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It's purloined from cuteoverload, and it's not about romantic love per se. But doesn't this photo represent in one adorable image everything that is right and good in the world??

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Purloined from Deb, who purloined it from Salon.com:

It's hot! It's sexy! It's ... marriage!

Am I the only person who actually enjoys being hitched these days?

By Aaron Traister

Jul. 15, 2009

Amid all the bad press marriage has been getting recently -- from Sandra Tsing Loh's admission of adultery and refusal to do the "work" necessary to keep her marriage together, to Cristina Nehring's dismissal of boring companionate marriages in favor of rash flings, to the very public ruin of the marriages of every governor ever elected, to Caitlin Flanagan's flaccid defense of marriage as something to hang onto for the sake of the kids -- I'm starting to feel like there is something wrong with me, because I actually enjoy being married.

My wife and I have been married anywhere from seven to 150 years (I'm not good with dates). During those years we have moved six times, and each move was like an exotic gift that happened to be covered in shit. We have each had multiple jobs, and multiple uniforms with name tags. We've been broke, we've been well off, we've been broke again. We've bought our first house together, and it has a giant hole in the kitchen ceiling and sparks come out of the third-floor outlets if you hold anything metal too close to them. We have fought, raged, nearly cheated, and been totally out of sync with each other during chunks of our time together. We've also produced two enormous redheaded babies who are as terrifying to us as Mothra and Godzilla were to Japan in the '60s. We have been depressed, we have wanted more, we have wanted different, we have wanted out. The years since we got married have been the most challenging and at times most frustrating years of my life.

They have also been the most productive, happiest and most hilarious.

When I met my wife she was a tough and self-sufficient 25-year-old bartender working in lower Manhattan. When she looked in the mirror she saw a beautiful young woman with a rock-solid personal-trainer sculpted body and a collection of lingerie that would make Fredrick of Hollywood himself go cross-eyed.

I was a 22-year-old slow-getter navigating the medium-paced world of entry-level positions at failing entertainment companies. When I looked in the mirror I saw someone who looked like a cross between Wallace Shawn and Koko the sign language gorilla. (Yes, I know Koko is a lady ape, but the resemblance is uncanny.) I saw someone who hadn't quite gotten comfortable with the fact that he wasn't 14 anymore, but who had endless amounts of time and energy for being as selfish as possible and enjoying every possible instant life had to offer.

The world was our oyster, and we slurped it. We slurped it often. We slurped it hard.

We had so much fun slurping with each other that we thought we should make a life of it.

Nowadays when my wife looks in the mirror all she sees are stretch marks and soft spots. I don't see these things with the clarity or critical eye she does; if I do notice changes in her I chalk them up to a life full of laughter, good food and fat babies. In my mind, my wife wears those marks with as much style and beauty as she wears everything else. In her mind it is a different story.

When I look in the mirror I see pretty much the same thing I've seen for the past 17 years: I still see a big hairy monkey smiling back at me and grunting, and I still feel like I'm 14, even if the energy and time aren't necessarily there anymore. Sure, I notice the effects of ape pattern baldness slowly ravaging my once glorious mane, and perhaps I've eaten one too many bananas and slurped one too many oysters.

But these maladies that my wife and I face when we look in the mirror are not symptoms of a crappy marriage. They are a symptom of getting older, and I have a sneaking suspicion that they would not be worn as gracefully if we were not a part of each other's lives.

And while I have many daydreams regarding me and Tina, the 20-year-old soccer-playing sophomore who serves me my ice cream and indulges me in my forced attempts at conversations about her school and career goals, I know that ship has long since sailed. I had my time with the Tinas of the world. I married one. I don't want to think about getting hair plugs and a Camaro in order to keep up with the new batch.

My lack of hot Tina action doesn't eat away at me, nor does it act as some sort of wedge issue in my life or marriage, because I know a secret.

As hard as marriage can be, it only really sucks if you don't love the person you're married to. If you don't love the person you're married to all the other crap seems insurmountable -- the scary large children, the lack of money, the fantasy sexual partners (who I like to imagine was wearing a particularly low-cut top today in my honor but, in reality, was not), the falling-apart house, the weeks where you just don't click, the ridiculous arguments about nothing, and most important, the fact that you're getting older and still haven't magically achieved your life goal of becoming Randall Cunningham or Patti Smith or whatever.

If you love the person you are married to then all the stuff that's your problem and not actually a problem with the relationship, stays your problem (for the most part), and you can focus on what's great about marriage.

At 8 p.m. on the 4th of July my wife and I found ourselves with two sleeping children and an unusual amount of energy for that time of night. We capitalized on the opportunity by having sex on the couch (we are usually relegated to quickies in our pantry/coat closet during episodes of "Dora"). We were enjoying this moment of sexual liberation from the tangling tentacles of the jackets we still haven't put away for the summer when we realized that the music coming from the TV had changed, and we were suddenly working in time to a particularly jaunty instrumental rendition of "You're a Grand Old Flag" (not exactly Marvin Gaye). In my compromised state, the song crossed with "Stars and Stripes Forever," and I found myself singing that line about "a duck being somebody's mother." It's hard to overstate the absurdity of the moment, as I whispered poultry origins from the wrong patriotic anthem to my incredibly sexy wife during intercourse.

Everyone has laughed so hard their stomach hurt, but I don't know how many people have had that opportunity while they are inside someone else who is laughing that hard too. It is sort of like riding on the teacups at Disneyland during an earthquake. It's an unusual sensation and one that I'm not quite sure I'd describe as sexy. It certainly shares little in common with the urgent and dramatic gymnastics of our youthful physical relationship, but it was fun, it was intimate, it was something that I'm glad I had the chance to do, and it was something I would only feel comfortable sharing with my wife of 150 years.

I'm sacrificing our privacy on the altar of public opinion for a simple reason: We talk about our marriages so seriously and with such reverence; we talk about our sex or lack thereof in the same way. Maybe we shouldn't. Maybe we shouldn't treat the institution and its dirty little companion as some sort of precious Fabergé egg that is either shattered and worthless or pristine, untouchable and priceless. Maybe it's more like Silly Putty and the plastic egg it comes in. Sometimes the egg is open, allowing for hours of stretchy, flexible fun; sometimes the egg is closed and kind of boring, but as long as the Silly Putty remains inside the egg it's still full of as much potential as your imagination allows, and the value of the egg is not diminished no matter how often or vigorously the egg or its contents are fingered or played with. (And yes, I was staring at a Silly Putty egg on my dining room table when I came up with that extended metaphor.)

Maybe if we all had a better sense of humor about our relationships, our sex, and most important, getting older, our marriages wouldn't be in such crisis. As appealing as doing tequila shots with out-of-work strippers sounds sometimes, the reality of it (for more than an evening) would probably not make me any happier than I am curled up on the couch with my wife drinking watered-down Scotch and watching TiVoed episodes of "General Hospital."

I'm not arguing that people shouldn't get divorced. I'm all for it. What I'm sick and tired of is divorced people speaking as though they are oracles from the future who know how the rest of our unions will turn out. All the marriage bashing going on out there feels like a way of shedding a certain amount of personal responsibility. By telling the world the institution is flawed, or that we've somehow outgrown it, nobody has to own up and admit that it was their interpretation of it that was screwed up.

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This is one of my favorite love stories.

My brother Ed is a very practical person. He’s not given to flights of fancy. Although a lot of fun, he is very duty-oriented and pragmatic. This is why it was such a surprise when, a few years ago, he uprooted his life to go on a bona-fide quest for love. Ed had been living for years with someone that he really did love but also had a certain amount of conflict with. Someone he cared for but knew was not the perfect soul mate for him. At his stage of life (mid-thirties at the time) it would be easy to go with the flow and accept the tired axioms that “love is a lot of work” and “no relationship is perfect.” But he had a vision for himself, and in early middle age left his house, hometown, and settled relationship to move to a brand-new city where he knew exactly one person.

As he settled into a condo and a new job, he began to date. Being the good-looking, smart, fun, and kind person that he is, he had lots of takers. I met a lot of these guys, and they were invariably nice people. But if, within 6-9 months or so, Ed didn’t feel that the spark was there, he ended the relationship. He wasn’t on a quest for a nice person. He was on a quest for LOVE---all-out, you’re-the-one-I’ve-waited-my-whole-life-for, soul-mate love. He actually found it hard to end these relationships when there was nothing really wrong . . . hard to disappoint the other person who still had hopes. But with single-minded vision he stayed true to what he wanted for himself.

After a few years, he fell into lust at first sight with someone he met at a neighborhood bar. Someone whose appeal was undefinable but instant. As date turned into relationship and then into living together and eventually marriage, I saw Ed blossom into a person of profound happiness, whose eyes light up at the mention of his partner, who laughs so easily, and who knows the joy of being understood and appreciated by one person who he understands and appreciates in turn.

Every love story in books and movies is a tale of obstacles surmounted, and these fictional obstacles (family, money, misunderstandings) serve to represent the epic journey that every heart takes who aspires to love. If you have struggled for love, have sacrificed for it, have despaired of reaching it, then you are the Mallory and Columbus and Perry of the heart. Good sailing.

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I've spent a lot of the last week having extended conversations with various groups of friends about romantic love. So I thought a theme week was in order.

One friend said the following, which is deceptively simple and really quite profound:

"I want to spend the rest of my life with someone who is on my side . . . not someone who is constantly at cross-purposes with me."

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We saw the latest Harry Potter movie on Friday, and it was my favorite of all of them. About the first three-quarters of the movie was about normal school life at Hogwarts and the various crushes the characters had. It returned to the charm of the earliest installments. Sometimes Rowlings feels overplotted to me, and this movie simplified plot and magnified character.
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I was thinking today of what an obsessive personality I really have. I'll latch onto an album and play it every day for a year. Sudoku, crossword, or computer---whatever game I'm in the middle of I'll play every morning and evening. I watched baseball every night of the season for 3 years and then dropped it cold turkey. Not to mention the Mexican telenovela I watched every night for 6 months---and since it was in Spanish, Jay couldn't even understand it. Thankfully, these addictive tendencies have never extended to alcohol or smoking. Though I can't say the same about doughnuts.
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Every day Rocky gets his Morning Tummy Tub on our bedroom floor. This makes him very happy, especially when I sing to him at the same time. Current favorites include "Simple Gifts" and the "sleepy kitty" song from The Big Bang Theory.
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So it's Friday, and I just don't have the work ethic to come up with my own post. And these pics from Animal Talk via CuteOverload are sooooo cute. These guys are best buddies, according to the source blog. Can I get an amen?!

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We've finally finished up with the Weber-Kissel vacation season, and it was a good one. First we went to Rehoboth. Then we went out to Ohio to see the nephews, where Egyptian Ratscrew was played and Old People attempted to play Rock Band.

Back in Maryland, Sally, Hoxie, Dad, and Dee arrived in Columbia a few days later, and we had a fun time. There was laughter. There was a Duck Tour. There was Mills Brothers out on the deck. I'm becoming more and more a fan of the family visit where you just sit around and gab instead of sightseeing. My family members are big sightseers, but luckily they leave me to sleep in while they see the world and meet up again at a more reasonable hour. Like 6:00 pm.
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So Henry Louis Gates, professor of African American studies at Harvard, was arrested in his home for calling cops "racist."

Gates was coming back to his home near Harvard after a trip and was having trouble with the front door (sticky lock). Someone saw this, decided to call the police, and the police came to his house. Gates showed them his driver's license, listing the home as his address. But as the cops were leaving, Gates was yelling at them and calling them names. So they came back and arrested him for disorderly conduct.

Geez. Couldn't they just apologize and leave? Gates may have been obnoxious, but it's not against the law to be obnoxious. And he had reason to be pissed---it's not like he was randomly ranting with no context. More and more stories of coming to light of police using their powers in a punitive manner; I'm thinking of the grandmother who got tasered recently. She also was pretty obnoxious, but the police officer was in absolutely no physical danger. He was sick of her foul mouth and decided to give her a good shock.

Police have a tough job, but their behavior must be completely above the fray. It may be a lot to ask, but that's the price of being granted weapons and the authority to arrest. I'm also reminded of the police officers who broke into the house of mayor of Berwyn Heights, shot their family pets, and then held the family for hours while they searched for drugs. A delivery of drugs had been made to their house, but the Prince George's count police KNEW that drug dealers were having drugs delivered to the houses of innocent people and then picking up the box after delivery. They couldn't have taken a few minutes to find out who lived in that house and make some sort of preliminary judgment about how likely it was that the resident was a drug dealer? As they say, with great power comes great responsibility, and there's room for improvement here.
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According to my sister Sally, since she and her boyfriend Hoxie have been together, they have each gained 10 pounds. Hoxie calls this "happy fat."
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Hoxie, Sally, and Dad on our deck.

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Jay and I are back at work this week after ten days of vacation. We spent a few days at home, a few at Rehoboth, a few at home again, and a few in Ohio with the nephews and assorted other family members. This weekend Dad, Sally, and her boyfriend will be staying with us and sightseeing.

I can only tolerate a few days at the beach, but they are always wonderful days. We stay at a hotel only 1/2 block of the boardwalk, so we never have to get in our car. We are in the heart of Rehoboth, so restaurants, shops, and convenience stores are all within one or two blocks. It's so weird to have that kind of time on your hands---where you get up whenever, eat breakfast/lunch, lounge on the beach, meander, nap, talk, eat dinner, meander more. So much of normal life is taken up with logistics: driving, settling in, preparing food, making beds . . . when you have to do NONE of those things, it feels like each day is forty hours long.

Most of all it's great to lounge around the hotel room and sit on the beach with Jay, with nothing more than a book of sudoku for distraction. It takes time to develop a good conversation, almost like a yeast bread that needs to rise. You're not talking about your workday, or when the cleaners are coming, or when you need to be at the restaurant on Saturday night. There's just a beautiful . . . nothing, which lets your mind roam and play.
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Direct from Oh No They Didn't.Com


RPattz is amazing in bed

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It was all the talk, as people huddled at the shoreline, afraid to wade in. Kids took their sand shovels and tried to scoop them out of the water. And Jay looked at me meaningfully and said, "It's okay. I've got a plan." "What?" I ask. He looks around furtively, leans over to my ear, and whispers, "Peanutbutterfish."
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I seesaw between wanting to own beautiful things and feeling the need to purge. I was in a purge mood this morning and cleaned off my bathroom counter. Once I did, I saw that I had a lidded rattan container and remembered that I had stored something in it. I see this rattan container every day, but somehow I didn't really SEE it because of the lack of visual space. Inside were a great store of contact lenses that I thought I had run out of and had never replaced. It reminded me that the more things you own, the less you are aware of them, can take care of them, and appreciate them.
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This instantly became one of my favorite movies. It's nice to see a Pixar movie that isn't all fast motion and violence, even though this is plenty suspenseful and active. It has some elements of quiet and calm that are very refreshing.



















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It's Been Too Long

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It's been days, maybe even weeks, since I've had a Twilight post. Important related things on my mind include:

* I've started checking in on a website called Oh No They Didn't. My friend Mirna pointed me to this site, and at first I didn't think much of it. It's usually just one photo and comment per day on some member of the Twilight cast. But here's the thing: They keep referring to Rob as "the hobo," which becomes funnier to me every time I read it (cause, you know, he tends to look disheveled). So today it was a photo of Rob holding a Dunkin' Donuts coffee cup with the caption "The Hobo drinks Dunkin' Donuts because he can't afford Starbucks."

* I realized something extraordinary, in the Six Degrees vein. I know my . . .

1. Sister Sally, who at a party in Midland, TX, met . . .

2. The father of . . .

3. Jackson Rathbone, who stars in Twilight alongside . . .

4. Rob Pattinson . . .

which makes me a mere FOUR degrees of separation from The Hobo!














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