Yesterday I started doing some wedding-related math. Specifically, food math. One of the reasons I'll be cooking the vast majority of the food is because, well, it's me, and I can't NOT cook. But the other reason is to save money. It's far cheaper to cook my own food than to pay a caterer to do it for me, and I daresay my food will taste better, anyway. I don't have a choice at this point--we're eating beans every night, spending no money, and I've slashed all household expenditures to the bone, saving every penny for the wedding. I quit feeding quarters into the laundromat dryers and I'm drying clothes on racks in the living room, for God's sake, and I still fear we'll come up short.
So, food math. I started with dessert. An assortment of homemade cookies, brownies and fudge, supplemented by ice cream and sundae fixings at the wedding, and several pounds of bacon chocolate. Let's assume 75 people at the wedding, 75 people at the rehearsal dinner (although probably less), plus 15 people staying in the house for a week. Let's also assume 3 cookies (or whatever) per person, per day. That's a total of 600 cookies and brownies, leaving the bacon chocolate out of the equation.
Now let's assume 15 cookies (or whatever) per batch. That comes to a grand total of 47 sticks of butter and 5 dozen eggs. Plus flour, sugar, brown sugar, vanilla, chocolate chips, etc., etc., etc.
Then I moved on to the bread. (Yes, I'm baking all the bread. I can make a loaf of bread for less than a quarter. Even at Sam's Club, the bread isn't that cheap.) 3 loaves of white sandwich bread for the kids, 4 loaves of bread for croutons, and baguettes for everything else. 15 people in the house for a week--toast, sandwiches, French toast--plus bread for 75 on Friday with the gumbo. I came to an estimate of 30 baguettes for the week. Flour, whole wheat flour, salt and yeast.
However, bought in bulk, the ingredients for 600 cookies and 30 baguettes come to about $150. It's entirely possible we'll end up spending more on booze than on food.
(Alcohol math: 75 people on Saturday, 75 people on Friday, undetermined number for Sunday brunch, plus 15 people in the house for a week: three cases of wine, one case of champagne, two cases of assorted beer--my brother-in-law-to-be is bringing nine gallons of homebrewed oatmeal stout, but we'll still need a little extra--plus giant bottles of gin, rum, bourbon, scotch, tequila and several giant bottles of vodka. Plus mixers--OJ, cranberry juice, tonic water, soda water, bitters, Coke, Diet Coke, triple sec, lemons, limes, blah blah blah--plus my own personal stash of the good stuff. Even if I spend only $10 per bottle on the wine and bubbly, factoring in 15% case discount, that's close to $1000 on booze.)
Isn't math fun?
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Theatre review: In A Garden
When I was a theatre critic in New York, I saw a lot of plays. A lot. Many of them were good, but many more of them were bad. I mean baaaaaaad. One of the things I learned by seeing all those bad plays was that you should never, ever, under any circumstances, see a play which features the words "Israeli-Palestinian conflict" in the press release. Last night I saw In A Garden by Howard Korder at South Coast Rep, and I can honestly say this is the first play I've ever seen that's even vaguely about the Middle East that didn't make me want to stab myself in the eye with a fork.
I know it doesn't sound like high praise, but writing about the Middle East is tricky. You run the risk of alienating part of the audience and boring another part to tears. It's very difficult to write about objectively--everyone has an opinion on this topic--and so it's very difficult to end up with a play that's not delivered from the top of a soapbox. Plus, who keeps up with the news these days? Even in New York, audiences aren't really on top of either current events, or the intricate and tortured histories that led up to current Middle Eastern events.
So In A Garden was surprisingly...adept, for lack of a better word. An American architect is summoned to a fictional Middle East country by the Minister of Culture, who wants to commission a small private summer house. The Minister is worldly, sophisticated, diplomatic, and seems to have his country's best interests at heart. In true political fashion, he seems unable (or unwilling) to answer a question directly, and so their conversations, which begin in 1989 and range up to 2004, are fascinatingly oblique. As they both dance around the design for the summer house, current events, the history of the country, and the country's current leader, the architect is gradually exposed to a wealth of secrets. The last scene of the play, as one might expect given the subject matter, is conducted between the architect and an American soldier in 2004, in the bombed-out former Ministry of Culture.
Perhaps because the two main characters never address "The Middle East and Its Issues" directly, the play never descends into pedantry. The audience is presented with the same tantalizing bits of information as the architect, and so we are free to draw our own conclusions. It's a great way to back into the subject matter, and because the play's country is fictional (although an obvious amalgamation of real countries), it doesn't run the risk of offending anyone or becoming immediately outdated.
The scene transistions were a little long for my taste, but whatever. I really enjoyed getting out of the house and getting some culture. Who would have thought I had to move to California to finally see a good play about the Middle East?
I know it doesn't sound like high praise, but writing about the Middle East is tricky. You run the risk of alienating part of the audience and boring another part to tears. It's very difficult to write about objectively--everyone has an opinion on this topic--and so it's very difficult to end up with a play that's not delivered from the top of a soapbox. Plus, who keeps up with the news these days? Even in New York, audiences aren't really on top of either current events, or the intricate and tortured histories that led up to current Middle Eastern events.
So In A Garden was surprisingly...adept, for lack of a better word. An American architect is summoned to a fictional Middle East country by the Minister of Culture, who wants to commission a small private summer house. The Minister is worldly, sophisticated, diplomatic, and seems to have his country's best interests at heart. In true political fashion, he seems unable (or unwilling) to answer a question directly, and so their conversations, which begin in 1989 and range up to 2004, are fascinatingly oblique. As they both dance around the design for the summer house, current events, the history of the country, and the country's current leader, the architect is gradually exposed to a wealth of secrets. The last scene of the play, as one might expect given the subject matter, is conducted between the architect and an American soldier in 2004, in the bombed-out former Ministry of Culture.
Perhaps because the two main characters never address "The Middle East and Its Issues" directly, the play never descends into pedantry. The audience is presented with the same tantalizing bits of information as the architect, and so we are free to draw our own conclusions. It's a great way to back into the subject matter, and because the play's country is fictional (although an obvious amalgamation of real countries), it doesn't run the risk of offending anyone or becoming immediately outdated.
The scene transistions were a little long for my taste, but whatever. I really enjoyed getting out of the house and getting some culture. Who would have thought I had to move to California to finally see a good play about the Middle East?
Saturday, March 27, 2010
It Is Marvelous by Elizabeth Bishop
It is marvelous to wake up together
At the same minute; marvelous to hear
The rain begin suddenly all over the roof,
To feel the air clear
As if electricity had passed through it
From a black mesh of wires in the sky.
All over the roof the rain hisses,
And below, the light falling of kisses.
An electrical storm is coming or moving away;
It is the prickling air that wakes us up.
If lightning struck the house now, it would run
From the four blue china balls on top
Down the roof and down the rods all around us,
And we imagine dreamily
How the whole house caught in a birdcage of lightning
Would be quite delightful rather than frightening.
And from the same simplified point of view
Of night and lying flat on one’s back
All things might change equally easily,
Since always to warn us there must be these black
Electrical wires dangling. Without surprise
The world might change to something quite different,
As the air changes or the lightning comes without our blinking,
Change as our kisses are changing without our thinking.
At the same minute; marvelous to hear
The rain begin suddenly all over the roof,
To feel the air clear
As if electricity had passed through it
From a black mesh of wires in the sky.
All over the roof the rain hisses,
And below, the light falling of kisses.
An electrical storm is coming or moving away;
It is the prickling air that wakes us up.
If lightning struck the house now, it would run
From the four blue china balls on top
Down the roof and down the rods all around us,
And we imagine dreamily
How the whole house caught in a birdcage of lightning
Would be quite delightful rather than frightening.
And from the same simplified point of view
Of night and lying flat on one’s back
All things might change equally easily,
Since always to warn us there must be these black
Electrical wires dangling. Without surprise
The world might change to something quite different,
As the air changes or the lightning comes without our blinking,
Change as our kisses are changing without our thinking.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Quietly by Kenneth Rexroth
Lying here quietly beside you,
My cheek against your firm, quiet thighs,
The calm music of Boccherini
Washing over us in the quiet,
As the sun leaves the housetops and goes
Out over the Pacific, quiet—
So quiet the sun moves beyond us,
So quiet as the sun always goes,
So quiet, our bodies, worn with the
Times and the penances of love, our
Brains curled, quiet in their shells, dormant,
Our hearts slow, quiet, reliable
In their interlocked rhythms, the pulse
In your thigh caressing my cheek. Quiet.
My cheek against your firm, quiet thighs,
The calm music of Boccherini
Washing over us in the quiet,
As the sun leaves the housetops and goes
Out over the Pacific, quiet—
So quiet the sun moves beyond us,
So quiet as the sun always goes,
So quiet, our bodies, worn with the
Times and the penances of love, our
Brains curled, quiet in their shells, dormant,
Our hearts slow, quiet, reliable
In their interlocked rhythms, the pulse
In your thigh caressing my cheek. Quiet.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Scientists prove that high-fructose corn syrup is really, really bad for you
(Well, duh.) You can read the entire post at The Kitchn here.
I especially like the part where they point out that eating a candy bar does more damage to your waistline than eating an entire tray of homebaked cookies right out of the oven.
I especially like the part where they point out that eating a candy bar does more damage to your waistline than eating an entire tray of homebaked cookies right out of the oven.
Monday, March 22, 2010
A weekend at the beach
My man and I spent most of Saturday afternoon lounging around at La Jolla Beach. I know, I know, life is so hard in sunny SoCal. I know you're jealous. ;-) Otherwise it was an entirely uneventful weekend, as spending the afternoon in the sun doesn't exactly lead to productivity.
I'm hoping to start reading scripts for one of the local theatres soon. And today marks exactly two months until the wedding!
I'm hoping to start reading scripts for one of the local theatres soon. And today marks exactly two months until the wedding!
Friday, March 19, 2010
Wedding anxiety dreams
Don't worry, that's actually a good thing. Nine hundred years ago, when I was engaged before, I never had a wedding anxiety dream. Because, well, I didn't sleep. I woke up every night with that rock in the pit of my stomach. You know that rock, that one that radiates deep, cold, sweaty fear and says "Run! Run for the hills!". This time around, the rock is gone. And I sleep like the dead every night.
In the past my anxiety dreams have centered around school, usually being sent back to high school--and sometimes even involving missing the bus. Now all my anxiety dreams center around the wedding. But here's the thing. John is always there. I'm never anxious about him. The anxiety always revolves around something relatively trivial. That's what anxiety dreams are about, right? Mine are always about either looking for something I can't find, or being late to something and being held up somehow.
And I'm always at my parents' church, wearing a big poofy white dress. I always think, "I'm not supposed to be getting married here, in this dress, at church, I'm supposed to be wearing a different dress and getting married at Wintergreen." All the guests are there, waiting, and John is inside, waiting too. Naturally, I'm either looking for something (my makeup, my shoes, Peg) or I'm late (I'm trying to deal with the food, find a bathroom, put on my makeup which I then can't find). In one version, I started running around to the front of the church so I could walk down the aisle, only to trip and fall headlong, getting grass stains all down the front of the big poofy white dress. Then of course I had to find something else to wear.
But John's always there, waiting patiently.
For years, I had a recurring nightmare about being left at the altar. I had a shamefully emotional moment watching that scene in the Sex and the City movie, because it so closely mirrored my recurring nightmare.
I haven't had that dream since meeting John.
In the past my anxiety dreams have centered around school, usually being sent back to high school--and sometimes even involving missing the bus. Now all my anxiety dreams center around the wedding. But here's the thing. John is always there. I'm never anxious about him. The anxiety always revolves around something relatively trivial. That's what anxiety dreams are about, right? Mine are always about either looking for something I can't find, or being late to something and being held up somehow.
And I'm always at my parents' church, wearing a big poofy white dress. I always think, "I'm not supposed to be getting married here, in this dress, at church, I'm supposed to be wearing a different dress and getting married at Wintergreen." All the guests are there, waiting, and John is inside, waiting too. Naturally, I'm either looking for something (my makeup, my shoes, Peg) or I'm late (I'm trying to deal with the food, find a bathroom, put on my makeup which I then can't find). In one version, I started running around to the front of the church so I could walk down the aisle, only to trip and fall headlong, getting grass stains all down the front of the big poofy white dress. Then of course I had to find something else to wear.
But John's always there, waiting patiently.
For years, I had a recurring nightmare about being left at the altar. I had a shamefully emotional moment watching that scene in the Sex and the City movie, because it so closely mirrored my recurring nightmare.
I haven't had that dream since meeting John.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
My grandma is out of the hospital
Hooray! She's agreed, at least in principle, to go live with my uncle in Nashville. Let's hope she doesn't change her mind.
The weather has taken a definite summer-like turn. Winter in San Diego ("winter") is typically 60 degrees or so, with lows of 50, with occasional cloudy skies/rain. But this week the highs have rocketed to 75 (78 tomorrow! Woo!), meaning that even the nights are balmy. Coupled with the longer daylight hours, it feels like summer to me. I came home last night and cooked in the fading sunlight with all the windows wide open to catch the breeze. This morning as I was walking to work in a tank top and skirt, there wasn't a cloud in the sky and the breeze was already at 70 degrees. I could see the desert mountains in the distance and I swear if I'd had a car at that moment, I would have played hooky and just driven...somewhere. Anywhere. Well, anywhere away from civilization. A day like today cries out for a fast car, a long unbroken stretch of deserted highway, and some good tunes. It's probably a good thing I don't have a car, I would have driven to the Grand Canyon or something today just because I could.
Weather like this is gonna stoke the wanderlust fires.
The weather has taken a definite summer-like turn. Winter in San Diego ("winter") is typically 60 degrees or so, with lows of 50, with occasional cloudy skies/rain. But this week the highs have rocketed to 75 (78 tomorrow! Woo!), meaning that even the nights are balmy. Coupled with the longer daylight hours, it feels like summer to me. I came home last night and cooked in the fading sunlight with all the windows wide open to catch the breeze. This morning as I was walking to work in a tank top and skirt, there wasn't a cloud in the sky and the breeze was already at 70 degrees. I could see the desert mountains in the distance and I swear if I'd had a car at that moment, I would have played hooky and just driven...somewhere. Anywhere. Well, anywhere away from civilization. A day like today cries out for a fast car, a long unbroken stretch of deserted highway, and some good tunes. It's probably a good thing I don't have a car, I would have driven to the Grand Canyon or something today just because I could.
Weather like this is gonna stoke the wanderlust fires.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
My grandma is in the hospital
She's in her 80s and has Alzheimer's, so it's not entirely unexpected, but still. She may have had a heart attack. I'm trying to think good thoughts for her from here.
It's not difficult on a day like today--bright sunny and 76 degrees. It'll be 80 here by Wednesday. We hit the pool this morning. The water was still freezing, though, so we took advantage of the jacuzzi instead. John's son was visiting this weekend, and his visits always leave me feeling a bit like an outsider. Like all weekend long is a boys' club, where I'm an unwelcome intruder. Oh, it's not intentional, and I have a lot of fun with both of them. But the two of them have their own private language, being boys, and I feel like I'm relegated to the food-bringer and laundry-washer in their presence. Attempts on my part to offer helpful suggestions like, "It's time for breakfast" and "Let's all brush our teeth before bed" only get me looks like I may have grown a particularly gauche second head, from both of them. And any efforts to watch a movie in which guns, airplanes, or WWII do not figure prominently are outvoted, 2 to 1.
This weekend I coped by disappearing into a large stack of books, which helped a lot. Cooking is good therapy, too, but less helpful when my day-long kitchen adventures are met with the fear and disdain one might offer upon finding a large and ulcerous copperhead rising up out of the bedcovers. Even perfectly normal dishes, like scrambled eggs or lasagna, must be whined over, poked at, closely examined for contraband, ("These carrots have white flaky things on them, I can't eat them." "That's SALT.") attempts must be made to hide some part in the napkin or wiped off on the underside of the table, exhortations made that "I'm not hungry" even though it may have been 16 hours or more since food last touched his lips, and in the piece de resistance, he may very grudgingly touch the end of his fork tines to the food in question, touch those to his tongue, then spit and declare that "I've taken a bite! And I still don't like it!" I'm trying very hard to remember that all 10-year-olds are like that. Very, very hard.
It's not difficult on a day like today--bright sunny and 76 degrees. It'll be 80 here by Wednesday. We hit the pool this morning. The water was still freezing, though, so we took advantage of the jacuzzi instead. John's son was visiting this weekend, and his visits always leave me feeling a bit like an outsider. Like all weekend long is a boys' club, where I'm an unwelcome intruder. Oh, it's not intentional, and I have a lot of fun with both of them. But the two of them have their own private language, being boys, and I feel like I'm relegated to the food-bringer and laundry-washer in their presence. Attempts on my part to offer helpful suggestions like, "It's time for breakfast" and "Let's all brush our teeth before bed" only get me looks like I may have grown a particularly gauche second head, from both of them. And any efforts to watch a movie in which guns, airplanes, or WWII do not figure prominently are outvoted, 2 to 1.
This weekend I coped by disappearing into a large stack of books, which helped a lot. Cooking is good therapy, too, but less helpful when my day-long kitchen adventures are met with the fear and disdain one might offer upon finding a large and ulcerous copperhead rising up out of the bedcovers. Even perfectly normal dishes, like scrambled eggs or lasagna, must be whined over, poked at, closely examined for contraband, ("These carrots have white flaky things on them, I can't eat them." "That's SALT.") attempts must be made to hide some part in the napkin or wiped off on the underside of the table, exhortations made that "I'm not hungry" even though it may have been 16 hours or more since food last touched his lips, and in the piece de resistance, he may very grudgingly touch the end of his fork tines to the food in question, touch those to his tongue, then spit and declare that "I've taken a bite! And I still don't like it!" I'm trying very hard to remember that all 10-year-olds are like that. Very, very hard.
Friday, March 12, 2010
And now, the fallout
So, Pockets and I have made up. Everyone is happy, everyone is relieved, tra-la-la, here we go skipping through fields of rainbows.
Not quite. I was reminded last night that there are a great many people in my life whose opinions on Pockets have plummeted from "I'll tolerate her for your sake" to outright frothing-at-the-mouth fury. This does not bode well for my wedding. I understand the collective skepticism, I do. I also understand that my nearest and dearest circled their wagons around me when I thought Pockets was gone forever, and that it will take some time to break out of that mindset, and that her track record often works against her.
But Pockets isn't the only wrinkle--there are other long-simmering rivalries to be dealt with. Friends who can no longer stand each other, the various dating misfires over the years throughout my circle, exes who are on friendly terms, exes who aren't, family members who disapprove of friends, friends who disapprove of family. I was so happy over the idea of getting everyone I love under one roof for the one day of my entire life, that I forgot half those people can't stand the other half.
Crap.
Now I'm worried that my wedding will turn into a shouting match, or worse, that everyone will be tiptoeing around, uptight, nervous, and trying to maintain the thinnest veneer of politeness, which will turn brittle and crack at some point in the evening and I'll be running interference between people crying in locked bathrooms and other people chain-smoking in the parking lot. Of course, we're all adults, and my friends' days of getting roaring drunk and climbing onto rooftops or fighting bouncers or dissolving into teary maudlin scenes are long over. We have spouses, children, mortgages. These days if I have more than one glass of wine with dinner, I fall asleep at 8:30. (Sigh.) So I'm fervently hoping that everyone can put aside their resentments and play nice. After all, it's ME. Getting MARRIED. No one ever thought that would happen (including me). I'm hoping one day of nice is not too much to ask.
On the other hand, the chances of my grandmother saying something wildly inappropriate in front of, and regarding, at least one minority group are far higher than a friend-related scene. So I have that to look forward to, as well. Man, I should have eloped.
Not quite. I was reminded last night that there are a great many people in my life whose opinions on Pockets have plummeted from "I'll tolerate her for your sake" to outright frothing-at-the-mouth fury. This does not bode well for my wedding. I understand the collective skepticism, I do. I also understand that my nearest and dearest circled their wagons around me when I thought Pockets was gone forever, and that it will take some time to break out of that mindset, and that her track record often works against her.
But Pockets isn't the only wrinkle--there are other long-simmering rivalries to be dealt with. Friends who can no longer stand each other, the various dating misfires over the years throughout my circle, exes who are on friendly terms, exes who aren't, family members who disapprove of friends, friends who disapprove of family. I was so happy over the idea of getting everyone I love under one roof for the one day of my entire life, that I forgot half those people can't stand the other half.
Crap.
Now I'm worried that my wedding will turn into a shouting match, or worse, that everyone will be tiptoeing around, uptight, nervous, and trying to maintain the thinnest veneer of politeness, which will turn brittle and crack at some point in the evening and I'll be running interference between people crying in locked bathrooms and other people chain-smoking in the parking lot. Of course, we're all adults, and my friends' days of getting roaring drunk and climbing onto rooftops or fighting bouncers or dissolving into teary maudlin scenes are long over. We have spouses, children, mortgages. These days if I have more than one glass of wine with dinner, I fall asleep at 8:30. (Sigh.) So I'm fervently hoping that everyone can put aside their resentments and play nice. After all, it's ME. Getting MARRIED. No one ever thought that would happen (including me). I'm hoping one day of nice is not too much to ask.
On the other hand, the chances of my grandmother saying something wildly inappropriate in front of, and regarding, at least one minority group are far higher than a friend-related scene. So I have that to look forward to, as well. Man, I should have eloped.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Tonight on Larry King Live: The Pockets Reconciliation
Larry King: Hi everyone, thanks for joining us tonight. The hot topic on everyone's minds right now is, of course, the Pockets Reconciliation. We all hoped for it, but we never really expected it.
Me: That's right, Larry, and thanks for having me. Hi Mom!
Larry King: Tell us what happened.
Me: Well, Larry, you know what happened prior to Tuesday morning. When Pockets found out John and I had gotten together, she went nuclear and disappeared completely. I've seen her have emotional outbursts before--I've even been the recipient of them before--but I'd never seen one so full of anger and betrayal. I feared that was the end of our long friendship.
Larry King: You'd been friends for thirty years?
Me: That's right, Larry. For long stretches of my childhood, she was my only close friend. Outside of my immediate family, she's the only connection to my childhood and adolescence I have left. Now, I won't pretend that a thirty-year relationship--ANY thirty-year relationship--doesn't have its ups and downs. We fought, we made up, we got angry at each other, we both did really stupid boneheaded things, sometimes we wouldn't speak to each other for weeks or months at a time. But through it all, we were friends. The hardest thing about this last...incident...is that it felt as though all connections had been severed, that she wouldn't consider making up.
Larry King: But she ended up being the one to make the overture.
Me: I hope my original assessment was correct--that she just needed time, and space. On Tuesday morning I received an email from her, the first I'd gotten since...the unpleasantness. I'll admit, Larry, when I saw her name in my email inbox, I winced. I was fully prepared for another vituperative diatribe, possibly even for "I will firebomb your wedding." Happily, I was wrong.
Larry King: What did she say?
Me: Several weeks ago, I'd sent her an apologetic email, ahead of her wedding invitation (which I now know she never received). I didn't hear anything from her at the time, so I assumed it had fallen on deaf ears. But she wrote me a very heartfelt, very rational apology, stating that she missed me and wanted me back in her life. I responded with a very heartfelt apology of my own. Tears were cried. Various emotions were expressed. We made up.
Larry King: Even though, as your fiance put it, "In spite of the high-yield nuclear detonations of anger leaving spots where nothing will ever grow again?"
Me: Well, yes, Larry. There was a lot more nuclear in this than I was prepared for, or hope to ever see again. But this argument wasn't entirely one-sided; I made mistakes in this, too. As you know, the last few years, up until the road trip, were not good for me. I was in a bad place. And when I'm in a bad place, I tend to become self-destructive, self-absorbed, and a general pain in the ass to those around me. For all of you that put up with me during those years, I apologize. That's the thing about being in a downward spiral--you can't see it until you're out of it.
Fortunately, I'm out of it now. The road trip was exactly the spiritual boot to the head I needed, and John of course was a big part of that. But Pockets bore the brunt of a lot of my pain-in-the-ass-edness, and that contributed to the blowout. I shouldn't have broken the news about John to her as flippantly as I did, and that also contributed to the blowout. Mistakes were made, on both our parts.
Larry King: Still, it does seem a bit of an overreaction on her part.
Me: Well, maybe, Larry. But I've done some breathtakingly stupid things in my life--I mean, haven't we all? It's just that my stupid things tend to be tactless and possibly also self-destructive. Hers tend to be emotional outbursts. Trust me, there are plenty of times in my life when I would have been better served to adopt a more scorched-earth policy in my emotional expression (or, you know, lack thereof).
Larry King: All that anger, on both sides, and all it took was a good apology. It's heartwarming, it really is. But I have to ask: if that's the case, why can't you do that with your exes?
Me: None of them ever apologized.
Wait, that's not entirely true--one did. We're friends now.
Larry King: It's quite a story. So, what now?
Me: We pick up where we left off. And I hope we can stay there--I'm getting too old for this shit. Life is about the people that are important to you. I want to keep the people I love close to me.
Me: That's right, Larry, and thanks for having me. Hi Mom!
Larry King: Tell us what happened.
Me: Well, Larry, you know what happened prior to Tuesday morning. When Pockets found out John and I had gotten together, she went nuclear and disappeared completely. I've seen her have emotional outbursts before--I've even been the recipient of them before--but I'd never seen one so full of anger and betrayal. I feared that was the end of our long friendship.
Larry King: You'd been friends for thirty years?
Me: That's right, Larry. For long stretches of my childhood, she was my only close friend. Outside of my immediate family, she's the only connection to my childhood and adolescence I have left. Now, I won't pretend that a thirty-year relationship--ANY thirty-year relationship--doesn't have its ups and downs. We fought, we made up, we got angry at each other, we both did really stupid boneheaded things, sometimes we wouldn't speak to each other for weeks or months at a time. But through it all, we were friends. The hardest thing about this last...incident...is that it felt as though all connections had been severed, that she wouldn't consider making up.
Larry King: But she ended up being the one to make the overture.
Me: I hope my original assessment was correct--that she just needed time, and space. On Tuesday morning I received an email from her, the first I'd gotten since...the unpleasantness. I'll admit, Larry, when I saw her name in my email inbox, I winced. I was fully prepared for another vituperative diatribe, possibly even for "I will firebomb your wedding." Happily, I was wrong.
Larry King: What did she say?
Me: Several weeks ago, I'd sent her an apologetic email, ahead of her wedding invitation (which I now know she never received). I didn't hear anything from her at the time, so I assumed it had fallen on deaf ears. But she wrote me a very heartfelt, very rational apology, stating that she missed me and wanted me back in her life. I responded with a very heartfelt apology of my own. Tears were cried. Various emotions were expressed. We made up.
Larry King: Even though, as your fiance put it, "In spite of the high-yield nuclear detonations of anger leaving spots where nothing will ever grow again?"
Me: Well, yes, Larry. There was a lot more nuclear in this than I was prepared for, or hope to ever see again. But this argument wasn't entirely one-sided; I made mistakes in this, too. As you know, the last few years, up until the road trip, were not good for me. I was in a bad place. And when I'm in a bad place, I tend to become self-destructive, self-absorbed, and a general pain in the ass to those around me. For all of you that put up with me during those years, I apologize. That's the thing about being in a downward spiral--you can't see it until you're out of it.
Fortunately, I'm out of it now. The road trip was exactly the spiritual boot to the head I needed, and John of course was a big part of that. But Pockets bore the brunt of a lot of my pain-in-the-ass-edness, and that contributed to the blowout. I shouldn't have broken the news about John to her as flippantly as I did, and that also contributed to the blowout. Mistakes were made, on both our parts.
Larry King: Still, it does seem a bit of an overreaction on her part.
Me: Well, maybe, Larry. But I've done some breathtakingly stupid things in my life--I mean, haven't we all? It's just that my stupid things tend to be tactless and possibly also self-destructive. Hers tend to be emotional outbursts. Trust me, there are plenty of times in my life when I would have been better served to adopt a more scorched-earth policy in my emotional expression (or, you know, lack thereof).
Larry King: All that anger, on both sides, and all it took was a good apology. It's heartwarming, it really is. But I have to ask: if that's the case, why can't you do that with your exes?
Me: None of them ever apologized.
Wait, that's not entirely true--one did. We're friends now.
Larry King: It's quite a story. So, what now?
Me: We pick up where we left off. And I hope we can stay there--I'm getting too old for this shit. Life is about the people that are important to you. I want to keep the people I love close to me.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
I Want by Kim Konopka
to shove my clothes
to one side of the closet,
give you the bigger half.
Quietly I’ll hide most of my shoes,
so you won’t know I have this many.
I will
rearrange furniture to add more,
find space on my shelves
for your many books,
nail up the placard that says
poets do it, and redo it, and do it again.
I want
to share a laundry basket,
get our clothes mixed up,
wait for the yelling
when my reds run wild
into your whites
turning them a luscious pink,
your favorite color of me.
I will
move my pillow
to the other side of the bed,
lay yours next to mine,
your scent on the fabric
always near me,
even on nights you’re away.
I will
buy a new bureau to hold your
thousand and one black socks,
find a place for all those work boots,
the ones I refer to as big and ugly.
I want
more pots and pans to wash,
piles of them leaning high
from late night meals
cooked naked and drunk,
red wine pouring into
a sauce of simmering
tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil,
kisses bitten between bites,
and platefuls of our late hours,
stacking up into dawn.
I want
to stock cupboards, closets, and pantry,
fill the house with us.
I want to gain weight with you
because our love,
our love makes me fat.
to one side of the closet,
give you the bigger half.
Quietly I’ll hide most of my shoes,
so you won’t know I have this many.
I will
rearrange furniture to add more,
find space on my shelves
for your many books,
nail up the placard that says
poets do it, and redo it, and do it again.
I want
to share a laundry basket,
get our clothes mixed up,
wait for the yelling
when my reds run wild
into your whites
turning them a luscious pink,
your favorite color of me.
I will
move my pillow
to the other side of the bed,
lay yours next to mine,
your scent on the fabric
always near me,
even on nights you’re away.
I will
buy a new bureau to hold your
thousand and one black socks,
find a place for all those work boots,
the ones I refer to as big and ugly.
I want
more pots and pans to wash,
piles of them leaning high
from late night meals
cooked naked and drunk,
red wine pouring into
a sauce of simmering
tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil,
kisses bitten between bites,
and platefuls of our late hours,
stacking up into dawn.
I want
to stock cupboards, closets, and pantry,
fill the house with us.
I want to gain weight with you
because our love,
our love makes me fat.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Variations on the Word Love by Margaret Atwood
This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It’s the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it, too. How do we know
it isn’t what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard. As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.
Then there’s the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the star
that press us on with their deafness.
It’s not love we don’t wish
to fall into, but that fear.
This word is not enough but it will
have to do. It’s a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.
holes with. It’s the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it, too. How do we know
it isn’t what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard. As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.
Then there’s the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the star
that press us on with their deafness.
It’s not love we don’t wish
to fall into, but that fear.
This word is not enough but it will
have to do. It’s a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Sharp knives + inattention = FAIL
I know to treat my very sharp, very professional knives with the utmost care and respect. Still. Apparently I wasn't paying quite enough attention at a key moment this weekend, (Warning: Gross Alert) because I managed to slice through my fingernail, into the finger underneath, and very nearly took off a good third of that fingertip. Never fear: the finger is still attached, no stitches were required, and after a couple days of that finger hurting like a motherf(expletive deleted)er, the pain seems to have died down to a dull roar. Now I'm worried that that fingernail will grow in all weird and look stupid in the wedding photos. Better that than missing a crucial part of the finger, but still.
In better news, I did a major reorganization/purge this weekend and feel much better about the world. I know, I'm a big nerd. But I still feel better for it. I liberated my entire CD collection, which has been entirely unused for a number of years. I kept backup copies of my iTunes collection on CD, you know, just in case, but now that I have a full backup on my external hard drive, the CD collection was just taking up space. A friend of mine from high school offered to give it a good home. The good people at the Goodwill also got a bunch of stuff. In the spirit of the thing, John helped give the apartment a good top-to-bottom cleaning. I realize now this is why people get married--things get done, but you don't have to do them! For the first time ever, I watched a man clean the refrigerator. It was awesome.
In better news, I did a major reorganization/purge this weekend and feel much better about the world. I know, I'm a big nerd. But I still feel better for it. I liberated my entire CD collection, which has been entirely unused for a number of years. I kept backup copies of my iTunes collection on CD, you know, just in case, but now that I have a full backup on my external hard drive, the CD collection was just taking up space. A friend of mine from high school offered to give it a good home. The good people at the Goodwill also got a bunch of stuff. In the spirit of the thing, John helped give the apartment a good top-to-bottom cleaning. I realize now this is why people get married--things get done, but you don't have to do them! For the first time ever, I watched a man clean the refrigerator. It was awesome.
The Adventure, Part 6: In Which I Get Over Myself
And then, one day, the obsessing stopped. I’m not sure why. Maybe my brain just needed some semblance of domestic routine and normalcy after all the weeks of living like a refugee. Maybe I’d burned it all out of my system. Maybe some part of me realized that it actually didn’t matter if the bed wasn’t made perfectly, John would still love me, would not change his mind and kick me out.
I woke up one morning and I was happy. Content. Settled. The dreams about my exes and all my hair falling out stopped. The thousand and one peculiarities of John that had annoyed the crap out of me didn’t anymore. I quit crafting escape plans in my head (just in case). I’m sure he realized that something had shifted, settled. I’m sure he noticed I was happier and more talkative and less stressed, and I’m sure he was happier because of it.
Don’t get me wrong, there were fights--moving in with someone is never easy, especially when you do it after only two months of serious dating, seven weeks of which had been spent apart. Especially when the both of you have been living alone for years. Especially when you’re both gun-shy about starting a new serious relationship. Especially when one of you has to move to the opposite coast and then can’t find an actual job, has to temp for $20K less a year than she was making in New York. But it was all worth it. He was worth it.
Even the fact that there were fights was a seismic shift for me. In my previous relationships, I’d been too passive. If something was wrong, I kept my mouth firmly shut. Better not to rock the boat. Better not to risk making him mad, then getting dumped. Just ignore it, eventually the problem will go away or work itself out. Little wonder, then, that none of those relationships made it. With John, I made a firm pledge not to do that again. If I was going to move all that way, put everything on the line for the sake of this relationship, I was damn well going to point out when something bothered me.
I’m sure I went a little too far in the opposite direction at first. That dam had burst, and all the words I’d held back for all those years came pouring out. Suddenly everything was a big deal, a massive deal, because I was talking about it. It was a revelation.
I woke up one morning and I was happy. Content. Settled. The dreams about my exes and all my hair falling out stopped. The thousand and one peculiarities of John that had annoyed the crap out of me didn’t anymore. I quit crafting escape plans in my head (just in case). I’m sure he realized that something had shifted, settled. I’m sure he noticed I was happier and more talkative and less stressed, and I’m sure he was happier because of it.
Don’t get me wrong, there were fights--moving in with someone is never easy, especially when you do it after only two months of serious dating, seven weeks of which had been spent apart. Especially when the both of you have been living alone for years. Especially when you’re both gun-shy about starting a new serious relationship. Especially when one of you has to move to the opposite coast and then can’t find an actual job, has to temp for $20K less a year than she was making in New York. But it was all worth it. He was worth it.
Even the fact that there were fights was a seismic shift for me. In my previous relationships, I’d been too passive. If something was wrong, I kept my mouth firmly shut. Better not to rock the boat. Better not to risk making him mad, then getting dumped. Just ignore it, eventually the problem will go away or work itself out. Little wonder, then, that none of those relationships made it. With John, I made a firm pledge not to do that again. If I was going to move all that way, put everything on the line for the sake of this relationship, I was damn well going to point out when something bothered me.
I’m sure I went a little too far in the opposite direction at first. That dam had burst, and all the words I’d held back for all those years came pouring out. Suddenly everything was a big deal, a massive deal, because I was talking about it. It was a revelation.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
[Love is Not All: It Is Not Meat Nor Drink] by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
We interrupt this thread for some real news
Well, not really. Not "real news" in the sense of the Chilean earthquake or anything. Just, you know, regular day-to-day stuff.
We took advantage of a Men's Wearhouse 50% off suits sale to buy my soon-to-be-husband his wedding suit. Also his first suit, his job interview suit, and his subsequent weddings/funerals suit. These are all the same suit. How a man gets to be 41 years old and never have owned a suit is beyond me, but as everyone in California delights in telling me, "Everyone on the East Coast dresses better." I guess. I was brought up in the school of even-if-you're-applying-to-clean-toilets-you-wear-a-suit-to-a-job-interview-damnit so it's a wonder to me how all these Southern Californian wrinkled stained flip-flop-wearing slobs ever get hired anywhere.
But I digress. Three salespeople and I poked and prodded him for the better part of three hours and we finally outfitted him with a lovely dark grey pinstripe four-season Italian wool suit, complete with four French-cuff dress shirts, ties and pocket squares to match, suspenders, dress socks, and a spiffy pair of oxblood wingtips. (Yes, oxblood. It's the first time I've seen that color referenced that way since 1994.) I suspect it's the first time he's ever been properly fitted for anything, given all the deer-in-the-headlights looks I was getting from him; most men subscribe to the theory of "if it's too big for me, that must mean it makes me look smaller," even outside of California. Once the tailoring is done, he's going to look damn fine, if I do say so myself. And his red power tie matches my red power shoes. We will be one hot and sexy wedding couple.
I got so excited by this purchase that I found myself turning a critical eye to the rest of his wardrobe. Not because he needs new clothes (well, we could debate that point, but then "Everyone on the East Coast dresses better"), but because I myself need new clothes. I can't convince myself to actually spend the money on new clothes for myself, partly because we don't have the money, and also because here no one cares. But suddenly all my clothes-buying urges have found a new outlet: buying clothes for OTHER PEOPLE. I never had to do that before. It's nearly as much fun as buying clothes for myself. I find myself reading GQ online at work. If he's not careful, he's going to become the human equivalent of a Ken doll.
But, Danger, Will Robinson: I then found myself looking at wedding suits for his son, and thinking things like "that junior seersucker suit is the cutest thing ever! Wouldn't he look snappy in that with a plaid Madras shirt and a pair of red high-top Converse?" Technically, the answer to that question is yes. But he would also look like a Eurotrash reject from Andover. How my fashion sense trended so preppy all of a sudden is beyond me. Possibly because I was on the J. Crew website. Fortunately I managed to stop myself and go BACK to Men's Wearhouse, where they rent boys' suits (complete with shoes) for $50 a day. So, wedding attire accomplished. That is officially crossed off the list.
Now I'm looking for other cost-cutting measures, as our new joint budget is VERY tight and will remain so until some things are paid off. It's hard enough managing my own budget, much less doing it for two people. But I got our joint checking account set up, which is very exciting. It's the first one of those I've had since the one I had with Chr--since a very long time ago.
Continuing the wedding momentum, I'm working on the various playlists. It's harder than I thought it would be. At first it was breaking out roughly chronologically--pregame/cocktails music was mostly Motown, immediately after the ceremony was disco/funk, transitioning into the 80s block. But now that seems too...blocky. I think I'd rather mix it up a little more, but then, my mixes are a little brain-jarring for most people. I'm the person that once followed up Nine Inch Nails with "Memory" from Cats, which made perfect sense to me at the time, but tended to make people listening to it start clawing the walls. Then again, I can't be the only person to ever follow Marvin Gaye with Violent Femmes, so there.
If anyone out there has any must-listen wedding songs to add, or advice on how to arrange them, please let me know. Note: the first person to suggest the Electric Slide, the Macarena, or the Funky Chicken will be placed against the wall and shot.
We took advantage of a Men's Wearhouse 50% off suits sale to buy my soon-to-be-husband his wedding suit. Also his first suit, his job interview suit, and his subsequent weddings/funerals suit. These are all the same suit. How a man gets to be 41 years old and never have owned a suit is beyond me, but as everyone in California delights in telling me, "Everyone on the East Coast dresses better." I guess. I was brought up in the school of even-if-you're-applying-to-clean-toilets-you-wear-a-suit-to-a-job-interview-damnit so it's a wonder to me how all these Southern Californian wrinkled stained flip-flop-wearing slobs ever get hired anywhere.
But I digress. Three salespeople and I poked and prodded him for the better part of three hours and we finally outfitted him with a lovely dark grey pinstripe four-season Italian wool suit, complete with four French-cuff dress shirts, ties and pocket squares to match, suspenders, dress socks, and a spiffy pair of oxblood wingtips. (Yes, oxblood. It's the first time I've seen that color referenced that way since 1994.) I suspect it's the first time he's ever been properly fitted for anything, given all the deer-in-the-headlights looks I was getting from him; most men subscribe to the theory of "if it's too big for me, that must mean it makes me look smaller," even outside of California. Once the tailoring is done, he's going to look damn fine, if I do say so myself. And his red power tie matches my red power shoes. We will be one hot and sexy wedding couple.
I got so excited by this purchase that I found myself turning a critical eye to the rest of his wardrobe. Not because he needs new clothes (well, we could debate that point, but then "Everyone on the East Coast dresses better"), but because I myself need new clothes. I can't convince myself to actually spend the money on new clothes for myself, partly because we don't have the money, and also because here no one cares. But suddenly all my clothes-buying urges have found a new outlet: buying clothes for OTHER PEOPLE. I never had to do that before. It's nearly as much fun as buying clothes for myself. I find myself reading GQ online at work. If he's not careful, he's going to become the human equivalent of a Ken doll.
But, Danger, Will Robinson: I then found myself looking at wedding suits for his son, and thinking things like "that junior seersucker suit is the cutest thing ever! Wouldn't he look snappy in that with a plaid Madras shirt and a pair of red high-top Converse?" Technically, the answer to that question is yes. But he would also look like a Eurotrash reject from Andover. How my fashion sense trended so preppy all of a sudden is beyond me. Possibly because I was on the J. Crew website. Fortunately I managed to stop myself and go BACK to Men's Wearhouse, where they rent boys' suits (complete with shoes) for $50 a day. So, wedding attire accomplished. That is officially crossed off the list.
Now I'm looking for other cost-cutting measures, as our new joint budget is VERY tight and will remain so until some things are paid off. It's hard enough managing my own budget, much less doing it for two people. But I got our joint checking account set up, which is very exciting. It's the first one of those I've had since the one I had with Chr--since a very long time ago.
Continuing the wedding momentum, I'm working on the various playlists. It's harder than I thought it would be. At first it was breaking out roughly chronologically--pregame/cocktails music was mostly Motown, immediately after the ceremony was disco/funk, transitioning into the 80s block. But now that seems too...blocky. I think I'd rather mix it up a little more, but then, my mixes are a little brain-jarring for most people. I'm the person that once followed up Nine Inch Nails with "Memory" from Cats, which made perfect sense to me at the time, but tended to make people listening to it start clawing the walls. Then again, I can't be the only person to ever follow Marvin Gaye with Violent Femmes, so there.
If anyone out there has any must-listen wedding songs to add, or advice on how to arrange them, please let me know. Note: the first person to suggest the Electric Slide, the Macarena, or the Funky Chicken will be placed against the wall and shot.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Strawberries by Edwin Morgan
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open French window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates on our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open French window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates on our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Adventure, Part 5: Shaking off the ghosts
My biggest fear in this new relationship was repeating all the mistakes I’d made in the previous ones. Actually, scratch that--repeating any of my old mistakes. Looming large was the specter of the last time I’d moved for love--when I moved to a place I would never have considered moving to otherwise, and let my own life and my own identity get completely wrapped up in the guy in question, so that when he dumped me, I had less than nothing. Not even my own sense of self-worth to fall back on. Ever since, I’d been beating myself up for not being able to see it coming. Some part of my brain was convinced that if things were so wrong he felt compelled to break up with me, there must have been some kind of warning. He couldn’t have just left me with no warning and no clear explanation, could he? I had to have done something wrong, missed some sign. That guy refused to talk about why he broke up with me, to this day I’ve never gotten a clear explanation--so if I didn’t know what went wrong with that one, what would prevent it from happening again? No, screw that, I thought. I want to be in love again, but I also want to be in love without being sickeningly aware that it could end at any second, that the rug could be pulled out from under me just as suddenly. Better to protect myself. Sometimes there are no answers, and that’s the hardest lesson of all.
Also looming large was the specter of a previous ex, a computer geek, just like John. That relationship had ended in the way that so many do--a slow, gradual decline that was nearly imperceptible until we’d both hit rock bottom. Once I saw the light, though, I saw there was nothing to be salvaged. I suspect now that Chris was both manic-depressive and borderline OCD. For the three years we lived together, every part of my life that intersected with his was heavily controlled. Pictures had to be hung and placed this way, socks had to be folded this way, he would only eat these foods, prepared in this way, and he categorically refused to try new things. His food couldn’t touch or he wouldn’t eat it, he owned multiple sets of the exact same outfit (fifty pairs of the same socks in the same color, ten pairs of the same jeans in the same color, thirty of the same plain white t-shirt, thirty of the same white briefs--and nothing else), and he had the most bizarre logic for the storage of duplicates that I’ve ever encountered. He once threw away a full bottle of laundry detergent because, and I quote, “we have another one exactly like it,” but he couldn’t function without four reserve bottles of a specific kind of organic ketchup in the cupboard. And no, we did not use that much ketchup. I was expected to do all the laundry, the cleaning, the grocery shopping, and the cooking, but I had to do it his way, to his specifications. I had no input in decorating or décor--the apartment had to be laid out in his way, with his furniture, in pre-approved colors and styles. Household expenses were to be split exactly fifty-fifty, no questions asked, despite the fact that he made three times what I did.
Naturally, this was not living together. This was him permitting me, barely, to share his space. I put up with it because I was young and stupid and thought that love involved compromise, right? Eventually I realized that if I was the only one doing it, it wasn’t compromise. By the time I moved out, he had degenerated to the point where he never left the house, and he barely deigned to acknowledge my existence. He spent eighteen hours a day, or more, playing computer games in his underwear. He didn’t talk to me, didn’t talk to my friends on the rare occasions they came over, refused to go anywhere with me, didn’t even bother looking away from the computer screen. The day he said, “But we’ve already had sex once this month,” was the last straw. I left and never looked back.
The first month of living with John nearly undid me. All those ghosts came back to haunt me, with a vengeance. And I couldn’t shake them. I’d laid down a series of rules, thinking to avoid some of the sticking points of the past--my cats were non-negotiable. I would assume complete control of the kitchen, and he would eat what I put in front of him, no questions asked and no whining allowed. I would assume decorating control, so that there would be no exposed wiring, piles of dirty clothes, or jars of loose change. John agreed unreservedly. But still. John's gaming manuals and computer paraphrenalia reminded me of Chris. Unpacking reminded me that I'd once again, despite my best efforts, moved for love and made myself vulnerable. Cleaning the apartment reminded me of Ed, who was overbearing and malicious to the point of emotional abuse--I'd cleaned his apartment for a year, debasing myself for some small scrap of affection that never materialized. Cooking for John reminded me of all of them. I tried not to plan for the future, to look too far ahead, in case he changed his mind and dumped me. It was like living under the sword of Damocles.
“I have to do everything exactly right,” I thought. “I can’t lose my best friend for nothing.”
I kept dreaming I was being forced to live with all my exes again.
Also looming large was the specter of a previous ex, a computer geek, just like John. That relationship had ended in the way that so many do--a slow, gradual decline that was nearly imperceptible until we’d both hit rock bottom. Once I saw the light, though, I saw there was nothing to be salvaged. I suspect now that Chris was both manic-depressive and borderline OCD. For the three years we lived together, every part of my life that intersected with his was heavily controlled. Pictures had to be hung and placed this way, socks had to be folded this way, he would only eat these foods, prepared in this way, and he categorically refused to try new things. His food couldn’t touch or he wouldn’t eat it, he owned multiple sets of the exact same outfit (fifty pairs of the same socks in the same color, ten pairs of the same jeans in the same color, thirty of the same plain white t-shirt, thirty of the same white briefs--and nothing else), and he had the most bizarre logic for the storage of duplicates that I’ve ever encountered. He once threw away a full bottle of laundry detergent because, and I quote, “we have another one exactly like it,” but he couldn’t function without four reserve bottles of a specific kind of organic ketchup in the cupboard. And no, we did not use that much ketchup. I was expected to do all the laundry, the cleaning, the grocery shopping, and the cooking, but I had to do it his way, to his specifications. I had no input in decorating or décor--the apartment had to be laid out in his way, with his furniture, in pre-approved colors and styles. Household expenses were to be split exactly fifty-fifty, no questions asked, despite the fact that he made three times what I did.
Naturally, this was not living together. This was him permitting me, barely, to share his space. I put up with it because I was young and stupid and thought that love involved compromise, right? Eventually I realized that if I was the only one doing it, it wasn’t compromise. By the time I moved out, he had degenerated to the point where he never left the house, and he barely deigned to acknowledge my existence. He spent eighteen hours a day, or more, playing computer games in his underwear. He didn’t talk to me, didn’t talk to my friends on the rare occasions they came over, refused to go anywhere with me, didn’t even bother looking away from the computer screen. The day he said, “But we’ve already had sex once this month,” was the last straw. I left and never looked back.
The first month of living with John nearly undid me. All those ghosts came back to haunt me, with a vengeance. And I couldn’t shake them. I’d laid down a series of rules, thinking to avoid some of the sticking points of the past--my cats were non-negotiable. I would assume complete control of the kitchen, and he would eat what I put in front of him, no questions asked and no whining allowed. I would assume decorating control, so that there would be no exposed wiring, piles of dirty clothes, or jars of loose change. John agreed unreservedly. But still. John's gaming manuals and computer paraphrenalia reminded me of Chris. Unpacking reminded me that I'd once again, despite my best efforts, moved for love and made myself vulnerable. Cleaning the apartment reminded me of Ed, who was overbearing and malicious to the point of emotional abuse--I'd cleaned his apartment for a year, debasing myself for some small scrap of affection that never materialized. Cooking for John reminded me of all of them. I tried not to plan for the future, to look too far ahead, in case he changed his mind and dumped me. It was like living under the sword of Damocles.
“I have to do everything exactly right,” I thought. “I can’t lose my best friend for nothing.”
I kept dreaming I was being forced to live with all my exes again.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Orange by Wendy Cope
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange--
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave--
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad you exist.
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave--
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad you exist.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Transfiguration by Jack Hirschman
I am peasant
next to your language
because I am not
a peasant, simple
next to your love
because I wound it,
dumb next to your voice
because you are my lips
and leave me speechless,
leave me also loneliness,
hurt me
with the inexpressible,
and because you
live the way you do
and I cannot,
I must go elsewhere
in this corner of
my shoulder and weep you,
who love me inexhaustibly
more than I can ever hope
to silence with a poem,
because it is the silence
I hope for, because
it is the very pure
silence hope itself is,
and so I bend, to
my pencil I say: you,
to the beautiful page, you,
I say Yes without speaking,
I say many things, and still
there is room, there is space,
your face is where I see forever.
next to your language
because I am not
a peasant, simple
next to your love
because I wound it,
dumb next to your voice
because you are my lips
and leave me speechless,
leave me also loneliness,
hurt me
with the inexpressible,
and because you
live the way you do
and I cannot,
I must go elsewhere
in this corner of
my shoulder and weep you,
who love me inexhaustibly
more than I can ever hope
to silence with a poem,
because it is the silence
I hope for, because
it is the very pure
silence hope itself is,
and so I bend, to
my pencil I say: you,
to the beautiful page, you,
I say Yes without speaking,
I say many things, and still
there is room, there is space,
your face is where I see forever.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Prayer for a Marriage by Steve Scafidi
When we are old one night and the moon
arcs over the house like an antique
China saucer and the teacup sun
follows somewhere far behind
I hope the stars deepen to a shine
so bright you could read by it
if you liked and the sadnesses
we will have known go away
for awhile--in this hour or two
before sleep--and that we kiss
standing in the kitchen not fighting
gravity so much as embodying
its sweet force, and I hope we kiss
like we do today knowing so much
good is said in this primitive tongue
from the wild first surprising ones
to the lower dizzy ten thousand
infinitely slower ones—and I hope
while we stand there in the kitchen
making tea and kissing, the whistle
of the teapot wakes the neighbors.
arcs over the house like an antique
China saucer and the teacup sun
follows somewhere far behind
I hope the stars deepen to a shine
so bright you could read by it
if you liked and the sadnesses
we will have known go away
for awhile--in this hour or two
before sleep--and that we kiss
standing in the kitchen not fighting
gravity so much as embodying
its sweet force, and I hope we kiss
like we do today knowing so much
good is said in this primitive tongue
from the wild first surprising ones
to the lower dizzy ten thousand
infinitely slower ones—and I hope
while we stand there in the kitchen
making tea and kissing, the whistle
of the teapot wakes the neighbors.
The Adventure, part 4: In which my brain attempts to process
The strangest part about the new relationship was that it didn’t seem strange. It seemed perfectly comfortable and familiar and normal, which is why I kept circling it in my head, poking it with a stick and waiting for it to rear up and bite me. Granted, John and I had known each other for fourteen years, but I'm the person who has said the following, in no particular order: “Marriage is like a living death.” “I'm never moving for love again.” “I'm never living with a man again, unless we're married, and maybe not then.” “There is no such thing as love at first sight.” “It's not possible to be completely, 100% sure about a person.” “I'm never leaving New York again.”
Well. Never say never.
It quickly became clear that we wanted to explore this, to spend as much time together as possible. Which meant one of us would have to move. Which meant, naturally, I would have to move. He worked in the gaming industry, which is an almost entirely West Coast-centered industry; he would have had no opportunities in New York. And his son was on the West Coast; until he went away to college, John wanted to be as close to him as possible (custody agreements notwithstanding, of course).
At first I resisted the idea of moving. It was an instinctual battening down of the hatches, borne of my last serious relationship--in which I moved for love, completely rearranging my life, and was summarily dumped a year later for my trouble, without even a satisfactory explanation as to what had gone wrong. When that ended, it almost killed me. My heart was pulverized and what little was left was buried so deep I was sure it would never see the light of day again.
“Never move for love,” I declared, and I followed my own advice so well that for the next two and a half years I didn’t love anyone, thereby negating any possibility of moving. I’d banish that asshole from my heart if I had to cut it out with my own carving knife, I thought, letting my ineffectual rage slowly congeal into a core of ice. I didn't want to feel anything, for fear of going through something like that again, and then one day I realized I hadn't felt anything for so long that I was pretty sure my heart was dead. And then--la!--there it was, hiding in a Vegas hotel room.
John made a reasonable and rational argument not only for my moving cross-country, but for our living together, after--let’s see, that would have been after about four days of serious dating. I squirmed, I hedged, I said, “Let’s date long-distance for a while and see what happens.” Then I said, “I’ll move, but I want to get my own place in San Diego.” Finally I agreed. Surprisingly, most of my friends said, “Why not?” I was expecting an outcry of “Jesus, Jenny! Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time?” But my friend Keed put it very succinctly. “The fact that it didn’t work out last time is not indicative of a character flaw on your part,” she said. “You took a gamble, and it didn’t work out. Which sucks. But it could have gone the other way, too. You’re not a bad person for having taken a gamble.” “Shit, you only live once,” declared my friend Jim. “Explore this, see what happens.”
John himself said, “If this relationship ends, it won’t be because of me.” Ha, I thought, I’ve heard that before. But some dormant part of my brain awoke, and told me, do you really want to be the jaded, cynical, serial-dater New Yorker for the rest of your life? Do you have any reason to doubt him, other than your own fear of being dumped again? Do you really want that last jerk to be dictating your relationship decisions forever? Shut up, I replied, let me doubt in peace.
Well. Never say never.
It quickly became clear that we wanted to explore this, to spend as much time together as possible. Which meant one of us would have to move. Which meant, naturally, I would have to move. He worked in the gaming industry, which is an almost entirely West Coast-centered industry; he would have had no opportunities in New York. And his son was on the West Coast; until he went away to college, John wanted to be as close to him as possible (custody agreements notwithstanding, of course).
At first I resisted the idea of moving. It was an instinctual battening down of the hatches, borne of my last serious relationship--in which I moved for love, completely rearranging my life, and was summarily dumped a year later for my trouble, without even a satisfactory explanation as to what had gone wrong. When that ended, it almost killed me. My heart was pulverized and what little was left was buried so deep I was sure it would never see the light of day again.
“Never move for love,” I declared, and I followed my own advice so well that for the next two and a half years I didn’t love anyone, thereby negating any possibility of moving. I’d banish that asshole from my heart if I had to cut it out with my own carving knife, I thought, letting my ineffectual rage slowly congeal into a core of ice. I didn't want to feel anything, for fear of going through something like that again, and then one day I realized I hadn't felt anything for so long that I was pretty sure my heart was dead. And then--la!--there it was, hiding in a Vegas hotel room.
John made a reasonable and rational argument not only for my moving cross-country, but for our living together, after--let’s see, that would have been after about four days of serious dating. I squirmed, I hedged, I said, “Let’s date long-distance for a while and see what happens.” Then I said, “I’ll move, but I want to get my own place in San Diego.” Finally I agreed. Surprisingly, most of my friends said, “Why not?” I was expecting an outcry of “Jesus, Jenny! Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time?” But my friend Keed put it very succinctly. “The fact that it didn’t work out last time is not indicative of a character flaw on your part,” she said. “You took a gamble, and it didn’t work out. Which sucks. But it could have gone the other way, too. You’re not a bad person for having taken a gamble.” “Shit, you only live once,” declared my friend Jim. “Explore this, see what happens.”
John himself said, “If this relationship ends, it won’t be because of me.” Ha, I thought, I’ve heard that before. But some dormant part of my brain awoke, and told me, do you really want to be the jaded, cynical, serial-dater New Yorker for the rest of your life? Do you have any reason to doubt him, other than your own fear of being dumped again? Do you really want that last jerk to be dictating your relationship decisions forever? Shut up, I replied, let me doubt in peace.
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