Much Ado About Sobriety, or How Not to See Shakespeare

I should be embarrassed to write this about myself, but I see from The Bloggess that putting it all out there may bring me an empathetic sisterhood of sorts (not that I discount male readers). If humiliating myself joins me with the world, so be it. Jenny Lawson, this post is for you. Because wine. (She knows what I'm talking about.)

This week for date night, my husband and I went to have a quick bite at a restaurant before heading to the movies.  The last calorie of the cheese and crackers I had consumed two hours prior had long worn off, but due to time, we had to cancel our appetizer order and plan to eat post-film. Long story short, I saw Much Ado About Nothing-- kind of, sort of, really under the influence of a single ten-dollar glass of Malbec that I drank in a rush so as not to waste money or the beverage itself. Let's say I couldn't quite pull off this wine-consumption very gracefully. Really, this is all my mother's fault since she was a child of very lean times and has long told many stories of going without. "Waste not, want not," she would say. Were it not for her, I would have said, "Damn you, Malbec," and walked away globe-half-full, and I would be able to fully tell you about Much Ado with all the conscious, canny, pithy tell-all know-how of a regular movie-goer and reader of the classics.

I remember slinking into our seats feeling a little warm and goofy, then suddenly being engaged by the full impact of the Malbec, a Malbec designed to take no prisoners. All I could think was, "Holy God. There is two of everyone in this film." My husband would nudge me periodically in his suddenly remarkable ability to single out not just characters, but a plot: "Do you understand what's going on here? Isn't this great? Isn't this funny? So do you know who that guy is and what he's doing?" Really, I wanted to say, I'm not incoherent, I'm just... incoherent. I could hear smatterings of laughter from all the fully-functioning movie-goers around us, smug little Shakespeare-savant giggles and remarks. An elite club of enthusiasts. Alas, I was an outsider-- "An ass!" to quote the constable in Much Ado (the one quotable line I can really recall) because apparently Shakespeare requires some sobriety, and I was, somewhat accidentally, noncompliant in that regard.

Between those excited pokes from my spouse, my internal monologue for most of the film ran like this:
Why is this film full of white people? Isn't this the 21st century? Why is everyone in a suit? I really wish my husband's shoulder was softer because I could totally sleep in here. What do these people do for a living? Lords and ladies aside, someone has to be working here.Why are these rich people consorting with the maids? Whose house is that? Nice house. Doesn't really look like any of those people really live there though... is that judgy? I am being judgy. Isn't this a big deal about virginity that may or may not be intact anyway? Hero could be pulling one over on all of us. And why would anyone sabotage someone else's love life? What kind of person does that? I should have this matter investigated... oh look, a constable.These people have too much time on their hands. Doesn't someone have a job? Besides the constable? Do men really stand around and pontificate about the virtues of love? No, no they don't. I question Shakespeare's sexual orientation... return to judginess.

When it ended, my husband was all high marks and raving commentary, but I was thinking, "There were body doubles in most of that movie and I didn't see them in the credits"...  because wine.  Earlier today, my father called and I mentioned the film. "I'm sorry I can't tell you much about it," I said. I didn't tell him I blamed my mother for why though. :)

Ruby Sparks Inspires: Words, Music, Love

Today, my husband celebrates his 53rd birthday. In addition to a handsome box of his favorite cigars, I gave him a gift of words to music, inspired by a film I saw recently.

Ruby Sparks is 21st Century Pygmalion; a young writer's obsession with a character he sculpts from his soul, the conception of his true love. Ruby is Allan's Venus, blooming not from a seashell in the ocean, but from the pages of his DeLuxe typewriter.  Early in the film, Allan describes her to the psychologist who is trying to help him break through writer's block. He notes the roots of Ruby's origins and wanders through a string of observations about her character--her charms, her idiosyncracies, the honor of her affection. This piece of gentle monologue is captured and set to music on the soundtrack in a song that bears the same title as the film. I have not been able to let go of it just yet, and wondered, in the way that I like to set my own life to music, what words would I use to describe my love, were I the Pygmalion whose conceived love leaps from imagination to life. And so, having shared that piece of words and music with my husband, told him how I would describe him, and as I did, violin from Ruby Sparks continued to rise and fall in the background. This is what I said:

You're tall, and walk with the tall-man gait-- a confident stride of men who seem to accomplish much, yet not all tall men have done what you have. You can't open your mail. Nor can you tolerate the calamity of child's play, stuff which rolls off my own back. But you feel things, notice things. You note the changing of light in a room.

I don't remember what else I said before he reached his hand across the table to mine, only what I felt as I tried to rein in the rest of the words.

Happy Birthday, Husband. Know that I see you. I love you.

Ponies in the Ring

Last week during my riding lesson, I paused to watch a young rider attempt to wrangle her pony into a more cooperative state. It seems that Blue didn't want to jump. His rider managed to stay mounted despite his last-minute balks and halts before the stacked and layered obstacles, but she still needed assistance. So in an attempt to reassure the pony, I was asked to sit with my horse in the middle of the ring, where Blue knew we would be watching. Moral support, from pony to pony so to speak. In the world of horses, social relationships are often as complex as our own, and I can truly say from experience that regardless of species, similar souls comfort one another in difficult situations.

This past weekend, my ex-husband and his wife came to our town for the first time. With my daughter finishing fifth grade and beginning middle school in the fall, celebration among family was essential. While I was thrilled that the father of my children would finally come see where and how his children live, I was stressed that he and his wife would find fault with things when they got here. I worked to make sure that they would be comfortable and attended details such as tourism guides, restaurant and hotel recommendations, and arrangements for a family lunch.  These are people with whom I share difficult history, but I am tied to them, and if they came and had a wonderful time, they would continue to return and share in the life that my children have here. This is what I want for my children, a growing relationship with their dad, a secure place in the heart of their step-mother, a comfort zone of approachability for times when discussion, advice, or negotiation of some sort is necessary.

Having the company of my family helped me feel better--cognizant, calm, graceful. Their steady presence helped make this visit with my children's dad and step-mother a successful one. Having cleared this hurdle gracefully and landed safely on the other side, I can approach the next visit with more confidence. To my husband and Juju, thank you. Thank you for being my ponies in the ring.

Top Ten Signs of Blogworthiness

I know I've written a good blog when I reread it hours after the last set of proofs and tinkers, and I find myself laughing again. And one good blog triggers another. I have begun to feel very chicken-and-egg about blogging--does the event trigger the blog or does the blogging make the event noteworthy? Nevertheless, here are some of the signs I have learned that show me when an event is blogworthy or when a blog is going to entertain:

1. When my husband does something and says about it later: It seemed like a good idea at the time. I wonder if he'll be saying that about the motorcycle he bought a year ago that he will finally be bringing home from storage this summer. Frankly, I see myself with a hard cast up to the hip after my first-ever motorcycle ride saying the same thing. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

2. Anything my son does involving what a girlfriend of mine calls "Shit-iroshima". You can draw a conclusion about what this might mean based on the fact that we now call Friday night's 3 AM vomiting session "Puke-asaki". I have yet to write about it, but then I have written before about the mass eruption that is children's barfing. Do we really need to go there again? Yes. Yes, we do.

3. When an event is a metaphor for something else, the event is now blogworthy. For example, the day my dog died, the dog I once shared with my ex-husband. Enough said.

4. When a lesson is learned. For example, why I should never shop with my children. And this week I learned another new lesson: I should have ignored my son when he asked me if using the middle finger was bad. I said yes, and today he willfully and knowingly shot his sister the bird. He's not even five. I have so much to learn.

5. When I eat something so incredible I immediately transcend time and space, my five senses become electrified, and I swear I'm having a foodgasm. I wish I had taken the time to describe every breakfast I ate at Cafe Pasqual's in Santa Fe, New Mexico this year. I love food. I think food is amazing. It's multi-sensory, sexual, comforting, basic, extreme, and a mastery of chemical reaction both in creation and consumption--all at once.

6. When I experience something that I know will directly relate to a reader, a common topic, and put a twist on it you didn't see coming. Or maybe, I put something out there that I never could have said at the kitchen table growing up, like my friend Jay's line in this post: http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/12/facebook-vs-blogger.html. It's a super short post. You'll know the line when you see it.

7. And when I experience something inspiring or life-changing. The posts about New Mexico are particularly examples of that.

8. Anytime I have to explain sex to my daughter. Remember this one? http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/05/joy-of-sex-education.html And just recently, we had a whole separate discussion when someone let my daughter watch an inappropriate film. And I quote: "Mom, I thought the guy's thingie went into the girl's thingie like this." She made a gesture. I said yes, that that was true. "Ok, but I just saw this movie where this girl was in love with two guys and one of them got her from behind." You can imagine the phone calls I had to place after THAT.

9. When the small moments are really big moments. I went to a children's talent show at my daughter's school this weekend. Those awkward displays of burgeoning (or failing) talent were beautiful. I have never seen so many brave young people. I watched one little girl sing "Yesterday" by the Beatles. She fought her nerves the entire time--stopping to fight tears, dropping words, and still managing to finish. I haven't even seen that many grown ups present themselves so vulnerably and courageously.

10. Love. Joy. Any moment that makes those things blossom in my heart and any moment that marks loss or transition relating to those things. My blog posts have run the gamut from self-indulgent to self-deprecating, but what I want to share the most is love. Like I said to someone this week, life is hard, but I would rather live celebrating its good moments. I hope that comes through on this blog. My life mission is to connect with others, make their living a better experience than it might have been otherwise. I hope that all the joys and trials of life that I have chosen to so neatly pen here in this blog are an element of that desire to love, share love, and be loved.

Happy reading! And as ever, thanks for coming back here again and again.

Feelin' It? Fitness and Family

Occasionally, I feel the need to work out to a Jillian Michaels DVD... with my little four year old. Jillian kills me. As my thighs burn from repeated squats, she calls out, "Ya feel it?" Tiny, soup cans in his palms, squatting and flexing near me, releases a gasp and answers, "Ooohh, yeah. I feewin' it!" God bless my Tiny Man. He takes the edge off my return to a fitness routine.

For the last few weeks, I have been walking at dawn before the children rise. In my effort to regain tone and fitness, I have also replaced carby snacks with veggies, have been drinking more water, relegated alcohol consumption to once weekly (okay, maybe twice), and have foregone the fatty, sugary items. I work at a barn doing physical labor and riding one day a week, and in the afternoons, take a play break to throw the frisbee with my son. My reward is a gain of 3.3 pounds. You'd think I would have shed all the underarm dingle dangle just by saying goodbye to salty afternoon snacks and adjusting portion sizes. It's not fair, especially when considering how easily men shed pounds.

Last year, my husband gave up sugar in his coffee and lost five pounds. I found those five pounds and padded them neatly about my middle--just in case he missed them. I have held them there ever since. I am almost afraid to ask him to give up that plate of cholesterol he serves himself each morning. God knows where that would end up on me.

This year, thinking that I was at peace with my nearing middle age, I put on a bathing suit to play at the beach with my family, and looked down to discover that the cottage cheese police had missed ticketing my thighs for the excess of dimples present. Weeks later, I showed my youngest step-daughter that my upper arms were so flabby I could use them as wings. The tummy pooch, which began when my husband shed his coffee-sugar weight, has been stretching the waist band of my pants as well, I complained.

"No problem," said my lovely Jujubee. "Let me show you a little trick. Now watch carefully. Okay?" She flashed a smile at me, angled her body to the side, and raised her shirt a little. I waited for some kind of magical exercise. Instead, she raised her pants up to cover her belly button, and patted her stomach. "I call it the Tuck," she said. Somehow, I don't think that was the fix I was looking for, but thanks anyway, Juju.

Still, I recommend multiple reps of that move--after dinner, before going on a date, and of course, while putting on a bathing suit. Ya feelin' it?

Yes, Crabcake, This is About You

Last week, my husband needed a colonoscopy. For those of you who don't know what this procedure entails, imagine drinking a gallon of laxative, spending an entire night running back and forth from the chair to the toilet, fasting for nearly a full day, and then having someone shove a camera up your bum while filling you with gas to expand your lower colon. It ain't quite comfy, and most people usually go home to rest post-procedure in order to fully recover from both the anesthesia and the pole up the pooper. Doctor's orders (once you get yelled at for all the things you have been eating that you shouldn't eat anymore) include refueling your body's system with gentle foods: pancakes, mashed potatoes, a sandwich maybe.

Of course, my husband does not consider himself to be most people. And why would he? As the nurse told me while he was in recovery, "The intelligent ones are the worst. They reason themselves into everything they shouldn't have." My beloved came out of anesthesia craving crabcakes.

"Where can we eat around here?" He first asked, as though we don't actually live within three miles of the hospital. And then he wanted to know, "Where can I get the best crabcakes?"

I thought I had him convinced that a pancake house would be a fair compromise considering the fact that we had been advised to go straight home where all the flatulence in the world could be released in relative privacy, and he would also, should he stick to a bland diet on the first day post-poop shoot exam, avoid abdominal pains. At the pancake house, he fidgeted and looked at me with sad eyes. For a moment, I thought he was about to spout some kind of deep and sincere reflection about how thankful he was that I was there, that he was glad the exam went well, that he loved me enough to cooperate with doctor's orders for life... something. Instead, he made it clear that he was in no way happy about the late breakfast idea, he promised he would be held accountable for any abdominal pain he might receive, and could I please map a route to the best crabcakes in town.

And so I drove us. Not only did he order his crabcake but fried calamari as well. At least I talked him out of the beer he wanted. I was agitated to say the least.

Sitting across from him as he thanked me for caving to his stubbornness, I told him I no longer wished to hear that his youngest daughter and I were bullheaded for our wish (and ability, I might add) to complete tasks completely independently of his help. I said that the next time he started feeding me that line, I would call him Crabcake to drive the point home.

I have gotten to call him that at least twice this weekend... heh.

Tide Rising When Love Is

There is a wonderful website, onekindwordproject.org, that I visited after seeing a notice about it in a local cafe. Intrigued by the idea of writing about love, the website's mission, I penned prose about my greatest romance (with a certain tall and handsome husband who washes dishes in the next room as I write) and was absolutely shocked when my work was accepted and posted. You can find my words by searching the site for the date on which it was posted April 29, 2011 or by searching for the title of my work "Tide Rising When Love Is" or by visiting the anthology submissions page here: http://www.onekindwordproject.org/category/anthology-submissions//. I am still, at least for a while, on the top of the page. Some readers, thanks to Facebook, found me there already. I encourage you to visit this website and peruse its pages.

And of course, you can read it here:

He said, tell me about love. And love is what I said, smiling with the jut of chin and shoulder before tumbling with him into the sacred oblivion of white bedclothes and down pillows. The encircling draw of his arms and the rhythmic rise of his chest above mine, the pushing and pulling in a river of warm, blissfully I swam and I sank. Yes, I breathed as I listened to his body, love simply is.

Another day, my heart sandwiched between the pleadings of small children, the dancing of the hungry dog, and the peeling of paint from the walls, my love wasn’t is, but instead had a whole constrained definition. Confined between their needs and his work and my shortcomings, love was an obligation. And then the day passed, and a night, and another day. And that night, love just was again. Love was sighs, the creak of bedsprings, and the sudden pooling of too-warm covers between the bottoms of our feet and the end of the bed. The house slept, our secret adoration in a sweet tide of us rising and filling it. Love just was. And the morning came, with it enough sustenance to counter his woes, discussions of expenses, and diatribes about former lives.

Blink

pour me a drink

and let’s forget about all of this but love, please

the rolling, returning flight of love

In love we are the only ones despite the thousands upon millions of Helens, Juliettes, and Cleopatras, only we have much better endings. Our grandparents, hands clasped in old age or death, were once even us. Oh, but for that millisecond of time in which we are love, loving, and loved.

Shh, let me hush the bleating child. The paint still will flake. I see in your eyes, my sweet, the cotton of warm sheets, the beating of your heart, and the spin of your sea.

Mother's Day

This week my husband cringed when he realized he had booked skydiving instruction on Mother's Day. I told him not to worry, that I don't need a Hallmark holiday to celebrate my motherhood. If we lived near family, we would gather and indulge in one of those long, slow afternoons of barbecue and good conversation, but since we don't, and kids still need to be fed, bathed, monitored, and nurtured, this day is really like any other. And that's fine.

What my husband doesn't realize is that his gift to me today is really one of silent responsibility and maturity. His day at the drop zone--on a Sunday when we are usually free to be a family of four--is another installment payment on the much-needed vacation we just enjoyed, a vacation in which I was not asked to pay for one iota. It was not my responsibility to barter with travel agents, compare online deals, plan, map, chart, or cough up a dime. And he organized this trip knowing what we could afford and did not put us into debt beyond what a set of teaching weekends could reimburse.

Mother's Day is a relative concept for many of us. Some mothers prefer an afternoon break from the rigors of child rearing. Others rather the company of their children as a reminder of our chosen role. While I sometimes get irritable from being plagued with children's needs and their endless questions, I would rather my day be near my children with them behaving--a tall order in itself. This morning, I received that gift from them--an extra hour to lie in bed and read while they ate a little breakfast snack downstairs without fighting. And in lieu of the standard floral bouquet a mother might receive, I was given something with greater sustainability: a subscription to the New Yorker.

So today, after church, should weather allow, I will enjoy Frisbee with kids, a picnic, and playtime with the dog. My husband will join us for dinner at a restaurant that has been cited as having the best crab cake in town. I'll call my own mom, whose shoes I try to fill on a daily basis with my own little folk. (I just told her she was a perfect mom and she did not believe me, but it really takes a mom to know what her own mother did and why.) But most of all, I'll just be thankful. For everything.

Happy Mother's Day!

Chimayo, My Heart, and the Miracle of Words

One evening, after listening to a series of my complaints, my husband was musing about how people who have little can seem to be so happy. He said to consider the Dalai Lama.

“Easy,” I said. “He’s never been married.” My husband thought this was really funny. I was being serious. Marriage, particularly on a step-family level, can be really challenging. “And he doesn’t clean his own toilet,” I continued. “You know, relationships go to a whole new level when you have to clean someone else’s toilet.” Point made.

Periodically, I enjoy toying with my husband’s wisdom. Last year, when I was frustrated with ongoing legal battles, my husband often quoted the Art of War by Sun Tzu. I disposed of these quotes by saying Sun Tzu was not being sued for the custody of his children, that this was not even a possibility in his lifetime (he lived 2500 years ago), and that being a military general for the king, he had servants at his disposal to handle a vast number of his needs--including of course, the emptying and cleaning of his chamber pot.

Of course, I know what my husband is trying to say, and I thank him for his efforts to provoke thought and inspire, but what I really need during those tense or sad moments when I seek comfort is… comfort. So this week, my husband said the most beautiful thing. We had gone to dinner, just the two of us, and were discussing a chapel in New Mexico known for its legendary association of  miraculous cures—crutches line the walls of those who have come, believed, prayed, and walked away unhindered by injury or ailment. I asked, since I have been so beaten down lately, what does one leave behind if the injury is not visible—if there is no crutch or wheelchair to abandon? And then I asked him, what would he pray to recover from were we to go?

“Sometimes,” he said softly, “we pray not for ourselves, but for others.”

This, my sweet, is why I so adore you. Without ever stepping foot inside the sacred walls of Chimayo, you have healed me.

Foodies and the Flu

This past weekend, my husband and I flew to New Orleans for a conference he was attending. I spent the first full day with my family doing what we do best: eating and talking about eating.


Oh, Lawd, as we say down there. For my friends, I left a Facebook food diary in my dining wake—pictures of fried oysters wading in a light pool of remoulade, a wedge of iceberg lettuce and crumbled blue cheese on the side; po boys with flaky bread crust and premium deli meats and cheeses showing a swath of creole mustard; jumbo prawn flecked with seasoning, its meat the heavy steak of all shrimp, and fresh enough to taste gulf waters; and even a lone chocolate turtle from MacKenzie’s—the fudgy frosting swirled on a pecan sandy-style cookie. Unfortunately, my husband experienced a limited amount of fine cuisine between commitments at his conference; the morning of his second day, he found himself re-living my little son’s recent flu experience. Any joyful consumption from Friday was retched all day Saturday. As he shook under the covers and murmured in delirium, I cancelled plans: tea at Windsor Court, dinner at Antoine’s, the tour of the D-Day Museum. The hotel sent me extra pillows and blankets, a can of air freshener, and a stack of menus for restaurants that deliver. Instead of wine, I poured my husband Gatorade. In place of white napkins on his lap, he received cool, wet cloths for his forehead.

Sunday, my parents delivered us to the airport. We promised that we would be fine. My husband was better, albeit slow. Little did we know that we would board a plane without an operable toilet, have that flight cancelled while we sat waiting for take off, wait in line in the terminal another hour or more, and then get rescheduled to come home after my children’s bedtime. With time to kill, my dad and sister rolled by the airport for a second chance to party with us (my bourbon was great--my husband savored ice chips instead.) By afternoon, my spouse was looking more and more like death—his energy completely depleted. On the walkway to the first flight, I found him kneeling and bent over. Within minutes of tucking him into his seat, I requested an electric cart to shuttle us to our connecting flight. Flight attendants brought us ice and sick bags and we tucked his coat around him like a blanket. Men on either side of us leaned over to offer help—alcohol wipes, medicine, et cetera.

Our connecting airport was big and we had scant minutes between flights. We pushed our way through a crowd to flag down the cart that had been sent for us. My husband curled up (if any man 6’1” can really bend his frame to that description) around a pile of luggage. The driver took one look at my panicked face and started yelling at people to back away from the cart so we could turn around and head to the escalators and trains. There was no one waiting on the other concourse for us, so we walked, or should I say lurched, toting our luggage and seeking out garbage cans for emergency vomitoriums just in case. We were the last ones on the flight, it having been held for us. The attendant on our small jet watched my husband heave into the plastic bags she had given him and asked if I wanted the EMTs to meet us on the ground, but I said just a wheelchair would suffice. For the two hours of that flight, my beloved slept fitfully and unable to talk. From my seat further back on the narrow plane, I could see his shoulders shake.

We made it home, but barely. Two days later, my husband is still not fully recovered, and I am exhausted. There will be other trips home, other meals. I was lucky to have Friday with my sister as we explored the places where we grew up--our last childhood home is now a grass lot, thanks to Katrina. I enjoyed my dad’s cooking and my mom’s doting. I had squeezed in a brunch with an old friend and her daughter. Running to the pharmacy on Saturday, I even bumped into the end of a small Mardi Gras parade—a reminder of what once used to be considered normal.

With hope, everyone's health will be recovered soon and a good summer visit to New Orleans will make up for this last one. More NOLA-inspired blogs will follow soon.

Heaven Sent

My husband skydives. He careens through the blue, reaching with outstretched arms toward a horizon that no matter how close he seems to fly, rolls away from him.


This past weekend, he filmed a team in a four-way competition. They won a silver medal (and he as well) for their skillful acrobatics in the firmament. For a view of such wonders, visit the video my husband captured with the camera on his helmet as he followed the four-way from the heavens downward. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BT11xQuk5Io

I asked him the other night as I watched the jumps unfold from the safety of our shared office, if skydiving felt real. In the video, land from above shifts with its sudden patterns of forested versus cultivated and populated, river versus earth, browns and greens laid out in skewed patchwork. To me, the video reminds me of those flying dreams I had as a child. And I can almost feel the cold air rushing me in memory even as I watch this thing, this amazing thing that he does, this thing that cannot be real to an earthbound person such as myself.

Soon, my husband will tumble from a plane for his thousandth jump. While I don’t share in his obsession with the sky, at least not from the same point of view, I plan to be there and celebrate with him.

Another Birthday, Another Co-Pay

I spoke too soon.


Yesterday afternoon, I told my mother that so far I had enjoyed quite a wonderful emergency-free day. For years, on or right around my birthday, I have been facing some kind of crisis: moving, learning my once-upon-a time-husband has been fired (again), the emergency room… just to name a few. My mother quickly counseled that the day was not over yet.

“It’s 5 PM,” I said, “What could possibly go wrong?”

Fast forward two and half-hours. We had company for birthday dinner, the table was loaded with plates and steaming platters, and my (current) husband stood over broken shards of pottery. There was blood seeping from two fingers. There were spots of blood on the floor. I followed him to the sink, grabbed a cotton towel, and announced the need for a visit to the emergency room.

He wasn’t having it. He wanted to eat his dinner first. He taped closed the cuts on his bloody fingers and sat down over steak. The bandaid was visibly saturated.

“Well,” I said, “I did say I preferred my meat a little bloody.”

Watching him cut his food with his sliced fingers made me queasy, and I was antsy to get his hand treated. When the meal was over, company agreed to stay with our little people so we could attend the local quick-clinic.

“Stay,” encouraged my spouse.

“Are you crazy? If I had cut my hand open you would not allow me to drive alone to the doctor. I’m going.”

“Really,” he said, “you don’t have to go.”

I cannot remember my exact words, but they involved the grand revelation that under no circumstances was a man who tried to cut his fingers off going alone to the doctor while I sat eating cake at home, and nothing he could say was going to change my mind. I was in the car, engine cranked, before he could even fumble for his wallet.

At the doctor’s, my husband sat on the patient bed (what does one call those things?) with his legs dangling over the sides. I thought of my children. He held his hand out to the physician’s assistant.

“Texas chainsaw massacre,” I said.

At one point, I turned to the PA and told her my husband needed a lollipop for being a good boy. She offered a sticker, but we weren’t done yet. He still had to prove himself. She soaked his hand in a solution of hydrogen peroxide, checked his wounds, taped them shut again, and we waited for the doctor.

In minutes, the doctor came, pulled the curtain closed behind him and stared seriously at us through his little gold rimmed glasses. His last name was mostly consonants. I think he had called the Russians before entering our room. News may have traveled that a man in his fifties wanted a sticker, and he was here to investigate. I sat with my husband as we cracked joke after joke and barely got a curl out of one side of the doctor’s mouth. When he left, I told my husband that I certainly thought his bravery had earned him a sticker, not that his doctor would think so at all, and to look on the bright side… we just had a date without having to pay a sitter.

My husband survived my birthday night with cut fingers, a tetanus shot, but no stitches. He was warned to do nothing with his hand for a few days—no water, no real activity of any kind (baby, what else might that hinder?) and I escorted my lovable patient back out to the car and opened his door for him.

On the way home, he leaned to me and said, “I am so glad I could make your birthday complete.”

Yes, you did, sweetheart. It will long live in memory.

Married... with Separate Sponges

My husband has funny habits. Of course, he thinks mine are funnier, but we know better.


He has some kind of phobia of cold, wet sponges. On occasion, finding one that is sopping and full of slimy bacteria as it rests in the kitchen sink, he will make some kind of “heeeeeeeeeeewwwww gross” noise, pull it out with two slender fingers, cringe as he squeezes it dry, and then fling it into the microwave for a good radiation treatment. I asked him once as he was dancing with revulsion at yet another soaked sponge why he could not bear it. “You’re a veteran of war,” I said, “Haven’t you seen grosser stuff?”

He has solved our sponge differences by buying his own set (no kidding), the bulk of which he hides above the fridge so that I can continue to gross out the household by leaving my wet sponge in the bottom of the sink while his sits lean, dry, and haughty on the rim by the sprayer. I did ask his youngest child about this, to which she snorted, “You’re just finding this out?” Periodically, just to make myself smile, I’ll clean the whole kitchen with his sponge.

There are rules and regulations for pots and pans as well. In his previous life, my lovely man had purchased his own pans and housed them on top of the fridge with a cloth towel between each pan. He had tired of coming down into the kitchen to see that one teenager or another had scrambled an egg and left the skillet all fried up and crusty for someone else to scour. Or maybe the kid had scratched it with a metal tool. My first thought when I heard about this was: Your kids scramble their own eggs! Only to be followed by: Really, you had your own set of pans in a married household. But, because I completely respect the idea of caring for things we wish to last, I developed a nice system for storing his pans neatly on their sides in a rack that does not allow them to touch and scratch. The other day, I held one up to the light and deliberated running it through the dishwasher instead of the usual hand washing, but then decided I better to be safe than sorry. I’d hate something to happen to the cast iron skillet that I have babied and kept seasoned and rust free for 15 years. Retribution via dishpan abuse isn’t pretty.

I have also been amused by toilet seat lid policy, which states that lids must be placed closed at all times except, of course, when in use. I had never thought about this. For me, dealing with the lid, the less I have to touch the toilet, the better. So I would leave it up, but doing so really bothered my spouse. One day, finding some kind of Wings of Blue Parachute Team sticker on the bottom of the lid like a warning (if you don’t lower the lid, you’re tandem jumping with me next weekend), I threw out the sticker and threatened to buy a pink fuzzy toilet seat cover for our bathroom. I did wind up acquiescing to lower the seat lid after use, but announced that I would not bother training the children to do this because frankly, I was happy enough that they both peed in the toilet, especially the youngest child. I think the kids have enough to worry about, so let their toilet be, well, their toilet. In the meantime, I focus my energies on true crimes such as wet towels on the floor and blue toothpaste on the ceiling.

It’s funny what newlyweds learn about each other that first married year. For example, I have some kind of problem fastening lids on anything (I did not notice—my spouse did) and dog hair upsets me terribly (the husky sheds twice a year and it’s gross). What’s funnier is the projected future reversal of habits, preferences, and aversions, because this always happens when people are married to each other for a long time. People trade things about themselves. In the first marriage, I broke spaghetti before tossing it in the pot and closed the kitchen cabinet doors after my husband. At the end of that ill-fated marriage, my husband habitually broke spaghetti noodles and ran after me to close the cabinet doors. His jaw would hit the floor to know that I cannot leave the bedroom without making the bed and that I clean my prep dishes as I cook so that the post-supper bust and scrub session is quick. Makes me wonder what I’ll be doing ten years from now… maybe hiding my skillet from the kids and hording sponges.