I am told that we are a house divided. I am a graduate of the University of Colorado at Boulder. Hubby graduated from Colorado State University. Steve tells me all the time that our schools are rivals. I do not agree. As a CU alum, I never once thought of Colorado State as our rival school.  Twenty years ago (gasp) when I was a student at CU, our chief rivals were Oklahoma and Nebraska. Colorado State registered somewhere as a blip on our radar for the one day a year when our football teams played each other. Other than that, we didn’t give CSU a second thought. After all, CSU was simply the school where all the kids who didn’t get accepted to CU went.

When Steve set up this rivalry (the one I didn’t think existed) between our two schools, he threw down the gauntlet. We’ve had a friendly battle about our schools ever since. When our sons were born, it became an all out war between Steve and I to convince our boys that our alma mater is the best. I remember taking Joe to the Denver Zoo when he was a toddler, parking his stroller directly in front of the bison exhibit, and taking photos of him there to share with Steve later. Mean, but effective. Every year on the day of the Rocky Mountain Showdown, I somehow manage to get my boys into CU t-shirts. (That’s what happens when your wife shops and you don’t, sweetie.) A couple weeks ago the boys and I were up Waterton Canyon and we saw some rams, the CSU mascot. We took photos of them. Joe then suggested we drive up to the lookout at Genesee to get some photos of buffaloes to make it equal. That’s my boy.

Tonight as we were tucking the boys into bed, the school discussion reared its ugly head again.

“I think I’ll be going to CU,” Luke announced.

Game. Set. Match.

“If your grades are good enough,” I reminded.

“They will be. I’m going to CU. Sorry, Dad.”

“I’m sorry too, Luke,” Steve retorted.

“Are you mad at me, Dad?” Luke asked.

“Awwwww, honey,” I said, with sickeningly sweet condescension, “Don’t you want Luke to go to the best school?”

At this comment, he gave me the evil eye. “I’m not mad at you, Luke,” Steve replied. “I’m mad at your mom.”

And, this is how it is in our house. Steve really has no one to blame but himself. If there’s one thing about me that I’m sure he knows it’s that I’m not competitive until someone else starts with me. I never go looking for a fight. I’m a Boulder hippie. I’m all about the love. But, if you start with me, I’m going to bring my A-game.

 
(Author’s note: I have a lot of friends who are CSU grads. A LOT. I don’t hold that against them. I love them anyway. And, they tolerate me so it’s all good. I tease them about their school, but every single one of them is an amazing gift to me so their school can’t be all that bad. If my sons go to CSU, I’ll be proud of them. But, make no mistake about it. I will dance shameless circles around them when the Buffs beat the Rams.)

I had to get gas for my car today. I drive a lot. I go through a tank of gas a week just to chauffeur my kids to school and run some errands and get to the yoga studio. Today, as the gas pump gauge rolled over $65 in change, I was complaining out loud, mostly to myself. From the backseat, I heard a comment from the peanut gallery.

“The gas prices are high because Obama is living it up and that’s driving the gas prices up,” Luke quips.

“What?” I gasped. Had that comment just come out of the mouth of my eight year old son?

“It’s true. Obama’s driving up the cost of gas.”

“What exactly do you know about the economics of petroleum supply and demand?” I questioned.

“I don’t know. I just heard that somewhere,” he replied.

“Well, obviously you just heard it somewhere. Where exactly did you hear it?”

He thought for a second and then said, “I think it was on the front of one of the Lego videos I saw on YouTube.”

“Yeah. Some of those videos on YouTube have ads on the front of them,” Joe affirmed. “And, you know how many of those videos Luke watches on YouTube.”

That’s when I took the time to have a quick pow wow with my kids about how you can’t believe everything you hear or read. I informed them that all “facts” should be considered suspect until adequately researched and, even then, “facts” are relayed through human filters, which means they’re likely not 100% subjective. I cautioned them that if you are going to make blanket statements about any topic, you’d best have adequate, reliable, and reputable factoids under your hat to share with those who might question the validity of your statements.  Then, I reminded them that no eight year old kid should have any opinion on politics because politics is a complicated business that most adults can’t comprehend. You don’t have to look very far for proof of that statement.

I told my friend, Edie, about this exchange between Luke and I and she said, “See how ads influence people who don’t think for themselves?” This was precisely the point of my April 5th blog. People hear a sound byte from a “news” source, either online or on television, and then start parroting the information as if it’s gospel. It’s one thing when an eight year old hears something and repeats it thinking he’s got the answers. That’s simply naivete. When grown adults do it, it’s often due to lack of critical thinking and sound judgement. At least Luke has some time to get his head screwed on straight. I’ll simply keep challenging him and questioning his sources. Hopefully then, by the time he’s an adult, he will realize (as so many don’t) that there’s a vast difference between fact and opinion.

I was talking to a friend the other day about a movie I love, (500) Days of Summer. My friend, deluded character she is, did not share my affinity for the film. This, however, did not surprise me. Most people expect happy endings where the protagonists end up together, and (500) Days of Summer, starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel, is not one of those movies. It’s better. It’s a movie for hopeless romantics.

I bet I lost you there, didn’t I? Most people equate being a hopeless romantic with happy endings. That’s simply wrong. Most people who think they are hopeless romantics are actually hopeful romantics. At the end of the story, a hopeful romantic wants the protagonists to end up together. They want a happy ending tied neatly with a bow. Me? I’m a realist. I hate those kind of stories. Life is messy. I want a messy story where things don’t work out as you expect them to, where you realize at the end that everything is as it should be even if it isn’t how you thought it would be. I knew five minutes into (500) Days that I would love the film because the narrator announces, “This is a story about boy meets girl, but you should know up front this is not a love story.” Perfect. Just the way I like it.

When I think about romantic films that have truly resonated with me, nearly all of them involve endings that aren’t traditionally happy: Out of Africa, The English Patient, Once, The Age of Innocence, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and The End of the Affair. In these films, the characters touch each other’s lives deeply but as a couple they are simply aren’t meant to last. Their beauty lies in their tragedy. That’s what hopeless romance implies, an impossibility, an impediment that makes what can’t be far more meaningful than what can be.

What’s romantic about Pretty Woman? Seriously. Think about it. Prostitute meets client. Client purchases prostitute. They fall for each other. Client walks away, but suddenly has a change of heart and returns. BORING! Not to mention degrading and pathetic. The story I want to see is the one where they get together, have a few children, and then she finds out that, unable to quell his desires, he’s still seeking out prostitutes. Now, that would make for a compelling story. Maybe they work it out. Maybe they don’t. But, either way at least there is some depth there, something to think about.

Okay. Okay. I don’t really expect anyone to agree with me on this. I know I fall into a small and silent minority on this topic, and I’m not going to change anyone’s mind. But, I stand by the fact that we would not still know the story of Romeo and Juliet if Shakespeare had ended the play with a final scene where Juliet is washing Romeo’s undergarments while Romeo is out having some fine mead with the old gang. Just saying.

Last night was the final scene in the well-documented Whiskey Barrel War in our house. Last year, I blogged not once but twice about my husband’s decision to drop a used whiskey barrel into our otherwise tastefully landscaped yard. At the time he planted said whiskey barrel, I told him he was doing so against my will and at the risk of placing us one wagon-wheel away from becoming white trash. Sure enough, a couple months after he installed the barrel, we were playing mini-golf on a kitschy course among a load of wagon wheels and when I spied a whiskey barrel planter. I thought that mini-golf whiskey barrel planter would finally bring him to his senses. It did not however. The barrel received mums in the fall, which then withered and died, and remained in place all through the long winter. I would look out my kitchen window and shake my head at the stupid thing each day, resigned to the fact that it was here to stay, like it or not. I decided to consider it a small concession in my marriage to a guy who has been nothing but wonderful to me. After all he’s given me, he earned the right to keep that tacky whiskey barrel.

Yesterday I was cleaning up in the house and Steve went out to work in the yard. I’m always thrilled when he works in the yard because I hate gardening. The more he does out there, the less I have to be out there. After a little while I went out to see what he was up to and I found the whiskey barrel out of its spot, sitting on the grass. He had removed it. I pulled my camera out and took a photo of the empty spot for posterity.

“I decided it didn’t look right there,” he announced somewhat sadly.

A million sarcastic thoughts ran through my head. Really? You think? But, I decided to be kind in his sadness.

“Well, maybe we can put it somewhere else, hon. Maybe on the front porch in that corner?”

He perked up a bit.

“That might work,” he said. “Or over at the corner of the house on the rocks.” His wheels were already turning trying to figure out a spot for his much-maligned purchase, the one he had been so proud of less than a year ago. And, I can give him that. I can give him another place to put that barrel that isn’t the location I originally told him he could shove it.

Marriage is compromise. It’s not about right or wrong or winner or loser. It’s about finding a way to work through differences of opinion and living with each other’s likes and dislikes. It’s about making concessions. Marriage is all about occupying common ground…provided that common ground does not have a half-buried, used whiskey barrel in it. 😉

“Sometimes when I reflect back on all the wine I drink, I feel shame! Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the vineyards and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn’t drink this wine, they might be out of work, and their dreams would be shattered. Then I say to myself, It is better that I drink this wine and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver.” ~Jack Handey

I had intentions to write a legitimate blog post today. But then, about 5 o’clock I opened a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the Marlborough region of New Zealand. I hadn’t eaten in hours but, dang, was I thirsty. A half a bottle later and it was suddenly time to head to dinner. At dinner, believe it or not, I was still thirsty; so I had an amber ale micro brew from Fort Collins before our food arrived. That was about the time I remembered why it’s not such a great idea for me to drink without having eaten something first.

Nevertheless, somehow, all that drinking seems to have cleared my head of any rational thought, as if all the liquid I swallowed miraculously flushed out my brain. Now that it’s 11 p.m., I find I have nothing left to offer but a fading love for all humankind and a mild headache that only copious amounts of water will cure. Before I write something incredibly inane, I am declaring myself non compos mentis and going to bed. A wise woman knows when she’s had enough; a wiser woman knows when to shut up.

“Always do sober what you said you’d do  drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.” ~ Ernest Hemingway