Eulogy: Alfred Charles Meyer

I’m not an expert on my dad, but I can tell you a few stories that will give you a pretty clear picture of what we have lost and what heaven has gained with his passing.

First of all, we know that dad and mom had the most perfect of marriages, and never had an argument in 64 years, one month, and one week of wedded bliss—or at least, not one that they would admit to. Their marriage was a union of best friends, and they always presented a united front in parenting us five kids. This meant that sometimes they were both wrong.

Dad had some fun dating an identical twin. You’d have to look pretty close at mom and her twin, my Aunt Jean, to tell the difference. Somebody once asked dad, “When you go to pick Joyce up for a date, how do you know you’ve got the right twin?” and dad said, “Who cares? They’re both cute.” Mom hated that story. Probably still does.

Dad was not a believer when he first started dating his cute girlfriend, Joyce. After they had dated awhile, mom told him she could not go out with him any more unless he came to church with her. So he did, and he fell under the spell of the great preacher Donald Grey Barnhouse at Tenth Presbyterian Church in Philadelphia. He heard the gospel, and believed it, and turned his life over to Jesus.

Dad loved to tell the story of how Pop-Pop, mom’s father, gave his permission for dad to marry her. Pop-Pop said he would not give his permission until dad went to Bible college for one year, so mom and dad both enrolled in classes at Philadelphia College of Bible. Dad ended up continuing there not for one year, or two, or three—but for nine years. That nine years laid the foundation for 40 more years of Bible study, and an unshakable faith.

Not only did mom’s influence bring dad to the gospel, but she took good care of him in every other way as well—and even at the very end of his life, as he held her hand in the Intensive Care Unit at Grandview hospital, he wanted to make sure she knew how much he loved her. “I love you, Daddy,” she said to him, and even though his voice was weak and blocked by a tube down his throat, we could all hear him say, “I love you, sweetheart.”

Dad was not a perfect parent, and each of his five children is messed up in his or her own way. But we don’t need him to be perfect to remember him with deep love and admiration, and miss him. He was ahead of his time as a hands-on dad who changed diapers and did housework. He would load all of us into the car on a summer Saturday morning, pack the cooler with sandwiches, fill the thermos with sweet iced tea, and drive us to Ocean City for a day on the beach. Every time he’d bring his garden spade and dig a giant sea turtle in the wet sand, and kids would come from up and down the beach to admire it and climb on it. The day on the beach would be followed by an evening on the boardwalk with bumper cars, skee-ball, Taylor’s pork roll, and salt water taffy.

I’m grateful for these kinds of growing-up memories of my dad. There are other images of dad emblazoned in my mind as well: Dad pulling weeds out of the yard, muttering about “bodacious dandelions” the whole time. Dad playing ping-pong with us in the basement. And then, in December, setting up what we called The Platform—that’s Platform with a capital P—a flat plywood table, with trains and winter scenery and battery-powered racecars with hand-held controllers. Dad setting up the artificial white Christmas tree year after year until it was actually sort of yellow, controlled by the kind of frugality comes from living through the Great Depression.

If you knew dad for very long, you learned that his faith was his top priority. I often found him, in his bedroom, on his knees, praying. Or he was sitting in his chair, reading his Bible, and perhaps referring to a devotional guide. He made some notes about his preferences for how we would remember him after he was gone, and these notes included a reference to I Corinthians 15. This chapter contains an eloquent summary of the gospel: Christ died for our sins. He was buried, and he was raised on the third day. And then this: “By the grace of God I am what I am,” Paul wrote, “and his grace toward me was not in vain.”

Maybe dad was thinking of this chapter in his last hours. He was resting peacefully; his eyes were closed. Mark said, “I wonder what he’s thinking about.” I leaned over Dad and asked him, “Hey Dad, Markie wants to know what you’re thinking about.”

He opened his eyes and looked in mine and said, “The cross.” Maybe he was thinking of these verses in I Corinthians 15:

For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written:

 “Death is swallowed up in victory.”

 “O death, where is your victory?

  O death, where is your sting?”

Later that same day I asked him, “Dad, are you looking forward to seeing Jesus?” and he answered without hesitating: “Amen.”

Anniversary

What greater thing is there for two human souls
than to feel that they are joined together to strengthen
each other in all labor, to minister to each other in all sorrow,
to share with each other in all gladness,
to be one with each other in the
silent, unspoken memories?
                                                 --George Eliot

"What am I going to do with you?" I would ask Mr. Peevie, before he became Mr. Peevie.

"Fall in love with me and marry me," he would answer every time.  So I did.  I fell in love with him because he laughed at my jokes and made me laugh; he always made me feel like I was the smartest and most beautiful woman in the room; and the way he loved me pointed me to Jesus.

We were impecunious graduate students for whom a ten-year-old Chevy and a stereo symbolized great wealth; and my parents still had one child in college and a house that had lost a significant chunk of its market value--so we did the wedding on the cheap.  My borrowed wedding dress had to be altered for my narrow shoulders and slightly-less-than-average height.  The bridesmaids did not complain (much) about their green polyester skirts and floral blouses with lace around the square necklines, sewn by a local seamstress.

My pastor and my cousin performed the ceremony together, with my pastor doing the homily (I remember something about not fighting over who takes out the trash, but that's it) and my cousin officiated the vows at our church in downtown Tulsa, Oklahoma.  We were, I think, my cousin's first wedding as an ordained minister.  It seems to have taken.  So far.

The cake-and-punch-and-little-bowls-of-nuts reception in the church fellowship hall was like something out of Lake Wobegon.  After the photos and circulating and smiling and cake-eating, we headed to my parents' home for cold cuts and ambrosia salad with family and close friends.  It was simple and sweet and slightly dorky.

The next day we headed off to Cancun for our honeymoon.  We both promptly got sick with Montezuma's Revenge, and spent the next week fighting for the bathroom.  "Things can only get better from here!" we assured each other; and they have.

Thanks for 26 deliriously happy years together, honey.  Being married to you is a most excellent gift.  Here is another little poem in honor of me being the lucky one:

To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup
Whenever you're wrong, admit it;
Whenever you're right, shut up.
                                              --Ogden Nash

Separated at Birth

Mr. Peevie and I were both futzing around in the bathroom the other day, and I was looking at my astonishingly attractive reflection in the mirror.

"I think I look a lot like the Cowardly Lion," I said. "Do you think so?"

The correct answer, as you might guess, would be an immediate negative: "No, honey, of course not. You're beautiful." But my lawfully wedded husband, my constant friend, my faithful partner, who has too much integrity for his own good, did not take the safe route.

"Hold on a sec," he said, "Let me get my glasses."

Oh, I held on a sec, all right. And another, and another.

Then: "You have to get your glasses in order to tell whether I look like the Cowardly Lion or not?" I asked, not quite believing that our marriage had survived 25+ years.

"Well, I can't see a thing!" he said, digging himself in deeper.

"Think about it, dear," I said, patiently-but-with-an-edge. "I'm asking you if I look like the Cowardly Lion. The COWARDLY LION."

"Oh," he said, penitently. "No, of course not." Good boy.

"But wait!" I said, changing the rules, as I am allowed to do, thus keeping Mr. Peevie off-balance and on the defensive (an excellent marital tactic for you newlyweds out there), "look at this!" I put on my best Cowardly Lion face. "Now look!" He looked.

"OH!" he exclaimed. "OH! HAHAHAHA!"

"See?" I said, "I DO look like the Cowardly Lion!"

At this point, Mr. Peevie was so confused that he walked out of the bathroom and mixed himself a dirty martini.

But what do you think? Vote in the comments. Does it look like the Cowardly Lion and I were separated at birth?

Love and Marriage

For those of you out there who are starting to believe that marriage sucks, that it always ends unhappily, that the mere fact that Drew Peterson could find four women who wanted to marry him indicates an inherent problem with the institution: don't throw out the baby with the banns.

Yes, it appears to be true that marriage is in trouble. The stats on marriage are not hopeful: The divorce rate (3.6 per 1000) is half that of the marriage rate (7.5 per 1000), according to the CDC. (And why this is a statistic that the Centers for Disease Control collects, I have no idea.)

Please note: This does NOT mean that half of all marriages end in divorce. It means that half as many divorces occur every year as marriages--but that's not the same thing. Do I need to spell it out? Fine. If 1000 people get married, and 500 people get divorced, the divorces don't only come from the 1000 new marriages, but from all current existing marriages. Get it?

So articles like this and this are just not getting it right. This NY Times piece posits that "the statistic is virtually useless in understanding divorce rates." Nevertheless, as The Straight Dope points out, the stats are not good on the marriage survival rate even when they are interpreted logically.

Marriage is hard work even when you're married to a near-perfect specimen, as I am; and the problem is, most of us don't want to work that hard.

Fortunately, Mr. Peevie is willing to work very, very hard to make our marriage blissful; and so far (cross your fingers) he has not indicated that he will be seeking to replace me with a younger, cuter, lower-maintenance model. (Version, not runway.)

Here's a teensy anecdote that illustrates how sometimes, one person is giving, patient and peace-making, and the other person tends slightly toward cluelessness, over-reaction, misinterpretation, and general irascibility:

The day started with ten "Mommies" before 7:30 a.m. "Mommy, can you get me breakfast?" "Mommy, I need help with my math homework!" (Note: I don't do well on math after 10 a.m., let alone before 8 a.m.) "Mommy, what's the temperature going to be?" "Mommy, come look at my ginormous poop!" etc., etc.

Between 3 p.m. and 10 p.m., the "Mommies" expanded exponentially, as though there were 16 kids in the house and not just three. I was sick and tired, SICK and TIRED, of people needing something from me.

Then Mr. Peevie came home late after running a 3.5 mile race downtown and snagging some BBQ at the DePaul post-race chow tent. One of the first things he said were these words: "Did you wash any darks today?"

An innocent question, no? But what I heard was, "I need something from you. I need you to make sure my dark socks are clean." What I heard, my therapist cleverly pointed out to me, was, "Mommy!"

I detonated. "Everybody needs a piece of me!" I snapped. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did wash darks today. In fact, I washed four frickin' loads of laundry, plus two loads of dishes, plus..."

Poor Mr. Peevie just looked at me. "E. Peevie, I just want to know..." he started.

"Yes, I washed your damn clothes!" I martyred, "and I'll go downstairs right this very second to make sure they're done in the dryer!"

Mr. Peevie, God bless him, chose not to repay evil with evil. This is what makes a marriage work: one person being a peacemaker when the other person is unreasonable and a teensy bit insane.

"Honey," he said gently, "I really just wanted to know the answer to the question. I'm not asking you to do anything for me." Talk about a soft answer turning away wrath! This guy lives the Bible, Old Testament and New, every day with me. Marriage is hard work--for him; but for me, it's easy. (Most of the time.)

His words threw sand on the blazing campfire of my hostility, and finally, I heard what he was really saying instead of what I heard through the filter of the irritating context of my day.

"Um, yes, I did wash darks today," I said cautiously. "I don't remember if the last load is in the washer or the dryer, though."

"OK," said my hero, "Thanks. I'll go check in the laundry room." See how easy that was?

In every marriage more than a week old, there are grounds for divorce. The trick is to find, and continue to find, grounds for marriage. --Robert Anderson, Solitaire and Double Solitaire

Love seems the swiftest but it is the slowest of all growths. No man or woman really knows what perfect love is until they have been married a quarter of a century. ~Mark Twain

Happy 25th anniversary, sweetheart. (Almost two weeks late...)

A Portrait of Unmitigated Wedded Bliss

A trivial meme about my marriage:

What are your middle names?
Brian and Christine. Guess which is which.

How long have you been together?
Married 25 years in May. I know, right? It's like we were twelve when we hooked up.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
We met in September(ish) of 1982 and hung out for maybe six or seven months before we started dating. At least, that's how I remember it. Mr. Peevie is more clear about these things.

Who asked whom out?
Mr. Peevie asked me out. Our first date was at Redwood West, the most expensive restaurant in town. Dinner cost $30, including tip.

When the waiter seated us, I chose the seat with my back to the wall, facing the restaurant, because I like to observe people. Mr. Peevie sat across from me. I apologized for taking the best seat, and said, "I took the seat with the best view," and he said, looking into my eyes, "I think I have the seat with the best view." Awww!

How old are each of you?
I'm 47, he's 48. But he's way older, maturity-wise, and way younger, fitness-wise.

Whose siblings do you see the most?
We see Mr. Peevie's one brother more than we see any of my four siblings, because we take a vacation every summer with his family. My four sibs and I are spread out in three time zones, four states, two countries, and two continents; and we only see each other when we all visit my parents in Pennsylvania.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
Sometimes money, sometimes kids. If we had more money and fewer kids, we'd never argue.

Did you go to the same school?
Undergrad, no. Mr. Peevie got a good education from a liberal arts college (DePauw), and I got an adequate education from a state school (Oklahoma State). But grad school, yes: we both got master's degrees from OSU.

Are you from the same home town?
No. Mr. Peevie grew up in Peoria and Pekin, Illinois. I spent my formative years in Warminster, PA before being dragged, kicking and screaming, to Broken Arrow, OK for my last two years of high school, where I promptly developed a prejudice against southern accents.

Who is smarter?
Probably Mr. Peevie, who retains information like a person on Prednisone retains water. He can also figure things out and solve problems way better than I can. I can think on my feet and talk circles around him, though, which sometimes makes it seem like I'm smarter--but really, I just do great PR for myself.

Who is the most sensitive?
Mr. Peevie and I are both very sensitive about my feelings.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
Vaughn's Pub, on Northwest Highway, with half-price email coupons, almost once a week.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
London, for our 20th anniversary.

Who has the craziest exes?
Me. Mr. P. doesn't have any. And after 25 years, really, neither do I.

Who has the worst temper?
Me. We like to say, when Mommy's happy, everybody's happy, and when Mommy's not happy, nobody's happy.

Who does the cooking?
Mostly me, although Mr. Peevie has been known to make a mean grilled cheese sandwich from time to time, and can be counted on to prepare a bubbly roux for the making of gravy.

Who is the neat-freak?
You're kidding, right? Neither of us, but Mr. Peevie usually gets disgusted first.

Who is more stubborn?
Me.

Who hogs the bed?
Me, but it's by mutual agreement. Mr. P. gets one-third, I get two-thirds. It works for us.

Who wakes up earlier?
Mr. P. gets up at the crack of dawn, and I sleep until well after I should be up and getting the kids ready for school.

Where was your first date?
Redwood West; see above.

Who is more jealous?
Neither of us feels the need to be jealous.

How long did it take to get serious?
Me or him? It took Mr. P about six days, and it took me about six months. I know that sounds creepy and arrogant, but I think it's close to the truth.

Who eats more?
Definitely me.

Who does the laundry?
It turns out that I have some, let's say, firm preferences (some might say neuroses) about how our laundry gets done, and I don't like other people putting bras in the dryer, forgetting when sweaters need to be laid flat instead of tumbled, not pre-treating stains, etc. etc.

Who's better with the computer?
Mr. Peevie is a tech-whisperer. He talks to computers gently and gets them to do what he wants. I just get pissed when something goes wrong, and start swearing.

Who drives when you are together?
Me. Always me, which is fine with both of us. Well, 99 percent of the time, unless we're driving on country roads, in which case Mr. P likes to take a turn.

Anyone else want to play the marriage meme?

Wedding Gifts, 25 Years Later

Mr. Peevie and I still have items we received as wedding gifts in use in our household--nearly 25 years later.

The most useful and still-in-good-shape gifts are in regular use in our kitchen. A block of good knives and most of a 12-piece set of Revere pots and pans see frequent action (except for the one I burned to a crisp when I fell asleep while boiling eggs, and woke up to a house filled with smoke and the fire alarm screeching). Also, stainless flatware, a cute quiche plate, and a full set of 12 every-day place settings from my former tennis partner, Sandra Dee. (Sandra Dee, had a set of dishes for every season. She generously gave us her fall dishes, which we still use for all four seasons.)

Two brown casserole dishes still pull their weight in kitchen duty out of the original batch of, I'm guessing, four or five that we received. (Brown casserole dishes were all the rage 25 years ago, apparently.) One of them is missing a lid, however, so I guess technically, we've got 1.5 brown casserole dishes.

The most worn-out wedding gift that's still in the rotation is a raggedy kelly green bath towel. Why have we not re-purposed this worn-out rag that's practically transparent in places? And by "re-purposed" I mean tossed, burned, or buried? Because we're cheap, that's why!

Actually, we have re-purposed it, from bath duty to pool duty. But our closet is also filled with about 10 beach towels, and of course no one chooses to dry off with a threadbare towel from the days of yore when bath towels were barely bigger than washcloths.

That does it. I'm putting it into the rag bin for car washes and spill clean-ups.

One of the most hilarious and still-useful gifts that Mr. Peevie and I received when we married at the not-yet-ripe young ages of 22 and 23 was a drill-and-bit set. Mr. Peevie finally felt included when we opened this one, and has drilled many times since then.

Hee! "Drilled."

Oh, and I can't forget the three or four cookbooks we received--and especially My Favorite Recipes, where I've collected 25 years worth of recipes, like sangria, baked scallops, and Grandma Moore's homemade noodles. I really should just convert all these recipes to an electronic file somewhere--but that sounds like too much effort.

When I started this post I was pondering that mangy green towel, and wondering if we had very many wedding gifts still in use. Turns out there are at least a dozen! How about you? What's the longest time you've kept and used a wedding gift? Not doilies embroidered with your names and wedding date, but things you actually put to use?

One Hand, One Heart

Remember, honey? Remember Jim and Susan singing "One Hand, One Heart" from West Side Story at our wedding 24 blissful (ahem) years ago? Does it make you misty to hear these lyrics?

Make of our hands one hand, make of our hearts one heart, make of our vows one last vow: Only death will part us now.

Make of our lives one life, day after day, one life.

Now it begins, now we start: one hand, one heart! Even death won't part us now. Make of our lives one life, day after day, one life. Now it begins, now we start: one hand, one heart! Even death won't part us now.

Me neither. It's a pretty song, but it doesn't really say much. I'd probably choose a different song today to capture our epic love and hopeful future. But my point--and I do have one--is that I'm incredibly glad we hooked up.

I could not have known back then, in my youthful ignorance, that you would turn out to be the kind of husband and father that other women only dream about. I thought I knew; but then again, I thought I knew a lot of things that it turns out I was wrong about. (We won't go into that here--but now that I think about it, that would be interesting, wouldn't it, to talk about the things we were so sure we were right about 20 or 25 years ago, and now it turns out we couldn't have been more wrong?)

And here's the thing: I can't even take any credit for having chosen well. I'm not saying it was luck, of course. I'm much too Presbyterian for that. I'm going with grace, with really and truly undeserved favor. God gave me the best gift that God can give a human being on this pock-marked earth: a spouse who is my my spiritual soulmate, my best friend, my partner in the richest sense of the word.

Henry Ford said, "My best friend is the one who brings out the best in me." You're my best friend; you bring out the best in me, by overlooking or quickly forgiving my faults and weaknesses and inadequacies, and by telling me over and over again what you love and like and appreciate about me.

(OK, hold on. I'm feeling a bit verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves...)

All right, I'm back. You know that DeBeers commercial that always makes me teary? The one where you see an older couple walking along a path, and then a younger couple overtakes them, passes them, and then the woman looks back over her shoulder at them, and you see the older couple smiling and holding hands? I used to identify with the younger couple, but now I'm getting closer to seeing myself, seeing us, in the older couple. We're not there yet--they're probably in their 70s or 80s, probably married for 50 years or so. But we're halfway there, anniversary-wise.

I'm looking forward to the next 24 years, holding hands with you, and laughing.

Misogyny Wears a Skirt

Let's jump into the fray that Dr. Laura Schlessinger kicked off on Monday when she said she holds women partially responsible for their husbands' infidelity. She was not completely wrong in all of her comments on the Today Show. Here's what she got right:

• Wives and husbands share equal responsibility for keeping their marriages happy and healthy.
  
• Conversely, wives and husbands share responsibility when their marriages experience troubled times. It's rarely one person's fault when a marriage falters or fails.
  
• Mental and emotional illness in one partner changes the balance of responsibility for marital trouble.

But Dr. Laura was completely wrong when she said "frequently when there is infidelity in marriage, both spouses share the blame" and also when she said if the wife is not being supportive enough, "then she's contributing to his wrong choice." I would like to know, Dr. Laura, what is "supportive enough," exactly? How do you measure it? If he's tempted, does that automatically indicate that her level of support is insufficient?

And also, at what point does the wife assume this partial blame? Is she picking up the phone and dialing the escort service? Is she driving him to the Mayflower Hotel? Is she turning down the covers and putting a mint on the pillow?

Yes, a wife shares responsibility for keeping a marriage happy and healthy. But she does not share responsibility for the specific choices that her husband makes if the marriage is not happy and healthy. It's on him alone if he chooses to call a hooker instead of a marriage counselor, or if he chooses to let his innocent office flirtation turn into something not so innocent.

In the context of the Eliot Spitzer brouhaha, Dr. Laura also said, "I hold women responsible for tossing out perfectly good men by not treating them with the love and kindness and respect and attention they need." First of all, who died and left Dr. Laura in charge, with the authority to hold anyone responsible for anything, except her own obnoxious self?

And second, "tossing out perfectly good men"? Seriously? Sometimes misogyny wears a skirt.

This statement reeks of double standard, even in the context of the whole Today Show conversation, which included one or two grudging allusions to a husband's responsibility. The Schlessinger Theorem equates a wife's giving an undefined but insufficient amount of love, kindness, respect and attention to her husband with a wife "tossing out" her husband.

Essentially, she's providing philandering husbands everywhere with a ready-made excuse: my wife drove me to it.

Dr. L is also insulting men by suggesting that they have such a tenuous hold on their character, maturity, and emotional security that if they don't get enough compliments from their wives they will automatically fall prey to the temptation of adultery.

I guess misogyny's fraternal twin, misanthropy, wears a matching skirt.

My Love Language

As you know from prior posts, I am unashamed to admit that my Love Language is gifts. I love presents--they make me feel loved and appreciated. They don't have to cost a lot of money, they don't have to be diamond-studded, they don't have to have a fancy logo. Just the idea that someone thinks enough of me to take the time to pick out something because they think I'll enjoy it is enough to bring a tear to my eye and a smile to my face.

My friend J-Ro (sorry; couldn't resist) does this for me frequently. She'll pick up a little box of chocolates, or a fancy bottle of lemonade, or some hand lotion, put it into a pretty gift bag with some tissue paper, and give me a gift for absolutely no reason! I know, right? We should all be such thoughtful friends. (Now that I think about it, what have I done for her lately? Oh, yeah, there was that time I promised to pick up her daughter from after-care and then TOTALLY FORGOT to do it.)

Eeeeenyway. Another person with really excellent gift-giving skills is...wait for it...of course you know; you're not surprised...it's Mr. Peevie!

On our first Christmas as young marrieds, Mr. Peevie gave me a pair of hiking boots that I still own and wear to this day. I had always wanted that style of boots--do you remember them? The big clunky brown ones with the red laces, like lumberjack boots?--and I probably wept when I saw them. I slept with one arm around them that Christmas night--seriously, I did.

He's given many perfect gifts in the years since then--sometimes for an occasion, sometimes for none. One time it was an entire outfit, including coordinated accessories, from Talbot's. Often it's something little but precisely right--like a book about language or a box of notecards.

(Just so you don't think that I'm a total schlub in the gift-giving department, you should know that I've come up with some memorable gifts for him as well: A visit to a taping of his favorite TV chef, The Frugal Gourmet; a Tissot Rock Watch that took me three months to save up for and which left him speechless; and romantic overnight stay at a downtown hotel. With me.)

Astonishingly, after two decades, Mr. P just keeps getting better and better at gift-giving. Last week he went to Las Vegas on "business," leaving me to handle three kids (one with the flu, one kid with sock bumps, and one with multiple, conflicting after-school commitments), my work, my own mysterious hip ailment, and the household on my own. I understand that millions of single parents do this all the time--but remember, I AM SPOILED! I am used to having a helpful, supportive, fully-engaged partner around to help in the daily struggles, chores, chauffeuring, refereeing, homework assisting, and general functioning of the household.

When he returned, I asked him how much he spent on gambling--not because I wanted to bust him, but merely because I was curious.

"Nothing," he said.

"Nothing?" I asked, disbelieving. "Not even twenty bucks at craps?" He's done the research. He knows that the house has the smallest advantage at craps compared to all the other games, and he occasionally plays the safest bets.

"Nope, nothing," he reiterated.

"Not even ten bucks on the wheel?"

"Nope."

"Not even a quarter in a slot machine?" I pressed.

"No. Nothing. Nada," he said, simply. "I spent my gambling budget on presents for you and the kids."

And that right there, my friends, says it all. It is entirely possible that he is the only person in the entire history of Las Vegas to stay there for four days without spending even one lonely quarter on gambling.

"I just didn't feel like it," he said.

But he did feel like bringing home perfect presents for his little family--all of whom share my genetic disposition toward fondness for presents. He bought In-N-Out Burger t-shirts for the kids, plus little personalized mementos from the M&M store. Mr. Peevie consulted his colleague about a gift for me, and she suggested he buy me something that I wouldn't buy for myself. Mr. Peevie knows that I don't really go for jewely, and I'm currently in an "accessorizing with handbags" phase. So here's what he brought home for me:

Is that not the most perfect gift for a husband to bring his wife from Las Vegas? I practically wept. It's so adorable! It's so fashionable! It's so shiny!

I love that he was so obviously thinking of me, even when he was surrounded by so many distractions--shows, gambling, food, beverages, and women of ill repute. I love that he pays attention.

I'm not trying to make every other woman in the world jealous. Really, I'm not. I'm just grateful to be so loved and cared for.

Also, I consider these "Mr. Peevie posts" to be a kind of public service, like a primer for husbands and boyfriends, and for potential husbands and boyfriends.

10 Things I Love. No, Eleven.

I know of people who have "hate" lists: a list of things they hate, like being cut off in traffic, or paying taxes, or Japanese beetles. That's a tiny bit negative for me. I'd rather offer a list of ten excellent things to love in this imperfect world--no, I mean eleven excellent things:

1. Forgiveness. Man, do I screw up. It's such a relief to know that someone invented forgiveness for people like me.

2. Humility. Not the obsequious Uriah Heep kind, where people act all, "Oh, I'm not really THAT cute" or "Oh, it was nothing, really" after they've given you a kidney. I'm talking about the real kind of humility, that's like an internal glow that makes you want to be near someone, because humility makes her transparent and honest about who she really is, and you know you can be real around her.

3. Books. So many books, so little time. Novels, biographies, mysteries, cartoon collections, philosophy, the Bible. I'm currently reading politics, young adult lit, classics, a prayer classic, and a book about books, called The Top Ten: Writers Pick Their Favorite Books.

4. My children. Today they have been on my last nerve, with their noise and bickering and hyperactivity. But I could not imagine life without them. I know it's a cliche, but parenting them is the best thing I have ever done or will ever do.

5. The sun. Being out in the sun, even if it's cold outside, makes me feel hopeful and happy and optimistic.

6. Words. What is a word, really? It's merely the sound, or the combination of sounds, that we put to a specific concept. But to know and use exactly the right word in the right way at the right time is a rare gift. I hope I get that gift once or twice in my lifetime.

7. Meeting new people. Every person you will meet has an interesting story, and if you ask the right questions, you can elicit a tale of hope, or endurance, or good triumphing over evil, or cleverness. This amazes me every single time.

8. The Internet. Oh. My. Word. Seriously--is there anything better in the whole world than the Internet? It's unlimited access to information, to people, to the world!

9. Diet Coke. OK, so I'm addicted. I love the "Aaaaaahhhhh" that you get with the first sip. I drink it for breakfast. So shoot me--I'm culinarily shallow.

10. Friendship. I'm lucky enough to be married to my best friend. And you know what they say--you don't get to pick your family, but you get to pick your friends. "Who finds a faithful friend, finds a treasure." I am wealthy beyond imagination.

11. Humor. Does anything feel better than a laugh that makes you double over and fall on the floor? OK, well maybe some things do, like fiiiiiinally being able to pee after having to hold it for a super-long time, and some other things not mentionable on a rated PG blog. But I love a funny story, a clever joke, a dry sense of humor, a wacky situation, a hilarious line from a funny-enough-to-watch-over-and-over-again movie like Elf. I love to laugh.

What do you love?

Letters: On Being Jesus

Dear M.,

I am always willing to talk to C. about spiritual things, but I will not force that conversation on her or on anyone else. I used to do that to people, and I regret doing so. I think it's generally counter-productive, serving only to damage the relationship rather than to bring someone closer to God.

I feel like my job with C. is just to love her exactly the way she is -- which at the moment means not going to church, not willing to talk about spiritual things. God is responsible for changing her heart and her mind, not me. I believe that God is more likely to use me in her life if I do everything I can to have a good, open relationship with her.

Also, I think the focus on external things and on "Christian" activities, like going to church and talking about God, is misplaced. I don't want this to sound harsh, and I'm afraid it does--but I do want to be honest with you, M. C. does not need us to talk about Jesus to her--C. needs us to be Jesus to her.

What does that mean, you ask? Well, I'm glad you asked. Here's my take on it: Being Jesus to C. means

--don't try to change her. Love her and accept her exactly the way she is right now. Before you say anything to C., ask yourself, "Am I saying this because I want her to change?" If so, don't say it.

Trying to change another person is not only feckless, but it can also be destructive to the other person and to the relationship. I know from experience--it puts the person on the defensive. The only way to change another person is to pray for them--but sometimes prayer "backfires", and the one who prays is the one who changes. God is sneaky that way.

--serve her. Serve her in big things and little things. Helping her set up her craft room is a great example of serving her. You knew what was important to her, and you put your time and energy into making it happen. Good job with that! Serving her with little things sometimes means talking less and listening more, or picking up a crafting magazine on the way home from work, or putting gas in her car before she even asks.

Mr. Peevie is truly wonderful at these kinds of humble, daily acts of service. It makes me fall in love with him all over again. Every morning he re-sets the alarm clock to wake me up at the right time. When I cook for him, he's grateful and appreciative. If I need something ironed, he'll iron it for me. He buys me small gifts because he knows how much I love presents. (That's my love language--gifts.)

(What's C.'s love language? http://www.fivelovelanguages.com/30sec.html)

You know what--it's almost midnight, and I'm tired and losing focus. More on this later.

Fondly,

E. Peevie

Wuv, twu wuv

Mr. Peevie and I celebrate 23 years of unmitigated wedded bliss today. No, really. OK, maybe not completely unmitigated, but pretty darn close.

Mr. Peevie himself arranged our romantic celebration. We met at the lovely Monaco Hotel, and shortly after we checked in the hotel staff sent up a bottle of wine and a note congratulating us on our anniversary. How totally sweet is that? I could not resist making fun of Mr. Peevie when he showed up at the hotel pulling a crammed suitcase just for our little overnighter. A whole suitcase! The same one he took to London for 10 days. Sometimes he is such a girl.

We had a complimentary glass of wine in the hotel lobby before walking over to the China Grill for dinner. I have resolved to keep experimenting with marinating and grilling skirt steak until I achieve a China Grill-esque result.

Next, we headed over to the Oriental Theatre to see Wicked. We had "loge" seats, and I was expecting some kind of sled, but then M.P. said, "Not luge, dork, loge." Turns out "loge" refers to some kind of balcony alcove, with room for two chairs. The seats were right in the front of the balcony, but the view of stage left was slightly obstructed. Or maybe it was stage right.

Anyway, Wicked was wicked. Entertaining, energetic, big. Elphaba had a beautiful, powerful voice. She held one note so long some people thought it was intermission, got up to go to the bathroom, and when they came back, she was still holding it. It's a wonder her face didn't turn blue. Which would have been an interesting combination with her awesomely green skin.

Actually, speaking of color coordination, the costuming was fabulous. Ozian native garb apparently favors green, turquoise, and aqua, with lots of layers and shapes. Brilliant.

We had grand plans to participate in some of the Looptopia activities after the show, but when we realized it was after 11, we dragged our lame, middle-aged selves back to the hotel and watched M*A*S*H reruns. After all these years, we can still quote entire scenes to each other, and M*A*S*H quotes frequently show up in our conversation. ("It's nice to be nice to the nice.")

Seriously, this strikes me as such a perfect anniversary event. For years early in our marriage, Mr. Peevie and I would watch M*A*S*H reruns together every night. I remember we went to the M*A*S*H show finale party at somebody's barn when we were still dating.

Anyway, the next morning, I slept in until 10 a.m., while Mr. P. got up (relatively) early to get his work-out in. We meandered up Michigan Avenue looking for a place to eat breakfast/lunch, and along the way we saw these guys:




They were completely spray-painted silver. I'm talking hair, skin, clothes, accessories, shoes. Everything was silver. They posed, completely still, until somebody put some money in their bucket, at which point they'd go robotic.

Tough way to earn a living. One guy dropped a carrot into the bin, and Tin Man, staying in character and keeping his cool, scooped it up and tossed it at him.

I think I started to miss the kids sometime after lunch. We stopped by the Virgin store to pick up gifts for the kids--boy, did that place make me feel anachronistic. Oh, and I was very excited that Mr. P. bought me the Firefly DVDs. He truly knows the way to a girl's heart. We headed home at four after a little more walking and shopping.

I could not have asked for a more wonderful husband or a more wonderful anniversary weekend. I am grateful.