Posts Tagged ‘family’

Happy Birthday, Honey! Now I know what it’s like to conduct an affair.

May 20, 2013

Last year, as we got ready to celebrate five years married and ten years together, I decided to throw my husband Lala a surprise party for his 30th birthday.

A big party is consuming enough to plan, but keeping it a secret from a spouse who is the guest of honor? Not only do you have to plan the venue, the theme, the food, the drinks and the guest list without any help from your partner – you have to do it without arousing the slightest suspicion that you’re going out of your mind trying to keep it all under wraps. And perhaps most important, you have to construct the perfect ruse to preserve the shock until your loved one steps in the door.

The whole thing needs more planning and accomplices than a casino heist.

Since our apartment is way too small for a birthday bash, I enlisted my cousins, who live in a large and beautiful row home in South Philly that we all call The Clubhouse.

I invited our mutual friends, but for my husband’s work buddies, I had to approach his boss.

That’s when I realized that this must be a little like having an affair. E-mail and social media accounts that I typically leave open on un-locked laptops at home could blow the whole thing, if my husband happened to borrow my computer for a moment and an errant RSVP popped up.

Is that what it feels like when married people surreptitiously frequent dating sites?

I became more secretive than Don Draper, logging out of everything every time I left the house, and keeping the screen pointed away from my husband when he was at home.

It was exhausting.

And I still had yet to spin the web of lies that would get him to the party unsuspecting.

I realized that the same thing city workaholics use to keep their suburban spouses from discovering an affair would also help me throw a surprise party.

When I told my husband that I had to work downtown all day on the Saturday before his birthday, he didn’t give it a second thought because in real life, that’s what I do anyway.  I said he should meet me downtown because I had a birthday dinner reservation for us.

You see the myriad holes in this plan, don’t you.

But here is where it got good.

My cousin Johanna Austin, who lives in The Clubhouse, is a professional photographer who just happened to be doing some work at the time for a publication I write for.

So I told my husband that one of my editors had happened to match Johanna and me up. And that we would be working on the piece together. At The Clubhouse.

But, you say, how did you know Lala wouldn’t just pull up and call my cell, forcing me to awkwardly wheedle him into the house while I kept friends away from the windows? Seriously, who wants to find street parking in South Philly at 7pm on a Saturday night when you think you’re about to drive to the restaurant, anyway?

Not to mention the fact that my husband knows I’m excellent at using public transportation. Why, he would think, could we not save time, gas, and a possible brawl with the Philadelphia Parking Authority and just meet at home or at the restaurant?

And this is where it got really good.

Before I left that morning to shop and prep the house for the party, I packed my party clothes in my purse without Lala noticing. And then I left a second outfit folded on our bed.

An hour or two before he was supposed to arrive, I called to say I had forgotten my dinner clothes and could he please be sure to bring them to The Clubhouse so while he waited I could get ready without having to go all the way home again.

And like a good husband, he did.

Here’s the video. Note how, because he is illegally parked, he tries to expedite the process by just reaching his arm inside the door with the clothes.  Proof positive that he had NO IDEA!!

The party was great but the lies wore me out. Tonight, we really are going out for dinner.

The Big Dead Goldfish Dilemma

February 19, 2013
Do fish go to heaven?

Do fish go to heaven?

Not every Princess’s passing makes the news.

She cost just a few cents when I bought her – a tiny orange dart. My youngest sister-in-law, whose own middle name is Princess, became especially fond of the fish and named it after herself.

Princess (on the right in the blog header photo) grew quickly. She outgrew all my nets. At about a foot in length, she was the size of a hearty lake trout. We fried smaller fish for dinner when we went surf fishing on the Jersey shore. When I leaned over the tank to feed her and her companions, she splashed my face like a cheeky dolphin.

Princess in her younger days.

Princess in her younger days.

About two years ago, she was partially responsible for what I called the spawning of a new era, and I have been parenting her fry ever since.

Princess's fry.

Princess’s fry.

She was the biggest, fastest, greediest fish in the tank – until one day last fall, when she suddenly seemed a little lethargic. The next day, she wasn’t interested in her food. I wasn’t too worried, having nursed her through a couple ailments in the past, including a quick bout of ick and some fin and tail rot. I added a natural antibacterial remedy to the tank.

The next morning, she was dead.

In all my years of fish-keeping, I’ve never seen a fish go down so fast. Princess should have lived many more years. I have no idea what she had, but whatever it was, it didn’t seem to affect any of the other fish.

I’m not immune to grief over my goldfish, who usually survive a couple years at least (my two oldest have been with me since college). All pets, however small, should be a genuine commitment, and I hate to lose them.

In the past, when my own fish have floated, I’ve made do with a quick flush, a tender wrapping and a trip to the dumpster, or a hasty burial, all with a fond word of farewell.

But I never lost a fish as large as Princess before.

As a practical matter, flushing was totally out of the question. And such was my fondness for Princess that I couldn’t countenance tossing her in the trash. But burial posed its own problems. We live in an apartment complex and have no front yard to speak of – just a concrete porch, parking lot, sidewalk and street.

I could have installed Princess in a large shoebox and taken her to the public park across the road – but what would the neighbors think, if they saw me digging a hole in the grass big enough to lay Princess to rest? I don’t even own a shovel.

And what if a passing Labrador retriever took too keen an interest?

Mom said next time I visit, I can haul the body across state lines and bury it in my parents’ yard. But my preference for travel by train is a problem. I doubt Amtrak counts a medium-size dead fish among approved luggage items.

To complicate matters, my sister-in-law, who was out of the country at the time of Princess’s demise, also grieved the fish and asked us not to dispose of the body until she could pay her respects.

Finally, in a textbook failure to cope with the situation, I put the poor fish in a gallon-sized plastic Ziploc bag and stashed her on the door of our freezer, next to a bag of sweet corn and an ice pack for my plantar fasciitis.

And there Princess remains, still eyeing me reproachfully every time I reach for some French-cut beans or a Popsicle.

If ever there was a first-world problem, it’s what to do with an oversized dead goldfish. But that doesn’t make me feel any better. So I’m taking to the blog.

What should I do?

Princess, almost two years ago.

Princess, almost two years ago.

For the touching conclusion to this story, check out Part 2: Princess at Rest.

Until You Are Gray.

November 29, 2012

This is a special guest post by my high-school classmate, Denielle, a mom of three. About two years ago, she lost her husband to suicide. A few weeks ago, her husband’s brother also took his own life.

Denielle is not a blogger or an author; she’s a beautiful person with some vital things to say about life. The following is a note she shared last week with grieving friends and family on Facebook. In some small way, I wanted to bring what she said to a larger audience, and she agreed that I could publish her words here.

Grief.

The bending of this life after someone loved is plucked from it. The aching of a vulnerable heart, which is in disagreement with what has befallen it.

I decided to care about my brother, and now he has vanished, and his body left to fade in the ground. Adjusting to a reality that has been changed by someone’s actions: it is difficult to bear, but not impossible. I am humbled before the fact that I can be affected so deeply by another, and that I am not the only one who influences life around me. I’m empowered by the fact that it is only me who chooses how I react and what I do now. Another’s behavior, chosen in whatever fog of blindness, is something I must not own.

I will not ask the departed why; I have tried that. You can shout as loud as you want, and there will be no return. But I glean insight from what has been. And I tell the living that I would prefer that they all stay, stay and live, take care, until you are gray. And love them. And if they don’t feel the love, ask them how they might.

Learn together, and share together. Be together, growing in a deepening understanding. Love and understanding are one and the same.

Right now life’s not lookin fair. But don’t let the man get you down. Negativity is not welcome in my home, even more now. Nonjudgmental honesty is observed and planted around us like a garden of vegetables.

What brings relief?

For me, sitting close, remembering that life is always changing. Singing and music, movement, walking, talking, choosing times to be alone. Knowing I don’t have to know it all, and letting go. Hugs and kisses. Asking for what I need, without pushing it. Letting you be you, and me be me. Letting go a lot, especially to fears that keep me from loving and moving forward. Acceptance, and keeping pace, like playing drums with the moment. Staying present, and when I wander kindly return to it. Forgiveness.

I didn’t even know how to properly spell the word “grief” two years ago, or what it meant. Now it is only too familiar.

My daughter said, “So Daddy died and then Owen. Who will die next?”

Sorry, I know that’s really sad, but it is part of her reality. And I wonder how she will grow though it. It is part of our shared reality. And the sharing is the part that helps us though it, I believe. Like we can do it together. Well, I told her “Hopefully no one, not for a long time, not till we are all very old.”

But I wonder the same thing she does, and dread. I live with it, and cope though it.

I breathe. Breath is completely reliable, maybe the thing I rely most on right now. When I breathe, it keeps the blood flowing to my brain and all my parts; breath centers me. I believe God is in that breath, and then in me, and you are all breathing, so you have it too.

Process. This is how I will sum it up right now. This is a changing process, life here. What is your process?

There is growth to be had in the ashes; compost turns to rich nutrient soil. I say this because it is what I have experienced. Shit is some of the richest fertilizer to use, if you learn how to turn it and mix it in with the ground. I think I have had enough for now, ok life.

I love you, take care.

I’m especially grateful to Denielle for sharing this, because a few days after I asked her if she’d be willing to let us read it here, my mother-in-law passed away unexpectedly. She was a lovely woman, and you can read about her here. So this goes out to her and the people who are grieving for her, and anyone else who’s lost a loved one. Special thanks to Denielle for these words.

Thoughts on Babysitting Which I May Sorely Regret Making Public

August 30, 2012

Back in the days when I needed a babysitter.

It seems that not everyone who gives birth to a child actually wants to spend all of her time with said child. Thank God for other people’s children, at least the teenaged ones. Need an evening out? Dial up a babysitter.

I began with mother’s helper kind of stuff when I was eleven or twelve, and babysat on a regular basis for several families in my town until I was 17 or so.

Enter a diabolically hyper four-year-old loose in a three-story house. I managed to dress the child in one leg of his red flannel footie jammies before the bedtime ignition. I stalked him up and down the stairs, on and off the beds, trying to stuff in another appendage each time the kid came to earth.

Some of my own babysitters had left strong impressions: stumbling to the couch to nap, feeding my brother and me as much ice cream as we could eat (or, on one memorable occasion, spoonfuls of icy, sticky-sweet orange juice concentrate right from the can), or telling my brother that vampires would come out of the woods to feed on his jugular if he did not go to sleep. I took my responsibilities seriously. I read stories, invented games, engineered blanket forts, went on walks and contrived experiments.

But while I was fond of all my charges, I never loved babysitting: the baths, the bucket full of bullfrog and pond water hitting the clean wood floor, the hurtling, half-jammied bodies. The children at one house, though they denied it, snatched raw cookie dough from the pan with the speed and accuracy of striking vipers. Meanwhile, the family dog had breath which could have been developed as a biological weapon of terror, the full blast of which he released on me after the kids tumbled, complaining of tummy ache, into their beds.

As I rediscovered recently in a Facebook thread from a friend soliciting advice on how much she should pay a local teen to babysit for her little boy, bedtime is an important consideration when calculating babysitters’ pay.

Part of the reason the discussion caught my eye was that though I haven’t babysat anyone for well over a decade, the pay mothers were suggesting last week was quite similar to what I used to get paid.  According to the majority of comments, a 14-year-old girl babysitting a one-year-old for an evening was entitled to $5-$10 an hour.

I put the question out to my own peers – how much had they earned for teenaged jobs? About thirty people replied, describing employment from cleaning to filing to yard work, stable chores, data entry and bagging groceries. Most people reported earning minimum wage up through $10, $12 or $15 an hour for this work. But the babysitters, while a few of them said they made $10 or $12 per hour, generally made do with much less.

A couple twenty-somethings said they had typically made $5 per hour. Another said she had made as little as $2.50 per hour. And another said she was paid $3.50 per hour to babysit four kids, and $3.75 or $4.00 per hour for five kids. But for me, the kicker was that this girl also did office work for $6.00 an hour, and yard work for $8.00.

Why are babysitters paid so little? It’s something that has irked me since I was a teenager myself. People will pay you more to mow their lawn than they’ll pay you to watch their kids.

As my mom so wisely said as we discussed our respective babysitting days, “trying to rationalize pay scales in relation to jobs is really impossible.”

But in the case of your kids’ safety versus the state of your grass, it seems to me that it shouldn’t be that difficult to prioritize. I’m not saying we should pay the yard-work kids less. Rather, let’s pay the babysitter at least as much as we pay the kid mowing the lawn.

But it seems that for the last fifteen years at least, teenage girls (I am assuming that the vast majority of babysitters are girls) are used to accepting $5-$7 per hour, and sometimes less, for what is probably the biggest responsibility the average person of that age will shoulder.

Maybe it’s because I don’t have a natural affinity for children, but babysitting seemed like hard work to me. It was physically tiring, especially when there were multiple kids, and mentally demanding. The responsibility weighed on me: I remember sudden high fevers and at least one epic nosebleed. I got a book on first aid for children and studied it frequently, and took a babysitters’ safety course at the local library. I was certified in CPR.

This is why I’m not on board with the women who suggested to my friend that since her little boy is well-behaved, she could pay a babysitter a lower rate. Again, it’s hard to objectively rationalize pay scales, and yes, some kids are harder to supervise than others, but I don’t like this method of determining the babysitters’ pay.

Even the most seemingly well-behaved kid could throw a tantrum – or unwittingly make a huge mess – once Mom is out the door. But more importantly, whether the kid is an angel or a hellion, the babysitter’s responsibility for the kid’s health and safety is the same. Parents should not justify paying a sitter less because they think their kids are well-behaved. If the child chokes or hits her head or reacts badly to a bee-sting, that sitter’s knowledge and presence of mind could mean life or death. Is that really worth only $5-$10 an hour to modern parents?

Some parents believe that having the sitter there after the kids are in bed should correspond to a lower pay rate.

My advice-seeking friend decided that she could settle on a rate lower than the general $10/ hour consensus (even though she says she thinks that babysitters are generally underpaid) because the sitter “only has him for two hours awake…and then about five hours watching TV.”

A friend backs her up on the lower pay rate: “she’ll be paid for watching TV pretty much.”

Worse, another friend weighs in with a different solution: “I have a friend who pays one rate when the kids are awake and another while they are sleeping.”

Excuse me, but what the hell kind of parental cheapskate thinks that the teenager watching over their children alone late at night deserves a lower rate because the kids are sleeping? Surely any parent knows that sudden illnesses can strike just as easily at night as they can during the day. Not to mention kids who might need comfort after a nightmare or become upset and disoriented to wake up without their parents near.

Do you want your babysitter to feel that her responsibility level is reduced after-hours, just because the kids are sleeping? When I have kids (yep, that’s right, I’ve written this treatise on hiring babysitters when I have no kids of my own), I will certainly hope that my babysitter is just as alert in the evening as she would be during the day, and I’ll pay her accordingly.

And what’s this attitude that assumes teens are looking forward to an evening staying up late alone in your living room? Sure, I remember lots of peaceful nights from my own teen years. I’d get the kids to bed uneventfully and pop in a VHS, read a book, or do homework, checking periodically on the bedroom, until the parents came home.

But there were other times that after-hours babysitting was far from fun.  Sometimes (especially troublesome in the days before cell phones) parents came home much later than they’d said they would and I’d be struggling to stay awake, wishing I was home in bed, while my own parents surely were listening for me to return. On one memorable occasion babysitting at a very isolated house on a totally black night, a sudden loud banging at the back door terrified me (and the dog). Of course everything was locked up. I peered out the doors and windows to see if someone was out there. All I could see was the frosty, silent yard, with the woods on one side and a deep grassy field on the other.

When the parents came home, they said that maybe a skunk had come out of the woods and made the noise.

Sure it did. (To this day I wonder why they settled on a skunk.)

I’m not a fearful person by nature (one day I’ll tell you about my many nights at Eastern State Penitentiary with all the lights turned off). But anyone can get unnerved alone at night in a strange setting. Don’t assume your teenaged sitter is having a great time just because she can sit and watch TV.

So that’s why I’m sad that parents are still willing to pay teens $6, $7 or $8 per hour to take care of the kids, while implying that the job is low-key or easy if the kids are sleeping or well-behaved. Part of me wonders whether we’d have such persistent problems with the disparity between men’s and women’s pay in the US if teenage girls felt as if they could ask for a fair wage for babysitting, while the boy mowing the lawn earns twice as much. Maybe that’s far-fetched, but as I explained in a post earlier this year, I think your work experience as a teenager can have a lasting effect on your career. Who’s to say that the youthful habit of accepting $5 per hour (or less) to care for someone’s kids doesn’t affect a woman’s future ability to demand fair pay on the job?

I wish teen babysitters could be paid at least $15-$20 an hour, as a token of how important their responsibility is.

But I can hear the apoplectic parents now. How could they possibly afford to pay $40, $60 or even $80 just for babysitting every time they go out? I know a lot of families are strapped for cash. But I bet many of them have smart-phones and multiple TVs and two cars and iPads and a premium NetFlix subscription. I doubt many middle-class women balk at occasionally paying $40 or so for a nice blouse or sweater. Isn’t your kids’ wellbeing worth at least as much as a new outfit?

Maybe earning those few dollars for toting someone else’s kids around is an important rite of passage that teaches our teenagers a little hustle. If minimum wage is $7.25 per hour, maybe there’s nothing wrong with paying our babysitters a similar rate.

But it still seems to me that the low pay for babysitters is a legitimate part of a troubling tradition in our country: underpaying our teachers and child-care workers, while hedge fund managers and sports stars and advertisers and politicians are rich beyond most people’s imagining. Our treatment of the people who care for our children is a telling indication of our country’s true priorities.

Even as I write this essay, I’m afraid that I’ll desperately want to eat my words as soon as my husband and I decide to reproduce. A trustworthy teenager willing to watch our tot for a pittance will probably seem like the salvation of our marriage, sanity and bank account all at once.  So maybe I’ll wish I’d never written this, once I can actually relate to what it’s like to try to plan a night out when you have a young family.

But I still hope that when it comes time for me to hand my baby over to a high-schooler, I can pay her a rate that will signify how much I value the work she’s doing, and how important it is that she stay alert.

Parents, what is your experience? Babysitters, does what I say ring true?

When Dogs Lie.

August 15, 2012

Java and Dexter, my aunt and uncle’s dogs, an excitable cocker spaniel/poodle mix and a trembling, devoted Jack Russell Terrier, trained their gaze on my uncle with the focus of weapons guidance systems.

He was making himself a bowl of sliced strawberries.

“I wonder why they think they want strawberries,” I said.

“Now, see, the problem right there is that you’re assuming they think at all,” my uncle replied. Though he loves his dogs, he apparently doesn’t set a great store by canine intelligence.

But my uncle is wrong.

Of course I’m not the first person to allege that dogs can think. One of my favorite books as a kid was a paperback about dog heroes: dogs defended their families from poisonous snakes, woke up sleeping parents in the face of fire, and dragged their injured humans from freezing lakes and gravel pits.

Or take the story circulating the internet this week: a mother dog pulls her 10-day-old puppies from a house-fire, and piles them right into a nearby fire-truck.

Are these not the actions of a clever species? This is not to mention the work of service dogs, military dogs, cancer and bomb and drug-sniffing dogs, dogs that herd your livestock and dogs that comfort you when you cry.

Currently occupying the admittedly subjective title of smartest dog of all time is Cuda, my mom’s buff-colored 11-year-old cocker spaniel/miniature poodle mix.

Here is a dog who knows how to have fun. (Photo credit Johanna Austin.)

He showed his smarts early on by learning to leap onto the back of the couch and touch his nose to my dad’s buck trophy on the living room wall when someone asks “where’s the deer?”

There it is!!

Later, he expanded his repertoire to running to the goldfish tank when someone asks “where’s the fishies?”

But one night he blew it all out of the water.

My mom was home alone late at night, and Cuda began to bark frantically at the front door. Mom peeked out the windows and could see nothing, but Cuda wouldn’t calm down. Finally, unbidden, he leapt to touch the deer trophy.

What was he trying to say?

Mom looked outside again, and on her second try, she discovered a herd of deer crossing the driveway.

To Mom, the episode settled a long-running dispute we’ve had about the depth of Cuda’s smarts – I maintained that he has no idea what a “deer” is and had merely responded over time to positive reinforcement when he approached the trophy. Now, Mom can claim that Cuda’s mental abilities extend to the communication of fully-formed abstract reasoning.

Deer are trespassing outside. Mommy doesn’t know they’re there. There is a deer right there on the wall. Since I am unable to alert her to the presence of deer outside through noisemaking alone, I will point to the inside deer to represent the deer that are outside.

Occasionally I take up my case again to assert that Cuda’s running to the deer was not a demonstration of his vocabulary, but a reflex: excited by the encroaching animals, he spontaneously performed a behavior that he does at other times of high excitement – i.e., when humans are looking at him and talking to him in enthusiastic voices.

My own childhood dog, while devoted to me, was not renowned for her smarts. This golden retriever spent one hectic snow-day afternoon barking in terror at the snowman my brother and I built in the front yard. On another notable occasion, in one go, Sandy managed to poop on every one of the fourteen carpeted steps between the first and second floor.

A malamute my parents owned when I was a toddler had a propensity for eating copious amounts of sand, resulting in an explosive trip to the vet that has become the kind of family lore polite mothers hate.

But the truth is that I know dogs are smart. Very smart. And the proof isn’t the stuff of heartwarming tales.

It’s the lies.

We often point out the ways dogs mirror our best human qualities – their apparent empathy and loyalty – while forgetting that we can also discern the worst of us in our canine companions. To me, their wily, sneaking lies are the strongest proof of their intelligence.

My former boss had a little dog that disliked going outside. Every time my boss shooed her out onto the grass, she took to relieving herself very quickly.

Or did she?

After awhile, my boss realized that her dog was not, in fact, relieving herself outside. As long as her human was watching, the little dog discovered that she did not have to urinate before running back inside. She just had to squat long enough to fool the human.

My boss watched weeks of these crafty dry squats before realizing what was going on.

My own snowman-hating Sandy was not as smart as Kallie, the Labrador retriever who preceded her.

My parents rarely argue. But I remember one frustrating week when I was in grade school. Each night, Mom would ask Dad to PLEASE remember to shut the door all the way when he left for work early in the morning. Dad would counter that of course he was shutting the door. Mom would point out that for the last few days, she had discovered the front door slightly ajar and Kallie out flouting the county leash laws. 

What my parents failed to take into account was the recent installation of a new doorknob. 

They had replaced this kind of doorknob:

With this:

Kallie had realized that if she waited until after Dad left but before the rest of the family was up, she could open the front door with her paw.

So, near as I can tell, the dog

1)      Observed the mechanical function of the door.

2)      Mastered that function herself.

3)      Realized the function must only be performed in secret.

But it was the Rhodesian Ridgeback, Briggs, the family dog in my teens, who forever sealed my confidence in dogs’ intelligence. 

Briggs was the kind of dog who was difficult to train not because he couldn’t understand our commands. If you said sit, he was the kind of dog who would look at you and think

Why?

He was known for knocking the lid of his dog food storage bucket off to enjoy illicit snacks in the kitchen throughout the day. Once, when I was home alone and the house was particularly quiet, I heard the crunching from my seat in the living room and got up to banish him from the kitchen.

A long period of silence followed. Too much silence.

I snuck to the kitchen and peered around the corner unobserved.

Briggs was indeed back in the food bin. But this time, he took a mouthful of food and walked into the adjacent bathroom. From my hiding place, I discerned a faint crunching. I watched, astonished, as he returned for another mouthful and took it into the bathroom.

Dog-lovers buy pillows embroidered with the phrase, “My goal in life is to be the kind of person my dog thinks I am.”

Newsflash. Here’s what your dog really thinks of you: you’re eminently fallible and totally gullible. And he’s right.

Before I caught Briggs in the bathroom that day, I assumed his thought process, upon being discovered with his nose in the bucket, was (albeit not in linguistic terms) something along the lines of

I’m not allowed to eat out of the bucket.

In reality, he was thinking

It was the crunching that tipped her off.

In light of all this, who knows why my canine cousins took time from their busy schedule of licking, barking, and couch encroachments to stare pointedly at a man slicing strawberries.  But I do know one thing.

Oh yes. Dogs think. 

For more proof, you can check out this video of Cuda in which he miraculously picks his own Christmas stocking out of the full family line-up.

Has a dog ever surprised you with its smarts? Or its lies? 

How to Stop Your Wife from Having Tantrums at Costco, and Other Christian Marriage Tips

July 2, 2012

I recently stumbled across a marriage-themed Christian blog that hijacked my thoughts for days. Sometimes, when I go on the internet, I wish there was a TSA for my mind, patting down ideas and limiting the contents of their personal baggage.

So it was that I encountered Peacefulwife’s Blog, with the tagline “The Joy of God’s Design for Wives and Marriage”. I should have cried “to each her own!”, and found some mischievous cat videos instead. But Peacefulwife touched a place in my mind that chitters like the lid of a stainless steel pot when the rice boils over.

What caught my eye was a guest post by Christian marriage writer Daniel Robertson, titled “5 Ways Wives Unwittingly Disrespect Their Husbands”.

My five-year wedding anniversary is coming up this week, and I’m all for learning about ways to improve my marriage. Robertson begins with a true-life anecdote:

“One day my wife and I went shopping at Costco. I began to lead her in one direction fully expecting her to come along with me, but instead she seemed upset and asked me where I was going. Being the boneheaded man that I am, I didn’t tell her, but instead just motioned for her to follow me.”

The Costco trip, far from being a utopia of bathtub-sized ketchup crocks and toothbrush ten-packs, did not turn out well. The wife “stormed off in the other direction” and they did their shopping separately.

“I was floored,” Robertson writes. “Why couldn’t she just follow my lead, I thought. Did I really need to explain to her that I just wanted to grab some bread?”

I already knew the moral of this story. I have lived it countless times in my own marriage, when I kept my mouth shut about what I wanted and then resented my spouse for not being psychic. Surely God and therapists alike are behind the notion of good communication.

But I was wrong.

“The point of the story is that I felt completely disrespected,” Roberston continues. “All I wanted was for my wife to follow my lead through the store and not question what direction I was taking her.”

Uh-oh.

“Ladies, your husband thrives on respect,” Robertson advises. “It is just as important to him as feeling loved is to you.”

Looking through some of Peacefulwife’s own posts, in which she refers to her own spouse as “Respected Husband”, I can see why she invited Robertson to her blog.

A pharmacist, mother of two, stanch Christian and self-confessed former control freak, Peacefulwife now devotes herself to the pursuit of a Bible-based marriage ideal of female submission, and blogs to exhort other women to do the same.

In marriage, she writes, women need love and men need respect. To her (and, presumably, her church-based counselors), this means relinquishing all important decisions to her husband, as God decrees she should.

“If only Eve had known what I am going to tell you!” she begins in a post titled “Let Me Check with My Husband and Get Back with You”.

Peacefulwife has a ready response for any salesperson, neighbor, fellow worshipper, friend or “cult missionary” who asks her for something.

“I need to talk to my husband about that,” she says. Or, “I’ll ask my husband.”

“Imagine if Eve had used one of these phrases when Satan was giving her the offer of a lifetime in the Garden? Wow!”

It’s an interesting take on Original Sin. Instead of disobeying God, Eve just failed to check with Adam.

I want to be fair to Peacefulwife. A reader recently wrote me to say that I lack humility, and that I have a “huge” chip on my shoulder: I hold my opponents in contempt, and my angry tone subverts my message.

So I should clarify that I, too, fully advocate asking your husband. Situations in which I ask my husband include any time a mechanic claims my car needs work, any time someone invites me to do something I really don’t want to do, and any time someone inquires after my husband’s opinions.

Otherwise, my husband and I view decisions as mutual discussions.

“God gave him wisdom that He did not give to me,” Peacefulwife explains of why the husband must be the ultimate household arbiter, and while she does say that her husband values her perspective on his own choices, she is “THANKFUL for God’s wisdom in setting this authority structure into place in our marriage.”

There is something a little seductive about Peacefulwife’s way of life, which leaves all decisions to the husband. It sounds like retirement, or going on vacation without any pets to worry about. I would probably enjoy it for about two days.

But even though I don’t ask for his permission to join a board of directors or change jobs, I do plan to spend a lifetime respecting my spouse. So I read with interest Daniel Robertson’s advice on properly respecting your husband.

Some of his advice really resonates with me. He urges wives not to answer questions that someone else directs at your husband. I think this rule should apply to everyone, not just spouses: don’t speak for other people when it’s their turn to pipe up. Robertson also chides wives who don’t consult their husbands on major decisions, like where to go on vacation or how to spend a tax return.

But given the whole Costco follow-my-lead fiasco, I suspect Robertson doesn’t offer any primers urging husbands not to interrupt their wives, or to consult their wives on important decisions.

His other tips for ensuring wifely respect are even more worrying.

First, he believes that acting like your husband’s “mommy” (setting out his clothes, wiping food off his face, or reminding him to brush his teeth) is “a common mistake that almost every wife makes.” Who knew marriages were crumbling because wives were helping husbands dress or advocating good hygiene?

“Guess what?” Robertson asks. “Your husband didn’t marry you to get a new mommy, he married you to get a partner.”

But according to Robertson’s next piece of advice, a partner is not what your husband really wants at all.

“You tell your husband you want him to lead, but every time he tries you end up questioning him or going against him,” Robertson warns. “He sets his foot down but you find sneaky ways to get around it. He doesn’t want a certain TV show on in his house but you argue about how it’s not so bad and watch it anyway. Let your husband lead already!”

As if to reinforce his ideal wife’s childlike position in the home, his next piece of advice warns wives against “tak[ing] over with the kids”.

“Your husband is trying to discipline or instruct the kids and you just have to step in and take over,” he writes. “There is no need for this. He is perfectly capable of handling them.”

As he is also perfectly capable of handling you, even down to which TV shows you may watch.

I respect every couple’s right to fashion their own lives within the law (or, in the case of homosexual couples in many US states, outside of it). Some couples have an open marriage, some have dogs for ring-bearers, some go to a house of worship every week, some live apart and some never stir a step unless they’re together.

So what really troubles me in Robertson’s case isn’t that his vision of marriage galls me. Rather, it’s that I find his advice on being a good “partner” highly disingenuous. The relationship he advocates (in which one party “sets his foot down” and the other unquestioningly obeys) may be a version of marriage, but it is not a partnership. It is the relationship of an adult and his unruly child.

Even worse is Robertson’s phrase, “All I wanted was for my wife to follow my lead through the store and not question what direction I was taking her.” It’s as if asking a person to silently negate her own needs and questions on a daily basis is a modest and painless request.

Since Robertson had his say, I’ll feel free to throw my own take out there.

Godly or not, the waters of his own marriage are indisputably troubled if his wife “storms off” in public with no more provocation than a simple wordless gesture. Perhaps pent-up misery at her own lack of agency in the marriage has left her with a hair-trigger sensibility that can’t even handle a joint trip to the store.

Why can’t I just leave religious folks to their own sphere?

Because maybe, among Peacefulwife’s devotees, there is a woman who silently grieves at abdicating responsibility, instead of sharing it before her God.

Another Peacefulwife’s Blog guest post by Being June titled “A letter to my newlywed self” exhorts women to memorize and live by this sequence of priorities: “God, husband, children, work, self.” Maybe there’s a wife out there who secretly questions the lesson that she comes last, while her spouse gets a pedestal second only to God. Would God tell you to go to the office every day without breakfast? If you can’t work on an empty stomach, what can a perpetually hungry, marginalized self bring to a marriage?

It’s telling that this sequence does not even allow a woman to put herself above her employment. Why can’t a woman aim for an integrated self that balances many needs (just as she loves multiple children equally well), instead of dissecting the elements of her life into a rigid hierarchy?

I understand what it’s like to absorb that hierarchy. As a child, I assimilated religion-lesson diagrams that illustrated a man’s wisdom versus a woman’s emotional nature, and why this distinguished men as spiritual and practical leaders. I have listened to sermons and read books that urged women to “keep quiet” and leave important decisions to others.

Speaking of traditional religious scholarship, I would suggest that Peacefulwife’s fans think about the Dead Sea Scrolls, which I had the privilege of seeing this week in a Philadelphia exhibit.

It’s highly unlikely that any women were clutching the quill when the Dead Sea Scrolls were written. Hardly anyone knew how to read and write at all, except religious scholars, who were male.

I suppose I could twist this into an argument for Peacefulwife to stay silent, like the traditional wives she claims to emulate. You can’t be a true submissive AND yammer your opinions on the internet to guide other people.  Surely biblical wives did not write down marriage advice and post it in public.

But I have my blog and Peacefulwife is entitled to hers. Write on, sister in online discourse.

Meanwhile, I think that women who tout hearkening back to biblical-era tenets of “submissive” wives should remember that few, if any, of those wives were writing or leading public discourse. But nowadays, Peacefulwife and many of her peers enjoy Christian accolades for launching successful blogs.

If God smiles on the work of Peacefulwife, perhaps a lack of female writers isn’t the only thing about women’s lives that can properly change over time.

It Would Be Better If I’d Never Been Born: Depression and Parenthood

June 5, 2012

Perennially controversial comic Sarah Silverman touched a nerve this week in a TV interview that set off a new round of commentary on modern parenting. The Week magazine rounded up the perspectives under the online headline “Is it irresponsible for the depressed to have children?”

Silverman, who has flouted the American habit of keeping quiet about personal struggles with depression, announced that the trouble has led her to decide that she doesn’t want biological children.

While she says she’d love to adopt, she says she won’t have biological children because she fears passing the trouble on to them. “I know that I have this depression and that it’s in my family. Every family has their stuff but, for me, I just don’t feel strong enough to see that in a child.”

Commentators, including contributors to the websites Mommyish and Jezebel, conceded that the choice to have children (or not) is a very personal one that, in general, should not be impugned by outside parties. Writer Anna Breslaw sympathizes with Silverman because of her own experience with depression. Since the latest science does indeed point to the fact that depression has a genetic component – people with immediate family members who suffer from depression (especially repeated bouts) apparently have an off-the-charts risk of developing it themselves – it’s not unreasonable that people who have experienced depression should think twice about conceiving somebody new.

Kudos to Sarah Silverman for talking openly about depression, and promoting adoption. But immediately after reading the commentary on her interview, I strongly felt that I had to speak up as a person who has suffered from depression on and off for about twenty years and still wants to start a family.

Fears of burdening our children with depression are a valid topic, but I’m afraid that this debate about whether or not depressed people should have children oversimplifies a lot of the issues.

I can’t speak for other people, but I can comment on my own long history with this terrible problem. Nowadays kids are stuffed with all kinds of drugs at the first sign of melancholy or distraction, but when I was a kid in the eighties and nineties, depression was not necessarily a diagnosis that parents and pediatricians were on the lookout for in very young people. But having carried cycles of the same devastating feelings from grade-school to my senior year of high school (when I saw my first psychologist), I know without a doubt that I was depressed as a young child.

The first major bout of depression that I distinctly remember (defined in retrospect, of course) was at about ten or twelve years old. Since then, I’ve cycled in and out of pretty severe depressive phases every two or three years, alternating with a fairly relentless case of generalized anxiety disorder. So I suppose that by the dictates of modern science, that makes me a pretty high-risk future parent.

By now, the symptoms of my recurrent depression are as familiar as a head-cold. My habitual anxiety loses its grip to a listlessness that infuses everything from my marriage to my work. Everything seems strangely drab and the things I usually enjoy, like writing, seem pointless. Whether it was school-day classes back then or days on the job as a journalist now, I feel a distinctive mental fuzziness and drift, as if I’m a hologram of myself and not really part of whatever’s happening around me. I find it difficult to maintain my customary focus during interviews, and articles that I can usually wrap up in an hour become a day-long effort. Putting my fingers to the keyboard feels like trying to touch the wrong ends of magnets together.

The thoughts that accompany these changes are as stupid and pervasive as reality TV.

I’m a failure.

The world would be a better place without me.

I’m always going to feel this way.

My joints ache as if I’ve got arthritis, I skip meals because I can’t muster the energy to cook or eat, and I don’t call or message anybody unless I have to. It all lasts several weeks at least.

I’ve been on lots of medications over the years, but I never saw noticeable improvement from any of them. Their most notable effects on me seem to be the flat-lining of my remaining mental and physical faculties and a burgeoning obsession with suicide.

Other people may find the antidepressants helpful and that’s fine. But now I stick to therapy.

One reason the don’t-have-kids-because-you’re-depressed viewpoint worries me is that it reduces depression to a factor of our genes.

The first problem with that is even if you’re genetically predisposed to depression, it’s not a guarantee you’ll suffer it. Secondly, “genetics” is increasingly becoming the answer of choice for so many disorders, when we really should be considering a range of environmental or situational factors in addition to our bodies’ hard-wiring.

When I was first diagnosed with depression, practitioners emphasized to me that I should view it like a medical illness that I have no control over. A big part of depression is undoubtedly rooted in our brain chemistry, so there is merit to this view, especially given the unfair stigma that depression sufferers continue to face from luckier citizens who believe that, given the willpower, one can just “snap out of” those desperately blue weeks, months or years.

But now that I’ve lived with bouts of depression for many years, I would say a key to managing it is realizing that, like many illnesses, there are measures you can take that make you more or less susceptible to its ravages.

Just as diabetics or heart patients or those with certain auto-immune disorders can avoid foods, lifestyles or activities that exacerbate their symptoms, folks vulnerable to depression should realize that their environment and actions can hurt or help.

My secret to managing those dark bouts is to keep working no matter what. That might not be right for everybody, but forcing myself to focus and be productive, even when it seems impossibly hard, keeps my demons at bay until some light seeps back into my existence, as it usually does after awhile, often as the winter turns to spring.

I am not at the mercy of my depression as a dictate of my genetics. It can be managed like a chronic illness. An awareness of having climbed up out of the depths before eventually helps me remember that the worst phases aren’t permanent. I try to dwell on this instead of dwelling on the hopelessness.

This is not to say one can simply wish oneself out of a depressive episode. And my experience may be milder than others’. But whether it’s you or your kid, I don’t think anyone should sit back and say, well, it’s just a matter of genes. The truth is somewhere between your genetic destiny and the environment and lifestyle you cultivate.

But I’m worried that that middle-ground truth is getting trampled if we declare that depressed people shouldn’t be passing on their genes.

Besides, what makes depression so special? We’re hardly calling for people with a family history of cancer or diabetes to eschew child-bearing.  Speculating on depression as a worthy reason for not having a family, when you’d want one otherwise, just seems to increase the disorder’s stigma.

“Sarah Silverman Considering Adoption Makes Me Respect the Crap Out of Her” is the headline of Alexis Rhiannon’s piece on Crushable.com.  Silverman’s comments on depression are part of a larger discussion on her support for adoption.

What I hope folks realize, as they debate her comments on adoption in light of her depression, is that adopted kids don’t have a blank genetic slate because you didn’t birth them.

Adoption is a fabulous thing. My own mom was adopted in infancy.  But I don’t think parents who adopt should do so assuming that their kids will then be free of problems. That’s a glib, de-humanizing view of adoptees, in my opinion. Everyone is predisposed to something. If you choose to try to avoid whatever medical boogeyman runs in your family, who’s to say something else doesn’t run in your adopted kid’s genes?

I accept that any kid of mine will have a heightened risk of depression. I hope that with sensitive and empathetic parenting efforts, I can recognize the signs and, with the help of my own experience and caring professionals, get my kids the help they need, just as I would if it turns out they have asthma or celiac disease.

I dislike the implication that life can’t be lived with depression. I and millions of other people prove every day that it can.  Like other illnesses, it has many dark days. But even if it’s recurrent, as my condition seems to be, it’s not insurmountable – whatever society says about people who are depressed. While I still fall into some pretty bad places sometimes, the bouts of depression I have now do not last as long, and are not as intense, as the ones I had a decade ago. I think awareness of my weaknesses, as well as my strengths, in addition to productive coping strategies, help over time.

If we took everyone who was ever depressed out of the world’s history, we’d lack for some brilliant writers, artists, thinkers and leaders.

The stigma of depression is surely alive and well if, by the time we’re discussing its possible genetic roots, we’re suggesting that it is better not to be born than it is to be at risk for depression.

I don’t buy that. So my future kids can take their chances.

P.S. check out “Adventures in Depression” at one of my favorite blogs, Hyperbole and a Half. 

Sailing and Tarantulas: An Unauthorized Tribute to My Mother

May 13, 2012

Mom, Dad, me, and younger brother Bradley.

I’m unhappy in this picture.

I think it’s Easter morning when I was around five years old.

What would a little girl like me have to be unhappy about that morning? I was off to Easter church with my brother, parents and probably my grandparents, seeing as someone else was there that morning, taking the photo. I had long, gorgeous blond hair, a handful of daffodils, and I had probably just opened an Easter basket of epic proportions.

But I hated my dress.

A “sailor dress”, the grown-ups called it. I liked riding with my family in my grandfather’s sailboat.

Good times, even though we were forced to wear life jackets that looked almost as bad as the dress.

But I did not want to dress like a sailor. Large, flat navy-blue panels over my shoulders, the shapeless cascade of white fabric! I couldn’t stand it from the minute Mom pulled it off the rack. Everyone else insisted that it was adorable.

Now that I am almost thirty, I can admit that everyone else was right.

I am not typically so slow to admit that my mother is right about a lot of things.

“Well, I would like to be asked before someone blogs about me,” she said recently, after I blogged about an unusually exciting trip to Applebee’s with her father.

She’s probably right.

But don’t moms like surprises on Mother’s Day?

There are many aspects of my upbringing that probably excelled other kids’, but I will always be especially fond of one of my mother’s qualities.

It was pretty well summed up on one of our family trips to the Jersey shore. I was a young teenager and my brother and I had just made our annual pilgrimage to the tackiest store on the North Atlantic coast, Surf Sundries. For reasons unknown I think we actually referred to it as Surf-n-Sundries. We had no idea what “sundries” meant. But that store, crammed with Styrofoam boogie boards, cheap plastic sandals, beach shovels and every lewd and tacky plastic figurine imaginable super-glued to seashells, was a summertime Mecca to us and our cousins.

One day, the cage of hermit crabs for sale caught my eye. My parents urged me to get a job at a young age, so I had my own spending money. I bought several crabs and all the necessary accoutrements.

On the way home, I felt a surge of affection for my mother – perhaps a first for teenage girls the world over. You might think that I hadn’t asked permission to buy the hairy, pinching crustaceans because my mother wouldn’t have let me do it if I had told her. But I didn’t ask because I knew she’d like them as much as I did.

That’s something I always appreciated about my mother – she loves the natural world and was never squeamish about any kind of creature.

Besides a series of much-loved family dogs and one slightly less-amiable cat, the house was full of animals.

When my brother and I were little, my parents went to some kind of party that featured mouse-races. The losing mice were destined to be fed to a pet python, but my parents decided to bring a pair of them home as a present for us.

Lucky and Pokey lived long mouse lives in a cage on our bureau. As I recall, we later acquired an obese white mouse named Earthquake, for his tendency to burrow messily in the bedding, heaving the cage floor into chaos.

I don’t know what the impetus was, but one day my parents brought my brother and me to a pet store, where we picked out a baby guinea pig. Perhaps influenced by Beatrix Potter, we named him Peter, but always called him Piggy.

The truth is that Dad didn’t realize how long a guinea pig could live. Piggy lived for about eight years, during which he made an art of banging his water bottle against the side of his tank and squealing like a smoke alarm. Of course, Mom was the one to clean his tank every week for all those years.

We had a cockatiel named Tyler for awhile, but ended up giving him to a friend, because he greeted every car in the driveway with earsplitting shrieks which always set off a round of frenzied barking by the dogs.

Another of my teenage pets included a ball python (ironic and not a little disturbing, considering my childhood love of mice), and one year, for my brother’s birthday, I bought him a bearded dragon lizard. Mom thought that was just as great as the hermit crabs years before.

My mother’s interest in animals extended to the wild creatures too. Every spring, we patiently endured weeks of furiously tweeting dive-bombs from the barn swallow warrior-parents who felt they owned our shed. She also volunteered at a local wild animal rehabilitation center.

When a nest of infant starlings was orphaned in our front yard, she took them in, setting them up in a cage we’d used years before for a pair of parakeets named Alex and Mallory. We fed them tenderly for weeks, and even after they’d taken wing and joined the wild birds gorging themselves on the mulberry tree at the end of the driveway, they’d return to her hands when she leaned out an upstairs window and called, “babies!”

One of her most memorable adoptions didn’t end well for the adoptee. She once trapped a highly poisonous Black Widow spider in a jar and kept it in the kitchen. We watched the spider spin a new web, spellbound by our proximity to nature’s danger. But when Mom realized later that week that our new pet had laid hundreds of Black Widow eggs, she bore the jar outside and rapidly put an end to the whole episode.

I suppose the risk of hundreds of Black Widows escaped in the household was the line between appreciating nature and getting out the bug spray. It’s a pretty good indicator of where Mom was on the bug-appreciation spectrum.

Our second-most interesting pet was also a spider.

My parents happened to see an apparently drowned tarantula floating in the pool during a tropical family vacation when my brother and I were young. They asked the man cleaning the pool to scoop it out, and when it surprised us by un-crumpling its long, brown, hairy legs, we trapped it in a large cheez-puff container, stuffed it deep into our luggage, and brought the spider home.

Years later I read that tarantulas carry no major diseases. This assuaged my guilt about lying to the customs officer on whether any animals were in our bags.

We fixed a beautiful terrarium for the spider and fed it a steady stream of fat black crickets. Perhaps it thought it had drowned and gone to heaven – until the cat discovered it one night and pushed its terrarium to the floor.

We grieved the spider.

As a kid, I appreciated the license I had to learn about the natural world, from spending entire afternoons peering under rocks in the backyard, to getting my own puppy at nine years old, to hatching a clutch of skink eggs I found in the mulch-pile.

Recently Mom proved her mettle yet again by adopting a pair of her great-grand goldfish, adding them to a tank of goldfish that were the centerpieces at my wedding and have survived from that day to this.

Now, I also think that growing up with a Mom who never said, “Yuck! Don’t bring that in here!!” carries a much bigger importance than the freedom every kid dreams about to bring creepy-crawlies home. It’s a large-minded example of enduring respect for the world, and an abiding curiosity about life that includes all creatures, which I still try to live by every day.

So, Mom, the bottom line is that I forgive you for the sailor dress.  Happy Mother’s Day!

Mom and my mother-in-law, on my wedding day.

In Which Grampa Orders the Fiesta Salad

March 21, 2012

One senior citizen’s portal to joy.

Every two weeks or so, I clean Grampa’s apartment at the retirement complex. Vacuuming every corner of a tidy widower’s apartment is less important (at least to a non-neat-freak like me) than a regular check-up on Grampa.

My dear Grampa is a creature of habit.

“Well, maybe we ought to have lunch,” he said when I arrived this morning.

“Sure, Grampa,” I said. As I got out the Lysol, I couldn’t resist adding, “what are you going to have for lunch?”

“Oh well, let’s see,” he said, opening the fridge and bending down to peer in, as if for inspiration. “One slice of wheat bread, folded in half, with hummus and three green olives, cut in half, and cran-raspberry juice.”

This is what he has had for every at-home lunch for the last several years.

“So of course you can have whatever you’d like,” he added, closing the fridge.

“Or,” he continued, and I could see a familiar light in his eyes. “We could go to Applebee’s.”

Never was the slogan over a chain restaurant’s door more applicable to a customer.

Instead of “Welcome”, the local Applebee’s entrance reads “Welcome back!” Since having eaten lunch there three or four times last week as well as yesterday is not viewed by Grampa as a reason to avoid eating there today, it’s right on the money.

He’s a man who knows what he wants, and he likes it best when the wait-staff knows too, before he places his order. For the welcome they give my Grampa, the wait-staff of the Southampton, PA Applebee’s on Street Road deserve induction into the chain restaurant hall of fame, should anyone ever found one.

Eating at Applebee’s with Grampa makes me think of another amiable octogenarian, whose affinity for chain restaurants exploded across the internet earlier this month. Marilyn Hagarty, longtime columnist and food critic for North Dakota’s Grand Forks Herald, published a review of her $10.95 lunch at the local Olive Garden (a glass of water, a “familiar” salad, “long, warm breadsticks”, and a “warm and comforting” chicken alfredo), and the piece quickly went viral.

Myriad blogs took up satirical commentary on the elderly Hagarty’s earnest naivete in writing a straight-faced review of the chicken alfredo at a chain restaurant. But a surge of journalistic and culinary nostalgia quickly swamped the snark as prominent writers and celebrity restaurateurs came to Hagarty’s defense, culminating in the Los Angeles Times calling the review “the purest gauge of all that is America”.

I’m no connoisseur, but yes, my husband and I will always opt for our favorite local Afghan, Thai or Vietnamese restaurant over Applebee’s and its national cohorts. My mom’s been telling me for years that I’m a snob, and she’s probably right. But I left Applebee’s today with a warm heart.

“I tell you what, today why don’t we park over here and leave the handicapped place for someone else,” Grampa said, pulling into a space two spots away from the handicapped parking. He’s perfectly fit for his age: the handicapped permit is a relic of my late grandmother’s last years.

“But I’m a wounded veteran,” he usually points out when we tell him he doesn’t need the handicapped space. It’s true: he did earn a Purple Heart fighting in France and Germany during WWII. But as long as the scar doesn’t prevent him from playing eighteen holes of golf, I won’t let him park in the handicapped space.

Our Applebee’s server, a young woman whom Grampa requests every time, came over with a smile. By name, she inquired about Phyllis, Grampa’s usual lunch-mate, who has been his companion in the years since my grandmother’s death. She asked about his healing from a recent fall, and he displayed the wound on his left hand – the stitches in the four-inch gash were just removed yesterday.

With nary a flinch, the server brought Grampa’s iced tea with three extra lemon slices, just the way he likes it. The next several minutes were devoted to surgery on the lemons. Juicy, sticky seeds scattered across the table-top.

“Next time, I’m going to order my lemons without the seeds,” he said.

When it comes to lunch at Applebee’s, Grampa’s degree of variability usually matches that shown in his own kitchen. I ordered a chicken-topped salad and our server was all ready to take down Grampa’s usual order of French Onion soup and shrimp and spinach salad.

But something about our day had sparked a freshness in Grampa.

“How is the Fiesta Salad?” he asked.

“Oh, I hear it’s very good!” the server answered.

“Don’t you like it yourself?”

“Well, I don’t eat cilantro.”

He asked what cilantro was and we explained it was a green herb often used in Mexican food. He folded his hands and addressed me seriously.

“Is it bad for me?”

“Nope!”

He decided to risk it, alongside his regular soup.

The resulting bits of lettuce were mounded with so many small pieces of chicken that he eschewed his fork altogether and ate the salad with his soup spoon.

“Why, this is great,” he said. “Usually I have to eat my soup and then eat my salad, but this way I can eat them both together.” He asked me to show him the cilantro and he carefully spooned the green speck and chewed it up.

“Why, that’s fine!” he announced.

“I’m going to have to tell Phyllis,” he said of the Fiesta Salad. “She won’t believe it.”

On the way home, admitted to me that he suspects his life is in too much of a routine.

“I always do pretty much the same things,” he said. “I want to start trying to do some things differently.”

“Well, trying a different salad for lunch is a great start,” I replied.

“Yes,” he said. “But I’m not ready to change my breakfast. I have a great breakfast: strawberries, blueberries and raspberries, three-quarters of a cup of Great Grains, milk, and twelve Mini-Wheats.”

“Twelve Mini-Wheats?” I asked.

“Twelve,” he said as we pulled into his parking space at the retirement village.

The Sunday Poll: The World’s Worst Gift part II

January 1, 2012

As we face the promise of a brand new year, I prefer not to look forward with optimism, but to reflect bitterly upon what 2011 brought to me – or specifically, what others brought to me.

You may remember the giant centipede incident from this past summer. Alas, this Christmas was yet another example of family gift-giving gone very, very wrong.

Here is a box I received from my mother on Christmas morning.

A promising box.

What could be inside?

I carefully opened the blue tissue paper, and beheld these:

These are salt and pepper shakers shaped like feet.

Someone, somewhere, once considered these saltshakers a tasteful addition to the table.

There is more to this gift than meets the eye. In fact, a particular feature of these shakers is what compelled my mother to purchase them for me.

For many years, my feet have been the laughingstock of the family. Apparently, my big toes point skyward to an alarming degree. Now, even if my feet are as freakish as my parents would have me believe, I have always said that their amusement is unfair because who but they were responsible for the genes that shaped my feet? It must be owned that these salt-shakers are not the first foot figurines of this style that I have been given.

Readers, forgive me if what follows is too much for your delicate sensibilities. But I want to know, once and for all – are these gifts of pointy-toed foot figurines justified?

The salt and pepper shakers.

The author's feet.

In my mother’s defense, she also gifted me some really nice new linens, several excellent books, aquarium supplies, the new Jane Eyre film on DVD, chocolate-covered pretzels, and purple yoga pants.


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