Girl with the Heart on her Sleeve

Roles that Anger fills in my repertoire of behavior:
Thug.
Blanket.
Booster Rocket and/or Propeller (think Titanic sized.)
Weapon.
Loud Speaker.
Wall.
Parry.
Fatigue combatant.
and most recently discovered: Mask of the true emotion.

Although I learned this particular concept a while ago, I have only employed WISDOM concerning it over the last three days. So what I've been doing much more of?

Laughing and . . .

Sobbing.

Both. Basically equally. Instead of propelling myself through the day with the adrenaline rush that accompanies anger, I employ my new friend: laughter. Muad'Dib thought I was crazy and or hopped up on some unknown chemical Sunday afternoon. I was simply trying not to be grumpy because I was so freaking tired. I felt I had only one other avenue. After about an hour of it, I felt better and caught that second wind I thought could only be achieved from an anger push.

And then there's the crying/all-out-sobbing. I stick by my previous statement of being "fundamentally happy." I am. My life rocks. I could go on. And I have crying emotions. I try to cover them up because I know how it looks: It looks like I'm not happy.

Well, to hell with how it looks. So I sob loudly into the couch every so often. So I start crying in the middle of a Sunday School lesson. So I can't make it through a Lysol commercial without tearing up. So what? Does it mean that I'm not loving my life? No.

I'm not sure what it means, but I know it's not that.

Really. I don't know what it means. For the past three days, whenever I feel the delicious rush of anger, I take half a breath and ask myself, "What am I really feeling?" If I can laugh it away, I do. If I have to release it, I cry.

So far, it's working out great. Except for the not being able to understand what's beneath the need to cry. It's as if I started and now I can't stop. Don't get me wrong: it feels good to let myself cry. Of course, then I'm left to wonder: "Did I really need to do that?" Perhaps in another few days I'll find different tool that works better. Today I only have the two: Laughter and tears. Though in the words of Olympia Dukakis: "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion!" So it isn't all bad.

In fact I remember one occasion not too long ago when I was playing Catch Phrase with my sister, my brother and a friend. It was my turn. The little white and blue beeping disc was passed into my hands. I think the word was "Luxor." While trying to get my siblings to guess, my brother said something. I began to laugh. I laughed so hard that the sobs elbowed their way out, until I was simply bawling into the couch while my friend and family looked on with no little amount of astonishment.

But hey: that's me. Girl with the Heart on her Sleeve.

I certainly don't want my readers to think of me as being a guest in my old melancholy mood. I'm emoting. Not brooding. I have no self hate. My self-analysis is done in wonder. Like a scientist searching the realms of possibility for the cure to some disease he doesn't entirely understand: I am looking within myself. I know the problem and the solution are found both inside and outside of me. They are both within my reach. Or it's like a child looking from a night sky to the firefly wondering what the difference is. I am energized by my learning

While at the same time I am tired. Not tired of myself, but tired of the limitations I have carefully placed on myself since I was born. Tired of pulling them off. I do love the freedom when they are gone, though.

I was going to ask if this made any sense. But it doesn't matter. If it mattered, I would have written my feelings first in a Word document, then saved it. Carefully edited it later, then saved it. And then three weeks from now, I would have opened it again, edited it again and thought about posting it, completely removed from the emotion. Feeling safe that it has lost all it's original impact behind my carefully crafted words. But: (and I choose to use "but" here for the very reason Wildman doesn't like it used) I don't care if it makes sense to anyone but me. It seems that my most special times as a writer are when I don't censor myself. Though this cannot be said of my comments on other's blogs, where it is best that I do not react with emotion.

But this is my playground. This here is my turf. Here I am the master of all thought. The dandelion fairy, if you will, as I once was on the playground in my very real, very past childhood. I give dandelions. If you don't find them as pretty as I do, then you will not accept my gift with joy. But for those who see the dandelion for it's beauty (and it must have some if it has it's very own fairy) our friendship is forged.

Stream of consciousness. That's what this is called. I did this once in High School, where I tried to write exactly what I was thinking as I was thinking it. It was harder then, as I was employing a pencil, whereas now I have only to think the thoughts. Did you know that I put myself to sleep by mentally typing out my thoughts? That's why I am able to type so quickly though I have never taken a class or anything.

I feel as though I am shaking inside. For once I cannot tell the difference between friend or foe in the feeling. Anxiety or Inspiration. Though, the soaring heart should tell me something. Feeling light and romantic. Feeling like me. Crying pries me loose from my binding. Though normally, even in dreams, I need at least a towel to fly. Like a magic carpet meant for one. Does that mean I will always need help?

If so: what a marvelous life that I have so many who are willing to do the helping! So many who are willing to do the holding while I have these bouts of seemingly senseless tears. So many to share with.

And now I look over the rolling ocean of my mind, and feel sleepy. I feel delightfully weary. Like I could finally wink out the lights of my brain and rest in my sanctuary. (note previous post. I'm not suicidal!) It's during these goodbye moments of thought that I send out a call for someone to hold me, to play with my hair or to make me feel safe. I have no great desire to omit that request simply because people may read it this time, where other cries have stayed mute and unobserved in my many volumes of journal. I can recognize that this is different. I am unashamed. And I have faith that if I meant it, I could count beyond my fingers and toes the number of people who would fill the need. And today, I'm happy to report: Knowing that is enough!

And now, I part with the silly words of Stephen Sondheim:
"I feel pretty. Oh so pretty. I feel pretty. And witty. And bright! And I pity any girl who isn't me tonight. I feel pretty. Oh! So pretty! The city should give me its key. And a committee should be organized to honour me. I feel dizzy. I feel sunny. I feel fizzy. And funny. And fine."

That quote is funnier if you don't hear the music to it in your head while reading. The words are also truer if you just say them out loud with the punctuation I inserted.

Hm. I sigh in silly contentedness. Is that a word? Apparently. I just did the spell check and it raised no red flags. So I guess I'm not so like Shakespeare after all.

Well, at least, not today.

SANCTUARY!!

Say it with me: "Ahhh . . ."

I sort of hate to ask it, but

Do you have a basket? These are "Heart Shaped Honey Rolls." They are as delicious as they look. And not as sweet as they sound. Very good with Coldwater Canyon Elderberry jelly. And here is what my kitchen looked like after the whirlwind called "Baking" came and destroyed it's otherwise peaceful exterior.

And still: it was worth it!!!

Baking/Cooking is one of my new therapys. So if anyone is hungry, come on over: 99.9% of the time, I am up for cooking and feel better after doing so!

Forget your troubles. C'mon, write happy!!!

Summer is swift approaching. Before it sets up shop, however, I will be living through spring with it's many lion-and-lamb like ups and downs. April rains. May blooms. You get the picture.

In the yellow-y blue of a spring early morning, I find myself turning on the computer (the hum of electronics massaging my ears like the lullaby of an old friend), and doing three things:

1. I Check my email. There is rarely more than precious little of notice or consequence, but I do it anyway. I constantly hope against hope that there is some personal note therein, meant only for me. Then again, if I don't send those sort of notes, who am I to desire some? I'm not here to moan. On to number two:

2. Check the comments on my blog. I like to think that if I write well, or comment well or put up cute pictures that people will be driven to comment. I'm not sure when the number of comments became my creative measuring stick. Hm. Then I continue with one of two things.

3a. Check everyone elses blog. or (most often most recently)

3b. Re-read my July posts. At first I began this practice because it had the most posts. It also has the pictures from my family reunion in Star Valley and the majority of pictures from Secret Garden. The reason now has become different as I have noticed something:

I have changed. *YAY!*

The thought patterns that I was repeating and re-repeating in July (like Slimer ruling the 12th floor) are no longer a part of my life cycle. Seriously. And I have identified the strongest contributor in my mental freedom. I will now share it with all of you. For I know you are on the edges of your seats, wondering how you can be more like me. Though perhaps you are simply curious as to what I'm talking about at all. Some of you have been around me so little, that you may have hardly noticed a change. Re read those blogs, then you'll start to see it.

About three months ago, someone told me that I was a good writer, but that I never write "happy." I quickly spouted my well rehearsed answer (one I developed as an emotional teen; you know, the one that writes moody sub-par poetry instead of reading "Huckleberry Finn"):

"Well, there are only so many ways to say "happy." But there are infinite ways to express despair."

He wisely pointed out, that what I thought about WAS. He challenged me to not post again until I could post something happy. And then to post (or write) only happy things. He made this challenge sometime Mid-November. Notice that the next two months, I only put up three posts. It was as if I was struggling to find only happy things to say. The truth of the matter was not that I had a shortage of material, it was simply that I didn't know how. And I could believe that I was interesting if I was happy.

My very first blog post was something I had written almost a year before, and I changed it for the purpose of blogging. Guess what it was before it was personal praise for my wonderfulness? That's right - a beautiful blotch of self-deprecating prose.

Then in February, I was wise enough to recognize and then remark on the fact that "I am fundamentally happy." but what followed that? "and have every right to be mopey from time to time." *Boo Hiss*
This was a pattern that began emerging. The idea that I was entitled to bring my negativity to everyone around me because I was such a good girl on the other days.

How selfish.

Not anymore, baby!

Okay, I'm still self-interested, but not all selfish. Or, at least I strive not to be.

One of the biggest boosters for this change was in fact the challenge itself. Once I began to "write happy," along with putting the other fantastic advice I was given to work, I got better. I healed. And now it's not even easier to have "those sort of days" and write out my sadness. I have instead, when I'm mopey, picked a happy memory and written it. These are mostly short, one page things. But I sure feel better when I'm done.

Like yesterday. I was mad that my neck hurt and upset that Lemur was yelling at me and constantly contradicting anything I had to say. So I went to my room, to my computer and wrote this:

"I was in the bathtub: a goddess reigning over an icy world! The bubbles rose like monolithic icebergs towering over me with their soft and swooping curves. I parted the bubbles to see the water below. It had a greenish tint, as one always sees under real iceberg on the Discovery Channel. How much more potent was this world of pretend after that view! The delicious power of it all went to my head (or perhaps it was the heat of the bath) and I watched leisurely as my hand took the shape and manner of a humpback whale: first breaking the water, soaring up above the surface before turning so slightly and plunging back into the depths. When did my hand become so graceful, like that behemoth of a water mammal, that it would be able to imitate those glorious movements so well?

For twenty minutes or more I played in my bath. Parting the bergs, shaping the landscape with great waves and small sprinkling storms, made by the wet shaking of my fingers over a decided peak until it was reduced to a valley. And though I played, splashing about in my very warm frozen world, the bubbles never truly diminished. I could see that although they lost height and fill, there was just as much. It was merely softer . . . more like foam.

Then suddenly I was a selkie, waking in the foamy brine as my human form emerged from it’s former seal-skin. Hoping both that a man would see and love me and also that I would not be discovered. I would lay there, caught in a groove of a large stone - shaped oddly like a bathtub! - as the foam swirled and pulsed around me echoing the heartbeat of the ocean from which I was momentarily escaping.

I closed my eyes, and reached up to take down my hair, which - had I been standing - would reach to the small of my back in coppery brown waves. But they were instead caught by the waves of my imaginary ocean. I rocked my hips from side to side beneath the surface, being both the heart and the blood to make my hair rise and fall. The gentle pulling as the water receded was intoxicating. I could feel my worries disappearing. No doubt this is how a selkie would appear: calm and completely unconnected with the world she was about to enter. And that was a selkie’s charm.

Slowly my mind began to play out my life as a selkie. I began picturing the world, picturing the man, picturing even the children. The dream bore a marked resemblance to my current husband and children: though the land was different, and there were Irish accents spoken by all.

In the selkie-life, I was always beautifully distracted by the soft echo of ocean on the walls of my home when a window was left open. I saw the stars not as dots in the sky but as a map home. I would look at my family and still feel the draw back to my previous world, feeling trapped by the dryness of the land. The mocking damp that rain would bring, or the worst mockery of all: a bath.

Wait. I like my bath.

I decided to abandon this path in my mind meanderings and intended to turn on the jets when there was a knock on the door.

"Hon? Time to get out. The kids still need baths before church."

I sighed. Perhaps baths were a mockery. Giving me inspiration for imagination while never actually transporting me anywhere.

Or perhaps the opposite was true and baths were just what they seemed to be: awesome. "

I have a talent for romanticizing memory. Putting on the rose-colored glasses, if you will, and really re-experiencing it. I used to do this only with "the good old days" with the purpose of showing myself how bad the present was. I would compare myself to the past. Now it's time to
"use my power for good instead of evil."

And this is a start. Who would have thought that there was so much to say for and about being happy?

Look closely . . .

And you might just see a family resemblence. For instance, they both have beautiful skin and big blue eyes. Lemur pointed out that last one. He looked at Helo (for so I've dubbed him) the first time he caught him with his eyes open and exclaimed, "He has my eyes!!" Perhaps there's not much in this pic, but I do enjoy the odd angle at which my son has perched him self. And Helo is just takin' it like a man. "Weird cousin."

Oh, so cute!
Ahh, here we really see how much they have in common, despite the separation of the more potent family genes. I love having Helo over in the afternoons. Yesterday he was so excited to "sit up" (I was holding him up, truth be told. I don't think he noticed the distinction), and he finally smiled. As much as Helo smiles. He's a very reserved and serious little man. And it's beautiful to see his little man-face light up when he sees his mother.

Rivulet likes to be a mommy to this new person, and is constantly trying to hold him and give him a bottle. When he naps, she will waddle up and begin stroking his baldness, smiling and saying "Baby?" over and over, seemingly very proud that she gets to touch one. I believe that whenever he's happy, she takes the credit for it herself. That's okay with me. I'm just glad she doesn't get jealous seeing me holding another baby. Maybe there's hope . . .

Alien vs. Mosquito

Two nights ago, Lemur came into my room scratching his belly.

"Hey Lemur. What'r ya doin'?"

"Scratchin'."

"Scratching' what?"

"I have a alien spore." (*alien* is pronounced Eh-lee-un)

I do a double take as I look up from my book (Xenocide, btw). "You have a what?"

"A alien spore."

He doesn't seem as bothered about that sort of thing as I would be.

"Can I see?" I ask.

He shruggs and lifts his shirt to reveal: a mosquito bite.

"Oh, honey that's not an alien spore."

He looks disappointed, "It's not?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"It's just a mosquito bite."

Enter the terror any normal person would assume to come with discovering they were infested with an alien spore.

"A MOSQUITO!!!"

I could not keep from laughing. "Yes. Just a mosquito."

His eyes tear up and he puts his shirt down, hugging it close to his body as though the thin fabric may protect him against further invasion.

There is a moment of silence. I don't know what to do - it's just a mosquito bite! - so I wait and watch his reactions. Finally he has composed himself enough to communicate.

"Do you know what we should do?"

"No honey. What should we do?"

"We get daddy to come home, and kill all the mosquitos and then no more will come around us. Okay?"

Enter Mom trying to be clever. "Well, you know, if you had eaten a good dinner like me and Daddy and River, the mosquitos wouldn't bite you."

"Really?"

"Yes. River and Daddy and I all ate fish for dinner, but you screamed and would only eat rice. You need to eat more good food so that the Mosquitoes won't think you taste so good."

And then my friend can contain himself no longer and begins laughing as he prolcaims: "And so the Old Wive's Tale is born!!!"

Peanut Butter Fiend

Rivulet has a favorite snack. She asks for it at least four times a day, and will meander around the house, sucking on it. Watching her do this reminds me of someone I saw in a movie once . . .

- Meet Joe Black

That's Where I Belong

Somewhere in a burst of glory

Sound becomes a song

I'm bound to tell a story

That's where I belong

When I see you smiling

When I hear you singing

Lavender and roses

Every ending a beginning

The way you turn

And catch me with your eye

Ay ay ay

That's where I belong

When I see you smiling

When I hear you singing

Lavender and roses

Every ending a beginning

That's the way it is

I don't know why
Ay ay ay

But that's where I belong

- "That's Where I belong" - Paul Simon

Let's play Global Thermo-Nuclear War . . .

This morning I very efficiently made breakfast for my children and brought a breakfast of cereal, sliced oranges and Carnation Instant Breakfast up to my husband who was sitting at the computer engrossed in his morning electronics fix. I handed him his food, which he greeted with an appreciative noise.
"We have to leave soon," he said, seeing me prepare for a shower.
"Okay."
He gave me a disbelieving look, "You think you and the kids can be ready in twenty five minutes?"
"Uh, yeah!" I replied with confidence and a peck of snide.
He grunted his unbelief, and I in return rose to take up my defence.
"Hey!" His eyes widened under my sudden (though minor) change in tone, "I got up all lickity split, and flipped on the Good Wife switch this morning. I brought you breakfast, buddy! So be happy!"
As I swiftly exited the room, I heard him call after me, "Then can you break off the Bad Wife Switch?"


Come to think of it,the Bad Wife behavior of which he speaks is more like a thermo-nuclear explosion than a switch, being as it takes time and varying experiences to gain full strength. After which the trigger can be hit, or turned, and then the man (or children) are left to suffer in the fall out.
What I mean is, I was examining this idea. I was trying to take my husband's advice, because - really - it is good advice. I shouldn't have a BW Switch. And in thinking it out (trying to discover where it was, as it were) it came to me that GW can be there in a moment, by choosing to. Very much like flipping a switch (anyone who has watched Bree on Desperate Housewives knows what I mean). BW is built up and added to moment after moment until she is triggered.

So does that mean I must remove the trigger? Or that I must systematically remove the buildup before it has a chance to be triggered at all? A trigger is harmless with no explosive behind it.

Great. Now I have MORE to think about.

Continuing Education

I have been thinking about the Nelson affinity for the desert.

Growing up, all my camping was done in the mountains. High in the mountains. All hikes were in or on mountains, striving to reach a summit: a final view, a massive payoff. We lived in the desert, my siblings and I often going on walkabout for hours at a time exploring the caves, mini dunes as desert life that surrounded our Highland House.

As my mind was meandering down these paths of thought, I began to filter through my memories of each. I seem to see symbolic presences that reflect the needs of my mind or soul that draws me to one destination or the other.

Why the desert over the mountain? Why the mountain over the desert?

Why sometimes does the heart yearn for the protective embrace of towering fatherly monoliths of stone, clothed in wildflowers, aspens, pine and evergreen trees, desiring the sound of dead leaves and dried pine needles crushing underfoot as the sun is kept from you by the shadow of these trees that loom overhead? What drives a heart to need the culmination of work, seen in the view from a great height when little seen from that far above makes any sense?

Why other times is the incredible heat of the desert more desirable? Why does one's heart cry out for the feel of slick rock beneath their sandals, of a river sloshing over and through their shoes? Why the pull to a land where green is rare and all is open to your sight: seeing for miles as you travel further down the path to your rest? Bathing in red and gold, how is it that the sun and the rock can heal the abrasions that living life day to day inflicts on our souls?

The answers are in the questions, as most answers are. Which do I prefer? It used to be mountains. I used to love lakes above all other bodies of water. Now my most powerful emotional connection is to rivers.

I am a lucky woman in that my Life Moments are varied. One at a beach. One at a lake in the Sierra Nevadas. One at a lake in the desert. Another in a river in the desert. My soul finds moments of complete wholeness with nature

It's true that I am rambling on about my love for the Earth. Perhaps because although it is still winter, yesterday I smelled spring. Everything outside my window is muddy and ugly, but the smell of spring reminded me how awesome the earth is. My favorite things are coming around again:

Easter

Green on trees

My birthday

walks to the park to sit in the grass and watch my children play.

Planting a garden

Tending a garden

The fourth of July

Cherry Days

The twenty fourth of July

Lake Powell

Bonfires in my parent's back yard

Picking peaches

Eating corn (watching my children eat corn)

Eating outside

Crocheting outside

Reading outside

Finding ways to use apricots.

Writing outside

Eating fresh vegetables

Sleeping outside

Fireworks

Summer visits from family

Tubing down a river

Wading in a river

Roses

Hiking sandals

Lavender

and new this year: I look forward to seeing the desert.

Thanks for the continuing education, Nelson clan.

My skin is not my own.

Last night I briefly lived the law of consecration.

And by briefly I mean for about three hours.

What I had, I submitted to the Lord and gave freely to my brother, as My Father saw fit. As the gift was a gift given to me, I was able - after actively making it holy - to share with a brother who did not possess the same gift, but who was able to benefit from it.

I retain the gift. I maintain stewardship over it. And by recognizing the times when the gift is needed by others, I exercise stewardship by either denying the experience or saying to My Father, "I submit to Your will."

How great was this exchange! Now that I have had this experience so fully - so completely undeniable was the difference! - now I have the opportunity to discern other times when this or other gifts can be or may be beneficial to be consecrated, shared and thereby multiplied.

There have been times when others have shared their gifts with me, to benefit me.

So is this how it feels to give in all the areas of consecration. Time? Talents? Worldly goods? Will it each time feel like this? Like my soul is too full to be contained by this mortal coil?

This experience also re infuses the belief that my body is a good body. And. I am not my body. Measuring my being by my body - appearance or physical feeling - is to use a tool that cannot possibly hold the marvelous contents. It is a truth that must needs stand up against my earth-learned habit of constant physical evaluation.

We each of us have ways of measuring ourselves. By accomplishment, by "righteousness", by monetary success, by the number of people who love us, by the size and shape of our bodies, by the color of our hair, by the cleanliness of our house, by our ability to arrive at a place or goal by a consigned time or date.

Hmm.

I have so much to think about. This is all I have to say about it.

There and back again

We are safely returned from St. George, where Muad'Dib and I took our children for five days to celebrate our six year anniversary. Enjoy the travel log.

This is the view from our back porch in the early morning: around 7-ish. And this would be me enjoying our very presidential hot tub on our porch, while re-reading Ender's Game before the kids wake up.
We went up to Pioneer Park our first morning there, and hiked the "Dixie Rocks." Rivulet was shy/ornery whenever a camera came near. She'd rarely look at you and often turn the other way deliberately.

Lemur enjoying the natural tunnels.
Muad'Dib on the top of the Dixie Rock. Note the St. George Temple in the backround.

Kidlets enjoying the super soft sand.
Then, although Muad'Dib believed we were going home, Lemur and I took off up a hill hoping to find a certain place that my siblings and I used to climb to when I was young. We found it. And Muad'Dib was suprised to look up and see us far above him. This was a "close up" of me and my boy. Very satisfying.

After the hike we had lunch with my Grandma. It was wonderful to see her, especially to see her enjoy her great-grandchildren.

Then the next day we went to Snow Canyon, and did a short hike up Jenny's Canyon.

After which we crossed the street to some wonderful sand dunes. It was incredibly refreshing to stand atop a dune, look out over the lava strewn valley to the wonderfully blue and red horizon. The wind took it's chance to play with my beautiful hair. It was awesome.

My children also found it "awesome." Daddy buried his boy -

And Rivulet got jealous. She kept laying down and trying to throw dirt on herself.
After the dunes, after a nap and after a trip to the pool, we relaxed by turning on the bubble machine.

The next night - our last night - we invited my uncle and my Grandma over for dinner. And after I grilled a delicious dinner, my husband and my uncle enjoyed some Rock Band time.

It was a beautiful place, and a beautiful trip. I love spending time with my family, building memories with my children and caring for my husband. We never had to wear a jacket - or even a sweatshirt! - and I even got a little bit of a tan. To emphasize the difference between there and here: today I wore a sweater and was still cold because it was SNOWING!! Ah. Good to be home.

When can we go back?

Not exactly tagged . . .

I wasn't tagged specifically, but I will take any opportunity to sing my husband's praises.

1. What's his name? Kaleeb Muad'Dib

2. How long have you been married? 6 years and 9 days.

3. How long did you date? Two dates before I went to Japan, then one month and two days after I got home. I did the math once, and the amount of time we spent together in the first three weeks was the equivalent of a four month relationship consisting of three four-hour dates a week. Basically we were inseparable.

4. Who eats more sweets? My honey.

5. Who said I love you first? I did. His answer? "I wanted to say it first." He was waiting for me to be ready to hear it. It surprised us both.

6. Who is taller? Muad'Dib

7. Who can sing better? We're both pretty amazing singers. But I'd have to go with Muad'Dib. He makes my knees go weak.

8. Who is smarter? Muad'Dib. Hands down. Though I have my areas of excellence.

9. Who does the laundry? Me

10. Who pays the bills? My Man. To quote: "He makes the living, I make the life worth living."

11. Who sleeps on the right side of the bed? Me. But right or left isn't important: closest to the kids is the determining factor.

12. Who cooks dinner? For the first four years of our marriage: Muad'Dib. The last two? Me. And I'm pretty great at it. As Muad'Dib says: "The sauce of service is always better than the salt shaker of self-sufficiency." Basically that translates to: "I'll eat whatever you make and it'll taste better because I didn't have to make it." He's so cute.

13. Who drives? Mostly me. But Muad'Dib is a great side seat driver. =)

14. Who is more stubborn? We are both very good at concession and compromise.

15. Who kissed who first? Muad'Dib kissed me. Long after I wanted him to, btw.

16. Who asked who out first? I asked him, but he couldn't make it. The first date we actually went on was instigated by Muad'Dib.

17. Who proposed? We decided together. He asked, but just as a formality. Once we knew, we knew.

18. Who wears the pants? Depends on the situation. My husband is Lord of the Manor, and I am equally Lady of the Manor.