The pinched nerve still has Keith in its grip. Pale and pained, he steps gingerly, as if he expects the floor suddenly to crack open and tumble him into the abyss.
Meanwhile, my decision to resume my morning walks against the podiatrist's advice means I'm now limping; my too-enthusiastic return to yoga has triggered a massive three-day-and-counting headache, and the vulvodynia continues to lurk. Crippled on the bottom, burning in the middle, aching on the top. Pathetic.
The living room looks like a cross between a sex toy shop and a physical therapy treatment room, littered as it is with weights of varying sizes, heating pads, lavender-scented microwavable neck buddies, freezable gel packs, and the vibrator-wanna-be massage tool.
We update each other on our symptoms, exchange prescription ibuprofin and muscle relaxants, and watch massive amounts of tv. We kiss chastely, celibate siblings-in-pain. "We are not this old!" I tell him. He smiles. We take more drugs.
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Ebbs and Flows
The ebbs and flows of marriage fascinate me. You'd think, after almost 22 years of married life, that we'd settle into some sort of stasis, no more ebbing and flowing, just you know, a pond that sort of sits there, quiet, with barely a ripple on the surface--except without the algae and moldy odor that that implies. Or maybe that we would sort of drift along gently like the inner tubes in those quiet water park rides, the ones that carry you softly along a well-defined path, far from the screaming of the water slides and wave pool. But no, life keeps doing its thing and so we change and the marriage changes too. To demonstrate:
As a result of my botched foot operation two Christmases ago, I can now no longer walk very far without a certain amount of pain. Sometimes walking even just a wee bit, like the distance from the bedroom to the kitchen, poses great difficulties. Foot pain, I have discovered, makes a daily aerobics workout rather tough. Running, jogging, walking, and even doing the elliptical at the Y have all become distinctly problematic. And, because the pain slices through the ball of my foot, the exact region that presses down on the pedal of a bike, bicycling does not offer much of an option. I could swim, I suppose, that is, if I could swim as opposed to doggy paddling rather ineffectually.
Anyway, the point is, while I sit with dicey foot (and sit and sit and sit and. . . .), Keith continues to pursue his somewhat fanatical "dammit I may be about to turn 60 but that doesn't mean I have to be fat" program: vigorous basketball and tennis several times a week, supplemented by running, walking, and weight-lifting. He's never been in better shape. It's great--he's thin and hard and energetic. But it's the matter of timing. We both get home around 6 or so. He then goes off to do his sporty exercisey fitnessy stuff. I, tired and starving, pour a glass of wine and pull out a box of Triscuits. A couple hours later, he returns, all sweaty and virtuous and healthy, whereas I, by that point, well, I'm slightly (or, depending on the day, totally) looped, as well as saturated with salt.
It's not a winning combination. In the ebbs and flows of married life, it's definitely on the ebb side. One does not like feeling sloshed and salty and soft. One then tends to take one's feelings of inadequacy out on one's sweaty and virtuous husband. And then one has another glass of wine, followed by something involving saturated fat and sugar in vast quantities. And thus, in the ebb and flow of marriage, one ends up not only ebbing but in fact stuck in the noisome mud of a trash-strewn bank while scaly creatures bite and tear at one's limbs and large flying insects lay their eggs in one's eyeballs.
Maybe a return to yoga is in order.
As a result of my botched foot operation two Christmases ago, I can now no longer walk very far without a certain amount of pain. Sometimes walking even just a wee bit, like the distance from the bedroom to the kitchen, poses great difficulties. Foot pain, I have discovered, makes a daily aerobics workout rather tough. Running, jogging, walking, and even doing the elliptical at the Y have all become distinctly problematic. And, because the pain slices through the ball of my foot, the exact region that presses down on the pedal of a bike, bicycling does not offer much of an option. I could swim, I suppose, that is, if I could swim as opposed to doggy paddling rather ineffectually.
Anyway, the point is, while I sit with dicey foot (and sit and sit and sit and. . . .), Keith continues to pursue his somewhat fanatical "dammit I may be about to turn 60 but that doesn't mean I have to be fat" program: vigorous basketball and tennis several times a week, supplemented by running, walking, and weight-lifting. He's never been in better shape. It's great--he's thin and hard and energetic. But it's the matter of timing. We both get home around 6 or so. He then goes off to do his sporty exercisey fitnessy stuff. I, tired and starving, pour a glass of wine and pull out a box of Triscuits. A couple hours later, he returns, all sweaty and virtuous and healthy, whereas I, by that point, well, I'm slightly (or, depending on the day, totally) looped, as well as saturated with salt.
It's not a winning combination. In the ebbs and flows of married life, it's definitely on the ebb side. One does not like feeling sloshed and salty and soft. One then tends to take one's feelings of inadequacy out on one's sweaty and virtuous husband. And then one has another glass of wine, followed by something involving saturated fat and sugar in vast quantities. And thus, in the ebb and flow of marriage, one ends up not only ebbing but in fact stuck in the noisome mud of a trash-strewn bank while scaly creatures bite and tear at one's limbs and large flying insects lay their eggs in one's eyeballs.
Maybe a return to yoga is in order.
Monday, April 30, 2012
I've been Bruced. Bossified. Springsteenized.
Bruce Springsteen has provided the soundtrack of my adult life, thanks to the Guy That Got Away, a sweet New Jersey boy I dated back in my Calvin College days. It was 1980--five years after Born to Run, the iconic, amazing single and album that vaulted Springsteen into rock history and put him on the cover of Time and Newsweek in the same week. But in 1975 I was only 15. "Born to Run" actually didn't make it at first onto regular radio; Springsteen didn't leap the boundaries between "rock-that-critics-adore" and "rock- that-young- unaware- Midwestern-teens-listen-to" until 1980, with The River. 1980--still four years before Born in the USA. So, until The Guy That Got Away, I didn't know Springsteen, hadn't a clue. But The Guy, well, he was from New Jersey, and he was clued-in. He volunteered as a dj on our college radio station--broadcasting to the dorms and dining halls of Calvin College, not a huge gig, mind you, but still--and I would sit there through his sessions with him. The radio station protocols were strict: every hour had to include a certain number of minutes of "Christian rock." The Guy, bless him, hated Christian rock, so he would carefully search out Christian rock songs whose duration matched those of Springsteen singles. He'd play the Springsteen, and then enter the Christian song in the log. I have to tell you, in the context of Calvin College, this was downright subversive. Of course, no one ever noticed, since no one ever actually listened to the college station. But in the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter. The Guy gave me Bruce. And I've had him ever since. Bruce, that is. Not The Guy. Which also, in the grand scheme, turned out not to matter. My mom used to say there was a lid for every pot. Actually, I think there are several. Plus pots change shape over time, and so do lids. And sometimes, you know, you just cram that sucker on there and command it to fit.
Back to our main story.
In all these years, I've never seen Springsteen in concert. There was this and there was that, never in the right place with enough money and enough time. But last night, he was in New Orleans and I was there, in the right place, at the right time, with a paid-up ticket.
It was good. It was very very good. Sometimes life is very simple and very sweet. Not often. But sometimes.
And I believe in a promised land. . .
Bruce Springsteen has provided the soundtrack of my adult life, thanks to the Guy That Got Away, a sweet New Jersey boy I dated back in my Calvin College days. It was 1980--five years after Born to Run, the iconic, amazing single and album that vaulted Springsteen into rock history and put him on the cover of Time and Newsweek in the same week. But in 1975 I was only 15. "Born to Run" actually didn't make it at first onto regular radio; Springsteen didn't leap the boundaries between "rock-that-critics-adore" and "rock- that-young- unaware- Midwestern-teens-listen-to" until 1980, with The River. 1980--still four years before Born in the USA. So, until The Guy That Got Away, I didn't know Springsteen, hadn't a clue. But The Guy, well, he was from New Jersey, and he was clued-in. He volunteered as a dj on our college radio station--broadcasting to the dorms and dining halls of Calvin College, not a huge gig, mind you, but still--and I would sit there through his sessions with him. The radio station protocols were strict: every hour had to include a certain number of minutes of "Christian rock." The Guy, bless him, hated Christian rock, so he would carefully search out Christian rock songs whose duration matched those of Springsteen singles. He'd play the Springsteen, and then enter the Christian song in the log. I have to tell you, in the context of Calvin College, this was downright subversive. Of course, no one ever noticed, since no one ever actually listened to the college station. But in the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter. The Guy gave me Bruce. And I've had him ever since. Bruce, that is. Not The Guy. Which also, in the grand scheme, turned out not to matter. My mom used to say there was a lid for every pot. Actually, I think there are several. Plus pots change shape over time, and so do lids. And sometimes, you know, you just cram that sucker on there and command it to fit.
Back to our main story.
In all these years, I've never seen Springsteen in concert. There was this and there was that, never in the right place with enough money and enough time. But last night, he was in New Orleans and I was there, in the right place, at the right time, with a paid-up ticket.
It was good. It was very very good. Sometimes life is very simple and very sweet. Not often. But sometimes.
And I believe in a promised land. . .
Thursday, February 16, 2012
A love poem
Keith always tells me I'm not romantic.
Every Valentine's Day he gives me a beautiful homemade card with a carefully selected love poem. And, yes, it's true, most Valentine's Days I come up with nothing. But the thing is, I always intend to. I always have plans. They just never quite work.
Like this year. Despite my truly awesome head cold, I leave work and stop by the funky little shop on Government Street that has great cards. But, go figure, this year the selection isn't so hot. OK. I will make this work. So after about 30 minutes of reading every card on offer and deliberating with great care, I choose one--it's good, it's fine, and I know how to spice it up--and then I discover I have no cash. And no, they won't take a credit card.
I go home. Nose is too runny, chest is too congested, head is too achey, cough is too racking to return to the damn shop. No, I will write a poem. I will make my own card.
Well, it never got onto a card. But here's the poem:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I'm coughing up loogies,
But I still love you.
You're the chicken bone for my hungry dog,
the litter for my kitty.
You say that you still want me
Even when I'm feeling shitty.
You're the saline in my Neti pot,
the Kleenex for my nose,
the compress for my feverish head--
that's what love is, I suppose.
Ok. Not a Shakespearean sonnet. But don't tell me I'm not romantic.
Every Valentine's Day he gives me a beautiful homemade card with a carefully selected love poem. And, yes, it's true, most Valentine's Days I come up with nothing. But the thing is, I always intend to. I always have plans. They just never quite work.
Like this year. Despite my truly awesome head cold, I leave work and stop by the funky little shop on Government Street that has great cards. But, go figure, this year the selection isn't so hot. OK. I will make this work. So after about 30 minutes of reading every card on offer and deliberating with great care, I choose one--it's good, it's fine, and I know how to spice it up--and then I discover I have no cash. And no, they won't take a credit card.
I go home. Nose is too runny, chest is too congested, head is too achey, cough is too racking to return to the damn shop. No, I will write a poem. I will make my own card.
Well, it never got onto a card. But here's the poem:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I'm coughing up loogies,
But I still love you.
You're the chicken bone for my hungry dog,
the litter for my kitty.
You say that you still want me
Even when I'm feeling shitty.
You're the saline in my Neti pot,
the Kleenex for my nose,
the compress for my feverish head--
that's what love is, I suppose.
Ok. Not a Shakespearean sonnet. But don't tell me I'm not romantic.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Never mind
So the night before last Keith was in the mood and I was not. Such an odd situation, sigh, we wish. Anyway, we both went to sleep with no canoodling. Then, in the wee hours of the morning, Keith began to kick me. Not "kick me" as in he's sleeping and rolling over rather restlessly and his leg bumps mine. I mean, Keith began to kick me: he grabbed me and started to kick the daylights--except I guess they were nightlights--out of me. I hollered and woke him up; he's all confused and apologetic and out of it; the dog, standing anxiously at the foot of the bed, is wondering what he's supposed to do now; the cats have hightailed it out of there. The next morning, Keith vaguely recalls his dream: he was running from someone and had to kick a door.
OK. Except that evening, as I'm walking the dog, I start thinking about the whole sequence of events. And the proverbial light bulb winks on, as I realize, hey, wait just a sec, I say no to sex and he's kicking open a door!! I'm outraged and horrified, I'm in total feminist mode, I can't believe my husband was trying to kick open my door. I hurry the dog on home, a cruel act as the dog has a hard time hurrying these days, and storm inside and confront him. Him. My husband. This lovely man who has suddenly descended down the evolutionary ladder and now looks to me like some sort of primitive beast. "Do you realize what has happened? Do you realize I said no to sex and then you have a dream where you're kicking in a door?? And you're really kicking me? My door!?"
Keith looks up from the football game. He's a tad surprised. He says, "But honey, in my dream I was kicking the door closed."
Oh. Well then. Never mind.
OK. Except that evening, as I'm walking the dog, I start thinking about the whole sequence of events. And the proverbial light bulb winks on, as I realize, hey, wait just a sec, I say no to sex and he's kicking open a door!! I'm outraged and horrified, I'm in total feminist mode, I can't believe my husband was trying to kick open my door. I hurry the dog on home, a cruel act as the dog has a hard time hurrying these days, and storm inside and confront him. Him. My husband. This lovely man who has suddenly descended down the evolutionary ladder and now looks to me like some sort of primitive beast. "Do you realize what has happened? Do you realize I said no to sex and then you have a dream where you're kicking in a door?? And you're really kicking me? My door!?"
Keith looks up from the football game. He's a tad surprised. He says, "But honey, in my dream I was kicking the door closed."
Oh. Well then. Never mind.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
A Phone Call--and a Good Hard Cry
I talked on the phone for quite awhile with my good friend Joanne. Her mom's mental state, ravaged by vascular dementia, has deteriorated rapidly over the last few months. It hurt, that talk. After I hung up, I cried.
I cried for Joanne. She and her mom somehow escaped all the craziness and hurt that accompanies most mother-daughter relationships. They were always just so right--close, but not in that creepy way that makes you wonder if the mother is trying to relive or somehow make up for something that she lacked; no role reversal; no shutting out or closing in. Somehow they did it--Carol remained the mom yet Joanne grew up and they both recognized and rejoiced in that and were just so damned right with each other. I've rarely seen a relationship so solid and decent, so the way it is supposed to be.
I cried for Joe, Carol's husband and Joanne's dad. One of the most loving and genuinely kind men I have ever known, Joe cared for Carol through years of debilitating arthritis, and somehow made it seem simple, just love, you know. Somehow he made you think, "Oh right. That's the way love is. That's what people who love each other do." Until you looked around and realized, no, no, most don't.
And I cried for me. Joe and Carol never knew, even Joanne never knew, but those two, their marriage, their partnership, their Joe-and-Carolness, shaped my life in such important ways.
It was during college. Our third year? Maybe our senior year. Joanne and I shared a Calvin College apartment, with four girls, er, young women. Geez. We were girls, so unbelievably utterly girls. I was visiting Joanne in New Jersey and her parents took us into Manhattan. I don't know about most New Jerseyites, but Joanne's parents were not in the least intimidated by New York City. No, Joe and Carol made Manhattan their own. They may have lived in Paterson, but they were New Yorkers in their soul. We had gone to a show, I think, or perhaps dinner. It was late but of course the streets were full and we stopped for ice cream cones. And Joe and Carol walked ahead down the sidewalk--this New York sidewalk, teeming, bustling, bursting with life--and they held hands and Joe, a tall man, bent to hear Carol's quip and then tossed his head back and roared with laughter.
I looked at them and thought, "I want that." I wanted it all. The nighttime.The city street. The laughter. But most of all, the hand-holding. I often saw my parents hugging or kissing, but I had never seen them hold hands. I had never seen any of their friends or any of my aunts and uncles hold hands. Up until that point, frankly, I had no idea people over age 40 held hands. And I think--ok, yes, I'm probably giving my 19-or-20-year-old self way too much credit here--but I think I got it. I saw that hand holding for what it was: the obvious comfort in each other's company, the affection and amusement, the companionship.
My parents loved each other but they were opposites. They sparred and sparked and tussled and tore. Their relationship was the stuff of romance and drama, so appealing and exciting that most of my siblings chose a similar sort of marriage. But sparks can so easily ignite a raging fire that shrivels the skin and leaves lasting scars. I didn't want that. I didn't know how much I didn't want that, until that night, walking behind Joe and Carol, I saw a different sort of marriage, one in which the sparks glowed steadily, like a warming fire flickering behind the grate. Without even realizing it, I made a choice that night.
We've been so lucky. Keith and I have walked on so many city streets--New York, New Orleans, Chicago, San Francisco, Houston, London, Dublin, Glasgow, Amsterdam, Orvieto--and we've walked holding hands.
So I hung up the phone and I cried. Cried in sorrow for what is gone and will be so missed, cried in thanks for all that was, and cried in wonder for the way the simplest things--an ice cream cone, a burst of laughter, a couple holding hands--can change, and make, one's world.
I cried for Joanne. She and her mom somehow escaped all the craziness and hurt that accompanies most mother-daughter relationships. They were always just so right--close, but not in that creepy way that makes you wonder if the mother is trying to relive or somehow make up for something that she lacked; no role reversal; no shutting out or closing in. Somehow they did it--Carol remained the mom yet Joanne grew up and they both recognized and rejoiced in that and were just so damned right with each other. I've rarely seen a relationship so solid and decent, so the way it is supposed to be.
I cried for Joe, Carol's husband and Joanne's dad. One of the most loving and genuinely kind men I have ever known, Joe cared for Carol through years of debilitating arthritis, and somehow made it seem simple, just love, you know. Somehow he made you think, "Oh right. That's the way love is. That's what people who love each other do." Until you looked around and realized, no, no, most don't.
And I cried for me. Joe and Carol never knew, even Joanne never knew, but those two, their marriage, their partnership, their Joe-and-Carolness, shaped my life in such important ways.
It was during college. Our third year? Maybe our senior year. Joanne and I shared a Calvin College apartment, with four girls, er, young women. Geez. We were girls, so unbelievably utterly girls. I was visiting Joanne in New Jersey and her parents took us into Manhattan. I don't know about most New Jerseyites, but Joanne's parents were not in the least intimidated by New York City. No, Joe and Carol made Manhattan their own. They may have lived in Paterson, but they were New Yorkers in their soul. We had gone to a show, I think, or perhaps dinner. It was late but of course the streets were full and we stopped for ice cream cones. And Joe and Carol walked ahead down the sidewalk--this New York sidewalk, teeming, bustling, bursting with life--and they held hands and Joe, a tall man, bent to hear Carol's quip and then tossed his head back and roared with laughter.
I looked at them and thought, "I want that." I wanted it all. The nighttime.The city street. The laughter. But most of all, the hand-holding. I often saw my parents hugging or kissing, but I had never seen them hold hands. I had never seen any of their friends or any of my aunts and uncles hold hands. Up until that point, frankly, I had no idea people over age 40 held hands. And I think--ok, yes, I'm probably giving my 19-or-20-year-old self way too much credit here--but I think I got it. I saw that hand holding for what it was: the obvious comfort in each other's company, the affection and amusement, the companionship.
My parents loved each other but they were opposites. They sparred and sparked and tussled and tore. Their relationship was the stuff of romance and drama, so appealing and exciting that most of my siblings chose a similar sort of marriage. But sparks can so easily ignite a raging fire that shrivels the skin and leaves lasting scars. I didn't want that. I didn't know how much I didn't want that, until that night, walking behind Joe and Carol, I saw a different sort of marriage, one in which the sparks glowed steadily, like a warming fire flickering behind the grate. Without even realizing it, I made a choice that night.
We've been so lucky. Keith and I have walked on so many city streets--New York, New Orleans, Chicago, San Francisco, Houston, London, Dublin, Glasgow, Amsterdam, Orvieto--and we've walked holding hands.
So I hung up the phone and I cried. Cried in sorrow for what is gone and will be so missed, cried in thanks for all that was, and cried in wonder for the way the simplest things--an ice cream cone, a burst of laughter, a couple holding hands--can change, and make, one's world.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Bitter Woman
Keith is watching football. LSU vs. West Virginia. God. I hate football.
I shouldn't be bitter.
I'm not. I Am Not A Bitter Woman.
The thing is, we had a very short courtship. So it came as something of a surprise that I found myself married to a sports fanatic. Somehow, this fanaticism just hadn't really surfaced in the months, umm, weeks, of our pre-marriage romance.
You might think that as the younger sister of five older brothers, I was prepared for Sports Fanaticism. But my big brothers were more into cars and cigarettes and beer and drugs. We were Cubs fans, because my much-loved grandma was a Cubs fan. And being a Cubs fan went well with beer and cigarettes, frankly-- add a hotdog with mustard and relish, and Life Is Good. But football?? Dad watched the Bears on Sundays in the depth of winter when he could laugh at "those idiots" floundering in the snow. And my brothers were far too stoned to care.
So, here I sit, with this man who cares intensely. Who actually just now said, as he moved the chair so he could be right in front of our rather small tv, "Can you see?"--as if I cared. But he can't imagine I don't care. Which is so sweet. And just so damn weird.
Weird as it is, I'd be ok with it, if it were just LSU football. I mean, I get obsession. Obsession is ok. I have my obsessions. Doctor Who. Bruce Springsteen. And everything Paul Newman has ever done. And I ritualistically, fatalistically, follow the Cubs, as part of my birthright. So, if Keith were simply obsessed with LSU football, really, I'd be ok with that. But, here's the deal: I thought The Game was this afternoon. Because Keith spent the entire friggin' afternoon watching football. But that was other football. Gettin' ready football. Preparatory football. Foreplay football.
Keith is watching football. LSU vs. West Virginia. God. I hate football.
And yes. I Am A Bitter Woman.
I shouldn't be bitter.
I'm not. I Am Not A Bitter Woman.
The thing is, we had a very short courtship. So it came as something of a surprise that I found myself married to a sports fanatic. Somehow, this fanaticism just hadn't really surfaced in the months, umm, weeks, of our pre-marriage romance.
You might think that as the younger sister of five older brothers, I was prepared for Sports Fanaticism. But my big brothers were more into cars and cigarettes and beer and drugs. We were Cubs fans, because my much-loved grandma was a Cubs fan. And being a Cubs fan went well with beer and cigarettes, frankly-- add a hotdog with mustard and relish, and Life Is Good. But football?? Dad watched the Bears on Sundays in the depth of winter when he could laugh at "those idiots" floundering in the snow. And my brothers were far too stoned to care.
So, here I sit, with this man who cares intensely. Who actually just now said, as he moved the chair so he could be right in front of our rather small tv, "Can you see?"--as if I cared. But he can't imagine I don't care. Which is so sweet. And just so damn weird.
Weird as it is, I'd be ok with it, if it were just LSU football. I mean, I get obsession. Obsession is ok. I have my obsessions. Doctor Who. Bruce Springsteen. And everything Paul Newman has ever done. And I ritualistically, fatalistically, follow the Cubs, as part of my birthright. So, if Keith were simply obsessed with LSU football, really, I'd be ok with that. But, here's the deal: I thought The Game was this afternoon. Because Keith spent the entire friggin' afternoon watching football. But that was other football. Gettin' ready football. Preparatory football. Foreplay football.
Keith is watching football. LSU vs. West Virginia. God. I hate football.
And yes. I Am A Bitter Woman.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Lavender
Our marriage has come of age. Yesterday was our 21st wedding anniversary. You'd think you'd know someone after 21 years. I thought I did, anyway. And then, this afternoon, in comes Keith all excited about the great big package that came in the mail. "Look," he says gleefully, and I look and I think, "Good lord, who is this man?" There, on a bed of those crinkly paper gift-bag stuffing thingies, lounged several large bottles of Essential Oils lavender products--oils and lotions and shampoos and what-not.
Really?? He actually initiated, took time out to, went to the effort of, buying Essential Oils products? Honestly, I thought there was some kind of rule against such a thing, that one could only get this sort of stuff as a present, usually from people who don't know you very well and so haven't a clue as to what to get you. "Yeah," he enthused, "don't you remember we got some once from Anne? And I really liked it so I went online and there was this website!"
Years ago, I got tenure. And I stunned Keith by coming home and announcing that now I was going to enroll in a cake decorating course. It totally threw him for a loop. He couldn't get over it: how could he be married to me and yet have no inkling whatsoever that I had some inner desire to learn how to make icing roses and fondant animals.
Maybe this is why, ideally, we marry for the long haul. So we can keep shocking each other. So, anyway, excuse me. I have to go coat myself in lavender oil.
Really?? He actually initiated, took time out to, went to the effort of, buying Essential Oils products? Honestly, I thought there was some kind of rule against such a thing, that one could only get this sort of stuff as a present, usually from people who don't know you very well and so haven't a clue as to what to get you. "Yeah," he enthused, "don't you remember we got some once from Anne? And I really liked it so I went online and there was this website!"
Years ago, I got tenure. And I stunned Keith by coming home and announcing that now I was going to enroll in a cake decorating course. It totally threw him for a loop. He couldn't get over it: how could he be married to me and yet have no inkling whatsoever that I had some inner desire to learn how to make icing roses and fondant animals.
Maybe this is why, ideally, we marry for the long haul. So we can keep shocking each other. So, anyway, excuse me. I have to go coat myself in lavender oil.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
With Potatos
After over 20 years of marriage, my husband still dumbfounds me.
We're joining a group of friends for dinner tomorrow. We're bringing homemade pizza. Translation: Keith is making pizza. We both went to the grocery store after work today without notifying the other; hence, we have a surfeit of red and green peppers and asparagus. So it will be a peppers and asparagus pizza. We also have an over-abundance of bananas, but one draws the line. Or so I thought.
Til Keith came out and announced that he's doing a peppers and asparagus and potato pizza, so what kind of cheese did I recommend?
Um. Excuse me. Potato? On pizza?
Yes, yes, trust me, it will be fine, so what cheese, says he.
Potato? On pizza?
I have no recommendation for the cheese. I can't get beyond the potato. Marriage. Always an adventure. Even with potatos.
We're joining a group of friends for dinner tomorrow. We're bringing homemade pizza. Translation: Keith is making pizza. We both went to the grocery store after work today without notifying the other; hence, we have a surfeit of red and green peppers and asparagus. So it will be a peppers and asparagus pizza. We also have an over-abundance of bananas, but one draws the line. Or so I thought.
Til Keith came out and announced that he's doing a peppers and asparagus and potato pizza, so what kind of cheese did I recommend?
Um. Excuse me. Potato? On pizza?
Yes, yes, trust me, it will be fine, so what cheese, says he.
Potato? On pizza?
I have no recommendation for the cheese. I can't get beyond the potato. Marriage. Always an adventure. Even with potatos.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Driftwood
Once again, Keith and I are knowingly, willingly, even somewhat actively tossing ourselves into a situation that we 1) know we will hate, and 2) could easily avoid.
Nope, we're not having a third child.
Actually, I'd love to have a third child. . . yes, yes, I know I'm 50, but look at what's-her-name, you know, the blonde news anchor. But--me and Keith and the whole third child debate, oh, let's not go there. It's not, umm, scenic. . . .
So, we're having a garage sale. We've had garage sales before. We've sworn we would never, ever have garage sales again. Yet tomorrow morning we're having one.
Why do we do these things to ourselves? It's not like, say, indulging in a huge slice of German chocolate cake when you're on a diet, or having those last three glasses of wine when you promised you'd stop at one, or buying that oh-so-cool pair of boots when you had resolved to cut back on spending--I mean, with all those things, you get something you want. Yes, you do pay a price, and maybe it's not a price worth paying, but there is pleasure in there, fleeting tho' it may be.
Garage sales do not bring us pleasure. Not even flickery little fleeting bits.
First, garage sale people are--at least in our experience--strange. And not strange in funky, amusing, intriguing ways; no, this is the "ohmygoshsomeonegetmeoutofhere" sort of strangeness. (I do apologize to all you garage sale people readers. I'm sure you're the exception to the strangeness rule. The sort of people I'm talking about would not be reading a blog written by a menopausal liberal Christian history professor mom. Not a chance.)
Second, and far more fundamental, garage sales lead to existential angst. We're having a garage sale because we're drowning in all this crap, and--to give us our due--we don't want to just add it all to the landfill. We believe in "Reuse--Recycle--Re-" shoot--"re-something." Whatever it is, we believe in it and try to practice it. But from whence cometh all this crap? What sort of person am I, that I have accumulated, sought out, yea, even desired, such stuff? And more horrifying, what kind of Me do I project, who is the public persona I have created, that my beloved ones shower me with all this shit? And why have I saved it? What was it all for? Who was I hoping to become?
And what the hell was I trying to do to/for/with my kids? For so much of this junk testifies to parenting gone mad. The ridiculously expensive sewing machine, resting there like driftwood washed up from Hugh's brief fashion design phase. All the sports paraphernalia, the detritus of the various teams and lessons into which we jollied the boys. Spools of thread and glue bottles and felt squares and paint canisters and wood burning tools in an anarchic heap, leftovers from arts and crafts projects long abandoned. And the heaps of music books--cello and piano and drums and flute and harmonica and recorder and guitar (both rhythm and electric).
A bit here, some tat there. All these shabby remnants of dreams discarded and hopes shrugged off, of that horrible moment when vision confronts reality. All this waste.
Really. This whole garage sale thing. It's not a good idea.
Nope, we're not having a third child.
Actually, I'd love to have a third child. . . yes, yes, I know I'm 50, but look at what's-her-name, you know, the blonde news anchor. But--me and Keith and the whole third child debate, oh, let's not go there. It's not, umm, scenic. . . .
So, we're having a garage sale. We've had garage sales before. We've sworn we would never, ever have garage sales again. Yet tomorrow morning we're having one.
Why do we do these things to ourselves? It's not like, say, indulging in a huge slice of German chocolate cake when you're on a diet, or having those last three glasses of wine when you promised you'd stop at one, or buying that oh-so-cool pair of boots when you had resolved to cut back on spending--I mean, with all those things, you get something you want. Yes, you do pay a price, and maybe it's not a price worth paying, but there is pleasure in there, fleeting tho' it may be.
Garage sales do not bring us pleasure. Not even flickery little fleeting bits.
First, garage sale people are--at least in our experience--strange. And not strange in funky, amusing, intriguing ways; no, this is the "ohmygoshsomeonegetmeoutofhere" sort of strangeness. (I do apologize to all you garage sale people readers. I'm sure you're the exception to the strangeness rule. The sort of people I'm talking about would not be reading a blog written by a menopausal liberal Christian history professor mom. Not a chance.)
Second, and far more fundamental, garage sales lead to existential angst. We're having a garage sale because we're drowning in all this crap, and--to give us our due--we don't want to just add it all to the landfill. We believe in "Reuse--Recycle--Re-" shoot--"re-something." Whatever it is, we believe in it and try to practice it. But from whence cometh all this crap? What sort of person am I, that I have accumulated, sought out, yea, even desired, such stuff? And more horrifying, what kind of Me do I project, who is the public persona I have created, that my beloved ones shower me with all this shit? And why have I saved it? What was it all for? Who was I hoping to become?
And what the hell was I trying to do to/for/with my kids? For so much of this junk testifies to parenting gone mad. The ridiculously expensive sewing machine, resting there like driftwood washed up from Hugh's brief fashion design phase. All the sports paraphernalia, the detritus of the various teams and lessons into which we jollied the boys. Spools of thread and glue bottles and felt squares and paint canisters and wood burning tools in an anarchic heap, leftovers from arts and crafts projects long abandoned. And the heaps of music books--cello and piano and drums and flute and harmonica and recorder and guitar (both rhythm and electric).
A bit here, some tat there. All these shabby remnants of dreams discarded and hopes shrugged off, of that horrible moment when vision confronts reality. All this waste.
Really. This whole garage sale thing. It's not a good idea.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Conferencing
Keith is gone to a conference for several days. This is good.
If you have a job that doesn't involve conferences, you should invent them. Not for the conferences themselves, mind you--it's astonishing how little of professional value actually occurs at the things. Other than getting to go out and have expensive food and drink lots and lots of alcohol in the company of people with similar interests or at least similar working lives. I suppose there's some value there, tho' I doubt it's really all that "professional."
But I'm thinking about the personal and familial benefits of conference-going. I'm thinking about the absolute bliss when you enter the hotel room and shut the door. And it's clean. And you are alone and you can watch any sort of tv any time you want and you can sleep in and there will be no crying child or grumpy spouse or kitchen full of dirty dishes to punish you afterwards. And you can stay out as late as you want and organize your schedule (apart from a conference duty here or there) as you want, and you can eat what and when and if you want (I suppose there are people to whom the "if" applies. . . ) . And it's all good. It restores your soul.
And meanwhile back at home--umm, that depends. When the boys were little, Keith seemed to view my conference absences as things to be endured. He'd go into boot camp mode, with a strict schedule and a checklist. I, however, I had a rather different approach. . .
Which is to say, the boys loved it when Keith left for a few days and, yes, so did I. It wasn't a matter of Keith, per se. I remember reading an article by a recently widowed woman with three young kids, and in this piece she noted, "It's amazing what counts as 'dinner' when you're the only grown-up around." That's it. Not just the dinners, tho' certainly those--we'd go out for at least one meal and for all the others we'd have TV or Movie Nights, with 'dinner' on a big blanket in the living room--but the overall freedom of being the only adult in the household. You can get away with stuff, plus there's no energy-draining resentment and repressed anger because Spouse is watching tv rather than playing with the kids or ignoring the dishes or leaving little beard hairs all over the bathroom sink. You're on your own.
So Keith would depart and the boys would immediately shift into my bed and we'd have tickly, giggly mornings, and there'd be bound to be baking of some sort, and probably a visit to the really good, really big, faraway park, the one with the stream and the great overhanging tree. I truly didn't set out to teach the boys to associate "Dad's absence" with "fun," tho' looking back, I realize that was what happened, and that was Not A Good Thing. It all comes down to Calvinist guilt, actually. I feel guilty all the time: I'm not a good enough wife, mother, neighbor, scholar, teacher, daughter, friend, etc. etc. etc. So take away the obligation to be a Good Wife for a few days, and well, I do believe the word is liberation. And what do you do when you're liberated from ordinary obligations, from the usual routine? You celebrate. You party. You go on holiday. Hence the Movie Nights and the giggly mornings and the park outings.
But of course all of it depended on the fact--the absolute, never-doubted fact--that Keith would soon be home. Because the liberation rested utterly on the temporary nature of the whole thing. I was like one of those pretend hippies at Woodstock, the college students who jumped around in their fringe vests and tie-dyed tee-shirts, and then went back to writing papers and taking exams and beefing up their resume's. Had the situation ever become permanent, freedom would have quickly transformed into anarchy (think broken glass, burning cars, blood on the doorstep, shrieks and wails and the wah-wah-wah of sirens), and the sense of liberation would have become loneliness, total and complete and devastating loneliness.
Just like life alone in a hotel room would be an absolute horror.
But for a few days, once or twice a year, it's a fine and wonderful thing.
If you have a job that doesn't involve conferences, you should invent them. Not for the conferences themselves, mind you--it's astonishing how little of professional value actually occurs at the things. Other than getting to go out and have expensive food and drink lots and lots of alcohol in the company of people with similar interests or at least similar working lives. I suppose there's some value there, tho' I doubt it's really all that "professional."
But I'm thinking about the personal and familial benefits of conference-going. I'm thinking about the absolute bliss when you enter the hotel room and shut the door. And it's clean. And you are alone and you can watch any sort of tv any time you want and you can sleep in and there will be no crying child or grumpy spouse or kitchen full of dirty dishes to punish you afterwards. And you can stay out as late as you want and organize your schedule (apart from a conference duty here or there) as you want, and you can eat what and when and if you want (I suppose there are people to whom the "if" applies. . . ) . And it's all good. It restores your soul.
And meanwhile back at home--umm, that depends. When the boys were little, Keith seemed to view my conference absences as things to be endured. He'd go into boot camp mode, with a strict schedule and a checklist. I, however, I had a rather different approach. . .
Which is to say, the boys loved it when Keith left for a few days and, yes, so did I. It wasn't a matter of Keith, per se. I remember reading an article by a recently widowed woman with three young kids, and in this piece she noted, "It's amazing what counts as 'dinner' when you're the only grown-up around." That's it. Not just the dinners, tho' certainly those--we'd go out for at least one meal and for all the others we'd have TV or Movie Nights, with 'dinner' on a big blanket in the living room--but the overall freedom of being the only adult in the household. You can get away with stuff, plus there's no energy-draining resentment and repressed anger because Spouse is watching tv rather than playing with the kids or ignoring the dishes or leaving little beard hairs all over the bathroom sink. You're on your own.
So Keith would depart and the boys would immediately shift into my bed and we'd have tickly, giggly mornings, and there'd be bound to be baking of some sort, and probably a visit to the really good, really big, faraway park, the one with the stream and the great overhanging tree. I truly didn't set out to teach the boys to associate "Dad's absence" with "fun," tho' looking back, I realize that was what happened, and that was Not A Good Thing. It all comes down to Calvinist guilt, actually. I feel guilty all the time: I'm not a good enough wife, mother, neighbor, scholar, teacher, daughter, friend, etc. etc. etc. So take away the obligation to be a Good Wife for a few days, and well, I do believe the word is liberation. And what do you do when you're liberated from ordinary obligations, from the usual routine? You celebrate. You party. You go on holiday. Hence the Movie Nights and the giggly mornings and the park outings.
But of course all of it depended on the fact--the absolute, never-doubted fact--that Keith would soon be home. Because the liberation rested utterly on the temporary nature of the whole thing. I was like one of those pretend hippies at Woodstock, the college students who jumped around in their fringe vests and tie-dyed tee-shirts, and then went back to writing papers and taking exams and beefing up their resume's. Had the situation ever become permanent, freedom would have quickly transformed into anarchy (think broken glass, burning cars, blood on the doorstep, shrieks and wails and the wah-wah-wah of sirens), and the sense of liberation would have become loneliness, total and complete and devastating loneliness.
Just like life alone in a hotel room would be an absolute horror.
But for a few days, once or twice a year, it's a fine and wonderful thing.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Ornamental Pillow People
One might think that two relatively bright, aware, sensible people, married for 20 years and thus combining their relative brightness, awareness, and sensibility, would not repeat the same mistakes over and over and over. But we do.
We ordered a bed online. We know better. We have tried assembling furniture in the past. Many times--as our household interior bears witness, replete as it is with various wonky, wobbly chairs, desks, and tabletops. We are not handy people. We are not mechanically inclined. We have no practical function whatsoever.
We are now sleeping on a mattress on the floor.
Yet this return to a kind of grad student sparseness has occurred in tandem with a leap into bourgeois luxury. We have become Ornamental Pillow People.
It wasn't intentional. Keith, for one, hates ornamental pillows. Art is fine--he has no trouble spending money on paintings or photographs. Because art has a point--you look at it, you enjoy it, you're challenged by it, whatever. But the point of a pillow is to sleep on it. An ornamental pillow? No point.
I'm more ambivalent. I've always really been rather awe-struck by people with ornamental pillows on their beds. They're like the People Who Live in Our Magazines. But I dunno. Life seems complicated enough, without having to arrange a complicated tower of pillows on the bed every morning. Plus I nap most days. That means building the pillow pyramid twice every day.
But after two decades of connubial bliss, we decided to graduate to a queen-sized bed. (I worried about the implications of this move, I'll admit. Does it mean there's a growing distance between us? Are we no longer close? Actually, it just means we're both sick of being squished by the kitty.) Anyway, a new mattress means new bedding. And on overstock.com, I found this great deal on a rather attractive "12-piece bed-in-a-bag". I'll admit, I'm not a good shopper. I didn't really pay attention. I mean, 12 pieces. I just assumed, gotta include sheets, right? Comforter = 1. Blanket = 2. Sheets and pillowcases = 6. God knows what else = 12.
But no. No sheets. No pillowcases. Instead, lots and lots of Ornamental Pillows. I feel like a miner when I go to bed now--it requires much tunneling and shoveling just to find the sheets. Keith refuses to do the pillow mining. He just inserts himself into the mass--with the result that I come into the bedroom and it's like an episode of Doctor Who: alien pillow-shaped life forms have swallowed my husband's head and are munching their way down his torso.
Still, we're trying. Why can't we be Ornamental Pillow People? We're people. We like pillows. And heck, we're largely ornamental.
We ordered a bed online. We know better. We have tried assembling furniture in the past. Many times--as our household interior bears witness, replete as it is with various wonky, wobbly chairs, desks, and tabletops. We are not handy people. We are not mechanically inclined. We have no practical function whatsoever.
We are now sleeping on a mattress on the floor.
Yet this return to a kind of grad student sparseness has occurred in tandem with a leap into bourgeois luxury. We have become Ornamental Pillow People.
It wasn't intentional. Keith, for one, hates ornamental pillows. Art is fine--he has no trouble spending money on paintings or photographs. Because art has a point--you look at it, you enjoy it, you're challenged by it, whatever. But the point of a pillow is to sleep on it. An ornamental pillow? No point.
I'm more ambivalent. I've always really been rather awe-struck by people with ornamental pillows on their beds. They're like the People Who Live in Our Magazines. But I dunno. Life seems complicated enough, without having to arrange a complicated tower of pillows on the bed every morning. Plus I nap most days. That means building the pillow pyramid twice every day.
But after two decades of connubial bliss, we decided to graduate to a queen-sized bed. (I worried about the implications of this move, I'll admit. Does it mean there's a growing distance between us? Are we no longer close? Actually, it just means we're both sick of being squished by the kitty.) Anyway, a new mattress means new bedding. And on overstock.com, I found this great deal on a rather attractive "12-piece bed-in-a-bag". I'll admit, I'm not a good shopper. I didn't really pay attention. I mean, 12 pieces. I just assumed, gotta include sheets, right? Comforter = 1. Blanket = 2. Sheets and pillowcases = 6. God knows what else = 12.
But no. No sheets. No pillowcases. Instead, lots and lots of Ornamental Pillows. I feel like a miner when I go to bed now--it requires much tunneling and shoveling just to find the sheets. Keith refuses to do the pillow mining. He just inserts himself into the mass--with the result that I come into the bedroom and it's like an episode of Doctor Who: alien pillow-shaped life forms have swallowed my husband's head and are munching their way down his torso.
Still, we're trying. Why can't we be Ornamental Pillow People? We're people. We like pillows. And heck, we're largely ornamental.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
What-the-hell hair
There's a certain "what the hell" freedom in being in the latter half of one's allotted lifespan. This week, for example, I paid more for a haircut than I have ever before (and, I imagine, than I ever will again). I won't tell you how much; suffice it to say it was in the three figures, and the last two were not zeroes. And I did it with no consideration or planning whatsoever. One moment I was finishing up my coffee in a Dublin Starbucks (may I just say to opponents of globalization that I would have far preferred to be in a locally owned coffee shop, but Starbucks offered free wi-fi and the locals did not; sadly, practicality trumps principles almost every time) and the next I was bent back over the shampoo sink in the chi-chi hair place across the street.
I had flown off to Ireland a month earlier with what I thought was workable hair--no blowdryer, no straightening rod or curling iron, just wash and go. So I washed and went, for a month, with Really Bad Hair, hair that looked as if it resulted from the mating of one of those string mops and a clown's wig. And the thing is, despite being in the latter half of my allotted lifespan, I have yet to learn to be "what the hell" about my hair.
I have, of course, honed a number of coping strategies over the years, all of which I relied on regularly over the past four weeks in misty moisty blustery blowy Ireland: I reminded myself that I am an intellectual and a deeply spiritual person, someone who is really above bothering with something as trivial as hair. I contemplated barrettes and pondered headbands. I tried different side parts. I applied copious amounts of Product. I combed it all backwards. I brushed it all forwards. I avoided mirrors. I wore my hood a lot.
But still, Bad Hair is Bad Hair, and so, in one impulsive moment in Dublin, I chopped it all off. That is, I gave the incredibly sexy, 30-ish, cutey hairstylist guy the liberty to do with my hair what he would. And he chopped it all off--with the most amazing attention to detail, precise technique, and gentle patience. I mean, if this guy does sex like he does hair, well, golly.
And then he told me what the cut cost.
What the hell.
It's a good cut. I now have Good Hair. And life is better. Of course, I'm also at this moment sitting on a stack of pillows alongside my husband on an enormous bed in an "Exquisite Boutique Bed and Breakfast" (so the advertisement) in a Norfolk seaside village. That helps too.
I had flown off to Ireland a month earlier with what I thought was workable hair--no blowdryer, no straightening rod or curling iron, just wash and go. So I washed and went, for a month, with Really Bad Hair, hair that looked as if it resulted from the mating of one of those string mops and a clown's wig. And the thing is, despite being in the latter half of my allotted lifespan, I have yet to learn to be "what the hell" about my hair.
I have, of course, honed a number of coping strategies over the years, all of which I relied on regularly over the past four weeks in misty moisty blustery blowy Ireland: I reminded myself that I am an intellectual and a deeply spiritual person, someone who is really above bothering with something as trivial as hair. I contemplated barrettes and pondered headbands. I tried different side parts. I applied copious amounts of Product. I combed it all backwards. I brushed it all forwards. I avoided mirrors. I wore my hood a lot.
But still, Bad Hair is Bad Hair, and so, in one impulsive moment in Dublin, I chopped it all off. That is, I gave the incredibly sexy, 30-ish, cutey hairstylist guy the liberty to do with my hair what he would. And he chopped it all off--with the most amazing attention to detail, precise technique, and gentle patience. I mean, if this guy does sex like he does hair, well, golly.
And then he told me what the cut cost.
What the hell.
It's a good cut. I now have Good Hair. And life is better. Of course, I'm also at this moment sitting on a stack of pillows alongside my husband on an enormous bed in an "Exquisite Boutique Bed and Breakfast" (so the advertisement) in a Norfolk seaside village. That helps too.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Surfacing
Marriage is so strange.
Keith was out of town the last several days, off at a conference in Nashville learning the latest on a vast federal government digital data homeless management program. Sounds riveting, doesn't it? The program is called something like the FFRSIP; when Keith and his colleagues and co-workers get together they speak in a jumble of acronyms and numerical codes:
"And then he demanded we input the HR47W6 in just 4 days!"
"Oh, I know, once--get this--once he called up on a Friday afternoon and said he had to have the 6Q14BR2 by Monday. Monday!"
"Well, at least it wasn't the 7Z14 BR2!"
Gales of knowing laughter.
I smile vaguely, glance at my watch, and count the wine glasses over the bar.
When we met, Keith was a campus minister: a college chaplain, except of course LSU is a public university and so does not and cannot have chaplains. Instead, the university campus serves as a kind of ship all around which cling, like barnacles, the buildings that house the various non-taxpayer-funded, not-at-all-official university campus ministries. There's the massive Roman Catholic student center and the just-as-massive-but-in-a-non-liturgical-sort-of-way-don't-you-dare-confuse-us-with-the-Catholics Baptist student center, and then a bunch of little buildings for all the fringe groups (this is Louisiana: if you're not Catholic or Baptist, you're fringe): the Episcopalians, the Lutherans, the Mormons, the Muslims, and the various non-denominational groups that in England would be called "happy-clappy." Hillel, the Jewish student group, has a presence on campus, but no actual building (tho' on Sukkot, a grass hut-like structure does appear in front of the Student Union).
Keith ran the what was then the ecumenical Methodist and Presbyterian student center--during his time, pretty much the only progressive Christian group on campus. A voice crying in the darkness. A tiny light, always threatened with extinction by the vast bushel of Southern fundamentalism, racism, homophobia, and, well, fear of anything "furrin'".
Back then, Keith did not speak in acronyms and numerical codes. Back then, he hated forms and regulations of any kind. He preached powerful sermons. He took students on work trips to Mexico. He served as administrator to the building that was a kind of liberal sanctuary: the meeting place for the Vegetarian Society, NOW, the Big Buddy program, the Quakers, Alcoholics Anonymous, the Progressive Student Alliance, the Coalition to Save the Wetlands, the Center for Peace and Justice, the Jazz Society. He comforted the lonely and gave shelter to the homeless and counseled the oppressed and depressed. When he talked about his work, I got it.
I don't get it anymore.
I get the importance of what he does: bringing in millions of dollars worth of funding for homeless prevention programs, working with all the various private and public agencies in town that deal with the homeless, liaising with federal, state, and local officials, helping devise policy and evaluate programs. And I get why he finds it so satisfying, after the formlessness, the lack of any concrete results, the utter futility of so much associated with mainline Protestantism today. But the day-to-day stuff, the answer to the question, "So, what did you do today?"--that, I do not get.
And that's weird for me. For us.
There's a part of me that's fine with it all. He's happy. He's challenged. He's satisfied. That's good. (The income? Not so good. But let's face it: I didn't marry this man for his money.) That part of me is ok with the vast gulf that now yawns between his professional life and mine, with the fact that if he actually tells me what he did today I have no idea what he's talking about and find it all really amazingly incredibly boring. Because basically I'm a loner. I'm pretty comfortable living in my head, on my own, just me and my fantasies and neuroses, with the occasional surfacing into human connection for a lovely meal, for sex, for a good laugh, and then the quick dive back down into me again.
But the thing is, that part of me, that's the dangerous part of me. The part that goes nutso.
There's another part. The part that values and nurtures and fights fiercely for community, for good solid friendships, for relationships built over time and negotiated through differences and tempered through hardship. When I married Keith, I chose this part of me, the good part, the connected part. Not the nutso, loner part.
So here we are. Keith has a job that is so good for him and for this community. He is making the world a better place. This world, our world, south Louisiana, this funky microcosm of earthly vulnerability. (As I write this, the BP oil spill threatens the coast, the region, the state, with utter disaster.)
And yet this job--this calling--of his also, as it happens, nurtures not only the structures that will/should end homelessness in our lifetime, it also feeds the worst part of me. The nutso, loner part.
And so, here's The Question. Does a Woman Facing 50 say, "Oh Husband o' Mine, stop doing good in the world. Stop doing what you were born to do. Because, see, well, if I stay under too long, I just might not be able to find my way to the surface."
Marriage is so strange.
Keith was out of town the last several days, off at a conference in Nashville learning the latest on a vast federal government digital data homeless management program. Sounds riveting, doesn't it? The program is called something like the FFRSIP; when Keith and his colleagues and co-workers get together they speak in a jumble of acronyms and numerical codes:
"And then he demanded we input the HR47W6 in just 4 days!"
"Oh, I know, once--get this--once he called up on a Friday afternoon and said he had to have the 6Q14BR2 by Monday. Monday!"
"Well, at least it wasn't the 7Z14 BR2!"
Gales of knowing laughter.
I smile vaguely, glance at my watch, and count the wine glasses over the bar.
When we met, Keith was a campus minister: a college chaplain, except of course LSU is a public university and so does not and cannot have chaplains. Instead, the university campus serves as a kind of ship all around which cling, like barnacles, the buildings that house the various non-taxpayer-funded, not-at-all-official university campus ministries. There's the massive Roman Catholic student center and the just-as-massive-but-in-a-non-liturgical-sort-of-way-don't-you-dare-confuse-us-with-the-Catholics Baptist student center, and then a bunch of little buildings for all the fringe groups (this is Louisiana: if you're not Catholic or Baptist, you're fringe): the Episcopalians, the Lutherans, the Mormons, the Muslims, and the various non-denominational groups that in England would be called "happy-clappy." Hillel, the Jewish student group, has a presence on campus, but no actual building (tho' on Sukkot, a grass hut-like structure does appear in front of the Student Union).
Keith ran the what was then the ecumenical Methodist and Presbyterian student center--during his time, pretty much the only progressive Christian group on campus. A voice crying in the darkness. A tiny light, always threatened with extinction by the vast bushel of Southern fundamentalism, racism, homophobia, and, well, fear of anything "furrin'".
Back then, Keith did not speak in acronyms and numerical codes. Back then, he hated forms and regulations of any kind. He preached powerful sermons. He took students on work trips to Mexico. He served as administrator to the building that was a kind of liberal sanctuary: the meeting place for the Vegetarian Society, NOW, the Big Buddy program, the Quakers, Alcoholics Anonymous, the Progressive Student Alliance, the Coalition to Save the Wetlands, the Center for Peace and Justice, the Jazz Society. He comforted the lonely and gave shelter to the homeless and counseled the oppressed and depressed. When he talked about his work, I got it.
I don't get it anymore.
I get the importance of what he does: bringing in millions of dollars worth of funding for homeless prevention programs, working with all the various private and public agencies in town that deal with the homeless, liaising with federal, state, and local officials, helping devise policy and evaluate programs. And I get why he finds it so satisfying, after the formlessness, the lack of any concrete results, the utter futility of so much associated with mainline Protestantism today. But the day-to-day stuff, the answer to the question, "So, what did you do today?"--that, I do not get.
And that's weird for me. For us.
There's a part of me that's fine with it all. He's happy. He's challenged. He's satisfied. That's good. (The income? Not so good. But let's face it: I didn't marry this man for his money.) That part of me is ok with the vast gulf that now yawns between his professional life and mine, with the fact that if he actually tells me what he did today I have no idea what he's talking about and find it all really amazingly incredibly boring. Because basically I'm a loner. I'm pretty comfortable living in my head, on my own, just me and my fantasies and neuroses, with the occasional surfacing into human connection for a lovely meal, for sex, for a good laugh, and then the quick dive back down into me again.
But the thing is, that part of me, that's the dangerous part of me. The part that goes nutso.
There's another part. The part that values and nurtures and fights fiercely for community, for good solid friendships, for relationships built over time and negotiated through differences and tempered through hardship. When I married Keith, I chose this part of me, the good part, the connected part. Not the nutso, loner part.
So here we are. Keith has a job that is so good for him and for this community. He is making the world a better place. This world, our world, south Louisiana, this funky microcosm of earthly vulnerability. (As I write this, the BP oil spill threatens the coast, the region, the state, with utter disaster.)
And yet this job--this calling--of his also, as it happens, nurtures not only the structures that will/should end homelessness in our lifetime, it also feeds the worst part of me. The nutso, loner part.
And so, here's The Question. Does a Woman Facing 50 say, "Oh Husband o' Mine, stop doing good in the world. Stop doing what you were born to do. Because, see, well, if I stay under too long, I just might not be able to find my way to the surface."
Marriage is so strange.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Double Standard
Keith and I regularly watch the next day evening rerun of The Daily Show. We're too old to stay up late enough to watch the live broadcast and, well, way too old to watch tv shows online at any old time, which yes, I do know we could do. But we can't because that's just, oh, just so not right. My laptop screen is too small and I tend to spill stuff. But more than the Practicalities, there are Principles involved here: 1) one should have to endure commercials as penance for watching tv; 2) one is supposed to watch tv shows at specific times on specific days--how else will one learn time management skills? and the exquisite pleasure of expectation and impatience?
Anyway, one evening last year, Owen joined us in the living room--
--oh hey!!! Principle 3# of It's-TV-Not-Computer-Watching: the family is to cluster around the tv set (one cannot cluster around the computer--there aren't enough chairs and there's always that annoying booping noise alerting one to incoming chat message thingies for Hugh); if one does not cluster as a family around the tv, what will happen to family values?--
--while we were watching The Daily Show and right out of nowhere, Owen turns to me and says, "It'd be all right with me if you left Dad for Jon Stewart."
OK, then.
But perhaps I should confess that Owen's comment was not as random as it might appear. I mean, we weren't talking about it right at that moment, but the fact is, that as much as I love and adore my husband and think he's really sexy (particularly when he's wearing his clerical robes, which I realize is a little weird, tho' let me note that he has never worn said robes to bed, which would be a lot weird, tho' somewhat interesting, actually, now that I think about it), Owen and Hugh did grow up hearing me assert, on occasion, that I would leave Keith for a select group of individuals.
Paul Newman, top of the list. Not only Cool Hand Luke Paul, when he was at his all-time sexy peak (which must be actually the peak of male sexiness in human history) but Paul at any time (except now, of course, because he's dead)--all that beauty and dedication to craft and social consciousness and quirky humor and that utterly splendid marriage to Joanne Woodward. (I know you're thinking that if I had left Randy for Paul, he would have had to leave Joanne for me, but I would have shared. Joanne's wonderful. And an LSU grad to boot.)
Others on the List of Men I Would Leave Your Dad For: Bruce Springsteen (but he and Patti seem very happy these days), Kenneth Branagh on his good days, the Tenth Doctor Who (a fictional character and so perhaps not very promising, particularly as he's now regenerated as the Eleventh Doctor Who, an engaging character I'd enjoy hosting for dinner but not a man, err, Time Lord, for whom I'd toss aside marriage, children, and life as I know it), and now, thanks to Owen, Jon Stewart.
So, not a lengthy List and not one that poses much of a threat to my marriage (tho' the fact that all seven slots in my car cd player are occupied by Springsteen albums bothers Keith to no end--to which I respond, with my usual sensitivity, Suck It Up).
The subject of my sensitivity, however, brings up a teeny-tiny little itsy-titsy niggling detail: my kids have not grown up with a List of Women Dad Would Leave Mom For. Unlike horrible mom me, at no point has Keith had to comfort a sobbing Hugh and assure him that Bruce Springsteen was really not very likely to come knocking and take away his daddy. Keith's more inclined to comment (out loud at least) on Julia Roberts' incredibly fake puffed-up-looking lips than on any of her more appealing attributes--tho', dammit, he does get totally misty-eyed and tongue-tied and downright goofy on the subject of Keira Knightley in the long green gown in the library sex scene in Atonement. . . .KEIRA KNIGHTLEY!!! Anorexic stick insect Keira Knightley!! She must be, what, 18 years old? Gaaahhhhhh . . . . But the thing is, the boys don't know about Keira. Well of course they know about Keira--what teenaged boy doesn't?--but they don't know of her as Someone Dad Would Leave Mom For. As far as they know, there's no such woman.
Umm, so yes, there's kind of a double standard here. I'm aware of it. I'm not proud of it. Too damn tired to change anything, mind you, but still with enough integrity to feel a wee bit guilty and uncomfortable.
Except, I mean, Keira Knightley. Geez louise.
Anyway, one evening last year, Owen joined us in the living room--
--oh hey!!! Principle 3# of It's-TV-Not-Computer-Watching: the family is to cluster around the tv set (one cannot cluster around the computer--there aren't enough chairs and there's always that annoying booping noise alerting one to incoming chat message thingies for Hugh); if one does not cluster as a family around the tv, what will happen to family values?--
--while we were watching The Daily Show and right out of nowhere, Owen turns to me and says, "It'd be all right with me if you left Dad for Jon Stewart."
OK, then.
But perhaps I should confess that Owen's comment was not as random as it might appear. I mean, we weren't talking about it right at that moment, but the fact is, that as much as I love and adore my husband and think he's really sexy (particularly when he's wearing his clerical robes, which I realize is a little weird, tho' let me note that he has never worn said robes to bed, which would be a lot weird, tho' somewhat interesting, actually, now that I think about it), Owen and Hugh did grow up hearing me assert, on occasion, that I would leave Keith for a select group of individuals.
Paul Newman, top of the list. Not only Cool Hand Luke Paul, when he was at his all-time sexy peak (which must be actually the peak of male sexiness in human history) but Paul at any time (except now, of course, because he's dead)--all that beauty and dedication to craft and social consciousness and quirky humor and that utterly splendid marriage to Joanne Woodward. (I know you're thinking that if I had left Randy for Paul, he would have had to leave Joanne for me, but I would have shared. Joanne's wonderful. And an LSU grad to boot.)
Others on the List of Men I Would Leave Your Dad For: Bruce Springsteen (but he and Patti seem very happy these days), Kenneth Branagh on his good days, the Tenth Doctor Who (a fictional character and so perhaps not very promising, particularly as he's now regenerated as the Eleventh Doctor Who, an engaging character I'd enjoy hosting for dinner but not a man, err, Time Lord, for whom I'd toss aside marriage, children, and life as I know it), and now, thanks to Owen, Jon Stewart.
So, not a lengthy List and not one that poses much of a threat to my marriage (tho' the fact that all seven slots in my car cd player are occupied by Springsteen albums bothers Keith to no end--to which I respond, with my usual sensitivity, Suck It Up).
The subject of my sensitivity, however, brings up a teeny-tiny little itsy-titsy niggling detail: my kids have not grown up with a List of Women Dad Would Leave Mom For. Unlike horrible mom me, at no point has Keith had to comfort a sobbing Hugh and assure him that Bruce Springsteen was really not very likely to come knocking and take away his daddy. Keith's more inclined to comment (out loud at least) on Julia Roberts' incredibly fake puffed-up-looking lips than on any of her more appealing attributes--tho', dammit, he does get totally misty-eyed and tongue-tied and downright goofy on the subject of Keira Knightley in the long green gown in the library sex scene in Atonement. . . .KEIRA KNIGHTLEY!!! Anorexic stick insect Keira Knightley!! She must be, what, 18 years old? Gaaahhhhhh . . . . But the thing is, the boys don't know about Keira. Well of course they know about Keira--what teenaged boy doesn't?--but they don't know of her as Someone Dad Would Leave Mom For. As far as they know, there's no such woman.
Umm, so yes, there's kind of a double standard here. I'm aware of it. I'm not proud of it. Too damn tired to change anything, mind you, but still with enough integrity to feel a wee bit guilty and uncomfortable.
Except, I mean, Keira Knightley. Geez louise.
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Limits of HRT
So, I've been on HRT for about a month now, and I have to say, it's pretty good stuff. Not as good as the painkillers I was on after my C-section--gosh, those drugs were great--but still, it is lovely to wander thru my days and meander thru my nights without repeated, sudden, intense flashes of heat and sweat.
Sadly, however, the HRT has done nothing about my mood swings, the rapidity with which I shift from Professor Jekyll into Ms Hyde, nor (much to Keith's regret), has it aroused my somewhat dormant libido in any noticeable way.
I guess could badger my doctor for a higher dose, a bigger pill. I mean, what's a higher risk of heart disease and cancer in comparison to the promise of emotional equilibrium and a lively sex life?
Except.
The thing is, my emotional life didn't exactly resemble Lake Placid even before the onset of menopause. I have always been a tad prone to bouts of bitchiness. Expecting HRT to make me a nice, gentle, sane person reminds me of that old joke:
"Oh, but doctor, doctor, will I be able to play the violin?"
"I don't see why not."
"Wow, you're a great doctor. I've always wanted to play the violin."
And, umm, much as I hate to admit it, menopause hasn't changed my sex life all that much. I like sex, I really do. But I also like a good brownie. Or a great cup of coffee. Or watching the Doctor Who "Silence in the Library" episode for the umpteenth time. Or--hey--enjoying a good brownie with a great cup of coffee while watching the Doctor Who "Silence in the Library" episode--we're talking, like, multiple orgasms. The point being, much as I'd like to be the historian version of Samantha in Sex and the City, I'm not and never have been a voracious Sex Goddess, and I doubt that even mega-doses of HRT will change that.
But I dunno. I'd like to be a voracious Sex Goddess. And I'd like to be a placid person. I just don't think more HRT is the answer. Maybe if I eat more good brownies and drink more great cups of coffee and keep watching Doctor Who. Maybe then.
Sadly, however, the HRT has done nothing about my mood swings, the rapidity with which I shift from Professor Jekyll into Ms Hyde, nor (much to Keith's regret), has it aroused my somewhat dormant libido in any noticeable way.
I guess could badger my doctor for a higher dose, a bigger pill. I mean, what's a higher risk of heart disease and cancer in comparison to the promise of emotional equilibrium and a lively sex life?
Except.
The thing is, my emotional life didn't exactly resemble Lake Placid even before the onset of menopause. I have always been a tad prone to bouts of bitchiness. Expecting HRT to make me a nice, gentle, sane person reminds me of that old joke:
"Oh, but doctor, doctor, will I be able to play the violin?"
"I don't see why not."
"Wow, you're a great doctor. I've always wanted to play the violin."
And, umm, much as I hate to admit it, menopause hasn't changed my sex life all that much. I like sex, I really do. But I also like a good brownie. Or a great cup of coffee. Or watching the Doctor Who "Silence in the Library" episode for the umpteenth time. Or--hey--enjoying a good brownie with a great cup of coffee while watching the Doctor Who "Silence in the Library" episode--we're talking, like, multiple orgasms. The point being, much as I'd like to be the historian version of Samantha in Sex and the City, I'm not and never have been a voracious Sex Goddess, and I doubt that even mega-doses of HRT will change that.
But I dunno. I'd like to be a voracious Sex Goddess. And I'd like to be a placid person. I just don't think more HRT is the answer. Maybe if I eat more good brownies and drink more great cups of coffee and keep watching Doctor Who. Maybe then.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Yankee lost in Dixieland
Today one of the advice-seekers writing in to "Miss Manners" asked how to decline an invitation, actually a demand, that she and her husband attend her sister-in-law's "birthing party." As in, the sister-in-law was having a party while giving birth.
I imagine we can assume it's Baby #1 for said sister-in-law. Still, the mind boggles. Does she actually think she'll be serving canape's? refilling drinks? engaging in witty repartee?
And yet I remember a crucial episode, shortly after we married. Keith called me to report that a friend of his had gone into labor and so he wouldn't be home for dinner. Huh? I was totally confused. He was confused that I was confused. "Sharon's in labor," he repeated. Yep, yep, got that part. But what did Sharon's birthing pangs have to do with our dinner? He was astonished that I didn't realize that of course he was going down to the hospital.
Whoa.
Sharon, rest assured, had a husband on hand. And family. And a host of female friends. "Sorry, but why are you going to the hospital?" I asked in my usual dulcet tones.
"Sharon's in labor," he repeated, as if I, somehow, just could not wrap my pea-sized brain around this fact.
Dulcet tones got considerably more bitchy. "Yes, I know that, but exactly why are you going to the hospital?" I snapped.
Good Person that he is, Keith was able to figure out, far more quickly than I, that what we found ourselves in the middle of was another in a long series of cultural misunderstandings, what I think of as yet another installment of "Yankee lost in Dixieland."
Turns out that when Keith had a regular church appointment (did I mention he's an ordained Methodist minister? probably not as it doesn't come up all that often), he attended many a birth. Turns out it's some kind of Southern thing, or Southern Protestant thing, or Southern Methodist thing, or maybe just a south Louisiana Methodist thing, I dunno, to have the minister come join the show. At that point in my life, not having been pregnant, not having had a baby, I thought that was really weird.
At this point in my life, having been pregnant, having had a baby, I still think it's really weird.
I always had a good relationship with my various pastors, but no way in hell did I want any one of them present while I was in labor. Nor did I want a party. I did not want friends. I did not want family. (Well, let me qualify that. I was pregnant and giving birth in south Louisiana. My family members were/are all up in Chicago. No chance any of them would be around for the birth. So not wanting family meant not wanting Keith's family. And no, I didn't. And on the whole, I didn't want most of my own family. I can see maybe wanting my sister. But brothers? You've got to be kidding. As for my mom, good lord, she'd be wandering around saying she was going to puke and how in her day the doctors just knocked the women out and took care of things.)
The thing is, perhaps I truly am a cold Yankee bitch, but when I'm in pain, I do not want company.
So, when I did get pregnant, I made Keith promise that it would just be me, him, the baby abornin', and the medical professionals. This promise was hard on him. He's a sociable guy. And a Southerner. But geez, I was the one carrying the damn baby, so he had no choice. That's the great thing about being pregnant, you can totally milk the whole woman thing.
I've never received any invitation to a birthing party. Miss Manners advises that should I ever do so, I reply that I am squeamish and guaranteed to faint at the sight of blood and so think it best not to attend so as to ensure that I not take up any of the valuable time of the doctors who should be looking after the mother and baby. I figure I'll just say, "Look, I'm from Chicago; I'm a cold Yankee bitch," and that will be that. Works for me.
I imagine we can assume it's Baby #1 for said sister-in-law. Still, the mind boggles. Does she actually think she'll be serving canape's? refilling drinks? engaging in witty repartee?
And yet I remember a crucial episode, shortly after we married. Keith called me to report that a friend of his had gone into labor and so he wouldn't be home for dinner. Huh? I was totally confused. He was confused that I was confused. "Sharon's in labor," he repeated. Yep, yep, got that part. But what did Sharon's birthing pangs have to do with our dinner? He was astonished that I didn't realize that of course he was going down to the hospital.
Whoa.
Sharon, rest assured, had a husband on hand. And family. And a host of female friends. "Sorry, but why are you going to the hospital?" I asked in my usual dulcet tones.
"Sharon's in labor," he repeated, as if I, somehow, just could not wrap my pea-sized brain around this fact.
Dulcet tones got considerably more bitchy. "Yes, I know that, but exactly why are you going to the hospital?" I snapped.
Good Person that he is, Keith was able to figure out, far more quickly than I, that what we found ourselves in the middle of was another in a long series of cultural misunderstandings, what I think of as yet another installment of "Yankee lost in Dixieland."
Turns out that when Keith had a regular church appointment (did I mention he's an ordained Methodist minister? probably not as it doesn't come up all that often), he attended many a birth. Turns out it's some kind of Southern thing, or Southern Protestant thing, or Southern Methodist thing, or maybe just a south Louisiana Methodist thing, I dunno, to have the minister come join the show. At that point in my life, not having been pregnant, not having had a baby, I thought that was really weird.
At this point in my life, having been pregnant, having had a baby, I still think it's really weird.
I always had a good relationship with my various pastors, but no way in hell did I want any one of them present while I was in labor. Nor did I want a party. I did not want friends. I did not want family. (Well, let me qualify that. I was pregnant and giving birth in south Louisiana. My family members were/are all up in Chicago. No chance any of them would be around for the birth. So not wanting family meant not wanting Keith's family. And no, I didn't. And on the whole, I didn't want most of my own family. I can see maybe wanting my sister. But brothers? You've got to be kidding. As for my mom, good lord, she'd be wandering around saying she was going to puke and how in her day the doctors just knocked the women out and took care of things.)
The thing is, perhaps I truly am a cold Yankee bitch, but when I'm in pain, I do not want company.
So, when I did get pregnant, I made Keith promise that it would just be me, him, the baby abornin', and the medical professionals. This promise was hard on him. He's a sociable guy. And a Southerner. But geez, I was the one carrying the damn baby, so he had no choice. That's the great thing about being pregnant, you can totally milk the whole woman thing.
I've never received any invitation to a birthing party. Miss Manners advises that should I ever do so, I reply that I am squeamish and guaranteed to faint at the sight of blood and so think it best not to attend so as to ensure that I not take up any of the valuable time of the doctors who should be looking after the mother and baby. I figure I'll just say, "Look, I'm from Chicago; I'm a cold Yankee bitch," and that will be that. Works for me.
Monday, March 1, 2010
On the bright side
One nice thing about facing 50 is that I now have an excuse for many of my failures, flaws, and disabilities. For example, I have this weird thing about numbers. I can't remember them. Keith was quite hurt when, several months into our relationship, he discovered I didn't know his phone number. Until I explained I didn't know mine, either. I carry it around on a little slip of paper in my wallet. My phone number, my address, my license number, the cell phone numbers of my kids and husband, let alone the phone numbers of friends and relatives--they slip and slide and blend into each other. The most embarrassing is the fact that frequently I cannot remember my children's birthdates. It's a problem when you're standing at the doctor's receptionist's desk and she spits out in her computer-like voice: "Child's date of birth?" and you stammer, "Umm, June. June 20----um, 28, no 27, right June 27." And she glares at you and says, "Year?" And you panic and blurt out, "Uh, 1990!" And she taps away, looks up suspiciously, and says, "Our records show he was born in 1991." And you have to admit, "Right. You're right. That's it. 1991." And then you wait for Social Services to appear at your door.
But now I can just blame my number thing on old age. Menopause. Hormones, ya know. Mention hormones and half the human race looks around wildly, shuffles his/their feet, and says, "OK. Gotcha. No problem."
In addition to the numbers thing, I'm also really bad at, well, common day-by-day observation. I just tend not to notice. To illustrate: when I first moved to Baton Rouge, every morning at 4 am I'd be awakened by what sounded to me like a bunch of semis sounding their horns as they blasted by on the interstate. So I was complaining about this one morning to my colleagues over coffee. I couldn't understand it; why would these truckers do this every morning? And why were they all on the interstate at that time every morning? My colleagues just stared at me. Finally Fred said, "Allison, you don't live near the interstate. You live near the train tracks. It's the train." I replied indignantly that of course I lived near the interstate, right by that overpass. And they all gently, gingerly, in that "we're dealing with a mad woman" sort of way, explained to me that no, no, there was no interstate highway under that bridge, just train tracks. So that morning I went and looked, for the first time actually looked, and damn, they were right.
Nowadays, I could just blame menopause. "It's the hormones, Fred," I'd say, and he'd duck for cover faster than a Greenpeace activist at a Tea Party Rally.
Once, some years ago, I admitted to Keith that I really feared getting Alzheimer's. And he replied, "But how would we know?"
Sort of a comfort, really.
But now I can just blame my number thing on old age. Menopause. Hormones, ya know. Mention hormones and half the human race looks around wildly, shuffles his/their feet, and says, "OK. Gotcha. No problem."
In addition to the numbers thing, I'm also really bad at, well, common day-by-day observation. I just tend not to notice. To illustrate: when I first moved to Baton Rouge, every morning at 4 am I'd be awakened by what sounded to me like a bunch of semis sounding their horns as they blasted by on the interstate. So I was complaining about this one morning to my colleagues over coffee. I couldn't understand it; why would these truckers do this every morning? And why were they all on the interstate at that time every morning? My colleagues just stared at me. Finally Fred said, "Allison, you don't live near the interstate. You live near the train tracks. It's the train." I replied indignantly that of course I lived near the interstate, right by that overpass. And they all gently, gingerly, in that "we're dealing with a mad woman" sort of way, explained to me that no, no, there was no interstate highway under that bridge, just train tracks. So that morning I went and looked, for the first time actually looked, and damn, they were right.
Nowadays, I could just blame menopause. "It's the hormones, Fred," I'd say, and he'd duck for cover faster than a Greenpeace activist at a Tea Party Rally.
Once, some years ago, I admitted to Keith that I really feared getting Alzheimer's. And he replied, "But how would we know?"
Sort of a comfort, really.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)