Monthly Archives: December 2010

Oil of Oy Vey

Holiday text to a Friend: “And – totally off topic – i feel REALLY fucking old lately, and if one more person calls me ma’am i’m liable to shoot them and then myself.
Ho ho ho! Meeeerry Christmas!”

My husband doesn’t think this is funny. When I ask him if he’ll still love me when my turkey wattle of an Oil of Olay neck quivers in the breeze, no laughter. When I examine my eyes and say things like, “What if my upper lids and brow droop like the bangs of a Sheepdog? What if I have English Sheepdog skin flaps that BLIND me…..do you think our health insurance covers that?” To this he just says, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

But my lady friends, they understand. Especially on the “ma’am” score. Is there a worse word? There are days, most of which premenstrual, where I think I’d far prefer being called “stupid bitch.” “Thank you for shopping at Target today, stupid bitch. Have a nice day.”
Okay, no. But still.

It just mystifies me why every single service industry person (especially those whom rely heavily upon tips) does not call me “miss”. I would tip them a bajillion dollars! Every single time. One bajillion dollars. I know very well I’m being patronized. I know very well my potential liver spots are but a harsh florescent light away from exposure, but – if it’s done sweetly – I will totally bask in the momentary bliss of “miss”, regardless.

But the situation isn’t going to improve, we all know this. So I’ve decided the next time I’m free to enjoy some nightlife I’m going to pass on the nightclubs themselves. Instead I’ll get dolled up and head out to the finest nursing home in town. If there isn’t a “well hello, young lady” waiting for me there……

Wherever There’s InDUSTice

I just shattered a glass cutting board, which burst into thousands of projectile shards. It looked and sounded like a car accident had happened in my kitchen. It also triggered the deep-seated anal retentive in my husband, and he insisted on deep cleaning the ENTIRE ROOM. He told me to “just relax” while he took care of it.
Furniture moving, counter sterilizing, floor vacuuming and mopping. On his hands and knees with a sponge, a squinted eye and a magnifying glass.

Meanwhile, I made a drink and wrote this blog.
Sometimes it’s really great being married to a Virgo.

In a Suburb of the Soul

I watched my two girls play in the backyard while I scrubbed soiled dishes. I watched them through my small kitchen window. My eldest, catching me spying, decided to improvise a play. The toddler, having no idea what a play is, devotedly and obediently looked to big sissy for stage direction. And mostly she just emulated her older sister’s every move. Pure idolization.

As often it does, my heart swelled at the sight of them.

At the same time I gave thought to the countless throngs of suburban mothers who have similarly watched their beautiful children at play through kitchen windows – since the dawn of the suburbs themselves – and it may sound very common, and it may seem ever so unspectacular, but that’s where you are mistaken.

Because it was, and is, extraordinary. It was singularly magical and whole.

And in that moment I knew we’d be okay, no matter how it rings of cliché (or attempts to rhyme). We’ll make it, just the three of us, while he’s away. And I can only hope these happy days, these shining moments that come alive in things like kitchen windows, take shape someplace eternal and scared. That, as they say, wouldn’t suck.

And I Said to Myself…

I, like many of us who move onto the newest, coolest, next-best-thing on the interwebs, have a neglected Livejournal account. I decided to revisit it recently and found all sorts of obnoxious things to delete. But here and there I found gems that made me smile, laugh or even tear up. Like the entry below, where I talk about drinking to excess and smoking (um…I was still in my twenties? Heaven knows I’d never be so shameless now…not never) and being scared to death of the mere idea of marrying my now husband.

I’d been living in Arizona just two months at the time this was written.
Funny, in retrospect. And sweet, in it’s way.

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Originally Posted: November 20th, 2006
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we went out last night and i was the stranger in the strange land. i drank steadily, out of boredom, and i smoked three cigarettes . i haven’t smoked in two months. but for all the drinking i was never drunk, and for all the smoking i was never ill. except for when i woke this morning – in pure misery.

and when my eyes could focus again i glanced across the bedroom and i saw a dozen red roses.
this was my….hangover present? no. this was just because he loves me.

what’s so funny is, the night before a friend of his was speaking about her impending wedding, and as she related a story about her fiance she said, “and that’s when i said to myself ‘i’m going to marry this man'”, and scott turns to me and asks “so, have you had an ‘i’m going to marry this man’ moment yet?” i quickly got up from the table and mumbled, “what? i don’t know. ihavetogototherestroomnowbutiloveyou…” and exited in a hurry.

as i left i heard him tell his friend, “she always gets paranoid when we talk about marriage.”

true and not true. because we don’t talk about it. we allude to it.

what i would have answered, if i had the cajones, and maybe should have answered, is that i’ve had an “i’m going to marry this man” moment every single day for longer than i’m willing to admit – even here. take this morning, for instance, with the roses. that was a definite “i’d be lucky to call you my husband someday” moment, for sure.

but i never tell him these things. i tell him how much i love him – how VERY much i love him – but i rarely confide how frightened i am to dream of a future with him. and i don’t know why. because nothing would make me happier. nothing.

and when he snuck up behind me while i was typing this, i was so startled i jumped up and reflexively karate-chopped him in the throat.
whoops.
there goes my engagement ring.