.

The rain increased. It must have been disturbing to the protestors, previously seen picketing outside the zoo as well, for they were nowhere to be seen – perhaps they had taken shelter in a corporate coffeehouse nearby, or the RedMill burger joint up the street? The mothers, however, plowed on, determined that their children should have “bunny encounters”. This is oddly funny to me. As a homeschooled kid, I certainly know how stubborn a mother can be. Come to think of it, my mother would probably be just as tenacious – “You’re going to have your bunny encounter, and you’re going to like it! I didn’t drive all the way out here to let you wimp out from a few little drops of rain!”

Top five annoyances for the week of April 2, 2007 (in order)
1. The fact that H&M doesn't have an online store so I can blow my paycheck on their cheap, trender clothes
2. The crackly paper toilet seat protectors that fall into the bowl before I have a chance to sit on them
3. Friends who move far away so I can't spend time with them any more
4. The fact that for the last several years I thought that the chorus for "Float On" by Modest Mouse went like this: "We'll all float on a cake..."
5. Picking up after myself at home

Apparrently I missed this because I was in Thailand, but I am completely in love with Rodrigo y Gabriela's fiesty and vibrant music! Check them out on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-lvMQCmUVv8

And even better is their story, which you can listen to here on NPR: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6412458

Allow me to rant for just one more minute. Certainly this will not be the last of my complaints against the American female urge to glorify herself through the wedding ceremony – it was a positive feast for my sarcastic appetite, but out of respect to mainly my new family I refrained from writing about the horrors that I saw during the planning of my wedding.

One such horror, however, was a certain wedding website that I visited while I was living in Thailand, sweating in a crowded internet café, trying to figure out how to plan an event from thousands of miles away. Because weddings are distasteful to me, I had the distinct feeling that I was selling off a bit of my soul by registering for said wedding website, but I had no choice. They wouldn’t let me scout out locations and dress designs without an account.

Throughout the course of my engagement they pestered me with “50% off bridesmaid gifts!” and pre-“your big day pampering tips” for local spas and salons. I took it all in stride – I had provided them with my occasionally checked spam email address in anticipation of their not-so-underhanded tactics. I even looked at their tacky products once for a laugh: “Bride to Be” T-shirts and pink flasks. How original!

The wedding day came and went and we zipped off to our honeymoon - despite the fact that my overly-zealous new husband bought me a ticket with the wrong last name since I didn’t change it in the 12 hours between our ceremony and the flight out of town. When I returned from my honeymoon there was an email waiting for me in my spam account: babyshop.com (name is fictional). I was furious. I wrote them a letter:

Please stop insulting me with this crap. Just because I got married doesn’t

mean I am going to start reproducing like a 19-year old from the mid-West.

My wedding is over. I didn't order any of your chintzy bridesmaid gifts,
now leave me alone.

Sorry, I know the reference to the mid-West was incorrect and rude. It was a stretch. At 5 p.m. on a Saturday, waiting for The Spouse to return from work, I was short on analogies.

From one adventure to another. I have discovered that being “lost on earth” is just as easy when you get married as when you travel to humid countries with no traffic laws. Today is Saturday the 24th of March, my one month wedding anniversary. I did my wifely duty this morning and put in a load of laundry, then dragged my bored self over to the mall to paw at over-priced clothing while Jordan works…let me restate that this is Saturday…thanks Jordan’s job! I satisfied myself with buying him two shirts that are in colors I know he will hate. I am formulating a way to try and convince him that Kelly green will look fabulous on him!

Conceptually I don’t like being married. Jordan referred to me once as his wife a few weeks ago and I lashed out. I still tell people that he is my boyfriend. I don’t want to change my name. I tried to convince him to dye his hair blue after the wedding (refused), bought him super-trendy jeans so he will look younger (made me take them back), decided to change my name to Muffy so that it would spice up his bland last name (laughed at me). Despite my insistence that it is purely ironic, he has become surly since I started referring to him as “Snookie”. It’s ironic for pete’s sake!

I heard from Kham Chuen yesterday. Two of the OPC girls have been accepted to secondary school and he needs 5000 baht per girl per year. I also heard from Julia, our Austrian volunteer. She will be revisiting OPC in a few months and asked me if I would be interested in joining her. I have decided to give it some serious thought and then broach the subject with The Spouse.

I don’t know why I even started writing anymore since no one is interested in the adventures of a young, freaked out wife. I wonder if being married means I can’t volunteer at organizations anymore…