Thursday, September 23, 2010

Four seasons

I am trying to convince my husband to take a trip with me to the east coast to see the fall color.

FOLIAGE! I keep exclaiming.

He does not like to travel, and poor thing, he married someone who would leave in two hours for ... anywhere! if invited. I'm a sucker for a good adventure.

It's good that he is the way he is because sometimes I will say something like:

Let's quit our jobs and move to Manitoba (or New Zealand or Maui or Puerto Rico). I would do it. My husband smiles at me and says, No.

When I get somewhere I've never been, I like to wander aimlessly until I find something that strikes my fancy. Which is how I was raised. It drove me nuts as a kid, and of course, I've turned into my own parents.

My husband, on the other hand, needs an itinerary from start to finish. Given his druthers, every waking moment would be scheduled. Which reduces the anxiety of But what will we do when we get there?

Me? I'd be like, I dunno. Let's ask that old beardy guy sitting in front of that shack over there.

Beardy guy would tell us where the best fall color is.

My husband's family has very deep roots in Vermont, and he should see it. Dammit. And then someday he can tell his grandkids about his trip to Vermont -- the one his wife forced him to take.

What did you see, Grandpa? they will ask. I dunno. Some leaves and stuff, he will shrug.

FOLIAGE! I will yell from the kitchen, and then cackle my ass off.

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