to that poor, long-suffering guy...

...I feel he was not sufficiently warned.

This entry is dedicated to Tyler (I frequently refer to him as "the boy".  It's habit.  I don't know why).

I had a total epiphany the other day about just how strange his life must be now that I am consistently in it.  Seriously.  He gets to deal with some exceedingly odd behavior and applaud me for nearly insignificant achievements.  I mean, I change what kind of person I want to be on nearly a daily basis.  One day I am quirky and wildly unique, the next I am a bitingly sarcastic wit, and the next I am some deep, brooding, artistic soul.  In reality (for the person I am living with), these translate into one day listening to music that is not popular for good reason and pretending to like things like vegan tempah/hummus/free-range sardine salad, the next trying way too hard to be funny at occasionally uncalled-for times (like pretty much anyone from a bad sitcom), and the next growing unresponsive to normal conversation prompts and instead launching into a monologue about some new form of soul-searching that I think I have made up, but actually comes from a book my entire class read in college.

Or, you know, high school.

Tyler comes home to me standing on our futon in the middle of the living room belting out "Phantom of the Opera" lyrics to our tv screen.  He has encountered me wearing things around the house that even hipsters would never put together (and he has seen me wearing clothing out in public that even he says should have been destroyed by fire long ago).  He makes gourmet meals for us all the time and then has to heap excessive praise on me for successfully making soup.  He copes with the risk of me transforming into a weeping, irrational, harpy-beast with one glass of wine (It's usually either harpy-beast or giggly Calli.  Giggly Calli is much more fun).

I did try to warn him that I was strange before we got married.  I really did.  I told him I was messy and disorganized, that my moods are mercurial even to me, that I get alternately clingy and isolated.  I warned him that I can cook about three or four items successfully and one of them is grilled cheese (ok, not always successfully.  One of our pans still has a bread-shaped scorch mark on it).  He knew that I watch strange tv shows and musicals, that I read A LOT, that I eat strange foods (since we have been married, there has not been a single time where our fridge has not been stocked with pickles), and that the concept of attractive clothing confuses me.  I think he was just unaware of the extent of the strangeness.  Maybe he chalked my descriptions up to my tendency to exaggerate (news to everyone, I am sure).

He has bravely borne it all.  The only expression of frustration I receive is the sigh-and-head-shake combo and even that is infrequent.  I feel as if I would not have that much patience or that well-developed a sense of humor if I had to deal with me.  Maybe it's his baby-sitting experience.

Unlike me, his natural reaction to this is not complete terror.

At any rate, I am issuing a thank-you.  Thank you, Tyler, for not outright laughing at me when I am confused by grad-school conversations and sit to the side, my head cocked at an angle like an overwhelmed puppy.  Thank you for making me delicious meals and pretending that the few meals I make are equally brilliant and delicious.  Thank you for giving me completely undue praise whenever the (extremely) rare cleaning mood strikes and I guilt myself into cleaning up my extreme mess.  Thank you for letting me sing loudly when I feel like it and not reminding me that the neighbors might think we are killing cats in our apartment based on the noises coming through the walls.  Thank you for encouraging me to go make friends when I feel like sitting in the house and drowning in back episodes of a new (to me) tv show like alias or buffy (and thank you for not mocking me too severely for watching things like alias or buffy).

You are awesome.

Now it is Buffy time.