Strangely, Pleasantly

I’m delighted to report that I’m married now. So many barely perceptible changes have taken place. My fiancé (a term I was never comfortable using) has now become my husband. My eyelash extensions have all fallen out, leaving my stubby blonde lashes in their wake. And I have a thick band of silver on my left hand that glows like moonlight and makes me feel so very Grown Up.

Leading up to the wedding, there was lots of stress and insomnia. Lots of cooking and shopping and driving to and fro. Lots of talking and laughing with family. Lots of meager showers with zero water pressure (my mom’s house has plumbing like from the late 1800s).

The day of the wedding was warm and sunny with fluffy white clouds dotting the sky. Then immediately before the ceremony, the sky became dark and menacing. Thunder rumbled and it began to pour with rain. I was on my second glass of wine and beyond being perturbed.

I rode to the ceremony with my brother and his wife and baby girl. We sat in the car waiting for the rain to let up. My best friend Terri, who was serving as our Maid of Honor/Best Man/Rock, came to the car and asked what I needed. “Bourbon,” I told her. She promptly returned with a tumbler full.

Eventually the rain stopped and the chairs were toweled off. I was strangely, pleasantly calm as my parents walked me down the stone path serving as our aisle. I felt relaxed and happy. And why not? My man was there and waiting (I wouldn’t be stood up at the altar; yay!) the rain had stopped (yay!) and midway through the ceremony, the sun broke through the clouds and we were flooded with golden evening light for a Dawning of the Universe affect (triple yay!).

I had asked my cousin and his wife to surprise us with a reading. I had read “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein at their wedding about 15 years ago. His wife read an excerpt from “Les Miserables” and my cousin read “Hug O' War” by Shel Silverstein:
“I will not play at tug o' war.
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.”

How awesome is that?

We exchanged the vows we had written for each other, and then we exchanged the rings. My man said, “I am honored to call you my wife,” and put the ring on my finger. I was suppose to return the favor and say “I am honored to call you my husband.”

But instead, out came “I am honored to call you my wife.” My mom yelled out “Freudian slip” and everyone else erupted in laughter, including me and my new husband.

My new husband. My husband. My husband. The word feels strangely, pleasantly good.

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

A headline on our very own findingDulcinea proclaims what I’ve secretly known all along: “Dog Owners Love Pets More than Family.”

The article cites a study performed at Wright State University in Ohio. The study asked more than 100 college students to rate their attachment to family members (including the family dog). Some students reported feeling closer to their dogs than to their fathers.

Maybe the study is a reflection of the sad state of fatherhood as we know it, though I find that interpretation insulting to dogs (sorry, fathers). More likely, it’s just another one of those studies that proves what We the People already knew: some of us would rather spend the day with our dog than with anyone else.

My fiancé has long suspected that I love Leo more than him. Is it the fact that I’ll get up early to walk Leo but I won’t get up early to make coffee for my fiancé before he leaves for work? Or that I spend more money on Leo than I do on my fiancé? Or that I rub and pet and coo at Leo more than I do my fiancé?

It’s precisely these things that make my fiance’s eyebrow arch in consternation. But do I believe for a single moment that Leo loves me back with the same fervor? As the article on findingDulcinea suggests, and as I know from my own experience, the answer is no.

Sure, I like to think that Leo feels a certain fondness for me, or that he misses me when I leave the house (unlike the dog in this video that my friend Heather sent me, who seems to be having a grand old time while his owner is presumably away).

In Leo’s defense, he does get excited when my fiancé and I return home after a night out on the town (it’s me he does his wiggle butt/tail wag/bobble head “welcome home” routine on first). And when I stumble out of bed in the morning, I find him lounging on his couch doing his paw tap/tail wag/bobble head “good morning” routine (reserved expressly for me). And he seems to prefer to take his walks with me rather than my fiancé (my walks are longer and more varied, and allow Leo the freedom to determine the destination; in other words, I let him drag me wherever he wants to go).

But when it comes down to it, the notion that Leo is loyal to me or loves me (or anyone else, for that matter) is just plain false. What Leo “loves” is food and a comfortable place to sleep (preferably on a real piece of furniture—not anything resembling a “dog bed,” thank you very much). If Leo is capable of any sort of recognition of his surroundings and his caretaker, it’s probably more along the lines of: “I got it pretty good here. Two squares a day, plenty of drinking water, my own couch, two daily strolls around town to hunt squirrels and cats and snack on cat poop, belly rubs from an over-eager redhead, and a day at the spa every eight weeks. Not too shabby.”

Clearly, I am Leo’s bitch. He is a social parasite, a charming con artist. Our relationship is a silly charade. “You only want me for my resources!” I tell him between face nuzzles. But then he gives me a stinky kiss, or lightly paws my arm for attention, or does the wiggle butt/tail wag/head bobble routine when I walk in the door, and I’m more than happy to take part in the charade once more.