have a strong, loving marriage

I know this goal can never be completely finished. But I’ve come to learn that my husband is my best friend and my family.

One of the few complaints I have had about our marriage is my need to, and his lack of need to, celebrate special holidays and events. It disappointed me when he didn’t make a big deal of these things; he would either get me a gift and then plan nothing else for that day or the other way around. I always felt he was stingy about celebrating, because his parents never celebrated anything, not his birthday and they worked on all holidays except Labor Day, ironically. When holidays came around, I either knew I would either have to do the planning myself or look to be disappointed.

But this time, for my 34th birthday, he somehow got it. He baked me a cake with chocolate frosting on top, with the words “Happy Birthday” written in slices of strawberry; made me a funny card and bought me a gift; and took me out for a day at the Getty Museum and dinner at one of our favorite restaurants. He truly spoiled me, and it felt great!

We didn’t have much to do, so I drove my husband to one of my favorite places, Redondo Beach, to have dinner at a crab house.We strolled along the pier, watching the waves, the tiny anchored boats, and the dive bars with small groups of people tapping into the booze and conversation.

The restaurant is nothing fancy. Just one long dining room with endless rows of long tables you can share with other people, and smaller tables against the windows overlooking the crashing dark green waves by moonlight. You order from a short menu of fried seafood and chips, steamed whole crab, Korean seafood soups, corn on the cob and spirits and soft drinks. You tell the woman behind the cash register what you want and whether you’re eating in or out, and a hostess directs you to your seat.

Tonight we were seated at a long table behind a group of loud Asian students. Fresh, obnoxious, with their particular prejudiced collegiate viewpoints, from my alma mater, no less. UCLA. An especially loud guy in an orange polo shirt was asking another guy what his nationality was. He said he was a quarter something or other. Bottles of booze was strewn about the table. When the check came midway through their stay, they passed the bill around, scrutinizing it and chuckling incredulously, till one of them made a big flourish and signed his name to the bottom of the credit card bill. But they showed no signs of leaving, so I asked the waitress if we could move tables.

We were seated at a smaller table overlooking the water. My husband pointed at a hungry-looking seagull perched on the rail outside the window, staring at the couple eating at the table behind me. That seagull would walk the length of our three tables and watch people eat through out the dinner. I had a plate of fish and chips and a corn cob that had been sitting so long in butter that its kernals were shriveled. My husband had a seafood combination that included oysters that squirted juice half the length of the table.

After dinner, we ordered a funnel cake, heavy on the powdered sugar and ate it on the pier. We strolled toward our car and stopped to inspect the menu of an expensive seafood, chops and steakhouse that we keep meaning to try. It’s a beautiful looking restaurant, decorated in orange and red tones. It always gives me the impression that it is billowing with red and orange silks.

As we drive home, my husband waxes nostalgic, like he always does. “I remember when I first came out to Redondo Beach. It was 1991. My godfather gave me the keys to his truck and a map and told me to get lost…” He always does this, like an old grandfather, but all through our simple date, I notice how much I adore this silly man who can get nostalgic or sentimental and make me laugh. He is my best date ever. That’s why I married him.

Damn, I hate getting these. It’s like, sorry for being vulgar, being farted on and you’re just surrounded by this big stink that takes a couple hours to dissipate. That’s what these letters are like for me. I hate these letters because the people who write them assume that everyone cares about every stupid little thing that has happened to them in the past year. And they’re impersonal and they’re usually sins committed by married couples who want to broadcast to the world how truly wonderfully happy they are. I’m happily married, but I don’t feel the need to publicize it on a brag sheet.

I get one of these farts every year from an ex-friend who I no longer contact and vice-versa. I blocked her from my email account. Still got one. This year, I think her font is even smaller and she managed to fit even more of nothing on the page.

A question I have here is, are the writers of those newsletters as happy and hunky-dorry about life as they seem? Is every moment of their waking lives filled with the chirping of birds and the songs of angels whispering in their ears? Of course not. Which is why I despise these letters. I hate phony. Phooey.

I once remembered a friend confiding in me a terrible question she held close to her heart. She said, “If my husband was no longer a lawyer and could not provide me with the kind of lifestyle that I want, I don’t think I’d love him anymore.”

I read an article recently that researched money’s role in people’s happiness. Not too much was conclusive, except that a scientist that had been quoted said that the better advice would be to find the “right” husband or wife, as opposed to doubling your salary.

That advice is right on. My mother taught me how to choose a “good” man, and in my daily life with him, I am endlessly thankful, because he brings me comfort, peace, companionship and good humor. Life is hard enough, without being anchored to someone who, in your heart of hearts, you feel conflicted about.

It was Friday night. Tired from work, my husband began to nap on the couch. I sent him off to the bed and joined him, but I couldn’t sleep. The window was open and I could hear people karoaking to Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” a couple houses down. The party was going on OVER THERE and OUTSIDE—what were we doing at home napping like an old couple?

My fear about marriage is that it will eventually wear down the personalities of the two people involved, so that they’re not true to themselves anymore and the brightness in their eyes now look like a dull glaze. I talked to my husband that night. It was not a direct discussion of this fear. Instead, it became a discussion of our passions. My husband is like the Greek god Vulcan; he is a man who fashions things out of his hands. Recently, he discovered a love of welding, and his teacher holds up his work as the model. He has been encouraged to change his career to take up welding. But he feels that his responsibilities are to me first and to our future, and so he walks around with a notebook crammed with ideas and frustration at not being able to wrap his hands around his projects. My passion is my writing, and I left my work, to feed it. And I have decided never to betray that spark again, whatever else I do.

The tightrope is scary, but we would take turns walking it. That Biblical saying about bringing forth what is within you is true. Put forth the truth of your being and you will be saved; put forth a false self and you will be destroyed.