A Guy, a Girl, a Ring, and Monk Bones?

First, please accept my apologies for my lapse in posts. I have much to report. In March, Michael and I went to Rome, Italy for three days, where he popped the question, and I popped an answer. What follows is an account of that occasion, along with a lesson on the best laid plans...

We originally planned a trip to Cairo, Egypt, a place very high on both of our bucket lists.

"How many of your girlfriends can say they got engaged in front of the Pyramids at Giza ?" (By the way, Michael has an inability to keep anything secret when it comes to surprises. So, yes, I kinda knew this was coming.)

But, alas, after decades of oppression, the country decides to erupt into a fire of political rebellion weeks before our slated vacation. (Last summer we were planning to go to Greece, so this has become a trend with us. Plan a trip, and the country of destination will explode.)

So, Rome it was. After all, Michael is Italian, with one of those long last names that ends in an "o," so it's fitting we would do this in his homeland. Now, I may have known it was coming, but I didn't have any idea when or where he would do this thing, so I put it out of my mind and tried to forget the whole reason for the trip so I could kind of be surprised, a little. Well, I guess I did too good a job at this.

Day One, we arrived in the morning after an overnight flight. Serious travelers that we are, we hit the ground running. After a couple pizzas and Coke Lights, we saw the Vatican and climbed St. Peter's dome. I didn't figure he would do it on this day, since we were both jet-lagged, dirty, and unkempt (not to mention out of breath after the bajillion steps up and down the basilica). I was correct.

The next day, we had slated Trevi Fountain, Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini (affectionately referred to as "monk bones," but more on that later), the Colosseum and Palatine Hill, The Roman Forum, and San Clemente Basilica (with an altar to Mithra). Like I said, we're serious. First stop was Trevi Fountain. We arrived pretty early in the day, and the sun was obliquely shining on half the statues, the rest in shadows. On this cool spring morning, we had the place virtually to ourselves, except for a small cluster of Korean nuns who took turns snapping each other's pictures in front of the fountain. As is customary, we each tossed a coin over our shoulder into the fountain, so we would return one day, and then we departed.

Okay, back to the "monk bones." At Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini, the remains of over 4000 Capuchin monks have been made into an homage to mortality. It's Thich Nhat Hahn meets Thomas Merton. Google it and see what images come up, because there is no way to describe it with any justice here. Suffice it to say, among the exhibit is a plaque with the following sentiment in five languages: "What you are now, we used to be; what we are now, you will be."

Chills.

Of course, when we arrived for this much-anticipated creep-fest, it was closed, for of all things, "our dear friend Enrico's funeral." But it politely requested, "Please return later today after 2:00." So, next stop, Colosseum. We would come back to see the monk bones later. We're serious, but flexible.

When we got to the Colosseum, Michael paid for a tour guide, which in addition to giving us all sorts of cool info about the building, would let us bypass the lines and get in quickly. Unfortunately, our tour guide droned on and on about boring stuff and led us into dull interior nooks. By the time she was done, we had only twenty minutes left to see the upper levels and get good pictures of the sunny, sweeping vistas of the ruinous structure, and the stairs were on the opposite side of the Colosseum. We were rushed, and Michael was not too happy.

On Palatine Hill, we had a better tour guide and got lots of good pictures. On our way down onto the Forum, we passed a hill covered in little, white, daisy-like flowers. Seated in the grass, a young girl posed while another girl took photos of her.

"Baby, do you wanna get your picture made in the flowers?" Michael asked, mocking me. After living in Alabama for seventeen years, I unfortunately picked up this colloquial way of referring to photography. "Get your pitchur made."

"No, honey. I'm good, thanks."

We then made our way through the Forum, seeing Caesar's grave, stopping to take pics, and reading our guide book along the way. Later, when we arrived at San Clemente, we discovered that we had one hour to kill before the basilica reopened at 2:00, what appeared to be the magical hour for churches in Rome. I guess everyone really does go home and take a nap in the middle of the day. Sitting on a curb in front of the building, Michael confessed to me.

"Baby, today has not gone as planned."

He went on to tell me that it was supposed to happen at the Colosseum, because I had said I was most looking forward to seeing that. There, he had planned to take me aside, kneel, and propose, extending the ring to me under the sparkling sunlight, where it would shine most glorious. I would say yes, and then we would kiss, and get our pitchur made.

Not so. After calling the tour guide a few choice words, he explained that he decided to find a spot on Palatine Hill, but every time he thought, "This is a nice place..." some family of six would come around the corner. So then he thought the Forum. Ancient, cool, lots of little green hills with flowers on them. But I had rebuffed his attempt to get me into the grass. So, as we sat on a stoop, scraping the last remnants of pistachio gelato from the bottoms of our cups, he threw out an idea. More like a threat.

"Baby," he started, setting aside his empty cup, "I think it's gonna be monk bones."

"What? No! You can't do it there."

"Yep. Monk bones."

"I'll say no," I warned.

"Think about it. You know me. How would you describe me to your friends? Am I Sparkling Sunlight at the Colosseum? Or am I Monk Bones? Be honest. Your boyfriend is Monk Bones, and you know it."

Michael does wear a lot of shirts with skulls on them, Halloween is his favorite holiday, and he does have a tattoo of Michael the Archangel stamping out a demon on his left arm... He had a point. Still, I balked at the notion of getting engaged in a crypt. It seemed a bit too Dylan Thomas to me.

"There are lots of beautiful places in this city," I told him. "I'm sure you will find the right opportunity. And not at monk bones."

After San Clemente (one of my favorites, by the way--all three layers of Rome in one building!), we went to see the much anticipated monk remains. All I can say is...wow. Never seen anything like it. Thankfully, Michael refrained from dropping to one knee amongst a bunch of robed skeletons with scythes. Although I suppose that might have its own romantic charm, if your names are Gomez and Morticia.

So then we meandered back through the city toward our hotel, stopping along the way at Trevi Fountain again. This time, it was teeming with tourists, tour groups, and peddlers, who forcefully shoved flowers in your hands unless you kept them buried in your pockets. Makeshift kiosks had been set up in front, where earlier that morning there had been only smiling nuns in white habits.

"Wow. Look at this place now," Michael said. "We had it to ourselves this morning."

"Yeah, what a difference," I noted, shaking my head and turning away from the obnoxious vendor trying to sell me a fake flower.

"Baby...I messed up, didn't I?" (Only he didn't say "messed." He's a New York Italian, remember.)

"Nah, it was cold, remember?" I said, trying to soothe him.

Truthfully, I really thought it was going to be at Trevi, as cliche as that might be. I felt badly for him now. What he planned had not worked out, and I could tell he felt pressured to come up with something on the fly, which is really not our style. See, Michael and I are both planners. We like to have things all mapped out ahead of time. He even drew out this whole scheme for us on a paper towel one night (after a couple martinis), back when the plan was still at Giza, with a pyramid, an airplane, a ring (which I had thought was a star), and an officiant holding a book. Its rendering may have been elementary, but the sentiment was genuine. I scribbled an "OK" on the paper towel, and I have it saved in our travel journal.

Now, in addition to the missing pyramids, yet another element of his plan had gone awry. Poor guy.

It was getting late in the afternoon, so we decided to wander toward Piazza Navona for some dinner. While Michael snapped some pictures of the three fountains in the setting sun, I ducked into a restaurant for a potty stop. When I came out, I saw him closing up his "man purse" we had purchased at TJ Maxx right before this trip. (Go ahead and laugh, but it is way better than a backpack, trust me.)

He saw me and smiled, then took my hand as we walked into the center of the Piazza toward the big fountain in the middle. He halted in front of a bench, then sat us down next to each other, facing the fountain.

"Well, baby," he started. "I've been trying to do this all day..."

I smiled. He was laughing now.

"And this is as good a place as any."

He slid off the bench onto his knee, extending his pinkie finger. Perched halfway on it was the ring he had insisted on showing me in the sunlight of his bedroom window the day before we left Atlanta.

"Will ya marry me, baby? Because, I love you."

It may not have been exactly as he had pictured, but he couldn't have planned it any better than this. Sunset at a beautiful fountain in a Roman piazza. After I accepted, we kissed, got our pitchur made, and had a lovely dinner on a patio overlooking the fountains.

Michael may not have realized it when he made the decision to whip that ring out of his man purse, but the one he chose to make our "special engagement fountain" just happens to be Bernini's Fountain of the Four Rivers, and in the center of it is an Egyptian obelisk, topped with a dove holding an olive branch.

The Four Rivers represented are the Ganges (symbolizing Asia), the Nile (Africa), the Danube (Europe), and the Plate (the Americas). With our wanderlust (and Michael's flight benefits), I'm pretty sure we will see them all. Both of us long to see the ruins at Macchu Picchu, ancient Buddhist temples in bamboo forests, castles in Europe, and the night sky over an African savannah. So how perfect is it that we sealed this life-partner deal in front of a fountain in his home country that just happens to symbolize the four corners of the world, with an Egyptian sculpture in its center, topped with the universal symbol of peace? It may not have been a pyramid, but well done, Michael...Well done.

Compare that to the sparking sunlight at the Colosseum.

Or Monk Bones.

What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love, and Misunderstanding?

Not too long ago, Michael and I were watching television on the couch one evening, like most couples do when it's a weeknight and you're in your forties. He, being the one with the larger thumb, the Y chromosome, and the "hunter/gatherer instinct," had the remote. Nestled next to him, I read the titles of each channel's offering as it flashed by on the guide while in a small box in the upper right corner of the screen, Emeril Lagasse informed us on how to make Moroccan lamb. It would do while we searched for something better.

I saw What Not To Wear pop up as he hit on TLC's lineup, and I gasped out loud. (I happen to love that show.) Quickly, Michael darted a look in my direction, then settled on Emeril.

Well...I guess that means WNTW is out. Sheesh.

But who can blame him? I mean, it is a chick show, for sure. Of course he doesn't want to watch Clinton and Stacy lead some insecure waif out of her closet full of over-sized neutral sweaters and into the mall for a pair of dark trouser jeans and some "completer pieces." Why would a straight man want to watch some girl get five inches of hair cut off and a makeover, rendering her to tears of self-actualized beauty acceptance? I soothed my bruised disappointment by reminding myself that he would probably love to watch American Chopper or some show on muscle cars. Emeril was a fair enough compromise.

But did he ask me if I was okay with Emeril? No. After a couple minutes, I decided to read a book while he watched. No law says I can't be reading a good novel while he learns how to spice up his lamb. I am a vegetarian, after all.

"Where are you going?" he asked when I extricated myself from his cuddle.

"I'm gonna get my kindle," I said. "You go ahead and watch this, though. I'll sit next to you and read."

"But, I put this on for you. I thought you wanted this."

"Huh?"

"He said something about 'chickpeas' and you went nuts. I figured, she wants to watch the chickpeas."

"I went nuts for What Not To Wear. I saw it go by as you were flipping."

He immediately grabbed the remote, fishing for TLC. "Oh, honey. I didn't know. All this time, I'm sitting here thinking I picked what you wanted, and you're sitting there thinking, 'What an ass.'"

We laughed together at how far off we had been at reading each other in this situation, and it offered us a wonderful code word for all our subsequent and future misunderstandings.

"Chickpeas."

Since that episode, when one of us says something the other one misinterprets, the other one will say, "What we have here is a case of chickpeas." Funny. But how funny would that evening have been if I had never gotten up to get my book? If I had suffered through Emeril's lamb and apparently chickpea recipes for the whole show? I would have continued to think that my boyfriend is the kind of guy who will veto my choices without discussion, and who will make unilateral decisions about what we are going to watch on TV. All the while, he would be thinking he was a prince for letting his girlfriend watch a show about damn chickpeas when better stuff was on. It's a good thing I got up for that book.

It just goes to show you, we often think we know what others feel, think, or know, without ever asking for clarification. But we are often so wrong in our assumptions. How many of these are you guilty of?

She knows I love her.

Surely he remembers that my birthday is next week.

I don't need to tell her she's beautiful. She already knows it.

He'll figure out I'm mad and come apologize on his own.

What she said really bothered me, but I don't wanna have a fight, so I'll just keep my mouth shut.

Some of us might be more intuitive than others, but none of us can actually read minds (which is probably a good thing). In any relationship, communication is vital for building strong intimacy, for coming to mutual understanding, and obviously for selecting a good show to watch on TV.

Michael and I have since agreed to do what therapists tell their clients to do all the time. It's basic Communication 101. In your own words, reflect back to the other person what you heard them say. For example:

"So, if I'm hearing you correctly, you'd prefer it if I didn't leave my toothbrush on your counter because it leaves a wet mess on your granite."

"No, I prefer you not leave it there because I'm afraid I'm going to knock it in the toilet. Please put it in this glass instead."

"Oh. Gotcha. Alrighty then. Thanks."

Are you expecting someone else to read your mind? Are you assuming you know what another person is thinking? Ask for clarification, reflect back what you think you heard (you may be wrong), and speak up if something doesn't sit right with you. Misunderstandings can be funny, but only if they are shared and cleared up. So go talk it out, and then laugh together.

You might have a case of chickpeas and not even know it.

One on Forgiveness

"Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." ~Mark Twain

I love me some Twain quotes. This one in particular I first read, of all places, on my former mother-in-law's refrigerator. One of the most difficult people I have ever met, she nonetheless saw the wisdom in this expression. Which goes to show you, even though we all have our flaws, most of us are struggling to better ourselves and to do the right thing.

Of course, she could have posted that quote not to remind her to be forgiving, but to remind others to put up with her crap.

Always on the outs with one family member or another, she thrives on drama and conflict, always placing herself as the victim of someone else's lack of consideration or outright cruelty. During our marriage, there were times when she would go months in a row without speaking to my ex-husband, or his brother, because of some imagined slight or because someone else didn't do things her way. It was exhausting for everyone involved.

Perhaps you know someone like this, someone who vexes your spirit, who tests your patience. How do we handle it? Approaching things from a spiritual (and back then, religious) perspective, I tried to see her presence in my life as a lesson in forgiveness. I believe that every thing and everyone in our lives is there to teach us something. So, how interesting that her refrigerator introduced me to the Twain quote about forgiveness...

Now that her son and I are divorced, I can hardly blame her for not loving me to pieces, since I was the leaver in this dissolution. I wish my ex every happiness, but it was not to be with me. Since he and I parted ways, I have only seen his mother on one brief occasion, at my son's lacrosse game about a year ago. I spoke to her and my former father-in-law politely, hugged them both, and then went to my seat. She was cool, but not cruel, giving me a limp hug and avoiding eye contact. Her husband was friendly and kind.

Well, guess what. Today I get to see them again, at my son's basketball game. I will be there with Michael, and I have to decide whether to go and greet them or not, and with or without Michael. My gut tells me to go right up and introduce him to them, say hello, then go sit on the other end of the court for the game. I'm inclusive and believe in reaching out. Plus, if I don't, then she will tell everyone I "completely ignored her at the game and didn't even say hello." But I also don't want to make anyone uncomfortable. Especially not my son. If she is ugly to me, he will notice it. And that will hurt him.

By the way, if you are thinking "No sane woman would cause a scene and be rude to her own grandson's mother at his game," then you clearly have never met my former mother-in-law. She would totally dig this. The story would be rewritten and retold to all her friends and family, a drama that would fuel her for weeks, months maybe.

But that is really out of my control. What I can control is how I behave, and my response to her behavior. I will be sweet, say hello, then go sit down. My grandfather, rest his soul, used to advise me about my strained relationship with my husband's mother. He said, "All the water in the ocean can't sink a rowboat if you don't let it in." I tried for years to not let the water in. It was easier said than done, let me tell you. I am a sensitive soul, and for some reason, I need the whole world to like me. I seek approval like a golden retriever. This was a hard one for me, not letting her get to me. I'm not really sure I ever mastered that lesson, which may be why it's presenting itself to me again today.

So, here is the plan: I will take a deep breath, walk up to them, introduce Michael, thank them for coming to Max's game, tell them I hope they enjoy their weekend with the kids, and then go sit down. And if I get the stink eye, I will remember the fragrance of the violet I'm leaving on her heel.