My Best Marriage Advice

Another picture of my nails! Lucky you!

So we here are at the gangplank waiting for the Queen Mary to sail. Our trunks are being carried aboard by burly stevedores and we're kiss-kissing the cheeks of family members who are seeing us off.

Not really, of course. What we are is frantically packing to get ready to leave today for the Wedding of the Century Part Deux, because we are so, so close to the big day. When I talked to Boy#2 Sunday I was able to remind him that it was only six more sleeps until the wedding. (He had already done that math, but he appreciated the sentiment.)

I had carefully planned these final few days, pacing myself so I wouldn't be ready too soon and have to sit around idly stewing. Yesterday's mani-pedi was the final checkmark on my to-do-at-home list before the final folding of the MoG dresses for carrying on the plane. Last evening was to be a few hours of quiet contemplation and knitting, maybe a bit of sentimental scribbling.

All was going well, in spite of the torrential rains that were falling outside. A brand new manicure was making me happy (I like the shellac nails so much better than the dip version that was my test run, and Nail Genius Kelly says they'll last at least until the weekend). I was knitting a new complicated-enough-to-be-fun lace project, and Midsomer Murders was on Netflix.

And then I heard it. The basement sump pump was cycling on. And off. And on. And off. And on. Etc., etc., etc., ad nauseum, because nauseum was my immediate response.

The House on the Corner is at the intersection of a big hill and one of Small Town's major drainage streets, and in truly torrential downpours, that street becomes a whitewater course. Twice in our 31 years of living in this house that whitewater has overwhelmed the storm drains, and the run-off knocks on our basement drain saying "Please, may we come in?" Then it does, with vigor.

Last night was the second of those times, so I guess the overall average of 15 years isn't bad. After all, the basement is unfinished concrete, and the water coming in is clean rain. The timing, though, was terrible.

Instead of quiet contemplation and sentimental scribbling, Husband and I spent the evening hooking up the auxiliary drain pump, using the shop vac to suck up gallons of overflow and schlepping it up the basement steps to dump outside. In the rain.

In the process I completely borked my new pedicure, tripping and stumbling on the steps so often that my left big toe was shredded and the I'm Not Really a Waitress red polish was destroyed.

But do you know what? Husband is a total rock star in situations like this. He'd been at a school board meeting when I heard the ominous rumbling from below, and even though he's board president he turned over the meeting to the vice president and came home when I called because he heard panic in my voice. Then he handed me gloves to preserve my manicure, and took the heavy side of the rain-filled shop vac on every trip.

Then he said "I have a plan--" and explained how he'd set his alarm for every two hours to make sure the pump was keeping up with inflow, and I went to bed and got a good night of sleep. This morning a dear friend heard about our predicament and offered to babysit our basement while we're away, an offer that made me cry at how blessed we are by our people. The plumber, even as I write this, is in the basement fixing the problem.

And that, Boy#2, leads to the best advice I can give you as you start your marriage. When what you have planned does not go according to your script (and that will be more often than not), be the kind of husband your father has been. Recognize panic in her voice, even if she doesn't say she's panicked. Carry the heavy end of the shop vac. Make good friends. And tell your Lovely Girl that you've blocked out time for her to get her toes repaired, even if she decides she'd rather just wear closed-toe shoes.

We love you, and we'll see you tomorrow!