I’m not going to write about the state of the world and the mean people who are doing mean terrible things and the others that are saying mean and terrible things and the darkness, the horrible darkness in people. It’s too much. And I have no answers. So I’m going to do what I do best and babble, telling you a story about nothing important with no real ending, in the most manic zig-zaggy way. Because that’s what I do.
A few weeks ago, we went to a football party at a new friend’s house. Which is laughable because Husband “doesn’t do sport.” And I also don’t do sport unless it’s live where I embarrass myself and my friends by always rooting for the wrong team and getting way too involved while yelling myself hoarse at the very wrong moment. It’s a wonder I’m not on YouTube. Heck, it’s a wonder I don’t have my own channel.
So we’re standing in this kitchen at this football party not watching football and I spot a few love letters my friend’s husband has written her and she’s tacked up on the wall. Simple love notes on post-its that let her know she’s loved and appreciated and that he really liked his lunch. And I, not so subtlety, pointed out to husband that he used to do that and hint/guilt/hint and he responded like he always does when I hint/guilt/hint to him “What? You know I love you.”
Fast forward to this past Friday. I was going on my first girl trip since the disastrous one I took ten years ago to the Ritz Carton Half Moon Bay. The trip with four very new friends I’d agreed to as a “Sure that sounds great.” But never thought would happen. The trip where one of the four was in a unhappy marriage and spent the entire time trying to out gloom Eeyore and the second kept ordering the best most expensive wine and top shelf vodka and fancy desserts that cost more than my pitiful dinner salad and then informed us we were splitting the bill and held her hand out for my $750 check for the weekend. Thank goodness the third girl is now one of my best friends because I could not have made it through that weekend without someone to interpret and reciprocate my eyeball rolling and my “What the f?” face.
Unlike that horror, this girl trip was just going to be the two of us on an overnight trip to Memphis. And this was a friend I know and like and isn’t the type to present me with a bill for my half of whatever debauchery we get into. I’ve learned to better choose my friends, as I’ve grown older.
Anyway, when I got up at 5am to set off on my grand adventure, I found a love note from Husband, written on a napkin propped up on the vitamins. So dang cute, even at 5am. No, especially at 5am! So I wrote him one.
But marriage – no matter what your friends say - is about one up-man ship. He wrote ‘I love you’ on a napkin, so I grabbed a card and wrote a novel. I praised his patience with me. I thanked him for his love. I commended his smarts and follow through on the studio. And I let him know that life without him would be not worth living. It was epic. If he was one to cry, a tear might have slipped down his face while reading it. I am good at the sappy stuff.
But, where to leave this heart wrenching missive? The kitchen counter - well, that had been done. Next to his bed - if it weren’t attached to his phone, he’d never see it. Taped on the bathroom mirror – who can find tape at 5am? “I know,” I thought, “his studio!” I snuck down to the basement, unlocked the studio door and looked about each room for the perfect spot. Settling on his mixing desk, I propped the card in its envelope against the screen.
Where it promptly fell over.
Now I hadn’t turned the lights on when I entered the studio. There was enough ambient light from all the bells and whistles he has all over the stupid thing. And the sun was coming up so I was confident in my abilities to place a card on a desk.
I was wrong to be so cocky.
After the card flopped over, I picked it up and brilliantly placed it against the keyboard. Where it stood for half a second – before it slowly slid down, bumping its top off the bottom of the keyboard and slipping right down the big hole right below the keyboard and into the abyss that is a large mixing desk with stupidly placed cutouts for air circulation.
I turned the light on then. And with the light, I could clearly see the hole that had blended in with the dark coco brown of the desk in the dawn light. I could also clearly see that I would not be able to do a thing about getting that damn card.
Thwarted by a damn desk, I did the next best thing; I got post-it notes and wrote him a series of small notes, directing him to my love novel, tasking him with retrieving it, an impromptu scavenger hunt. “This is even better than just a note on the counter,” I thought. Post-it notes stuck on various walls and couches, I got myself together and left the house, off for 36 hours of bad decisions and over analyzing everything, leaving dog with Husband and an epic love letter for him to find.
Then I got a text from Husband asking me if my note to him was the post-it, the one on his mixing desk that said ‘way down’ with an arrow pointing under his desk. Um, no! Major love note fail.
Funny thing about mixing desks – they do not come apart unless you’re moving. And no amount of wiggling arms down deep awkward holes in said desk has resulted in the missing love letter. In fact, he can’t even see it to know it’s there. The good thing about all of this, I can tell him all sorts of things I wrote in that letter that may or may not be true. The bad thing, I have no actual love note proof so Husband wins this round.
If you want me, I’ll be in my workshop constructing some sort of letter retrieval contraption. Losing a round of sentiment to Husband… well, I just can’t let that happen!
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me