“Well,” she asked, “which do you like best?”

I sighed. “I hate when you do that, you know.”

She nodded and mumbled out an “I know,” one that ended in an unspoken “but…”

She knows I hate it. I know she knows. She also knows I don’t really hate it, I just find it… annoying that she’ll always ask questions like that. It’s just her way: If I ask where I last left something, she’ll ask me about the last place I had it; if I ask her whether she wants to dine out, she’ll ask what I feel like doing, and so on. It’s just in her nature to be that special kind of considerate. Sometimes to the point of annoyance.

I went on to explain that while I enjoy Buffy (it is, after all, written by Joss Whedon, who is as close to awesome as you get when it comes to TV writers), I like DS9 much more. Still, seven seasons of Buffy for $99 offers more entertainment bang for the buck than seven seasons of DS9 for $250. Unless I watch every DS9 episode a three times.

“Buy both.”

“Can’t.” I looked at the computer screen which now presented not a website, but rather a fork in the road. “I only have enough in the play-money* account for either Buffy and two seasons of DS9, or five seasons of DS9.”

* The play-money account is a special account where I put aside a small amount every week that I can use for whatever I feel like. It’s part of the entertainment budget.

“Let me ask you, why do you feel you have to buy any of those now?” She went on to point out that we still have a season’s worth of Babylon 5 and ten of Stargate: SG1 to go through before we start on anything else. First in, first out, and this will take us at least six months.

“Good point,” I said. Very good. I didn’t quite know how to answer without incriminating myself. “I guess, because…” I thought for a second. “I guess because I’m afraid the price’ll go up.” True enough, but only just.

“What makes you think it won’t go down?” And with that, she masterfully set the part of me which holds a propensity towards betting against the part of me which fears losing out on a good deal. I hate when she does that, too.

Why did I think it wouldn’t go down? Probably because this was Amazon, and prices there are in greater flux than the time stream in the Star Trek universe.

“Because…” I tried to think of an excuse, something other than Because now that I’m done going through yet another existential crisis, I feel the need to fill my life with stuff to feel secure, or It’s better than eating. My mind raced, trying to find a good–

“If they’re older, won’t the price go down?”

Yes! An exit! “Hon, this is Star Trek,” I said. “Prices for Star Trek almost never go down.” Which is true, kind of.

“Honestly, I think you should wait.” *Thump* Nail in the coffin. She was right, I should.

I didn’t buy anything last night. I closed the laptop, went to bed, and read a book. From the library. Better than watching shows or spending money, I guess.

This Friday we’re scheduled to be up in Tampa to attend my 10-year high school reunion, which is being held at some club somewhere in town. (Why they didn’t just have it at the school gym or something is beyond me. Heck, it was good enough for our dances, why isn’t it good enough for our reunion?) Last week, The Wife asked me what the dress was for the event. Being the avid observer of such things as details I responded in a way befitting only those with the utmost confidence in their fashion skills: “I dunno. Something nice. Semi-formal, I think.”

Needless to say this didn’t get the acclaim I so had hoped it would have.

I then went… I mean, a while later, I… Alright, alright: after two days of The Wife asking me what the dress code was, I was finally forcefully convinced by The Wife to actually take a look at the invitation (sent to us through MySpace; I can only guess others received mailings I did not). There the dress code was spelled out as being “Cocktail Attire.” Of course, this caused a bit of a panic.

I honestly didn’t understand what the big deal was until I found out that Cocktail Attire doesn’t just mean nice: It’s not like Formal or Semi-Formal. Cocktail Attire is its own thing, with its own set of convoluted rules and regulations for women to endlessly debate over. (Guys, on the other hand, simply look at whatever is most comfortable then add a jacket to it. Simple.) Here’s a synopsis I found on the Internet (which, despite statements to the contrary, is the true cause of and solution to all of life’s problems):

Cocktail Attire: Generally seen referring to social gatherings, and some fine dining

• For men, cocktail attire means suit and tie, or coat and tie. Colors and fabrics may vary with the season or with the location of the event. (A cocktail party at a friend’s place would be a little less dressy than one held in a nice hotel.)
• For women, cocktail attire is the cocktail-length dress. Hair and make-up should be appropriate to the time of day (typically early evening) and the color and fabric of the clothing will likely vary with the season and location of the event.

Unsurprisingly, Cocktail Attire is a fairly easy thing for a guy to do. For a lady… not so much. While all we guys have to worry is about our clothes, how we look, and how we smell, ladies have the much harder task of having to worry about competition or some other such thing, I don’t really know.

So after a week of looking and debating, of scouring the store racks for something fitting, The Wife (with the help of my mom) narrowed the options down to the following two very economical, family friendly sets. Note that I won’t get into much description because, frankly, I don’t know much about things like cloth material or shoe styles, so you’ll just have to work on what you see. I’ll offer up whatever notes I can.

The First: This set is a light color option made up of a simple summer dress with a shawl, matching shoes and purse. The shoes, dress, and shawl were all bought separately, so they don’t match exactly, but they’re certainly close enough. (If you can tell the difference, I applaud you.) I like the fact that the light color complements The Wife’s hair and skin tones rather nicely. The dress also does a fairly good job of showing off her figure without being temptingly revealing. The pictures include the front, back, and pattern. I don’t like the fact that the materials seem to not go together as well. (But seriously, what the hell do I know?)

The Second: This set is the dark color option (navy blue). While they weren’t bought as a set, the fact that the shoes and dress are the exact same shade of blue makes one think so. I like the fact that this set matches beautifully, and looks therefore very complete and elegant with the right accents (shown). It looks much more dressy to me. This may (and likely will) also be accompanied by a white shawl to cover the shoulders, which should match the fabric of the dress much better than in the previous option. I don’t like the fact that this dress tends to dampen some of her more, how you say, enticing features? Maybe it’s the colors, maybe it’s the cut: I don’t really know. I suggested a white belt or bow (whatever you put around the waist) would complete the set very nicely. (But again, what the hell do I know?)

So here’s the deal: if you select the beige dress, I’ll likely go with a light pair of dress pants (beige) and either a light blue or white dress shirt. (I don’t have a jacket that’ll match that, so that will have to do.) If you select the blue dress, I’ll likely go with a pair of navy blue pants (which would match the dress beautifully), a white dress shirt, and a matching navy blue blazer.

While in the end you won’t have the final vote (sorry, but that’s reserved for The Wife), you do have a strong say in it, since she can’t quite decide right now what she’ll wear. Also, if you have any suggestions (and I know for a fact some of you are champions of the fabric and can guide me better than I could imagine) feel free to make them here. Finally, don’t be afraid to ask any questions: I probably haven’t given anywhere near enough information.

I started by telling her that in the short span of time we’ve been married, I’ve had to learn a lot more than I ever expected. “Yeah, I can imagine,” she replied. “I’m sure it’s, like, the things that you found totally cute about her and that attracted you to her in the first place are now the biggest annoyances, right?” Anyone who’s ever heard the word marriage has heard something along those lines.

“No,” I replied. “Actually, that hasn’t been the case. The first thing that I noticed about her, and that attracted me to her, for that matter, were her looks.”

“Oh…uhm…OK,” Nym finally stuttered out. I’m sure she thought me a pretty shallow guy at this point.

I tried to explain to her that her looks weren’t why I married her, just what first attracted me to her. It should go without saying that that attraction would quickly had turned to revulsion had her personality betrayed her looks, or petered out if she hadn’t turned out to be as deep a thinker or as surprisingly multifaceted as she has.

Of course, it hasn’t all been bliss. The honeymoon eventually ended, but that’s OK: I didn’t get married expecting there would never be problems. However, while I didn’t expect there not to be problems, I never expected some of the problems which cropped up.

In the last three years I’ve learned more about myself through making the marriage work than I could’ve hoped to if I had stayed single. Of course, most of these things have had to do with simply learning to live with a spouse — like how to be just psychic enough to know when my wife is thinking I screwed something up, and how to listen to my wife without trying to offer solutions unless she really wants them — and to accept my wife for who she is, realizing that what she becomes is in large part due to the environment I help create, with no small part due to her own efforts. In fact, it’s this last lesson — or rather the lessons that make up that last observation — which have most impacted me during the past year.

There’s an old saying which states that a man marries a woman hoping she never changes (and she does), and that a woman marries a man hoping he’ll change (and he doesn’t). I guess maybe I surprised The Wife when she saw that I was actively changing, usually for the better (I hope).

For the past five years I’ve been on an active program of self-improvement: I spend a fair amount of time reading PMA (positive mental attitude) books, interacting with people who don’t let me stay in my comfort zones — EVER — and continually challenging myself be better than I was the day before. More often than not, this has meant taking two steps forward and two steps back, with the occasional third step forward thrown in, and if I’m very lucky, a hop (but never a skip or a jump). Herein lies the crux of the first challenge in marriage: accepting that people change at different rates.

There have been times when I’ve felt myself growing as a person, where I started to see things within myself and others I had never noticed before, like when someone finally told me to my face that I had a propensity towards the “if you want to do it right, do it yourself” attitude, or when I discovered that I wasn’t the only one afraid to greet and start a conversation with a total stranger because I thought I’d look stupid. (I had more than my share of stupid moments, very few of which came by way of greeting someone.) Unfortunately, people living together are like continental shelves: one shift from one side or the other and suddenly the ground starts to shake. I found that whenever I started to grow faster than The Wife, we started having fights, lots of them. Big ones. Explosive ones, fights we could sell tickets for. Not surprisingly, she’s the type which likes to avoid confrontation. I say “not surprisingly” because while she likes to avoid it, I thrive at it. Whenever there’s silence during one of our fights times of non-bliss, I start prodding. Eventually she gets sick of it, and the heated conversation starts up again, which is exactly what I want, since that way at least then the conversation is still going, instead of us going to different sides of the apartment and ignoring the other while brooding inside. (That’s another lesson, by the way: never ever ever stop talking. This may not be the right way to do it, but it’s worked for us.) Eventually we both get tired of discussing things in high volume and we finally get to the root of the issue and talk about it like human beings and not orangutans.

The Wife, on the other hand, is much better at the growth thing than I. Whenever she’s growing faster than me, she does everything in her power to uplift me and encourage, instead of using my tried and false method trying to attract flies with a ruler. Ever the people person, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that her methods usually work better than mine: while I asked “why aren’t you doing this? Don’t you want to grow?” she instead said, “I believe in you.” With the help of books like How to Win Friends and Influence People, I’m starting to learn how to do what seemingly comes naturally to her. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s definitely been worth it.

So what’s the lesson here? For starters — and this is aimed at guys — grow, damn it! Grow! Work at becoming a better person. Trust me, your wife will appreciate that. If you don’t have a wife yet, grow anyway. Everyone around you now will take notice, and while the crabs out there will try to drag you down, the true uplifters will do what they do best: uplift. The second lesson here is to have patience with your spouse. Always try to see things from their eyes. And don’t be so quick to place the blame on them: the fault may lie with you. Work at being the right person, and you’ll find that your partner will likely follow, if you let them. They married you for a reason, and I’m guessing it wasn’t just so they could see how miserable you could make each other.

As odd as it may seem, The Wife’s amazing people skills, or rather the passivity they’re borne out of have been a cause for lessons learned during our marriage. Like most good lessons, most of these have been painfully learned, but have offered great rewards, insofar as the relationship is concerned.

Nym thought that the first thing which attracted me to The Wife has likely been the root of some trouble during our marriage. She wasn’t far off on that account. The first thing which attracted me to The Wife — I mean really attracted, not just eye candy — was the fact that she actually listened to me, that she actually seemed to be honestly enjoying spending time together. As I later found out, almost everyone I’ve ever heard talk about her says something similar about her, usually along the lines of “she’s the best listener I’ve ever met.” And she is, phenomenal in fact. While this in and of itself hasn’t been a point of contention in our marriage, the passivity this is borne from has.

By nature I’m a very driven person. Very driven. So when I came to the realization I had married someone who could be described as laid back, I was taken aback. This realization, like almost all others regarding marriage, came after trying to figure out why it seemed like I was working so hard for things we both wanted while in my eyes (whether rightly or wrongly) The Wife seemed to be doing everything possible to stay relaxed, even if it meant that whatever we wanted would be delayed. This drove me nuts.

One of the first manifestations of this passivity was her use of the phrase “don’t work too hard”, usually used as a farewell during phone conversations.

I hate that phrase. Haaaaaaate it. I mean, seriously, what does “work too hard” mean? As a workaholic, I had absolutely no idea why hard was a bad thing, and that phrase was the very antithesis of the very way I defined myself. I always saw myself as a hard worker, and in my mind I always saw The Wife and I working hard towards our goals and dreams no matter the cost. The problem here was that The Wife’s idea of “no matter the cost” included time for such little details as planned date nights, which I tried to convince her didn’t really need to be planned, but could be taken whenever we saw ourselves having a break.

As you can guess, this led to many, many fights. Eventually I came to the realization that I had been trying to force the Wife to do things she didn’t really want to do, at least not under my method of working. Once I realized this, I decided to stop pushing her to do things I thought she wanted, and just allowed her to do the things she really wanted. While at first these seemed like completely undirected and useless activities, I soon came to realize a large number of things about her I could never have while pushing, both good and bad. A major realization took place when we figured out that while she may feel strongly about some things, there are times she’ll not take action in them because of what those actions would mean in the way of consequence, since they would indicate total commitment. (This didn’t mean she was afraid of commitment, but rather that while she had great intents and ideas, there were times she would not follow through on these, fearing what the consequence of the actions might be, even if the consequence was actually a good outcome. I define that as a fear of commitment. She vehemently denies it to be so. We’re still working this one out.)

Of course, she wasn’t the only one in this relationship going through that: I was battling that myself, although in a slightly different manner. While she avoided action because of the consequences of those actions in term of commitment, I avoided commitment by trying moving in several directions at once, fearing that if I don’t I might miss something. Needless to say, in the process I missed a lot, and became like a shallow pond, with my interests and knowledge (and their rewards) a mile wide and inch deep.

The operative term in both of these is “fear”: she feared the consequences of what her actions might define her as, and I feared missing out on something. It’s as if she was a parked car with the engine running and I was doing donuts in the parking lot. Both of us were getting nowhere just as fast, and both were running out of gas in the process. I guess opposites do attract.

After I stopped pushing, and after learning a few more lessons because of it, we found it easier now to move in a unified direction, since we started to understand ourselves and our roles a bit better. As such, here’s some advice which I think is worth remembering: Guys, you’re the heads of your families, act that way. Ladies, you’re the neck of your families. This doesn’t mean use your position to strangle your husband, it means that while the neck submits to the head, where the neck makes the head look, the rest of the body will eventually follow. We started really understanding this, and took a small hop forward.

The lesson here is simple: You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Don’t force your spouse to do things they don’t want to do, and let them do what their heart leads them to. They may surprise you with what they’ve got within them, and you’ll soon realize that, like you, they want to benefit from this marriage, both personally and socially. They didn’t get in it to make you miserable.

While there are about a thousand more lessons I’m sure I could talk about (like not fretting so much about the damn toilet seat: it’s OK if she refuses to learn how to work it, since it’s not just her butt that’ll stay dry; and the necessity of learning your spouse’s love language) I’ll stop here, since these are probably the two most important lessons I’ve learned over the past year.

Of course, there are things to which I was attracted which I don’t think I’ll ever tire of, such as her being one of the few people who really understands and actually enjoys my sense of humor, but that’s a topic for another time.

I’m not sure Nym caught all of this after my comment about the looks, however. The conversation ended a few minutes later, before I could really explain all of this. Maybe in three years she’ll have figured out what I meant.

The term “chick flick” is slang, sometimes slightly derisive, for a movie which is designed or considered to appeal mainly to women, and generally displaying more of a focus on romance or relationships. Many romantic comedies or films with a lots of female characters are likely to be put in this category. — (Google Query: “Define: Chick Flick”)

Ladies: Ever wonder why it is that guys don’t like romantic movies like The Lake House and romantic comedies like You’ve Got Mail? Why it is that your man would do just about anything to get out of watching one of those obviously sophisticated, romantic Meg Ryan movies?

Wonder no more. The reason we men don’t like that type of movie (aside from the fact that no one has ever laughed during a romantic “comedy”) is because of what I like to call the “chick flick moment”.

A chick flick moment in film is one of those (copious) moments during a movie when something almost absurdly stupid happens which delays the resolution of the film for another 45 embarrassingly pain-staking minutes. Basically, these are the “OH MY GOD!” moments when you ladies have your fingers outstretched, your hands waving madly and narrowly in the air, and your voices become super-high pitched whines consisting of yells, squeals, and “OH MY GOD HE’S GONNA KISS HER! NO NO NO, DON”T GO THERE! TURN RIGHT! TURN RIGHT! AHHHHHHHHH!” statements.

The reason guys hate this moment — and by extension every moment leading up to and proceeding it — is because, frankly, we don’t know what to do. We don’t want to get excited, because getting excited over something like that is just plain stupid, and we don’t want to get up and walk away, because… well, do I really have to explain this? Chick flick moments are the moments where we guys are actually embarrassed to be watching this film, not because it’s bad (though this is also usually the case), but because we realize that the only reason we’re even looking at the screen is because you’ve forced us to be there. I’m sure you know as well as we do (even though you might not understand why we fell this way) that we guys would rather be just about anywhere else at that point and time.

Hatred of the uncomfortable chick flick moment aside, I’ve always wondered what it would be like if the Wachowski brothers had decided to make The Matrix into a chick flick. How would it feel to be watching this awesome philosophical epic and suddenly find yourself yelling “OH MY GOD!!! NEO, TURN AROUND! TRINITY IS RIGHT THERE! RIGHT THERE! KISS HER!!!!” Then, as Neo is about to tell Trinity how he feels about her (and how they should kiss, question reality, then kill a few more agents), Cypher, who is trying to woo Trinity and who doesn’t like Neo, walks into the room.

“Hey, Trin,” says Cypher.

“Oh, Hi… Cypher,” answers Trinity uncomfortably. It is about this time that every woman in the audience yells “NOOOOOOOOO!” and starts laughing nervously while every guy squirms out of his seat, thinking to himself “I missed the Bucs/Dolphins game for this?!

Case and point: a few nights ago, The Wife decided to rent the movie The Lake House. (WARNING: SPOLERS AHEAD!) The movie features Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves as two people who develop a romantic relationship — arguments and all — using a rip in the fabric of the space/time continuum conveniently located inside their mailbox. The movie ends when the law of cause and effect is thrown out the window entirely and the very event by which the two characters met is prevented, causing the two characters to meet. (Trust me, it makes even less sense than what I just described.)

While watching the movie, The Wife pointed out one of the copious chick flick moments featured in that film and tells me “See, this is why I love this kind of movie.”

“See,” I replied, “this is EXACTLY why I hate this kind of movie. I don’t know whether to scream, laugh… mostly I’m just embarrassed to be watching it.”

Again, this moment, right here, is what defines chick flicks. What’s worse, the chick flick moments really don’t do anything to move the usually way-too-predictable story line forward, they’re just… painful.

Halfway through watching the film, I already have the whole thing figured out (chick flicks tend to be about as opaque and mysterious as clear glass on a bright, sunny day).

“Watch,” I tell The Wife. “The guy was the one killed by the bus.”

“Stop,” she snaps back. “You’re spoiling the movie.”

“I’m not spoiling the movie!” I retort. “It’s just so BLATANTLY OBVIOUS!”

“Most chick flicks ARE obvious,” she admits. “They’re supposed to be fun!”

“They’re embarrassing,” I point out. “Embarrassing AND not fun. And painful. Embarrassing, not fun, and painful.”

By the way, if you haven’t seen the movie, let me save you some time: the guy struck by the bus at the beginning of the movie is the guy the lady falls in love with. Because the movie is filled with tons of temporal paradoxes, the movie ends with he guy NOT dying, which means the guy would never have moved out of his (now her) house, which means the lady would have never taken that vacation where they met over the mailbox, which means that the film makes absolutely no sense because of various temporal paradoxes. Frankly, whoever made this film probably worked with Rick Berman on Star Trek, since they seemed to be so comfortable with paradoxes and temporal contradictions happening on a regular basis.

Anyway, the lesson here is that The Lake House is a horrible movie. You shouldn’t watch it. Ever. And if you’re forced to watch it guys, demand restitution: two hours of slave labor ought to do nicely.

(SPOILERS END HERE)

That aside, ladies, if you’re wondering why guys don’t like watching romances or romantic comedies, and why it seems the life force seeps out of us whenever we’re forced to watch this sort of movie, now you know: it’s not because chick flick suck — some of them are actually good — its because of the chick flick moment.

Here’s an example: right now I’m sick getting better. Apparently, I’ve been this way for about a week: Sunday and Monday I couldn’t stop sleeping, Tuesday I was feeling dizzy, Wednesday my throat started hurting, and Thursday I got a fever. It’s now Friday and although the fever broke last night, my body aches and my tonsils still feel as if they’ve been replaced by bruised oranges.

When this all started, I wasn’t exactly oblivious to what was going on. I knew darn well that I was probably coming down with something, which is why I started my own home remedy regimen: upped my vitamin dosage (especially A, Zinc and C), took echinacea, and started putting large amounts of garlic on my food (Remedy #1). I also started making sure I got more sleep (Remedy #2). In other words, I turned my toilet radioactive yellow, my breath into a check-me-out-Buffy vampire-killing weapon (just in time for Halloween), and into a beast of quasi-eternal slumber.

While doing this kept me feeling pretty good, it didn’t heal me. Thursday morning I started bringing in even more weapons (Remedy #3): I bought a +2 bag of holy anesthetic cough-drops and a couple of bottles of elvish mouthwash. From Target.

You’re probably wondering what’s up with the mouthwash. I use the mouthwash as a disinfectant for my tonsils. Whenever I get sick, specifically with a cold, flu, or anything which bothers my throat, I’ll usually buy Listerine-style mouthwash and gargle it various times during the day to help the tonsils stay clean and able to do their job. (I use the Listerine type of mouthwash in part because of its alcohol content, and because unlike Scope or Glister, it doesn’t bubble up and make me seem like I’m frothing at the mouth.)

Unfortunately, it seems I started the gargling too late. Even though I was gargling every hour or so, my tonsils still felt huge. On top of that, I was feeling cold. Really cold, to the point where I needed to wear a jacket at the office, where it was around 73-degrees. I was coming down with a fever.

Driving home, I turned up the heather in the car. This wasn’t only to warm me up (even though to me it was pretty cold outside), it was also to make me sweat. I figure that if I have a fever, and I sweat when it breaks, then if I induce myself to sweat because of a hot environment I’ll be able to get over the fever quickly (Remedy #4). While I don’t do this for high fevers (103 and above), for low grade fevers this is my first line of defense, if you will.

After I got home, I bundled up with a couple of blankets and just got comfortable. For the last couple of days it has actually been fairly cool down here: temperatures have between the uppper 60′s and upper 70′s. Because of that, the air conditioning hasn’t been on in our place since Monday, which came as an advantage, since the house was already somewhat warm.

By the time The Wife got to the house, my fever had climbed up to about 100. Luckily, this was as high as it would get. When I told her how I was feeling, she automatically said the same thing she always says whenever either one of us is sick: “I’ll make you some chicken soup.” (Remedy #5)

Chicken soup, it seems, is the answer to all illnesses. Got a cold? Chicken soup. Fever? Chicken soup. Pneumonia? Chicken soup. Brain cancer? Chicken soup. Osteoperosis?…

You get the drift.

I turned down the soup because I wasn’t hungry. In fact, I hadn’t been hungry most of the day. About a minute after she first offered, I relented.

“For starters, do we even have chicken soup?” I asked.

“Hmm…” she said, as she dug in the make-shift pantry we created. “No, doesn’t look like it.”

She kept digging as if she was looking for something. A few minutes later, the digging stopped. “Hon,” she said, “I know this is really high I sodium, but do you think Ramen would help?”

What? Chicken Ramen?! I thought. That’s, like, pretend soup!

“Take a look at the ingredients,” I said. “Does that package of ramen have even a trace of actual chicken?”

She looked at the package. “It’s got chicken… flavoring.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’ll work.” While it is true that chicken soup has some healing properties, I sincerely doubt those benefits extend to things that simply taste like chicken soup. Still, after that I aked, “Hon, do you remember how the saying goes? ‘Feed a fever, starve a cold’? Or is it ‘starve a fever, feed a cold’?”

“Feed a fever, starve a cold,” she said, then added, “I think.”

To me that made sense. “Well yeah,” I started, “I guess that’s right. After all, if you have a fever, then your body is trying to essentially kill whatever microbe is invading your body by over-heating and killing it, right? So, adding food/fuel to the metabolic fire would raise your temperature and help kill things faster. And if you have a cold, then your immune system needs all the energy it can muster up to beat whatever microbes are invading your body, in which case eating food would be bad, since the energy needed for the immune system’s response is instead being used by your digestive system.”

Even with this (probably way wrong) logic, I decided not to eat. I just wasn’t hungry. Instead I took some vitamins and went straight to bed. Maybe I could sleep the fever off. I wrapped myself in blankets and a comforter, and I was out.

Waking up this morning, I realized that my fever was gone: my temperature was at 97.9, which is right at my normal range, and my pillow was drenched in sweat. I guess just talking about chicken soup helped. No ingestion needed. How ’bout them apples? Unfortunately my tonsils still hurt, which is why I decided to take a day off of work today and just stay home, write a little bit, sleep, and avoid the incredibly cold air at the office: I’m guessing drastic temperature changes aren’t particularly good for the immune system. While I’m here, I might as well also try to re-do the site, especially since I submitted my site to be judged by the people at 9Rules for inclusion to their network of blogs. (Dear judges: if you’re reading this, please pick me. Thank you.)

So, to recap: here are four super-secret, apparently-not-all-that-effective home remedies which I’ve tried.

1. More vitamins and supplements, especially A, Zinc and C; echinacea; and raw garlic, lots of if, on my food.
2. More sleep.
3. Gargling Listerine-type mouthwash
4. Inducing sweating by raising the ambient temperature
5. Chicken Soup.

I’m now in the process of trying a sixth home remedy: fudgesicles. They cool my tonsils off and make them feel relatively good.

When you get a text from your loved one saying something like ‘Love You’ or some other pithy comment, the proper response is, apparently, to text back straight away ‘Love You Too’ and, for best practice, add something equally as meaningful and romantic. Failure to do this will result in ‘bad points’ being awarded against you for which the eventual sentence will be swift, unexpected and almost certainly painful.

I learnt this to my cost after failing to observe the unwritten law — which I’ve never read as it isn’t written down — when receiving such a text yesterday morning and then neglecting to reply in the appropriate manner.

Truer words have been written, but not many. Not many at all.

Normally when we go to the movies, we go to the big Ultramegaplex 24 (whatever it’s called). It’s 20 minutes away, but it’s one of those with the ultra-plush reclinable stadium seating, which makes it seem like the drive and price are really worth it. Truth be told, it usually is, especially if we’re planning on watching a multi-million dollar special effects extravaganza sci-fi flick. This time, having just gorged ourselves on more spinach, carrots, and “Joan’s Broccoli Madness” than we really should have, we were too full after the meal to drive that far. Instead, we decided to check out the tiny 8-plex movie theater just around the corner from our house. We had never been there, so we were a bit curious about it. And, after all, we were seeing Narnia, which, although a multi-million dollar special effects extravaganza fantasy flick, was one of those we felt we could enjoy more for the story than for the special effects. (Thank God for those. I’m tired of going to a movie just to watch someone’s multi-million dollar CGI wet-dream parade across the screen without any actual substance.)

It being Saturday night, we knew we’d probably be surrounded by teenie boppers in whatever theather we ended up at. We also knew for a fact the Ultramegaplex was a hotspot for high schoolers during the weekends, but we didn’t know about the local 8-plex. As we found out, apparently this is where the younger kids hang out, before they graduate to the Ultramegaplex: we were at least 13 years senior to the rest of that evening’s movie-going public.

“Two tickets for the 9:40 Chronicles,” I told the teller. “Oh, and two senior discounts.” This made the teller chuckle, then look at us and nod knowingly.

We still didn’t get the discount.

The theater was definitely small by today’s standards, especially in an area like Fort Lauderdale. (I said it was an 8-plex, right?) Like in most other movie theaters, by far the most prominent feature here was the altar of popcorn and candies — otherwise known as the concession stand — to which everyone coming in was expected to pay tribute. To its right and left were hallways leading to the various theaters.

As we gave our ticket to the ticket taker he informed us that our theater was “theater 8, last on the left.” 7 seconds later, there we were.

By now it was 9:06. We knew we’d be early, but I guess we didn’t exactly realize how early. Our movie started at 9:40, so we had plenty of time. This gave us a chance to enjoy the scenery a bit. As we stood outside our theater’s door (and next to the door where King Kong was playing), we started talking about years past, where theaters like this were not the exception, but rather the rule. We also started talking about the last time we each were in a theater like this. (Not together; strangely enough, we’d never before been to a small theater like this together.)

For her, the last time was when she was at a small dollar theater by her house. A new, bigger theater had opened up not too far from that one, in the mall, and it wasn’t long before the older, smaller theater went from being a full price venue to a buck a movie. This offered her a chance to go to the movies more often, especially on her high school budget. Coincidentally, this was the same theater I saw Star Trek: Generations when it first came out. (Yes, I dressed up. As a Starfleet officer. I didn’t have the money at the time to go Klingon or Borg.) This was a few months before the theater went to dollar movie mode.

For me, the last time was also at a dollar theater. This one was in LaCrosse, Wisconsin, and I had gone with my then girlfriend and her friend. We had planned to go to another theater, but after realizing that we had a total of $4.50 combined, we figured this was the place to go for theatrical goodness.

The theater was exactly what you would expect a dollar theater to be like: lack-luster lighting; extra prominent concession stand, flanked by the doors leading to the movie rooms; popcorn all over the floor; not many people there, patrons or staff; and the only movies offered were martial arts movies. (Actually that’s not true. There were other movies there — I don’t remember which — but we ended up watching Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.) Having only four screens, this theater was extra small, even by dollar movie standards. Still, this was Wisconsin, so I suppose that shouldn’t have been much of a surprise.

Strangely enough, one thing I’ve always dreamed of is running my own small dollar movie theater, one that would look just like the regular-priced theater The Wife and I were standing in. It’s not something I’d really care to do for a profit, though that would be nice. (Besides, I find that theaters make for great writing.) It’s more of a wish I’ve always had in the back of my mind, to own a small theater, maybe a dollar or discount theater where I could show old martial arts movies, foreign movies you wouldn’t normally see in the US, popular movies which have just come off the main theaters, or even independent films, so long as they weren’t about gay cowboys eating pudding. As I found out tonight, it turns out I’m not the only one thinking about that (buying a theater, that is, not gay coyboys eating pudding): the wife’s also thought about the very same thing. Who knows, if this theater, which is literally 5 minutes from our house, is ever for sale, maybe we can scoop it up. Again, although I’d be looking to turn a profit this would be more of a “hey this is cool” sort of thing, and therefore not a high priority in my list of acquisitions.

As The Wife and I looked around this hallway and reminisced, we noticed that everyone from the last showing had already left. We walked in to the movie room and it was like walking into the past — a big, empty past. The room looked like the most basic of movie theaters imaginable: rows of non-stadium seats, non-reclining seats with burlap instead of leather, and cup-holder arm rests that didn’t move in seats that weren’t made for fat guys. We stayed in the back of the room for a while, waiting to see if anyone else would come in. For what seemed like forever, no one did. Frankly, I didn’t like that part one bit.

Like most people, The Wife enjoys the idea of having the theater to herself. As for me — well, I’m just not a big fan of that. To me, being in an empty movie theater is like going to a mall where most of the stores are closed: spending too much time there is depressing and totally drains the life out of me. Neither going to empty malls nor to empty movie theaters are things I enjoy. In fact, I remember the first time I went to a movie where no one else showed. My mom had taken my siblings and I to watch the Silvester Stalone movie Oscar. The theater we went to was one we hadn’t been at in a while, but one we, especially my grandmother, always loved going to. (Truth be told, I couldn’t tell you why we liked it so much, I just know we did.) We went on a Saturday afternoon, and as we walked in, I noticed this place was a lot quieter than I remembered it being. We went into the movie room, picked our seats, and waited. By the time the movie started we noticed no one else was coming, so we decided we’d sit wherever we want to: my brother went one way, my older sister another, and my younger sister just stayed close to my mom. I went and sat a few rows ahead, propped my feet up on the seat in front of me and tried to relax.

“Tried” is the operative term here. Although I enjoyed the movie — somewhat — I didn’t enjoy the feeling of being alone in the theater. In fact, while my siblings loved it, I hated it, and I never wanted to do it again.

So there it was, 9:30, and finally a few people showed up to watch Narnia. A few minutes later, a few more people showed up. A minute later… you get the point. People started trickling in (if that). Figuring that the theather might actually get somewhat full (it didn’t), The Wife and I picked out our seats about this time, deciding on two seats, four rows from the back, since we both like the view from back there. (It’s like being at my parent’s place with their massive 55″ wide-screen TV.)

When the movie started, a grand total of 15 people (at most) were there. This was perfect for me, since there were enough people to make the room not feel dead, but not enough for it to become annoyingly tight. (After all, these seats weren’t big like the stadium seats. Heck, their arm rests didn’t go up and their seats didn’t recline.)

After the watching Narnia, which I highly recommend, we didn’t take much time in leaving, but made sure to take in the sights in the process. After all, we don’t know when the next time we’ll be at a theater like this again. With the frequency with which we go to the movies, maybe never. Unless I buy and run one, that is.

Tell you what: how ’bout I just let her tell you how she feels?

I’m sorry, but I’d have to have a few drinks before I’d even talk to him… If I ended up married to him, I’d have to become an alcoholic.

Ouch.

Her day started at about 6:30 A.M., when she drove out to the school so she could start working on her classroom. The place was a mess, and with just one day until open house (yes, it’s on a Sunday), slacking off was not an option. She had planned to work on the classroom a bit before getting together with her group leader (or teaching mentor, as she’s called) to plan out the first week. As it turns out, she got to work on it a lot; her mentor bumped their planning session until tomorrow.

Normally, this wouldn’t have been such a big deal. But the problem was that The Wife was already nervous, a bit down, and feeling way unprepared, so this just added to the desperation. Lucky for her, she had already told me last night that I had to go out and help her. In retrospect, I’m glad she did.

This morning I had gone out to the gym for a bit of exercise. My back had been bothering me, and though I’ve recently lost some weight (yae!), I still hadn’t gone out to the gym in at least 3 weeks. I guess it was the combination of the excercise, the vitamins I took beforehand, the rhodiola, and the energy drink I had after exercising (no sugar, tons of vitamin B12 — gotta love that XS!), but when I was finished I was feeling seriously good, and seriously energized. Helping The Wife out would be no problem at all. (Insert Tim Allen grunts.)

Today was the first day I saw where The Wife is going to be working for the next year, at least. The school doesn’t look too bad (for a penitentiary), with its salmon colored walls and surrounding neighborhood. Although it’s in a pretty crappy area of town, it’s not as bad as it could be. Then again, this is Florida, and the school system generally sucks. Not that it’s under-funded, mind you, but the people running the system haven’t exactly cleaned up any messes lately. To their credit, they haven’t made any big ones recently, either. But I digress…

As I entered the classroom I got a glimpse of what the next five hours held in store for me. At least, before I was assaulted with a cacaphony of color. The room, which had beige walls and a gray floor, had apparently been decorated by Mr Crayola himself. Each wall was decorated with the patented “73 colors per wall” decor, and the room’s organization scheme had been done by Dali himself, following the “everything everywhere, all the time” rule. (Simple, no?) I doubt however that Dali would have decided on a mold-green, 6-foot by 4-foot bulletin board with electric pink borders matching beautifully with a 5-foot by 2-foot bright yellow bulletin board with bright green borders. It was like watching a soccer match between Brazil and Retard-landia, one where the prize is seizures, all around.

Remember now, I had already exercised, had an energy drink, and took some seriously good vitamins. I was already energetic. But seeing “Joseph’s Technicolor Dream Room” made my brain go haywire. I know I have a history of being easily mentally stimulated, but this… this was painful, and put my head into massive overdrive. Not only was I bouncing from wall to wall, but now I couldn’t keep myself from trying to ransack the whole room and start the decoration process from scratch, and I made sure The Wife knew it! I felt like all the books had to be put away, bulletin boards had to be destroyed, and I had to re-arrange every desk in the room. And all of this had to be done all at the same time: now.

This, of course, ticked off The Wife after a bit. Normally, she has the patience of a tree (God bless her for that!), but today I just went way overboard. “The colors, man! The colors!” The room’s decor had gotten the best of me, and I just couldn’t calm down. It was during this time that a thought came to me: if I, an adult, couldn’t keep from going totally ballistic because of all the color, how the heck were a bunch of six year olds supposed to do so?! I had to do something.

The Wife, staying cool-headed as always, eventually found a few things for me to do: put up boards, set up desks, and re-decorate a couple of the walls. (I have never gotten so much pleasure from tearing down decorations, even really ugly ones. Though in the ugly department, these weren’t denizens: these were gods.) During this time, she cleaned up the mess in the room, organized books, baskets, tapes, and supplies.

By the time 5:30 rolled around we were feeling pretty good about (most of) the room. We had decided that the room really didn’t need bulletin boards all over the place, since the kids would likely be the biggest catalyst by which the room would be decorated. We also settled on a blue/yellow theme for most of the room, with a few accents here and there. (Light blue bulletin boards, yellow borders, maybe even red letters. Heck, a bit like John Hesch’s blog, which as a really good color scheme going for it.) Come to think of it, the room started to look a bit like my 5th grade classroom, which was the first classroom I can really remember. Not as nice, but close enough for it to be a good thing.

Anyway, I’ll be back tomorrow, since there’s still a bit of work to do on the room’s looks. The Wife also needs to be there to meet the kids and their parents, but that’s something I don’t see myself involved with. (I think I’ll sneak out and go over to Barnes and Noble during that time.) I’ll take a few pics of the room and post them on the site so you can see what we have to work with, and since I’m sure she’ll want to remember what today was like. I’d post the pics of how the classroom looked like beforehand, but I wouldn’t want to to start frothing at the mouth and shaking in a seizure-like fashion, or blasting puke at your screen. I’ll leave the puke-blasting to the kids. And the clean up to the school janitor.

So here we are watching a movie and munching some pizza after a long day at work. The movie: Armageddon. Great movie if you like to watch Bruce Willis play the same role he plays in every movie. Also a great movie if you like to watch pseudo scientific action comedies.

Normally, this wouldn’t be the kind of flick that would really make it into my top ten. Or top 20, for that matter. But there’s something special about this movie, since it was the first movie my wife and I ever saw together, four days after we first met in the summer of 1998. Because of this, Armageddon has always been special to us, especially the theme song, I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing.

What’s interesting is that every time we see the movie, she gets amorous. Very amorous. Not to say that this is a bad thing, mind you — it’s actually a very good one — but I just find it interesting that every time we watch this movie, somewhere in the beginning, the following conversation (or something close to it) takes place.

“Aww,” my wife says. “Remember when we first saw this? Our first movie.”

“Uhmm… yeah. And you were dating someone else at the time,” I said, in a flat voice.

“But still. It was romantic.”

“No it wasn’t. To me, it was frustrating, since one of us was trying to woo the other. And if I remember correctly, you only stuck around ’cause you thought I was ‘mentally unstable.’”

“Oh. Yeah. That. Well…” she continued, “Hey. I’m just trying to be romantic, you know.”

This is about the time in the movie where comet parts start raining on Manhattan, with buildings toppling and cars exploding.

“Yeah, I guess there’s nothing more romantic than the violent suffering of other people.”

“Hey!” she yelped.

I laugh.

“But you know,” she said, “you did woo me.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Why do you think I stuck around.”

“Uhm… well there’s that –”

“Besides that!” she retorted.

“Actually, I think it was an act of God. And my cooking.”

The conversation goes on from there. Needless to say that by the end, I’ve usually had a good laugh, and my wife feels guilty that I had to chase her for 4 1/2 years before she finally said “yes” to a date. All in all, it makes for a good little conversation. Every. Single. Time.

I started to talk to this gentleman (I’ll call him “Mike”), and noticed he had a book in his hand.

“So, getting a little reading from the ancients, eh?”

“Not quite,” he said. “I’m getting my wife a gift for Valentine’s.”

“Ah, gotcha.” I chuckled and said jokingly, “I think I’ll simply wait until Valentines to come up with something. Nothing like not waiting until the morning of the 14th to really get the creative juices flowing, eh? So, anything in mind?”

“Not really. She’s always been hard to shop for. But she likes history, and she likes to read, so I thought I’d get her something from here.”

I made a few suggestions to him — none of which he really liked. I apologized and went on looking for what I was searching for. A minute later, I head him speaking again.

“There we go. I think — ” he reached up and grabbed a book. ” I think I’ll get her this one.”

As he put the book in his hand and began to walk away, I happened to notice the title he was carrying. It was Dante’s Inferno.

(For you single guys out there, trust me when I say that marriage is the ultimate financial decision. Two incomes? Yes, that’s a good thing, but remember that when you marry, lots of previously hidden debt pops out of places you never expected.)

Although they were happy to hear the news, Raj quickly became Mr. Finance again, and plainly (but urgently) told me “Ok, the first thing you have to do is get a job that pays at least $60,000 a year.”

Say what?! I thought. I’ve never made…

“Ok, now when are you two getting married.”

“Uhm…” I looked at my wife. “In about a year. We haven’t quite deci–”

“Oh,” he said, with a sigh of relief. “I thought it was like next month! Why are you waiting that long?”

Thankfully, that’s about when Deep jumped in. “No, Americans don’t do it that way. They wait years to get married.”

“Really?” asked Raj. (We later found out that Raj had never been to an American wedding.)

Cin and Deep agreed. Deep continued. “Yeah, I’ve been working with some of the girls at a wedding show…”

The conversation went on from there, but honestly I stopped listening after “$60,000.” Why that much? Why would I need to be making that kind of money when I get married? Understand that at the time I was making about $24,000 as a technical support dweeb, and Cin was making about $22,000 working for the county.

But this wasn’t going to cut it. And why was that?

Apparently, for you single guys who don’t yet know, there’s a little word called “Provision.” Although I had seen in action — my father was always a good provider — until then I had never really given much thought to it for myself, or rather with myself being the provider.

Recent events caused me to revisit that train of thought. At my church, I heard the pastor recently talk about some of the things single folks need to know before getting married. To the best of my ability, I have reproduced the part of the speech talking about provision.

(Note: This one’s for both single guys and gals. Guys, take notes. Gals, can you believe your man probably doesn’t know what a “duvet” is?)

Single guys, listen. I want you to know right now that provision for your wife… There are not a whole lot of things on your shopping list that will suddenly find themselves on that list after you decide to wed.

In fact, let’s have a Single Preparedness Test. Let’s see if you’re ready to spend your money on a few items that you might not yet even know exist. So, just for the single men: ready?

The first word is “valence” (pronounced “VAH-lens”). Go ahead, try to say the following “I’ll need to buy a ‘valence.’”

Here’s the next word: “dust ruffle.” Get ready to buy a “dust ruffle.”

The next two words: “Pillow Scam Sham.”

And here’s another word: “Comforter” (pronounced “COM-for-ter”).

Now, for those of you guys who don’t know what those things really are, I have to tell you: my bedroom looks beautiful. When I was single I had a pillow and a blanket. Again, that’s a pillow and a blanket. Now I have all the extra stuff.

And the comforter — let me clue you in on this, guys — a comforter is a big, really expensive blanket that no one gets to sleep on or with. (It’s kind of a strange thing.) And now they even have these “duvets” (pronounced “doo-VEYS”).

Let me share this with you (it’s a ritual at my house):

My wife and I will be ready to go to bed. She stands on one side, I on the other. Then we fold down the comforter, and take it off the bed. Do you know what I paid for that?! I take it off the bed and I set it on this chest at the foot of the bed. That’s where it is for the night! In addition to that, we take all the extra pillows off the bed. Now, we have pillows we put inside covers that we will never put our heads on! So now we have several pillows on top of a comforter on top of a box…

…I just made the bed for an invisible man! And he’s got more pillows than I got! I’ve got one, he’s got three! He’s got a big fluffy comforter, and I’ve got a pillow and a blanket. That’s the same thing I had when I was single! But I paid a lot of money! What is with that?!

(It’s called “provision” men.)

Now, before you ask her to be your wife, go into Macy’s/Burdines, or one of these department stores, go into that big cosmetics section and check prices. You know, just go in there and say “you know, it’s not for me. I’m gonna get married soon… what’s lipstick cost?” Ask them what lipstick costs. Now, it’s not just lipstick. It’s also lip gloss. And also lip liner. And also lip…

You’re going to invest big money, do you understand?!

Just letting you know in advance. I’m not saying I’m bitter about this…

Again, it’s called “provision.”

Needless to say, when I was single, my interaction with the TV was at an all-time low. My viewing was limited only to these DVDs, a couple of hours of playing Final Fantasy X and X-2 a week, and Mexican music videos playing late night on channel 104 in Ft. Lauderdale. Other than that, I spent most of my program viewing time watching downloaded episodes of Love Hina on my laptop. (This was before they were licensed in the U.S., so it wasn’t like downloading something I could’ve picked up at the store.)

Then, I got married.

“Oh, let’s stop by that Blockbuster,” I’ll say. “They’re selling three movies for $20!” I would have never even thought about that when I was single, even living in a crappy and depressing little apartment with unadorned walls, friendly-but-strange neighbors, and yellow water.

To give you some perspective, when I was single my home furnishings consisted of my computer desk, a chair, my bed, a bookshelf, and a spoon. Plates? I didn’t need no stinkin’ plates! That’s what lids are for. And cups? Why, I’d just use the left over yogurt containers, of course! I eventually added a television, TV cart, and lamp, but only after I got bored of listening to the neighbors next door fight, make up, and have sex. (And yes, she was ugly, which made it even worse.)

After she moved in, it was only a matter of time — days, really — before we were clambering for more space. Adding a couch and a queen-sized bed to a 600 sqare foot apartment will do that, apparently. I also had less closet space, although as a single guy, I rarely used the closet and instead relied on a big pile of clothes I left on the floor. Need something ironed? Just place it neatly at the bottom of the pile overnight. In the morning it was as good as new. Kinda.

The strange part was that I didn’t really mind. In fact, I kinda liked it.

I guess this is what happens when one gets married: the strongest traits from each of the partners rub off on the other, at least for the most part. For example, I picked up my wife’s affinity towards movies, which is why I found myself buying a copy of Elf a few weeks back. (Actually, she bought it, over my objection. Poetically justly, I’m now begging to watch the movie every couple of days, even if it’s just to keep that Christmassy feel.) Likewise, my wife picked up an affinity for anime, especially the cute, comedic kind like Love Hina and Ah! My Goddess.

Of course, what made us us is still there. I’m still the showman in the relationship, able to get up in front of just about any size audience and perform like a little kid singing for his mom, and she’s just as quiet, patient and proper as ever. (This despite my best attempts to introduce her to the “burp your whole name” game.)

I wonder if this will change as the years go on. Having been married for about 10 months now, I’m starting to see some difference in the way both she and I act, both towards each other and to others. Towards each, we’re a lot more relaxed, and a lot more loyal. (I can, for example, go to the bathroom, come out, express my satisfaction with what happened in there, and not feel awkward about it.) Towards others — well, I’m picking up some of her patience and heeding the advice from the book of Proverbs.

It makes me wonder whether we’ll ever get to the point where we can be sitting in a restaurant, she looking at me, I looking at her, and without a word being said between us she can tell the waiter, “Excuse me, but he doesn’t like this, and he wants you to take it back.”