Wednesday, August 31, 2011


I have spent every single waking moment of every single day for three weeks straight now with my husband.  More than twenty days, five hundred hours, thirty thousand minutes, one hundred and eight seconds - however you want to count it - of blissful togetherness.

I'm going to kill him.

Now, in all fairness, I will shout it from the rooftops that there is no way I could have made this move to the Mile High City without my beloved by my side.  If not for him, and my GPS, I would likely be curled up in the fetal position, somewhere in Kansas or Arizona, wondering if I had made the most ridiculous decision of my life.  Instead, I am steadily learning my way around town, I am laughing, and there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that moving to this beautiful state is one of the smartest things I will ever do for my family.  Still, we've got to let absence make the heart grow fonder - at least from "nine to five" (or 6:00 to 4:00ish as our lives would have it) - or all hell is going to break loose.

Yesterday was a low point.  His expertise in every area was getting on my last nerve (did I say that out loud?) (I know, you don't think you know everything...), and we go, together of course, to drop my daughter off at preschool.  On our way out of the synagogue, a cute young woman gasps as she holds the door open for Larry, and says: "Oh my god, I know you, Larry Schwartz!, I went to Ramah Canada (a summer camp), oh my god, you taught me how to waterski, you were so great, I can't believe its you.  What are you doing in Denver? Oh my god!"


Some background.  Since we are super Jewy and spend a lot of time in our communities' various Jewish institutions, this is not the first time I've experienced this kind of reaction from someone who went to camp with my husband.  In fact, we've only been in Denver for two weeks and the woman from yesterday (who, it turns out, is absolutely lovely so please, I am not making fun of you, really just myself, and anyway who am I to talk, I basically stalked Mayim Bialik the other day at a Maccabeats concert) was actually the second person here to have this reaction to my husband.   Apparently, Larry is a "legend" at Camp Ramah.  That's right, I was told, a legend.

Ok, ok, when we're not in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles, trying to find a plumber to install a toilet, or shopping for the perfect coffee table (we really should never go to Crate & Barrel together again), I'm very, very proud of my husband.  He is great with kids, and I have always been oddly attracted to men who positively influence the next generation of Jews.  I mean, the "you're the most fabulous (at Jewish summer camp) waterskier ever" thing is annoying, but its better than "what an asshole, Larry Schwartz."  Right?

And, now that I've ranted through some of my frustrations, I'll even admit that I agree.  Larry is great.  He is sweet, he is smart, and he is funny.  Very funny.  And he may not have taught me to waterski, but during every second of every minute of every hour of every day, I know he is there, supporting me, whatever I'm doing, and that makes me feel like I can be great.

So, while our time together settling into our new home in Denver has got to be up, I (quite publicly) say to my fabulous husband, "Larry, I could not be more proud of you.  I love you. And I hope you enjoy your day tomorrow at work."


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