Richard upped his life insurance this week. He flipped open the policy letter to show me the rather substantial amount, at which he declared that I'd be all set if he kicks the bucket. I asked him if he plans on doing that anytime soon, at which he answered that it being a 20 year term insurance, he's aiming at 20 years plus a day.
Later, in bed, where all good conversations happen, he asked me what I'd do if he died. After the obligatory, "Oh, I'd mourn forever and never ever get over it.", we got down to the business of how we'd find a replacement spouse (for me the drive is mostly that I wouldn't have the time or energy to mow the lawn. It's cheaper to house and feed someone than to hire out, I figure.).
"I think the grocery store would be the best place, " says Richard. "I'd hang out in the meat section, and whoever bought the best cuts of meat, I'd marry her."
"Yeah, that'd be pretty good. That would be a good woman."
"Yup."
"I know what I'd do," I say. "I'd spend my days at the granite shop, you know where they sell gravestones?"
"Yeah?"
"And when a nice looking man came to pick out a pretty stone, I'd say, 'Is that stone for your wife? That's so sad. Let's go have coffee and you can tell me all about it.' It'd be a sure thing."
Richard nods. "That's a special kind of plan, alright."
"Don't die, okay?"
"Okay."
You know you have a good man when you'd rather have him than his insurance money.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Friday, August 21, 2015
The Worst Day of His Life
I broke up with Richard.
It was a hot summer, we were just getting to know each other, and I had doubts. He was kind. He was sincere. He was great with kids. He was fun. Maybe a bit too kind and sincere. Maybe a bit too good with kids and a bit too sincere. No one is that perfect (of course, this was before The Apple...another time). There was a catch, and I wasn't going to get caught.
I'd been there before, and I knew better. I was nobody's fool, and I wasn't about to wait around to be broken up with. So I beat him to it - I broke up with him before he could break up with me. Ha. I won.
That summer day in 2001, the week after we jumped from a plane (it was held together with duct tape, literally, so you can take that into account), I drove over with my mind made up and my heart in my throat. It was the right thing to do. He knew right away that something was up. The quick side hug, the stiff sitting on the couch, the, "So, um. I wanted to tell you something." And it was done. Free.
He didn't say much. He asked why, and I honestly wasn't sure but I made up some fool excuse. He accepted, and then he got up.
He walked me to my car! The man, who'd just had his heart trampled, walked me through the front door, off the deck, and to my car.
And stepped in dog poop. For real. The man, who'd just had his heart trampled, walked me to my car and stepped in dog crap. *This is always where Richard stops me in my story with, "That was the worst day of my life. Those were my favourite shoes."* He groaned, disgusted, "Careful not to step in the dog poop."
The man, who'd just had his heart trampled, walked me to my car, stepped in dog crap, and warned me about it. Most men would have pushed me into it. He cared for me and my shoes.
He opened my car door, closed it gently behind me and leaned into the window. He wished me a safe drive home. I stared at him, stunned at this man who walks me, warns me, and wishes me well when he's been trampled and shat upon.
At home my mother confirmed my fears. Fool. Absolute fool. "They're not all going to break your heart, Emilie." I had done that enough for myself.
Months or years later I asked him about that night. He'd gone to his best friend's, who'd greeted the news with, "Aw, that sucks man." They'd driven around for hours, and the next summer that friend stood up with us at our wedding.
All these years later I think of the times that man has walked. Not only on the night he stepped in dog poop, but all the others. The time he walked me out of the church, dressed in white. The time he walked me across the parking lot, suitcase in hand, pausing for contractions that brought our daughter to us. The times he walked to me with an apology, and the times he rocked me with forgiveness. The times he walked the bedroom floors with our infants and allowed me to sleep a little while longer. The time we strolled my favourite trail, the pain almost intolerable, because he knew it meant so much to me. The time he took one step, scars raw from surgery, me unsure next to his walker, the pain fresh but the hope burning. Every walk from the house every morning of the week to feed his family, and every walk back to the kitchen to have lunch with a flustered wife and four kids, because it matters. Every walk to the kitchen sink, arms wrapped around me, "C'mere".
It was the worst day, but it was followed by so many good walks.
It was a hot summer, we were just getting to know each other, and I had doubts. He was kind. He was sincere. He was great with kids. He was fun. Maybe a bit too kind and sincere. Maybe a bit too good with kids and a bit too sincere. No one is that perfect (of course, this was before The Apple...another time). There was a catch, and I wasn't going to get caught.
I'd been there before, and I knew better. I was nobody's fool, and I wasn't about to wait around to be broken up with. So I beat him to it - I broke up with him before he could break up with me. Ha. I won.
That summer day in 2001, the week after we jumped from a plane (it was held together with duct tape, literally, so you can take that into account), I drove over with my mind made up and my heart in my throat. It was the right thing to do. He knew right away that something was up. The quick side hug, the stiff sitting on the couch, the, "So, um. I wanted to tell you something." And it was done. Free.
He didn't say much. He asked why, and I honestly wasn't sure but I made up some fool excuse. He accepted, and then he got up.
He walked me to my car! The man, who'd just had his heart trampled, walked me through the front door, off the deck, and to my car.
And stepped in dog poop. For real. The man, who'd just had his heart trampled, walked me to my car and stepped in dog crap. *This is always where Richard stops me in my story with, "That was the worst day of my life. Those were my favourite shoes."* He groaned, disgusted, "Careful not to step in the dog poop."
The man, who'd just had his heart trampled, walked me to my car, stepped in dog crap, and warned me about it. Most men would have pushed me into it. He cared for me and my shoes.
He opened my car door, closed it gently behind me and leaned into the window. He wished me a safe drive home. I stared at him, stunned at this man who walks me, warns me, and wishes me well when he's been trampled and shat upon.
At home my mother confirmed my fears. Fool. Absolute fool. "They're not all going to break your heart, Emilie." I had done that enough for myself.
Months or years later I asked him about that night. He'd gone to his best friend's, who'd greeted the news with, "Aw, that sucks man." They'd driven around for hours, and the next summer that friend stood up with us at our wedding.
All these years later I think of the times that man has walked. Not only on the night he stepped in dog poop, but all the others. The time he walked me out of the church, dressed in white. The time he walked me across the parking lot, suitcase in hand, pausing for contractions that brought our daughter to us. The times he walked to me with an apology, and the times he rocked me with forgiveness. The times he walked the bedroom floors with our infants and allowed me to sleep a little while longer. The time we strolled my favourite trail, the pain almost intolerable, because he knew it meant so much to me. The time he took one step, scars raw from surgery, me unsure next to his walker, the pain fresh but the hope burning. Every walk from the house every morning of the week to feed his family, and every walk back to the kitchen to have lunch with a flustered wife and four kids, because it matters. Every walk to the kitchen sink, arms wrapped around me, "C'mere".
It was the worst day, but it was followed by so many good walks.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
St. Paddy's
I really like St. Patrick's Day. I might even love it.
I fill it with rainbow cakes, and green milk, and shamrock crafts.
We make a leprechaun trap every year. Even my love life is affected.
Have you ever noticed that Richard resembles an over-grown leprechaun?
 |
| Me and O'Richard |
This is not a coincidence. It's why I married him.
Exactly 14 years ago to this very day, give or take a few months, Richard and I
met at the Civic Centre gym. He turned on the ginger, and snap. It was a done deal.
Monday, March 2, 2015
It's been a few months. I figured I should update this thing, but now that I'm here, I'm at a loss for words.
I got nuttin'.
I seriously need to get a life.
In short form (boring form), here's the last few months.
The kids grew, school kept on keeping on, my coursework is almost done, all hell broke loose, we struggled, we came together, we struggle again, friends came, friends went, Rich and I went on vacation, Rich got a promotion, I stopped working, I got bored, I quit Facebook, I began searching for a hobby, I taught myself to crochet, Maddie got an e-mail and Pinterest account, we went to the dentist, we started remineralizing, I'm going on an adventure...
So, yeah, that's it.
I got nuttin'.
I seriously need to get a life.
In short form (boring form), here's the last few months.
The kids grew, school kept on keeping on, my coursework is almost done, all hell broke loose, we struggled, we came together, we struggle again, friends came, friends went, Rich and I went on vacation, Rich got a promotion, I stopped working, I got bored, I quit Facebook, I began searching for a hobby, I taught myself to crochet, Maddie got an e-mail and Pinterest account, we went to the dentist, we started remineralizing, I'm going on an adventure...
So, yeah, that's it.
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