Dulywed: Year 8

Dear Mack,

It's 2 am. I'm in the living room and you're in the bedroom. In the next 20 minutes you will thomp out naked to go pee since your bladder is the size of a thimble, and along the way you'll grumble, "Come to bed right now." I won't, because I just got home from work and can't fall asleep yet. When I finally do get tired and come to bed, you'll reach over, pull me close, poke your chest hair into my back, and then start snoring on my neck. I'll tolerate it for about three minutes, and then you'll get a loving kick that means "stop snoring." We'll both roll over and go to sleep with our legs touching.

Since we work opposite schedules, on more days than not, this ritual is the only interaction we have. And even though it's completely predictable and a little bit annoying and flavored with grouchiness, that familiarity and clear expectation has become precious to me. It's who we are as a married unit – pissed off that the other person isn't right there all the time. Totally healthy.

These days. We've come a long way from waitress and cable guy.

The past year has been a really grown up one for us. We've suffered divorces and deaths and family crises and incomprehensible work stress, and when I think back about all the crap that's come our way, I'm really proud of us. Remember that day we found out Rob died and I wrapped my arms around you and we cried (well, I cried and you punched the water coming out of your eyes)? That day my patient took a turn while my other patient got coded for dementia and you came in to evaluate him and caught me in the corner trying to hold it together and you slipped me some tissues and then took me outside for fresh air and we sat on the table, your arm around me, and waited for the world to settle down around us? That day a few weeks ago when we heard your grandpa was dying and your mom was leaving for Iran to see him one last time? That day my mom called about to go off the rails and I walked in, said "I've got the get her out of there," and within 10 minutes you had it arranged? We've never had days like that before this year, days that really left one of us incapacitated and needing the other one to handle it, and I think we kicked ass in the supportive department.

The day you found out you got your medical license I was especially supportive.

We also kick ass in the rip-each-other-to-shreds department, which is probably something we should work on at some point. Like you probably shouldn't threaten to have me put on a 72-hour psychiatric hold for overreacting to you maybe/maybe-not flirting with that gash in San Francisco. And I probably shouldn't puke in your brand new cars anymore. Also, no more house guests for more than five days.

Aside from a few marital hiccups I'll call April and December, this year has been something out of a storybook. As long as I live I'll always remember that day we went sailing, when we tracked the whales in the distance while a sea lion swam beside us and a couple dolphins danced below us. And that impromptu drive to the desert outside Vegas to see the red rocks and look for goats. Or that night we were at home watching the UFC fight and our friends went outside for a smoke and I crawled across the floor to you and we shared the most tender and loving kiss we've had all year.

Maybe that's why the eighth year is for bronze gifts... because by then there are moments so powerful and perfectly synchronized that they're etched in your memory forever. They'll endure even if your marriage ends up old and hateful and broken, just like a garden sculpture covered in bird shit and swallowed by vines. These moments make this relationship one of the best I've ever been a part of, and if divorce really ends up being my family tradition, I'll always have gratitude for these extraordinary experiences and feelings that were courtesy of you.

The good news is that you still have your hair, even if it's mostly gray, and I'm not fat yet, so I think we're safe from divorce for at least another year. And, man, am I looking forward to seeing where this one takes us.

I love you, Mack. Always have, always will. Happy anniversary.

Look at these babies... they had no idea.

Halloweaning...

Guys. I have an announcement to make.

I might be getting too old for a Halloween party.

I love dressing up, cooking Halloween foods, and making the house scary, but the party is just exhausting. I'm still recovering from this year's event... although part of the blame also goes to that annual hoax called Daylight Savings Time.

Sandra was an Indian. I was a crow. There was lots of corn and hay around us.

Sandra and I started building scarecrows in August, we drove to Filmore and harvested corn four times in September, we hauled hay in from Santa Clara in October, and I spent three days cooking. Here's what I made (clockwise from top: pumpkin fettuccine, chicken skewers, sweet potato pizza, corn chowder, deviled eggs, apple tart, popcorn cobs, caramel apples, cheese and olives, and zucchini cornbread):

After all that work, we and our friends sat around, listened to music, and got drunk for 6 hours. Then we started tasing each other for fun.

On Sunday, I spent all but two hours in bed watching Boardwalk Empire. And every day since, I've been sleeping until 12pm.

Hangovers used to require McDonald's and a fountain drink. Now they require round-the-clock ibuprofen, chips, 2 gallons of sparkling water on ice with a straw, coconut water, darkness, and three days of rest. Plus, I don't really like being so drunk that tasing my friends is hilarious good fun.

Maybe next year I'll do this 5 hour haunted house instead of throwing a party... seems like it might take less time to recover from mental torture than a hangover.