Marital Mondays: Medieval (Photos)
Hannibal carried the globe around a candle in our living room thirty-nine times symbolizing this last trip around the sun. He got super dizzy, so we’ve vowed that people over fifteen in this house would not have this as part of their birthday tradition. He says that I *have* to do it this year at thirty-one, because I cackled at him the whole time and made him finish.
We had wonderful cupcakes from JAM Vegan Bakery. They are the best on the planet! Trust me. Mooch bought Hannibal a Transformer with her own little money. I got him clothes, because his clothes are … I got him clothes. If you missed the birthday weekend blog, we went Chicago Stepping.
The final celebration of Hannibal’s birthday was a trip to Medieval Times the weekend after his birthday. It was exciting and the food was good, but all I could think about animal cruelty and slow fight choreography. I don’t really have time to go into details, so check the photos below.
Marital Mondays: Step in the Name of Love
“You want to build the foundation. Then you can add the style and flavor. Once you have the foundation, you can do this dance for a lifetime and always come up with new combinations — new ways to move together.”
When I led a timid, confused Hannibal onto the glossy hardwood floor of a surprise “Urban Ballroom” dance lesson, I expected to lock hands, get into the groove, and learn — you know, kinesthetically. It turned out that everyone usually arrives a little late, so we ended up getting a fairly private lesson. I could feel my impatience boiling beneath the surface of my forced smile as the instructor talked and talked before we even got to do the first step.
Then I put my excitement on pause, and really tried to live in the moment. Maybe this fast talking, middle-aged cat from the south side of Chicago had a message that I could apply off of the dance floor. He never made any assumptions, nor did he reference marriage at any point, but the tools necessary to carry out “steppin’” gracefully seemed to parallel those of a relationship so well — once I got over trying to hurry up and get my boogie on.
“Relax your shoulder.” “Let him lead.” “Live in the pauses.” “Trust your partner.”
While Hannibal focused on my waist and nearly busted two blood vessels in his forehead trying to stay on count, I had my own set of issues. I had to fight back my desire to take over and turn that “mutha” out, not break into the cha-cha, relax my elbow on my turn, keep the beat with my feet like a metronome, and somehow enjoy myself in the process. Umm … yeah. My hips still hurt just thinking about it. Did I mention that I wore 5 inch zebra print heels trying to be cute?
Sometimes marriage is like that. Each party is doing their own thing, and even though they are communicating, they forget to enjoy the pauses. The trust gets muddied when we think, “Well, I know she slips in this area, so let me just pick up the slack for her without even letting her know what I’m about to do” or “He doesn’t do this part as well as I do, so let me put some of my expertise on it for him, even though it might cause him to accidentally stumble in another area.” In both the dance and the relationship, we are each in control of our respective areas, and we must maintain that while still being aware of the other’s responsibilities. It’s all enough to make a person get too nervous and just sit down, but while managing all of the aspects, both parties have to look and feel relaxed. Let’s just say, I became aware early in the lesson that Hannibal and I are still very much newlyweds — both on the dance floor and in our daily lives.
The amazing thing is that we actually did learn a lot of dancing! He was building the foundation with both lecture and kinesthetics. While it wasn’t necessarily the way I would have delivered the lesson, I learned so much more than Chicago Steppin’. The teacher had achieved his goal of “not building a house of cards,” and he even managed to teach us a few turns. By the last half hour, we were sent onto the floor to practice our new technique alongside the intermediate/advanced latecomers. I’m not sure I’ve mastered “staying in my lane” (in any aspect of my live), but we had a lot of fun laughing at ourselves and feeling on each other.
Staring at Hannibal’s pelvis for two hours wasn’t bad either.
Marital Mondays: Abducted By Elves
Blog stolen by elves in honor of MLK Day.
Marital Mondays: Fried Chicken
M: Why aren’t you typing yet? It’s midnight.
H: I’m backing up first — hence the strange noises my machine is making.
M: Well, while it’s doing that, can you go make me a sandwich please?
H: (agitated with spastic arm making dribbling motion) Baby, I’m I’m reading and searching for for for–
M: (calmly)You’re multitasking.
H: (relieved) Yes, thank you.
M: You don’t have to get all worked up when I ask you for something. You just ran my blood pressure up, and now I can’t stop thinking about how I just wasted a brief bout of high blood pressure on a conversation about a damn sandwich. I could have been eating bacon-wrapped fried chicken for the last two minutes if I’d know the last 30 seconds were going to take a whole year off of the end of my life anyway.
H: I’m sorry, baby. I’m just swamped. (long pause) Wait. What?
Marital Mondays: Moon Sand
I found something online that said I could make moon sand with water, sand, and corn starch. The problem with this is that sand is required. I decided I would just go take some from the park and put it in a container and bring it home. Hannibal said I shouldn’t do that, because it’s technically stealing. Then I said, “Well what about the beach?”
She says: “They say you can’t bring sand to the beach. No one said you can’t take it away.”
He says: “You can go online and pay for your own sand.”
What say you? I figure if I’m going to go online to pay for the sand, I might as well just buy some damn moon sand!
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