Throwback Thursday ll: The Limits of Togetherness

Despite my best intentions to write something fresh for this post, I seem to have failed spectacularly. Between writers block, spring cleaning, and the upcoming marriage of El Noble and his lovely Betsy (more on that later) I haven’t had the time or the energy to write anything but checks and to do lists! With that in mind–and in the spirit of romance–I beg your forgiveness and invite you to enjoy the paranoid classic from 2013: The Limits of Togetherness!

Cheers, and enjoy! #i’mnotlazy #motherofthegroom

I love the Jarhead the pieces and enjoy spending time with him. But there are some things the two of us will never do together. Ever.

I’m not talking about boring things like competitive bird watching or icky things like traveling to a foreign land to sample latest recipes involving beetles and grubs. Rather, I’m referring to certain sports and outdoor activities that, frankly, I would be more inclined to do with a complete stranger or a mortal enemy than with the man who promised to love me until death do us part.

The first thought that comes to my mind is rock climbing. This is primarily because of that blasted commercial where the woman proudly tells us how she and her significant other spent their credit card reward points on equipment to scale a giant tower of sandstone instead of buying a diamond. I saw that spot and thought, well that would be fun—for the one who comes back to a pile of insurance money.

I feel the same way about activities involving open water. I have no problems with the idea of a trip that involves the two of us cheerily casting our lines from shore at a bustling campground, or dropping a line from the end of a dock surrounded by plenty of witnesses. But there is no way I’m going out on a lake or the ocean—be it on a yacht or a cruise liner—with the man I love when the only thing standing between him and freedom is a railing.

I know what you’re thinking: That woman is paranoid. Although I prefer to call it precautious, I also know what I’m like to live with and that some days, even in the face of hard evidence, a jury might be inclined to acquit.

I am also wise to the fact that if he really wanted to get rid of me there are plenty of ways he could do it right here at home and without breaking a sweat. Things like poison and acid come to mind (well, maybe not to yours; but I’m a fan of Breaking Bad, so, there you have it) as do murder for hire and a seemingly random but ultimately diversionary sniper attacks (thank you, John Allen Mohammed and Lee Boyd Malvo.)

But what’s great about poison, acid, contract killings, and sniper attacks is that they generally look suspicious and, therefore, tend to arouse the curiosity of law enforcement. This, I’m given to understand, is a big deterrent for those wanting to get rid of someone without having to experience any unpleasant consequences like lethal injection or lifetime incarceration. Thus, I feel pretty safe in my own home and going about my daily business.

Things like fishing and rock climbing, on the other hand, are different. Because they already carry the element of danger—and because accidents really DO happen—if you want to get out of a long term relationship without looking like the bad guy, they’re practically doing the work for you.

“But the Jarhead doesn’t have reason to get rid of you,” you might be saying to yourself. “And he’s a good guy, so you can trust him.”

Yep. And I’ll just bet that’s about what Scott Peterson was banking on when he invited his wife to get into that boat—assuming she did so of her own accord. And I’m pretty sure all the other men and women who have ever died at the hands of their own ostensibly loving spouses were under the exact same mistaken impression.

And so it goes that I will not be taking any fishing or rock climbing trips with the Jarhead any time soon. Nor will I be joining him on any hunting trips, or caving expeditions—that is, unless we go with a group and I have made absolutely certain he doesn’t have the financial means to have paid them ALL for their silence.

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Road Trippin’ VII: Breaking Bad in Rapid City

The journey through eastern Montana and Wyoming was less of an amusement park nightmare than that from Idaho to Helena. It was, however, punctuated with gunfire, as the Jarhead had to point and say, “Pew, pew, pew” at every deer and antelope we saw along the way. Thank goodness you can’t damage your vocal chords by pretending to shoot a gun every twenty seconds or so with stopping to reload or the man would still be hoarse these two months hence.

I can understand his need to amuse himself. Compared to everything we’d seen in the days previous, the scenery here was pretty boring. Add to that the fact that we’d been through these parts during our trip to Yellowstone in 2011, and this leg of the trip was bound to be a bit of a yawn. As the mighty hunter was firing his imaginary weapon, I kept wishing one of the animals would play along and drop to the ground just so I could see the Jarhead’s reaction.

Despite the lack of sheer cliffs, hairpin curves, and other deadly geographical features, the day was not without danger. In fact, as we realized just before lunchtime, we had put ourselves at risk of suffering a great calamity by choosing Rapid City as our next destination. At first blush, that may not sound like a recipe for disaster, but as it was Sunday, September 15^th and we were still in the Mountain Time zone, we needed to get to a hotel room and in front of a TV by 7pm, or we were going to miss the 3^rd to last episode of Breaking Bad!

With that in mind, we had to step up our game. No more cow-towing to the speed limit. No more non-emergent potty breaks. It was time to combine stops, go hungry, and—if necessary—fashion a relief pitcher from a plastic bottle or paper beverage cup. Meanwhile, there was the matter of lodging, which we had planned to choose upon rolling into town and leisurely comparing the options based on their rewards programs and proximity to eating establishments. Upon realizing the gravity of the situation, however, we ditched that plan and—GULP—turned on mobile data.

Thanks to these measures, we found a hotel almost as soon as we hit the city limits. With nine minutes to spare, the Jarhead let me out at the lobby door so I could get registered while he parked the truck. Excited at our luck, I raced to the front desk only to find a sign stating that the staff person was away assisting another guest and thanking me for my patience! Relax, I told myself over and over. Someone will be along shortly.  

But after three l-o-n-g minutes I started to panic. What if the staff person didn’t get back in time? What if they had no vacancies? And where is the Jarhead?? How long does it take to park a @#%* truck??? Desperate, I pulled out my phone intending to have him swing back by the lobby so we could try the place across the street, but it was too late. He was already walking in the door.

“Where on earth did you park?” I asked him as gently as I could muster. “And where are our bags?”

“In the truck near the back entrance,” he replied. “That door will probably be closer to our room, which will make it easier for me to bring them in during the first commercial.”

“Good thinking,” I admitted. “Assuming we can actually get a room here.”

Just then, the hotel staffer returned to the front desk and, after ascertaining that, in fact, we were there to rent a room—as opposed to, say, buy a car or have our portrait painted—she began to play with her computer. As the seconds ticked by, I became convinced that we were going to miss the opening scene and have to skip the 7pm airing in favor of the 9pm replay.

After what seemed like an eternity, she finally finished typing and stepped over to the printer to retrieve our registration forms. As she went over all the details—room number, check out time, pool and fitness center hours, blah, blah, blah—I  found myself wanting to scream, “In case you couldn’t tell from our Priority Member status, we have done this before! So give me the @#$%* keys and our complimentary, fresh baked, chewy chocolate chunk cookies and let’s get on with it!”

Fortunately, I didn’t have to resort to such rudeness. Spotting our keycards on the counter, the Jarhead seized one, handed it to me, and nodded for me to head to the room, where I quickly turned on the TV and cued it up to AMC. With nanoseconds to spare, he arrived at the room and joined me at the foot of the bed. A couple of commercials later we had ordered our pizza, retrieved our bags and cocktail fixins from the truck, and were chilling in our skivvies.

And that’s about where we stayed—until the next morning, when we set off on our seventh and final day of the journey, which would take us home…