It's somewhat axiomatic that holidays become more divisive the moment you marry, and moreso if your spouse's family and your own do not live in similar areas of the country. Since marrying, Jeff and I have become privy to the marital practice known as Holiday Juggling, to wit:

"We'll visit your family on holiday X, and my family on holiday Y, and then we'll alternate holidays each year…"…so that we never spend a lot of time with each family, and manage to pacify both. It's frustrating and requires a lot of driving time, to say the least. My parents live in rural south central Arkansas; his parents live in rural northwestern Alabama. We are an hour and a half away from Jeff's parents, and seven and a half hours from mine.

Today, I was the solitary Scrabble girl. I kissed Jeff goodbye and shooed him out the door to go work the marching contest back at his alma mater, then proceeded to work on a new design.

Come, silly familiar boy, and we'll be off
to the land of Indian food and exotic movies
(at least for tonight). We'll tell revisions
of stories told before; your workplace,
my writing, the cats, weekend plans.

Then you'll drive me across town, in a truck
which is gathering years in the same way
that we're collecting grey hairs. We'll park
in the back, to avoid the gauche teenagers,

and duck inside for our secret rendezvous
with a Kevin Spacey movie. Do you remember
our first movie? I don't; I liked moviegoing
with you better once we settled out which

Several days afterward, I found your snifter
lying in the cranny between sofa and table,
having come to rest next to the wall
after being brushed aside during the party.

The cats hadn't bothered it—yet—
but the dust was starting to stick, feather-
soft, to the rounded rim and fluted bowl.

I reached out to it, one breast pressed flat
against the side of the couch as my fingers
danced tantalizingly close, closer, and finally
brought the elusive glassware within reach.

Victorious, I cupped it with my fingers
and brought it gently to my nose, in an airy

"But if you're one of those unfortunate people whose teeth are set on edge by an ungrammatical phrase—a disability like perfect pitch, which renders so much wonderful music unenjoyable…"
—Garrison Keillor, in a column for Salon.com

So John shows up with this absolutely adorable technicolor dinosaur hat. I squeal over it. He brings it to the bowling alley. At this point he's only met Kat and Geof, but he's not terrified yet. Good sign. He is squealed over and generally adored (it is the wondergeek way) but the hat…