Thank You for Asking

Merry Christmas

Christmas always puts me firmly on the brink (more than usual) between perfect bliss and all out despair.  I don’t think I ask for much...just a perfect Christmas…with a Bing Crosby Christmas album playing as the soundtrack.  No one seems to want to cooperate. 

Our Peter and the Wolf foray was a disaster.  When I told everyone it was time to get ready for the concert Oldest just laughed, said, “Funny one Mom” and continued playing his Xbox 360.   Beloved inquired how I expected him to keep me in “expensive clothes” (?!) and the boys in private schools if I was dragging him out every 5 minutes for Peter and the Wolf??!!  I’m still (just) able to bully Middle and Youngest, so the three of us eventually make it to the Symphony with me yelling and them wailing.  We are seated next to a man that is missing an arm.  It makes me want to cry, especially during the participatory section where we all have to clap in time to the music. 

Beloved’s grumpy state is apparently permanent.  I’m sure it is traumatizing the boys, so I suggest maybe he should have a chat with Oldest explaining why he is a tad stressed, especially at Christmas, what with the economy and all.  Beloved says, “yes, yes, yes…I will handle it.”  He goes downstairs, asks Xbox 360 playing Oldest if there is anything he would like to ask him.  Oldest says, “no” and Beloved comes back upstairs.  The exchange, including going up and down the stairs, takes about 55 seconds.

I buy adorable Christmas clothing for the boys, so we can look like the perfect happy family we are.  The only one I can get to wear them is Youngest and only because I throw him to the ground, put him in a choke hold whilst thrusting lederhosen (not really) and “real” shoes on him.  Sort of like branding a cow.       

I finally decide my family is hopeless, and the only way to enjoy the holiday is by myself.  I shut myself in the living room and try to create a perfect Christmas environment.  The tree is twinkling (except in back), the fire is crackling (I’m a bit nervous as it is “Spare the Air” day), I am wrapping presents and listening to Christmas music.  Nat King Cole is singing a song about a “Little Boy that Santa Clause Forgot.”  Forgotten, apparently, because that little boy, “doesn’t have a daddy.”  Beloved shouts from in front of the TV downstairs if I mind turning down the “racket” and can I keep the sobbing down?

Merry Christmas! 

Christmas Lights

The (protesting) boys and I trundle down to the cute Guardsmen to buy our Christmas tree.  We retrieve all the heavy, dusty Christmas decorations from the storage room then pull out Elvis’s Blue Christmas and play it over and over and over.  We even go so far as to do the prep work and untangle all the Christmas tree lights.  Beloved then comes stomping in, takes one look at the mess on the floor and says, “there is NO way I can handle the lights this year…I am too stressed.”  Wo-h-h-h-h-h…I understand that he can’t drive Oldest to crew practice at 5:30 in the morning because he is too stressed.  I understand that he can’t put his dishes in the dishwasher because he is too stressed.  I understand that he leaves his personal belongings wherever they happen to drop because he is too stressed, BUT Christmas Tree Light Hanging is the man’s job.  That is the natural order of things.  If we overturn that basic tenet, what’s next?!  Beloved  buying trousers that are too expensive and paying half cash, half credit card?  Beloved splitting the bill with his friends and getting flustered when it comes to the tip?  Beloved breaking up with his best friend because, “he’s just not good for him right now”?  Beloved sharing intimate details of our marriage with his friends on the phone, laughing hysterically then swearing “we weren’t talking about you!”  No, no, no.  I think not.           

Also, the “stressed” excuse is wearing a little thin.  I’m stressed too, so I guess I just won’t get up to get the children off to school.  I guess I will let Youngest’s Boy of the Week just go by without reading to his class.   I guess I will just let Rowena make their dinner every ni…well anyway, you get my point.

 

However, because I am a giver, I agree I will do the lights, wherein I confront the same problem we have EVERY year.  1.  Half the lights on the strand don’t light.  2.  The other half of the lights on the strand don’t twinkle.  I spend the next day and a half trying to find the tiny red-tipped twinkle-making light bulbs from the bottom of the Christmas ornament storage boxes.  I spend the following day and a half trying to find out what bulb needs to be replaced so the other lights will light.  I start to feel confused and inadequate and have flashbacks to dreams where I’m naked in my math class trying to take the final exam I forgot about.  It really is too much.  Finally, I put all the old lights in a big garbage bag and go buy $70 worth of new lights.  I come back feeling slightly guilty and un-green but ready to tackle the Christmas tree head-on.  I put the lights on the tree and call the boys in for the grand plug-in ceremony. I find I have a socket, not a plug, in my hand.  I start screaming and the boys run from the room.  I re-trace my steps and realize I have confused one strand’s socket with its plug.  I take all the lights off the tree, losing a red-tipped bulb or two in the process.  I get the ladder back out and re-hang the lights.  With a crazed and maniacally-cheerful shout, I beckon the boys once again.  They hover fearfully at the door of the living room, not willing to get any closer, as I shriek “Merry Christmas!” and plug the lights in.

At that moment Beloved comes strolling in from work and says, “Just so you know, the bulbs on the back of the tree aren’t twinkling and it doesn’t look very nice when you see it from outside…what’s for dinner?”

 

Dinner Party - Part II

Beloved and I arrive at the dinner party slightly chilly with each other and quickly go our separate ways.  I ask for a glass of water, because I am pretty sure I will stick to my plan of water/wine/water/wine this time.  Micki is telling a story about her recent trip to Cuba and Sabrina cuts in to let us know she was just there only with hipper, cooler people. 

Sneaking a peak at my watch I start to worry about the evening’s time-table.  If we are to cover all of our essential topics, we need to get a move on.  Fortunately, Sabrina’s new Side-kick gets the ball rolling with a demure, “well, I am just shocked that I am even here at all!  I rarely go out anymore.”  We agree wholeheartedly that going out is the last thing any of us ever do voluntarily.  We move briskly on to Children and how we exist only for Them.  Simply put, we would all just fall down dead if we weren’t able to do their homework with them every single night.  Luckily, because time is running out, we are able to efficiently combine Never Buying Clothes with Who Has Time for Beauty Treatments as our hostess calls us to the table.

I am seated next to a very social, handsome, slightly younger man.  Looking over my shoulder he tells me I am real…he can tell…and doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the dinner.  I grab my freshly re-filled wine glass and spend the next 20 minutes (and part of the following day) trying to figure out why real and how can he tell?  Is it my dress?  Should I not have worn flats?  I decide it is Beloved’s fault for not letting me flat-iron my hair.  Bastard.  The dinner partner on my other side is German.   We spend the first part of the evening not understanding a word the other is saying.  He is, however, very well-mannered and attentive to my frequently drained wine glass. 

Beloved is having a wonderful time and seems to be the center of attention.  I strain to hear what in the world he could be talking about and overhear him telling his dinner partners about the time, at our house, I gave food poisoning to an entire party of potential sponsors for a club we were hoping to join.  They are all weak with laughter and Beloved seems pleased with his decision to go jovial.  The German next to me interrupts my eavesdropping to politely ask if my "tits are real."  A scuffle ensues until I see the serving platter in his hand and accept his offer of a "bit of veal."  Reaching across his body to grab the wine bottle, I start to think I have underestimated the German and begin to enjoy his company.  The Germans really are rather good listeners.  We have a nice long tete-a-tete at the end of which I tell him, with misty eyes (and I can tell he concurs), that I have so enjoyed meeting him, and I now think of him as a dear friend.  At that moment Beloved walks up from behind giving me the signal he is ready to go by rubbing my shoulders (which I have repeatedly told him I hate).  The German jumps up and clicks his heels together in attention when he sees Beloved…well not quite, but his enthusiasm seems a bit over-zealous.   I make a mental note to tell my new friend that obsequiousness is not a good look for him.  The German courteously (enthusiastically even) goes along with Beloved’s outrageous suggestion that it is time for us to leave.

On the way home from the dinner party, I review the infractions that Beloved has perpetrated this evening and begin to think it might be prudent for us to have a nice long chat… tonight…

Dinner Party - Part I

I am so looking forward to the dinner party we are to attend this evening.  I sit in my bedroom, enjoying my cup of tea, idly flipping through my Vogue and think about the evening ahead.  Barb calls in the middle of my reverie to ask what I’m going to wear.  We chat about clothes for a while then the conversation turn to whom we think the other guests will be.  We go through a list of likely candidates and eventually come to Sabrina…whom we both agree we adore.  As much as we hope she is in attendance we fear it unlikely.  Our hostess for the evening is very real and as much as it kills us to say it, Sabrina has a tendency to name drop and is sometimes a bit superficial …we really don't like to be the ones to point it out.  We talk about how much we love Sabrina for a little while longer then both shout we can’t believe how late it is and hang up to get ready.  I think very hard about getting ready while wondering if I have time for a quick jog?   Beloved suddenly appears reminding me WE HAVE TO LEAVE IN 30 MINUTES!!! 

I enjoy a leisurely bath as Beloved pops in every minute or two to announce the time.

After my bath I decide to put a couple of large rollers in my hair to give it a little lift and body.  While they're setting I finish my tea and magazine article.  I don't like to waste time if I can help it.  Ten minutes later Beloved comes in, takes one look at me on my bedroom sofa in my lounge wear and curlers and shouts, “WHAT THE HELL?!!  You're not dressed yet??!!"   We then have a little stand-off with him staring at me as I slowly sip my tea and crisply turn the pages of my magazine.  I am the first to crack, toss my magazine down and stomp off to get dressed.  He stalks off muttering something about “blissful ignorance in regard to time” and, “no sense of urgency whatsoever….”  

Choosing what to wear is really the fun part of a dinner party, unless what I want to wear is too tight, the shoes I thought would look good cut my legs off giving me cankles, the sweater that I need to wear as a cover-up is at the dry cleaners, the crisp white shirt that would be perfect is un-ironed or the going-out-on-a-limb with brightly colored opaque tights turns out to be a dreadful mistake.  Beloved comes in, takes one incredulous look at the heap of clothes and shoes strewn about and says through gritted teeth he thinks he will go “warm up” the car.  In 30 seconds, because it does not take long to “warm up” a 2007 Volvo in 60 degree weather, I hear the first honk.  It repeats itself at regular and frequent intervals.  Seething, I run downstairs and out the door, holding the wrong pair of shoes, wearing the wrong color lipstick and sporting un-flat-ironed hair.

Miraculously, we are not in a huge fight on the drive to the party, so I start thinking of the best way to give Beloved his dinner party instructions.  Beloved has an admirable trait, I’m sure, of not caring what others think of him.  I do, and since everyone knows one’s spouse is an extension of oneself, I feel there is some responsibility on his side.  I like to give Beloved little pep talks on the way to dinner parties to remind him of what I think works best for him.  Beloved does not normally find this helpful, so I try to bite my tongue.  Tonight  I am unsuccessful and say in a rapid-fire way, “just remember, you can’t go wrong by pretending to be interested in others…but please do not do that weird jovial thing…no one really buys it coming from you.”  Beloved accepts this councel evenly, and then says, “Thank you.  I’m sure that information will come in very handy.  Now I would like to return the favor.  You know that sparkly personality of yours that you are so proud of?  Well, sometimes, after a glass of wine or two, it is just loud…not really sparkly at all.  That information may come in handy to you this evening.”  It is really a shock to find oneself married to a fiend.