(Mrs) Adventure #14: When Hilarity and Emergency Strike

Like some bizarre slow motion and soundless film clip, I saw the poof of pepper spray release itself gleefully into the air before I heard the shout.

He was fumbling with the hot pink keychain on the counter, while I was trying to wash something in the sink. I didn’t put two and two together when he asked, “Why the heck won’t this flashlight work? It must be broken.” And, like an overly meticulous watch repairman, he held the device up to his eye and pushed the button.

Poof! Sizzle. Ssssssssssssss.

The sound that seemed somehow out of sync with the action lasted about three seconds.

“OH MY GOD! MY EYES!” And he’s barreling over to the kitchen sink.

“Milk! I need milk! It’ll stop the sting! Ahhhh!!”

I am practically frozen. Do I even HAVE milk? What if it’s moldy? What if it’s curdled milk? I can’t throw curdled milk on my good friend’s face, can I? What if it makes him sick?! ”

Sensing my hesitation, he yells again.

Panic overtakes me as I throw open the refrigerator and spot to three slices of Velveeta cheese. That’s dairy! I can throw cheese at his face! I’ll unwrap them and press cheese slices to his eyes!”

“MILLLLLLKKKK!”

And like Jesus on a tater tot, I could have sworn that milk materialized out of thin air from the bottom shelf.

I rip open the new container and begin splashing it in his face. By now, the pepper spray has made its way around the room like the worst possible aerosol can of Febreeze in history and it’s doing a spicy tango on my lips and up my nose. I gag and begin coughing. I hold one arm over my mouth, and with the other I am throwing handfuls of milk at his face.

“I can’t do this anymore! You have to come outside! Get on the balcony!”

“I can’t see, he shouts back.”

“Well take my arm, my little Helen Keller, and let’s go!” My other two friends are teetering back and forth on the balcony. Wide-eyed, I can tell they are unsure of the appropriate response: explode into fits of laughter or dial 911?

He runs to the balcony and begins splashing the milk on his face-sending cup full after cup full of white liquid onto my neighbor’s patio set below. I stand behind him remembering a memo that went up on our elevator the other week threatening that any resident caught throwing material off their balcony would be promptly arrested. My GOD, does milk count? How are we going to explain this to the judge?

“Well, you see, your Honor, ahem, umm, my buddy here was just playing around with this pepper spray and ended up spraying it directly into his eye and I was gonna use the cheese slices, but it turned out the milk hadn’t yet become a solid….”

“GOOGLE IT!” I yell to another friend. “Google what we’re supposed to do.”

The second hand spins as more milk rushes over the balcony.

“It says get a shot glass, fill it with milk and apply it to the damaged eye.”

“GET A SHOT GLASS!” I yell, and my friend Stephanie flies into the apartment and returns no less than five seconds later with a commemorative shot glass from a friends wedding. If he goes blind, I realize, the last thing he will see is: Laura and Andy: Forever in love!

That’s depressing. Especially since they’re already divorced.

“Ah, well that shot glass was easy to find, eh? Not the milk?” my friend slyly laughs

I shrug. “PUT IT IN THE SHOT GLASS AND HOLD IT TO YOUR EYE!” I yell as though he was quickly going deaf and not blind.

I pause, “How did you know milk would work on pepper spray, you rapist? How does that shot glass feel? That workin’ out for you?”

My neighbors, at this point, are either incredibly tolerant individuals or they’re staying far from the windows and dialing the police. I can’t imagine what this scene looks like for an outsider. I curse myself for not having a camera ready.

Roughly five minutes later, the milk is gone and my friend is finally able to sit down. He resembles something of a Koi fish, but at least, for the time being, he is able to see without the pain of a thousand fiery sunbeams shooting out of his pupils.

And then I do what every normal person would do in that situation: call absolutely every mutual friend in my phone book and tell them in between heaving fits of laughter. Inevitably every response is the same: “Dude, please tell me you got that on film.” Darn.

Later in the night as I reflect what shall here to for be referred to as “the incident,” a little bulb pops up and shines over my head. I have been struggling the past couple of weeks to come up with domestic and fashion tips for a new magazine. When I was asked if I would write an article about all things domestic, I was at first thrilled! I read Cottage Living! I can find some mean deals at my local Target. (Pronounced correctly: Tar-Jae).

I once creatively strung up a fabulous set of silk olive toned curtains by using nothing more than a metal rod I found abandoned in the community basement and seventeen plastic multi purpose cable ties. In fact, I used the same cable ties, (thank you, Dad, contrary to my original belief, your gift has come in handy more than once), when I fixed my broken patio umbrella using eight cable ties, a roll of duct tape and a wooden spatula. It isn’t pretty, but it’s functional in light wind.

Of course, they also asked if I could add some quick and easy recipes in my article, and that is where I really began to panic.

Obviously, if I have so little use for a spatula in the kitchen so that I am perfectly fine wrapping it in duct tape and cable ties and leaving it exposed to the elements, I’m clearly not whipping up any soufflés. Admittedly, I have lived in my condo for over a year now, and the stove has never worked. Not once. My landlord told me that there was a missing cable, but I never bothered to follow up with him on it. Instead, after months of frustration and convinced that I was starving, my mother went to the store and bought me a hot plate. So now, that very hot plate sits on a burner on my stove. I use it to boil water so that I can make a perfect mold of my teeth for one the tooth whitening mouth tray kits.

But now I have my solution. My friend has single handedly (and unwillingly) showed me how to combine domestic and kitschy fashion tips, (especially for the spouses of deployed servicemen) and food. The pepper spray canister is lightweight, easy to use and quite powerful. It comes in hot pink, electric blue, lime green and black. If one was to purchase all four distinctive and trendy colors, one could easily match it to any outfit or purse. Switch it up! Live a little! Set yourself free from the fear of fashion faux pas and dangerous criminals! And, in case the pepper spray particles are accidentally, say, deployed into mid air with the ferocity of three thousand blood thirsty Marines, well all you need to wage war is a few measly cups of milk. Fashion plus safety times food equals success!

I’m not sure if that is what they had in mind, but I know it’s certainly practical advice.

So now I’m set. But now a new problem crops up in the back of my head: what in the world am I going to write for next month’s advice column? Should I, say, set up dangerous items just out of view and invite unsuspecting victims over to determine what vicious injury I could calm with perhaps a teaspoon of vanilla, three paper towels and some Windex? My mind is already racing with gleeful possibility.

For all you concerned readers out there- my friend is fine. He shall certainly live to 'see' another day and we do hope that with time, the emotional scars will heal. Mainly because it's great material and I'll probably need him for inspiration on my next column.

But until then, ladies and gents, I leave you with my humble advice: your own personal safety should always remain your top priority, but never let your fear of attack outweigh your very rational fear of committing an hideous color faux pas. Buy your mace in multi colored canisters and always, always keep your dairy at attention.

(Mrs) Adventure #13 Reflections on Memorial Day from a Marine Wife.

I am scanning the Internet today between work meetings, aimlessly as I often do during the rare spare moments I have to take a sip of my Sugarless Red Bull and to log a few delicious moments of conversation with a coworker. Switching between Facebook and CNN, my eye catches two different articles. The first, a question posed by a friend that asks if we [the wives of United States Marines] knew what we were getting into when we married. The second, a breaking news article that announces ten troops, seven American, were killed yesterday outside of Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

To the first, I lean my head quizzically to the side and start to ponder; to the second, I know instinctively that the majority of those seven are Marines. I await an announcement of the names; I know once the DOD makes them available, (available meaning the families have been notified), the Support our Marines group will ask for a moment of silence for the fallen warriors.

My brain jumps back and forth between the two. Soon, their mysterious identity will no longer be a pixilated jumble of words on a computer screen. To some of us, they will become smiling faces, husbands holding their wives, their mothers and their daughters.

I find myself falling deep inside, wishing everyone would stop for a moment and pay tribute, but as I scan the comments beneath the CNN article I see that most pay homage to a political diatribe of this party or that. I wonder if we (as a culture) have become so desensitized and so tired that we even care?

Seven young men gave the ultimate sacrifice yesterday; there is a time and a place for political commentary and isn’t beneath their name.

Did we know what we were getting into when we married our Marines?

That question cannot be easily answered.

I write a blog that tries to take a jocular angle on the life of being married to a United States Marine. Everyone chooses a different angle to cope with life; I choose humor while others may be serious or analytical, thoughtful, sullen, optimistic, intense, dreamy, ambitious, removed, independent, co-dependant, informative or a variation of the above.

I write stories- that’s what I do. My personal reflections are often hidden beneath a self-deprecating joke or a constructed caricature of my personality. I once read that true authors open their veins and bleed ink onto pages; I attempt this only with a safe hint of fiction. In truth, I find blogs and personal opinion and the suggestion that people read the minutia of any given individual’s day to serve only exceptionally narcissistic purposes. I have a desire to share but only in carefully measured amounts, a spoonful of sugar here and a drop of lemon juice over there. In a world of web voyeurs, I try to keep virtual Peeping Toms at bay.

But today, something clicks in me. Today does not seem a day to hide behind carefully constructed phrases. I am the wife of a United States Marine.

Scratch that: I am the PROUD wife of a United States Marine.

Seven of his brothers died today. Did he know them personally? Most likely not, but they are still his brothers. When I see photographs of their beaming faces and messages posted days before that read: “Come home soon!” I feel an icy numbness spread over my body.

This can’t be real, I think. Always and every time the same phrase repeats in my head: this can’t be real.

Did we know what we were getting in to when we married our Marines?

Did we? Does anyone? Ever?

Must this question necessitate a negative answer?

You see, I didn’t marry ‘just a Marine,’ I married my best friend. My best friend is not a pixilated jumble of words on a computer screen; my best friend is so much more. My Marine is bundle of personality; he is absolutely brilliant, and I don’t state this as an observation, I state it as fact. I married one of the best people to ever inhabit this great country of ours, one who walks and talks with the character of a true gentleman and scholar.

I spent Memorial Day with my husband in a foreign land. While America honored its veterans of wars past and our current Marines, Airmen, Soldiers and Sailors, I had the pleasure of lazing away the day with my very own special superhero. In my head, I started to think of all the questions and concerns that have swirled about me the past few months, some of my own invention and those that have been casually tossed (or forcefully thrown) at me by others.

I listen to the political debates, people raging on both sides of the fence: ‘Send our soldiers home!’ they cry. ‘Send more soldiers in!’ others protest. I’ve heard that the military trains nothing but killers; I’ve heard that they are warriors of freedom. I’ve even been called a hypocrite by an individual who claimed to support the troops by blasting communist propaganda while wearing the Marine Dress Blues in an entertainment act.

Some of us [spouses] remain silent. Others get in heated arguments with the other side. And some of us choose to throw a milky joke into the expanse to diffuse a palate of hot peppered air.

But on this Memorial Day and the days following, I chose instead to think of what I “got myself into when I married my Marine.”

When I married my Marine, I came to understand the true definition of what it means to truly love and support another. Five, ten years from now, if my husband is retired, active, a teacher, a lawyer, a janitor or the President of the United States, I will love him with a tenacious ferocity. The fact that he is a Marine has very little to do with the amount to which I love him or even the very reason why I fell in love. In fact, I would be remiss if I did not admit that I’ve had one too many wailing sessions where I shed enough tears to fill up a small aquarium; I often have trouble rectifying in my head why a man of his exceptional intelligence, a man who could easily be studying for his PhD or cutting deals on Wall Street would place himself in such a dangerous position. And then I quickly realize that I sound like those who do not understand; it has nothing to do with intelligence and everything to do with character. If he has an ample supply of brains, his character can only exceed this gift. I am not so perfect.

I’m certain he still knows something I don’t, and even though I may not always agree with where his profession of choice takes him, the fact that he is an individual of such high caliber and morals will always garner my support.

When I married my Marine, I learned to never take anything for granted: not a day, not a solitary moment, a squeezed hand, a kiss or a supportive hug. My friendships have, (at least in my mind) become deeper. The people in my life mean more to me now than a simple group of ‘friends’ to share superficial stories and a beer after work. I view relationships in a different light, and though I’ve always thought that I’ve been one to scratch much deeper than surface with people, now I’m giving them all figurative root canals. I’m no longer satisfied with the status quo, a passing shrug or a selfish, “well, I’ll check on them later.” Now, nothing should or will be taken for granted. I want them all to know how much they mean, how important they are in this world.

Occasionally, I have but two three minutes to chat with my husband through email, Skype chat or text. I will tell you that those three minutes are the most meaningful moments of my day. I will wake up early just to see him type words before he falls asleep, I will stay up late in the hopes that I can catch him online; I would stay awake for four days straight if it meant I could catch his smile on some video screen appearing live five thousand miles away. I would never be so bold as to suggest that my husband and I don’t have our disagreements, but I will tell you that each and every one ends after roughly five minutes with an, “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I love you.” No argument between loved ones should ever be so important that two parties can’t stop, reflect, and remember that in the long run the basis of the argument or even the argument itself will be forgotten, but hurtful words will take years (if ever) to erase.

When I married my Marine, I learned the value of a day. Remember that old cliché, ‘don’t sweat the small stuff?” Well, (sad to say, or at least sad to admit), it’s true. In the grand scheme of things, a broken nail, an over crowded/over booked schedule, a rude email or a coffee stain on a blouse have become more comical than anything else. Compared to the sacrifices made daily by our men and women in the military, these occurrences are nothing but trivial happenstance to fill a day. What will you remember at the end of a long year? Certainly not a spilled wine glass at dinner or smeared lipstick on a random Tuesday; no, you’ll remember relationships formed and…

Laughter. There is nothing more delicious than laughter. And there is nothing more beautiful than the curve of a smile deflecting tears as an ornate fountain may direct diamond clear water. Yes, when I married my Marine I learned that laughter trumps difficult trials, or at least provides a strong anesthetic against pain.

When I married my Marine, I learned the value of this country and what America and being an American means. As a twenty seven year old woman, I am sad to admit that before I married my Marine, the fourth of July meant blissful freedom, (from school or work) icy blue liquid running off a chunk on a wooden stick dripping down my lips and staining my chin and fingers an unnatural shade of anti-freeze. The fourth of July meant lake shore breezes carrying musical notes like hovering dandelion wisps from some nearby pier. Memorial Day: a day free of work or school, usually supplemented by booze, burgers and brats. Not once on these days did I ever think about the Halls of Montezuma or the shores of Tripoli. If asked, I may have responded that they sounded like nice places to visit on a Princess cruise ship vacation.

Today, I sit in awe of this country-its accomplishments past, present and hopefully future. I understand the “American Dream” and I see through photographs the unspoiled and imaginative hope in the eyes of those that wish to experience a slice, just a slice of that American apple pie that I have languorously consumed. I revel in our differences as an American people, I cherish our ability to speak freely and without fear and most importantly I am proud that we are able to help those less fortunate-within our own country and in others.

I have often watched wide-eyed throughout life as children scream at their parents, as teenagers storm up to rooms shouting, “I hate YOU!” to their desperate mothers and fathers. I have seen the pain in parent’s eyes as ungrateful offspring turn their backs on the family that has emotionally mortgaged everything simply to provide a secure future.

I have never grasped this type of blatant disrespect, and now, more than ever, I do not understand the type of blatant disrespect I am witness to as America’s “offspring” turn their backs on the country that gave them the right to narrow their eyes, use their voice, and storm up the stairs spewing, “I HATE YOU!”

I wonder why more people don’t pause in the midst of arguments, of the political grievances and demands from both sides to say, “I know we disagree right now, America, but I still love you. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

The strength of America is found in its differences: different political viewpoints, different heritages and different religions. This is America’s superglue, the adhesive that sticks to magnets, to wood, to fabric and to steel and merely says: let’s build with our differences; help me grow with your differences.

I learned that we must never forget to tip our figurative hats to those who fight to protect those differences, for they are the ones that ultimately matter most. They are the ones who keep that glue in place: even if it is occasionally hazy and difficult to see how.

They are the ones who won’t ask in the middle of the argument, in the heat of the moment, in the crevice of a difference to pause, reflect and say, “I love you. I love you, America.”

But I am one who will.

This is what I “got myself into when I married my Marine.”

And for those that gave the ultimate sacrifice in keeping us safe day and night, for those seven beaming faces I will never forget, I say, “I thank you. I am so grateful for you. May your laughter echo in valleys forever and may your bravery never be forgotten. We love you.”

(Mrs) Adventure #12: Not So Lost in Translation. Tokyo/Kyoto

I am riding up the side of a mountain in Kyoto, Japan; the metal basket at the front of my bike rattling its contents each time the slender tire hits a gravel bump. Twenty feet ahead, my husband stands on his pedals, balances himself and turns around to grin wildly at me. I narrow my eyes at him and not so silently curse as a Toyota whizzes closely past me on its journey down the mountain.

“I did not sign up for this,” I grumble under my breath and continue on with a string of complaints as I concentrate on moving my jelly like legs in rotating circles. For a moment I pretend I’m in a spinning class, until I hear a Japanese motorist shout something at me from a passing car that sounds mysteriously like, “Sayonara Americcaaaan”. In my head, I entertain fantasies of tossing the fragile three-speed bicycle into the roadway and marching down the mountain until I hit the first tempanaki resturant that serves alcohol or paint thinner. And then I remember that moment where my husband and I relaxed on our couch in San Diego, laughing together and analyzing recruits in a documentary about young Marines at Parris Island. In the program, one girl cries into the camera and complains about the tough life at Boot Camp. I remember leaning over to my husband as I sipped a glass of Merlot and said, “Rubbish, that doesn’t look so bad. Even I could do that. ”

Shit.

Pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal and then I hear my husband shout, “There it is!”

Thank you, Jesus.

I catch up to him and as I am about to get off my bicycle, I think about saying something like, “Wow! That was a wonderful jaunt! What a workout! Thanks for taking me up that mountain! And now look where we are: an ancient shrine! Gorgeous!!”

Instead, it comes out as, “That’s it. This is the last damn Shrine I care to see. They all look the same. If I need to see more, than I’ll go to Epcot Center, because that’s all I’m seeing. Disneyworld. It looks like Disney World. I’m done. I am dooooo-ne. If you want to see more of these stupid shrines, then you can do it on your own, mister. I’m heading back to the hotel and I’m going to have champagne on the rooftop.” And then I start to tear up.

Oops. In my defense, mountains are best not tackled with excessive jet leg or without a cushy ski lift.

He simply laughs and wraps me in a giant hug.

We are perfect traveling companions, My Marine and me.

TOKYO

Tokyo does not feel like a foreign city. Its lush gardens give way to wide streets the same slick and glossy color of the rivers that line them. I imagine neon and over crowded walkways, instead I find respectful rows of people marching back and forth on their afternoon rush hour. In fact, it feels almost like Chicago. Tokyo’s residents are not all together a friendly bunch, but they are incredibly well dressed. I joke to my husband that George Zimmer of the Men’s Warehouse would retire a gazillionaire here. I don’t see one man or woman that is not outfitted in a very smart looking suit. They do seem a bit like automatons marching to their next point; most don’t stop in the middle of sidewalks to share a quick conversation like their American counterparts. It is impossible for my husband and I not to stand out and look like tourists. This is only aided by Matt’s Michelin Green Guide; he pulls it out at every stop and for the first time I am supremely jealous of a book.

The subways are an entirely new adventure. For starters, they are incredibly clean and organized. I scan the cars for signs of the homeless, but see none. There is no trash lying in the terminals and aside from the whine of an approaching subway car, the terminals are eerily silent although filled with thousands of bodies. Matt and I are brash and loud, or at least it feels this way. We giggle back and forth at advertisements in the cars for “Black Punch” a gin based drink, or an ad that features a large weightlifter enjoying a cigarette. Our cheeks redden. We are outsiders.

We spend our days snapping pictures, “Japanese tourists in Japan!” we joke. My husband and I tour the Imperial Gardens; we remove our shoes when we enter Shrines and pad through the wooden floors that housed the Shogun, past rooms where he took meetings with Feudal Lords and Ladies in Attendance. As I walk, I imagine ancient feet traveling on the same wooden floors, hundreds of years before me.

“Maybe we are re-incarnated,” I suggest to my husband. “Perhaps we have been here before.”

He smiles at me. But I don’t really believe what I am saying. Unlike the hallways of ancient palaces of Europe, or the wooden edifices that still stand home to our forefathers, I don’t feel that I have been here before. It feels as it should, foreign. I am nothing more than a modern visitor; I don’t feel ghosts tingle my skin, just patches of warmth where sunlight cuts through paper walls.

Together, we stumble upon a Degas exhibit at one Tokyo art museum, and we wander through the galleries of another in Ueno Park. We zip to crowded markets that cater homemade sweets to throngs of thousands of Japanese school children, all dressed in uniforms that make them appear to be miniature sailors or flight attendants. We watch elders relax on park benches and feed pigeons tiny pieces of bread. My husband and I witness Japanese businessmen and women stop by local shrines during their lunch hour. They approach giant iron tubs of incense and fan the smoke in their direction. Sometimes I watch them write tiny notes and stick them in the crevices of the religious foundation. By night, we dine on mostly American and French faire, and before bed we sip cocktails on the fortieth floor of our hotel.

Our words may be lost in translation, but when he places his hand in mine and leads me along cobblestone paths in a leafy park, I feel only found in this green, limbo-like world.

KYOTO

Three days into our trip, we board the Shinkan-sen, also known as ‘The Bullet Train’ en route to Kyoto. We weave on tracks that cut through the hazy landscape, fields flooded with rainwater, pagodas lining mountains, the ocean blending into the sky in the distance. The world outside the window passes in a blur; when I try to train my eyes to focus on one element beyond the transparent plastic, it passes too soon and I grow dizzy. I listen to a Japanese couple giggle secrets two rows ahead, I train my eyes on the outline, the perfect outline, of my husband’s face.

When the train pulls into the station, and we exit as ants from a muddy underground tunnel, I am overwhelmed. We study a map, we navigate the trains and subways, and we board the car again until we realize we’ve gone the wrong way.

I break down in an abandoned subway tunnel, the first I’ve seen since entering Japan. Something about its stillness seems foreboding and dangerous.

My husband stares first at me thoughtfully, and then grabs me in a large bear hug. In my ear he sweetly whispers, “Domestic violence is not a joking matter.”

I start to laugh, that sniffling laugh as two teenagers bound down the stairs and pause momentarily to scrutinize us. Kyoto receives far less ‘Western’ traffic than its sister city, Tokyo. The first thing we notice, ironically though, is that Kyoto’s inhabitants feel much more Western than their Tokyo cousins.

Our hotel, The Screen, rises out of a corner of the Imperial Garden, its modern grey façade a stark contrast to the ancient park. Once inside, we are led into a swanky looking dining room, where we are handed chocolates and mango soda pop in a champagne glass. Now this is my kind of hotel! With only thirteen rooms, each decorated by a different Japanese designer, The Screen Hotel rivals any American boutique hotel I’ve ever seen. Our room is modern, yet comfortable, and large by Japanese standards. We have a balcony, a rock garden, a Bose sound system, a big screen television, a large King sized bed, a Jacuzzi, and a heated toilet that speaks.

The staff takes customer service and hospitality to a new level- organizing bikes for us, pouring drinks, showing us to their rooftop. We meet a couple on vacation from Shanghai, though they are both French Canadians. Our server attended North Central College in Naperville, Illinois. He cannot believe he’s met someone from Chicago, as he has spent the majority of his life living with his parents in Kyoto. We find a French bistro that we will laze away hours over the next couple of days.

And yes, we visit every single shrine in Kyoto. On bike. We ride up and down sidewalks, play chicken with cars and pedestrians.

On Sunday, we bike downtown Kyoto to find the one Catholic Church that offers an English speaking mass. Unfortunately, or fortunately for us, the priest speaks little English, as evidenced by him asking the entire congregation to give thanks for Jesus Christ and ‘his erection.’ As soon as I hear him utter the phrase, my entire body stiffens. I pray to God that my husband hasn’t heard him say this, but when I hear what sounds remarkably like the final cries of a Brazilian guinea pig and see my husband’s body start to shake, I know I’m going to lose it. I see him look at me, he sees my shoulders start to shake as I try to hold in the laughter, and the audible hysterical sobs pierce through the air. He bends over and covers his eyes with his hands. Not laughing out loud has now become painful, and I anxiously wonder if I am going to be able to contain myself. I briefly wonder if I could pass it off as some sort of religious conversion, but stop when I think that any fake speaking in tongues I could pull off would inevitably sound like some sort of butchered Asian language.

“Don’t look at me. Please don’t look at me,” I laugh as my husband, still bent over with tears in his eyes, grabs my hand. Finally, we both calm down enough to take deep breaths, until the priest opens his mouth again and we start all over.

I can’t think of one time, perhaps our wedding aside, where my husband and I have been able to attend Church without laughing hysterically. In situations where we are supposed to be solemn, the two of us are not able to successfully pull this off when together. We’re the two bad kids in the back of class.

True, half the time I want to throw the bike into the street, into a laughing Japanese tourist, into his head… I am admittedly not the athletic type that I once claimed to be, I am more the casual jaunt around the city type of girl. But, it is when I want to throw that bike in the middle of the road while pedaling my little want to be champagne-soaked heart out that I fall desperately in love with my husband… for the three hundred and fiftieth time.

TOKYO

We end up back in Tokyo for the last leg of our trip, now more knowledgeable about the city and its residents. We stop in a bar on our way home from dinner that turns out to be an American ex-pat bar. By the time we leave, my husband and I have met an absolutely charming group of new friends; we are all Scarlett’s and Bills in our own way. Some are there to visit relatives; others are touring with the Broadway cast of DreamGirls. For a moment, I never want to leave.

‘Let’s never come back,' I whisper to no one, ‘because it will never be as much fun.’

I am repeating lines, of course, but they hang and drift in the smoky air. My husband glances at me, winks and grins. He doesn’t have to know what I’m saying to understand. There are moments shared when holding hands, leaning in to one another and whispered as two close confidants, and there are moments shared from across the room. The particles are still the same. Energized.

The following day we tour Harajuku for a sight of the Harajuku girls; we wander among shops with neon signs advertising the latest fashions. Everyone is dressed as they’ve walked out of a catalogue; next to us European models prance down the street, setting themselves apart from the rather homogenous crowd.

“They must love the attention,” my husband reflects.

And I think back to a time when I too would have loved that attention; then as I lean into him I think I need only the attention of a single audience member. And all rosy spotlights are on us.

We dine at the Park Hyatt made famous by Sofia Coppola’s master film. On my way back from the bar, I nearly run into a very tall brunette man. I glance up quickly to see that it is John Mayer. He steps aside and I brush past him. He is too young to be seeking his Scarlett, though I am sure he is regardless. In the distance, I see my husband and I am walking towards him. John Mayer is just another body in this sea of wealthy patrons, and even his bright white t-shirt can not outshine the lights of Tokyo that reflect on Matt.

We grab a drink at the bar, we briefly plan a prison escape, and I lean my head on the granite. The cocktail lights angle up in my eyesight and reveal an enormous painting of Wall Street. The lounge singer starts to sing, “I’m in a New York state of mind…”

The following day at Narita, I am still in a daze. I grip my husband tightly and tell myself that the deployment is half over. He waits until I go through security and as I board the escalator down to the International Terminal, I catch sight of him leaning against the glass. He blows me a kiss and I can feel his hand in mine.

As the escalator carries me down and his image starts to fade into the crowds I realize I know but one truth about love. Wherever I am and wherever he is, we will never again be lost.

(Mrs) Adventure #11: Road Trips: Not for the Faint of Heart

The past four years of my life have been marked by a very heavy amount of travel: both via air and automobile. To be perfectly honest, I’m often more comfortable traveling across this lovely country suspended 30,000 feet in the air as opposed to traversing the highways and byways that form dark rivers across the landscape, but nevertheless, my nomadic heart has openly embraced any and all modes of transportation that offer opportunities to ‘get away.’ Travel appeals to me in the same way that in any given week my hair color will change from blonde to brunette to red: I have a distinct and near clinical aversion to monotony. Well, that or I’m never satisfied with finding myself in one ‘place’ for too long. One would think that after these chaotic few years of packing, unpacking, running through airports and filling up gas tanks, I would take advantage of my relative downtime. And I have been. For the past two months. In fact, the suitcase I brought to Chicago from our apartment in San Diego is still sitting in the same place I left it when I arrived home. Not required to pack for yet another cross country trip, I’ve let the black Samsonite gradually cave and depress in the corner so that it is slowly starting to resemble a personified pitiful sigh.

But that static repose all changed one night after a rather unsettling call to my local market.

“Hi! I’d like to place an order for delivery.”

“Sure, sure. Where you at?”

“I’m at three…”

I am interrupted quickly.

“Kate! Is this Kate!? How are you? How’s your husband? He’s still away? You want the regular?”

“Ahh, yeah! Hi! Yep, this is Kate… (Who the heck is this?? Is it the charmingly wonderful but oddly fashioned woman with the lady mullet? Or the rather shy but beautiful girlfriend of the owner? Or someone entirely new that I haven’t spoken to before but that apparently knows what I like to order?)

“The regular?”

“One bottle of Cabernet, some brie cheese and Triscuits? You want Red Bull, too?”

Oh. My. God.

I need to get the heck out of my house. That’s not even a healthy meal. It’s not like I’m calling Salad Express and they instantly recognize my voice and send over some sliced fruits and a responsible Spinach Salad. Wine. Cheese. Crackers. So they either assume that I’m a fabulous Bohemian who entertains my friends with artwork and philosophical conversation or that I am a lonely alcoholic who subsists only on fermented grapes and processed wheat chips. I have a feeling I know which one they’re hinting: their overly chirpy voice is clearly disguising some form of pity.

Of course, this doesn’t stop me from agreeing to the order. If I’m going to book travel, I’m going to need some cheese and a glass of red wine in order to finalize the arrangements. Also, in the past two months I’ve exchanged travel for changing my hair color no less than fifty times. Once more and I’ll be that crazy white girl sitting alongside the droves of African American women giving me the shifty side eye while I argue with some exhausted hairdresser and insist she fit a weave in the remaining inch of hair that hasn’t cracked off.

I need to hit the road.

And so I email my good friend and announce that I’m going to visit her in St. Louis. I hadn’t yet met her three beautiful children, hadn’t spent barely any time with her and her husband since…well… since what seems like forever. Besides, Chicago to St. Louis should be an easy drive. Right?

Right?

Wrong.

I should know that road trips and I mix together like oil and vinegar. The past two road trips that I have taken involved the very strong potential for fatality. The first found me navigating the peak of Aspen through a blizzard. Not able to see more than three feet in front of me, I managed not to drive directly off the side of the mountain by following the flashing red lights of a truck in the distance. That and calling my parents and telling them repeatedly that I was going to die and could they please, from their living room in the suburbs of Chicago, direct me down the mountain?

It was on this same trip that a glaring warning light interrupted my relatively peaceful travel. I was forced to pull off the highway in Beaver, Utah in fear that if I didn’t, I’d most certainly break down on the side of the road and end up the starring victim in an episode of Cold Case Files. I’m not sure the alternative, rolling up to a Sinclair auto in this town of two hundred, (all related), was much better. My newly purchased car was clad not only in California plates with a Los Angeles city sticker, but it also boasted a Notre Dame license plate cover and a ND football stickers. My traveling partner, my roommate Kim, and I gave each other nervous glances as we were forced to talk car shop with three hunkering men over 6’5” dressed in matching Brigham Young sweatshirts.

“I’m not sure they speak English. That guy in the corner looks like he just walked off the set of Sling Blade,” Kim observed



“I’m pretty sure they speak English, that guy grunted something about a lug nut, but I’m not sure they’ve ever seen someone with platinum blonde hair,” I whispered to Kim as the youngest gave us a rather lascivious glance.

“I’m not sure they’ve ever seen an Asian girl,” Kim (who is Korean) responded.

“They’re going to kill us and use our skin to make lampshades,” I comfortingly offer back.

“Kate, I don’t want to be forced to marry one of these guys if we can’t get the car to work. I think I’ll take lampshade if given an option.”

I fingered my Triple A card and wondered how long it would take for the nearest tow truck to take us back to Los Angeles. Eventually the light went off without explanation and we continued on our way only to stare death in the eye somewhere in the Rockies.

The second major road trip I’ve undertaken in the past four years was with a bunch of work friends as we traveled across Oklahoma and Texas to follow the trail of female serial killer. I wasn’t driving this time, so I think the road trip luck needle leaned slightly toward favorable. However, as soon as we pulled over on the side of the freeway to shoot some BROLL we were met with flying glass as a rowdy group of drunk red necks thought it would be hilarious to welcome us to their great state of Oklahoma by hurling bottles at our heads from the back of their pick up truck.

I put these thoughts out of my mind as I start the car and head toward stunning Lake Shore Drive, a scenic roadway that separates Lake Michigan from the shimmering skyscrapers that line Chicago’s eastern shore. The windows are down, the sunroof is open and the sky is a perfect shade of Robin’s Egg Blue. I pop in Journey’s greatest hits CD and reflect on how it is the perfect day for a road trip.

Three hours into my four and a half hour drive I am approximately twenty miles away from my apartment, stuck in dead gridlock on the 55 Expressway and entertaining homicidal thoughts in the direction of Rick Perry as my Journey CD makes its third rotation.

Just then my phone rings and my friend ‘J’s’ name pops up on my caller ID.

“Hey! Yo, you’re about to enter some nasty weather.”

“What? No! It’s perfect outside,” I angrily respond.

“I don’t know, I’m following the Doppler and it looks like there’s some massive red and green weather patterns heading your direction. Just, I mean, just pull over in Springfield if the weather gets to bad. And for goodness sakes, let one of us know if you stop. That’s how Cold Cases always start, you know.”

And people wonder why I’m so paranoid? You re-create enough murder scenes in your day and it’s enough to end every statement with, “that’s how Cold Case starts, you know.” We’re truly a sick group of individuals.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I answer as the traffic starts to ease and I see a sign that reads: Plainfield 20 miles.”

For anyone outside of the Chicago area, Plainfield, Illinois is affectionately referred to as ‘tornado alley.’ To this day I have no idea why anyone would move to Plainfield, just as much as I question those people who build mansions on hill ridges in Orange County or multimillion dollar homes on Cape Fear. Weather accepts no prisoners.

It’s that sort of failed logic that I never seem to apply to myself as I enter Plainfield and the sky turns a rather ominous shade of green and my SUV feels as though it is being pushed across the freeway by a herd of elephants.

But the wind dies down once I leave Plainfield and though the sky is no longer green, I can tell that the day is getting ready for bed as a dark blanket begins to spread across the landscape.

Throughout the trip I start to monitor the weather. It rains on and off, but not enough that I would need to pull off the road. As I head into southwestern Illinois, I switch over to St. Louis AM radio stations. It’s not pretty. My phone lights up with a text from my friend, “We’re heading to the basement. Tornado Sirens. Be CAREFUL!”

Hmmmm. Well, this isn’t ideal. But again, there’s no rain and at this point I’m arrogantly assuming that the weather is going to pass above or below me.

And then, it doesn’t. I find myself heading directly into the path of a massive storm.

I call my parents.

“Am I heading into the storm? Is it coming my way? Tell me! Tell me!” I ask frantically. I can hear my parents debating and I’m starting to get very nervous.

“I think you should get off, Kate,” my parents affirm. “It looks like the tornados are heading directly for you.”

“Shoot.”

I scan the roadways. I am in the middle of nowhere. Literally. There is nothing outside my window, just a massive expanse of cornfields and midnight.

“Kate, if it gets too bad, pull over and get in a ditch.”

Oh cheese and rice.

When my parents offer the ‘ditch’ advice, I know it is panic time. Because I tend to exaggerate, my parents are typically the ones who try to soothe me with the “Kate, it’s not so bad,” or “Kate, you’re safe.” When I hear the ‘ditch’ suggestion I take this as the equivalent of a parent telling their child, “Yes, it is possible that there is a blood thirsty monster hiding in your closet, so perhaps it would be advisable to sleep with this giant machete next to your bed” Or, “Kate, a shark isn’t going to come out of the drain and eat you, so it’s OK to take a bath.”

No? Not you? Ok, maybe that was just a bizarre fear of mine.

Just as I hear my parents reading the roadways and trying to determine the next exit, the sky lights up in a flash of lighting and I see out of my left eye a rather large funnel cloud barreling my direction.

I emit something that sounded like, “OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD,” and deciding that now is not the time to use the Lord’s name in vain, I launch into a running Hail Mary and Our Father, so that the two prayers are so combined an outsider would think I was thanking God for the “blessed fruit of his/her womb.” Over the AM radio, the announcer blares in, “Take cover! If you are on the roads, take immediate cover!” So apparently that is NOT just a fun line from the movies.

Just as I hit the “pray for us sinners,” part I see an oasis. Hampton Inn. Saved! I pull off the road and debate that the timing of my prayer and the location of the exit is a not so subtle confirmation that I am, indeed, a sinner.

Running into the hotel, I hear the sirens blaring and I wonder where they are located and if a creative farmer has managed to rig one on a corn stalk?

“Any vacancies?” I breathlessly ask the hotel manager, who gives me a confused look and gestures outside. Presumably to say, “the only thing for fifty miles is a Jack ‘N the Box, so yes, we have vacancies.”

Once in my hotel room, I flip on the television and watch as weather reports announce different locations in my direct area where tornados have been spotted. One man calls in to say that half his house is gone; another caller reports a massive house fire after lightning struck an electrical cord near a roof. Yet, as the wind starts to slow it’s pounding and the sirens start to wane, I know I am safe.

The following morning sheds light on the damage in the area. Power lines have been knocked over, tree limbs scatter the street, and newly budded spring leaves have been ripped off of branches making trees look like they are dressed in their winter wardrobe. But now there is calm, and the final leg of my journey is relatively uneventful.

By the time I arrive at my friend’s house and her husband greets me with a big and friendly hug booming, “It took you nineteen hours!” I am grateful and exhausted. The sight of her three gorgeous children and her beaming face, however, is more than enough to cancel any unrest from the previous evening. I hand the two older girls gift bags filled with light up tiaras and fake Disney Princess jewelry. We sit on the couch and laugh while I retell the harrowing journey and watch as the girls shriek and gleefully dance around the living room.

It only takes about three minutes, however, before they decide that the jewelry is better suited to eat and that I am informed that my light up tiaras have been known to prompt seizures in small children. Oopsie. If they missed the tornado from the night before, clearly I have blown into their peaceful and perfect life and offered them anything and everything they missed while sheltered in their basement. But any fear that I had in regards to my child faux pas quickly passes with the most wonderful and memorable day spent catching up among markets and mosaics and a fantastically comfortable and beautifully decorated home. On Sunday when I have to leave, I am quite sad. There’s nothing like time spent with an old friend to help you remember and smile knowing that at one point life was carefree and innocent and it certainly should always be.

Thankfully, my trip back to Chicago was quick and easy. The weather was perfect, the roadways clear, and I pulled up to city limits in only three and a half hours. I divert to my friend’s house and as we take in the tranquil early summer air that characterizes an ideal May day, my friend ‘J’ (he of Doppler weather fame) joins us.

“You know,” he says looking at me, “the funniest thing happened when I stopped at the market the other day.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Well, I was picking up some wine and decided to get some cheese for this party I was going to, and the woman at the front desk looked at me and said, ‘oh! You must be heading to Kate’s house!’”

Laughter seizes hold of my whole body.

“Hey,” J continues, “Did you change the color of your hair again?”

“I need to borrow your computer,” I turn my head from J and direct my question to my friend, ‘M’.
“What for?” he quizzes.

“Well,” I pause, “I think it’s time I book those tickets to Japan.”

As I hit send on a transmission that confirms hotel reservations in the two different cities we plan on staying, each roughly four hundred miles from the other, I have a paralyzing thought: How are we going to travel between the two cities? I feel a swell of terror overtake my body as the confirmation message appears on screen:

“Thank you for booking with our hotel! Can we be of assistance with additional travel plans? Would you like us to help you rent a car?”

I look up at the sky, smile and wink while running my finger over my mouse.

Without hesitation I click on the link:

“No, thank you. I’m all set!”

And in my head I add, “We’ll be taking the train.”

(Mrs) Adventure #10: Honor and Respect

There are moments in your life when you are in just the wrong place at the wrong time. Conversely, there are moments when you find yourself just where you are needed.

In a busy production office, I often find myself in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the direct path of an angry producer marching down the hall, for example, or perched suspiciously close to an unwieldy stapler, or at my desk when that crazy guy comes to visit and wants to share his stories involving unicorns and leprechauns. He doesn’t seem to get that we are a documentary production company, but if anything I have to hand it to him for his persistence.

This afternoon, however, I found myself where I am often not: in the very right place at the very right time.

Three sugarless Red Bulls in and two very lengthy development phone calls, I walked up toward the front of my office to stretch my legs. Spinning around in my chair had left me somewhat dizzy and I could hear my coworker sighing at the rapid click, click, clicking of my pen.

The mail had just arrived, so annoyed that I didn’t receive anything, I decided to relax up in our accountant’s office as she opened the daily mail and launched into a discussion about schedules. I noticed her open one handwritten letter and place it next to her as she engaged me in conversation. That letter felt electric, but I can’t explain why.

It should be noted that we receive quite a few letters and phone calls every day with people suggesting their stories. Most come from homicide detectives who are familiar with our work on Cold Case Files, and truth be told, it can be wearing on the heart to read letter after letter of gruesome and unsolved murders.

But as I glanced down by my accountant’s hand to gloss over the note in her hand, I was immediately drawn to the black and white photograph clipped neatly on top.

“Who is this?”

“I’m not sure, actually. But I recognize the name. This nice man called us last week and asked for our mailing address so he could send a letter.”

"Can I read it?"

"Of course," she replied. “You may have it. I figured I'd send it over to you since you are heading up development.”

I held up the photograph; looking back at me in black and white was a dashing young Marine. Though I could tell the photograph was a copy of an older photo, the image was very clear. He appeared to be roughly the same age as both my husband and me. In the picture, he is smiling so he seems warm and approachable. Though the image is black and white, I could tell that he shared the same ice blue eyes as my husband, the same chiseled cheekbones, similar ears.

As I carefully removed the photograph from its letter, another black and white fell away. I caught it mid air as it floated to the ground. A stunning woman stared back at me with a Mona Lisa smile. Her eyes appear intense, her right eyebrow raised in mock defiance, her neck decorated with what appears to be a colorful chiffon scarf. She is beautiful. I flipped over the photograph and read the inscription:

“My mother: married 57 years before she passed.”

In my right hand, I held the hand written note. With interest, I drew it closer to my face and began to read:

Dear People of KP,
My father is probably the last living member of Amphibious Recon, the most elite of all the services at that time. His story should be told from the perspective of someone who was really there. I have enclosed where was from, and the honors he received. The stories he tells show the fact that truth is stranger than fiction. He was run over by a Russian tank in Korea which broke his back, and this is just one of the many stories he tells.

He was at Gilbert Islands, Tarwara Atoll, Abamoma Atoll, Marshall Islands, Majuro Atoll, Anewetoc Atoll, Saipan, Tinian (he and his team scouted under cover of darkness, unarmed) Kume Shima, Iwo Jima (he was inside Mt. Surabachi while the flag was being raised) Okinawa, Korea, the Pentagon, then a final tour in Korea.

He was awarded:
Korean War Service Medal
Korean Presidential Unit Citation
United Nations Service Medal
Korean Service Medal with Bronze service star
National Defense Service Medal
WWII Victory Medal
Asiatic-Pacific campaign medal with One Silver and One Bronze Service Star
America Campaign Medal
USMC Good Conduct Medal with Gold Star
Navy Unit Commendation Ribbon/Presidential Unit Citation Ribbon
Combat Ribbon
Personal letter of Commendation Ribbon
Bronze Star Medal with Valor Device

Time is of the essence to get his interview recorded, he is 83, and cannot talk for more than 10-15 minutes at a time. If his biography was produced according to its merits, it would be every bit, actually more I believe, better than any of the recent WWII movies that have been made recently. I look forward to hearing if there is any interest in this project. When my father dies, we will have a full Military funeral with a twenty one-gun salute.

Thank you,
K. Powers

Soon as I had read that last line, I knew that I needed to speak with these men: this son, this father. At least, if I couldn't do something myself, I might be able to garner some interest by another massive production company, film or otherwise.

Time is of the essence, time is of the essence, time is of the essence.

I looked at the date on the top of the letter: 7 April 2010.

I took off running through the halls, oblivious to angry producers or wayward editors or misplaced equipment.

Once I reached my desk, I dialed the first number. Nothing.

My fingers bounced over the keypad like some furious pianist as I tried the second. The other line clicked as though someone has picked up.

“Hello?”

"Is Mr. Powers available?"

"This is he."

And with that affirmation I launched into how I had just discovered his letter, how I ran from one end of the office to the next. I was rambling then, breathless.

The man on the other end of the line cleared his voice and for a moment I wondered if I had accidentally dialed the wrong K. Powers.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Dolack, my father died last night. I should have sent the letter sooner.“

Crushing, to say the least. Not even so much that I didn’t get there in time for this man to narrate his own story, (though that was part of it) but mostly because I never got to shake his hand, give him a hug, tell him thank you. It may have meant little to him, but I think it would have meant the world to me.

Instead, I was just an amorphous voice on the other end of the line, unable to speak for a moment; shocked, one day late and a dollar short. How does one recover from that moment when you want to reach out and find only electrical wires?

“I am so very sorry for your loss, sir. Oh, I am so sorry. God Bless you and him, your family.”

That’s not good enough. I know that’s not good enough.


“I am so sorry I called at such a time and I won’t bother you. If you find yourself with some free time in the future, I’d really love to speak with you.”

“You mean, you still want to hear his story?” He asked somewhat incredulously.

“Yes, sir.”

But speaking to this man’s son in the middle of a crowded production office didn't seem right. A hero and his family deserve so much more.

“My husband,” I said and paused, caught off guard by the crack in my voice and the tears quickly welling my eyes, “My husband is also Marine, and he is currently deployed in Korea.”

I carefully placed the photograph of this man’s father, who I now knew as Master Gunnery Sergeant Homer J. Powers, directly below a photograph of my very own husband posing on a jet in Korea. Both their eyes twinkle back at me mischievously, their similar smiles lighting up the photograph, making them both appear to be lit by a Hollywood movie set.

And I had missed talking to him by one day.

“He really would have enjoyed sharing his stories with you, with your husband. I know he would have.”

I wonder if I wouldn’t have enjoyed it more. It isn’t too often you can pick up the phone or walk into a house and speak with an American hero.

"Yes, he was really trying to hold on," he responded. "I've been reaching out to different companies and no one has ever responded. You are the first person to call us back. I know he had something to do with this though,” and his voice takes an upbeat turn, “that the letter would reach your hands, a Marine's wife, a Marine in Korea, no less. I wish I could have told him in person, but somehow, I think he knows."

I cradle the phone in my neck and rest my ear against the receiver. I can’t take my eyes off that photograph. I think, I almost think, he winks at me.

"Yes, I reply with a smile in my voice, “somehow I think he knows."

We schedule a time to talk in the next few hours; I can’t believe that this man who just lost his father would be willing to sit down and speak with me. I am honored that I get to be that tiny voice on the other end of the line, a tiny voice that will do everything possible to tell this man’s story.

As it should be, and as I await my next phone call with an eager yet heavy heart, with a family who grieves the loss of their hero and a nation who should offer a silent and respectful salute, there is only one way I can think bring this chapter to an appropriate close.

And that is:

To be continued…

Or perhaps, to begin.

(Mrs) Adventure #9: The Other Half of my Heart is in...Asia?

This is a phrase I never thought would escape my lips. The other half of my heart is in Asia? I could have seen me saying, “the other half of my heart is on a film set in LA,” “the other half of my heart is in Charleston, South Carolina,” or “the other half of my heart is somewhere on the bathroom floor in The Green Door Tavern.” But The Far East?

Needless to say, the thought of not being able to see my husband’s face on Skype every morning has left me slightly sad and uneasy. So, in the middle of searching YouTube for a good score to place under the sizzle reel I’m editing at work, I found myself mindlessly wandering toward patriotic military videos, like saaaay An Officer and a Gentleman.

If you haven’t seen this film, I recommend it. An Officer and A Gentleman portrays Richard Gere in his finest, long before those nasty gerbil rumors surfaced. And if you can stomach the gratuitous Richard Gere without his shirt, Richard Gere during Aviation training, Richard Gere being all suave with Debra Winger, it’s a great flick. I managed to find the final scene, SPOILER ALERT where he marches into the factory, finds Debra Winger, scoops her up into his arms and passionately kisses her. Everyone starts clapping, whistling and howling as he carries her off into the sunset, and it gives every ‘Deb’ hope that someday a dashing Naval Aviator will whisk her away from her otherwise mundane life.

And I found myself laughing because it made me recall the time that my dashing Naval Aviator tried to scoop me up and carry me out of my mundane (?) life and over the threshold. We had just returned from our Honeymoon: one ferry ride, three flights with just over twelve hours in the air, and a very wild taxi ride home. The first plane resembled something that had been pulled from the depths of the Bermuda Triangle and reassembled twenty minutes prior. The second was simply over eight hours long, and the third was a commuter flight so far from the main terminal at LAX that I’m still not certain we didn’t take that bus from LAX to San Diego and then fly around in the sky for a little bit until we landed. I was irritated and moody, and my husband was irritated because I apparently kept reminding him that it was his fault that we had such a horrendous return because he had booked the tickets. In his defense, it was literally the only way to fly from the US Virgin Islands to San Diego, but nevertheless, I needed someone to blame for that much airtime.

As we sat in the cab on the way home, I continued my moody rant.

“Did you know that we are very close to a dangerous area of Mexico? Our apartment is practically on the border. There is a drug war going on, did you know that? A drug war on the border! You’ve married me and brought me to this foreign land, (keep in mind I lived in Southern California for three years), and now I’m going to become a victim of human trafficking. HUMAN TRAFFICKING. I can see the headlines now: Newlywed wife’s head found buried under the sand. And if I am one of the lucky ones not to get murdered, I’ll probably be transported through the country to ‘entertain’ Mexican dignitaries, if you catch my drift. Have you seen even Taken?!”

“Kate, you don’t do drugs and I think you have a vivid imagination. And we’re in San Diego, not Mexico and Taken, which I HAVE seen, occurred in Paris.”

“I don’t care, just look at me! I’m the perfect kidnapping victim! I know these things because I am a documentary producer. I’ve interviewed these people. They’re nuts! They’re out for blood!”

“Kate, I doubt anyone is going to come after you, you don’t even have a car here and you’re working from home. Do you plan on making daily visits to Tijuana?”

“Well, you never know. Just trying to keep me in the house, are you? I see where you’re going, buster. I see it! You can’t hold me down!”

Once we had arrived ‘home,’ I was having none of it. I wanted a glass of red wine, a burger, and a comfy bed to sleep away the next couple of days. My Marine husband probably wanted to go for a five-mile run, eat a sensible dinner, and discuss the philosophical arguments of Plato.


So when we walked up to the front door and he suggested that I put down the six carry on bags I was holding, I looked at him and said, “Give me a break, just because you’re a Marine doesn’t mean I can’t pull my own weight, damnit. What do you think I am now that we’re married, the little wife at home?”

He paused for a moment, looked me straight in the eye and told me very calmly to put down my bags… please.

“No.” I responded. “Now open the door.”

“Please put down the bags, Kate.”

“WHY?! Just open the door so we can go inside. I’m tired and I don’t want to play around. We’re four feet from where I can finally drop these things and just relax. Finally.”

“PUT DOWN THE BAGS.”

“OPEN THE DOOR.”

And so we went about arguing for the next forty or so seconds until he went to remove the bags from my shoulder and not allowing him to do something for me, I shrugged them off.

“There, are you happy? I put down our stupid bags in front of this stupid door so you can show me how strong you are by carrying them in you big, tough Marine. Ugh.”

And then he swooped me up, opened the door, and kissed me.

About ten seconds later once I had recovered from the shock, I laughed.

I laughed loudly, realizing what he was attempting to do in the first place. He was trying to pull the romantic carry your wife over the threshold move and I had totally spoiled the moment.

“Oh,” I giggled. “Now put me down, you’ll break your back.” I added, “And can you grab those bags while you’re at it? I’m just exhausted.”

Debra Winger has nothin’ on me.

Of course in these moments I can’t help but smile wistfully. What I wouldn’t give to have my husband around to argue about carrying bags, to discuss Aristotle, or even to give me the side eye as he prepped for a run as I lay on the couch in pajamas watching ‘The First 48”. “It’s research,” I would offer and shoo him out the door into the California heat.

But now, I must sadly sigh that the other half of my heart is heading to a yet another foreign land. And as I finish watching the final clip from An Officer and A Gentleman, I can proudly say that Richard Gere has nothin’ on my husband. Why? Because he puts up with me and I have a sinking suspicion that if Ms. Winger suggested that she finish her shift before he carried her out, he wouldn’t have been so patient.

And also, he really hates gerbils.

(Mrs) Adventure #8: Secret's in the Sauce....

It started with the banana pudding in the kitchen.

It ended with three stereotypical looking mobsters sitting around a table.

And in the interim there were those two garbage bags full of buttered popcorn.

One might wonder: three mobsters sitting around a table? That’s out of the ordinary. But really, all I was thinking at the time was: does anyone know if we have any extra plastic forks left to scoop out the pudding?

Around here it’s normal to walk into the kitchen and find not just homemade pudding sitting out, but three rather large alligator shoe, fedora clad, brown suit wearing Italians hanging out by the coffee machine. Scenarios such as this present themselves more often than not in a production office; I’ve learned to expect the unexpected around here.

What wasn’t normal were those two garbage bags full of popcorn. And when I say garbage bags, I don’t mean those flimsy bathroom garbage bags that fall apart in minutes, I’m talking hefty duty white compactor style garbage bags. Filled to the brim with delicious buttery popcorn. Good morning!

I saddled up right next to the popcorn and buried a bowl in the bag. I continued this about seven times that day, six times the next, and five two days later. The popcorn still remained.

‘Hey, YO!’ I say to a crowded kitchen of coworkers, ‘Where the heck did this stuff come from anyway?’

The entire room shrugs. Though it never occurred to me to ask before, it appears it didn’t occur to anyone else either. I pop another few pieces in my mouth when a coworker walks up behind me and asks how I am enjoying the popcorn.

‘Oh, it’s stale now, but I can’t stop eating it.’

‘Nice, I’m glad a brought that in then.’

‘YOU brought it in? Man! That was so nice; where’s it from?’

‘I found it on my way to work.’

I pause, popcorn kernel in my right hand held mid air on its path toward my mouth.

‘Wait, wait, wait you…you found it? What do you mean you found it?’

‘I mean, I found it. In front of a Salvation Army. It was on the street and I didn’t want it to go to waste.’ His face registers stone cold honesty.

‘You found this (dramatic pause) on a Chicago street (even more of a dramatic pause) in front of a SALVATION ARMY?’

‘Yeah…so?’

‘Ohmygod,’ I put the three words into one phrase. ‘Ohmygod, I’ve been eating this for the past two days! This was, like, someone’s garbage!’

I am horrified. Shocked. Appalled. Mostly because this isn’t the first time I’ve actually eaten something from the garbage.

When I was a child, my parents built a beautiful greenhouse on the back of our home. My mom filled it with incredible plants, pottery and art. Some of my favorite memories from my youth involve crawling around on the Spanish tile, looking for remnants of a civilization that seemed so far away: a footprint, a tile layer’s instrument. In one orange square, I swore I could see the outline of a rat. I imagined the doomed creature had wandered over the tile when it was drying and gotten stuck in the mix. This provided me with hours of entertainment.

The only downside to the greenhouse was that it often provided an easier way for tiny bugs to sneak in and under the house doors. Which is exactly what happened one hot summer in 1986 when my parent’s experienced something of an epic ant invasion.

These tiny Napoleons were set to conquer all, beginning with our cupboards and moving on to the large cabinets that held the cereal, crackers and jams. I remember my mom standing next to the cabinet and tossing box after box of foodstuffs into the garbage. With each load, she would haul one bag out to the garage cans and walk into the house for more. She must have told me to scoot out of the house and find a friend to play with, because this is exactly what I did. I recruited my neighbor, ‘J, and together we found the perfect place to play…the very dark garage. My mom recalls walking into the garage, flipping the light switch, and finding her four year old daughter and best friend standing over the metal garbage cans. We were caught. Completely. When the light hit our eyes, we froze like deer in a moment of fearful paralysis.

My mom’s first problem was that she threw away the Lucky Charms. Second, she didn’t throw the box deep enough in the garbage that nimble fingers couldn’t reach into the opening. So there we stood, J and I, the portrait of trouble. One hand deep into the cardboard box, the other quickly shoving the tiny marshmallows into our mouths; crumbled parts of cereal dribbling down our respective faces. When she put me in those bows and cute dresses, I don’t think she ever assumed her child would turn out to be a hobo.

More than twenty-three years later, with my hands stuffed in a garbage bag filled with…garbage popcorn, I recall this image. Have I learned nothing?

And then I ponder: I am the woman that my husband married in hopes that I would surprise him by selecting healthy food and creating nutritious meals for a future family? Based on my past behavior, it’s more likely that I’d stand outside a KFC and wait until someone tossed his or her half eaten bucket of seasoned chicken to bring home dinner.

I’ve only had a few occasions to cook for my husband anyway, and on the plus side, I didn’t burn down the house down, (though I did get dangerously close to setting off the fire alarm). I once managed to make some very delicious steaks, but I’m pretty sure they were so good because I marinated them for seven hours in my secret marinade: a bottle of expensive red wine and three cloves of garlic. Success! I had solidified that he wasn’t a vampire, and he couldn’t leave the house to go on more crazy errands that night since he could have easily been arrested for public intoxication.

I also created a new recipe for… green beans! Sounds simple, right? But it isn’t so easy to make healthy green beans as utterly delicious as say, Key Lime pie.

‘Woah, these are great!’ he exclaimed.

‘Secret’s in the sauce, honey,’ I laughingly offered with my best Southern drawl.

I tell him that I just added a little key lime seasoning. What my very health conscious husband didn’t know was that once I boiled them, I left them to cool off in an entire tub of whipped butter.

“See! I can make healthy taste divine!” I sing song.

It is entirely possible he may prefer the garbage route. Garbage or coronary, garbage or coronary. These are probably not the typical decisions a newlywed husband encounters when deciding upon dinner. When he said he married me because I was unique and eccentric in a charming and endearing way, I’m fairly certain he didn’t understand the full spectrum of the phrase eccentrically endearing. Now, perhaps he does. His wife has both the tendencies of Paula Dean and a desperate hobo. Yes, charming indeed.

As I stand there slowly lowering the popcorn kernel away from my mouth, I think about how I need to get a little more serious about both determining the source and type of food I’m consuming. While I may be happy to take my luck for a spin on the garbage wheel of fate, (I’ll take whatever’s behind door number two! Don’t tell me! Nooo, don’t tell me!), my husband is probably not. Besides, like moving in together, picking out hand towels and kitchen appliances, I’m pretty sure getting married to someone means that you should also stop eating out of, or simply, garbage.

So that is why roughly two days later when I walk into the kitchen for a morning snack and am sidetracked by a rather rude mobster looking man who offers me a crude wink, a ‘How you doin’, sweet cheeks?” and a slow look up and down, I smile. I put on my sweetest vocal affectation and say, “Well, I’m doing just wonderful this morning, thank you for asking.”

And then I pause, “Have you tried the popcorn? It’s delicious.”

After all, it would just be such a shame if it went to waste.