Nine years ago today I said “I do” and held my breath and hoped Beth said the same thing. Fortunately, she did.

Happy anniversary, honey. I wish you were here … or I were there … or we were somewhere else together. Thanks for doing.

My mom sent me the following email the other day:

I almost E-mailed you in the middle of the night. Woke up around
2:00 having had the sweetest dream of you. You were about kindergarten
age and so cute. Someone was trying to kidnap you and you managed to
escape. I can still see you running toward me.
Love, mom

Let me get this straight. Her “sweetest dream” was about me being abducted at age 4, and the vision that stayed with her is me fleeing in terror?

Nice. Love you too, Ma.

This is how Beth and I spent our evening tonight. Beth bought the tickets a few months back and was very excited about it at the time, but I was less than enthusiastic (“What, I need to listen to a gang of screaming 16 year old girls all night?”), and by the time concert time rolled around tonight we were seriously considering bagging it and just going out to dinner. We didn’t, though, which was the right call.

This was a really good concert, better than I was expecting. We had the worst tickets in life — the absolute highest row in the venue; if I were a little bit taller I could have touched the ceiling — and even that was okay.

John Mayer is a clever, funny guy and he really engaged the audience. At one point he finally acknowledged the screaming 16 year-old girls down front by saying “… and I love you too, but I’m working! But I do love you — in all kinds of safe and legal ways,” which cracked me up. I also liked the way he didn’t just jump from song to song, reeling them off like items on a list. Instead he sort of loafed his way through the set, noodling around with guitar riffs between songs and meandering into the next, showing off what an excellent guitar player he is and weaving a bluesy, jazzy tapestry around the entire performance.

Interestingly, many of the songs I usually skip on his CDs were my favorites tonight as he performed them live, and many of my CD favorites didn’t translate as well. My only regret of the evening is that he didn’t do Something’s Missing, which is my favorite. But he made Neon work for me tonight, so it all evens out.

John Mayer or dinner…? Advantage: Mayer.

After you’ve been together for something like 10 years, Valentine’s Day begins to lose its romance. And that’s okay, because the romance has to be in there somewhere for you to hit ten years in the first place — you just don’t necessarily have to cue it up on pre-packaged holiday demand. It’s an undercurrent, not a tide.

For Beth and I, Valentine’s Day has moved beyond the dozen roses and and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates and romantic dinners. We’ve streamlined it: now we’re down to just the gifts. In fact, we exchanged gifts at 12:02 last night because it was technically Valentine’s Day and we each knew what the other was giving and we didn’t want to have to wait any longer.

I gave Beth a black cashmere pashmina. If you’re anything like me, you just said “Pash-whatta?” That’s what I said when she told me she wanted one for Valentine’s Day. (And there’s a tip for you from inside a 10-year+ relationship: Ask what she wants. It’s the only way to be sure, and you’ll fuck it up if you try to wing it.)

So, yeah: Pashmina. You can’t even find a definition for it online. Trust me, I tried; I was going to provide a link. So let me give you the Chuck definition: A pashmina is a big-ass scarf. Or maybe a small-ass shawl. Picture a normal scarf, then dope it up on steroids so it’s two or three times as wide and half again as long. Now give it stupid little fringy ball thingies on the end. Now put traces of wool in it and charge an outrageous price. That’s a pashmina. And now Beth has one and is very happy. (10 years plus. I’m telling you, guys: ask.)

Beth’s gift to me was a wristwatch. It was the perfect gift because it’s what I told her I wanted. I even sent her the link. (10 year tip again: Tell her what you want. It’s the only way to be sure, and she’ll fuck it up if you don’t.) I’m wearing it now, and Beth has been very diligent in following my instructions to ask me throughout the day “What time is it?” so I can whip my wrist around and show her the fabulous face of my fabulous new watch. (We also spent a bit of time in bed last night huddled deep under the covers. No, not for that, you pervs! It was so we could admire the fabulous luminous hands and markers on the fabulous new watch in pitch darkness.)

So those are the romantic gifts we exchanged to demonstrate our love. And tonight we fulfilled the dinner requirement of the holiday by taking Zoe and her friend Katie out for barbeque. It was just what we wanted.

Ten years plus. It’s not about greeting card romance, it’s about just … being. Together. That’s what makes your Valentine last longer than a day … and happy.

My phone rang a few minutes ago. It was Beth, calling to ask “What does “teabagging” mean?”

I don’t know if I’m proud or ashamed that I knew the answer. I also don’t know if I’m disturbed or pleased that she knew I’d know.

Beth and I share a Blockbuster account that dates back to early in our relationship; it was one of our first “us” things that we did as a couple. For me, getting that joint account was a serious step toward commitment. But the bloom is off the video rose and I’ve been considering breaking up.

The problem is that Beth can not, will not, does not return movies on time. So we get hit with late fees every friggin’ time we go to rent movies. Right now, in fact, there are two movies sitting on the entertainment center at home that are at least a month overdue. It’s maddening to me. So when I was in Fort Smith a month ago and I wanted to rent movies one night but didn’t have our BB card, I started my own account.

I got to use my new card last Saturday. I was about to check out Matrix Reloaded when I remembered the overdue movies and got all pissed off because I didn’t want to have to pay the late fees (again!). Then I remembered my new, personal, Chuck-only, unsullied-by-late-movies membership card and got happy again. I was giddy with glee and smug with satisfaction that A) I didn’t have to pay Beth’s late fees, and B) I wouldn’t have to pay late fees on this because I would return it on time. Me renting solo was going to be a whole different story.

Matrix was due back Tuesday night. Except it’s on the entertainment center right next to the other late movies. Late.

Maybe Beth wasn’t the problem after all…

Every once in a while I manage to take a halfway decent picture. This morning’s effort is, I think, a little more than halfway.

Wise words tonight from Jedi Naze on the Art of Marriage. They were particularly relevant tonight. Wish I’d read them about two hours ago…

I have to say, I’m not exactly thrilled that being the Emergency Go-To Girl and dealing with potentially exploding packages is part of my wife’s job description.

I might feel differently if they gave her a raise, though.

Fairness demands that I tell you that my drawing a parallel between a Springsteen concert and going to church was inspired by something Beth said at the show last night. I was thinking it myself as she said it and I agreed with her, but she did say it first … and then I beat her into print with it. So you can blame me for her not writing an entry about the concert — as she put it, “You stole my entry!”

Sorry, honey.