Waffle House Love

Our first date was at a Waffle House. After he drove 2,829 miles to reach me, I figured that buying him some waffles and hash browns--scattered, smothered, and covered--was the least I could do.

As far as first dates go, ours was pretty unique. We’d known each other for less than four months and only through phone conversations and emails. This was the first time we’d met face to face, and despite what should have been an awkward situation, everything about that moment felt just right.

The smell of bacon and stale coffee punctuated our conversation, and the only thing that interrupted our focus on each other was the occasional visit from our waitress. I think we were both in shock that we were together, in shock that we’d gone through with what any rational person would have called crazy.

We met online. We hadn’t been looking for each other, but you always seem to find the things you need even when you’re not looking. He lived in California; me in Georgia. But little things like distance weren’t going to keep us apart.

Our unique courtship was fast, too fast by some standards, but for us, it was perfect.  For four months, we spent nearly every waking moment talking to each other, learning each other’s quirks, falling in love even before we had the chance to lay eyes on one another.

Concerned friends desperately tried to talk me out of love, citing any number of very good and rational reasons why our relationship wouldn’t work. They worried that he was playing a game with me, that he was using me, that he was some random murderer bent on killing me. I listened patiently to their concerns; if the shoe had been on the other foot, I would have been the one voicing those concerns…but this was different. This was real, and I knew that in my heart.

I’m probably the least impulsive person you’ll ever meet. I always overanalyze and overthink every situation in my life. I always look before I leap. Every time, except this time. This time I let my heart do the thinking. I trusted that we were meant to be. Because we were. What other explanation could possibly be found for a typically cautious, withdrawn woman to throw away rational thought and do something so out-of-character and insane?

There is none, except that it was meant to be….much like that first date at the Waffle House was meant to be.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was us. I remember just how the sunlight filtered in on our table, how the engagement ring that he’d slipped on my finger the moment we met glinted in that brilliant light. I remember tilting my hand this way and that just to watch it sparkle. I remember thinking that this was the man I would spend the rest of my life with. I remember the happiness consuming me.

Happiness still consumes me nearly six years later. Jeremy and I are married now. We celebrate our fifth anniversary in October. We’re not perfect, by any means. We fight. We get on each other’s nerves. But we’re deliriously happy, and we love our life together with all of its quirks, the four cats that surround us, and those lovely dates at Waffle House. 

Gone with the Rain

"Please, please, please don't go out there." 

Jeremy was doing a fine job of ignoring my pleas or maybe he couldn't hear them. In fact, it was raining so hard that he literally may not have been able to hear them.

That must be it. 

So, naturally I turned up the volume. "You're crazy for going out there! You're either going to get struck by lightning or blown away by a huge gust of wind. This is not a smart move."

He was busy putting on his shoes at this point, but he did take a moment to glance up at me, give me "that look" (you know, the one that says, 'you're being ridiculous'), and tried to appease me with a hasty, "Oh, I'll be fine."

I was not to be appeased. He got up from the couch, picked up his jacket, and headed for the door. And of course, I did what any level-headed, reasonable woman would do; I grabbed hold of his arm and clung like a burr. 

He sighed. "Katie, I'll be fine."

But I had a feeling that he wouldn't. Just one of those gut feelings. 

It was just a summer downpour. I knew that. I knew that probably the worst that could happen was that he would get drenched and track puddles of water all over the house. 

Or that he could get struck by lightning. Or blown away. 

Reluctantly, I loosened my hold on his arm, and just like that, he was gone. Out into the thunderstorm. Risking life and limb. All in the name of...

...a tomato plant. 

Our little garden was taking a beating from the summer storm. One of the tomato plants had collapsed with a particularly strong gust of wind. And Jeremy, my foolish hero, was charging into the breach to save it. 

As I waited for him to either return or drown in the rain, I paced back and forth, rang my hands, twisted my hair. Minutes seemed to pass, then hours. My entire life was moving in slow motion. 

He was back in less than five minutes, looking smug and completely soaked. We both went to look out the back window at his handy work, and it took everything I had to keep from laughing when we saw the tomato had already collapsed again. 

Poor, smug, drenched Jeremy. 

He had defied death, and his efforts had been in vain. He couldn't just listen to his wife and wait for the storm to pass. Nope, he had to save it then, in the middle of a monsoon, just to watch it fall over again. 

After fighting the urge to tell him "I told you so" a couple of dozen times, we settled back onto the couch to watch television and enjoy the rain from inside. Ten minutes hadn't even passed since our short-lived afternoon drama, when Jeremy said, "Huh."

Still focused on the TV, I absentmindedly asked him what was up, to which he replied:

"My ring is gone."

Which was the cue for scene two of our increasingly dramatic performance to begin. 

Yep, Jeremy's wedding ring was missing. It had come off when he was failing to save that poor, little tomato plant. It was now probably floating down the river that had replaced my backyard, never to be seen nor heard from again. 

Now, in addition to being a bit of a drama queen, I also happen to be very superstitious, especially when it comes to symbols, especially when it comes to symbols that were supposed to represent the unending circle of our love, especially when it comes to symbols that cost a whole lot of money. 

Logically, I knew a ring could easily be replaced, with a layaway plan and a good chunk of our savings, but I couldn't help but keep picturing that ring as the ring I slipped on his finger on our wedding day, the ring that meant so much to both of us. 

After some cursory panic, some tossing of couch pillows and bed sheets to make sure the ring wasn’t inside the house, Jeremy rushed back into the storm to look for it.

He made two trips.

Nothing. And so, I did what any level-headed, reasonable woman who knows her husband stinks at looking for anything would do, I threw on a rain jacket and bravely tracked down that missing ring…after the rain slacked.

And sure enough, after five seconds of real searching, I located it amongst some blades of grass, waiting patiently to be found.

Next time, I feel sure that Jeremy will wait for the storm to pass before rushing out to save a tomato plant. Next time, I feel sure that he’ll listen to his wife.

Maybe. 

Patchwork of Love

Today, when driving in to work, I heard a phrase on the radio that I completely fell in love with. Two women were talking about their parents and how the relationship between their parents had shaped their lives. One of the women described seeing her mother and father exchange loving, tender glances. She stated that such moments helped build and shape a patchwork of love that would endure into her adult life.

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought. When I heard the words, I immediately imagined a huge, intricate quilt with vivid and unique patches, woven together with a myriad of different threads. I imagined that my own quilt could stretch far across the sky, wrapping the Earth itself in a warm, comforting embrace.

There would be patches of the strangers who darted in and out of my life and yet left an indelible mark of kindness.

Patches of animals and pets, their fuzzy souls making everything more fulfilled and complete, their friendship filling a gaping hole of loneliness through so many heartbreaks.

Patches of friends, those I can touch and those I can only speak to through words on a screen, but all of those who reached out and whom I reached out to for a lasting connection of laughs and tears, shared happiness and fears.

Patches of memories. Of Pawpaw. Of vacations to Florida. Of Easter egg hunts and Christmas mornings. 

Patches of the family I so adore, the blessing of a lifetime, the genesis of my own patchwork of love, the memories shared, the bond of blood, the certainty that if I ever need them they’re always just right there.

Patches of the man I love, the partner and friend. Patches of his hugs and kisses and the comfort of his smell and the sweetness of his heart. Patches woven together across great distances with a strong thread that cannot be broken or cut or torn apart.

I am blessed with patches of many shapes, sizes, and colors, but as beautiful as my own quilt is, I find myself even more marveled and mesmerized by the patchwork of love of others, by the differences I see in each. Because truly, the most incredible thing about a patchwork of love is that not everyone's will be built the same or look the same. 

Some will be sewn together later in life, past the dark days of an undeserved childhood, past the void left empty by those who should love you the most. Some love has to be built from the ground up with a family that may not be from blood but is instead from the heart. The threads of this patchwork are like steel.

Some, the lucky ones, are born with a patchwork already started for them. From the moment they are conceived, so is the soft quilt that will envelope them through childhood and on.

Some will endure rips, tears, burns. Some may even begin to unravel at certain times, but they will be sewn back together. They will from this darkness be stronger than ever.

Some patchworks...most I would say...will revolve around family. Families of all shapes and sizes and colors. Families brought together by the only thing that really matters: Love. These are the patchworks that will be so alike and so different. These are the patchworks that we all must embrace because of that common thread, that universal thread that bonds us all, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, or gender. 

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought, and the even more beautiful thought is that each person carries with them a patchwork of love and that each one is stunningly unique and yet always tying us together with that common thread of love. 


What does your patchwork of love look like? 

Source: inaweofapplique.blogspot.com via Kristin on Pinterest

Kaleidoscope

Source: stitchedincolor.com via Michelle on Pinterest

As I played with Barbies in the floor of my purple childhood bedroom, I knew the names of my children. I knew, and my Barbies knew, and so together, we acted out complicated and dramatic scenes of family and futures that wouldn’t even come close to what my real future would turn out to be.

By the time I was eight-years-old, I had resolved that one day I would have babies. I named these babies Benjamin and Lucy and felt assured that nothing would change my desire for babies or their set-in-stone names.

As time passed, the desire did change. I became more interested in things like horses and travel and writing. I became less interested in my Barbies and any future babies that I might have. My future, once painted in reds and yellows and blues, transformed into vibrant greens and purples, becoming a rich kaleidoscope that no longer resembled anything I had previously imagined for myself.

College rolled around, and my kaleidoscope future at turns both settled and shifted, constantly changing to reflect my current moods and obsessions. When I met Jeremy, I was no longer an eight-year-old with dreams of future children named Benjamin and Lucy; I was a grown woman, and I didn’t know if I even wanted kids.

Jeremy was certain. Positive. He knew more than anything that he wanted a wife, and he wanted a family. Used to, when you asked what he wanted to do with his life, his answer was simple: he wanted to be a dad.

I was uncertain. Questioning. Mind reeling with possibilities and outcomes. When asked what I wanted to do with my life, my answer was complicated, multi-part, and almost never included children.

I worried that this would ultimately be a point of contention. I had seen other couples break up over similar decisions. If this, a most fundamental point of compatibility, was up for debate, then would we ever make it?

Despite my misgivings, Jeremy and I discussed possibilities. Kids, college, career paths. At one point, we even named our possible future children. Beautiful names that still give me goosebumps when I think of how perfect they are. I’ve always been a namer of things. Pets, random wildlife that wander into our sights, stuffed animals, cars. A thing has a name, and it has life, a purpose, a meaning.

Those dream children of ours have a life, a purpose, a meaning, even if they never come to be.

Together, Jeremy and I dreamed and planned, revealing a combined realization for the future that paled in comparison to past versions of the same future. As we built our own family of cats and each other, Jeremy’s desire for children waned. My own desires became less clear. To this day, they are still unclear.

Most of the time, I lean towards the “I don’t want children” camp. Admitting this is hard. I wonder if something is wrong with me, if something inside is broken. I’ve even had friends all but say that something is broken, that something must be missing from me if I don’t want to have kids, that I’m not whole.

And I wonder if that’s true, and honestly, it hurts to wonder that.

Everyone has different wishes and hopes. Everyone has a different kaleidoscope future. Would mine be less vibrant, less bright, less fulfilled if it didn’t include children? Or could I find my own sources for fulfillment and contentment through my husband, through my family, through my beautiful nephew, through my words?

Source: flickr.com via Ruth on Pinterest

Kids are a blessing, no doubt, but they are not the only blessing life has to hand out.

Ultimately, Jeremy and I have to decide what we want. We have to revisit the baby question and think long and hard on what our changing kaleidoscope future has in store. Lucky for us, if we do end up having kids, we already have some stellar names picked out…and if we don’t, well, we’re pretty dang good at naming cats, too. 

Author's Note:  I won't lie. This one was hard to share. Knowing I have supportive readers and friends gave me the courage to hit publish. 


And I'm sharing with the supportive community of yeah write as well. Please take the time to click the button below and discover some truly beautiful blogs. And if you have the opportunity, return on Thursday to vote for five of your favorite posts. 

Crazy as a Betsy Bug

“Just how crazy is a betsy bug?” The question was asked with just hint of sarcasm. Barely detectable, but I knew him well enough to know it was there.

He was making fun. Something we did to each other often. The playfulness was part of our relationship then, and it still is now; one of the things that makes us work.

I mulled over his question for a moment, pretending to be distracted by the chicken frying on the stove. Truth was, I didn’t even know what the heck a betsy bug was. Later, when away from his scrutinizing eye, I would google the information and learn that a betsy bug was actually a real insect more commonly known as a bess beetle. Upon more in depth googling, I was unable to learn where the phrase originated. I just knew I’d heard it since I was a child.

That Jane's* crazy as a betsy bug; bless her heart. 

I turned to Jeremy, wiping flour-covered hands on the front of my jeans, and said, “A betsy bug is crazy. What more do you need to know?”

He wasn’t convinced. “What makes it crazy? Why is a betsy bug any crazier than any other sort of bug? A roach, for example? Or a grasshopper?”

He smirked, and I turned back to my chicken. “I honestly can’t tell you, Jeremy. It’s an old expression, a turn of phrase. You use them all the time.”

“Not any as weird as that.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s weird. I’m Southern; I say weird things and talk real slow. Shoot me. It’s better than people not being able to tell where I’m from! Need I remind you of the time you called my Mom’s bank and her coworker thought you were from India? Her exact words were, ‘Brenda, there’s some foreign man on the phone for you!’”

It was true. Jeremy’s accent was pretty unidentifiable, and frankly, even I had a hard time understanding him sometimes. Mainly, because he mumbled.

I liked to tell him that I wasn’t fluent in “mumble.”

He liked to roll his eyes at me.

We were always trying to figure each other out. From opposite sides of the country, sometimes seeming to speak two different languages, raised in two separate cultures, and yet, for some reason, we worked.

Even now, when we're lost in translation, words and minds apart, we still work.

Author's Note: *Names have been changed to protect the innocent, bless their hearts. This little slice of mine and Jeremy's life was brought to you by the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt: "Colloquialisms and Dialect." For great writing, be sure to click on the link below:

In the Badger's Den: Living with a Writer and Living to Tell About It

Living with a writer is hard. I know this because I've lived with myself for twenty-eight years, and trust me when I say, I'm not easy to live with. Ask my husband. We both consider ourselves experts on the subject. I'm difficult to live with despite the fact that I'm a writer...and the fact that I am has only managed to complicate things.

The complications don't come from my words or my work. They come from within, because when I write I become someone something different.

Most of the time, I transform into a temperamental and pissed-off badger (my husband's description, not mine), hell-bent on getting a story down on paper and not caring who I hurt to make it happen. Once transformed, even a sneeze can provoke a particularly evil version of the stink-eye and annoyed little huffs and sighs. And no, this badger doesn't want to hear about a particularly cool part of your video game or that the cats just did something incredibly cute. To put it simply, when I write, I'm usually a bitch.

Cute but deadly.

But sometimes...sometimes I transform into something a little different. Sometimes, I become needy, helpless. Sometimes I want you to speak, to edit my work, to provide me inspiration. And don't you dare look back at your video game until you've given me what I need...or else the badger will return. Yes, that's a threat.

I feel sorry for my husband. Even as I write this, he has withdrawn to his respective corner of the couch, as far away from me as possible, careful not to move too much in one direction or the other, lest he should disturb the beast. As self-aware as I am about my problem, I can't do much to stop it. I know what a bitch I can be, but when I'm writing, it's like I can't control it. Just call me Ms. Hyde, I guess.

And Jeremy puts up with it all! He not only puts up with it but is the most supportive and wonderful husband I could ask for. I'm one lucky badger. He deals with my crap, supports my writing in countless ways, and is a continued source of inspiration. Just this morning, he helped me with a writing prompt.

Now, I haven't technically participated in this prompt, so I'm not linking up, BUT it did inspire this post, so I'm grateful to Write on Edge for such a fun writing exercise. I encourage you to check out this community if you haven't already. It's filled with talented and probably less-temperamental writers who will dazzle you with their words.

This week's RemembeRED memoir assignment was to write a Title and Tagline that captures your life. On our way to get breakfast this morning, I told Jeremy about the assignment, asked him what he thought. As usual, he provided me with interesting feedback.

"The title should be: 'Jeremy and Katie Go To Waffle House.'"

I laughed. It was not quite what I had in mind. "No, I think you're missing the point. It's not supposed to be a title of what I'm doing right now. It should be representative of my entire life."

"Actually, I think that title is a perfect microcosm of your life and our lives together. We get along. We fight a little, and in the end, there's a always food." Ah, there's the tagline. The guy never misses a beat.

The funny thing is I actually considered using that title and tagline for the linkup. In fact, I agree with him that it does pretty much sum up our lives. Of course, it also makes us sound incredibly boring. Trips to Waffle House aren't exactly something that set us apart from everyone else. What does set us apart is the fact that I sometimes transform into a badger and that Jeremy usually lives through it, and really, what more could you ask for in life?

Are you a temperamental writer? Do you "transform" when you write?

My Favorite Things

My favorite movie of all-time is It's a Wonderful Life. I can say this with reasonable certainty for a few precious seconds, but as soon as the words are typed, I start remembering other movies I love, like Edward Scissorhands, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and then, I feel guilty...yes, guilty...for ever saying that It's a Wonderful Life is my favorite. I really wouldn't want any of the other movies to feel bad that they're not my favorite, you know? Sure, you may think that movies don't have feelings, but do you really know that for a fact?

Since I was a little girl, I've had a hard time narrowing down "my favorite things" for just that very reason: I don't want to hurt any feelings. I'm such a dyed-in-the-wool people pleaser that even pleasing inanimate objects is important to me...which is quite sad really, so let's not focus on that for now. Let's just focus on the fact that when I say something is my "favorite," I'm probably going to follow it up with twenty other things that are also my favorites in that same category. If you get me rolling on naming my favorite things, then you're going to be listening to me ramble on for awhile. Not unlike right now.

Jeremy has gotten used to this personality flaw trait, as it even reared its ugly head on our honeymoon. Allow me to set the scene:

Day 2 on our magical honeymoon to Disney World. We're cuddled up together on a transport bus to the Magic Kingdom. Love fills the air. As we are reminiscing over the adventures of the previous day, I look up at my dear, new husband with adoring eyes and ask, simply, "What was your favorite part of the day?"

To my dismay, he could only shrug. "I don't know."

Don't know? How could he not know? I could understand having a hard time narrowing down a favorite activity, but if I had been asked this question, I would have started chattering right away, naming off all of the wonderful parts of the day. Instead, he stuck with: "I don't know."

By the time the bus pulled up at the station at the Magic Kingdom, we were having a full-fledged argument. By the time we entered the gates of the park, we were no longer on speaking terms. We spent the first hour of the day on opposite sides of Future World, each fuming for very different reasons.

Pirate Me, on the honeymoon, happier after forgiving the hubby for not having a favorite...arrr!

I've since learned that asking Jeremy about his favorite something is an exercise in futility. It might be a guy thing, but he just really doesn't think in terms of favorites. For him, something is either "fine" or "okay" or "pretty good," and that's about the extent of his displaying any sort of favoritism.

Regardless, I still ask...everyday, at least once a day. He sometimes plays along. Like the other night, for example, after watching Glee, I was gushing about who my favorite character is.

"Rachel. It's definitely Rachel. But my second favorite is Santana. No Finn. I like Rachel, then Finn, then Santana. Oh, my gosh! But Kurt! I totally forgot about Kurt. So, it's Rachel, Kurt, Finn, and Santana. Definitely." Glee-speak is always hurried and delivered in a high-pitched, squealy voice. I get on my own nerves. "Who's your favorite Glee character, baby?"

... ... ... To his credit, he gave the question very serious consideration. He even twisted his mustache a little as he thought. "I like Kurt, okay, but I guess my favorite is Sue Sylvester. She's the only one I consistently like."

So, he definitely plays along sometimes. I guess we've both learned to compromise a little there. I only ask him about his favorite things half as much as I would normally, and he actually tries to pretend he has favorite things sometimes when I ask. This makes for a happy and relatively peaceful marriage.

And there is one favorite that I don't have any problem naming; Jeremy is unequivocally my favorite husband. Of all-time. In the history of the world. 


Author's Note: This is a new series on my blog where I'll be gushing about some of my favorite things. This is just the introduction, so expect more (much more) gushing on my favorite movie at a later date. I just know that I'm very passionate, about a LOT of things, and I want a place to share that passion. Enjoy!

Are you a person who has a long list of favorites? Are you like me and have a hard time narrowing down your favorite things? Or are you more like Jeremy...not so much into things like "favorites"?

The Y'all Debate

We talk in a series of winding debates. We probably should've realized that we both had to be right about everything before we got married, but here we are anyway. And look at the bright side, neither of us can ever say our conversations are boring. Like the time we argued over the word "y'all." 

We were driving over to visit my parents; the car is a common breeding ground for our battles. I guess you just can't confine that much passion in that small of a space. You were behind the wheel. In that infuriating way of yours, you kept your eyes on the road, all while not-so-delicately navigating the waters of your wife's ire. 

How dare you watch the road while driving!

"I'm telling you the proper contraction is y-a-apostrophe-l-l. Anything else would be ridiculous."

Counting to ten stopped helping years ago. My hackles raised, and I snarled my response. "How in the hell do you figure that?"

"Because the contraction originates from the words ‘ya’ and ‘all.’ Obviously.”  The car remained steadfastly on the road. All I wanted to do was jerk the wheel over so that some of your composure was lost. Oh, well, if we wrecked.

“How is that obvious?! And don’t you think a Southerner would know the proper contraction of y’all better than some Northern California geek lord?”

You didn’t even hesitate. You jerk.  “Well, yeah, I would’ve thought so.”

The heat from my reddening skin burned. My palms itched with the desire to strangle you. My retort died suddenly in the flash fire of my passion. Given the time, I’m sure I could have thought of something brilliant, but as it was, I could only sputter and growl a response, toss my hair dramatically, and turn my attention out the passenger window. Irish temper 0, Jeremy 476.

Author's Note: Written for the Write on Edge Red Writing Hood prompt "Pivotal Conversations." We were assigned to write about a pivotal conversation from our memory. I'm not sure how "pivotal" this debate with Jeremy was, but it still lives on within the annals of our more memorable debates. I still bring it up from time to time, and he still argues that y'all is spelled ya'll. He's wrong. Now if I could only calm down enough to tell him why. Click the link below to read some great non-fiction:

What do y'all think? Is it you all = y'all or ya all = ya'll?

Oh, Crap. What Have I Gotten Myself Into?

In the three and a half years since I got married, I have learned many useful things. Things that, had I never met and married my husband, I may have never been privy to. I'm pretty sure I consider these things a blessing. Yes, I'm almost entirely sure that they are a blessing. I feel certain of it. Maybe.

I'll share some of them with you, so you can see just how blessed I truly am.

Things I Learned from My Husband

1) There is no bad time or place to trim your toe nails. Middle of the kitchen at 9:00am while I'm cooking breakfast? Why the heck not?

2) Snoring isn't so bad. So long as you fall asleep at least 3 hours before the snorer and do not wake up at any point during the night. If waking up does occur, then violence may follow. Note: Repeated elbow stabs into the space between the third and fourth rib seems to do the trick.

3) When wearing shorts, it's necessary to wear socks pulled all the way up to your knees. This is considered a "good look."

4) Speaking of fashion, Hawaiian shirts are the highest form of couture.

5) "How It's Made" is easily the most boring television show on the face of the planet. The narrator's voice makes me want to stab myself in the eye.

6) "Doctor Who," however, is not nearly as bad as it may sound after husband explains the concept of the show to you. Note: this is true for lots of things that he tries to explain the concept of. He is not known for giving the "abridged" version of ANY story. Try to minimize the glazed look of your expression when he begins one of his "summaries."

7) Husbands may do gross things from time to time. This is no revelation, as they are men, and men are disgusting. However, men are also good for taking care of gross things that you may otherwise avoid. Such as, but not limited to: cleaning up cat puke, cleaning up litter box, taking out trash, etc.

8) Cuddling is the best thing in the entire world, and some men actually do like to cuddle or are good at pretending they like to in order to make you happy. This is true for LOTS of things.

9) Never suggest to a man that he carries so much crap around that you think he should carry a purse. This seems to be insulting to them and may cause a nasty argument.

10) Being a back seat driver is not good for the marriage. Try to stop minimize barking out orders while he's driving.

I'm sure I could go on all night listing out the many things I've learned from my wise husband, but I'll round it out at ten so that I don't bore you all to tears. The point of this drawn out introduction is that I suspect I am on the cusp of learning yet another gem of information from Jeremy, as we begin what he refers to as: The Great Exchange (I think the name sounds nasty, but I'm choosing my battles here and leaving it alone).

The Great Exchange, aka What Happens When Spouses Trade Books, is a book exchange of sorts between myself and my husband. The concept was born the other night while we were watching Jeopardy. This is a nightly ritual in which we huddle in front of the television and compete against each other on who can get the most correct answers. I suspect he doesn't realize we're competing, because I hardly ever win or even come close to winning, so I don't really mention that I consider it a competition lest he should get a big head. And he already has a ginormous head which we can't find a hat for, which is an entirely different story altogether. But I digress.

While participating in a particularly heated tournament of armchair Jeopardy, I came up with what I thought at the time was a bright idea. I stupidly suggested to my braniac husband that he read one of my favorite novels: The Sun Also Rises by Earnest Hemingway. Now, to provide a little context, the battle to get Jeremy to read something I recommend has been a long and tiring one. We have completely different tastes in literature. He loves fantasy and science fiction, and I...well, I don't. I prefer classic and contemporary American literature (Hemingway, Steinback, Poe, McCarthy, etc.). He has tried on more than one occasion to lure me over to the dark side, but I have held fast. About most things I'm incredibly open-minded, but I just can't read fantasy literature. The Lord of the Rings is as far as I'll ever go. Until now.

After suggesting for the umpteenth time that Jeremy try The Sun Also Rises, I threw in a little incentive. "I'll read one of your books if you read one of mine!" I said enthusiastically, not quite understanding what my little proposal would cost me. He jumped right on board and immediately began plotting what he would have me read. His decision?

The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfus. Which is exactly 722 pages long. Which has a main character whose name is Kvothe.

From this endeavor that we have undertaken, I may very well learn that fantasy literature is something that I can enjoy. He may learn that Hemingway is the Great American Writer. He will finish The Sun Also Rises, which is exactly 251 pages, in about an hour. I'll get back to y'all in 3 months when I'm finally able to finish The Name of the Wind.

Want to hear Jeremy's side of things? Visit Unexcused Absence. Don't worry. I'm actually the long-winded one this time.







PS ~ Captchouli will return next week with the triumphant Round Six winner! In the meantime, if you haven't submitted your entry yet, it's still not too late. This week's word: Fulunk!