Lean in. Drink wine. Maybe not at the same time.

We basically looked like this. But girls. And not bald.

The three of us girls stood by the closed door in our bathing suits and flimsy towels, hopping awkwardly from foot to foot as we anticipated going outside. It was 9 degrees and storming but given the over-all wind chill factor it felt roughly -678 degrees. We clutched glasses of wine and cursed under our breath, waiting for the jump.

Fernanda ran out first, jumping into the hot tub that we were torturing ourselves for with a slick little leap. Her wine never sloshed over the rim and I wished for the 3,794 time that weekend that I was as cool as she was. I was second, and as soon as my bare feet touched snow, I froze. Literally and figuratively.

"HAND ME YOUR WINE!" Fer yelled over the sound of the wind, swimming forward with a hand outstretched to help me. "I'LL HOLD YOUR WINE. JUMP IN NOW, IT WILL BE WORTH IT. JUMP! NOW!"

I did as she demanded, screaming obscenities at the top of my lungs while I hurled myself ungracefully into the swirling water. She smiled and handed me my perfectly protected drink as the hot water forgave the last seconds I had put my body through. She was right. It was worth it.

Jodi came third, and Fer nudged me as Jodi ran screaming out into the snow. "Grab her wine too. Help her in." I reached out for Jodi's drink as she splashed gratefully in next to us, her hair already white with frost. And then she slipped and did a nose dive into the water and came up laughing. Which is why I love her. And it was ok, because her wine was protected in my hands.

We then leaned back into the jets and chatted aimlessly for an hour. We touched on deep topics, sad topics, and then the topic of my boobs. We punctured the sadder moments with whoops of laughter when we saw each other's hair and eyelashes turning white from the snow. We cupped our ears against the chilly wind while we maintained conversation. And then we decided that we were probably going to die out there, so we went inside- the wine hand-off done backwards, but a seamless exchange all the same.

This might seem like an unremarkable story, but it held a lot of meaning for me. Lately my life has been a little crazy and I have been questioning a lot of the relationships I keep. I need someone to say: "Hey. What you are going through sucks right now, but I am going to be waiting with your wine in my hand so you can get into the good stuff safely. Ok? And, when you finally get your ass in here, you can have a drink and talk about your boobs. So- jump. I got this."

Or something like that.
............................................

Earlier in the day Brett and I had gone cross-country skiing, which I complained about bitterly right up until we strapped the boots on. I was cold. I was hungry. I peed 4 times before we left, which made me have to get naked in the ski rental's tiny bathroom while he waited patiently. I was basically being a little shit, and having a little shitty temper tantrum, which is sexy on NO ONE. I blamed my bad mood on a series of events that led us to this weekend, but even in my pouting mind I was wrong to act this way. I mentally slapped myself and pushed off into the snow, gliding along expertly, taking in the scenery and the muffled quiet and the sound of my own heart selfishly and childishly beating in my chest. We came up to the trail and I stopped cold, Brett almost toppling into me.

"What's wrong?" He asked in a strained voice, because he had probably had enough.

"There's a drop." I said, pointing with my pole. "There is a sheer drop. The trail isn't flat. You said it would be flat."

And then Brett said the one thing I really needed to hear. "It's only as steep as you want it to be. I've seen you go down steeper drops. Bend your knees and lean into it."

(And then he said something about "you might want to do this now, because there is a family of 12 behind us, so please don't take all day thinking about it like you usually do," but that was less poetic.)

And I leaned into it.

And made it (shakily) down.

The rest of the day went by with quiet serenity as we glided through the trees and ice patches and BEAR PAW PRINTS WTF. And then we got to a drop that made the last drop look like a wet dream and I halted once more. THIS DROP basically led to a burbling creek. Unless you pulled a sharp right. And if you have ever been on those long-ass skies you know that sharp rights for beginners are like unicorns in the middle of a grocery store looking for soy milk. Not entirely realistic.

Brett halted briefly before expertly handing the drop/death curve and then turned up to holler at me that he could give me the point-by-point directions for making it down. As he started in on instructions, I held one gloved hand up to (nicely, I swear,) silence him.

"I got this." I said calmly, taking in his bewildered face.

"Are you sure?" He asked.

"I have to know that I can do this in my own way. I know you want to help me, but I can do it. I'll come up with a way to do it, ok? Just be supportive? I'm going to just lean into it."

He blinked twice and then smiled. "Ok."

And then I leaned down- sat my ass on my skies- and slid down. And fell over at one point and couldn't get up.

BUT I GOT DOWN. I DID IT.

I DID NOT END UP IN THE CREEK.

I guess if I had a moral to this story it would simply be: "Surround yourself with friends that will hold your wine for you as you lean down into the steep slopes of life without dying or physical injury."

Or maybe something like: "Hot tubs in -76890 degrees are never a good idea health-wise, so maybe don't drink while you do that or maybe don't do that at all."

Or maybe the moral would simply be: "Always have someone there for you. Trust your instincts. Make your own way...and lean the fuck into it."

Put that onto a t-shirt and smoke it.

LA LA LOVE HEARTS STARS GLITTER

Terrifying.

I wanted to write a post about Valentines Day, because this blog is supposed to be about love and marriage and alcohol. Except, when I sat down to write the only thing I could think of were the Valentines I received as a kid.

You know the ones. The boxed sets covered in popular cartoons that you folded in half and passed out to every kid in class. The rich kids attached theirs to mini candy bars. The kids with edgy parents bought real cards from the museum store in Boston, and my Mom was the worst because she would just buy whatever box of Valentines she found lying near the cash register. Which is why in 5th grade I had to hand out Care Bear Valentines to everyone.

Which was insufferable.

Anyway, I would always shove all of my Valentines in my bag and wait until I got home to look at them. There, in the sanctuary of my bedroom, I would pull out all of my crushes Valentines, (yes, I said "all." I had crushes on everyone, even at one point my 45 year old math teacher,) and I would pore over the Star Trek/Animaniacs/Ren and Stimpy love letters searching for a clue that they loved me back.

I would try to decipher if "May The Force Be With You, Valentine" meant that Tim really, really liked me and wanted to support me in my future dreams and desires. He was basically wishing me strength and love. Or maybe he was telling me to go my own way.

Or maybe his Mom filled out his cards for him at random.

This ritual was exhausting and usually ended in tears and prank phone calls. Because even back then I was a walking "Desperate Housewives" reality show.

When I grew up and actually had real relationships and not just ones in my head, Valentines Day became this Thing that was still ritualistic and exhausting. Some guys were into it, some guys forgot it existed and gave me a gas station rose and a slurpee by way of apology. I always felt like I had to figure out what THEY felt about the holiday so I could be the ultimate cool girlfriend that appreciated everything-or-nothing-or-whatever-you-want-I-love-everything-you-do!!!!!!!

One boyfriend rented out an entire room in a restaurant and set up a romantic dinner. I was touched by how over the top he was, but also extremely uncomfortable and did this thing where I put green beans in my mouth to make me look like a walrus. (I was 19. I didn't have a firm grasp of comedic timing quite yet. Or... still.)

One boyfriend ignored it completely, and then felt bad and gave me some conversation hearts that he had in his pocket- half melted and covered in lint. Cool man. I love these. 

And one boyfriend took me out for burritos that we ate in his car and then to see the movie the Spiderwick Chronicles. And, that was the best Valentines Day yet, so I married him.

I'm almost 30 now and have had a lot of Valentines Days. And, it took me about this long to figure out how I really feel about it.

It's the worst.

Don't get me wrong. I love love, I'm not going to throw a dozen roses out of the bed for eating crackers, and I eat chocolate basically every 5 seconds. But, I don't need a specific day to tell people I love them or surprise them with a chocolate foil wrapped trout.

You know what day I find really romantic? February 15th. The hoopla is over, restaurant reservations are suddenly available, and ALL THE CANDY IS ON SALE.

Tell me you love me then. Give me a folded Star Trek Valentine then. Or maybe just make me a martini and tell me how gorgeous I am all-day-every-day-all-of-the-time.

Now that sounds like a perfect Valentines Day to me.

(The author will be spending her non-Valentines Day with a bowl of macaroni and cheese and zombie movies. Because nothing says "I love you" like brains. Because you need brains to say "I love you." Everyone knows this.)

I Know Everything Because I Am Perfect.

This is me and my sister. We like to sing about the fact that we are sisters while wearing casual outfits.

The great thing about being the oldest in a family largely made up of girls is the fact that my sisters often come to me for advice or comfort. The bad thing about being the oldest in a family largely made up of girls is the fact that my sisters often come to me for advice or comfort.

See what I did there?

Recently my Mom called me and let me know that my sister had called off her engagement. I immediately went into "big sister" mode and was packing a bag of booze and pajama pants before I even hung up the phone. "I'll be there is 3 hours, but I need to stop and get shrimp." I said, grabbing a stack of I HATE MEN mixed CDs I bizarrely have just hanging around the house.

On the drive there, while I watched the farmlands peppered with OSU and Jesus paraphernalia roll by, I thought about relationships and broken relationships and flawed relationships and the fact that I have used this blog to write about my relationship for the past year. I had hoped that somewhere along the line I would finally figure everything out. Maybe become a relationship expert. Happily dole out advice  from the safe and snug and everlasting arms of my marriage. People would want to hate me, but they would see the twinkle in my eye and the twinkle in my patient husband's eye as we gazed lovingly twinkle-eyed at each other. This gazing would maybe happen while I was holding a perfect roast or something AND THEY JUST COULDN'T HATE US BECAUSE WE WERE SO PERFECT.

Surprisingly, a year later, I'm still not perfect. And Brett isn't either. And I have no idea whatsoever how to prepare a roast. So, driving home to help put my sister's life back together made me feel like I was walking onto a construction site with only a half eaten bologna sandwich and a few q-tips. I didn't have the tools. I didn't know what I was doing. I couldn't even pack a proper lunch for this big assed project, for god sake.

So, I decided to just pretend to be perfect the whole time I was home.

My heart ached for her, but I never showed it. I would cook meals, pour champagne, smile and act like this was just a little bump in the road for her and so not a big deal. I encouraged her to buy red lipstick, I made sure I was perfectly put together every day while hinting she should put herself together too, and then I would lock myself in the bathroom and cry bitterly from frustration into my mother's hand towels. I told myself I was helping, because she was tiredly smiling at dinner, absently sipping champagne, never mentioning his name, and styling her hair every day. I WAS BEING AN AMAZING BIG SISTER! LOOK AT ME!

I was being the worst big sister ever.

I caught her crying in my cry space one night, and as I stood outside the door, wondering what to do, I decided to finally do what I should have done the first minute I stepped in the door. I held her. I let her cry and streak her brand new mascara all over my neck and (somehow) in my ear. I held her until she stopped crying. And then asked her if she wanted to get drunk in our pajamas together.

 Then I drunkenly and elaborately plotted the death of her ex.

And I finally got out those "I hate men" CDs and we danced to them wildly and stupidly and not-at-all-sexily.

And I told her that no love is ever perfect. No relationship is ever finely hand stitched together. No one has the answers at all, and we're all kind of figuring this out as we go.

And someone will come along who was happy to be perfectly imperfect with her. And they would argue. And he would be a douche sometimes. And they would never have all of the answers together.

And that's all I could ever wish for her. A totally imperfect life.

Take the plunge. Just drink rum first.

"You have to go down." Brett whispered behind me as I furiously wiped snow from my face. We were standing on top of THIS MOUNTAIN:

and I wasn't having it.

"I can't. Oh my God if you love me you would not make me do this." I hissed at him through a maniacal smile I was putting on for the rest of the family.

"It's a bump. A tiny bump. Your 5 year old nephew is staring at you."

"He's YOUR nephew too. In fact," I said, backing away and crossing my arms. "I'm slightly concerned with how you haven't really "adopted" him yet after 6 years with me. Would you like to talk about that? Your feelings maybe of being an uncle? Do you not feel ready for the responsibility? I'm happy to work through this with you."

"You're stalling." Brett hissed back before fixing a brilliant smile on our nephew who was hopping foot to foot while watching us with a mini furrowed brow. "Elias..." Brett cooed. "You are the best, BRAVEST nephew ever! I love you!"

"I LOVE YOU UNCLE BRETTTTTT!" Elias sang back, before breaking off in confusion. "Why is Auntie crawling?"

At this point I was, actually, on my hands and knees backing away from the gaping mouth of doom. From the corner of my eye I saw my sister and her fiance Clark board a flimsy sled and speed giggling down the hill, all pink cheeks and youth and promise. I looked over my shoulder to meet Brett's annoyed face and Elias' concerned one.

"They are young." I snapped. "They are closer to the ground, so they won't sustain as much injury."

And then: two things happened at once. Brett sighed and looked at the ground, saying: "Do you really want to go through your life afraid of everything?" At the same time Elias got on his hands and knees and whimpered: "I'm scared of the hill too, Auntie."

BALLS.

So, they had me. I grabbed on to a black inner tube and march-crawled back to the top of the hill. After letting about 32 people go before me, I closed my eyes and pushed off.

But, I had dug my boot so deep into the snow I actually was only inching- slowly and painfully- down the massive mountain. My brother-in-law was bent over laughing, Brett's mouth was hanging open in shock, and my nephew was back to hopping from foot to foot, cheering me on and then breaking off his cheers with questions of "Is she dying?"

Finally, Brett walked about 2 feet down to me and reached out his hand. "Go down the hill with me." He said.

"There is a slick of ice down at the bottom. One of us may snap our necks and-"

"You just have to let go, sweetheart. I mean, sometimes you just have to go down the damn hill."

I looked up at his snow covered form then, and tentatively took his hand. I knew he was right. This was the last day in 2012, and I was spending it swigging from a thermos of rum and tea and crawling around the top of a hill. Not my finest moment. If I wanted anything for myself, and for the people I love: it was to show them that being courageous and taking a leap of faith once and awhile is the right thing to do. Sure, you might break your neck on a patch of ice. But, more often than not you will have an awesome ride.

So did I have an awesome ride? Um. Not really. I might have dug my nails so hard into the inner tube I broke one off. I might have screamed my head off as we sped over the ice bumps. Brett might have been laughing so hard into the back of my neck I'm pretty sure his tilted position and guffaws made us GO FASTER, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

But, I did it.

And went again.

And Elias spent the rest of the day zooming down the hill with his Uncle Clark, who patiently was the last person on the mountain with him. He even peed his pants because he refused to get down when we were all ready to go.

Happy 2013, everyone. Take the plunge.

Just wear a helmet. And bring a thermos of rum.

On a Somber Note:

I went in to our bedroom and sat on our bed, and looked at my husband reading Harry Potter, tucked snugly into our sheets.

"I'm thinking of cereal bowls left in kitchen sinks." I said, ripping a square of paper towel off of a roll I had dragged in there. "I'm thinking of still warm pajamas left on floors, teddy bears with dried sweat stiffening their fur. Toys left out that will never be returned to."

"The kids that died today. The people that died today." Brett supplied quietly, as I curled into myself.

"I don't understand. I can't begin to." I sobbed. "But do you know what I am having the hardest time understanding? Why I spent 2 hours of my morning complaining about my life to my Mom today. Why I picked a fight with you during lunch. Why did I not look both ways before crossing the street this afternoon? I almost killed that biker."

"Not to contribute to your depression, but you kind of do that all the time and I'd wish you'd stop." He whispered.

"I just don't understand how...we don't get it." I pressed on, blowing my nose. "We don't get it. We don't get that life is this fragile and delicate thing, and it floats around in this really bad place...and bad things happen to good people. And, we can't stop it."

"It's not always a bad place, sweetheart. It can be, yes. But we can choose, each of us, to make it better.  To put the light taken out back into the world. I know it sounds hollow right now, but we can choose love. We can choose life. We can choose peace."

His words stuck with me as I remembered jumping online earlier that afternoon to be met with an onslaught of opinions via my favorite social networking site hours after the massacre had happened. When I heard the news, I was on a treadmill at my local gym...and when it flashed over my screen I just stopped and thought: "Nope. No. No. This isn't...nope. Going home."

And numbly walked home, drenched in sweat, heart beating crazily out of control while I flipped my laptop open to facebook.

I didn't see what I expected.

I expected more updates speaking to the way I was feeling: numb, lost, cold, grief-stricken, scared. Instead, what I found was update after update of people I knew and loved on their "Don't take my gun away from me!" soapbox. Fights were breaking out left and right. Cruel insults were slung. People on both sides of the argument were engaging in virtual fisticuffs, and my stomach clenched with every update.

Wait- wasn't this crime...about hate? Wasn't the man that committed this crime...a hateful person?

So- what were we doing here, exactly?

Were OTHER people out there thinking of the empty and cold cereal bowls left in sinks? The mothers and fathers that tonight would curl up in toddler beds and weep until their eyes were swollen? The families broken? The souls lost?

Why were people insulting the president for crying during his press release? Or posting their 2nd amendment rights to their wall? I get you have your beliefs and your rights and your passion to uphold them...but now? This second? Today?

Can't we just...literally lay down our weapons and pray?

For one day can we all just draw together and think of something other than our political views, our selfish passions, our hate, our anger...and can we mourn? As a nation?
....................................

I went to yoga tonight, and usually the touchy-feely stuff they read at the end when we are mediating gets under my skin. But tonight the instructor read: "Look up into the sky. The trees may have all lost their leaves. They may be barren, and you may feel like spring will never kiss them again. But keep your eyes to the sky. The brilliant sky. And wait for the sun to touch you."

Choose love, my friends. Lay down your weapons.

Let us all band together. And wait for spring.

Flying with your husband 101: The Holiday edition.

The other night Brett and I were sleepily traversing the Pittsburgh airport together, me half leaning on his arm and talking about the possibility of burgers in my near future. As we rounded the corner I lifted a finger towards a statue by the escalators.

"Look!" I cooed dreamily. "A pirate-Thanksgiving-man statue. That's so nice."

Brett stopped walking and looked down at me, eyebrows raised. "Are you asleep?"

"No."

"What is a pirate-Thanksgiving statue?" 

"That." I said, pointing again impatiently. "Honestly, Brett. It's nice though, isn't it? Festive."

He looked in the direction of my finger, and turned to me again. We were still not moving.

"You mean..." he started, before abruptly jerking into a fast walk until we were in front of the statue. "This historic mannequin of our first president of the United States?"

"A Thanksgiving pirate, to my recollection, was never  a president, Brett."

"THIS IS A STATUE OF GEORGE WASHINGTON."

"Oh." I returned in a small voice as we boarded the escalator and I sank heavily into him. I looked up at his face furtively before I whispered into his sleeve: "I didn't know George Washington was a Thanksgiving-pirate."

He smacked his palm to his forehead.
.........

The holidays are upon us and with that comes a whole lot of traveling. We had just come back from a weekend in Seattle, and it never fails to amaze me how we are such good traveling partners for people that generally bicker 99% of the day. The morning of our trip Brett cornered me in the bathroom angrily.

"Do you eat soap?" He snapped at me as I staggered out of the shower and rudely pushed past him.

"That tangy-Irish crap we buy? I would never." I retorted angrily.

"I'm just asking because we go through about 2 bars a week, which is insane. And, if we run out? Replace it please? Maybe not leave a sliver in the shower for me to clean my entire body with?!"

"You're impossible. And I'm hungry."

"I made breakfast. It's on the table."

Like a child, I pouted miserably. "I don't want that."

"You. Don't. Know. What. It. Is."

"It's berries and toast." I replied smugly, handing him a bar of soap. His face gave away that it was indeed berries and toast and I smiled triumphantly.

"I'm in the mood for just coffee today."
...........

We're not like that normally. Only the day of traveling. I mean, yes, we bicker constantly, but it is usually not about things like forgoing a made breakfast to be spiteful or insinuating the other eats toiletry products. We bicker about normal things, but we keep up a steady stream of it during our day to day lives. He remarks on my wet towels on the bed. I pick at him over his piles and piles of mail and magazines he leaves throughout the house like he can't find his way back to the bedroom and needs to leave himself clues. He hates that I leave water glasses beside the bed and I hate the fact that he insists to pan fry EVERYTHING WE EAT ALL THE TIME IN OUR SMALL, AIRLESS APARTMENT. But, we always return to love. We always end up laughing at ourselves and airing out the apartment or bringing the water glasses back to the sink in a silent movement of romanticism. We do love each other.

We just...disagree.

All that goes out the window during the morning of a trip, and we're usually pretty cruel up until we board the plane. But then, something majestic takes place. Brett loads my bag into the overhead compartment for me and settles me in to my seat before he takes his. He usually procures a snack for me and I make sure his magazines and books are organized in front of him. If he is particularly stressed, I know just the scotch to order him. And he will massage my hands as we take off, knowing take-off stresses me out, but I would never admit to it.

In the air, we're cordial, social, sweet, and loving. We calmly discuss politics and religion. We share food and drinks and shoulders for sleeping. We discuss dreams and fears. Desires and flaws. Flight attendants always remark on how cute we are and ask how long we've been married.

"Oh, two years." I'll say sweetly, while squeezing his arm. Little do they know 3 hours before I was ready to shove a bar of Irish Spring down his throat.

It reminds me of how we all are with our family during the holidays. When we have to be on our best behavior, we can be. It can almost come naturally with a glass of wine and a People magazine. But, it also reminds me how we can be the worst to the people we love the most. Maybe Brett and I put on a lovely show in the air because we know we're being watched. But, what about those private moments in the bathroom right before where we are cruel? And insensitive? And impatient? I don't want to be that person. I want to be the Melissa in seat 23 C that is kind and thoughtful and giving.

For Thanksgiving this year, I'm going to pretend I'm flying with my husband with an audience of well dressed, perky flight attendants. I'm going to be patient. And loving. And sweet.

And maybe give him a hand massage during dinner when my mom starts telling the story about how I was "PRACTICALLY A STILL-BORN AND OH MY GOD THE SAC SHE CAME IN WAS GREEN."

He deserves it.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. May we all travel...lovingly.

Magical Christmas Santa Amish Dragons Sci-fi

"What is that?" Brett asked me, repulsed, when I put his nose into a jar I was holding.

"An AUTHENTIC Amish candle." I whispered reverently, ducking to check the tag glossed on the side. "In the scent of Santa-Winter."

We were in the middle of a small town in Pennsylvania that was having a Christmas celebration. The streets were lined with local Amish people laden down with quilts, jams, candles, and home-made trinkets. I was beside myself with glee, running from stall to stall, and Brett was reluctantly trudging behind me muttering stuff about how "we haven't even had Thanksgiving yet" under his breath. White noise, essentially. I was in a jaunty red coat even though it was 65 degrees. Nat King Cole was blaring from some hidden Amish speakers, and I was buying some Amish candles, damnit. I was in authentic Amish heaven.

"Want an authentic Amish doughnut?" I asked Brett, who shook his head over an Amish woman holding up a Steelers quilt she had undoubtedly stitched by candlelight. "And after we get one we can go say hi to Santa."

"Santa?" He asked, incredulously.

I pointed to the street where Santa and Mrs. Santa were mingling with the crowd, shaking hands and posing for pictures. "Oooh. He's a good one. Real beard! Take my picture?"

"This is ridiculous." Brett said, turning on his heel. "I'll be right back."

I shrugged and continued my shopping, filling my greedy hands with Amish candles and stuffed snowmen. I was trying to decide between a candle labeled "Country Cabin" and another labeled "Cranberry-Apple-Spice-Christmas" when Brett appeared at my elbow.

"They aren't real Amish people." He said flatly, when I turned to offer him a sniff. "You're being swindled. They just dress like that to get people to buy stuff. It's all fake. I just asked them."

You know that expression "my face fell?"

My face literally fell.

It was perkily pinched up in a constant smile only seconds before. My nose was tingling with about 76 different candle concoctions, I was humming under my breath and really excited to 1. Support the Amish community, and 2. Support the North Pole community by spending some time with Santa and the Mrs. later. I understood Brett's desire for true authenticity...and facts...but my face fell. And my heart fell.

And I put the candles and the authentic Amish snowmen back.

Did I really think a bunch of Amish people decided to come hang out on the street and peddle doughnuts and Steeler's quilts out of their kind, God fearing hearts? Not really. Did I notice a few Amish women taking smoke breaks? Yes. But, like a child wants to believe in the magic of Christmas, I wanted to believe too. I wanted to believe in the wholesome magic of the Amish. In the town that was so little we had to cross a covered bridge to get to it. In the doughnuts that were served up soft and warm in wax paper by women with smiling, round faces under their stiff white bonnets.

I wanted to believe in something magical.

On the way home, Brett looked over at me and squeezed my hand as I stared out the window. "How many candles did you buy?" He asked.

"I didn't buy any." I returned flatly. And I saw him bite his lip and stare straight ahead as the fading last rays of sun flickered and danced before the flame gave way to dusk.

.................

Two days later I found myself in a candle aisle at Target. I had a hand basket filled with boring, adult things, but I couldn't ignore the pull of cinnamon and spruce and pumpkin wax wafting over the Home section.

I slowly placed my basket on the floor and lost myself in the colorful jars, before choosing three and walking to the cash register. On my walk there, I passed the book section, and my eye caught the newest installment of a sci-fi series I know Brett loves.

I fingered the cover of the book for awhile. In truth, the series is designed for teen-agers, but the covers are catchy, the writing is swift and smart, and the stories so magical they take my husband away to far-off lands where he never lets himself go. We had walked by this same book in a store a week ago, and he paused before it.

"Get it!" I urged.

He hesitated, and then seemed to find some kind of resolve. "No." He said firmly. "I don't have time. School is crazy right now. There is no time for that kind of frivolity."

"If you don't buy it, I will." I snapped, grabbing the book and placing it next to a mound of make-up.

"Please. Don't." His voice caught and he put the book back slowly. "There isn't time for stuff like that."

It broke my heart, but we walked away. And I remember driving home and looking over at him and hoping he still made time, once and awhile, for the magical things. Because a life so full of rules and regulations is a life sorely imbalanced. 

Needless to say, I bought the book. And after I cleaned up from dinner and walked into our bedroom, I found Brett curled up on the bed, reading it voraciously, his school books abandoned on the floor.

"Good book?" I asked him with a raised eyebrow. And, he put it down and looked at me.

"Some of the Amish people were real Amish people, by the way. I should have told you that."

We looked at each other and smiled.

"Make sure you read at least half that book tonight." I told him.

Make time for the magic, my friends. 

Whatever it may be.