Two Letters

In spring of 2007, we eagerly checked our mailbox every day after work, waiting for written acceptance from the University of Kentucky. We had been told to expect an official offer as soon as January. By February the contents of my stomach would flip whenever I tentatively approached the mailbox. Sifting through bills, newsletters, and mass mailings, I would reach the bottom of the stack and bite my lip in disappointment.

The missing letter became a tired conversation topic, the kind of thing that friends and family don’t know whether to bring up. If one doesn’t mention it, one might appear uncaring, but to mention it brings a tired sigh and the hundredth repetition of a hopeful pleasantry. No, it hasn’t come yet, but we’re looking for it every day. Which is why Craig’s dad, on his way to birthday steak and strawberry pie at Marie Callendar’s, casually dropped: “So, the letter still hasn’t come yet, huh?”

“Actually, it has,” we replied. On the afternoon of March 22nd, we opened the mailbox to find a substantial, linen-weave envelope addressed to Craig, postmarked Lexington, Kentucky. My fingers itched to rip it open, shredding the perfect crosshatches and revealing the news. Craig, perhaps sensing my intent, preferred to ascertain its contents the responsible way. Ever meticulous, he patiently snipped the very edge off the side of the envelope and drew out its contents: two thick pages of university cardstock. It had obviously been ripped off the laser printer and set into the envelope before it dried. Ghost images of the type appeared on the blank sides where the pages had been folded in on themselves. I tried to read them backwards, beating Craig to the news as he read aloud:

We are pleased to inform you that…

You can always tell the content of an important letter by the first line. Letters don’t start out positive and then tell you what you don’t want to hear. That would be macabre:

We are pleased to inform you that the university has assembled a research fellowship team for the 2007-2008 school year! Unfortunately, you aren’t in it. Too bad, really…

No, acceptance letters are short and straightforward. And so, with a sentence, our future was decided. By summer, we would be moving to Lexington. In the fall, Craig would start classes and research at the university. I would resign my job immediately and try to find work in Lexington as well.

And I did, breathlessly soon. On my twenty-eighth birthday, May 25, 2007, our plane touched down in Lexington ten minutes after midnight. Feeling slightly dazed, I sat in the back of a cab redolent with cigarette smoke and watched the signature white picket fences shuttle by the window as we drove to our hotel. Most horse farms paint their fences black for economy now, but I hope that Calumet Farms always maintains its distinctive white.

Our plane was late, hence the cab ride that took us to our hotel and picked us up six hours later to return to the airport for our rental car. As the taxi pulled into the parking lot of our hotel, we stared at the electric sign of the Spearmint Rhino Gentleman’s Club, conveniently located just across the street. Since our hotel lobby was closed, we had to slip our credit card through a hole in the (bullet proof?) glass at the night window. Is all of Lexington this seedy? I wondered.

I lay awake for most of the night, trying to form a perception of Lexington. It’s a strange feeling to move to a place you’ve never seen, and stranger still to see a place for the first time and know you’ll live there.

Thankfully, my lasting impression of Lexington was formed at first light of the next morning (still my birthday). Thick beams of yellow light spilled through the edges of the blackout curtains, a thousand times more intense than the gas-leak brown glare of a California spring day. Though a drought was reported, plants from lawns to roadside weeds were unremittingly green. The peaceful, pleasant morning seemed a benediction.

I dressed quickly and put on my Birkenstocks, which the high humidity had left damp from the previous night’s sweat. Then we went down the hall to partake of one of my favorite comforts of the weary traveler: the Free Continental Breakfast. As I ate, too many Krispy Kreme donuts with orange juice and coffee, I let the previous days irritations relax from my body. I had new fish to fry.

As I sat in the cab, I tried not to think of the time change (seven a.m. in Lexington is four a.m. in California). Instead, I wondered what the panel at my ten o’clock interview would think of me. The cab still smelled like cigarette smoke, and to this day I wonder if it absorbed into my suit and made people think I’d had a pre-conference smoke to calm my nerves. My eyes were red from the two hours sleep I’d managed. Even worse, the climate difference caused my full, billowing skirt to adhere to my nylons like a second skin, revealing the shape of my legs. I hoped the interview committee would look past my slight dishevelment, instead of suggesting that I return to the Spearmint Rhino and get a job there.

I survived my morning interview, and another one that afternoon. Each led to a job offer, and two days later I could count on a position in the fall. Thankfully, people that do my job are perennially in short supply, which makes me marketable, if not prestigious. We were a married couple moving for two jobs. There would be no unemployment, nerves, and months of uncertainty. And, from all indications, we were moving to a place I would like. I was glad.

When Craig’s California job was at its worst, I prayed that I could take some of his frustration and exhaustion myself. I wished I was the one with the bad job, and I am sure that part of me pridefully thought I could handle it better than he did. A mere four hours into the Lexington job, my English-major’s critical eye pondered the crisp edge of irony that had invaded my situation. I hated the job immediately. First-day jitters had nothing to do with it. Though I would improve, make friends, and gain insight, I knew I would hate this job until the moment I left.

It wasn’t the salary, although I snorted derisively when I found out I’d make sixteen thousand dollars less than my previous work year (about what I earned my first year in California). Nor was it my coworkers, though over the course of the year I was insulted racially and sexually, berated in front of a group in a meeting, expected to do the impossible, and denied the tools that would allow me to do what I could. It wasn’t even the hours, although my workdays were increased by an hour each and many days went by allowing me only eight minutes to eat lunch and no coffee breaks. It was all of those things, plus the spastic, desperate quality that life takes on when most of your days are spent in a place you hate doing a job you don’t want to do.

I fantasized about quitting immediately, as a coworker that started at the same time did. The job was terrible, but unemployment could be worse. New to the area, I needed the benefits even more than the salary. So I kept getting up in the morning and going back there, day after day. I fantasized about the past, when I got up in the morning to make a difference, to do something I believed in, or even just to get there and have coffee and talk to people I liked.

I suppose I reacted in all of the usual ways, the ones I could remember well after enduring them from my husband for the four long years he stayed with an unbearable job. Morning conversations with Craig became maudlin.

Bye Hon. Have a good day!

Yeah. That would be a first.

I didn’t sleep much the first month, lost eight pounds the second month, and got migraine headaches that left me in bed every weekend of the third month. And on the morning of the third day, I woke up with the unshakeable conviction that I needed to go to graduate school.

In late January, just as I was dreading my workload resuming after the Christmas break, I also walked a thick file to UK, ascending to the eleventh story of the Patterson offices and handing it to a flustered secretary who pretended she hadn’t just been reclining at her desk and stuffing her face with potato chips. Thus, my own waiting game began.

And ended. Unceremoniously.

On the first Monday in May, I opened the mailbox to remove my own letter from UK. It was light, insubstantial. The secretary that stuffed the letter (in between more potato chips, I assume) hadn’t even bothered to seal the flap. Acceptance letters are short; rejections are shorter. I knew what the single sentence would say even before I unfolded it.

We regret to inform you that…

The letter invited me to direct any inquiries to a member of the department I hadn’t heard of. Probably the new hire, seeing that the contact who’d have to spend the next few weeks mouthing platitudes to sniveling rejects couldn’t possibly be high on the seniority list. I won’t contact him. Why would I?

We would’ve loved to have you, and there wasn’t a single thing wrong with your application. Unfortunately, there were just too many great applications this year. If you’d just try back next year, I’m sure that we would…

I don’t think that having the poor man read me a canned consolation speech would soothe my wounded pride. And it’s good to have one’s pride wounded, once in a while. My generation is way too self-confident. We grew up hearing that we could be whatever we wanted to be. Maybe some of us could. When I was five, I wanted to be a ballerina. I had flat feet, no sense of balance, and a chubby little girl tummy that never really went away.

So, I overcame those obstacles, right? I shushed the scoffers, did my best, and reached the goal? Dreamed the impossible dream? Fade in lights, cue music?

No, I didn’t. I gave up after two lousy Saturday classes.

So, I always regret that one shining moment that could’ve been mine?

Wrong again. I grew up to be 5’10’’, and I weigh 150 pounds on a good day. My sense of balance got worse, not better. I am mildly athletic and in good physical shape, but I could never have been a ballerina. I count myself a better person for not having wasted another minute on a dream that needed to die.

My graduate school dream, the one that kept me ignoring the metallic taste of dread every morning this spring and going up the brick stairwell to my office, died too. Quickly, really. A week afterwards I started making calls about new positions. Four days later I was offered a better job. Two weeks after that I walked down the brick stairwell for the last time. I still get a frisson of pleasure when I remember that I never have to go back there. My new position starts soon, and I look forward to it. From all indications, I'll really enjoy it.

After finishing our first year here, we now consider ourselves residents. We just returned from vacation, and we told people that we are from Kentucky. We've been to new places, made new friends, and had many experiences. It's all too much to be defined by just the two letters.

Pretty in Pink (Times Three)

In literature there are all kinds of curses. A girl is cursed with the inability to contradict a command and must go through life doing everything people tell her to. A man is cursed at birth to kill his father and marry his mother. My curse was bestowed upon my marriage. I thought I was rid of it when I moved, but it followed me even here, the albatross around my neck.

I am plagued with pink bathrooms.

I'm not really big on pink. I was, when I was little. A "girly" girl, I wore pink through junior high when it wasn't popular. Esprit was putting out coordinates in bold blocks and stripes. Guess jeans were stonewashed gray. Everyone wanted a U-Men sweatshirt in primary red, yellow, and blue. In the midst of all this, my fluffy pink sweatshirt with puff painted kittycats screamed "geek". At my junior high, the biggest insult paid was the ungrammatical but scathing "Your momma dresses you funny." I got that one daily.

In high school, I changed. I don't remember if my more stylish friends staged an intervention. Maybe I looked in the mirror one morning and decided it was time for a makeover. I laced up Timberland hiking boots and buttoned my forest green thermal henley. I bought cargo pants in three different earth tones. I stripped my pink wallpaper off the walls and bought a burgundy and blue plaid bedspread. Never again will I actually like pink, I thought.

Ironically, pink is now a very popular color, even for junior high. Many of my Modesto students styled themselves "hardcore", a relative of punk and gothic whose members wear black and pink together. Another example is Happy Bunny, a brand which may feature a cheery hot pink t-shirt with a cute white bunny on the front and an unexpectedly rude caption, like "You're stupid and that's sad," or "It's funny how you think I'm listening." Even Victoria's Secret has a huge line called Pink, though how a pair of ratty sweats with P-I-N-K appliqued across the butt in big letters is supposed to be sexy escapes me.

Seven years later, pink caught up to me. Craig and I came home from our honeymoon to a thousand square foot rental house with a 50’s style pink tub, so vivid it practically glowed in the dark. I don't own it, I thought. There's nothing I can do about it. I shrugged and added pink curtains. I ignorantly left them hanging when we bought a house. Things went from bad to worse. We traded a pink tub for a master bathroom with standing shower, sink and even floor impossibly tiled in the same peach-rose-petal. Pink.

It would have cost about four thousand dollars to retile our small bathroom. Coating the tile with white epoxy was risky; the new surface was prone to chip, scratch, and stain. Like the pink tub, the pink tile was there to stay. After months of deliberating how best to downplay the rather feminine color scheme, I settled on a complementary wall color: a waxy, sepal green that shifted the focus from the overwhelming pink confection of the tile. A wallpaper border of bright Icelandic poppies with healthy green stems tied the two colors into a harmonious whole. I spent another morning stripping layers of grime off the pink floor with chemicals so strong that smelling them made my nose hairs vibrate. The clean floor became obscured by the largest off-white bathroom rug I could find, and beige towels added neutrality to the colorful atmosphere.

I was proud of that bathroom, and when my father-in-law came by to drop off some produce from the garden, I invited him in to see it. “No,” he declined, “that’s all right. I know what the bathroom looks like.”

“But I just redecorated it!” I said brightly.

“Well, I know what it looked like before,” he reasoned. I then realized that most men I know care considerably less than most women I know about home décor. Craig is no exception. Six months into our marriage, I brought home a standing lamp, positioned it above a living room chair, and waited to see what Craig would think about my new addition to the nest. He sat down on the chair, picked up the book, and turned on the lamp so he could see it better.

“Well, what do you think?” I trilled proudly, spreading my arms wide in the universal “ta-DAHHH” gesture.

“Of what?” He didn’t know. He looked around the room, then closely at me. He ran through the usual suspects, starting at “You got a new haircut?” and ending with “You rearranged the furniture?” Eventually I took pity on him and informed him that the lamp whose rays illuminated his page had never been there before.

“Oh. Really?” he said. My mom, my best friend, my neighbor, any woman I know would have noticed the lamp and commented on its effect immediately upon entering the room. Men may notice the absence of light, but when it is present the source is not a cause for concern. It matters not if the lamp is made out of the same metal as the other lamps in the room (which is a must for me) or if it is pleasingly “in style.” Fiat lux, not fiat luxury. Go figure.

As we left our Ripon house behind, I was even somewhat nostalgic about leaving my pink bathroom. Not enough to want to repeat it, understand. When the realtor showed us a trim, cute brick house, I had a feeling it would be ours almost as soon as we walked in the door. It had all the features I wanted. Cozy nine-foot ceilings, no sweeping cathedral rooms that are a nightmare to paint and heat. Lots of windows, a big change from our tiny, dark house that sported a grand total of four. Best of all, three spacious bathrooms. One sandstone, one puce, and one milk chocolate. All brown. Not one of them pink.

The three bathrooms didn't all stay brown. Our master suite is a light blue, and I've bought white paint for the downstairs bathroom, though I haven't painted that yet. Last week, I took advantage of some time off work to paint the upstairs bathroom. I'm very picky about my bathrooms. That old rental with the pink tub also developed a case of toxic mildew due to a badly ventilated bathroom. Ever since, I demand that the walls be coated with mildew resistant low sheen paint. I was slightly annoyed at having to paint the upstairs bathroom the same color, but I didn't want the walls to soften up from repeated water use.

I donned my painting clothes, put on my Les Miserables CD, and let myself lapse into a meditative state as I stroked up and down the walls. Bathrooms are deceptively hard to paint; the sharp corners and numerous obstacles make it hard to use a roller. The worst part is the area behind the commode. To really cover it, you need to straddle the toilet with your upper body while wrapping both arms around it. It's closer than I ever am to the great white throne, even when throwing up. Bathrooms have one advantage, though. They have great acoustics, and with nobody listening you can sing whatever part you want: Jean Valjean, Javert, Eponine, Fantine, Marius, or all in one! As I brushed the walls and bent my body into unusual positions, I sang:

I dreamed a dream in time gone by, when hope was high and life worth living...

Imagine my horror when Valspar New Penny, a nice, coppery brown we picked out, dried a cheery, warm color I am very familiar with. I couldn't believe my eyes. My bathroom was Congratulations-It's-A-Girl Pink.

How did this happen, I wailed inwardly. Even when my bathroom isn't pink, I have to paint it pink with my own hand? I held my cardboard sample of New Penny up to the wall. It didn't match. Not even close. I took the cans and samples back to Lowe's, and held them up to the technician at the paint counter.

"I've painted with this brand for five years and I've never had a color not be true. It's supposed to be brown," I explained.

"Ohhh, that's pink," pointed out the customer behind me in line. I felt vindicated.

Lowe's admitted the error nonchalantly. "Yeah, one of our mixers doesn't "do" browns very well," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"I wish I had known that before I spent twelve hours painting my bathroom a brown that turned out to be pink," I retorted ironically. "What do I do about my garage? I bought enough to do both rooms. I can have a pink bathroom, but not a pink garage!"

He offered a refund, and I took it. I try to console my extremely cheap self with the free paint job. Strangely enough, having a pink bathroom again is actually starting to grow on me. Craig likes it. He says it's a cheerful color. It is, I suppose.

It could be MUCH worse. I could wake up one morning and find out I've been turned into a cockroach. As curses go, this is pretty lightweight.

Spring Forward

Getting up in the morning is murder these days. Right after time change, Lexington skies stay dark until 7:30 a.m., longer if it’s overcast. For three weeks I’ve been hitting the snooze button, an annoying habit I can’t seem to shake. On weekends, my light sensitive brain usually brings me to reluctant consciousness before seven. Lately, I can sleep in blissful ignorance until eight or nine. Then Monday comes, and I’d swear it was two in the morning the way my body refuses to cooperate.

I can blame the time zone. Lexington is on the late side of Eastern Standard. We see dawn after everyone else. Overall, it's worth the dark mornings to be the last to see sunset as well. As days become noticeably longer, I smile in anticipation. I remember long, languid summer evenings when daylight lingers hours after the day’s heat.

In early March I spied a cat digging around in the new grass in the back yard. He turned sideways, and I realized the flattened, pudgy shape was not a cat at all. It was a groundhog, the first I’d ever seen. Why didn't he show up on February Second, his very own holiday? We could've thrown him a party! That would have been a memorable milestone of our first real winter.

Nevertheless, Craig and I are charmed by this unusual local wildlife, and named it Gordon. Gordon the groundhog.

When the plumber came to fix our icemaker, he was less impressed. "Your yard will get all torn up if you don't do something about the pregnant groundhog," he observed, laconically looking out our window as he installed a new faucet.

Oops. We just thought he was a pudge. Gordon became Gordina. We still see her partaking of tender new plants in our backyard, probably the ones high in Folic Acid.

Gordina is welcome to all the plants she wants, as long as they are weeds. Our grass is coming slowly back to life, but the weeds are beating it by a mile. We have each and every plant we resodded our California lawn to get rid of: dandelions, pursillane, baby tears, thistles, clover, and more I can’t name. In October, I observed a landscape maintenance crew strewing straw all over a lawn in my neighborhood. How odd, I thought, they are really going all out to decorate for Halloween. I later learned that this local custom protects a newly seeded lawn, trapping in moisture and preventing seed from washing away. We probably should’ve done that.

All through the winter, I gloried in the break from mowing the lawn. California lawns still need to be mowed all winter, albeit only bimonthly. We haven’t mowed our back yard since we moved in. In California, we could probably hide a car in the resulting overgrowth. Here, where yards grow dormant in the winter, we just have slightly scraggly grass.

A few weeks ago, a friend remarked that the tree border behind our back fence must be really pretty in the summer. "Yes, it must be," I agreed, laughing because it's my house and I have no idea how it will look in the summer. We are lucky to have trees that provide shade, a privacy barrier, and Kentucky fall colors. Best of all, they don't drop ten cubic yards of leaves every winter like the Liquid Amber tree we left behind. We just have to be vigilant for Poison Oak, another Kentucky native. I dread the red-and-yellow leaves, and the red, pimply skin rash that results from the slightest touch.

I'm looking forward to sitting on the back deck, an unheard-of luxury by California standards, in the glider I put together for Craig's birthday one year. I want to get more deck furniture, but I have to be mindful of the high winds that can accompany spring storms. Last week, a friend with a deck similar to ours looked out her back window to catch her barbecue grill in the act of walking itself down the stairs.

Yesterday the Bradford pear tree in our front yard exploded in delicate, white blossoms. One by one, trees around the neighborhood are doing the same. I just hope the exuberance doesn’t give way to a late freeze. Last April, a Lexington freeze killed delicate trees and plants that started to bloom and leaf out.

I even feel the coming of spring differently this year. I suppose I had to feel a real winter to truly appreciate it. The temperature shot past 65 degrees yesterday. It felt like the middle of summer to me. When I lived in California, I used to vacation in colder places, and marvel at the way Seattle residents wore flip flops and no coats in the pouring rain, or my Midwestern cousins gleefully ran around the yard in shorts in sixty degree weather. I wonder if I am going to turn into one of those people. I imagine myself wearing tank tops and short skirts when I go home in December, fanning myself on a sweltering sixty degree Christmas Eve.

In California, winter meant pansies in the front yard planters, and spring meant it was time to plant the marigolds that would last all summer. I don't know if either flower is well suited to the different climate zone, but I think its time for a change.

We've decided on petunias. The crinkly pinks and purples I see at the nursery would complement the red brick of our house. I wonder if they're good to eat. Not for me, of course, but Gordina needs her vitamins. Yesterday, we saw two fluffy bodies creeping through our back yard, so I guess we do have a Gordon the groundhog as well. I think I have a baby name book somewhere. We better start looking up names for the blessed event. I wonder how many groundhogs are in a litter. Do you call it a litter, or is it something else? At least we know what letter of the alphabet the names should be.

Things I Can't Live Without

Craig and I have made a few gastronomic concessions to the grad school lifestyle. We drink at least a pot of coffee a day now. Typical, I am told. We also eat out at least once a week, a luxury we didn’t allow ourselves in California. We were immediately able to find food we liked here, too.

There are many culinary consolations to living in Kentucky, despite the lack of a decent Mexican food restaurant. Now, I find that if we ever moved away, I’d dread leaving these new favorites behind.

1. Texas Roadhouse

I don’t consider myself a fan of Southwestern cuisine. I know it’s a little weird that our favorite restaurant in Lexington purports to serve food from another state. It’s also by no means rare, a chain of eateries that just hasn’t reached to the west coast. It’s a little hokey, a little cheesy, and a LOT fattening. I can’t help it. I’m willing to drive 20 minutes to Richmond Road to taste pulled pork on homemade bread.

In the unbelievably stressful first month of my job, I had to unwind at Texas Roadhouse after work at least once a week. After picking up Craig, I’d turn right instead of left onto Limestone Avenue, looking at Craig with one eyebrow cocked invitingly, issuing an invitation he couldn’t refuse. We’d travel back through downtown to Main Street, which runs into Richmond Avenue. I’d salivate in the driver’s seat as we drove past Ashland (Henry Clay’s estate) and streets of historic homes. Finally, we’d catch sight of the familiar, wood-slatted building, iconic in a termite-fearing town full of aluminum siding.

Craig would hold the door open for me. I’d step into the slightly darkened interior, noting the rough-wood paneled walls and breathing a sigh of relief. One thing I enjoy, though it's not unique to this chain, is the bucket of peanuts on every table. Patrons are encouraged to eat the peanuts and throw the shells on the floor. Somehow, the inherent rebellion in this messy appetizer is very enjoyable. Pretty soon I am guzzling water, too, as the peanuts coat my tongue with powdery salt.

After a while, I tire of the peanuts and grab a homemade roll and smear it with cinnamon butter. They have the best bread, and a glance through the window into the kitchen lets you watch it made on-site. Craig and I have a simple test that separates a great waiter from the rest. A great waiter will bring more homemade bread when the first basket is almost finished. I admit that we always try to finish off the bread so we can take home the contents of a second basket. The low-carb lifestyle definitely misses out here.

My favorite dinner there is a pulled pork sandwich, served on another large, homemade roll and topped with an onion ring. The meal is traditionally served with steak fries, which are nice and potato-ey, not fried unrecognizably into processed food. If not in the mood, I like to substitute a baked sweet potato, which can be ordered with toasted marshmallows on top. My other standby is the portobello mushroom chicken. I’m usually so sated with bread and peanuts that I don’t get through dinner, so I pack the leftovers in a box to take home.

I no longer need my peanut fix once a week. I am pleased to report that we even obstained once for an uncharacteristic six weeks. My mom, whose peanut allergy would send her into anaphylaxis just smelling Texas Roadhouse, visited us. We abstained for her sake. After she left, the looming Christmas holiday encouraged us to refrain from calorie binges other than the ones spontaneously cropping up at work, school, and church. By the time the craving seized me again, it was January. I am thankful that my obsession has subsided into a normal affinity, but I could really go for a roll with cinnamon butter right now.

2. Culver's

As we drove through Wisconson this summer, we thought our journey through the land of dairy would be incomplete without stopping for ice cream. Ironically, we scanned the highway for a hundred miles and never saw a local ice cream store. We kept seeing, instead, gyms and exercise equipment vendors, leading us to believe that Wisconsonians, a class of people I’d always imagined pudgy, had given up ice cream in favor of the modern fitness craze (sniff!).

We finally exited the highway and ordered iced coffees at a Borders bookstore. At least they had milk in them, I guess. We commented to the barista on the noted absence of frozen desserts.

“Well there is Culver’s,” he replied.

“What’s that?” I wondered.

“It’s like McDonalds, only better.”

The statement intrigued me. I’m not really a fan, so just about any hamburger could fit that description. I began to watch for the blue-and-white signs on the highway, which seemed to pop up every ten miles, announcing “Culver’s. Frozen Custard. Butterburgers.”

What could a frozen custard be? I wondered. My mind conjured up pictures of Mexican flan and pudding, frozen rock-hard and served on a plate. It didn’t seem “like McDonalds, only better” to me.

Back in Lexington, I noticed a Culver’s next door to our bank. We immediately decided to eat there, hoping to discover why Wisconsonians had evidently given up ice cream in favor of it. We scanned the menu, whose colorful panels filled an entire wall. I noted a burger with Wisconson Swiss cheese (aha!) and Craig chose a cod sandwich. Our food came warm to our table, and a choice of side dishes meant that we were not out of luck if not in the mood for fries.

The blue and white décor was typical of the chain, but in Lexington the interior was naturally decorated with Wildcats memorabilia. I nodded approvingly, taking in the open, airy structure and comfortable booths. Unlike most fast food restaurants, whose cramped interiors and hard, plastic booths are difficult to endure for more than a few minutes, the store actually invited you to sit and eat.

As we ate, the manager circulated the dining room, chatting with patrons and pausing to empty the trash bins. I nodded approvingly, remembering my first year of work in a food environment. In a business where a set-in-granite hierarchy usually gives the dirty tasks to the caste of new workers, it’s nice to see a manager humbling himself to get things done. He ended up coming to our table and chatting with us, noting that we were new to his store and asking if we were new to the area.

At the manager’s recommendation, I ignored my full stomach and ordered dessert. The caramel cashew sundae, our first taste of the famous frozen custard, remains Craig’s favorite to this day. He, though declining to order dessert, ate more of it than I did. When it came, there were two cherries on top. Someone had noticed that I had ordered one dessert for a table of two and assumed we’d be sharing.

“We don’t like to cause any marital disagreements,” quipped a worker. “We’ll make sure that BOTH of you get a cherry if you want one.” I’m not a big fan of maraschino cherries, which don’t really taste like food, but I was nevertheless touched.

I’m not saying that Culver’s influenced where we bought a house, exactly, but I was happy that we found a house that kept us nice and close. Every time I go to the bank or the grocery store, I pass the store and note the flavor of the day. If it’s good, maybe oreo cheesecake or heath bar swirl, I’ll pull up to the drive thru and order “a hot fudge ice cream sundae with the flavor of the day.” The operator repeats my order back to me, replacing the “ice cream” with “frozen custard”, the emphasis in his voice betraying pride.

Well, they should be proud. They’re WAY better than McDonalds.

3. Spalding's Bakery

Any local will tell you that Spalding's is special. Even the way they say 'Spaullll-dinggs', stretching it out slowly like saliva is suddenly making it hard to talk, hints that this is no ordinary bakery. When I told my coworkers I had never been there, they took me immediately.

From the outside, it looks worse than unassuming. A shoebox set down onto an empty lot, devoid of decoration or even a fancy sign. The parking lot is small and square. The second thing I noticed is that the parking lot was crammed full. An empty truck even sat in the right turn lane, its wheels tilted crazily.

Inside, I took a whiff and was immediately transported back to childhood. My great-grandmother, Elsie Meth, made wonderful homemade doughnuts. I was unable to help much because of the hot oil, but I was allowed to watch. She would fold a small dish of leftover mashed potatoes into the dough, and I would marvel that something so prosaic could be the secret ingredient in a heavenly pastry. She would bend over the oil, lifting doughnuts out with a forked server and dipping them in sugar. After she was done, the counter would be full of the characteristic shapes, and also strange, lumpy, peaky dough bits that she would fry as well. Somehow, I liked the contorted, leftover shapes the best.

My daydreams continued to have free rein, because the line at Spauldings tends to be long. The lone clerk is unabashedly unrushed. He must have the lowest blood pressure in town. If he doesn't eat too many doughnuts, he'll live to be 100. I stood with my companions, breathing the heavenly smell and inching my way towards the antique silver cash register. I studied the black and white photos on the walls. Definitely a family business, and definitely around for a long time.

The display counters, also straight from the fifties, hold cakes, cookies, and a few specialty doughnuts. They don't disappear quickly, though. Everyone comes for the original glazed doughnuts, buying them up by the dozens. They don't really look like anything special. They aren't as perfectly round as Krispy Kremes or as evenly frosted as the ones in Meijer Foods. That doesn't matter.

I finally reached the front counter, paid for two original glazed, and blinked my eyes in amazement. A slight, grey-haired woman, slightly stooped and crinkly-skinned, came out of the back to hand me a white paper bag. It wasn't Grandma Elsie, but she looked like enough to be her sister.

In the car, I lifted out a doughnut and took a bite. Spaldings doughnuts are best eaten slowly, and my eyes usually close involuntarily in concentrated enjoyment. They're also so good that one is enough. One per sitting, that is. I've been back a few times, and I'm never disappointed.


4. Caribou Coffee

Did I say I wanted a Starbucks to move close to my house? If a Caribou Coffee did, I’d be ecstatic. It’s a similar coffee chain, just with a drinkable house blend. Starbucks is often criticized for their strong, sludgy house blend, so thick it coats the inside of a mug with an oily slick. Everything at Caribou Coffee is not only drinkable, but enjoyable.

I first noticed Caribou Coffee in North Dakota, a state we frequently visit because of family ties, and fell in love with the store over a caramel mocha. I try to time my coffee bean needs between the few places I see them, mainly the Minneapolis airport. When my plane was last delayed and an employee handed me a meal voucher, I tried to spend it all on coffee beans, but they wouldn’t let me.

“Coffee is a food!” I argued brightly. It didn’t work.

Their best blend is Obsidian, a dark, rich brew reminiscent of French roast. The beans smell smoky, which is slightly off-putting, but the coffee tastes sweet and smooth. I also buy a decaf blend, necessary for afternoon and evening drinking because of a familial tendency towards insomnia. The list is less robust, but the Fireside blend is very good.

Sadly, there are no Caribou Coffees in Lexington yet. There are five in Cincinnati, only an hour away. I hope that the chain, which started in the far North, will continue its southern expansion until it takes Kentucky by storm. If I could walk to the end of my street and order a Mint Mudslide Mocha, I’d be in coffee heaven. Until then, the UPS man brings me an occasional box of Caribou Coffee.

Three Things We Miss Most

“What do you miss most about California?” people ask sometimes.

If the question was not what but who, then of course the list would be long. We knew that it would be hard to stay in touch with family, and it is. When the home phone and then cell phones ring in quick succession, we know a family member is trying to call. We are getting used to redefining our connectedness, calling regularly, sending an occasional package, and buying plane tickets every-so-often.

As each month goes by, we must admit the answer to the common question is, “Not much.” We don’t miss the sound bites from the only celebrity-status governor in America. We grimace when “Ahh-nold”’s distinctive voice comments on immigration or presidential primaries on local radio. I’ve heard his two cents as often here as I’ve heard our own newly elected governor.

We don’t miss the house payment that made it possible to own half the house we do now for twice as much money. By California standards, we couldn’t hope to own the house we bought, even if we waited and saved for twenty years. We got married two years into the housing boom. We were saving for a down payment when housing prices were rising five thousand dollars a month. Three years later we were barely able to get into the market. Only a miracle allowed us to get out of it without losing money. Last summer, prices were falling twice as fast as they rose. I know that the house we live in wont appreciate in value much, by California standards. I don't care.

We especially don’t miss the health care crisis. Seven hundred dollars a month was deducted from my paycheck to pay for our benefits, and my employer matched that amount as well. Here Craig and I were added nonchalantly to our respective health plans at no monthly cost to ourselves. I grimaced at the fourteen thousand dollar pay cut I sustained when we moved here. When I got my first paycheck, I only took home about two hundred dollars less per month.

I could easily continue a shrill harangue on the pitfalls of Golden State living for several more pages, but that would be unseemly. It’s better to look forward, not backward. We love our life in Kentucky. However, in an occasional magnanimous mood, I admit there are things I miss about California. Strangely enough, the yearnings that steal up behind me on a languid Friday night are not for entertainment, weather, or sunny beaches.

I miss the food the most.

1. Jamba Juice

Being a non-drinker, I’d have to say that Jamba Juice smoothies were the “frozen concoction that helps me hang on.” The neon-colored blended drink bars started popping up in the Central Valley about three years ago. I stopped seeing the distinctive hot pink, orange, and lime swirl of their signs in Arizona, and sure enough, they aren’t big in the South.

The novelty napkins tout the healthfulness of downing a twenty-ounce drink as a meal replacement: “Your body is a temple. Littering is strictly prohibited.” I’d like to believe that they are healthy, but enjoying a dessert shake instead of a cheeseburger doesn’t make me feel a saintly glow of self-denial. The smoothies are made of juice (flavored corn syrup!), sherbet (sugar!) or low-fat frozen yogurt (artificial fillers!), and a few small scoops of frozen fruit. I ate them for the same reason I eat an occasional hamburger with steak fries. They taste good.

The invariably young, smooth-faced employees are delightfully accommodating, and obligingly make discontinued drinks if a patron hankers for one. It’s incomprehensible to me how they stay cheerful during a nine-hour shift in a small back area with five blenders going all at once. Even with the plastic silencing boxes in use, the din inside the store is not conducive to conversation.

Craig and I, preferring quiet, used to take our drinks outside and sit on the patio on dry summer evenings. We'd sip our beverages through the reinforced straws they provided, our cheeks pursing if our smoothie of choice was unusually thick. With tongues numbed slightly from the prolonged cold, we would talk as we watched the SUV's and Humvees drive by on Pelandale Ave.

Right now I could really go for a Strawberry Tsunami, a blend of strawberries and lime sherbet with the added tang of lemonade. My favorite smoothie is tart enough to curl the tongue yet sweet enough for balance. When not in the mood for fruit, I would opt for a peanut butter shake made with yogurt and soy milk. The result is indiscernible from a milkshake. I like everything on the menu, except for the smoothies with raspberries (the hard, bitter seeds clot the smooth texture and stick in the teeth) or too much banana (they liquefy when blended and make a smoothie runny).

When I mentioned my craving for Jamba Juice to a coworker in Lexington, he replied “Isn’t that what Barry Bonds injected himself with in order to hit more home runs?” I don’t see the smoothie craze taking off here anytime soon. In the meantime, I’ll have to break out my blender and try mixing up some homemade frozen concoctions. There’s just one downside. I’ll see everything that goes in them.

2. Ripon Taqueria

In a town with five Mexican restaurants, the best one is where Mexicans eat. The "taqueria,” as it is called, earns this distinction while attracting a steady gringo patronage as well. My greatest disappointment about our December visit home is that, sated every minute with holiday home cooking, Craig and I were unable to break our six month Mexican food fast.

My litmus test of a good Mexican restaurant are flautas, small flour tortillas rolled around chicken and fried to hold their shape. The crispy “flutes” are then presented with shredded lettuce, cheese, and salsa for dipping. A great Mexican restaurant can make flautas light and not greasy. Ripon Taqueria’s are heavenly. Craig always orders a Super Burrito, an entree the size of a liter can of soft drink. If I don’t remind him, he eats all of it, a feat inevitably rewarded by hours of subsequent intestinal distress. It’s much better to save half for the next day to heat and garnish with leftover salsa.

While the food is cooked to order, patrons take their bowl of hot, homemade chips to a table and come back to the salsa bar to choose a few favorites. Their cabbage salsa is never wilted, the pico de gallo crisp. I also love a blended combination of avocado and banana, incongruous in a bar of spicy sauces but refreshing to the palate after a bite full of seedy jalapenos.

Craig’s previous tenure in Lexington brought him to a few Mexican restaurants that unilaterally disappointed. The familiar dishes were either blandly prepared or profaned by the addition of Southwestern barbecue beans instead of authentic refried beans with cheese. Many things have changed since then, and on optimistic evenings we think we could find an authentic Mexican restaurant in Lexington if we asked around. Still, a restaurant would have to be excellent to satisfy the craving that’s had eight months to build up inside me.

Occasionally, a friend will mention a local Mexican restaurant they like, and I wonder if I should try it. I demur. It’s hard to imagine getting a real Mexican meal at a place called MOE’S. Lexingtonians don’t know what they’re missing.

3. Starbucks (in walking distance)

Yes, of course Lexington has about twenty of them. It’s not Antarctica, after all. I miss putting on my shoes and walking a quarter of a mile to the corner Starbucks. I can enjoy a frappuccino, a drink loaded with more fat than a Big Mac, if I know I had to expend a half-mile’s worth of calories to get it. Twisted logic, I know.

Californians microwave their Lean Cuisine meals for lunch and count Weight Watcher points with the zeal of religious converts. Somehow, the venti white chocolate mochas they sip every morning don’t count. There must be a medieval indulgence that covers beverages of unusual caloric lushness.

I prided myself on not being addicted. My German metabolism couldn’t stand the daily dose of cream. Neither did I want my bank account bled dry by daily four-dollar withdrawals. I just relished the occasional novelty of a leisurely stroll followed by a relaxing hour watching the whipped cream slowly melt and flavor the top of my mocha while I enjoy a slow, companionable conversation with a friend.

A Cajun chicken place, one of a million in Lexington, went out of business a mile away from our house. It is my fondest wish that the forlorn, empty building will become a Starbucks. I realize that chances of this are very slim. Starbucks, feeling the pinch of economic slowdown, has announced the intention to stop adding new stores. Still, I keep hoping. It’s one thing I miss about California that I could get back.

Ode to Nicholasville Road

When Craig and I started dating, he was newly back in California after a three-year stay in Lexington. I was having the “living somewhere else” experience five hours from home in Southern California, and I marveled at his moving 2500 miles away. That was, I thought, truly a chance to experience life in another place. I would press him for particulars about the town: landscape, weather, and especially the University of Kentucky, where he received his master’s degree.

One day, we thought when married, we would vacation in Kentucky. Just once for old time’s sake. Craig could show me the laboratory where he worked, the natural features of the area, and the house where he rented an upstairs apartment. It would be a way for me to connect with a part of him that seemed lost at the time. Craig had settled back into the Central Valley as if he’d never left, taking a job regrettably but unavoidably in the B.S. income bracket. His master’s degree was an “extra” for his employers, it gave them bragging rights but didn’t reflect on his day-to-day activities.

We became disillusioned with this chosen path four years into our marriage, and soon planned to discover another part of the country together. Poised on the brink of a huge change, I felt comforted when the best offer came again from Lexington. We were moving to a place that Craig knew well. I felt an odd sense of coming home, even though I had never been there.

As we settled into the area in July, I would see things I knew from Craig’s stories and feel an instant connection. Limestone cliffs terraced the roadsides as we took drives out of town. I would point out Cracker Barrels and White Castles as if they were national landmarks. Picket fence rails shuttled by, although by this time most business have painted them black for durability and economy. Only a few iconic horse farms, most notably Calumet Farms (that housed the Queen of England when she came to see the derby last year), still have the white picket fences that grace the postcards.

Only one aspect of my new town caused me dismay: Nicholasville Road. It forms the bottom spoke of wagon-wheel Lexington, absorbing the workers and scholars of the southern part of the city and outlying areas, feeding them into the heart where they park and go to work and school. Every evening the process is reversed, the traffic getting heavy in the center of town as the cars head out towards shopping, restaurants, and homes. I had a macabre fascination with this image, so foreign to California with its longitude-and-latitude gridded towns. There were no center spokes in Ripon. North and south streets were named for trees (Acacia, Orange, Walnut, Maple) and east and west streets were numbered (1st, 2nd, 3rd).

“Lexington has traffic,” Craig would admonish me, “You’ll have to get used to the patterns.” I would shrug, determined to stay off Nicholasville Road. It wasn’t so much the congested traffic, or even the traffic accidents that dot the road on Friday nights like sesame seeds in a breadstick. I couldn’t make heads or tails of Craig’s descriptions of the lanes. “Since the traffic needs change so dramatically and predictably, the lanes on Nicholasville Road blink to northbound in the morning, and then southbound in the evening to accomodate.” Craig would tell me how this was accomplished and I would sit, wide-eyed, wondering how this could be feasible. Every morning, as cars turn onto Nicholasville for the commute downtown, there would only be one outbound lane and one turn lane on their left. In the evening, the process is reversed, and only one usually packed lane goes into the city when everyone else is trying to get out.

Craig would tell me stories of accidentally merging into the wrong lane, unused to the flow of traffic at that particular time of day. The absolute worst thing was to be maintaining course when the lanes changed. You’d be driving along when a sign blinked to life over you: Lane Changing: Merge Right, necessitating a frantic swerve to avoid the oncoming traffic that would momentarily bear down.

Nicholasville Road was not for me, I thought. There would be plenty of roads to travel, and I could certainly stay away from this monument to confusion. It seemed an easy concept, but Craig and I rented a townhouse off Man O’War Boulevard due south on the wagon wheel. The moment we signed the lease, we headed off to find food and ended up at the Arby’s at Nicholasville and Reynolds Roads.

“Where do the lanes change?” I wondered, squinting in the distance to see if I saw any cars on a collision course.

“Further down past New Circle Road,” Craig replied. As the city expanded, modern city planners prescribed wider roads with more lanes. It is only in the center of town, the “old section,” that things had to be adjusted according to available space.

I had a few weeks before work started to stock my pantry and buy things that had been too difficult to ship. All the necessary stores, Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, and Meijer Foods, clustered on Nicholasville Road, taunting me. I began to venture out in the car after Craig left for work, checking lanes and turns compulsively though still far from the city center. I also developed an intense affinity for Culver’s Frozen Custard, also on Reynolds Road via Nicholasville. I began to view Nicholasville Road as the magnetic needle of my Lexington compass. If I got lost, I traced my course back to New Circle, which loops around the city in the middle, the inner stabilizing circle of the wheel. New Circle would eventually take me to Nicholasville, and from there I could find my way home.

Soon I learned that the straight path to UK every morning lay clearly down Nicholasville Road. I could wander through obscure neighborhoods, meandering over to Harrodsburg or Tates Creek Roads, if I wanted to double the commute time. A month in a circular city changed my concepts of road orientation. In Modesto, California, a city gridded like the graph paper I used in high school math class, if I didn’t like a particular road I could always drive a block over and find a parallel way to where I wanted to go. Lexington’s wheel divides into individual pie slices. Three left turns, instead of four, mean ending up on the same original street. To find an alternate route, one needed to travel along one side of the triangle to find a correctly-angled road. The next way into the city center may be five or ten minutes away.

On my first day of work, Craig sat in the passenger’s seat and I drove, the most practical arrangement because his stop was closer than mine. I passed New Circle Road without incident, and then the road curved upward ahead of us, revealing inner Nicholasville Road. I stared at what seemed like a million stoplights, as well as sets of square lane markers that suspend over the road to direct traffic. Each lane is marked with a red X, a green arrow, or two white turning arrows, announcing the status of the lane at that time of day. I gripped the wheel tighter, determined to stay in the same lane for safety. All in all, a commute on Nicholasville Road isn’t bad. According to my coworkers, whose evening commutes down Richmond Road or Newtown Pike can top an hour, it’s the most predictable commute in town.

Eventually, I could relax my grip on the steering wheel and take in the charm and character of this Lexington landmark. Near the university, the road is flanked by rows of charming large houses, most of which are now divided to let as one-bedroom apartments. Stopped at the Regency Pointe intersection, I regularly notice a squirrel climbing up the pole and scampering across the wire that holds the lane change markers. Obliviously suspended over seven lanes of traffic, he bounds cheerfully to the other side of the road and safety. After completing his shopping at Kmart, I can only assume, he will scamper back to his home, carrying tiny bags of nuts, berries, and perhaps some microwave popcorn. After I pass New Circle Road, the verdigris roofs of Lexington Green are on my right, and I can see the fountain pool that forms a stunning backdrop of Regatta’s Seafood Restaurant. Someday we want to eat there.

As I perfected my Nicholasville Road skills, effortlessly tracking the lane changes, I didn’t have too many problems. Once I waited with my left blinker clicking, suddenly noticing that the cars were honking steadily as they roared past, the tones of their horns dopplering high and then low. What was the matter? Was my turn signal burned out? Was smoke pouring out of my exhaust pipe? Did I have a flat tire? No, I noticed guiltily, I was attempting to turn out of a southbound lane, which had changed over when I wasn't looking. As the Nicholasville Road regulars will tell you, it happens to everybody.

Lexington drivers, though in full possession of Southern manners when they get out of their cars, are fiendishly exacting when surrounded by three tons of SUV. If there is the slightest perceived aberration in my driving, a three-second horn salvo will inform me. If I don't immediately correct, the first blast is just a warm up. Every morning, I dutifully check for an open lane and make a right turn onto Nicholasville after dropping Craig off at work. More often than not, I am greeted by a horn blast. One or more cars, in the time it took me to look forward and initiate the turn, have insinuated themselves into the space I planned to occupy and bear down on me with incredible speed. Affronted, they announce their displeasure at my presumption, their fists lingering on the horn for ten or twelve embarrassing seconds.

After Craig unloads his things and heads off to class, I continue down Nicholasville Road, which becomes historic Limestone Avenue somewhere in the middle of the UK campus. A two-land road becomes abruptly one way, and in the evening I have a choice of several one way streets that parallel Limestone, pointing me back into UK to collect Craig and head home. The strangest part of this section of my journey is the pedestrians. With no regard to crosswalks, stoplights, or safety rules, they barrel nonchalantly into six lanes of traffic, picking their way through the lanes as cars zoom past them on both sides. If caught in an awkward light change, they will stop and gawkishly stand in the middle of the road, waiting for a break in traffic to dart through. On my first trip down Rose Avenue, which cuts through campus to the back of UK Hospital, I dutifully stopped at least thirty times to let pedestrians wandering obliquely to the curb cross in front of me. Not only did I anger the cars behind me, it took twenty minutes to go a mile. I soon mellowed into the local attitude of braking to avoid a collision with a pedestrian but otherwise ignoring them.

Years ago, Craig was one of those pedestrians, daily on foot because he lived close by. He was constantly disgusted by the way cars ignored him, speeding by inches from his legs as he lawfully and carefully crossed an intersection at the crosswalk. I bristled at his account of a woman getting out of her car after hitting him as he bicycled past. Clearly bewildered that HE had not been able to avoid HER, she nevertheless handed out her contact information and took off. Craig never called to ask her to fix his broken bicycle. “Pedestrians have the right-of-way!” I said angrily. “She should have known to stop for you!” Now I see it slightly differently. Lexington drivers, weary of dodging walkers weaving in and out of lanes like players of a Frogger video game, ignore pedestrians as a defense mechanism.

I was also completely unprepared for the way the roads change names and directions at will in Lexington. Continuing on the same street through town, one might experience four name changes. When finding directions, one must look both ways to see if the street you’re looking for gets renamed while crossing the intersection. The best example of this is Main Street, which starts out south as Richmond Road and becomes Leestown Road as it veers north.

Streets in general don't follow the same direction; if lost I sometimes try to angle south but find that the road keeps curving to go east or west. Streets can also suddenly turn one-way, with one direction ending or veering off to become another street. My worst intimation of this fact was when, one week newly arrived and ignorant, I amended the directions I had been given to Ally’s kennel, turning right earlier than I was told because I recognized the area. Immediately, I noticed that I was staring into the grilles of five lanes of oncoming traffic. The familiar street, I discovered, was now one-way, and not going my way. My car limped forward, greeted by horn blasts, until I could duck into the exit of a parking garage and make a U-turn that probably broke six separate traffic ordinances.

On Nicholasville Road’s wagon wheel, all of the main spokes bear the names of the outlying towns. Richmond, Winchester, Paris, Leestown, Harrodsburg, and even Nicholasville point to slightly smaller communities that interconnect with the culture and life of Lexington. Many people live in the outer areas and work in the city, or even the opposite.

Nicholasville, a growing community listed at around 20,000 people, is blurring the boundary between Lexington and itself. The two are sending out feelers of connective tissue in the form of shopping centers and restaurants. Soon only the Fayette County/Jessamine County boundary line will tell us where the two cities part. This could turn out to be confusing. A few weeks ago, I was pointed home on southbound Nicholasville, handling the lane shifts expertly. I whipped out my cell phone and called a carpet store for directions.

“You’re located on Lexington Avenue, right? Where is that?” I asked.

“Well,” said the store clerk, “you get on Nicholasville Road, and we’re four miles past Man O’War,” he directed.

“Okay, I’m on Nicholasville now,” I said, relieved to be close by, “where did you say I turn?”

“You’re IN Nicholasville?” he clarifies.

“No, I’m in Lexington, but I’m ON Nicholasville,” I shot back. “Am I getting close?”

“Well, we’re in the town of Nicholasville, so you have a ways to go. When you get here, you’ll see us on the right,” he instructed.

“Yes, but where do I turn?” I asked, confused.

“You don’t turn. The road curves a little at Brannon Crossing, but you don’t have to turn,” he said cheerfully.

“Well, then how do I get to Lexington Avenue?” I wondered if it was worth the effort to continue.

“What?”

“When I am IN Nicholasville ON Nicholasville, where do I turn to get to you on Lexington Avenue?” I asked again, exasperated.

“Oh!” The light of understanding shone on our benighted conversation, and he gave me a quick local geography lesson. I was in Lexington on Nicholasville Road, but if I kept going south, I would be in Nicholasville on Lexington Avenue. Nicholasville follows the same rules as Lexington does, naming its main artery after the town it leads to.

“It doesn’t confuse the locals,” he chuckled. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

John 15 and the 3-Hour Window

As a new hobby, we check the National Weather Service website every Sunday night. This week’s forecast included a bold splotch of electric blue over the middle part of the week. A weather watch warning announced “wintry mix”—a combination of snow, rain, and sleet that can form worse driving conditions than cold, fluffy snow.

We scurried home from work on Monday night. The lines of traffic on Nicholasville Road were alive with purpose: get food, get home, get inside. Thankfully, I hate to grocery shop and had just stacked the pantry with enough food to last until my next bi-monthly shopping trip. I imagined us snowed in, making daily dents in our stored rations as the storm stretched on for days. I’ve been told stories of hours-long lines in the Lexington Krogers and Meijers. People fill their carts with comfort food: coffee, ham, flour, sugar, hot cereal; enough to cook and eat for weeks if the storm lasts.

Of course, the storms don’t last in Lexington. Cincinnati, a bare hour north, gets three times as much snow as we do. Lexington is generally unprepared for snow and shocked when it arrives, even though it snows regularly here. It reminds me of California, where sidewalks flooded with even an eighth of an inch of rain, which came down often. The cities had no infrastructure to support the weather it nevertheless experienced routinely. Lexington is the same with snow. Two inches of snow in the early morning is enough to close the schools, and it’s happened four times in the last two months. In this litigious age, nobody wants to be the superintendent that left the schools open, indirectly causing a school bus accident in bad weather.

This time, the forecasters were clearly expecting something big. The radios were announcing after school activity cancellations by 2 p.m., and by eight, when three hours of snow had turned suddenly to a fine and musical rain, they closed the schools for Tuesday. A professor of Craig’s, in a possible fit of clairvoyance, had canceled his only class on Tuesday. Craig grinned smugly, already able to watch the storm out the window while putting in a ten-hour day on the computer at home.

The next morning, I looked out the window to see a hard, gray crust that covered the world. The rain had hissed and fizzed all night on the accumulated snow, melting it first and then freezing it. I took the basement stairs to the back door and looked out at the driveway, which was covered by three inches of translucent, silvery-gray ice. I put out a slippered foot, prodding the layer to ascertain its texture. Forget shoveling this stuff (not to mention our continuing neglect to actually buy a snow shovel). It was hard. If it was only a bit smoother, we could ice skate on it. I closed the door, leaving my wet slippers on the mat. We were housebound.

I settled down on the couch with a book, and soon Ally kitty joined me, alighting with a throaty chortle on my lap and prodding my quilt with her paw, then her nose. She wanted to curl up on my lap so I could stretch a blanket over her, tucking her into a cozy cocoon. I’ve never known another cat who actually liked to be covered up. Ally enjoys it so much we take care not to sit on her accidentally when she burrows in blankets, reducing herself to a flat shape that doesn’t suggest her presence deep underneath.

I sat on the couch for an hour, enjoying my book and watching my huge, blanketed pseudo-belly rise and fall with a counter rhythm to my own breath. Out the window, an occasional car slid by, intrepid wheels sending up sprays of slush. The icicles on the front yard trees dripped steadily, heralding a rise in temperature that would probably melt all of the ice by nightfall. Two large trucks rolled past, front loaders angled down to sluice the road buildup onto the gutters and lawns. A nice gesture, but until the crust melted off our sloped, wrap-around driveway, we wouldn’t be going anywhere.

I looked out again, this time taking in the window itself. It’s big, a six-foot square edged by white decorated molding. Piping between the double panes separates the two sides into pleasing, old-fashioned squares that are popular in houses built in the past ten years. I frowned. The winter tableau would be perfect except for just one thing. The window was screened by old, metal mini-blinds. Our house came in surprisingly good condition for a former rental, but certain corners are cut when a house will not be owned and occupied by the same proud family. Almond colored, these tacky blinds clashed horribly with the neat, white flutes and corners of the window moldings. I had painstakingly cleaned them when we moved in, removing years of dust, stains, and pet hair. That was the most I could do to improve them, and it didn’t mitigate the ripply texture that eight years of rough use had imparted to cheap original materials. The bottom stabilizer was warped, curving upwards to skew the left side into lurching crookedness. The blinds were smiling at me, taunting me. Well, what are you going to do about it?

I thought for a moment. Replacement blinds, the 2-inch white woods that should have been installed in the first place, were sitting in the trunk of my car, waiting for just such an opportunity. I got up, displacing blanket-rolled kitty, and walked to the window, thoughtfully assessing the time it would take. A half hour, maybe an hour tops? What better thing to do on a day like this? I imagined finishing out the afternoon on the couch where I begun my day, smugly surveying the new white blinds as they hung pristinely in the already fetching window. Saying goodbye to the horrid metal excuse for a window treatment, I reached out my thumbs, clicking the right side of the blinds out of their metal support.

Here I hit my first problem: while the right side of the blind slid smoothly out of its moorings, the left side was stuck. There I was, holding up one side of the blinds as the other side hung tenaciously on, perhaps sensing that it would finish the day in the trash can unless it took action. I wobbled, pivoted, turned, changed arms to rest, agitated, maneuvered, shook. Nothing dislodged the stuck blind. I tried to put it back, resting it momentarily so I could reassess. It wouldn’t stay.

I had no choice. “Craig?” I called up to the second floor where nothing but the steady click of keys announced the presence of another human being. “Could you come down here?”

“Sure,” he called down. The clicking didn’t stop.

I changed arms again. “Now?” I queried, trying not to betray a small amount of muscle distress.

The blind broke free as soon as the door opened. Craig came down to see me standing impotently in the living room, the detached blind tilting crazily in my hands.

“Never mind.” I apologized sheepishly. Throwing the blind on the ground, I picked up a screwdriver and started removing the old metal moorings that anchored the blind to the window frame. My face scrunched in concentration. The screw turned slowly, a conscientious burst from my arm muscles yielding about a quarter turn. Things weren’t going very well already.

My arms, trumpeting their German heritage, eschew the twin benefits of form and function, being neither shapely nor particularly strong. Craig, ever the gentleman, calls me junoesque (GRE word meaning “tall and stately”) but I see myself digging in my heels as I slide down the slippery slope to flab. When I am fifty, my underarms will probably drape like pooled velvet curtains. Pictures of my ancestors attest to this fact, arms rippling cottage-cheesily out of unflattering sleeveless dresses the What Not to Wear hosts would definitely burn. Their grim expressions lament living in a world before liposuction, and indeed, I wonder if I owe it to them to "get my arms done" someday.

I gave the screwdriver another quarter turn, sighing as I felt my soft upper arm wobble in report. I turned to face my husband, who was watching me. I coyly raised an eyebrow in invitation. “Wanna help?” I purred.

Thankfully, he couldn’t resist my advances and fell in beside me. He removed the other five screws in the time it took me to finish the one I was working on. He regarded my efforts smugly. “This is MAN’S work,” he strutted proudly, flourishing his handful of screws. I was willing to concede the point if it meant I didn’t have to do it by myself. Craig took charge, measuring and drawing lines for the new brackets that would be anchored by long screws disturbingly like the ones we had labored so assiduously to remove.

In minutes, Craig was installing the new screws, and I perched on the couch like a golden retriever, poised to hand over a pencil or trade screwdrivers so he could accomplish his task more easily. This was not the first time Craig was roped into blind installation according to my whims. Our first house needed a new front blind immediately upon occupation, and I was blissfully unaware of the job it entailed. My husband, father, and father-in-law installed, and I came home just in time to beam at them, experimentally raising and lowering my new treasure. I honestly thought that I, who cannily special-ordered it, deserved all the credit. After all, I did all the work.

A week later, I noticed how shabby the kitchen blind looked next to the stylish, new living room blind. Again, I came home from the store with a brand-new blind and enlisted Craig’s help to install it. I still have photographic record of this event. I assume that I was able to walk away and snap a picture because, like now, I was completely useless to the task of putting it up. Craig stood poised over the window, one stockinged foot in each side of our aluminum sink, contorting to fit between the three-foot space between our kitchen cabinets. He was frowning in concentration as he installed brackets identical to the ones we struggled with now. The kitchen blind took two long hours on a Sunday afternoon, Craig’s only day off that week.

After that, no blind, no matter how shabby, was deemed bad enough to warrant replacement. Even the vertical blinds in the family room, mauve in original color and streaked with grease that wouldn’t wash off, received new white slats, not total replacement. I vowed that blinds were not worth the effort, and didn’t renege until we moved. Installing window blinds must be like labor. You eventually forget all about what it involves in the joy of the result, and once it comes up again there’s no going back. We couldn’t just walk away and leave the window bare, bent screws protruding at crazy angles. We had to finish what we started.

So many home improvement projects our marriage has weathered started this way: me thinking I could do the job myself only to break down and ask for help (translation: ask Craig to please do it for me). Our first house, bought in California after three years of saving, reflected the inflated state of the California housing market. It was the absolute most we could afford: 1400 square feet of old paint, old cabinetry, old hardware. Also a previous rental, it came to us in infinitely worse shape than our current house.

It was a great space to cut one’s decorating teeth on, being structurally sound but aesthetically bankrupt. I spent two years worth of school breaks giving the house what the realtors call “pride of ownership.” Our last beautification project was just finished in time for the broker’s sign to go up. My mother-in-law taught me how to paint, and together we mowed wide swaths of Valspar Bistro White over the mauve-and-oatmeal walls. When my roller reached the ceiling, I looked up at the
70’s acoustic texture, spotted with water stains, and rolled over it, too. I learned how light colors create space and dark colors diminish it. Eventually, we had a yellow living room and a blue bathroom, but both paint colors we chose were at the top of the graded swatches we brought home from the paint store.

I watched Craig finish twisting one screw and pick up another to begin. Our lovely, carved window frames seemed to be made of a space-age material that expanded to fill all available space and resisted penetration. The screws would get stuck, and Craig would take them out, drilling a hole to help them screw in better. Then, the screw would not go back into the same hole from which it emerged moments before. The muscles in his lower back tensed with each effort.

I walked to the window and looked out at the ice, which was melting quickly. Water ran under the ice in a channel under our front yard, air pockets shifting silently. Minutes ticked by as I watched Craig, watched the window, watched the world outside melt. Next to me, Craig grunted, forcing the screw to turn one more time through sheer effort of will. The hour I had generously allotted for the task had expired long ago. Every minute that Craig stayed down to help me meant more work left for him to do, which could stretch into the evening when he should be done and resting.

Craig doesn’t care if this blind is off-white or snowflake, metal or wood, new or old, stylish or outdated. When it is installed, he will continue to open and close it every day, looking through it to the outside world, oblivious to the aesthetic effect that a new blind has on the white winter landscape. The only reason that he is doing this is me. I want to look at the world through this blind, and so he leaves his keyboard and rushes downstairs to accommodate me.

This is marriage, it came to me. “Greater love has no one than this: that a man lay down his life for his friend.” Most people see this verse in the context of death: a momentary sacrifice of one’s living body, self-immolation so that others may live. But what is “laying down one’s life” if not just that: the giving up, moment by moment, of the infinite possibilities of each day so that they can be spent together, united in purpose, combined in service each to the other. Craig, having the freedom to do as he willed this afternoon, instead chose to cramp his shoulder and tax his patience because doing so would make me happy.

It did more than that. As I stood there by the window, it took my breath away.