While on the trip, we took a tour of Antelope Canyon, a stunning slot canyon in Arizona. Rob stumbled upon online photos of this place by accident a couple months ago, and I'm so glad he did because visiting this canyon was a highlight for all of us.

And that's despite the fact that the guide was a complete loon. She would tell rambling personal stories of absolutely no relevance and then hurry us all around the corner because "I've been here since 6 this morning and I'm tired and want to go home." She actually didn't rush the tour - in fact, it went longer than it was supposed to - but she set an odd pace of hurrying up just to launch into a tangent just to hurry up again.

She also insisted on telling everyone which photos to take. A slot canyon is a very difficult place to photograph, and I think she was trying to be helpful (although she knew diddly-shit about photography and seemed mostly just to enjoy bossing people around). At stop after stop along the way, she would order us to "Stand here and take that photo." And then we would wait until everyone stood there and took that photo. We couldn't not stand there and take that photo - she INSISTED that everyone with a camera stand there and take that photo.

I will admit that I have added this phrase - Stand here and take that photo - to my personal repertoire. Rob tends to carry the camera (and take photos) more than I do on trips. When I see a shot I think would be nice, sometimes I ask for the camera but more often I'm too lazy and just point in the general direction of the shot and say some variation of, "Hey Rob, get that one." But the problem is that Rob doesn't always understand what I want him to take, and by the time I explain what I'm looking at ("I like the way the light hits that rooftop over there") I could have just taken the damn photo myself. Which is why I'm liking this new phrase: Stand HERE and [pointing] take that photo. So clear! No confusion! Plus it makes us chuckle.

So as the tour guide led us through the narrow, winding canyon, alternately pointing out strange rock formations (an eagle, Bill Clinton's nose) and telling us what she bought her husband for Father's Day, Rob stuck to the back of the group so he could shoot his own photos and avoid having people in them.

This did not go over well with the tour guide. She needed us all to be together. Now, I get this. You can't have people wandering around on their own. But Rob was never out of sight; he was just trailing ten feet behind. "Sir!" she would repeatedly shout from the front of the group. "Sir! Stay with the group. I need you up here!" Rob would amble close enough for her to shut up and then immediately lag behind again, getting shots. Honestly, I think what annoyed the guide more than anything was that Rob wasn't standing here taking that photo. (These photos are the result of his rebellion, which was clearly worth it.)

I bounced between Rob and the rest of my family, hanging back with him for awhile and then catching up to walk with them. The guide soon figured out our relationships and offered to take a family photo. Rob was dragging behind, so she took one of me with my parents and brother and then as Rob caught up she said, "In-Law! Stand over there with the rest of the family."

My brother and I nearly lost it, nudging each other while biting our lips to keep from laughing. Soon we couldn't hide our snickering, though, as the guide continued to call Rob "In-Law" for the rest of the tour. "In-Law! Stay with the group!" "Come a little closer, In-Law." "In-Law! Stand here and take that photo."

And I confess that after the tour ended my brother and I took it upon ourselves to continue referring to my poor dear husband as "In-Law." For the duration of the trip. Because we are assholes. And also because it's friggin' funny, I'm just saying.

A few evenings ago we went to a major league baseball game. At one point I was walking up the bleacher stairs by myself and got whistled at. By the mascot. I was walking up, he/she/it was walking down, and as we passed there was a distinct, if muffled, whistle.

Only moments later, the mascot came back to our section of the stands to give away free personal pan pizzas. As you know, I have a passion for the PPP. But unlike most people, I was not waving wildly for a pizza because I do not like to receive the attentions of mascots or others of the puppet persuasion. Frankly, they freak me out a little. Rob was sitting next to me, arms in the air in an attempt to score some pizza, and he nudged me and said, "Put up your hands and cheer so we can get a pizza! He whistled at you, so you'll totally get one. C'mon!"

Can I just observe here how eagerly my husband was willing to pimp out whatever sex appeal I may possess for the sake of free food? God knows what he would have suggested if they'd been handing out beers. Which is not to say I wouldn't have considered flashing my boobs if the pizza purveyor had been an actual person. I mean, it's PPP, people! But I absolutely refused to participate, for fear of what might happen if the mascot and I made eye contact. (Although how the hell can you even tell where a mascot is looking? They're freaky, I tell you.)

So we didn't get a free pizza but then we were craving one (which is the whole point of that giveaway) and so we had to go buy one. For $8. It was damn good, but nothing that small is worth $8. However, it was totally worth $8 not to appear on the jumbotron being groped by a giant birdlike creature made of shag carpet.

Yesterday UPS left a package on our porch that wasn't for us. It was supposed be delivered to a house down the road. The discussion that followed regarding what we should do with it demonstrates just how anti-social we are. Rob even sorta knows the man whose name was on the box. They used to work at the same place, although they didn't work together. So he mostly knows of him. Still, we were completely uncomfortable with the thought of interpersonal interaction. Note the many avoidance tactics we think up and how we somehow manage to justify these to ourselves.

"Should we take the package over to their house?"

"I don't know."

"I'll just call UPS. Because they should be informed of their mistake, right?"

"Yeah, they should know."

"And besides. If the Joneses aren't there, then what would we do? It might start raining before they get home, and what if they don't have a protected porch? I don't want the box to get wet."

"Yeah, and if they're not home, I'd feel like I was trespassing or something, poking around their porch. Plus, is it even legal for us to move their mail?"

"I'll just call UPS and they can take care of it."

We examine the box for a UPS phone number, and in doing so discover that the box is addressed to "The Children." The return address is Martha Jones from Sarasota, FL.

"This is clearly a package for the kids from their grandmother. I mean, Martha? From Florida."

"It has to be."

"If I call UPS, it might take days for it to be picked up and delivered to the right place. I don't want the kids to have to wait forever to get a gift from their grandma!"

"Yeah, I know."

"What if I take it by his work on my way to the office in the morning? I can just leave it with the secretary and explain why we had it."

"But that's not really on your way to work."

"It's not that far."

"Well, if you don't mind... Or I could drop it by their house on my way to work. I know they won't be there at that time in the morning."

"But then we still have the rain problem."

"True."

We end the discussion, having decided that I will take the package to the guy's work in the morning and leave it in the main office. Rob calls his mom about something else, and since she also knows Mr. Jones, he confirms with her that Mr. Jones is still employed at the same place.

"Okay, Mom says he still works there. So that's good."

"Did she also say we should suck it up and take it to his house?"

"Yeah, she was like, 'OR, you could just take it to them now.'"

I sigh. "That's probably the right thing to do. I mean, think of 'The Children'!"

"I guess."

"I can call to see if they're home, so we don't have to worry about it raining on the package."

"If you call, I'll drive it down there."

"You will?"

"Yeah, I guess."

I call. Mrs. Jones answers, and I explain to her about the package. I hang up and tell Rob that they are home.

"Alright, I'm going to go."

"Good luck!" I say, admiring his bravery.

When he gets back, I pepper him with questions. What did you say? What did she say? Was she nice? Did she smile? Did she thank you? He says that everything went fine, and she was nice, and it's her daughter's birthday.

I really don't know what we thought would be so awkward. But at least we are making progress! Maybe in another couple months we'll have worked up the nerve to give our neighbors the barn photos...

I've been wanting to revamp our kitchen ever since we moved into the house 4.5 years ago, yet I've continuously put it off for one reason or another. But a couple weeks ago I decided that right now? Right now when my life is extra super busy? Right now would be the perfect time to start the kitchen project. Because that spare hour of time I have about once a week is being completely wasted. Also, I like to make myself cry.

On Sunday I started stripping the godawful motherfucking wallpaper (hooray!). My only other experience removing wallpaper was in the bathroom, and that episode is not among my fondest of memories. So I went into this knowing it was going to suck. I started on the wallpaper that covers the top half of the room, and it went surprisingly well. Like, really really well. Like so well that I was beginning to re-estimate the time it would take to complete this project.

Meanwhile Rob was in the basement installing our new water softener, but things were not going well. The thingamabobs on the new softener aren't the same size as the thingamabobs on the old one, and so they didn't fit our water pipes. So Rob went to buy a converter or something. He suffered an elaborate ordeal tracking down what he needed (plumbing store closed on Sundays, Lowe's out of stock, and on and on) but returned two hours later weary but not defeated. "So did you get something that'll work?" I asked, as I tore another piece of wallpaper down the wall.

"I think so," he replied, before launching into a detailed explanation while I pretended to listen. "...And so I got a [somethin' er other] and that'll fit into this [whirlygig] and then I got a nipple to connect that to the [thingamabob]."

"Heh. You said nipple."

We finished installing the water softener, and that phrase makes it sound much simpler than it was. There was lifting and bending and tightening and grunting and cursing. It's not a terribly difficult thing to do, but little things that go wrong add up to a lot of time and effort. But we finally finished. Really it was all Rob. I just hold things and provide moral support. And, you know, make nipple jokes.

So then I started on the wallpaper on the lower half of the kitchen. Which, as it turns out, is a completely different beast than the stuff on the top half. Worse, even, than the bathroom wallpaper. Way worse. I had started on the section of wall behind the refrigerator, and I don't know why I mention that except that to be wedged back there somehow made things all the worse when they didn't go well. After a few minutes of extreme frustration, I said, "I think I'm going to cry."

Rob came over and peered around the fridge. "What's wrong, babe?"

"It's not working. It's even worse than in the bathroom! It only comes off in teeny tiny strips."

"Hmmm," he said as he watched me peel off a piece of wallpaper the size of a caterpillar.

"I can't do the whole kitchen like this!" I wailed. "Why the hell did I start this?! I don't have time!" I tried to peel another corner that had been perforated and soaked in solution like all the rest. But to no avail. "Fuck! Okay, I have to stop now before I have a meltdown."

I walked away for a little bit and then returned to suggest that maybe a steamer would work. We could rent one next weekend and try. And if it didn't, then we'd just have to demolish the house and start over because that would seriously take less time than peeling wallpaper off the walls in strips the size of my goddamn pinkie finger.

A few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen to find Rob ironing the walls. He had plugged our clothes iron into an outlet and was spraying the walls with water and then pressing the iron against the wallpaper. "It's basically the same thing as a steamer," he explained. "Let's see if it works."

And it totally did. We were able to pull the wallpaper off the wall in wide sections. The paper backing was left behind, so I still have to scrape that off. But still. Dude is totally my hero.

This morning I woke up and every muscle in my body ached, sore from the stretching and stooping and lifting and pulling. "Unnnnhhhh," I moaned as I rolled over. "I feel like I was in a fight." Stumbling to the shower, Rob agreed, "Yeah, I feel like somebody hit me all night with a baseball bat." We are total wimps, clearly without the fortitude and physical endurance to be homeowners. But unfortunately, if this project goes like most for us, I fear the ass-whooping has just begun.

At the end of my EMT course there is a state certification test that has a written and a practical component. For the practical part, there are a couple emergency simulations for which we must demonstrate our skills and be evaluated. At these stations, we work with a partner and together assess the situation and care for the patient(s). On the first day of class, my instructor informed us that we were permitted to choose our partner for the state test, and that we would probably want to pick someone in class with whom we could practice and become comfortable. She emphasized that going into the test with a partner we trust will make the situation much easier and less stressful for us.

Right then, I began sizing up the class in order to find the perfect partner. To get to know each other on the first day, we played the name game in which you identify yourself with an adjective that begins with the same letter or sound as your first name. In addition to being a good way to learn names, it was also a great way to evaluate people for the role of Suitable Partner. Lazy Laney, for example, was marked off the list immediately. Particular Paula got a star.

There are a whole host of reasons a person might choose another person as a partner. Most people, I suspect, are trying to trade up, to ride on the coat tails of someone more capable than them. Or, sometimes people partner up to compensate for each other's limitations. This is no less manipulative, but it's much more fair since the exchange is symbiotic. In high school chemistry class, JLD and I were often lab partners. We were friends, and we complemented each other. He liked the science stuff but hated writing up the labs, and I was completely braindead when it came to chemistry but could rock out the writing part.

In EMT class, I am simply looking for someone as smart as me. Which sounds totally conceited, I know, but trust me when I say I am not suffering from delusions of grandeur. Not in this case, anyway. Based on class interactions and review games and general effort demonstrated, I am clearly in the top tier of the class. The truth is, when it comes to classwork I have never known any other tier. I have always been obsessive about my academic performance. This makes finding an appropriate partner even more important, and also decidedly more difficult.

By the end of the third class I had narrowed the field to two people, Paula and Gail. My first preference was Paula, but Gail was a close second. I happened to sit next to Gail in each class, and we had already begun to form a friendship. I had chatted with Paula some, too, but I didn't know her as well and also wasn't sure how I could maneuver into being her partner since she always sat across the room. Still, Paula was my top pick because she seemed to have a better grasp of the material and was also more confident in her ability. I made a point to make eye contact with her occasionally during the classes, to smile or crack a joke. I wanted to maintain a connection with her in order to keep her as a possible partner.

At the fourth class, when Paula came in she sat down next to me instead of in her usual seat. I recognized this immediately for what it was - a power play. I suspected she had singled me out just as I had her. During class we got our tests back, and since I was sitting between Gail and Paula, I could see both of their scores. Gail got an 86, and Paula got a 98. (My score was a 96. Substandard, I know.) That settled it for me - Paula was my best match. I started strategizing how I could secure her partnership. Soon.

Once more, Paula proved that we were on the same page. During break, she turned to me and said, "So, do you think when we start doing partner stuff, we could be partners?"

"Yes!" I quickly replied, and then added, "I'd totally already pegged you as a potential partner, too." She smiled.

When I got home that evening, I rushed over to where Rob was sitting. "Paula asked me to be her partner!" I reported breathlessly.

He chuckled and then rolled his eyes, because he has found this whole obsessive partner pursuit of mine a bit "ridiculous". Whatever. He's just jealous. Especially since I'll be spending Valentine's partnering with Paula.

You may recall that I was going to give my grandmother rum for Christmas. This is the follow-up.

A few weeks ago, Rob and I had dinner with my grandparents. And at this dinner, she served rum cake. As in cake, made with rum. My jaw dropped when she brought it to the table. "Grandma, this is rum cake?!"

"It is," she said with a laugh.

"But...how did you get the rum?"

"I went to the store and bought it," she announced proudly. And then she told us the story.

She had wanted to make more fruitcakes before Christmas, and she had set her mind to making them with rum. So she told Granddad to drive her to the liquor store. He did, and then sat in the car and waited while she went in. She had never been in a liquor store before. She roamed the aisles (with her walker), looking for rum. An employee asked if she needed help. "Yes, young man," she said. "I'm making fruitcakes and need some rum. Can you find it for me?"

He did, and then carried it to the checkout counter for her. The cashier rang it up and Grandma got out her checkbook. "Ma'am, I'm sorry," the cashier told her, "but we don't take checks."

My grandma didn't have any other way to pay, so she told the cashier to wait while she went to the car for cash. When she got to the car, my grandfather asked what had happened and, leaning on her walker, she replied, "They said I was too young to buy alcohol." They both got a good laugh out of that. And then she went back in with a wad of cash and bought her rum.

Upon hearing this tale, I told my grandma that I was quite proud of her, but also a bit disappointed because I had been planning to give her rum for Christmas. I told her how I'd envisioned that she'd open it in front of the entire family, and that it would be hilarious, if a bit scandalous. She seemed entirely amused by this, and insisted that I could still give it to her. She swore she'd act surprised. "And maybe I'll even take a little swig!"

We were all laughing hard at this point, and acting a bit giddy in general, as if the rum cake was going to our heads. "What we should do," Rob suggested, "is fill an empty rum bottle with water. That's the one we could wrap, and then you could really take a big gulp!"

We laughed again at this. "I'll do it," she said conspiratorially, her eyes sparkling.

This past Saturday, Rob and I drove to my grandparents' house for Christmas with all the family, our presents placed carefully on the backseat. When we were almost there, Rob asked, "Did you bring rum?"

"Yeah."

"Did you put water in the empty bottle?"

"No. I'd actually forgotten all about that."

"Well you'd better tell your grandma before she unwraps it."

"Nah, she won't remember. I mean, if I didn't, she won't."

After lunch, we all gathered in the living room as the gifts were handed out. When my gift bag was given to my grandma, she carefully peeked into it and then looked at me and grinned. I grinned back, figuring that, once we all began opening gifts, she wouldn't actually have the nerve to unwrap it in front of everyone.

The truth is, when the kids and everyone began tearing into their presents, I got distracted and didn't even see Grandma lift the rum out of our gift bag. I didn't notice until Rob, sitting beside me, nudged me and pointed urgently toward my grandmother. And I turned my head just in time to see her raise the rum to her lips and take a big swig.

There was sudden silence in the room, with the exception of a gasp or two. Her eyes widened. "Whoooo! " she exclaimed as she lowered the bottle. "That's not water!" And then she looked at me and whispered, "But it's pretty good."

When I get to hell, it will have been so totally worth it.

Last night I crawled into bed, cozied myself under the covers, and then rolled onto my back and opened my eyes. And saw, directly above me on the ceiling, a spider. Admittedly, it was a very small spider. Like, half the size of my pinky fingernail. Still, I could envision it dropping down onto me while I slept, drinking my eye juice and laying eggs in my ears. Because that's what spiders do.

It was small enough that I would have killed it myself, but I wasn't sure I could reach it, so I yelled for Rob, who was still up, to please come kill a spider! He came right away, without complaint. As I scooted to the far side of the bed and watched uneasily, I was very grateful to him for being so willing to always perform this duty. When we celebrate our 50th anniversary, Rob will have killed over 500 spiders for me. Is there any better measure of true love?

Except this time, something went wrong. He had it covered with a paper towel, and as he was about to smoosh it, I said, "Don't let it fall onto the bed!" and right then the fucking spider fell onto the bed. Or, rather, dropped itself onto the bed. Because he hadn't actually killed it yet. It sort of dangled in midair for a moment, and Rob grasped at it but it was too small to catch, and then we both saw it descend to the bed.

And then we couldn't see it anymore. It was camouflaged by the covers. I might perhaps have had a slight conniption at this point. You know, because THERE IS A SPIDER IN MY BED. If the spider had been any larger, I would have leaped out of the bed and slept on the sofa or something. But it was really quite tiny. So I sat there, frozen and wide-eyed, not sure what action to take other than the freaking out. Rob launched immediately into his calming tactics, telling me some shit about the spider being just as eager to get away from me as I was to get away from it. To which I responded, "No it's not! It wants to drink my eye juice and lay eggs in my ears! That's what spiders DO, Rob!"

He returned to the living room, and I searched the bed for the spider. When I didn't find it, I flapped all the covers back except for the sheet, thinking that might deter the spider from crawling toward me. And then I settled back into bed, albeit in an extremely unsettled manner, trying to convince myself that it probably wasn't even on the bed anymore, that it had surely found its way to the floor and was heading for the shower where it could terrorize me in the morning.

Eventually I was able to relax, and I was almost asleep when I suddenly had to sneeze. So I sat up and grabbed a tissue off the nightstand. And as I was blowing my nose, I felt a tiny tickle on my side. Typically I would have brushed it away without a thought, but I suppose my subconscious was still alert to the possibility of the spider, and so I lifted the sheet and glanced down at the right side of my stomach. It happened in slow motion, you know? I had left the lamp on for when Rob came to bed, so I saw it all quite clearly. The sheet sliding away. The spider sitting on my skin. Staring at me.

I silent-shrieked and flicked it off me, and as it landed nearby on the blanket I yelled, "ROB!!! I found it!" And then I smashed it with the tissue in my hand. Rob came running in and I managed to convey that the spider? The one he hadn't been able to kill? The one that had fallen onto our bed? IT WAS JUST CRAWLING ON MY BARE SKIN.

Headed north, surely, to drink my eye juice and lay eggs in my ears.