Rooful.

It's that time of year again.

Squirrelfriend is back.

She comes back every year, usually around this time, for some nefarious squirrely purpose.

My cat is feeling thwarted. She can hear Squirrelfriend (we all can), but our new (second-hand) baby gate is preventing her from proper vultching at the kitchen window. Which means baby gate is working as designed (more kitty-gate than baby gate, these days.)

Still, I feel for little Fee. I wouldn't mind Squirrelfriend getting a scare.

Or worse.

All this reminds me of my first encounter with Squirrelfriend, almost six years ago. Not long after we'd moved in to this apartment, actually...

Uninvited.

Sunday was a day off.

I slept until about one in the afternoon. It was great.

I got up and re-read some Barbara Kingsolver. When Jeff finally woke up-- almost two hours later-- we walked to the coffee shop for pastries and caffeine, and sat in a pretty neighborhood park we'd never visited before, to consume them.

Jeff decided (and quite rightly) that he needed some new clothes, to complement his new, full(ish)-time job as an adjunct professor of architecture, and asked me if I wanted to come with him.

I'd been missing him, but the idea of hauling myself around the city on the snipe-hunt that shopping with my husband tends to be, on my one day off, didn't seem so appealing.

I walked Jeff down to the train, then stood for a while on the sidewalk, taking in the late summer sun and my almost-familiar neighborhood.

I ran into a friend from my last job, and walked with him to his apartment building, just around the corner. Then I strolled home.

I sat in my living room for a while, reading. But I kept hearing something that sounded a lot like someone shoving cardboard boxes around and tearing them open. It was rather distracting-- particularly once I established the sounds weren't coming from a neighboring apartment.

I had visions of rats in the broom closet.

I crept up to the closet, and stood a while outside the door, listening.
No, the sound wasn't coming from there. Maybe the kitchen?

Bingo. A squirrel was climbing up and down the security grate outside the kitchen window, thumping the glass with his tail.

I suppose he was pretty cute. But he was also really annoying.

"Hey!"

The squirrel turned to look at me. Otherwise, he didn't move.

"Hey!"

Nothing.

"Get out of ther-r-r-e!"

He registered the hint of threat in my voice, regarding me warily.

"Get. Out. Of. There."

The squirrel blinked at me. He looked like he was chewing nicotine gum.

Clearly, my authoritative tone was getting me nowhere. I opened a drawer and pulled out a spatula. I made shooing movements at the squirrel with the spatula.
Chew. Blink.

I rapped on the glass with the spatula, and the squirrel hopped off the grate and disappeared.

Ah.

I went back to the living room, sat down, opened my book.

Two minutes later, I was back in the kitchen, wielding a spatula.

I stared at the squirrel. I've heard that staring is universally recognized as threatening behavior.

The squirrel stared back.

I tried occasionally jerking and tilting my head while staring. It's scary when snakes do that, I reasoned.

The squirrel did not look scared of me.

I growled. I barked. I whispered like a child possessed by a demon.

I guess I'm just not all that threatening to squirrels.

When I lifted the spatula towards the window to rap on the glass, the squirrel literally put up his dukes. He was ready to open a can of whup-ass on my cooking utensils.

He waved his little furry fists at the spatula. I rapped harder. The squirrel pushed up his little furry sleeves, and pounded his tiny fists against the glass.

I was a little afraid I might crack the window. And I was beginning to be afraid the squirrel would gnaw his way through the sill and bite my face off. Well, perforate my face off-- he wasn't quite big enough to manage the feat in one go.

I put down the spatula. The squirrel crouched down and fluffed his tail. We considered each other.

Maybe I could annoy him away. I started flicking the switch to the overhead fluorescent on and off as fast as I could.

After each strobe, the squirrel blinked. Other than that, he seemed unperturbed.

The flashing lights were giving me a headache.

I stopped, and looked at the squirrel. He had fluffed his tail up over his back and draped the end of it around his neck, like a glamorous fur-lined collar. He looked like a tiny pimp.

It's hard out here for a squirrel.

Three days later, he's still living in my kitchen window.

He is pretty cute. I guess.

[Posted on September 20, 2006]

The way we were...

I had a nice thought last night, as I was falling asleep.

J and I have been back together for almost exactly ten years.

Of course, that's not counting our earlier incarnation-- college years full of angst, missed connections, and thwarted love.

Is there anything more potent than thwarted love when you're nineteen?

As it turns out, yes.

We're having a baby together. Any day now.
And it only took nine months!

Well, sixteen years and nine months.

Last night, as I drifted off, I replayed moments from our early days, a flickering series of home movies in my mind. I watched in first-person omniscient.

Little did we know...

So, in honor of the younger us, I've decided to re-post an entry or two from the years in-between, when I tried to put all those huge feelings into words.

I wasn't that successful.
But I think you might catch the gist.

* * * * *

Fragment 3

I'm really having some trouble getting out of my head.

Once, I dreamt I was standing in the east forty, a low-lying, sometimes boggy section of my parents' back yard, down by the creek.

I was watching a broken maple tree branch, impossibly high in the air, hurtling end-over-end towards where I stood.

I wondered which way I should run-- the branch seemed to be headed right for me, but it was still so far away that I worried I could be misjudging its trajectory. No sense running into certain death...

As the branch spun closer, I could suddenly see it wasn't heading for me after all. I knew I was safe. I stood like a pillar and watched it come.

The branch smacked into the earth, ten feet from where I stood, and broke into splinters and chunks of mossy bark.

I felt I'd mastered some ordeal, by keeping my wits about me and not running in the face of seeming disaster. I'd proven myself.

I walked past the splinters, up the little hill, towards the house. I wanted to tell my sister what had happened.

The door to my sister's room is low-- cut out beneath the attic stairs. I ducked through, and sat on the edge of her bed. I knew she'd show up there eventually.
She did. I saw her face, a smile-- from the same vantage and angle as countless times before, when we shared that room, growing up together. I struggled to find the right words to my story.

A stopped me, and sat down next to me on the edge of the bed. She cocked her head, and fitted her ear to mine, like a pipeline from my head to hers. Together, we watched a mental screening of my crazy events, as they passed through my ear and into her brain.
I had that dream just a week or so before my sister came to visit me-- in the October of 2001. I'd called her up the morning after I'd had it-- the dream had felt too whole, too significant, not to share it with her.

We talked about the dream, that night in my living room. We talked about how our rapid, tumbling, interrupting conversation was a sort of real-life equivalent of the tunnel between our heads.

I wish I could build a tunnel between my head and this computer.

I felt so full of love for my sister that night-- so grateful that we were born into the same family.

When I think of that fall, I remember feeling absolutely unhinged, untethered. The earth was rumbling away beneath me and I just wanted a quiet place where I could sit and smoke and wait it out. But at the same time, this miracle had happened to me-- J was back in my life. I felt aloft, and full of wonder, and painful joy.

"A... I have something to tell you."

"Okay."

Pause.

"I'm in love. I'm in love with J."

"Oh, well, I know you're happy to be talking with him again..."

I'm not sure what A was thinking of me at that point. Just a month and a half before, I'd called off my engagement to P. Our relationship had hit the skids, pretty much concurrently with my graduation from grad school, and in the months since, my life had been a whirl of manic behavior and poor decision-making, and a desperate need for affection.

I remember, earlier that summer, trying to explain to V what I was feeling-- like I'd collected all this love, that I had intended to give to someone, but didn't. All this love hung around me, suspended, ready to land on... someone.

Sometimes I felt like I loved everyone.
It hurt, but I felt sharp and alive. It was a relief to no longer be numb.

Several months before, I'd sat in my room with my journal, trying to work out the strange dread I was feeling about my future. I felt as though anything exciting or personally satisfying that I wanted to accomplish with my life had to be finished before my marriage to P. When I tried to envision our life together, all I could picture was a long, weary march to the cold, cold grave.

Note: In retrospect, I'd have to say that the persistent mental images of my own grave should have tipped me off earlier to the notion that marrying P was a bad idea.

I lay on the bedspread, writing in red ink. Given the flowery language of the entry, it might be fair to presume I was a little stoned.

One of the aspects of marriage I was dreading was that I would never again feel the exhilaration of a new relationship-- and by extension, that I would never have good sex again. In a fit of nostalgia, I wrote paeans to all the men of my past-- a sort of "To All The Boys I've Loved... Before."

I started with my first crush, back in kindergarten, and worked my way through elementary school on up to college. But when I got to J, I had to stop and rethink. There was too much to write.

I can't sum us up in here.

I remember meeting J, on the sidewalk along Mass Ave, to tell him that I was moving in with P, and that I would never see him again. I swore that this time I meant every word.

J was silent. His eyes were dark. He said nothing to contradict me. But when I was done, I leaned in to kiss him. He lifted his arms, to put them around me. Suddenly, I remembered myself, and put a hand against his chest to hold him away.

He leaned a little against my hand, but stayed still. The charge between us was palpable.

"We still have this, " he said.

I laughed a little, nervous and awake, and filled with a strange sense of camaraderie.

"I think we'll always have this," I said, shaking my hand to indicate the buzzing air.

We smiled at each other. Then I walked away.

I suspect you got a raw deal with me as well.

When I wrote that entry, I hadn't seen J for four years. But part of me never stopped looking for him.

Whenever P and I visited Boston, I kept one eye cocked to the crowds of people on the sidewalk, hoping for a glimpse of him. I kept this constant looking secret from myself, for the most part. Then, for a moment, I would think that I'd spotted him-- a turn of the head, a certain way of walking. The sting of disappointment when I'd realize my mistake was the only clue I left for myself as to what I was doing.
I looked in other ways. Pieces of J kept cropping up in my costume sketches, in characters that echoed my memory of him. I didn't realize I was doing it, but the resemblances were sometimes so strong that even P recognized him, and called me on it.
And then there were the dreams-- night-time visitations that left me feeling vaguely lost, and wistful, for days.

I'd be reading a book, and midway through a scene I'd realize to myself that the man I was picturing in my head was J. He was Mr. Darcy, and Captain Wentworth, and Heathcliff.

You are my gothic romance, my promise unfulfilled.

* * * * *

Fragment 4

So what happened?

There's a very long story I could write about that, but I'll try to keep it brief.
As a somewhat aside, I've noticed that it's incredibly hard to write about my feelings from this time in my life without sounding like a romance novel. But those are the only words I know that approach some honest description of my experience.

I think that's why I recognized this:

We are in love. Deeply, madly, painfully. Our souls are one [and] the same. When we are in different physical locations, our souls are still united and we are together. We get it.

The good words are all used up.

I love him, I love him, I love him.

Yes.

[excerpt from True Wife Confessions,
Confession #170]
______________________________

P moved out in June, though we were still trying to work things out, at least in theory. He would call to talk to me in depth about the re-blooming of his love for his previous ex-fiancee, who'd gotten back in contact with him when her marriage began to crumble, back in March. By mid-July, I think he was still pushing for the three of us to make a go of it. I wasn't interested.

I was hurt.

P felt justified in sharing his new romantic experiences with me because I was the one who came forward first with doubts about our engagement-- and because I first started to understand that I didn't want to marry P when I almost had an affair with one of my classmates, after graduation.

I could overlook the images of my own grave that attended all my thoughts of married life, but kissing someone passionately, under an awning in a rainstorm, was a red flag even I couldn't ignore.

I made my confession, and in the process willingly took on the role of penitent whore-- after all I'd done, the least I could do was listen to whatever P wanted to say to me.

Finally, he got off the phone. I sat and stared for a while. I was tired of feeling hurt.

I got up, and dialed Boston Information. I wrote down the number they gave me. I sat for a while, looking at the number. Eventually, I decided to go get some sleep.

Two days later, I finally got up the nerve to make the call.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Is this J?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

I said my name, my full name. "We used to know each other, back in--"

"Yes," he stopped me. His voice was quiet. "I remember you."

Pause.

"Hi."

"I can't believe you're calling me."

"I'm sorry, I can--"

"No! It's not bad. I just can't believe you're calling me."

Pause.

"I've been thinking about you, a lot, lately. I thought I'd call, and see... how you were doing these days."

"It's good you called today. This is my last night in this apartment-- I'm moving tomorrow. I've got boxes everywhere."

"So I caught you just in time."

"I guess so."

Pause.

"I still can't believe you're calling me."

"I know."

Pause.

"So, what have the last four years of your life been like?"

We talked for eight hours that night.

The next night, J called me. We'd been talking for a while, before he finally told me what was on his mind.

"Do you remember, last night, when you asked me if I'd been seeing anyone? And I said that I'd dated a couple people, but nothing serious?"

"Yes." I was dreading whatever it was he was about to say.

"Well, the reason I haven't gotten involved with anyone... is that I've never been able to forget about you.

"I'm still in love with you."

_____________________________
Believe it or not, this is the short version.
To be continued...

[posted on July 26, 2006 in getting to know roo, histories]

* * * * *

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for...

One Hundred Things About roo!

1. When I was a child I used to fall down the stairs
a lot.

2. All the stairwells in our home were steep and narrow-- the steps uneven, with risers ranging from nine inches to a foot tall.

3. My mother claims that I was such a stubborn little girl that I refused to acknowledge that the steps were too tall for me to be able to walk down them like a grown-up.

"The stair came up to you, practically mid-chest! And I kept saying, No, Boolaroo. Your legs are too little for you to walk down the stairs.

You could barely walk up them!
You had to stick a leg up to the side and heft yourself up the rest of the way!"

4. She says that she told me time and time again to sit on the stairs and lower myself carefully down, one step at a time.

5. Apparently, time and time again I refused to comply.

6. I don't doubt this.

7. Mom says she had to take me to the emergency room on a near-weekly basis.

8. "I had to swear to the doctors up and down that I wasn't beating you!"

9. The retelling of these events became one of my mother's favorite stories about me.

10. My mother likes to tell stories.

11. I heard this one a lot.

12. For a long time, I accepted the story at face value.

13. I thought it was pretty funny.

14. I even told the story myself once or twice.

15. Once, I told the story to a circle of co-workers, over lunch.

16. Lunch hour was the one oasis in the endless days of toiling in the gray belly of a soulless costume warehouse.

17. The workers who were trying to retain some small finger-hold in joy, in the face of relentless waves of passive aggression, practically worshiped lunchtime.

18. Each day, our feasts grew more elaborate, as we strove to heighten and extend the lunch-hour escape.

19. We added pre- and post-lunch cigarette breaks.

20. I gained fifteen pounds in the first month-and-a-half I worked there.

21. One day, we were huddled around a work table, sharing our lunches, when we began discussing chin scars.

22. My chin scar is from the time I climbed up on my sister's legs when she had them propped on the television set. Her legs gave, and I fell chin-first on a nail head that was protruding a bit, near the end of a floorboard.

23. I was very little when it happened.

24. I don't remember the accident, or getting stitches.

25. The scar is small, but you can still make out the dents of each stitch.

26. There are four of them.

27. The scar sits in a little divet that marks the end of my chin and the beginning of the rest of my neck.

28. I was laughing a bit, as I described my harried mother's attempts to keep the doctors from calling Social Services.

29. One of my co-workers wasn't laughing with me.

30. He turned to me, puzzled, and asked,"Why didn't your mother put up a safety gate?"

31. Huh. I didn't know why my mother never put up a safety gate.

32. I had never considered that before.

33. Didn't they make safety gates in the late Seventies?

34. I began to feel annoyed with my mother, for being so careless with her child's safety, then telling amusing cocktail-hour anecdotes about the dreadful results of her negligence.

35. I called her one night, and (tactfully) demanded an explanation.

36. "I did put up a safety gate. And you figured out how to open the damn latch by the third day it was up!"

37. My mom should have had a blog.

38. After we spoke, I took some time to re-visit my earliest childhood memories.

39. I remembered many falls.

40. I remembered time slowing to a sequence of frames.

41. I remembered the strange tingle in my belly I felt while airborne.

42. I remembered standing at the top of the back stairs.

43. The door at my back opened into my parents' bedroom.

44. The sun was low outside their bedroom windows.

45. It cast an amber glow over the dusty silence of the upstairs.

46. I curled my toes around the lip of the top step, and considered the drop.

47. The bottom of the stairwell was dim, but I could see the door there was open, too.

48. Good, I thought. There's room to land.

49. For a moment I stood, rooted to the top stair.

50. Caution warred with thrilled anticipation.

51. This time, I thought, this time I'll really do it!

52. Then I launched myself into the abyss.

53. At first, falling down the stairs doesn't hurt much.

54. Your self has to return to your body before the pain sets in.

55. I can't fly.

56. I also can't wiggle my ears.

57. Or move things with my mind.

58. But I know all the words to "Itsy-Bitsy Teenie-Weenie Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini."

59. And most of my fingers are double-jointed.

60. I wonder at how long it took for me to stop merely accepting my mother's account of my childhood,and to compare her stories with my memories.

61. How much of what I think I remember is real?

62. One Christmas Eve, my father picked me up by my shirt and shoved me against the fireplace wall.

63. He told me that I had ruined Christmas.

64. I was in junior high.

65. That's not a story I tell often.

66. I like to sit up late and talk on the phone for hours.

67. One night, I told VB4 my Christmas story.

68. When I first met him, VB4 would cringe if people touched him when he wasn't expecting it. He doesn't do that anymore.

69. He shares my love of gallows humor.

70. He said, "Well, Roo, when your grand-kids wonder why they never get to have Christmas, you can explain to them:' I'm sorry. It was me. Grandma ruined Christmas-- forever!' "

71. We laughed until our guts were sore.

72. My father gives great big bear hugs, and frequently tells me how proud he is of me.

73. I don't know how to reconcile these two images of my father.

74. I don't trust psychotherapy.

75. Many people I know have only good things to say about their experiences with it, and I believe them.

76. I think I'm worried about giving away control over my inner life.

77. I'd rather tackle my darker memories through writing, or artwork, or talking with close friends.

78. These tactics have served me pretty well thus far.

79. Someday, they might not.

80. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

81. For a refreshing drink, it's hard to beat cranberry juice.

82. I'd rather have one friend I can trust with anything, than a hundred pleasant acquaintances.

83. 'Til my dying day, I will be grateful that I married someone who falls in the first category.

84. If I awoke one morning to discover that, through some Orlando-esque switcharoo, J had turned into a woman overnight, I would happily stay married to her.

85. Actually, that might be pretty interesting.

86. But I'd definitely miss his penis.

87. Sometimes I share a little too much.

88. Sometimes I wake up at three in the morning and wonder why I said that.

89. If I were a color, I'd want to be a deeply luminous ultramarine blue.

90. Sometimes colors send me into a trance-like state.

91. I never understood why anyone cared about Mark Rothko's paintings until I saw them in person.

92. I'm a sucker for Art Nouveau.

93. In the summer, I like to leave my shoulders and my toes exposed.

94. I wouldn't mind coming back as a lizard, sitting on a rock all day and soaking up the sun.

95. Still, I have a hard time imagining myself living permanently anywhere outside the American Northeast.

96. I like having four seasons. There's always something to look forward to.

97. Last night, I sat on the bare floor of our new apartment, and cried a little.

98. We're renting a U-Haul this weekend.

99. I'm tired of my life feeling so unsettled.

100. I can't wait to see what's next.

The Yule Log: Part One

I woke Friday morning to a warm bed and my husband's embrace.

The transit strike was over.

Jeff flung an arm around me when I started to slide towards the edge of the bed. This irritated me no end, because I wanted nothing more than to stay in bed and snooze with him, but I was trying to be a good employee and get to work on time. I yelled something at him about how it would be nice if he helped me when I was trying to be responsible.

"Well, what's the point of going in? You're only going to be able to put in three hours, at most, before you'll have to leave to catch the bus. And we have all this stuff to bring."

"You're saying I should just call K and tell her I can't come in, when I told her I would? How could I do that?" I shouted, while making no move to get out of bed.

Jeff sighed, got up, and headed toward the closet atelier.

"What, you're just going to walk away?"

"You're right. You told her you'd go in, you should go in."

"No. You said I should call K and tell her I can't come in."

"I already told you you're right."

"No. I asked you How could I do that? and you never answered me. I'm actually asking: How Could I Do That?" I hollered, close to tears.

"I don't know!"

After a moment of silent staring, Jeff said, "Wait. You could call and ask her if she has work for you today. Explain that if there's nothing immediately pressing, you'd rather not come in, because you have to make a trip to the post office before you leave town. You could also tell her that you'd rather not have to haul your luggage and presents to work with you for such a short day."

I found Jeff's strategy compelling, in part because each point of his proposed explanation was, in fact, true. The steam expelled from my cranium in a pleasant, diminishing hiss.

I apologized to Jeff for being a crazy freak. Then I went to the kitchen, put on some water for coffee, and went out on the porch to call K.

Staying home from work made my list manageable, but we still had a lot to get done before catching our three o'clock to Framingham. Jeff and I were like a swat team, wrapping gifts, running to the Pathmark for supplies, waiting in line at the post office, and packing the clothes that had been washed in the sink and hung to dry on the curtain rod over the bedroom radiator.

When we got to the Port Authority, I ran ahead to hold a place in the burgeoning line and stand guard over our mound of bags, while Jeff got us snacks for the trip.

The basement of the Port Authority was squirming with travelers. One statuesque brunette swept by in a long black coat, draped with a lovely ombre shawl that fluttered in her wake. I watched her and thought, If she's not an opera singer, she wishes she were. As she passed me again, on her way back from a conversation with the bus driver, I could hear her quietly vocalizing scales.

Score!

Soon after, Jeff appeared, bearing trail mix and bottles of water. He joined me in people-watching, and we discussed the details of our weekend plans, and after what seemed a long while but probably wasn't, we were allowed to shuffle forward, awkwardly hand the bus driver our tickets while holding bags in both hands, stow the larger stuff in the belly of the bus, the smaller stuff over our heads, and settle in.

The bus pulled out towards 10th Avenue. The driver enjoined us to refrain from smoking, drinking, or being assaholic cell-phone users. Silence settled over the passengers. Jeff watched out the window. I opened my book, read a page, and fell asleep.

I slept all the way to Massachusetts. It was probably my best experience with Greyhound yet.

I woke outside Worcester with an audible crunch. Rubbing my neck, I turned to Jeff and asked him how his trip went.

Not too long afterward, the driver pulled off the highway and made the turn towards the depot. The closer we got to the stop, the more light I could see emanating from the megashopolis that stretches between Route 9 and Route 30 on the Natick/Framingham line. I have spent too many Christmas Eves running like a headless chicken through the Natick Mall to regard it with anything less than bone-deep dread. As the glow from the parking lots enveloped the bus, I was struck anew with gratitude that my Christmas shopping was done.

We disembarked, and lugged our bags to the sidewalk in front of the station, to wait for Jeff's parents. We stood like mama penguins, our legs around our luggage young, while Jeff smoked a cigarette. We eyed the approaching cars, trying to distinguish Jeff's parents' Camry from the sea of sedans swirling through the roads and lots around us.

Finally, they arrived. My mother-in-law, who shall henceforth be known as Dolores, was driving. I could see her smiling behind the windshield as she made the turn.

FIL greeted us both with outstretched arms and a kiss on the cheek. He got in the back with me so Jeff would have a chance to stretch his legs up front. We chatted, and decided to have Chinese for dinner, since Jeff and I both missed crab rangoons (One may find crab rangoons on the menus of Chinese restaurants in New Jersey, but they are not the same. We like New England-style pu pu.)

As we headed to the restaurant, Jeff shot me a significant grin over the back of his seat. I grinned back. He turned to his parents and said, "Well, Mom, Dad, I've got some good news. I've been offered a job as assistant professor of an architecture studio at [a college in New Jersey]."

His happy announcement was met with an uncomfortable, silent pause.

His father broke the stillness by remarking, "Well, if you think it's good news, then I guess it's good news." He reached over the seat to give Jeff's shoulders a manful slap.

Dolores said, "You'll lose your health insurance."

The night before the night before Christmas had begun.

To be continued...

December 31, 2005 in histories | Permalink | Comments (2)
Comments

Oh no! After that lovely build-up I was looking forward to hearing about a pleasant night at Jeff's parents' house.

Although I myself am blessed to have a close relationship with my amazing husband, I love reading about your interactions with Jeff. Even though you have your rough moments (as all couples do!) you obviously have a very strong relationship and are blessed with a great friendship as well. A rare and wonderful thing.

Posted by: Nancy | December 31, 2005 at 11:04 AM

you seems to have the radar sharp intuition about people (opera singer, your hubs biz partner, the retraining order you have on me). Just...wow.

don't you love it when the 'rentals are a buzz kill? I know I do. Really curious how that played out...good cliffhanger.

My favorite line tho: "We stood like mama penguins, our legs around our luggage young."

Posted by: Jen | December 31, 2005 at 12:39 PM

A Greyhound bus? All the way to Massachusetts? You are brave. We took one to upstate NY back when we lived in the city, and I will never do it again. Never ever ever.

Isn't the basement of Port Authority surreal?

And a big PTTTHHHHTTTT to your in-laws. No matter how secure we are, it still hurts to have parents piss on our parades.

Posted by: Julie | December 31, 2005 at 11:26 PM

Nancy-- Yeah, I'd hoped for a pleasant evening as well. You'd think, right?

Re Jeff and me, we're pretty lucky. And we haven't killed each other yet!

Jen-- You'd better be outside that 150-foot radius, or I'm calling the cops.

Julie-- Riding the bus is great practice for being institutionalized. And the basement of the Port Authority is very, very surreal.

Posted by: roo | January 02, 2006 at 02:34 AM

Why are parents always assholes? When you think you're going to get a great reaction, you get...well... THAT. and for some mediocre news they get all happy...

Posted by: Diana | January 03, 2006 at 12:34 PM

Here I Am! Rock You Like A Hurricane!

I got in the habit of journaling some years back-- a habit spurred on by my desultory following of the Twelve Steps to Creative Recovery. The only step of the twelve I ever took seriously was the one that required three pages (at least) of free-form writing first thing in the morning. I would wake up early, make a pot of coffee, and write for a half hour before getting ready for work (or for more smoking and tarot-card reading, depending.) On weekends, or days I lay around unemployed, I would often write for hours.

Generally, I tried to forge ahead with my journal, rarely stopping to look over anything I had written. But at one point in my recovery program, I was encouraged to look over earlier entries-- more particularly, to look for recurring themes. These themes were sometimes surprising. Case in point: I frequently got giggly and wrote the title line, whenever I was giving myself any kind of written pep talk-- because really, what could be dorkier than a woman writing encouraging words to herself in her diary?

I should explain the connection between the original idea and the conclusion, because if you're not me it might not be clear to you. When I fear being a dork, I tend to respond by embracing dorkiness to ridiculous extremes. In this case (which recurred surprisingly often in my morning pages), that meant writing down "Here I Am! Rock You Like A Hurricane!", while shouting out the lyrics, and headbanging.

So. Here I am.

I'm so happy to be home. My whole body is heaving a sigh of relief (excuse me.)
And I'm feeling silly and happy about how happy I am to be able to be with you all again.

I was starting to feel shy about writing, because of the break. That sort of feeling can lead to a much longer break, full of self-disgust, so I'm trying to nip it in the bud.

I also wanted to grab a chance to blog before Jeff needs the computer back. He's finishing up the competition entry he and the woman have been working on. I don't want to hinder that process-- Jeff can have the computer all week if he needs it.

But now it's late, and though I'm feeling some pressure to take this window of opportunity to record my trip in detail while it's reliably fresh, my reserves are low for writing about my family. I'm going to trust that another opportunity will present itself.

December 29, 2005 in dailies | Permalink | Comments (8)
Comments

I was going to write something thoughtful, insightful, bordering on poetry....I might've won awards for it.
but I can't now.
For I have had a song stuck in my head since I read this at 7:30 a.m.

Any guess as to what it is???

"You're a mean one,...Mrs. Grinch."
Thanks bunches! Kisses!

Posted by: Jen | December 29, 2005 at 09:09 AM

Welcome back!!!

It's stuck in my head now, too. Are there any lyrics to that song other than "Here I am, rock you like a hurricane?" (and the "c'mon, c'mon, c'mon" part?)

Posted by: Nancy | December 29, 2005 at 09:14 AM

Nance-
to answer you question: No, no there are not any other words to that song.
there are 2 variations of the "rock you like a hurricane", one sung "straight" and one where he does the I'm-in-pain-from-being-kicked-in-the balls-falsetto, "Hur -i - cay- aaaaaaaayyyy-ne".

Posted by: Jen | December 29, 2005 at 09:33 AM

"When I fear being a dork, I tend to respond by embracing dorkiness to ridiculous extremes."

Me too sister in dorkdom, me too!

Posted by: TB | December 29, 2005 at 11:43 AM

You're not the only one. Check out 2000-06-21: http://smartypants.diaryland.com/older.html

Posted by: SJ | December 29, 2005 at 08:51 PM

Happy you're back. I know the dorkiness well. My own, I mean.

Posted by: Nothing But Bonfires | December 30, 2005 at 10:11 AM

I am no stranger to the "dorkitude". And this morning, I heard Ratt "Round and Round"

and all I could see was that terrible video with Milton Berle....

Yeah! Roos' back

Posted by: Dawn | December 30, 2005 at 01:58 PM

hey, I totally know what you mean about feeling shy after a little break. Funny how that happens.

Posted by: krista | December 30, 2005 at 03:55 PM

Roo, discovering your blog, in recent weeks, has been a real pleasure for me - so, believe me when I say this, *don't feel shy about writing*, whether after a break, or not. I love what you write, and share.

Have a fantastic New Year! Cheers, Koan

Posted by: Koan Bremner | January 01, 2006 at 04:17 AM

I saw three ships come sailing in, on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day.

Jeff and I will be returning to the Land of our People today (not by ship, unfortunately-- we board the Dog this afternoon.) We are in various stages of anticipation and dread regarding the following: my nephew's very first Christmas morning, the unveiling of the annual Dress Barn gifts, several candle-lit suppers with several families, uncomfortable comments from relatives about our sex life, a visit with V, and much drinking.

The night has already slipped away from me. And while the woods are lovely, dark, and deep, I have miles to go before all the rest. I may have to nap on the bus.

In the meantime, though I cannot offer you the pleasure of a televised image of a crackling Yule Log, I give you these seasonally-inspired photos instead.

Love and joy come to you! (and a little wassail, too)

Ornament_little_angel_1_2005
This was my very first ornament ever.

Ornaments_1_2005

Many of these ornaments belonged to my father's mother.

Dough_roller_2_2005

Cut_outs_1_2005

Out_of_oven_2005

Cookie_plate_1_2005

Icing_1_2005

Cookie_jar_1_2005

Cookie_hand_5_2005

December 23, 2005 in dailies | Permalink | Comments (9)
Comments

YAY! You're almost on your way! I hope our Christmas visit works out better than last year! Boy did we wiff on that on! Safe trip roo! See you soon!

Posted by: V | December 23, 2005 at 08:48 AM

Mmmmm, your cookies look yummy.

Hope you have a very safe trip and a Merry Christmas. Don't stay away too long from the blog -- I'll miss you!

Posted by: Nancy | December 23, 2005 at 09:21 AM

Cheers and have a wonderful trip!

Posted by: TB | December 23, 2005 at 11:42 AM

I think I actually may be drooling a little on your hand.

Have a lovely holiday!

Posted by: Dawn | December 23, 2005 at 03:29 PM

I love the golden-ness of these photos...
okay? GOLDEN-NESS.

Have a safe trip and a wonderful Christmas.

Posted by: blackbird | December 23, 2005 at 03:45 PM

Love your pictures, seems very Christmasy over at your place.
Merry Christmas. Have a great trip.

Posted by: JenfromBoston | December 23, 2005 at 08:40 PM

Beautiful pictures - great effects, like Blackbird said.

Happy holidays Roo!

Posted by: Julie | December 27, 2005 at 07:16 PM

I am back!

I hope everyone had a great weekend/Christmas!

Mine was pretty good, for the most part, though home-sickness/husbandless-ness and family weariness brought me home an evening early (sorry, V! Wiffed again...)

Though I'm feeling like a bad friend for cutting my trip short, the rest of me is so relieved to be back home-- not that staying with family isn't great, but ah! my bed!

Another perk of being home is being able to blog again. I missed you all! (Especially you, Scarecrow.)

Posted by: roo | December 28, 2005 at 01:06 AM

Yay, You're back! (it's been hell for us who have stayed local with internet access!)

(In my best Jude from BJD/in proper english accent) "Am I codependent?"

Posted by: Jen | December 28, 2005 at 11:15 AM

Professor Homunculus.

The other night, Jeff mentioned in the off-handest of manners that he had a job interview scheduled for this morning, at a design school outside the city.

Last night, with an intensity of purpose belied by his casual air, Jeff updated his portfolio. I had to ask him to move his neat stacks of print-outs off the bed when I wanted to go to sleep. I don't know how late he was up.

This morning, the excitement rolling in palpable waves off my husband managed to wake me somewhat from my blurry repose. I lifted one eyelid and watched him zip quietly around the bedroom while straightening his tie. Jeff doesn't normally wear ties.

I must have drifted off again, because he shook me awake so I could kiss him good luck.

I have the great fortune of working for a woman who prefers to work late, instead of getting up early, so I didn't have to leave the house until after ten. I got up and spent some time at the computer, regretting that I couldn't just spend the day blogging. As though answering a prayer, K called and told me that traffic was still insane, what with the transit strike and the holiday traffic, and that she'd rather I stay home.

I'm embarrassed by my joy in this day off. I just started working on Monday, and a week before that I was worried I would never earn money again. Being neurotic is really tiring.

I decided to respond to recent comments-- a task that never fails to bring a smile to my face. I had just typed the line, "Oh, red, have I got a job now!", when I heard my beloved's footsteps racing up the stairs. I bolted for the door, and got there just as Jeff swung it open. He stood in the entrance, looking for all the world like a boy standing before the tree on Christmas morning.

"You got the job!"

"I got the job!"

We kissed like a Doisneau photograph. He warned me that he doesn't know how much they'll offer to pay him. I didn't care. He told me that it meant he would have to quit his current job. I told him that was the best part.

"Plus, you'll be a professor!"

"Well, an adjunct, assistant professor."

"You'll be a mini-professor!"

"Yes I will!"

"A pocket professor!"

"A pocket professor?"

I guess that one does sound a little dirty.

At any rate, my husband will soon be entering the realm of academia as a professional. It's a realm he's eminently suited for (if you've read my recent meme tag, you might see what I mean.) I'm so excited for him, and I'm popping buttons off my shirt with pride.

I'm exhilarated, but also a little terrified, by the sound of so many parts of our life clicking into place these last few days. It's hard for me not to feel like this good fortune will need to be balanced by something awful-- like when the Red Sox finally broke the Curse, but Dubya beat Kerry.

Superstitious dread aside, I have to admit I've had a good feeling about my 30th year-- a feeling that some pattern will emerge this year that will guide me to the next stage of my life. Jeff and I are the same age, and I wonder if he's starting to feel this way, too.

Jeff had to change out of his interview suit, and get ready to go to his soon-to-be-erstwhile job, back in the City (he doesn't get strike days off, apparently.) As he stepped out on the verandah for a last cigarette before he left to battle Tunnel traffic, I remembered one of my favorite David Sedaris short stories: The Learning Curve. (Sedaris, David. "The Learning Curve," in Me Talk Pretty One Day. New York: Little, Brown, and Company, 2000, 83-96.)

In it, Sedaris recounts his experience teaching a creative writing class at a community college. Here's the excerpt that sprang to mind:

" I'd always hated it when a teacher forced us to invent something on the spot. Aside from the obvious pressure, it seemed that everyone had his or her own little way of doing things, especially when it came to writing. Maybe someone needed a particular kind of lamp or pen or typewriter. In my experience, it was hard to write without your preferred tools, but impossible to write without a cigarette.

"... By the end of the second session, my students had produced nothing but ashes. Their hacking coughs and complete lack of output suggested that, for certain writers, smoking was obviously not enough." (85, 87)

I told Jeff he should really consider cutting out some maple-leaf construction-paper nametags for his students to wear on the first day of class.

When he left for work, he was grinning.

December 21, 2005 in dailies, reviews, sunshiny days, wedded bliss | Permalink | Comments (22)
hey!
this is great news...

Posted by: blackbird | December 21, 2005 at 04:01 PM

Yay! yayayayayayayayayayayay!!!

Posted by: SJ | December 21, 2005 at 04:42 PM

Yes it is, Blackbird. Thanks!

Also, thanks for stopping by. Merry Christmas!

Posted by: roo | December 21, 2005 at 04:43 PM

And to you, too, SJ! And to everyone!

What'chu talkin' about, everybody!

Posted by: roo | December 21, 2005 at 04:44 PM

Congratulations to Jeff! And to Roo! I love it when things start to fall into place!

Posted by: Nancy | December 21, 2005 at 06:59 PM

Thanks, Nancy!

Posted by: roo | December 21, 2005 at 07:22 PM

I am so happy for you Roo-and Jeff too!! This is wonderful holiday news!

Posted by: Amanda | December 21, 2005 at 10:15 PM

Thanks, Amanda! I'm so glad you came to visit.

Posted by: roo | December 21, 2005 at 11:06 PM

WOW!!!!! This is SOOOOOOOOOOOO awesome!!!! Give Jeff a big ole CONGRATULATIONS from me....and polish him an apple for me, kay? Woooo-hoo!

Posted by: V | December 22, 2005 at 07:45 AM

It's...it's a Christmas Miracle!! ( cue auld lang syne musak,) "A Toast, to Jeff...the richest man in town!"

that's awesome!

Posted by: JenfromBoston | December 22, 2005 at 08:03 AM

Also, do you think he wil lever "keep you after class" if ya know what I mean?? Huh? Am I right or am I right?

Posted by: JenfromBoston | December 22, 2005 at 08:04 AM

Merry Christmas, you old Savings and Loan!

Heh. I'm hot for teacher...

Posted by: roo | December 22, 2005 at 09:32 AM

Congratulations! And here's to more clicking!

I love Sedaris and actually we are getting a chance to see him live. Can't wait.

Posted by: TB | December 22, 2005 at 10:16 AM

Congrats to you both! I guess this means that nasty work lady won't be making any more stops by your house. Double yay!

Sedaris is one of my favourite writers - I love the fact that you quoted him. If you haven't read Holidays on Ice yet, I'd highly recommend it, particularly this time of year.

Posted by: savia | December 22, 2005 at 10:53 AM

Hijacking your comments to ask -- am I the only one in the world who has an extreme dislike for "It's a Wonderful Life"? Just curious.

Posted by: Nancy | December 22, 2005 at 12:00 PM

It's one of my favorites...because I only ever see 30 seconds of it at a time. I may have seen the whole thing by now...but in a much better order than they intended! :)

Posted by: V | December 22, 2005 at 02:20 PM

TB-- Thanks! I'm jealous!

Savia-- I have indeed read 'Holidays on Ice'-- it's a Christmas classic. I particularly like 'SantaLand Diaries.'

Thanks for visiting, Savia. Merry Christmas!

Nancy-- Like or dislike doesn't have much to do with my feelings for "It's A Wonderful Life." Its images have become so iconic I can't consider it clearly. (I feel the same way about "The Wizard of Oz.")

Posted by: roo | December 23, 2005 at 03:46 AM

Roo -- it is an icon, true. I think I dislike it because my mom always raves about it, and I can't stand the way James Stewart's character acts towards his wife and kids. I know, it was probably true for the time, but just bugs me. OK, I'll stop hijacking again. ;-)

Posted by: Nancy | December 23, 2005 at 06:41 AM

What lover-ly news Roo. Jeff is a
"Poke-Professor", which sounds just about as dirty as you can get!

Posted by: Dawn | December 23, 2005 at 03:33 PM

I'm so late to this good news, but wanted to extend congratulations nonetheless.

Posted by: Julie | December 27, 2005 at 07:18 PM

Nancy-- I hate the way he treats his family, too, but I think it's a truthful portrait of a flawed man. I guess the question is, how far does his transcendence, the climactic re-acceptance of his life, ultimately carry him? Does his new level of awareness lead him to be kinder to his family? Did the people involved in making the film even consider the question of how a man treats his family as important? They clearly understood the connection between frustration and aggression in domestic relationships...

Posted by: roo | December 28, 2005 at 01:20 AM

Dawn-- Heh heh heh.

Julie-- Thanks! I'm glad you did!

Posted by: roo | December 28, 2005 at 01:23 AM

Good husbandry.

I cried a lot Saturday night, after the woman went home. I felt like a snail that had been tortured by schoolboys. Jeff held me. Later that night, he couldn't sleep.

I, on the other hand, fell dead on my pillow. When I woke up Sunday morning, and got in the closet to check my stats page, I thought I'd gotten a new fan-- someone had read every story in my archives, bottom to top.

Well, he's not exactly a new fan. But I asked Jeff when the last time was that he'd actually read any of my posts, and he said, "August."

I started writing July 4th. So there was an awful lot he hadn't read-- most of it, in fact.

I'd asked Jeff a few times if he was still reading my blog. Finally he told me that he was just reading things I'd already told him. Fair enough-- I could see how that might be redundant. Besides, we both enjoy having our own pursuits. He often plays his guitar while I write. It's peaceful. I want to grow old like this.

All the same, if Jeff kept a blog, I couldn't resist reading. I wish he had a porthole in his head, so I could make sense of his behavior sometimes. And he's so smart, and funny, and contemplative-- who wouldn't want to read those thoughts?

I'm glad Jeff got caught up. But four months of angst, joy, and profundities is a lot to take, in one sleepless night.

At first, I was annoyed that, instead of discussing the evolution of my prose style, Jeff wanted to focus on a few key points: that I've noticed he's put on some weight since starting his current job, that he's had some bad haircuts, and that I've had sex with other men. None of this is new information.

But, after some consideration, I was forced to acknowledge that, were I to read many entries of his theoretical blog in one sitting, that sort of information would become my key points as well: I'd dwell on some comment about a woman on the train, or some offhand remark about the weight I've gained since he first knew me.

The fact that Jeff reacted the way he did is part of the reason he understands me. I can't be annoyed by it for long.

Jeff pointed out that it would be reasonable for a first-time reader to presume from my posts that I did not marry the man I've had the best sex of my life with. On the off chance that he may be right in his presumption, let me set the record straight:

The best sex of my life has been with my husband, Jeff. His record is so far above the reach of any other contender that I'd have to say it occupies its own plane.

There, it's straight.

Later, Jeff gave me a well-reasoned review of what he considered to be my best posts. He managed to make me glow with pride, without employing even a whiff of bullshit.

I'd tell you what he said, but some things are private.

December 20, 2005 in blogs, dailies, wedded bliss | Permalink | Comments (10)
comments:

J reads my blog regularly. It's interesting, because I posted about it once, and most of my regular commenters said their spouses/SOs did not have any interest in their blogs. I think sometimes it's easier for me to write about things than talk about them, so I am glad he can read and find out about those facets of me.

Posted by: Nancy | December 20, 2005 at 08:02 PM

Well...I hope Jeff at least leaves a comment after THAT!
N recently asked me if I had a blog, and since I'm a horrible liar, I just said yes. I later told him he could read it (because clearing the history obsessively to prevent it is just not something I'm up for) and he seems genuinally TERRIFIED to do so and keeps insisting that it's like prying into my diary. Part of me is releived....part of me is kind of offended...I'm the same Roo....if he had a blog, wild horses could not keep me from reading every word.

Posted by: V | December 21, 2005 at 07:35 AM

I would be very curious as to what Mike would come up with, had he had his own blog. He is a man of few words. International Man of Mystery.

I know he reads mine (at work)and has commented twice I think (I started writing in March).

Posted by: Jen | December 21, 2005 at 09:17 AM

I could have written this post. How weird! It's not that I my husband and I don't talk, in fact we often talk about what I write on my blog. But the point is, I'm much more eloquent with the written word than when I open my mouth to speak, so he's really missing out on some good stuff if he doesn't read it for himself.
And if J had a blog, it would be the first thing I clicked on every morning.

Posted by: TB | December 21, 2005 at 10:22 AM

We all would read our men's blogs, but they don't want to write them. Therein lies la difference, I suppose. Viva!

And I think Jeff will be checking in more regularly now-- he read this post, for instance. (Hi!)

Posted by: roo | December 21, 2005 at 11:18 AM

Nancy, he's missing out if he's not reading your comments!

Posted by: roo | December 21, 2005 at 01:23 PM

Teerance looked once, and then declared I was "kinda witty" and hasn't been back.

I have a hard time thinking anything is private, which drives My hub nuts.

Posted by: Dawn | December 21, 2005 at 01:36 PM

But it delights the rest of us!

Ball-icing peas...

Posted by: roo | December 21, 2005 at 03:57 PM

My friend thinks that it's crazy that my husband doesn't read mine. She has this idea that if a person loves someone they would want to be apart of everything they do. (I think that is a little niave maybe...) I don't know if I'd read his if he had one. He would blog about politics probably, or books that I haven't read. We are just interested in different things.

My husband would be bored stiff if he read my blog. Even the parts about him. He'd just rather be reading other stuff.

I think I like it that way.

That's cute that your man had some favourite posts.

Posted by: Krista | December 22, 2005 at 09:43 PM

I don't know... I tend to think it's a good sign (at least from a relationship longevity standpoint) if the two halves of a couple have their own interests. If you do everything together, what will you talk about at the end of the day?

Although some people don't seem to mind not talking...

Yeah, Jeff had a few favorites, though he did mention that he could tell when I'd taken time to think a post through before writing, because the others "seemed a little slapped together" by comparison.

He is pretty cute.

Posted by: roo | December 23, 2005 at 03:57 AM

Buffer.

I'd rather my recent post resign its position as most current commentary on my inner life. I'm in a happier frame of mind now.

My words are not yet up to the task, unfortunately.

The other night I was riding the A train towards the bus that would take me home. The train was loud and quiet. This stanza from a poem by Thomas Hardy was hanging on the wall:

The Broken Appointment

You did not come.
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb.
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make

That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure loving kindness' sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.

Bolt2005

December 20, 2005 in dailies, reviews, works | Permalink | Comments (2)
Comments

Ah yes, the buffer. I've used that before. :-)

Beautiful poem -- it was on the wall of the train? Is that a common thing in Boston, that people share poems on modes of public transportation?

Posted by: Nancy | December 20, 2005 at 10:29 AM

Yes, Nancy-- it's one of the beautiful things about living in a city where 3 out of 5 residents are college students (though you're far more likely to see Hardy poems in Cambridge stations.)

But actually, the poem was put out by Poetry in Motion, a public service, I suppose, to the riders of the New York City subway (I've lived outside NYC for eight years now, after five in Boston-- and its environs.)

I still consider Boston (and Massachusetts, and New England in general, and the whole Northeast, really) the Land of my People.

Posted by: roo | December 20, 2005 at 11:22 AM

Hang on to your hats-- this is gonna be a long ride.

The woman has driven me to smoke. I've been picking butts from the verandah ashtray. They should disgust me, but they taste so good.

I've considered the hazards of venting in a public and by-no-means-anonymous sphere. I've concluded that what I am about to say is no less than what I would have liked to say to her, were she not my husband's business partner and a !@#$#$! guest in my home. If she happens to read this, so be it. I'll do my best to keep it brief.

The first problem posed by Jeff and the woman working together in my home is that we have only the one computer, and it sits on a desk at a workstation in our bedroom closet.

I suppose it would be worse if they had decided to set up shop in my underwear drawer.

Plus, if I'm home, and I'm not hanging out with Jeff, or puttering while chatting on the phone, or working on the sort of creative endeavor I prefer to pursue in privacy and silence, I want to be here, writing, and getting to know other bloggers. But the two of them need to use the computer to get their work done, and they can't afford an office or studio yet, and I value my husband's career. So I was determined to be civil. Ouch! These nails are really hurting my wrists!

I want Santa to bring me a laptop. I don't think it's gonna happen.

At any rate, her presence disrupted every quality I value about my home life-- namely, relaxation, contemplation, and the ability to walk around naked when necessary. She arrived at our door with a bag of old produce, and a bag of stale peanuts, and two cans of tuna fish, and talked to me about making dinner with them. She seemed to think that I would cook her food for her. I don't cook dinner for myself, generally; never mind my husband. We work hours that are too strange for a regular family meal in the evenings. I'm okay with that-- it's better for us not to eat too late in the day anyway. Regardless, I don't see why she thought I would cook for her: I'm not her wife.

I also find it surprising that a lesbian would so obviously dislike and mistrust women (I'm saying this as someone who has struggled with her own sexual identity.) The woman made a crack that the lone young female professor tenured at a certain design school had clearly slept her way to the position.

At this point, I couldn't stop myself from exclaiming: "Wow! You totally broke with the girl herd!"

She had the good sense to look shamed for a moment. Then she started talking about cheaters and cheating. It all started with Rem Koolhass, an architect and theorist who has what some would call a French marriage: a wife installed respectably in one home, a mistress in another, and countless more besides. I said I didn't understand why anyone would bother to get married if they still wanted to sleep with other people, now that there's no shame in cohabiting outside marriage. The woman seemed put out by my remark. I explained that while I would never presume to make my own views general policy, my feelings on the matter were what led me to make the choices I have-- to wit, that I don't ever want to sleep with anyone but Jeff, and that I will kill him, then divorce him, if he ever cheats on me. He and I have discussed this, and we agree that the reverse holds true for him. This agreement is what I would call the basis of our marriage contract-- a public item with a personal definition.

But the woman had an ax to grind. She mentioned a situation from The L Word (we don't have cable, but I was familiar with the show): one character cheats on another, just after the other one loses a baby they had been planning to raise together. The woman maintained that the grieving lover was wrong to boot the cheater out on her ass. The woman said, "If you agree to commit to someone, you're agreeing to commit to their faults. Why are you going to throw away your promise just because someone slept with someone else, when it probably didn't mean anything?"

I said, "Some might say the cheater already threw that promise away, by betraying the lover at a time like that, for something that wasn't even meaningful."

As we debated these issues, in pleasant yet intense tones, Jeff, who was looking acutely sad and uncomfortable, left to smoke on the verandah. I felt abandoned. But I started to figure out why the woman couldn't just shut the fuck up.

She broke up with her girlfriend a few weeks ago. The girlfriend was emotionally fragile, a recent fashion school grad who couldn't find work for a while after graduation. At the time, the woman said she just thought the girlfriend was more ambitious than she turned out to be. The woman found that disappointing. As someone who has experienced depression and unemployment numerous times since finishing my costume degree, I had a lot of sympathy for the girlfriend. I found the woman's patronizing tone, and her coldness, off-putting.

I should point out that the girlfriend does have a job now, her own apartment, and the cat. Go, girlfriend.

But as the woman rambled on, making the traditional patriarchal excuses for infidelity, I realized that the only reason she would be pursuing such a loaded topic, in such an inappropriate and unwelcoming atmosphere, is that she was actually trying to convince herself of her own innocence. I don't know if she realizes that I've figured her out. It's hard to cheat a cheater.

I used to cheat a lot. I ended my relationship with my high school boyfriend a week after starting a summer fling with a friend. I cheated on my college boyfriend, B, countless times, with many different people. Jeff was one of them. Our marriage began as an illicit affair. I can only describe it in grandiose terms: it was an overwhelming, addictive thrill, like heroin.

People tell you that you will know when you've fallen in love. If you aren't paying attention, though, you won't. Unfortunately, when I finally decided to grow myself some integrity, I concluded that my relationship with Jeff was hopelessly tainted, so I'd have to give him up. There followed a seemingly endless series of hook-ups, and break-ups, and I prided myself on my honesty in refusing commitment, even telling him outright I planned to continue sleeping with other people. Then I slept with a friend of his, who went to college with me, but had been in a band with him back in high school. At the time, I didn't even consider the connection between them. I wanted what I wanted, and I wanted the heedless escape from my regular experience that went with it. In retrospect, I can see I was trying to hurt him, to get him to stay away. It worked, for a couple of years.

While we were apart, I almost married another man-- the one I'd chosen to reform me. I realized that I wanted to end the engagement after passionate kisses from a married man showed me that the prospect of spending the rest of my life with the reformer was making me feel dead inside. A month later, I tracked down Jeff's number and gave him a call.

In short, I know how reckless sexual behavior can become the shock that reveals repressed feelings. I have put in my time learning this particular lesson. I don't need the review. And I don't see how the woman couldn't comprehend how offensive, not to mention passive-aggressive, it is to sit with a couple at their kitchen table, and tell them that they will most assuredly be cheating on each other before long. I mean, who the fuck does that?

This post is twenty miles long, and I'm not done yet.

I interrupted the woman's schemes for a tuna-fish/peanut/moldy-old-vegetable meal, by telling her that I didn't think I'd be back for dinner, since I needed to finish my Christmas shopping. I told them they should make their dinner plans without me. It felt good just to walk away.

When I arrived in Manhattan, the gods of shopping were with me. I was in a shopping Zone. I seemed to have a strange psychic connection to each gift: I let my itchy feet lead me to unexpected neighborhoods and shops, where, with a weirdly fateful serendipity, I found everything I was looking for. I had left my house for the city at four in the afternoon, and I was done shopping by seven-thirty. My efficiency had a downside, though, since it meant I had nothing left to do but bring my purchases home. Where she was. But mostly I was excited: I found some really great stuff, and I can't wait to give it to people.

See, here's the thing: I really like giving people presents, especially when I feel like I've gotten something the recipient might really love. I enjoy happy surprises, both in the giving and in the receiving. Besides, I value material culture: imbuing objects with potent symbolic and historical power is one of the tenets of my home-made animistic faith, along with storytelling, fear of tempting the gods, and ancestor worship. So it was a huge buzz-kill when I came home, bubbling over with my shopping success, to be treated to an eye roll and some comment about how at least the Jews don't celebrate their holy days with a rampant display of commercialism.

I reminded myself the woman was a guest in my home. But I was thinking, Why is this bitch in my house?

I closed myself into my studio, to talk on my cell and to try to self-medicate my way back to the happy feelings I'd had when I wasn't wondering why that bitch was in my house.

Some time later, I realized that I still wasn't in the mood to start my present-wrapping party, so I stopped by the closet atelier to see how their project was progressing. They were taking a break from their competition entry, to take a look at a lovely tower design Jeff put together earlier this fall. The woman was talking about how they had to get it built, that she was going to have to talk to her connections in the building industry to see if they could make it happen. Jeff was glowing. He was so happy, in fact, that I started to think much kindlier thoughts about the woman. Look how hopeful my husband seems! If working with the woman gives him such self-confidence, maybe all this discomfort is worth it. Ow! My skin!

Of course, I was also thinking what it felt like knowing I was not the one making my husband so happy. But I did my best to squash those feelings as they sprouted up in green, sinuous shoots.

Jeff's design was really beautiful-- fanciful and organic and elegant. The woman and he were debating possible site choices. I mentioned that I thought it would look lovely in the desert. Jeff turned to me and said, "Vegas! Vegas would be perfect!" I smiled and suggested Dubai; he agreed that Dubai could be perfect as well. While he was brainstorming, Jeff wandered toward the kitchen, and we followed.

But when we arrived in the kitchen, the energy in the group suddenly changed. My contributions were met with increasingly patronizing commentary, even though the discussion was not excessively technical, and despite the fact that, like them, I have a graduate degree in design from a respected school. They stood in my kitchen, the heart of my apartment, talking around me loudly, as though I were invisible. And there was no escape.

I don't need to be a part of every conversation, but if you don't want me to voice an opinion, don't talk in my kitchen.

Shortly afterward, the woman needed to use the bathroom, and I took the opportunity to drag Jeff to the closet, and to explain in low tones how I felt like I wasn't being treated with respect by either of them. Jeff was immediately understanding-- he hugged me and told me he loved me, and that he'd make sure they wrapped things up soon, so the woman could return home. We talked quickly and quietly. He explained that he'd been taken in by my "good hostess skills"-- in other words, he thought that since I was pleasant with the woman as she ranted about infidelity, that I was okay with the discussion, and that he was the only one the woman had made sad and uncomfortable with her talk. He also said that he'd make sure they found some other place to work today. Thank goodness he did, because I might have punched someone if I had to put up with her in my space any longer.

I trust Jeff. And it was reassuring to find out that he was bothered by some of the woman's behavior-- that what I had seen wasn't just some green-eyed delusion. But Jeff has a strange bent for liking the unlikeable, and for not noticing, or at least acknowledging, that the unlikeable really like him (for an illustration of this point, please see Exhibit F.)

Jealousy makes me feel small-minded and pathetic, but I don't think I'm making up the sense that the woman is trying, for whatever reason, to wedge something prickly between Jeff and me. I feel like my home has been violated. I hate it.

And the cigarettes aren't really helping.

December 18, 2005 in dark days, getting to know roo, wedded bliss | Permalink | Comments (10)
Comments

Wow....THAT'S what Santa dropped at your house? A BITCH? Were you a good girl this year? I REALLY thought you were....it might be the work of the grinch.
I'm sorry Roo! I hope your buzz comes back! I'm looking for mine too....so if their huddled together, can you let me know if you see it?
And....RE: cigs....i just keep telling myself....resolution time is right around the corner (even though i think resolutions are stupid).

Posted by: V | December 19, 2005 at 09:05 AM

You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch-- I might have to climb up that chimney and open a can of whup-ass.

Posted by: roo | December 19, 2005 at 09:48 AM

I think I am frigtening the other editors as I sit here at work reading your post and making small noises of shock and disapproval. That woman sounds absolutely horrid--I am astounded that you managed to put up with her for as long as you did. I am so sorry that you had to have such a poisonous creature in your home. If it is any consolation, she sounds, from your description, very...sad and insecure and filled with vitriol.

Posted by: Alexa | December 19, 2005 at 10:02 AM

Thanks for the support, Alexa.

I'd feel better if I didn't sound so sad and insecure and filled with vitriol myself.

Posted by: roo | December 19, 2005 at 10:18 AM

Wow. Sounds like she has serious issues. Aren't you glad you don't have to live with her? Or better still, in her skin?
I hope Jeff can find a way to work with her without absorbing some of her toxicity. That's really tough to do, though. A thought he could do it with the mortgage business...

Posted by: SJ | December 19, 2005 at 12:00 PM

It's hard when you have to interact, or be faced with, people that you just absolutely can't stand on a personal basis. People that rub you the wrong way, have the opposite values from you, who pick fights and just generally seem unpleasant. It sounds like you did what was best by removing yourself (and for SHOPPING! one of my favorite activities) for as long as possible. It's good too that you talked to Jeff about it so he can be aware of how uncomfortable she makes you.

Hope you can avoid pulling out the whup-ass on her (i.e, hope she stays the hell away!)

Posted by: Nancy | December 19, 2005 at 02:43 PM

This is a really fascinating post (and didn;t read long to me, btw)

My favorite parts were:
1. her showing up with "a bag of old produce, and a bag of stale peanuts, and two cans of tuna fish" and expecting you to make dinner. rude factor notwithstanding, um, what exactly was she expecting you to McGuyver out of that?
2. Smoking butts from the ashtray.
3. the fact that you had this girl's number before she even started with sentence #2. You shoulda said, "I aint buyin' what you sellin', honey" or "swing from the power lines much?" and walked away.

Love it when people actually sound like they're buying their own line of shit. My thought is, deep down she doesn't - at least not in its entirety (see: mentioning ex has it together and then some, or even havin ghtis convo in the 1st place)....think about it, I mean you might *try* to b/s a friend, but a true friend will call you on it. However, given the nature of your relationship, she didn't think you would - at least full throttle. She's intentionally putting you in an awkward spot either to smile & nod in agreement and let it go, or to carefully couch every response so as not to offend your husband's biz partner - in close quarters no less. Which, if you think about it, is a whole 'nother level of shitty to add to the mix.

clearly she's a sorry sack. I'd pity her or maybe just plain detest her patronizing, cancerous ass before I'd let her earn my jealousy stripe. *Fuck thaaaat*. (and I am v. aware that I am not in your shoes, so I know it's so very easy for me to say/type all this here.)

Jeff seems to have acknoweldged your issues (i.e. you aint crazy) w/ her and appreciated your "good hosting skills" and remarkable restraint. So all Flattery with a side of Obtuse aside, she's got herself an uphill battle. Or at the v. least, a 2-front one if this is her new hobby. Cuz you guys TALK. And oh, the RESPECT you have for one another. He read all those classical plays and TOOK NOTES (all of them! ALL!) for ROO, that's who.
But you're right, WHO DOES THAT?

How often is she expected to be over your apt? Man, I hope you get a laptop...It could be a Christmas miracle! You never know!

Posted by: Jen | December 19, 2005 at 06:34 PM

Jen, I think I'm in love.

Posted by: roo | December 20, 2005 at 01:59 AM

Wow. That made me miss shopping in NYC so, so much. I also get a high from finding the perfect gift in the most random locations.

As for that clam, I can't believe she had the balls to try and railroad you in your own home. She obviously needs either 1. a good f*cking or 2. a good smack upside the head.

Enjoy the strike vacation!

Posted by: madge | December 21, 2005 at 08:25 PM

Or both!

But yeah, the shopping was pretty awesome-- I haven't stopped talking about it since. I love shopping, especially when it's not for me-- takes the pressure off.

Thanks for stopping by, Madge. Merry Christmas!

Posted by: roo | December 21, 2005 at 08:45 PM