Another dreary Kentucky Sunday, an occurrence that in the future I'm sure will be described of as "iconic."
Speaking of Kentucky, Keith and I were out on the quest for a nice restaurant day before yesterday. It was, as usual, dark and dreary. We saw a sign for an Inn that declared itself "Country" and "Romantic." It was down a winding dirt road, so we decided to investigate.
After a few turns, we saw this impressively authentic rock building amid log cabins and a collapsing barn, deep in the woods.
"Let's get out of here before we're murdered by a crazy, axe wielding country person" I whispered, clinging to the door.
I was kind of torn actually. The architecture had such integrity and charm, I felt transported back to the 1800's. But I was also afraid to get out of the truck.
In the end, we decided to keep driving, but to investigate it further on line, in case we want to go back to eat there. (Eat what? one wonders. Corn pone? Maybe with a little molasses on the side? And chitlins. All that stuff I read about in "Little House in the Big Woods.")
Keith has headed off to Red Box for a movie and to Kroger's to purchase a sweet onion for chili later, but mostly to stave off a debilitating case of cabin fever.
He washed all the vehicles yesterday, so today his options were limited to a. driving me crazy or b. look at stuff on Craig's he can't afford to buy right now but which are really, really affordable in the long run and then pester me about "investment" vehicles, so in essence, options a. and b. are the same option.
Other observations: wearing one's glasses on the bridge of one's nose so that one can look up and through them to the TV and then down and over them to see the laptop makes one feel strangely intelligent but actually just gives one a headache.
Also, when Keith and I go out, we are one of those couples that make everyone else around them feel slightly nauseous. We don't mean to, it just happens. Keith whispers sweet naughty nothings into my ear, which makes me giggle, blush or just laugh out loud, he holds my hands across the table, tells me I'm beautiful, and gives me the best bites of his steak, lovingly dipped in Heine's 47 sauce.
Altogether, we look as if we had come straight from the marriage bed or were on our way straight back there; all we are missing is the tell tale tousled hair. (Actually, its likely that we are, but that's the joy of having a marriage bed in the first place.)
We had people over again last night, the young couple and a friend of ours from Colorado who is here for a course. It turns out I can actually socialize. This comes as such a relief after the New Year's Eve Party. We set the bacon on fire (it was being grilled) and I had a bad moment when I started to wonder if the name I was calling the young wife really was her own (it was), but everything felt so comfortable and fun. There were no linen napkins, but I would say it was a successful dinner party.
(I'm listening to this XM radio station that describes itself, rather pretentiously, as "an intelligent, eclectic mix of tunes." I'm forced to admit that it is making me feel quite sophisticated in a New York City loft, I-have-a-collection-of-vinyl and drink artisan coffee kind of way.
Wow. Yeah. That's Patsy Cline, and right after a classic Smashing Pumpkins. Wow, and now we have some 70's Soul music. This is great. They do not lie, it is eclectic.)
So, I've been thinking lately about the role of submission in marriage and how it is percieved by popular culture. Natually, an argument precipitated this line of thinking and it went about like this:
Husband: Can you make sure to take my uniforms straight out of the dryer and hang them up? They looked like crap the last time.
Wife: What are you talking about? I do take them right out.
Husband: No you don't, they're all wrinkly.
Wife: They are not! I'm doing the exact same thing as I always have with your uniforms.
Husband: Well, they look like crap. I can't go to work like that.
Wife:....
(But she is thinking: You egotistical, demanding jerk! How dare you insult my laundry skills! How dare you, the domineering male, ask me, the liberated female, to do more for you. Go eat worms.)
The sheer intensity of my anger and resentment shocked me into thinking why? Where was that coming from?
I mean, sure, his delivery was way off. If he had said, "Sweetie-honny-bunnie, I love you so very much! And I appreciate every little thing you do for me and this comfortable home and the home cooked meals and always doing the laundry and folding it and putting it away. But now that I'm a platoon sergeant, I feel like I need to raise the bar with my own appearance so it would mean so much to me if in addition to everything else you do, if you could hang my uniform with the seams matched up...and then afterwards I'll take you out to the Cheesecake Factory!"
Delivery aside, the fact is, my job is the house. And I don't say this because it's a generic stereotype, but as something that I more than willingly volunteered for. I, the liberated female, wildly waved my hand in the air when home making became a viable option.
And even though I felt as though Keith were piling unnecessary work upon an already overburdened home maker, the fact of the matter is, I have nothing else clamoring for my time. I couldn't say, "Well, when I come home for work, I don't have the time/energy..." or "You have no idea what it's like being home all day with (insert number here) kid(s)..." because of the obvious.
No, there really was no reason whatsoever for me to feel so put upon, no reason why I couldn't hang his uniform up immediately upon its getting out of the dryer, no reason at all; in fact, it was quite simply my own responsibility and by my own choice.
In the weeks since the argument, I have concluded that (in addition to my own stinky attitude) the general culture did not help the situation. Where is service and through it, submission, within a marriage, addressed positively in our society? I could not think of a single instance. Instead, I thought of all those countless portrayals of misfired feminine empowerment which helps fuel the unfortunate gender wars.
To think that service has no place in a marriage is as misplaced an idea as the now infamous line from "Love Story": that true love means never having to say you're sorry. The hell it does. Not only does it mean being prepared to possibly saying I'm sorry every day of the week, but also it means being prepared to serve the one you love.
But there's just no room for humility or service in pop culture. In addition to this brilliant and unique observation, I also realized that I wasn't taking my responsibilities as housewife very seriously. I was thinking of it as a "non job" when really, I'm central to the running and organization of the entire household.
So I sat down and identified the key areas of responsibility and what exactly was entailed within each. Then I thought about what kind of systems I could put in place to make things run more smoothly, like my expenditures spread sheet and the weekly meal planning with attendant shopping lists.
So yes, the dang uniforms get hung up right out of the dryer, with the seams lined up. And yesterday, Keith spontaneously got down on his knees beside me, where I sat on the couch, and told me how much he appreciated each and everything I did.
I love my job.
