Archives of Our Lives

There has been an outbreak of the mumps at the college where Kyle attends classes.

How could this happen? It’s not like Canada is a third-world country, or excessively poverty-stricken… I don’t know; I guess I just figured that I had enough to worry about, between my pregnant sister, setting up my new house, and learning how to drive in snow; catching the mumps wasn’t really high on my list of concerns until now.

I had my standard two doses of the MMR vaccine when I was younger, so I think I should be immune to the potentially-fatal disease. Kyle, on the other hand, did not. (I’m not saying this was an oversight on his parents’ behalf [I myself barely got my second dose of the shot in 2004, and only because it was required by the United States Government for me to get my overpriced passport so I could visit overpriced Europe]. Maybe the Canadians aren’t as strict about that sort of thing. [Maybe they should be].)

At any rate, it’s too late now. What’s done is done (or not done, in this case). Kyle and I went to the school yesterday to get him immunized with the MMR vaccine. A pamphlet the shot people handed out listed some potential side effects of the vaccine, and as luck would have it, Kyle woke up today complaining of most of them. He’s been throwing up all day; he’s been freezing cold and boiling hot; he has a fever and a headache and he says he’s sore all over. The worst part, though, is that we aren’t sure if it’s just a reaction to the vaccine, or if he really has the mumps. (The symptoms are the same for both scenarios–go figure.) Or, it could be that he just has the flu. I followed the pamphlet’s instructions and gave him a dose of Tylenol (Tylenol Cold, actually–just to be safe), but he’s since thrown up three more times, so I doubt it’s still in his system.

I myself haven’t showered in several days, what with toiling in this house all week, and nursing Kyle back to “health” all weekend. My hair is greasy. My face is greasy. My eyelids are greasy.

To top it all off, Kyle’s three front teeth fell out. Again. This happens every year or so, and I am used to it–but I think it must be awfully miserable to catch the mumps on one’s weekend, and not even have the pleasure of front teeth to take comfort in. His dentist is on holiday and won’t be back until Wednesday.

I just ran a lukewarm bath for Poor Kyle to soak, and he’s in there moaning away, sounding for all the world like the sad song of an orca. Humanized. Free Willy…

This used to happen to me in high school. Between band, orchestra, volleyball, track, student counsel, family stuff, church stuff, the occasional formal dance, and regular school work, there could often be weeks between journal entries. It would get to the point where I was so far behind that it would have taken me hours to get caught up–hours which, of course, I could never spare. And so the cycle would continue. Invariably, the guilt would become so overwhelming that I would sit down, open my neglected diary, and write an inadequate overview like, “I can’t believe it’s been so long since I wrote last. I turned 16 in September, went on my first date to Golf Land [I know. Bad.], passed all my midterms, and got a new flute for Christmas. Now it’s summer vacation.”

I hate the fact that someday when I’m old and feeble, I won’t be able to remember the more intricate details of my glory days.

So here I sit in front of my MacBook in Dillon, Montana, humbly compelled to get down to business. The way I figure it, I ought to post on the following major events of the wedding: Bridal shower (actually, I was lucky enough to get two, but I only have photos of the second one), pre-married open house in Canada, formal wedding photos, actual wedding day, wedding reception, honeymoon, and immigration over the 49th parallel.

And so it begins. Bridal shower. My wonderful sister worked tirelessly to throw me an amazing shower. We sent out about a hundred invitations (this was for ward and high school friends–we had a second one for family) and had an awesome turnout of over 80.

A recap, in photos:

Well I’m alive, and struggling with feelings of guilt like I have never known (except for maybe the time I got my neighbor friend’s bike stolen when I was nine years old).

I got married 10 days ago, and between catching flights, and not having internet access for the past week and a half, have been too busy to post anything since. I had a wedding reception a week before that, and haven’t posted anything from there, either.

But…I did write a quasi-post the night before we got married–only I was too exhausted to click the orange “publish post” button. Seriously. So I will go ahead and post that now, but keep in mind it is almost two weeks outdated…

“One day more…

It’s more like 12 hours, actually.

Been a bit too busy to blog lately. Haven’t even written in my journal. How dreadful! I will want to remember this special and exciting time in my life, and here I’ve not even recorded anything– anywhere–for the past two weeks. Good thing we’re having a week-long honeymoon; hopefully I’ll find time to get caught up on the happenings of the past few days. Our posterity (supposing we reproduce, that is) would want to know about it.

I’m getting married tomorrow. What am I doing tonight? Went to Sonic… Worked on our wedding video… Snapped at some of the people I love most… Is that how it’s supposed to go? I’m not sure. I’m just beginning a long life of not being sure I’m doing stuff the right way.”

{Back to real time}

So that was my state of mind the night before I got married. Did I sound a bit lost? Well, I’m not feeling any of that now. Inasmuch as my entire married life to date has been bouncing from hotel room to cruise ship to tropical island, I must say I’m loving the new life. {Ask me in a few days after dealing with packing 21 years of bedroom and lugging it across the 49th parallel, and I might not sound so chipper.} I have lots and lots to catch up on, but I can’t feel right about doing that until I have some decent pictures to post. I am writing this from the lobby of the Comfort Suites in Ft. Lauderdale, so it might be awhile until I can really sink my teeth in and get caught up on the blog.

Until later, then…

Okay. Enough. Enough of me thinking of all the things that could (and probably will) go bad after Poor Kyle and I get married. You know? People, they get married all the time. Sure, men can be forgetful and women can be nags. I, of all people, should know that very well. But those are things that simply are not important. What’s important are the sacrifices people make for one another. That’s how I know Kyle kind of likes me–the things he does to help me out, at no personal gain to himself. Like the time he drove straight down from Canada in 19 1/2 hours in March, to be by my side at my grandpa’s funeral. Or waiting many extra months to marry me so I could run off to Europe and experience before we got all poor and married. He could have very easily found a nice sweet Canadian girl–fresh out of high school–to fill the void. Or when he gives up his hoodie for me to wear when I am unprepared for those (sometimes unexpectedly) frigid days.

And he ought to know I kind of like him, too. Ever since Junior High, my plans were to graduate from Westwood, get a degree in something fancy, and move to Manhattan as a highly successful 23 year-old single yuppy in a greystone apartment on 5th avenue. (You think I’m joking, but that really was my plan. Oh no, I didn’t care what my career was, just as long as the means justified the Big Apple end.) My minimum marriage age was 25. Minimum. I tell him sometimes that I love him 4 years in New York.

Expert Blindspots–my older sister was telling me about them today. At 6 months pregnant and after quitting her job as an high school English teacher to stay home with her growing embryo, she has nevertheless found herself in another full-time contract (teaching online, but still 40 hours a week. She just doesn’t seem to want to slow down). But I digress. Adell was explaining to me the theory of Expert Blindspots, which is the phenomenon of becoming so educated and immersed in any one subject that a person becomes completely incapable of teaching others about said subject. In effect, it’s when someone cannot remember a time before they were so smart; a person is so familiar with the inner workings of, say, trigonometry, that she cannot lower her level of thinking enough to teach it. [I took a class like that once.]

It got me thinking, though…I wonder if Poor Kyle has known me for so long and at so close a level (best friend status, essentially) that he has acquired an Expert Blindspot in the vast topic of Me.

I’m mostly being serious about this.

There are so many things that I am sure he knows about me, but has ignored (or tolerated) for 2 years in the name of “let’s-get-married-already!” [Romantic, I know.] The way I suck air through the crevices of my teeth to make sure they’re free of obstructions, for example…

I can’t stand the thought that he might not know exactly what he’s in for; I make it a habit never to corner people or obligate them, without at least giving fair warning. And with only 19 days to go, I think now is a good time to get all the potential-bliss-hindrances out in the open.

Reasons Poor Kyle Might Consider Reconsidering…
1. It is a well-known fact that I only shower when necessary. I find showering a terrible inconvenience. I rarely smell (opting instead to layer on the deodorizers) but Adell nags me at least once a week to “wash your hair! Mercy!”

Look at my hair. He knows–I know he knows–but then, why does he still look so happy? Blinded, I’m sure of it.

2. I have tendencies towards Green. Not the kind of Green that deems I buy only organic vegetables. It’s moreso geared towards our planet’s poor little ozone, manifested by way of carpooling and driving eco-conscious vehicles. I wonder if this might bother him when it comes time to buy either an SUV or a minivan (though I think a swell compromise would be a Hybrid SUV).

3. I like Target altogether more than I should. And I am very easily swayed to rationalise spending money there. Especially on orange-stickered clearance items.

4. My least favourite chore is mopping. Our future house is floored completely in wood laminate and tile. Does he realise the implications of this ill-fated favour?

5. If given the adequate resources and time, I could–and would–eat a tomato sandwich and a whole dill pickle every day of my life.

6. My face is finicky. Her Majesty the Skin will explode (literally) if I do not stick to a strict hygienic regimen. I learned this my first year at ASU, when I became liberalised (all but my pores, that is). Between washing, exfoliating, cleansing, toning, flossing, brushing, gurgling, tweezing, moisturizing, and the occasional pep-talk (“Come on, Mt. Vesuvius…be gone! Lay dormant!”), it can take me well over 20 minutes to get ready for bed. He knows it, but does he really know?

7. I have worse-than-poor vision, and each year at the optometrist’s office, I’m diagnosed with an increasingly critical prescription. Contacts cost several hundred dollars for my prematurely aging eyes, and what’s more dismal is that I am not even a candidate for Lasik. Translation: How much is our co-pay? We might as well add it to our list of yearly expenditures, along with groceries, fuel, and flood insurance.

Seven seems like a good (and slightly ominous) number at which to stop. Poor Kyle, you are to be pitied, I think. Weigh your options; evaluate them well, and above all, consider yourself warned.