Chapter 2: Hats

     One of the things I struggled with the most during my first year of marriage was figuring out what kind of wife I was going to be. It sounds dumb, but I have a very vivid imagination, and I often [temporarily] take on the personalities of the characters I am reading about in a book (or watching on TV or in the movies), or I imagine the fictional things that are happening to them, happening to me.  

     Once I realized this, I discovered something else about myself: A lot of my expectations of how life and relationships should be came from movies or books. The problem is, stories are stories because they tell the unusual. No one wants to hear about an ordinary camping trip where nothing goes wrong--they want to hear the story of how the bear attacked the family, after the tsunami, while the youngest child ran around uncontrollably in his underwear, juggling batons that were on fire. 

     Every single person, relationship, and scenario is unique, so my goal with The First Year was not to tell people what to expect or how things are, but perhaps show them how they might cope, should something similar to these stories come up in their own lives. Or at least assure them that they are not alone. 

     Because I had to learn how to separate my life from the stories I consumed, I decided to write "Hats," the second chapter of The First Year. It is the story of becoming comfortable in your new role as a spouse or partner. You can't force yourself to be something you aren't, and your husband fell in love with you, not the person that anyone tells you that you should be.  

     With that, here is the next excerpt from The First Year. 

Chapter Two:

Hats

—My White Hat—

     Chet always does so much for me. He makes me happy, but sometimes he makes me feel guilty too. Is he as happy as I am? Is he gaining as much from this relationship as I? He seems down lately. Maybe I should make him a candle-lit dinner. That’s what a good wife would do. Right?

     I cock my head at the mirror-me, my long black hair falling over my shoulder. Yes, I will make dinner. He loves steak.  I can’t cook steak. Maybe chicken. Chicken is simpler. I can do chicken. I’ll have to go to the store though . . . let’s see . . . I’ll write a list.

·         Chicken

·         Some kind of marinade . . . I think he likes teriyaki?

·         If teriyaki, I’ll have to buy some RICE.

·         Bag of frozen mixed vegetables

·         Bisquick  No, I have Bisquick

·         Cheese (for cheddar-garlic biscuits)

·         Chocolate chips

     Do I have eggs? No. Good thing I checked.

·         Eggs.

     Now to find my keys. Hm . . . maybe I left them in my jeans. Where are my jeans? I wore them yesterday, but they weren’t dirty, so I’m sure they’re on the floor somewhere. Not in the bedroom . . . ah ha! Closet. Found them. No keys. Damn. I bet I left them in the bathroom. I had to go really bad when I came home yesterday . . . yes. Keys. Purse. Phone. Ready.

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     Is there a special way to marinate chicken? Even though I’m tall, I have to reach up on my tippy toes to grab a bowl. Dump chicken in bowl. Ew. Raw chicken is pink, slimy, and disgusting. I hate it. I’ll drown it in teriyaki marinade. Die, chicken, die! Now what? Um . . . shake it around a bit? No. I’ll grab a fork and flip the chicken over a few times. Crap. Splashed my new shirt. I’ll just take it off and clean it later. Cookin’ chicken in my bra, in my bra . . . puttin’ foil over chicken in my bra, in my bra. I didn’t realize how strong the air conditioning was until now. Breezy. Chicken in the fridge, Marissa in her bra, in her bra.

Rice: cooks in 5 minutes. Vegetables: cook in 10 minutes. Biscuits: total prep time = 12-14 minutes. That gives me . . . let’s say fifteen minutes to clean the house. Chet will be home in 30. Ready . . . go.  

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     The living room and kitchen are clean. That will have to suffice, because I don’t have time to clean anything else. Close door on bedroom, into which I have thrown anything and everything . . . there. Clean as a whistle. Are whistles clean? Is that even the expression? I will clean the rest of the whistle, I mean house, tomorrow.

     Now to the cooking. Biscuits first, I think. I have to preheat the oven. 450 degrees? Done. Now, grate cheese into Bisquick and milk concoction . . . it’s hard to stir. My muscles are puny. I’ll use my hands. Ew. Sticky, slimy, cheesy . . . biscuits between my fingers. Gross.

     The cookie sheet is under the oven . . . my hands are dirty. Hm. Dilemma. Grr. Okay, I’ll quickly rinse off my hands in the sink . . . good enough. Ouch. Why can I never remember that the cookie sheet always gets hot from the preheating oven? My fingers are burning a little. No worries, it’s fine, everything is fine. I’ll just stick my hands in batter . . . aw, cool and slimy. Heaven-sent. Alright, biscuits on cookie sheet. Biscuits in oven. I think I’ll cook the rice next.

     Thank God for Minute Rice. For four servings, use two cups of rice . . . better just use one. Add two . . . no, one . . . cup of water. Balls. I was supposed to bring the water to a boil before I added the rice. Oh well. Lid on. Good enough.

     Right. Rice is on the stove. Oops. I should have done the vegetables first. I will do them now . . . where did I put those frozen vegetables? Oh duh. The freezer . . .