Hubby

By now, almost everyone knows the story: my husband Stan and I met when cast as a married couple in a highly mediocre new musical called "Democracy". Stan came up to me at the first cast meeting, extended his hand, and said, "Hello. I'm Stan Chandler, and I'm going to be your husband." I love that story... not just because it's as hopelessly romantic as I am, but also because our life together seems a gift bestowed from a fateful place. Something handed to me at a time when I could never have visualized my life being so full, so beautiful, so enriched as it is now. When I look around me and see what bounty we've created since that day, it seems only fitting that he would come up to me and make such a prophetic statement.

Stan is my heaven-sent husband. He's the guy you wish for on a star when you're young and you vow you'll never compromise. Yes, I got THAT lucky. I wonder why sometimes, especially when I take stock of all the mistakes I've made and the years I spent being a complete and utter nincompoop. Maybe the heavens rewarded me for actually realizing, and coming to terms with, my nincompoopeosity. Maybe it's just random, dumb luck. All I know is that whatever it is that brought Stan to me, I thank God for it every day.

Exactly ten years before we met, I was living in New York. I had passed Steve McGraw's a thousand times and had seen the marquee for a show called "Forever Plaid", but couldn't be pursuaded to attend. Stan and I probably passed each other on the street countless times, especially since my favorite restaurant was Peretti's on 72nd and Amsterdam. Thank goodness he didn't meet me then, since I ate way too many breadsticks at Peretti's and at the time was quite... round-y.

In 1991, I was dragged to the show at the Canon Theatre in Los Angeles, by a friend who had heard it was "cute". CUTE?! I was bowled over- by the incredible musicianship, the irresistible harmonies, but mostly by the hilariously subtle humor. I adored all of the Plaids, but I admit it was a guy named Stan Chandler who stole my heart. It was the golden hair, the big sad eyes, the angelic tenor. I remember it so clearly- looking in the program to read his bio, remarking that his name was so old-fashioned for someone so young. After I saw the show, I was the one dragging everybody to see it, and each time before Stan's big solo, "Cry", I'd lean over to my companion and say, "Wait until you hear THIS." He never disappointed, not once.

And so, nearly ten years later when he introduced himself, I knew exactly who he was and blushed as he shook my hand. We all took our seats as our first rehearsal commenced, and when I coughed and said, "God, it's dry," before I had even finished my sentence he handed me a fresh bottle of water. (Talk about a sign of my life to come!) I thanked him and silently wondered if he genuinely cared about the state of my throat, or if maybe- just maybe- he thought I was cute.

But as the rehearsal wore on, something tragic began to unfold. I began to get a whiff of a mighty odor... the unmistakable stench of halitosis. I could only assume it was coming from Mr. Chandler- after all, he was the nearest person to me by far. My heart sank. How could someone so impossibly cute smell so bad? How could someone so impossibly cute not get himself to a dentist and do something about it?! What a waste of impossible cuteness! I wasn't paying attention to the rehearsal anymore. I was too busy lamenting this sad state of affairs. What a shame. We could have had something. We could have been something! But halitosis is a deal-breaker for me. I'm big on smells. I once stopped dating a guy because he smelled weird. Not even bad... just weird. That was it. Full-blown halitosis? Fuggetaboudit.

The stage manager called our first break, and I stood up to stretch and to nonchalantly scoot my chair farther away from him. As I did this, another fellow cast member came up to introduce himself to us. "Hi, I'm Richard* (*some names have been changed to protect the halitosis-ridden)," he exhaled, and as a fresh wave of nausea came over me, the glorious truth came clear. Richard had been sitting ten feet behind me, so I hadn't seen him or realized where the smell was coming from. So persistent was Richard's problem that it had the power to travel ten feet and waft over me from behind without losing an ounce of potency. Hats off to you Richard, wherever you are. I am so glad it was you- and not my future husband- who stank. The irony is that my husband is one of the only people in the world whose breath is always pleasant. He actually wakes up with fresh breath. I've often wondered if it's because he eats a full tin of Altoids and a package of Dentyne Ice a day. But in retrospect, let's just say I should have known it could never have been Stan who turned the rehearsal room green that fateful day.

Since we met in 2000, Stan Chandler has gently placed my dreams in the palm of my hand. He's the kind of guy who holds the door open for you, pulls your chair out, delivers a box of tissue before you have barely finished your third sneeze. He scarcely realizes it, but he lives in service to others. If he hears you have a leaky faucet, he'll not only bring you just the tools to fix it, he'll be under your sink mending it himself, even if it takes him hours... and while he's at it, he'll print you up a recent article about the best way to maintain healthy pipes. Sometimes I have to remind him to think of himself, because it is not in his nature to remember. But it's probably the thing I love most about him... and not just because he has gotten me quite used to being treated like a princess.

Stan is introverted, serious, contemplative. You won't know him instantly; it takes a while for him to let you in... but once he does, you will have a space reserved in his heart forever. He devours the newspaper, and a good piece of dark chocolate. He has endless curiosity about all walks of life, and thus can speak intelligently about almost anything. He cares deeply about the state of our world, and the world that will be handed to our children. He is also one of the funniest, goofiest people I've ever known. He makes our four-year-old laugh straight from his gut, and already can illicit a hearty guffaw from our four-month-old. Today as I got in the shower, I heard my three boys in the nursery. Addie was on "Diaper Duty", and the two of them were singing to Tucker and making him laugh. I listened to the sounds coming from that room, the laughs from those three distinct voices. And oh, the love that filled my heart...

It was nine years ago that Stan and I met; nine years ago he shook my hand and said those fateful words to me. "Hello. I'm Stan Chandler, and I'm going to be your husband." Of course he was only referring to the show we were about to do, but I like to think he was somehow channeling a higher truth about our destiny. Here we are, one house and two kids and a bundle of memories later. I can't imagine a time that he wasn't here, right by my side, right in the next room, singing and laughing.

That's the most beautiful thing about my husband. He doesn't realize it, but he took me by the hand and led me to my happiness.

As I enter the brand-new, wonderful world of online journaling, my greatest challenge seems to be finding the time to write! Tucker is three and a half months old, but he hasn't fully embraced his age yet... at night, he's still waking up every three hours on the clock. I mean, honestly. Does he think he's still a newborn? Clearly, the man is HUNGRY. I understand how he feels... but more on that later. I spend my nights never quite reaching REM, sleepwalking to the nursery every few hours to retrieve him, shuffling out to our cozy new den, wrapping myself in my Boppy, getting Tucker into position, and turning on my latest Netflix for another twenty minutes of entertainment while the baby nurses. When the first light of day streams through the window, I know it's Stan's turn to take over, so I wordlessly hand him the baby, crawl into bed, and if I'm lucky, I get three hours of uninterrupted slumber.

This is where it gets tricky. I can sense it's about 8:30am and I need to get up, feed the baby again and help get Addie off to school. But there's one tiny problem... I can't open my eyes. They are positively glued shut. I try to look at the clock next to the bed but I can't see it because my eyes refuse to open. I think I may be going blind. I throw water on my face, but this does not help my condition. I try to find Stan and bump into a wall. I call his name in desperation, and follow the sound of his voice. He sounds so AWAKE. I tell him I think I may need to go to the hospital, because my eyes no longer work. He calmly tells me to have some coffee. Now, making coffee is difficult when your eyes won't open... but proceed I must, and somehow instinct takes over. Stan is right... I do not need to go to the hospital. A little coffee, and I can see again. Hallelujah. My eyes stay open for most of the day. They will become glued shut again sometime between 5:30 and 8:30am. And so it goes.

My hubby and I start our day dropping Addie off at pre-school, then taking a hike in Runyon Canyon. Or, if I'm feeling particularly wimpy that day (because the coffee didn't work and my eyes are still glued shut), Fryman Canyon. Which is just like Runyon Canyon, without the twenty-minute mountain climb straight uphill.

During my days, I do as much as I possibly can with one hand, since I've got Tucker in the other. I can choreograph, run a rehearsal, load laundry, wash dishes, talk on the phone, operate heavy machinery, bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan... all with one hand. I am especially impressive at the computer. Most of my close friends know I am already the fastest two-finger typer in the West, but now that there's Tucker, I have mastered the art of typing with ONE finger. I've gotten quite good at it, if I do say so myself. Only the shift key poses a bit of a problem; in order to achieve a capital letter or a question mark, I have to twist my upper body into a pretzel and Tucker's left ear will sometimes get squished. He seems to take it in stride.

But my daytime one-fingered typing is mostly devoted to work-related emailing and occasional (OK, not so occasional) visits to Facebook... not journaling. Before we know it, 2:30pm is upon us and it's time to pick Addie up from school. I admit I so look forward to seeing his face light up when I walk into his classroom. He beams, yells "Mama!" and runs into my welcome embrace. I relish his excitement while I have it, because before I know it he will be ten years old and pretending he doesn't know who I am. I either take him home or to his Karate class. His Sensei says has a natural gift for the sport, and I figure all I have to do is buy him a little Banzai tree to trim and some chopsticks for catching flies, and I've got myself the next Karate Kid.

Home we go, to make dinner. Often we find ourselves hosting one of Addie's neighborhood friends, Jack or Samantha. In these parts I'm already famous for my one-handed grilled cheese sandwiches. The kids play outside, we clean up the kitchen, I hand Tucker over to Stan so I can shower. I wash my hair with one hand out of habit. We all get into our pajamas and Addie and I watch The Amazing Race together. I give Tucker his bedtime feeding, lay him down to sleep, help Addie brush his teeth, fill a sippy cup with water for next to his bed. Addie turns saying goodnight into a fifteen-minute dramatic play, but at last he drifts off to sleep and the house is quiet. Stan and I snuggle together to enjoy our nighttime snacks and watch one of our Tivo-ed programs. We are unconscious as the final credits roll.

So I ask you, when can I write? I used to write all the time. I spent most of high school filling journal after journal, pretending I was taking notes in class when really I was busy chronicling my teen angst. I furiously wrote in journals throughout my twenties, working through my relationships with family, friends and [mostly moronic] boyfriends.

Then, something amazing happened. I got happy. I met and married the most amazing man, and then made two precious little humans with his able assistance. I found that I wrote far less once I found happiness. Upset, rage, dis-ease... it drove me to my journal. But joy? No, I'm too busy living it to write about it. Well, I am now determined to reverse that. I want my kids to know how sweet this life is with them and their incredible father. I want to describe all this splendor as vividly as I described how mortified I was to be sixteen. I want to write it all down... to capture it and remember it and bottle it in all its messy, chaotic loveliness.

I just have to find the time.