In which my femininity does not suffer

We grew this.

I am the lax gardener in this household. But I did grow that succulent little watermelon in the photo above. (And by “grow,” I mean plant the seedlings way too close together and leave them to their own devices for two months and then take credit for the beautiful harvest.) We had it for lunch yesterday and it was perfect.

Guion, it turns out, is the better homemaker. He is the champion gardener. He is the master chef. He is the kitchen sink doctor. And I am perfectly OK with him being all of these things. My femininity does not suffer a whit.

I thought it would. When we were first married, I wanted to follow those traditional Southern-woman housekeeping roles. I had to be the better cook. I had to have this instinctive green thumb. I had to fold hand towels in thirds. If I couldn’t or didn’t, I would be a bad wife. Many women imply this, even today. They see this 1950s housekeeping mold as The Gold Standard of matrimony and domestic living: The proper wife stays home, gardens, tidies rooms, makes 95% of the food (leaving only the grilling and the slicing of meats to the husband); the proper husband goes to work, mows the lawn, and fixes broken appliances. These are the roles and you stick to them.

This, obviously, is a fading archetype in modern America. And yet I wanted to follow it. Sometimes, when I do spend time with family (particularly my maternal side of the family), I feel like the lesser wife, the domestic failure. I was raised, after all, by and among these paragons of domestic virtue, the hostesses of wide repute, the kitchen gourmets of local renown. And so it is astonishing to my relatives that my husband is the one in the kitchen, whipping up some chutney from the tomatoes he grew in the backyard. Isn’t that women’s work? The men in my family can barely wash a dish, much less follow a complex English recipe from produce they harvested. And here is my hard-working, housekeeping husband, the culinary trailblazer. He is pure mystery to them all. They stare at him with bemused wonder.

I have always thought that my attainment of true womanhood, of authentic femininity would lie in my inherent ability to whip up a pound cake, hem a skirt, and grow daffodils. I cannot do any of these things. I despise DIY home decor projects. I cannot improvise a marinade. I have never learned how to cut a man’s hair myself. And for the first time in our marriage, I am not ashamed to admit any of these things. I do not feel like a lesser woman or a bad wife anymore.

All this to say: I don’t know what kind of wife I am. I am not the traditional model. But I do know that I found myself a very, very good husband. And we make it work.

The Internet’s bad attitude

Our gargantuan crape myrtle in the front yard.

I wanted to write a post about feminists, about how no one wants to be one, but then I thought, “No, Abby. More importantly, no one wants to read that.” So, I will keep it to myself. (You’re welcome.)

Guion said the other night at dinner that he wants the Internet to be a nicer place. He noted that nothing is worth posting unless it is a meme, preferably a sarcastic meme, or a jab at someone, preferably a famous someone. The Internet is all snark and no sincerity. At least, that is what Social Media has wrought. Heaven forbid I contribute to that snarky, pointless vortex, but I do. Every day. What’s the solution? How do we fix it? Get off the Internet. Take one’s dog for a walk and wait for seemingly endless minutes while she sniffs every sixth blade of grass. This, I have found, is the only solution to the Internet’s bad attitude.

I started three new books last night, each one quite different from the next: Binocular Vision, collected stories of Edith Pearlman; The Right-Hand Shore, by Christopher Tilghman, who runs Guion’s creative writing program at UVA; and The Sense of an Ending, by Julian Barnes, which won the 2011 Booker Prize. I liked noting how differently they all started their books.

On the subway Sophie recited the list of stations like a poem.

— ”Inbound,” Binocular Vision

We see Miss Mary Bayly and her distant and much younger cousin Mr. Edward Mason sitting on the porch of the Mansion House on her ancestral farm, Mason’s Retreat.

— The Right-Hand Shore

I remember, in no particular order:

• a shiny inner wrist;
• steam rising from a wet sink as a hot frying pan is laughingly tossed into it;
• gouts of sperm circling a plughole, before being sluiced down the full length of a tall house;
• a river rushing nonsensically upstream, its wave and wash lit by half a dozen chasing torchbeams;
• another river, broad and grey, the direction of its flow disguised by a stiff wind exciting the surface;
• bathwater long gone cold behind a locked door.

This last isn’t something I actually saw, but what you end up remembering isn’t always the same as what you have witnessed.

— The Sense of an Ending

All possess very disparate styles and priorities, but so far, I’m enjoying each one.

I have thought: I will always be reading and I will never finish my to-read list. I will die not having read everything I wanted to, even if I read 100 books a year for the rest of my life. The other day, I whittled my to-read list down to about 156 books, down from about 270. But I keep adding more and the count is gradually creeping up. (I need some solid nonfiction recommendations, by the way. Mind-broadening books.) Some time, I’d like to discuss the troubling note of xenophobia that has crept into my reading preferences, but that’s a different boring topic for a different boring blog post.

Outdoor summer

“Montana,” with Tara and Andrew.

Friday night, we trekked out to “Montana”–the Hill’s cabin in Waynesboro–to have a peaceful, happy dinner with Andrew and Tara. (Well, mostly happy. We were all a little sad that Baby Leah wasn’t there.) Tara made heirloom tomato soup. We talked about creationism and mommy culture on Facebook. Pyrrha found a baby snake under my shoe. We laughed. We were loath to leave.

I mean, look at this place.

Soy fields at “Montana.”

The following day, we took Pyr on a little hike through Pen Park.

Pyrrha and Guion at Pen Park.

While on our way back down, we had a thrilling wildlife encounter. Pyrrha and the doe (featured below) squared off with each other for a solid three minutes–neither one blinking, twitching, breathing. Guion and I were getting bored. “OK, which one of you is going to make a move?”

Pyrrha vs. Doe.

Finally, the doe flicked her ear. And took off. And so did Pyrrha. And so did Guion.

Pyr may have frantically lost this hunt, but the encounter at least whetted her appetite for big, wild creatures.

“Did you see that?” Guion said, walking back to me with Pyrrha in tow, breathless. “She acted like a DOG!”

It’s always something we celebrate around here.

In other news, I am thrilled by the prospect of two weekends in a row in which we do not have any travel, weddings, or house guests. This is something of a summer miracle. I have been doing lots of chores, taking the shepherd on lots of walks, and reading lots of novels and letters. Saturday, I even took a NAP–something I haven’t done in many years. It felt profligate.

How have you been spending your summer?

Calligraphy and nature

Guion, tending to his hop “tree.”

Exhibit A: Guion vs. Cat

The photograph above shows Guion tending to his deeply beloved hops. As you can see, he’s constructed a makeshift hop maypole running up the dead evergreen tree. Every time he climbs up there, I expect one of those branches to break, but he assures me that it’s very sturdy. He’s very adept and quick up there and the hops have been thriving, thanks to his ramshackle fence.

The fence keeps the deer out, but it hasn’t been successful in prohibiting a more malevolent animal: The domestic cat. We have noticed a tabby cat prowling around the tree and the hop plants and we didn’t think too much of it. But the other day, Guion comes in, huffy and disgruntled. “Cats are evil,” he says. The cat, apparently, dug up one of his precious hop seedlings, pooped in this hole, and then covered it back up, leaving Guion a special little present when he went to check on that lingering seedling. This made me LOL all over the place, but yes, it’s also proof positive that cats are evil. And that they potentially share my father’s sense of humor.

Exhibit B: Escaping calligraphy

I was positively exhausted this weekend by demanding calligraphy jobs. I shouldn’t complain–I am so grateful for the extra cash–but spending one’s entire weekend hunched over a desk, slave to the pen, is not necessarily my idea of a good time.

I was desperate to get out of the house, so we took a brief hike through Pen Park for my Saturday reprieve. A hot day, but the trails are so shaded. We met an equally shy German shepherd puppy, saw three deer crashing through the woods, and lost Pyrrha for a few minutes (turns out her recall is not as good as I thought it was). And then we came home, tired dog in tow, and ate and… did some more calligraphy.

Pen Park walk.

Even though I get easily stressed by these little things, at the core, I feel very peaceful. We have a good life.

A wolf in the house

Yes?

“Isn’t it strange,” Guion said, looking at Pyrrha today, sprawled out on the kitchen floor, “that an animal THIS BIG lives in our house? With us?”

It is. It is also extremely delightful. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of her, slinking into another room, and think for a split-second, “We adopted a WOLF.” Albeit a very timid, sweet wolf. I love her a lot already. She has so much to learn and so many fears to conquer, but I have a lot of faith in her.

Breaking up with Jhumpa Lahiri

I’ve more or less regained some of my reading momentum. I just finished, for the second time, the thoroughly wonderful (and surprisingly funny) Madame Bovary, in Lydia Davis’ new translation. I started Marilynne Robinson’s new collection of essays, When I Was a Child I Read Books, and finished the very disappointing Unaccustomed Earth, Jhumpa Lahiri’s latest.

Here’s my beef with Lahiri: Lady, you write so well and you write so clearly. I gravitate toward your stories, because deep down, I really and truly love unexciting domestic narratives about relationships, dishes in the sink, and building ennui. (This is why Jonathan Franzen will always have my undying affection.) BUT. You keep reusing the same story, every time. I’ve now read all of your published work. It is a formula and it is so tedious and predictable: Bengali family immigrates to America; their children have tension with their traditional parents, because they want to be American; kids go to Ivy League colleges; kids fall in love with Americans; parents forbid it, try to arrange a marriage with a Bengali; kid marries American anyway; marriage disintegrates into boredom and unrequited longing for some vague thing. BLEH. It is narrow and it is dull. Over it.

The Practical One

I have a great, patient husband. Last night’s revelation: I want to be a dreamer, too, but I say that I can’t be, because I’m The Practical One. However, in reality, that title is just a disguise for what’s really lurking: Fear. I am practical because I am afraid of the unknown, afraid of risks, afraid of starting a brewery with my friends, afraid of quitting a job and becoming a dog trainer. And yet I am content. I like where I am. But is that a cover, too?

Sultry summer days

Things we have done lately, amid the sweltering heat:

Evening of Carnage.

Hosted Matt and Liz at our place for an Evening of Carnage: An incredible roasted chicken from the Straight’s farm, followed by a showing of “Kill Bill: Vol. 2.”

Parking lot shot.

Attended Chris and Emily’s beautiful and fun wedding in Harrisonburg, where we beat the heat with Sean Minor and new and old friends.

Blue Ridge Swim Club.

Guion and Chris.

Went to the magical Blue Ridge Swim Club, where we floated upon tubes over the green water and were serenaded by mini-Nettles and mini-Camp Christopher, aka the best Paul Simon cover band I’ve ever heard.

I also got some much-coveted time alone, in which Pyrrha and I took a 2-hour hike along the Rivanna River and she nearly died from heat stroke. Then we both came home and napped. Peace, solitude, I have missed it all.

First party success

(No photos, because hostesses don’t have time for such things.)

Last night, we hosted our first party at our new house. As Cate said, “You haven’t really moved in until you’ve thrown a party.” And so now we’re official. We gathered in the backyard to celebrate Guion’s birthday AND his amazing cobbler-making skills. I announce it freely: My husband is a way better cook than I am. It’s taken me two years to admit it, but there it is. Pyrrha did amazingly well with the whole party, considering we had 20 new people swarming her yard. By the end of the night, she claimed the picnic blanket as her throne and watched us, mere minions, flit about her.

Caleb is with us this weekend, having made his annual summer sojourn to Charlottesville. He is helpful and funny and speaks Guion’s language in a way that few other people do.

I am reading this oft-mentioned article right now and have been pondering its many ramifications; poor Caleb got an earful when he was helping me with the dishes. I need some lady-friends to talk to about this. I need those long, rambling nights with Rose, Cristina, Emily, Kathryn, Catherine…

Flowers from our yard

Backyard bouquet.

Guion plucked this bouquet for me straight out of our yard. I KNOW. (He even arranged the flowers himself. I, for one, am very impressed.) He is turning 25 on Wednesday and we are going to have a whole WEEK of birthday celebrations. Just because he is that special.

Sunday (and part of today), we were graced with Courtney‘s presence. Nothing like seeing an old friend to remind you how much you really, really miss them. Coco is happy and beautiful and we had a lovely (if too short) evening with her, watching the dog play-fight Guion in the backyard, eating French Silk, and introducing her to the joy of the first season of “Community.” Next time, she’ll have to come for a whole month.

Talking in the old way

This weekend, we were charmed to keep the company of Ann-Marie and Shaun. They are very wonderful, fun, and engaging and we are always thrilled to have them as house guests. After they got in on Saturday night, we walked to the downtown mall with Pyrrha and had dinner at The Whiskey Jar.

Ann-Marie!

Shaun!

Guion!

Pyrrha!

Sunday night, we started a rousing discussion on the definition of marriage. It was energetic and compelling and thought-provoking and it even made me miss college a little. Remember college? Remember sitting around and having conversations like that all night long? We don’t do that much anymore. And maybe it’s good that we don’t, it’s good that we’ve moved on from finding our opinions so valuable, but at the same time, I do sincerely miss that heated exchange of ideas. It’s something I’ve always loved.

Does this blog feel a bit stale to you? I’ve been getting steadily worse at this hobby.

We have already had such a busy summer, but it has been a very happy one.

Weekend heat

My new reading spot.

We had a wonderfully productive and busy weekend. We spend too much money at Lowe’s, now that we have this prodigious garden, but it always feels justified somehow. (More things need to be grown! Grow all the things!) We bought those bright red chairs on Saturday and they were worth every penny; that’s my new summer reading spot. Pyrrha seems to like the chairs, too, even though they look suspiciously tasty.

We went to this event with Pyrrha’s rescue at a local vineyard on Sunday and sat under a hot tent and sweated with a pack of 10 or more German shepherds. What is it about seeing a bunch of dogs of the same breed together that is so thrilling? I don’t know, but it was fun and Pyrrha seemed to recognize her former foster pack.

P. is also starting to fall in love with Guion, too. It took her some time, but I think they will be inseparable very soon. (Just so long as he doesn’t replace me in her hierarchy of affections, I’m cool with it.)

Cuties. Guion and Pyrrha at Keswick Vineyards.

In my annual summer tradition, I’ve started the fifth and sixth volumes of Proust, The Captive and The Fugitive. It’s a little hard to believe that this is my fifth year with Proust and that I shall nobly lay him aside next year. (What will happen in years seven and eight? Infinite Jest and then The Pale King. Why, yes, I do like to plan ahead.) I like to talk about Proust a lot, especially in the summers when he is thick in my brain, but I shouldn’t. He’s easily the most pretentious author to name-drop. He’s almost never appropriate conversational fodder. Poor Prousty. (Meanwhile, I think “Marcel” would be a nice name for a bi-color or all-black German shepherd. Next dog?)