Even A Good Melon Has A Soft Spot

The Chief Lou and I married young and quickly. It's not a course of action I would recommend in general, but like that old lady says in When Harry Met Sally "sometimes you just know. Like you know about a good melon." He's my good melon. But there were a few things that we didn't get the chance to discuss before the big day where we vowed before God and everybody to spend the rest of our lives together. We agreed on all of the big things: God, politics and coffee. We reached an amiable compromise on some other important things: Top Five Greatest Movies, Bands, and Songs. And it just seemed like all the rest would work itself out.

I mean, how do you work it into a lovey-dovey, dating, I want to spend the rest of my life gazing into your eyes type conversation that you may or may not, hypothetically speaking of course, have a deep and abiding love of legumes? When he pledged the whole "until death do us part" thing, I don't think he ever realized that death could come silently and soon from the Dutch Oven of Doom.

While writing each other the poetry of the gods about how the moon is only shining because of the reflected light of her handsome sun, it's tricky to slip in a stanza or two about how the moon never cleans out the car or takes it for an oil change and it's not a moral failing, per se, it's just that the moon gets so busy with the other things she's got going on, like seeing if she can make green bean pâté that tastes just like the real thing only vegetarian.


And it's a known fact that while dating you will sit through any movie if it gives you the opportunity to snog with your beloved, but there was no discussion afterward about how we would never, under any circumstances withstand the sheer cinematic torture that is Highlander, no matter how brilliant and underrated you think it is and if you want to watch a movie with a Scotsman in it, any and all of the Ewan McGregor ouevre are not only perfectly acceptable, but mandatory at regular intervals, yes even the one where he's a crooked stock trader and pukes all over a fancy dress party. There's just no time, what with all the goo-goo eyes and making out.

One of the biggest things that the Chief Lou learned about me after we got married is that I may or may not be a bit of a hippie. Not a mall hippie who's in it for the fashion statement. I have no peace sign necklace from Claire's Boutique and while I do enjoy tie dye, patchouli, and batik, I indulge only in moderation. More of a mental hippie, which I think he may have confused with being the same as his ultra-liberal progressive politics with a button-down collar. He had a few discoveries in store for him.

A few months after we got married I gave him a Grateful Dead sticker to show him how awesome we were. It was two of those little infectious dancing bears and it said "A Rare and Different Tune". I thought it summed us up exactly. It never went on the car, although he did appreciate the sentiment. I think I still have it in a drawer someplace.


I had the rare treat one time of witnessing my Texas boy's full range of facial expressions - from jubilant joy to the depths of despair - in the space of the few seconds it took me to utter the sentence: "I'm making chicken fried steak for dinner. I found these breaded meatless 'beef' patties at the grocery store today!"


By the time the kids came along, he was amenable to breast feeding (not that this is a particularly "hippie" activity, he'd just never seen it before), baby wearing, co-sleeping and cloth diapering. He just took them in stride, embraced them, even advocates for them now. 


He has learned to enjoy TVP tacos, homemade soap and hairy armpits. He knows how to choose batik and incense and the all-natural cosmetic items I like. He patiently washes the handmade reusable sandwich bags we use to pack the kids' lunches. It took a while to get past it, but he accepts that cloth napkins are not just for fancy meals. He understands why I save used envelopes and put stickers over the pertinent parts to reuse them. He even has helped move my collection of salvaged empty jars around the country a few times. He's a patient and tolerant and loving man. He takes my whims in stride and doesn't criticize or complain or, more importantly, say "I told you so" when one of my experiments fails (green bean pâté). But I may have found his breaking point the other day.

Casually, while watching TV: "Hey, you know how when the kids were in diapers and we used those reusable flannel wipes with the tea tree and lavender solution I made?"

Wary, eyes flickering to the side: "Um, yes?"

"Well, I was thinking that maybe since we still have that small diaper pail and reusable liner, we could just put those in the bathroom and...  I'm still trying to figure out how to manage the space issue, but I thought..."

Gulp, deep breath, his voice almost a squeak: "Does this mean you're going to stop buying toilet paper?"