Sometimes he just knows.

It started simply. I'd been feeling frumpy. I blamed it on my growing-out hair and too little exercise. And decided that I could turn this all around by buying a new dress for my cousin Liz's wedding. Silly me. 

It was an impulse decision. Up until this point—less than two weeks before the event—I'd been planning to wear the same black dress I'd worn to at least a dozen formal events, and a half-dozen weddings, in the last fifteen years... jazzed up with a new scarf, perhaps, or whatever fun accessories I could steal from my sis. The same black dress I wear to "serious" business meetings with staid corporate clients. I didn't want to wear this dress. I wanted a fun one. 

My day job didn't allow time for actual shopping so my sister advised Modcloth and, there, I  found an instant winner—a turquoise vintage-y frock, if you will, by the (sort of) same designer in a style very similar to the flattering but summery red one I wore to two weddings this summer. I had no doubt it would fit. Perfectly. 

It arrived. I couldn't zip it. And then with the help of Jon and my mom, I could zip it. But barely. And it restricted my ribs. And my lungs just a bit. I flipped. I was angry for deciding to order a new dress at the last minute. Why did I have to be so frivolous!? Why didn't I just wear the tried-and-true-if-boring black dress? I was angry that it didn't fit. It's all that wine-drinking without running, I whined. (Not sure how that would slim me in the ribs but...) But the thing that bothered me the most: I'd have to take the time to return this damn dress. To actually put it back in the box, tape it up and take it to the post-office, less than a mile from work and mail it back. For free. HOW WOULD I EVER DO THIS? Needless to say, I overreacted. A little.  

Somehow, after working through all of this, my mom and I ended up at TJ Maxx just before closing. And I bought this: 

Dance recitals aside, I have never before worn something like this, which means I do not own any shoes one might consider wearing with it. So I went a step further and purchased tall, strappy heels that I would typically never wear in real life. Because I can't walk in them. Mom and I somehow convinced each other that I looked awesome.  I started thinking up the matador-type moves I could on the dance floor. Hell, I might even do a Paso Doble with Jim. Or UB. This was going to be fantastic.

I came home and showed Jon, who simply raised an eyebrow. I sent my sister a text. She did not respond. Jon convinced me to try on the blue dress again. I could zip it all by myself. It was still tight but seemed to have stretched. We agreed that I should take it to the tailor to see if she could let it out, just a bit. And that's just what I did. I pick it up tomorrow. (I also returned the dress above, and the sexy, strappy shoes.)  

In the meantime, Jon surprised me with this sweet pendant to wear with the might-fit, or might-not-fit let-out dress. It's labradorite, a shimmery pale blue-green stone that will look just right with teal. Or black, if that's the way things go. Which will be fine because, as it turns out (Jon had no idea), this gemstone is purported to have a calming and harmonizing effect, "making it a very good stone for quick-tempered people."  

Sometimes he just knows.

Going with the flow is refreshing.

"Do you have your suit on? We're going to hit the driving range, then go to the swimming hole, then over to Flatbread." 

My skin starts to itch. Do I have my suit on? Um, no. I'm literally just stepping out of the Escape, back from a quick kid-book shopping spree at the Goodwill on the way home from our hike in the woods at Chris and Ri's. (We have separate cars because I had one too many margaritas the night before.) He's loading the van with golf clubs and back packs.

I haven't shaved my legs in three days. What are we going to do with Dempsey? I am shouting things over my shoulder, grumpily, as I run into the house. I don't want to miss out on family fun but I need advance warning of plans. It's not a quality I like but it is. When I pass the dining room en route to my suit, I spy an empty bowl, a dollop of creamy yogurt right on the table. Not even on a placemat. I lose my shit. This isn't a frat house, I scream. The boys, all in the van, waiting, don't hear. I think.

I am a J (as in ENFJ - I can't stop with this Myers Briggs thing). Jon is a P. As I understand it, this means that I prefer things to be planned out in advance, and Jon prefers to take things as they come. It all seems backward, as I am supposedly the creative in this partnership; he, the engineer. Perhaps that's why these opposite tendencies have attracted us to each other, even as they drive us crazy.

So. We go. Cruising along verdant roadways, noticing the bluebird skies and warm rays reflecting on fields and farms and cows, my annoyance fades. By the time we pull into the dusty little lot near the swimming hole, I am actually in a good mood. We meet up with Chris, Ri and the boys. We wade upstream, admiring the shimmering and speckled Mad River rocks, carrying snacks, packs and little boys. We park on on a sandbar. And chill. Splash around. And then—if we are to get a table at dinner—we have to go. We start packing up.

I strip off my skirt and tank—and dive into the water, letting the current pull me downstream. It is fast (but not too fast). It is freezing. Totally refreshing. I can't stop laughing. This is so worth leaving yogurt on the table (though, of course, I'd cleaned it up.)

The dip is quick. We have to keep moving or there'll be no flatbread in our future. But on the trek back I spot the perfect log. This is the wood we can make into the side tables I've been imagining for weeks.

"I want this log," I tell him.

"It's super heavy - but we can try to float it downstream." Jon is always up for adventure. And so we float the log.  And then he and Chris loft it into the mini-van, Jules taking pictures, while Ri, the big guys and I drive into town to grab a table. 

The day turns out perfectly. "Planned" by a P. 

My Perceiving He-Man with our perfect log.

...that Jon and I may need to work on our communication skills.

Yesterday, I sent Jon an email that said, "Dude. We need to put an AC in this office, stat." 

Backstory: Jon built me a kick-ass home office in our garage (sounds sketchy but it's the nicest room in our home). It has a skylight and nearly a full wall of big windows. From June through October, it gets hot. Really hot. Yesterday, the thermostat registered 92 degrees. It was only about 75 outside.

Last night, Jon had a softball game. He came home late, after the kids were in bed. He told me he'd gotten me an air conditioner for my office. "Thanks!" I murmured... I heard him but didn't really hear him. 

Tonight, after I came down from putting Julian to bed, I heard someone sawing in the garage. I figured Jon was, I dunno, cutting some wood to support some tomato plants. Or building some sort of trellis for string beans. I returned a phone call. I did some dishes. Jon went to the neighbor's house to watch some basketball. I went out to my office to find, um, this: 

It's a little like R2D2, no? (And, yes, I need to clean my office.)

Wow. He built a wooden "stand" so the vent would reach the window. He cut the extender thingy to fit the space (read: now we can't return the thing). He spent $400. He'd forgotten that we had a small AC that already fit into this little window. We just needed to put it in... 

He's fuming, poor guy. Good thing we have two suitable air conditioners (one rather large) to cool him off. 

Seriously: Any helpful words of wisdom out there? The poor guy is so mad at himself, and he was just being nice....