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And
On Top Of That, We Hated The Movie!
On a recent
Sunday afternoon, Bob and I went to a matinee at the
Nickelodeon. The sun blinded us as we left the dark theater.
So it didn’t sink in until we were right next to our truck,
that the window was shattered. Someone had thrown a rock
through it. My purse,which I had foolishly left in view, was
gone.
Theater-goers
gathered around. There was broken glass everywhere. I was my
usual calm, contained self.
“Window gone!
Purse gone!” I screamed, my arms flailing in the
air.
When a policeman
came, he asked about the contents of my purse. “My license, my
credit cards,” I stammered. “And Tylenol, Robitussin, Dayquil,
Nyquil and Sudafed.”
“Are you sick?”
someone asked.
“No.
Why?”
“You had other
stuff crammed in there,” Bob said.
Under my breath I
said, “Preparation H and feminine itching gunk.” I glared at
Bob. “Are you happy now?”
I knew what else
was in there. My diaphragm. But there’s no way I would say
that. Bob got our cell phone and began calling credit card
companies to cancel our cards. I nudged his arm. “My
diaphragm,” I whispered.
“What about your
diaphragm?” he said, which the Visa lady heard. Bob, realizing
this, said to her, “Not your diaphragm, my
wife’s.”
I covered the
phone. “She’s going to think we want to have sex in the middle
of all this!”
He threw his
hands up in desperation. When he hung up, he said, “What was
it doing in your purse?”
“Where am I
supposed to keep it?”
“I don’t know. In
the bathroom?”
“What? And have
your mother see it? Why don’t I just take out an ad in the
Cape Cod Times that says, ‘Saralee Has a
Diaphragm!’”
I continued my
rise to the top of the anxiety scale. Two lovely strangers,
Ann and Linda, stayed with me. After Ann asked my name, she
said, “I read your column. So that must be Bob.” He was back
on the phone. “He really is competent.” I looked over at Bob
and had no idea who he was.
Ann stared at me.
I was swatting away fruit flies I could swear were really
there. She said calmly, “And you’re really, well . . . ” Bob came over,
noticed my state of lunacy and said, “Yes, she really IS like
this. She’s no fiction writer.”
The Master Card
rep wanted to talk with me. “Your name?” he
said.
“Um, does it
start with an S?” He didn’t answer for a second, then asked to
speak to Bob.
The next morning
the Falmouth police called. “We have your purse with your
credit cards and everything.” Please don’t explain
“everything,” I thought. A good person named Tim Duffany had
turned it in. I sent him a box of Reese’s.
And so, I know
it’s not a big deal, relatively, to have this happen. But I do
know something that is a very big deal. Ann and Linda didn’t
want to leave my side. They stayed for over a half an hour
just to make sure I was all right. “I’m fine,” I said several
times. “You don’t need to stay with
me.”
And although they
kept saying, “Are you sure?” neither one of them made a move
to leave. Their affectionate concern for me, a stranger, meant
so much.
So this is my
thank you note to Ann Davis and Linda Mant. You made a bad
experience better.
And to the thief,
I say this: I believe in compassion. I never, ever have a
revengeful thought. Oh - I hope you didn’t touch the tube of
cream. Scabies is contagious.
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It's
What You Don't Say That Counts
Last week, Bob
and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary. I
think one of the reasons our marriage works is because we
speak so well in silence.
Recently we were
at a brunch where an obnoxious fellow was spouting about
politics. Bob and I sat across the table from each other. With
just a glance, we communicated, “Yuck, yuck and . . . did I
say yuck?” We continued this conversation, neither of us
saying one word out loud.
“Can we go now?”
Bob asked with a look I know so
well.
I poured him some
wine. “Not yet,” that signaled.
“Get us out of
here,” he pleaded with his eyes.
I sat next to
him. “I’m thinking! I’m thinking!” I said
silently.
He coughed. I
took his hand, which meant, “Don’t do the flu thing. Everybody
always knows you’re faking.”
He squeezed my
hand. “Say you have a female problem. No one will ask you
about it,” I could tell he was
saying.
I squeezed back.
“I had that last month. If I say it again, people will begin
to think I’m icky.”
He touched his
upper lip, which told me, “There’s a white glop of clam dip
stuck to your face.” I wiped it off and nodded silently,
“Thanks.”
I get nervous at
parties. OK, I get nervous everywhere. But at one holiday
gathering of writers, I forced myself to talk to a woman who
intimidated me. Fortunately Bob was behind me. And our silent
communication really mattered. “I loved your essay,” I said to
her. From behind, Bob could see that I had my velvet blouse
tucked – not into my velvet slacks – but into the panty hose
which were much higher on my waist than the slacks. It wasn’t
pretty.
He sidled up next
to me and made darting motions with his eyes, in the direction
of my panty hose. “Not here,” I said without words. “Are you
perverted or what?”
He put his arm
around me, looked down at my questioning face and quickly
untucked my blouse from my hose. I smiled gratefully up at
him. “Could you check my hair for toilet paper?” he heard me
think. “Last year there was that piece on my head. I still
can’t figure out how it got there.”
He looked down at
me. “You are so unsophisticated. I love that part of you,” he
was thinking.
“I am
sophisticated,” I wordlessly replied while spreading a chunk
of Brie on a cracker with my fingers.
And so, for our
25th anniversary, I had a pal from Indiana
overnight a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts for Bob. That floored
him. But get this. He hand-made a sampler for me. On it, he
had embroidered the words to our favorite song, “I’ll be
loving you . . . always.” It’s the most beautiful cross-stitch
sampler you could imagine.
But I’ll tell
you. If the sampler had no words on it, I would have known
what he meant to say. And when it comes to what makes a
relationship work, I think that’s it. A compassionate
awareness of how the other feels. Bob’s warm touch when I’m
scared, for seemingly no reason, in the night. A leap into his
arms when a magazine article I’ve written gets accepted. A
“keep trying,” hug when my next ten articles get rejected. An
“it doesn’t matter,” shrug when I am terribly embarrassed
because of something I should or shouldn’t have said at a
party.
Silent
communication. I bet we all do this a dozen times a day. But
with someone we love, I think that moments like these are what
matter the most. Because they mean more than words can ever
say.
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Fighting Fair, From the Queen of Unfair
Play
Now that it’s the
season of summer romances, it’s a good time to focus on what
makes relationships work. I think a big part of that is how
well we handle arguments. There are certain things I believe
we should never say or do. I will point these out in bold
print.
During our last
fight, the issue (another word for what Bob has done wrong)
was this: He didn’t rub my back when I overdid it on the
treadmill.
Me:
“Good-the-hell-night!” I angrily hobbled off to bed, NOT
EXPLAINING WHY.
Bob: “Why are you
GOING TO BED ANGRY?”
Me: “Why do you
think?” Meaning, YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO READ MY
MIND.
Bob: “I don’t
know!”
Me: “GUESS.”
You’ll have to drag this out of me, while I SULK in
bed.
Bob, sitting on
the bed: “It’s better to tell me than have me guess.” Meaning
– when I guess, I always pick something I didn’t think you
knew about, like last night, when I forgot to put the cake
away and the cat ate it and threw
up.
Me: “I SHOULDN’T
HAVE TO TELL YOU what’s wrong with
me.”
Bob: no verbal
response, but thinking, “If I ever made a list of what’s wrong
with you, they’d have to print an extra supplement in the Cape
Cod Times to finish this column.”
Me: “My back
hurts, worse (LYING) than
ever.”
Bob: “Why didn’t
you just ask me to rub it?”
Me: “I SHOULDN’T
HAVE TO ASK.”
Bob: “Then how
would I know?”
Me, TWISTING
THINGS AROUND: “Because
. . .
you’re the one who bought the stupid highest tech
treadmill they had.”
Bob: “You
increased the resistance too high.”
Me: “Now it’s my
fault.”
Bob, sighing:
“What are we arguing about anyway, the treadmill, your back,
everything being your fault, or what?”
Me: “So now
everything’s always my fault?”
Bob, sighing
louder, got off the bed.
Me, INSULTING:
“Great. Walk away like a typical male who can’t handle talking
about feelings.”
He sat back down.
“Does a typical male do all the housework like I
do?”
Me: “Fine. CHANGE
THE SUBJECT.”
Bob: “We could
barely afford this treadmill, but you wanted
it.”
Me, SARCASTIC:
“Oh that’s a good one. GUILT. How about – the dog needed an
operation but instead you bought me the
treadmill?”
Bob: “You’re
impossible.”
Me: “NAME CALLING
is so mature.”
Bob: “Last month
you overdid it on the exercise bike and you blamed me then
too.”
Me: “DREDGE UP
THE PAST. That’s helpful.” I feigned tears. “I never
(MARTYR) do anything
right.”
Bob: “I’d love to
massage your back now.”
Me: “Too little,
too late (OBNOXIOUS). And why are you suddenly being so
nice? I bet you did something
wrong.”
Bob, blushing
with shame: “So you know about the cake and the cat
vomit.”
Me, TAKING
ADVANTAGE WHEN HE’S DOWN: “I do
now.”
Conflicts are
inevitable. What’s just as important as what is making you
angry is how you express it. Remember - you are arguing with
someone you love. So, as the wise woman you know that I am, I
will now tell you the proper way to have handled our fight –
with simplicity, respect and love.
Me: “If you rub
my back, I’ll give you five dollars
(BRIBE).”
Bob: “Make it
ten.”
Me: “You’re
on.”
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The
Road to Recovery is a Two-Way Street
“You can’t be
serious,” I said to Bob, as he leaned over in bed to kiss me.
After last month’s operation on my spine, I can hardly walk
and I wear a brace that goes from above my chin to my chest.
“What? You’ve got a thing for women in
braces?”
“I was just
kissing you good-night,” he said.
“What’s that
supposed to mean? You don’t find me attractive anymore?” He
turned over. “Hey!” I said, shaking his shoulders. “I’m
obviously upset!”
He sat up. “Then
let’s talk about it.”
“Now I don’t want
to.” If there’s a self-pity queen, it’s me.
He rolled back
over. “Fine.”
“Fine? I’m in
agony and you say ‘fine’?”
“What would you
like me to do?”
“You could at
least kiss me good-night.”
He leaned toward
me again and kissed my forehead. “Well, that’s a real
turn-on,” I said.
He sighed, then
kissed me on the lips. “Hey buster, you better not be thinking
about what I think you’re thinking
about.”
“Trust me. I’m
not.”
“I can’t even
walk. Why don’t you just buy one of those big rubber dolls? It
would amount to the same thing.”
He got up and
went to the kitchen. With my cane, I hobbled to catch up. He
nuked a frozen slice of Jack’s Lounge pizza. “None for me?” I
asked. “Or am I too fat for pizza?” He didn’t answer as he got
a second slice. “Oh, I see. Not only do I walk like
Frankenstein, I’ve got a huge scar on my neck and a gigantic
brace that obviously gives you very sick urges, and now you
think I’m fat. Well, I haven’t put on one pound since this
whole ordeal. No thanks to you.”
“What does that
mean?”
“You’re making me
a big fattening slice of pizza!”
“No matter what I
do,” he said, “it’s wrong.”
“I know! And here
I am recovering from major surgery!”
Aggravated, he
put the slices back in the freezer.
I sat at the
table. “I hate depending on you for everything – my laundry,
my meals, the housecleaning.”
“You were like
that before surgery.”
“But you liked
taking care of me then.”
He sat across
from me. “I love taking care of you, but you’re being,
well . . .
impossible.”
“I know.” I
started to cry.
His eyes watered.
“It’s been rough on me too.”
I shuffled over
to him, holding myself up by the table for support, then fell
into his lap. “Can you forgive me?”
“On one
condition.”
“Oh no, Bob. Why
don’t you just look at a dirty magazine or
something?”
“The condition is
that you stop being such a brat.”
I realized then
that Bob could use some nurturing too. Often the caretaker
deserves just as much care as the one who needs it in the
first place.
In the morning, I
brought him breakfast in bed, which amounted to the re-nuked
slices of pizza and a quartered orange. It was the first
“meal” I’d been capable of making since surgery. We ate in
bed, laughing together.
I know there will
be countless mornings to come when we both wake up happy, and
I’m sure that before I know it, I will walk, with strong legs,
into the kitchen for many more midnight pizza raids with
Bob.
But stopping the
brat thing? Now that’s really a long shot.
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Stepping Out Thanks to Bob and Papa
Gino's
“You have to
start getting out of the house,” my husband Bob said. “Your
spinal surgery was months ago.”
“But I still
can’t walk,” I whimpered, lying on the couch watching the
fourth “ER” in a row I had taped.
“Well somebody’s
been walking to the refrigerator. The cake is
gone.”
I quickly jumped
up and raced to the fridge. “There’s a whole piece
here!”
“Ah hah!” he said
victoriously, as we both saw I was standing just fine. “That
was a test. You flunked.”
“Oh no,” I
feigned weakness and gripped the counter. “I threw my back
out. You better help me to the couch, and while you’re at it,
I could use a cupcake.”
“You don’t need
help,” he said. “Well, maybe you do. I’ll call a shrink.” He
left the room, leaving me to get my own
cupcake.
“Is this a tough
love thing?” I called out.
He called back,
“Yep.”
“But I had
surrr-gerr-y.”
“They forgot to
remove the whine.”
“Don’t you feel
sorry for me?”
“Sure I do.” He
came back to the kitchen. “I’ll even put away the dishes –
after you wash them.”
“Me wash
dishes?”
“Yes,” he said.
“You remember. You take this thing here. It’s called a
sponge.
Then you – ”
I grabbed the
sponge. “I can’t believe you’re making me do
this.”
“It’s good for
you.”
That afternoon,
he coaxed me to get out of the house. I opened the front door
and looked outside. Then I slammed the door shut and threw
myself against it. “It’s too much at once,” I said, gasping.
“There are trees and things out
there.”
“You’ll be fine.”
An hour later I
shouted, “I can’t do this anymore! Take me
home!”
“We’re still on
the front step.”
So where do you
go when you live on scenic Cape Cod and you haven’t been out
for 3 months? To the local pizza joint - Papa Gino’s, of
course. I stood at the counter and looked up at the menu,
staring at it like a kid in awe. “I love the great outdoors!”
I said to Bob in wonderment. “You just give people money and
they’ll give you food!”
I placed my
order. “I’ll have three slices of pepperoni pizza and
breadsticks made with all that drippy cheese, and mozzarella
sticks, raviolis, garlic bread . . . and a whole big bunch
of meatballs. You want to split a Papa Platter?” I excitedly
asked Bob. “They give you spaghetti on that.”
The waitress
looked for the rest of our party.
“It’s just us,”
Bob said. “She doesn’t get out
much.”
We got our food
to go and drove to the beach at the town landing. We sat on
the rocks at the shore.
And that’s when I
had a happy attack. I stood up and flung my arms in the air as
if I was giving heaven a giant hug. “I can walk!” I was
ecstatic because 3 months ago I was told I might never walk
again.
“She can walk!”
Bob shouted joyfully to nobody.
Right then, I
decided I didn’t need another crisis to feel this incredible
way again. I will no longer take for granted the things I
adore, like Bob of course and Cape Cod Bay and my wobbly but
working legs.
And above
all . . . the buttery
goopy-cheese garlic bread they’ve got at Papa
Gino’s.
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The Festering
Wonders of Winter
As we settle
cozily into our homes, we spend this blessed time
contemplating the meaningful part of winter: bacteria.
We’re past the
endless holiday debate - do we cook the bacteria-laden
stuffing inside or outside the turkey? Mention giblets and I
have a slight problem with projectile vomiting. At least
they’re called “giblets”. That’s more appetizing than their
technical names: big red icky things.
This year,
bacteria has a fresh meaning to me. One morning, Bob was
terribly sick. The doctor said he had a bacterial infection of
non-specific origin.
“NON-SPECIFIC
ORIGIN?” I screamed at Bob.
“Yes.” He took
antibiotics and fell asleep. I straddled his back and slammed
his shoulders repeatedly into the pillow. “WHAT IS THIS
BACTERIA FROM?” He didn’t know.
I trashed
everything in the fridge that was blue or yellow, including
cheese. “That’s blue cheese,” Bob
said.
“The blue is
mold, as in bacteria! Besides, it was cheddar.” I ran my
finger around the lip of the spaghetti sauce jar to remove the
blue ring of moldy fur. Then I put the jar back. “Red is
fine.”
“What’s wrong
with yellow?” he asked, as I smelled the butter.
“Hellooo?” I
said, incredulously. “Picture something rancid. Old bacon,
infected skin - what color is it?” He ran to the bathroom.
I had our moldy
heating ducts cleaned and found an unfortunate answer to my
question, “Where did the frogs go that lived in our fish
tank?”
Thankfully the
antibiotics worked. But the infection caused Bob to lose his
ability to smell and taste.
We tested his
senses daily. We (I couldn’t let the poor guy go it alone) ate
all the leftover holiday chocolate. We had pizza with the
“works” - a lovely generic term coined by the guys in the
kitchen for, “Who knows what these chunks are? If they’re red,
they’re good to go.”
I held
strong-smelling things (don’t ask) under his nose. While he
was sleeping, I held up a bottle of maple syrup (his favorite
food group). Startled, he woke up and knocked it on the floor.
Our cats licked the syrup.
To prevent
further syrup lapping (OK. I’m referring to myself at this
point), Bob got the Lysol. He sniffed it. “I can smell!” he
cried.
I shared his
profound joy and said, “Now you can
cook!”
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