Mr. and Mrs. Nichols (Who?)

Joyeux anniversaire à Jennifer Peepas et Jeremy Nichols D.

Yesterday was mine and Jennifer’s fourth wedding anniversary.

To steal Jennifer’s line: A++ Would marry again.

Some days it does not seem that long ago. Right now it seems like decades ago. We were married on October 8, 2016. We had about a month to be happy before the malignant sweet potato currently occupying 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. “won” the election and made Jennifer cry herself to sleep that night and every night thereafter for several weeks. I will never forgive the people that voted for him.

Never.

In the years since we have had good times and lots of love and laughter, but both of us have seen our anxiety levels rise every year that Mango Mussolini has been president. We are relatively privileged as white people of middle-ish class, but we live in real fear that one day soon we will lose our healthcare whenever the Supreme Court finally kills the ADA. I won’t ever forget the vile garbage that got placed on that bench because Hillary was too shrill for your Aunt Sharon to vote for. Jennifer is phone banking and texting for Biden/Harris and down-ticket candidates. I am doing the only thing that I feel mentally capable of doing this election—I am voting.

I’m not given to the Bothsidesism that plagues many of my fellow Generation Xers. Sure, both parties are bad, but one party is measurably worse. Hint: it starts with an ‘R’.

Yesterday we spent the afternoon preparing our mail-in ballots. In Chicago, this is quite the undertaking—all those judges—criminy! With help from Girl, I Guess and Injustice Watch we decided which water reclamation district candidates to vote for and which circuit court judges to retain—very few of them it turns out. Lots of gropers, shady business dealers, excessive bail leviers, badge suckers, and Federalist Society scumbags are currently sitting on the bench. I hope that many of them are looking for work after this election. Not bloody likely, but I did what I could. After we made sure that the ballot was properly filled out and signed, I walked to the nearest mailbox, crossed my fingers, and put our ballots into the care of the USPS Chicago. Heaven help us all.

In my experience, Chicago postal workers are actually great. I feel as though my voting instrument is in good hands. We shall soon find out.

After we exercised the franchise, we ordered our anniversary meal from Uncle Julio’s. Yes, we ordered Tex-Mex, that most romantic of cuisines. After dinner, we retired, with our newfound flatulence, to our (hopefully bedbug-free) living room. Where we sat upon our reclining loveseat, our couch having been given the Laura Palmer treatment and sent to live on a farm (in a landfill).

“Harry, she’s dead, wrapped in plastic.”

We have not been given the bedbug all-clear yet; we will be scheduling the final inspection very soon. Until then, our things remain in plastic bags and bins in the middle of our rooms. Forever reminding us that we are owned by our things more than we own them.

After the all-clear, we are Marie Kondo-ing the hell out of our place. You better spark joy, mf’er, if you want a place in my closet! Goodbye Rustler jeans from the first Obama administration. See you in Hell Kelly green acrylic extra-deep V-neck sweater from the second Clinton term.

Imagine this, but uglier and somehow more out-of-style.

I have a tendency toward hoarding clothes. I ascribe this inclination to feeling unable to properly clothe myself that the twin anxiety vectors of living in a larger body and poverty caused. I just could not let go of something that I might have to wear at some unknown future date. I used to be much worse about clothes hoarding, keeping things that were decades old and that had long ago ceased to fit, but living with Jennifer in our last tiny apartment, really brought home how much my packrat ways were causing both of us needless agony. After suffering this bedbug crisis, I am definitely thinking that minimalism as a lifestyle has a lot to offer. Jennifer is in agreement.

Sorry for that little tangent, let me catch you up on our very romantic date last night.

1. We voted.

2. We ate Tex-Mex.

3. We retired with our farts to the living room to sit on our bedbug loveseat.

The evening’s entertainment was to be provided by watching Monuments.

A film by Jack C. Newell

A film that I was a dancer in. Yes, you read correctly, a dancer. You would never know it by watching me perform, but I have had actual dance training. Actual human beings have attempted to teach me how to move my body in time to music.

Attempted.

I was relegated to the back where I would make sure that my face and hands were very big, so as to distract from the travesty of what was happening down below. Two left feet don’t begin to describe my ineptitude as a would-be hoofer.

My foray into musical theatre can best be summed up in the phrase, “He does his best.”

This is the first feature film that I have ever been in, and I may be biased, but I think that it is a lovely film. It is a love story, a ghost story, and a story about family. It’s funny, heartwarming, and quirky without being overly precious. I am very proud to be a part of it. It is currently on the festival circuit, and last week it won the Audience Prize of The Nashville Film Festival. It is currently at the Heartland International Film Festival. Because of COVID, all of these festivals are now online, which is why we were able to stream Monuments from the relative comfort of our bedbug loveseat.

The stars of Monuments, David Sullivan and Marguerite Moreau

I almost backed out of being in the movie, because I was in a bipolar crisis at the time of filming. I was in the midst of a mixed state and had severe suicidal ideation. I had made a plan and was implementing it when I finally told Jennifer. We decided that it was time for the hospital as I was unsafe. Time to pack up the shoes without laces and soft pants without drawstrings. Get ready for some socks with nubbins on them.

Only people who have been in the Puzzle Factory get this meme.

We decided that I would go in on Tuesday because past experience had taught me that Mondays are a terrible day to go into a mental ward. Not as bad as weekends, but pretty bad. But I had already committed to my friend Sheena, the choreographer to be in the film on Tuesday. I try very hard to never, and I do mean never, back out of acting commitments, but a mental health crisis is not to be taken lightly. I especially did not want to let Sheena down, because she is a legitimately great person. Kind, super-talented, hard-working, and hilarious. I texted her that I was not going to be able to make it, and why. She was so completely supportive, but she wanted me to know that if—and only if—I felt up to dancing, that she would make sure that I was okay that day. I decided to do the movie. I could wait one more day to check myself in. It turns out that Wednesdays aren’t necessarily a great day to check into the psych ward, but y’all already know that story.

I was sincerely afraid that I was not going to make any friends on set, and that I would be alone with my suicidal thoughts all day. I need not have worried. I made friends immediately. I make friends every time I get the opportunity to act. Half of the fun of being on set is making friends with the others in the cast and crew. Not all of them are lifelong friends, but even friends for the day are friends I’m glad to have made. I am truly thankful that I had nice people to talk to and just hang with that day.

The dancing itself was pretty intense, and that was good for taking me out of my head. It was a strange day of work, but it was a lot of fun, and I am forever part of something larger than myself. A monument, if you will.

If any of y’all want to watch the movie, I am going to put a link to Monuments below.

I need to quickly explain today’s title. For four years now, Jennifer and I have been getting cards from Jennifer’s mom addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Nichols. Jennifer is Jennifer Peepas, and so shall she remain until the day she is no more. My mother-in-law at least writes the checks to the correct person now. We tease her about it, and she says that writing my last name is “easier” than writing her own last name. C’est la vie. Well, next year when we’re still stuck at home on our anniversary because of COVID, eating Uncle Julio’s and farting into a new couch, we’ll have a toast to Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Nichols (whoever she may be). Or maybe Anne will read this and stop sending us anniversary cards. (I hope not.)

As for today’s subtitle, either I miswrote my own name when I was filling out my paperwork for the movie, or the person who did the credits entered my name incorrectly. Either way, I am credited on the film as Jeremy Nichols D. for now and forever.

Take it easy, y’all,

Jeremy Nichols D.

Thank you, as always, for reading.

Drop me a line: jeremydnichols@toolatesmart.org

Follow me on Twitter: @jeremydnichols

Follow me on Instagram: @germynickels

My PayPal: PayPal for Jeremy Nichols

Discord server: Too Late Smart Newsletter Server

Monuments Film