I'm always a little self conscious about not being exactly "like everyone else." This is partially a cultural thing, as it is highly prized to look/think/act like everyone in a given community, but a part of it is also a point of pride (gasp! she's prideful!) that I am maybe just a little unique. We are, after all, the couple that came back from their cross-country honeymoon with a stray puppy in the backseat. And on the 3, 143 mile drive home I kept thinking "What will people think?" as we drove across the country with a stray dog. Yet on our journey I was falling in love with our dog Buddy, so a big part of me also didn't care what anyone else thought.
Plus, there is the house we are reconstructing which is such a mess with its lack of siding and exposed regions that you practically have to be someone who doesn't care what others think in order to pull this off. Like the time I was outside helping The Mister pull wire from some small hole at the base of the roof, and it was so hard to pull that my feet were pressed against the side of the house for leverage, making it appear that I was climbing up the side of the house. Just then, a familiar van drove by and an acquaintance waved, and it did not feel like my finest moment as I hung from a wire on the side of the house.
Here's something else that makes us a little weird. My husband and I don't eat fast food. We don't have anything against it, it's just that neither of us have a taste for it. With the exception of an occasional trek to Pizza Hut, we abstain. I don't know why we have no taste for it, and if I knew I would gladly package the secret and sell it to eager mothers who wish their children did not have those cravings either. For us, it is actually an inconvenience. It means that long road trips require some planning. The Mister is usually satisfied with a bag of some whole-grain chip snack until we get to our destination, but I'm a bit choosier. Faced with rest area options that include a multiplex of fast food selections, I can still wander around complaining that there is nothing to eat.
"There's nothing here," I sigh, while standing in the full blown light of half a dozen neon signs.
The Mister starts rubbing his head. "How about that sandwich place over there?"
"The bread didn't look fresh."
"Maybe you could get something at the LongJohnChickenTacoFryFiesta."
I'm picky, and powerless to do anything about it. Once, on the return trip of a quick run to Ohio, I suggested that we stop at a select burger place (one with an expansive menu that I thought might be able to accommodate us) to get something to nibble on for the long ride home. We pulled up to the drive-thru menu and made our selections. The Mister leaned out the window and shouted our order. We heard a muffled reply and then looked at each other.
"We'd like a fish sandwich and a chicken wrap and a large Coke! That is all!" he shouted again.
Then I looked ahead and saw that we weren't placing our order at all, but shouting at the menu sign. The muffled reply we heard was coming from a speaker twelve feet ahead where another car, a drive-thru driver of practiced level, was placing an order.
In the end, The Mister ate his chicken wrap which he found to be very unimpressive for the price of five dollars.
And we were reminded once again that as pilgrims, we are just passing through.
On the Table: Sausage Spaghetti Spirals, salad, and bread sticks. I wish I had known how chilly and rainy it was going to be, as soup would have been in order.
In the Garden: Oh please raspberry canes, please produce more leaves! Also, why do hostas have to be so expensive?
Around the Home: It has come to my attention that in six weeks the living room will be completely gutted, floors and all. This will be problematic, as it has been a place to store things, eat our meals, and basically live. Oh, and there is a wood stove in it. So all those things have to find some place to go while the livingroom is reconstructed. What I wouldn't give for this not to be my problem.