We'll Start with a Grumble AND a Grin

Welcome to Grumbles and Grins!

I am excited to have my very own blog, and I hope to meet many new friends this way. I’m a novice–not to writing, for I’ve had a pen in hand since I was a young girl–but to blogging, and to much in the IT world. Please bear with me while I figure this whole thing out.

Yeah…it may be awhile. The gray matter isn’t what it used to be, you know.

Grumbles and Grins–or GAG, as I’ll affectionately call it–is where I will write my thoughts for the day. Why would anyone care about my thoughts, you ask? I haven’t a clue. But I care about yours, and besides…writing of any sort is good practice for those of us who can’t seem to stay away from a keyboard, and who feel the urge to tell stories and create pictures from our words. It’s one of my most favorite pastimes!

And so, for my initial post I’ll give you this picture: A deer in the headlights.

That’s easy to envision, right? Especially if you live in a place like Maine–where our beautiful white-tailed deer amble out to our byways after dark to lick the salt from the road, to escape the thick flies in the forest, or to simply have a spirited sprint down a lane unobstructed by thick undergrowth. And then along we come, interrupting their evening sport with our noisy, smelly, and often dangerous vehicles. Our headlights angle in slivers around the corner–and there they are. Heads come up, bodies freeze in mid-action as they stare at this terrible intrusion into the peace of their night. You can almost hear their alarm… feel their panic as they try to make a snap decision about how to escape this terror thrust upon them. And then the glorious white flags come up–waving a warning to their kin–and away they go, soaring in graceful bounds up over the embankment to the safety of the woods beyond.

That, of course, is what happens in a perfect world.

My husband’s world was not quite so perfect this morning. You see…it’s our 16th wedding anniversary. And he forgot.

A deer-in-the-headlight moment. And I’ve gotta tell you, I can enjoy the heck out of those!

I firmly believe that if a wife is to suffer the disgrace of having her mate forget that ONE SIGNIFICANT DATE pertaining to their LIFELONG COMMITMENT, then she ought to be able to take pleasure in her husband’s discomfort when his failure to remember it is pointed out to him. (In the nicest possible way, of course!)

I hadn’t even left our bed before I realized Mr. Grumble had overlooked the date. He’d already up-and-showered and was just dressing as I awoke at six a.m. If he’d remembered, well…chances are good that he would have wakened me FIRST, then had his shower and gotten dressed. (Or better yet, had his shower, climbed back under the sheets, THEN wakened me, and THEN donned his clothes a half-hour later.) That’s an anniversary ritual…or it should be, in my books!

But no, Mr. Grumble was pulling his socks on, sitting on the side of the bed with his back to me when I reached over and rubbed his back. He turned and smiled that handsome smile.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Happy anniversary,” I replied.

A deer-in-the-headlight moment!

Ah, his expression was priceless. It almost made the whole thing worth it! Disbelief, panic, chagrin and worry…each expression flitted across his face in the space of a second or two as he tried to figure out how to recover gracefully. Without looking like a total bonehead. He was impressively unsuccessful.

“No, it’s not.” Like he could argue the calendar into being wrong.

“Yes, it is.” The calendar is never wrong, and I share much in common with the calendar.

“It can’t be.” The dear man doesn’t give up easily.

“But, it is. Happy anniversary, honey. Your gift is right outside the closet door. Why don’t you go get it?”

“I can’t.” The panic was defeating the chagrin.

“Why not?” Oh, it was hard not to chuckle!

“I have to go to town, first.” My snicker overcame my self-control.

“Oh, brother. It’s too late, now! You blew it. Just go get your present!”

Well, he did. He hated to, but he did. My gift was nothing very romantic…just a new pair of dress pants, a cheap pocket watch to replace his cheaper one, and some new underwear. Hey, I said sixteen years! The honeymoon is over, and practicality wins out.

My husband groused about the fact that not one of my girlfriends took the time to remind him of our anniversary. He muttered that the month had simply flown by too quickly, and if it HADN’T, he would have remembered in time! He said my mother should have given him a hint in the last day or two, so that he wouldn’t be looking like such a dork right about now. Oh, there was plenty of blame to go around. The poor man. His day is ruined now, because he forgot our anniversary.

Men!

I’ll leave you with this. While I am a woman (and therefore, I love to be ‘made of’ and wooed) I am also sensible. My husband loves me 365 days a year. He’s never called me a name or raised his hand to me. He works hard, he supports his family, he is honest and he’s a man of integrity. He loves me, and I know that he does. So who am I to complain if he forgets that today is August 14th, the anniversary of the day he won the ultimate prize? The day the best thing to ever happen to him…happened to him? Nah, I’ll not hold this against him. Not for long, anyway…a woman has to make her point, after all.

On the plus side, in his rush to find an excuse to ‘go to town’, my husband volunteered to keep my truck’s appointment at the garage forty miles away. It was a chore I’d been dreading, having spent my last day off in that same manner. Instead of sitting wedged on a couch between strangers, reading Jeep Magazine and listening to pneumatic wrenches squeal, telephones ring and hammers bang, I get to sit at my computer and write my first blog entry on GAG. Life is good. It really is.

Happy anniversary, Mr. Grumble. And...I hope the repairs aren't too time-consuming.