Things they don't tell you about marriage

Photo by humble hostess.

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A week late and who cares?

The Goat and I got married on November 28, 1992 in my parents living room. A pastor performed the nuptials, which were followed by an open house reception. Mom made all these great appetizers and we had a beautiful cheese board. My dad smoked a couple of salmons. My new mother-in-law made Greek pastries. Two caterers tended to serving and clearing the food and we had a professional bartender as well.

It was small and intimate and casual and elegant all at once--perfect, really. Let it be known that I negotiated up from the justice of the peace and a can of beer and the Goat negotiated down from a church wedding and formal hall reception. Looking back now, I guess that sort of meeting-in-the-middle was a harbinger of good things to come.

We spent the night at the Ritz. I was 27. My magnificent groom was 35.

This photo was taken the next day at our house (we'd purchased it together about a month earlier). It is my favorite photo of us because it exactly captures the two people we were on that day. All the family came over for leftovers and ham. We opened the wedding gifts and had the best party. We honeymooned a year later in Reno and Tahoe.

Side story: The Goat and I took my parent's minivan to Illinois to buy the booze for the whole weekend in order to avoid our sizable state and local taxes. Of course there were tons of side orders as well. We loaded up a couple of carts with about $1,500 worth of hooch. After we checked out, we asked the clerk for boxes.

"We don't have any," she said flatly.

!

No, we did not capture the attention of any law enforcement representatives on the ride home. Yes, every drop of sin made it back to Ohio. No, the Goat did not have a good time as I sweated bullets and screamed at him every time he changed lanes or tapped the brakes as all those the bottles rattled and threatened in the back of the van.

Yes, he married me anyway.

Tonight we will celebrate said nuptials with a fine dinner at Luca. Sure, it's a week late, but after 21 years, what's a few days?

Happy anniversary, Goat. I wouldn't change a thing.

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Rainy day Goat

I spied the Goat exhibiting unusual behavior in his natural habitat and quietly approached with my camera in order to capture the moment.

My efforts backfired!

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Goat archives vol. four: Old Timer

A contingent of the Goat's associates refers to him as Old Timer.

Adult Goat, circa 1980

While I have never adopted the nickname, I do respect its inherent honesty and hereby offer the following list of Goat idiosyncrasies, each of which supports the designation of "Old Timer."

I'll start with my favorite:

1) When dispensing petro, the Goat will top-off the tank by rounding up the monetary total of the purchase to the next quarter (as in 25¢) despite the fact that the transaction is completely digital (we pay with a credit card) and wholly removed from the concept of change (as in the pocket variety). The practice harks back to the pre-self serve days when the Goat began his career with BP (then Sohio) as a filling station attendant in the year of our Lord 1972.

Baby Goat

2) The first telephone service the Goat can remember was on a party line.

3) When wearing slippers, the Goat moves in a way that is best described as a shuffle, which sounds exactly as one might imagine.

4) The Goat enjoys an occasional whiskey sour, but only before dinner and only at a restaurant (think: high ball).

5) Given the choice between a relatively new and sharp Ticonderoga number two pencil and a tiny eraserless dull nub, the Goat will invariably opt for the nub, which probably has something to do with bowling alleys of yore.

The Goat as a young man

6) The Goat reads the newspaper (hardcopy) Every. Single. Day.

7) As a kid, the Goat used to mow the lawn with a manual rotary mower. A MANUAL ROTARY MOWER, people!

For those wanting more, I recommend Goat archives volumes one through three, if only for the pictures.

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Goat and humble hostess enjoying adult beverages during courtship

In the interest of full disclosure, your humble hostess offers the following amendments:

1) I keep a jar of rendered bacon fat in the refrigerator at all times,

2) will use up leftover gravy (when there's no longer any leftover roast/chicken/meatloaf) by pouring it over toast for breakfast or lunch,

3) call lunch meat "lunch meat" and use said lunch meat primarily for lunch,

4) still pay all the bills with hard-copy checks.

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The following is a true story

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Wife and husband lie blinking awake in their nuptial bed as the velvet blue of predawn blooms in the east.

Wife: I often have dreams in which I cannot understand or use my cell phone at the most critical moments.

Husband: I often have realities in which I cannot understand or use my cell phone at the most critical moments.

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Little known Goat/O'Brien facts

When the Goat shovels the drive (winter) or mows (summer) or rakes (fall)*, the O'Brien sits on the couch and peers over the back cushion and out the window, watching him covertly. The O'Brien fancies her surveillance as mysterious and interesting behavior.

The Goat: tall; the O'Brien: short. (see photo insert)

The Goat's desire to save everything (case in point: inoperable 8-year old HP laser printer taking up entire drawer of file cabinet in laundry room**) is tempered by the primary O'Brien directive: When the shit I do not need is in the way of the shit that I do need, something has got to give. (further to case in point: otherwise perfectly usable file cabinet drawer space is rendered unusable by inoperable 8-year old HP laser printer).

The Goat: wine; the O'Brien: whiskey.

The O'Brien signals her interest in conjugal activity to the Goat by leaving the bed unmade.

The Goat wanted a big wedding and reception, while the O'Brien lobbied for the justice of the peace and can of beer. They negotiated and ended up with a pastor in the living room of O'Brien's parents with the reception in the dining room.

The Goat: tea/newspaper; the O'Brien: coffee/laptop.

Sometimes the O'Brien places her mouth on flat areas of the Goat's body and makes noises evocative of flatulence.

Sometimes the Goat refers to the O'Brien as "Irish."

The O'Brien enjoys Goat whiskers immensely. Unfortunately (for the O'Brien) Goat whiskers are a rare phenomenon as the Goat prefers to be clean-shaven (which the O'Brien finds ironic, the Goat being a goat and all).

*Yes, the O'Brien helps with leaf removal and clears the drive of snow when obliged. The O'Brien rarely, however, cuts the grass. Lil' O'B, conversely, seems to relish the task of lawn-mowing.

**At this time, the O'Brien is not accepting questions about why the file cabinet is in the laundry room.

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A step-by-step guide on how to use your spouse as a personal heater

1. Walk the earth for a while a-lookin' for a mate. Pick you a good, thick, hairy one with lotsa sap.

2. Throw him/her in the bed and make sure they heat up real good under the covers.

3. Get hitched.

4. Lead 'em on for a while, telling 'em you're going to work at your high-paying job for a long time and bring in plenty of cash.

5. Quit the job. (tee-hee!)

6. Take up the thankless low-pay hobby of writing.

7. Even after it is apparent that the writing will frustrate the hell out of you, pay you next to nothing and make you half crazy, keep doing it.

8. Despite the fact that you have no real job to speak of (and your spouse works all day), do no cooking, cleaning or chores while your spouse is at work. Instead, just keep writing tons of useless crap!

9. Allow the writing to become so important in your mind that it starts to wake you up at night.

10. Allow the writing to become so important in your mind that it starts to keep you up at night.

11. Allow the useless writing to become so important in your mind that you get up out of your soft comfortable warm bed in the middle of the night to go write it all down, effectively abandoning sleeping spouse.

12. Pay no attention to the fact that the house is heated to just 52 degrees between 10 p.m. and 7 a.m. because you quit your real job and have no money to speak of. Just keep writing!

13. Allow your body to freeze solid while you idiotically type away, digits spider-like before the ghostly glow of your computer screen.

14. As the minutes of the wee morning tick away, take note of the creeping urge to sleep as it eventually increases and threatens to overcome your need to continue writing useless crap.

15. Turn off computer when the toothpicks that are propping your eyelids open snap in two and surface temperature of flesh is at or below the ambient temperature of 52 degrees.

16. Creep with stealth back into bedroom where warm, furry spouse is sleeping blissfully.

17. Smirk.

18. Crawl beneath covers, spending no time on your side of the bed, but instead moving directly to spouse's side of the bed.

19. While imagining you are a multi-legged sea creature surfacing from the murky-depths, completely insinuate your frozen self around toasty spouse.*


*Spouse usually wakes at this juncture in the procedure.

20. Take good care to find warmest places on spouse and, in those places, nuzzle coldest parts of self.

21. Purr.

22. Ask spouse, "Was it worth it?"

23. Interpret his/her angry grumbled response in any self-authored, self-serving delusional way you see fit.

Eighteen is porcelain **UPDATED**

The Goat is in possession of a mysterious list that advises him on the material with which each marital anniversary gift is supposed to be constructed. For example, the one year anniversary was paper (I got tiny paper mache Christmas ornaments). I suspect the 25th year is silver and 50th is gold.

The internet undoubtedly could reveal the mystery list to me. Due largely to my profound belief in hubris, however, I do not seek this knowledge.

The Goat and I were married 18 years ago today and this morning I discovered this venerable year goes to porcelain.

Despite my magnificent photographic skills, its difficult to see that the rose is porcelain (it is). Happy anniversary Goat.

I swear I can hardly keep my pants on.

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UPDATE 7:10 p.m. EST Nov. 28, 2010: That ol' Goat had a little dark blue box for me at dinner.

I love my Goat when he gives me porcelain roses. I love my Goat when he gives me little dark blue boxes.

And I love him when he doesn't.

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If you really want to turn me on

Wife: What the hell are you doing?

Husband: You know what I'm doing.

Wife: What the hell are you doing?

Husband: I'm just trying to turn you on.

Wife: You really want to turn me on?

Husband: Yes, I really want to turn you on.

Wife: If you really want to turn me on, tell me about how you're going to replace the dimmer switch in the kitchen and fix my vacuum.

Husband: I'm going to replace the dimmer switch in the kitchen and fix your vacuum.

Wife: No, not like that. Tell me about the dimmer switch.

Husband: I'm going to replace it with one that has a slide mechanism.

Wife: MmmmmMMMMmmm.

Husband: Hoover Bagless Windtunnel Upright.

Wife: Upright?

Husband: Upright.

Wife. Very nice.

Husband. I'm going to replace the brush roller casing.

Wife: Purrrrr.

Husband: 12 amp.

Wife: Oh my god say that again.

Husband: 12 amp.

Wife: C'mon over here baby and getcha some sugar.

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Being married, vol. 4

HUSBAND and WIFE sit on the couch, newspapers strewn about them, coffee cups upon the side tables.

WIFE: How about some scrambled eggs?

HUSBAND (from behind newspaper): Sounds great.

WIFE heads into kitchen, where the shuffle of cooking begins: the refrigerator door opens, pans clatter and .... the sound of breaking eggs. Then all falls silent.


HUSBAND turns page of paper.

WIFE (from kitchen): Hey Hon?

HUSBAND: Yeah?

WIFE: Did I tell you about the study I read the other day?

HUSBAND: What study was that?

WIFE: The one about the eggshells?

HUSBAND: What about eggshells?

WIFE: How consuming eggshells was shown to increase the size, hardness and duration of a man's erections?

HUSBAND: No. You didn't tell me about it.

WIFE: Well there you go. Some ... um ... enzyme or something. In the eggshells. Eggshell enzyme kicking up erections.

HUSBAND: An eggshell enzyme? Imagine that.

WIFE: Yep. Enzyme. Right there in the ol' eggshell.

The clatter of plates comes from kitchen.

WIFE: Breakfast!

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A Goat post

People like the Goat. When people meet me and I'm with the Goat, they say, "Wow! It's the Goat!" or, "Hey! Is this the Goat?" and I say, "Yeah, this is the Goat." Then the Goat says hi.

"Hi. I'm the Goat."

I like the Goat plenty myself. I like the Goat regular. Regular Goat, that's what I like. I'm a simple girl. Hence you can imagine my dismay when the Goat came home after a routine check-up and I found this.


See that bare spot in the center of his chest? What you have there is a shaved Goat. I don't want any shaved Goat. I understand that the doc had to put stickers on my Goat in order to check out his ticker and all, but I don't have to like it. When I rub my boobies on my Goat, I want nice warm goat fur, not some lousy razor stubble.

I wonder if there's something I could feed my Goat that would make his fur grow back faster than normal--not that I have any idea how fast his fur grows usually. A regular person doesn't regularly keep track of their Goat's fur growth. It's something a regular person takes for granted.

I guess that's the point of it. You don't realize how much you love something until it's gone. Every time I've gone to rub my boobies on the Goat's fur, the fur has been there to rub. Now that it's AWOL, here I am, pining after goat fur.

Looks like I'm going to have to find another fur patch on my Goat to rub until the regular fur grows back.

"Come 'ere, Goat."

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Goat love

The Goat brought me roses. Hi Goat.

Irritating ends

-Those little plastic connector string-thingies that attach price tags to clothing and that you have to cut off, thereby sending the little "T" ends flying to places where you (inexplicably) cannot find them.

-The belief that there is always one more application in the toothpaste tube, inevitably resulting in toothpaste tube torture.

-The washing* of soiled Tupperware containers, which isn't so bad but always requires the drying of said containers, which is nearly impossible due to all the little ridges and grooves (particularly in the lids) where droplets of water cling and that require the person drying to fold up the towel and then manipulate it into the offending crevices.

-Missing puzzle pieces, particularly on brand SPANKING new 2,000-piece Springbok puzzles, which are effectively reduced to 1,999 pieces and rendered infinitely less valuable than their pristine counterparts.


-The last remaining crumbs in the potato chip bag, particularly when one's Dearly Beloved straightens the bag, thereby creating a "taut" corner, which he then upends into his mouth, but due to some unidentifiable miscalculation (perhaps operator error in bag-straightening or excessive crumb velocity due to misjudged bag upending speed), scatters the remaining potato chip crumbs into an array of places including but not limited to: his mouth (45%), his face (30%), and upon the floor and/or into the unnavigable landscape of his easy chair (25%).

-Instant lottery ticket scratch-off turds (which are admittedly less irritating when the lottery ticket yields winnings).

*applies to both manual and automatic efforts.

Goat blowing leaves

Being married, vol. 3

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Being married, vol. 2

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The people

Having completed the first full week of school, my 12-year-old shared her "people" categories with me. According to her, persons in seventh grade can be grouped as follows:

1. The mean popular people.

2. The nerdy* nice people.

3. The smart cool people.

4. The people who think they're popular but are really losers.

5. The funny people.

*smart, but uncool

Perhaps not surprisingly, I new exactly what each description meant. It was a refreshing change from "liberal" and "conservative."

I asked her which category fit her best. "Sometimes I'm a two or a three," she said, "but mostly I'm considered a five."

I asked which category she would assign to me. "You're a three and a five," she said without hesitation.

Then I asked her which category best fit her dad. "I hate to break this to you, Mom," she said, "but I think dad would mostly be a two."


Kid's got a point.

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Photo inserts: Erin O'Brien circa 1972 and husband Eric circa 1971.

Further reading: Archives chronicling the life and times of Erin O'Brien's husband, frequently referred to as "the Goat" in these pages.

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Coffee with the Goat

I really love my Goat.


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Things that scare me about my husband, vol. VI

It's important to note that the BBQ grill is no where near the garage.

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Previously on "Things that scare me about my husband."

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Lunch in the middle of America

I had some deli roast beef that I had to use up. It was too shitty for regular sandwiches, so I made a packet of "brown gravy," toasted some bread and served up "open-faced roast beef sandwiches" for lunch.

They were exactly like what you get in one of those sleepy little diners in Ohio towns like Fostoria or Tiffin or Bucyrus.

You either know what I'm talking about or you don't.


You would think the goat would protest such a meal.


But he did not. My kid did not. We just sucked it up and ate the shitty sandwiches.


This is the middle of America, people.