Tag Archives: marriage

He beat her to the altar

Somehow, years ago, my sister Erica and my cousin Steve engaged in an epic race to the altar.

At the time, neither one was in a relationship. A race seemed like the right thing to do. Bets were made, gauntlets were thrown down, and firm handshakes were given left and right.

The very dinner over which the race was declared (summer 2008)

I am here to declare: he won. As fate would have it, their weddings are only 28 days apart—it was a close one, folks. But as it stands, with the “I do’s” that were repeated on Saturday June 26th, Steve triumphed. I just wish I could remember who owes who what. Was there money involved? And more importantly, is that money somehow owed to me? Based on a glaring hole in the historical record, we may never know.

After a careful and scientific research of their childhoods, I can say that he was bound to win. Just look at him:

Steve smiles triumphantly in the middle. Erica, to the right, has a clear sense of her future demise.

Erica, to the left, may think she's ahead--but here comes Steve. His style can only be called "barreling forward".

Let’s do a short interview with each contestant:

………………………………………………….

 

ERICA

“How do you feel about your loss of the unforgettable ‘race to the altar’?”

Erica: Since I won the race to the earth by 5 weeks, that trumps the race to the altar . . . but if Steve feels like he’s won, I’ll let him believe that. The fact is that entering the world is a way bigger deal than getting married because you can’t actually get married unless you exist.

“How would you encourage other ‘race to the altar’ contestants who have lost to cope with their failure?”

Erica: Failure, failure. . . what is failure . . . I wouldn’t count this race as “failure” per se. What would happen if you blended orange juice and a banana?

“Let’s stay on topic—you just lost a bet—how do you not see that as failure?”

Erica: Domination is done by Team Us, team Dave and Erica—and Steve and Steph have alliterated names, which is lame. I would call that losing. So in the end, Steve and Steph get kind of a consolation prize by getting married today. I pity them.

“Erica, those sound like fighting words.”

Erica: They are fighting words.

Dad: Stephanie’s Dad is a wrestling coach. . .

Erica: Well I’m not going to wrestle her dad. I’d like to point out that Dave is also an army ranger, and rangers lead the way. That’s their motto.

My husband: Don’t you think historians lead the way though?

“So give us a little preview of the drama to come—do you have any plans that include scheming, conning, sabotage, or dueling?”

Erica: Oh, well, our children are part of that plan—we’re going to have ninja ranger rock-throwing babies. Our gang of children will beat Steve and Steph’s offspring into oblivion. And not just physically—also intellectually. They will beat them in wealth, beauty, smarts, and strength. Their names will be: Ranger #1, Ranger #2, Ranger #3 and so forth. Steve and Steph, be afraid. It’s all part of the master plan.

Erica puts up her dukes

……………………………………………………

STEVE

“How do you feel about your recent Race to the Altar victory?”

Steve: Haha! Completely not the first thing on my mind . . . but it does add to the excitement. You know, now that you mention it, it feels good.

“How do you plan on interacting with Erica as the loser in this contest?”

Steve: Rub it in a little. I mean, I’ll be gracious–but I’ll always have the upper hand.

“What advice would you give to young things out there who are also contemplating engaging in such a Race?”

Steve: Mmmmmmm. . . win. And enjoy it, that’s the big thing. It happens once. Winning adds, but losing wouldn’t take away.

“Erica has said some Fighting Words about her gang of kids beating up your gang of kids; your response.”

Steve: Bring it. Bring it. Do you know what my kids are going to be named? Hunter, Gunner, Shooter, and Ace.

“Thanks Erica and Steve for fielding my questions. It’s all about good journalism on topics that are of general interest to the American public.”

………………………………………………

Well everyone, stay tuned for the ongoing drama—something tells me we haven’t seen the last of these ambitious racers! We’ll do follow up interviews in 10 years, once both couples have had the time to produce their own private gang of ruffian children. Who will win? Who will lose? And the burning question on all our minds–whose children will be the first to make it to Mars in a home-made space shuttle and colonize what some know as “The Red Planet”? We’ll be back after a brief decade.

In the meantime, enjoy these shots of Steve and Steph’s wedding:


Erica and Steve put aside their differences

Bookshelves at war: enter the combat zone

My husband is in a PhD program in history, and right now he has the summer “off”.  Being “off” in PhD-speak apparently means “doing a number of research trips to various and sundry archives”—just thought I’d clarify that. This week, he has gallivanted off to St Paul and Ann Arbor to do research for his massive paper, leaving me forlorn and forsaken to watch as many chick flicks as possible and try to resist the pull of a certain Chinese take-out place which I will tell you all about when the time is ripe. Believe me—you’re not ready to hear that story today. You may never be.

My husband and I met our first week of college during Freshman Orientation week. He majored in English and Philosophy, I majored in English and French. The whole “English” thing was a point of great bonding: we were both avid readers [insert: dorky/nerdy/geeky]. To this day, one of our ideas of a fun-filled and relaxing time is to curl up on the couch together with some good books. I even talked him into reading me to sleep most nights–we’re currently working through “The Horse and His Boy”, #5 in the Chronicles of Narnia.

As much as it seemed that we were of one mind on the subject of books, as the years have progressed and he has gone deeper and deeper into academics, our reading interests have violently split. As for me, I like fiction. It takes me to a rosy fantasy place where I can float off on downy clouds of imagination. . . unless I’m reading “The Jungle”, in which case it takes me to a horrifying meat-packing plant where peoples’ feet fall off , immigrants’ hopes are dashed, and everyone wants to kill themselves. But the point I’m trying to make is this: besides our night-time readings (which I have been selecting), I can’t remember the last work of fiction that my husband read. He seems to gravitate towards books with titles like “The Landscape of America: Workers versus Conglomerates and How They Shaped the Modernization of the Midwest”, or “The Industrious Wife: the Socio-Political Role of the Gendered Domestic Space in American Foreign Relations from December 1958 to March 1959”. Not just that, but he grabs these off the shelf for his pleasure reading!

If we had really dug deep in our pre-marital counseling sessions, we would have found that these reading habits actually started at a young age:

A young Jenna calmly reading her fiction

A small boy jealously guards a bookshelf chock-full of non-fiction. He is willing to use violence if necessary.

 Unfortunately, our pastor focused on questions about our conflict resolution style, family backgrounds, and our financial plan. Little did we all know, the point of divergence would turn out to be my unparalleled love of “Anne of Green Gables” vs. his matchless devotion to all things factual. If only we had worked through this early on! Beware young couples: try to discuss your feelings on “Anne of Green Gables” during your first premarital counseling session.

I like to describe our bookshelves as a war zone between fiction and non-fiction. It doesn’t help that my husband has divided them into two clear, separately alphabetized camps (really). You can tell that the fiction part is my territory because of all the girly colors on the spines–his side has the huge row of Kierkegaard’s collected works. Sometimes in the night there are thunderous explosions and flashes of light, and we know our books are at it again. C’mon guys, we’re trying to sleep! I reason with them. But they are natural-born enemies, and I frequently have to hightail it outta there so as not to get caught in the crossfire. After all, who wants a bullet in the buns at 2am?

Plus, the non-fiction camp has the Emperor from Star Wars on its side: he’s a tiny plastic figurine by day, but who knows what by night. And frankly, he’s a messed up guy and I wouldn’t put anything past him.

There is so much good fiction that I think my husband would enjoy—but it’s like “fiction” has become a bad word. What hope is there for his future? Will he ever settle in with a good novel again? Can our marriage survive such disparate views on “a good literary time”?

And then I picture him curled up on the couch reading things that I enjoy—like the Little House books. Or the Christy Miller books.

Enjoying some Christy Miller circa 2004

And then I quickly realize–wait, I don’t want him to read the Christy Miller books! In fact, the more I think about it, non-fiction is kind of . . . mmmm, manly. I guess you could say that my husband is working out his mental muscles—and that’s kind of hot. I’ve tried to read some of the books he enjoys, and my brain is sweating and panting by the 2nd paragraph. Whereas my reading experience is akin to sinking into a down comforter of decadent softness, his reading is like lifting barbells of facts. Really heavy barbells with dates and political concepts and timelines and … lots of frigging history.

A young boy already showing the signs of enjoying "lots of frigging history". The pipe says it all.

So this is a shout out to my husband: I respect your choice of non-fiction over fiction: it’s hot. Come home soon. End of story.