“When she laughs, her nose gets that cute little crinkly thing, and her eyes squint like a Chinese waitress, and she gurgles – I swear - she gurgles! It is the most adorable thing to listen to.”
I lean against the door frame in my kitchen, the phone caught in the crook of my neck, listening to Valentino describe his latest love, and try – really try – to be patient with him, but wonder how many loves I must suffer through with this man.
About once a month, I get a call from Val. “I’ve met someone,” he’ll say, and he meets them everywhere – at the grocery store, at the book store, in line at the gas station, for crying out loud – and within a week I’ll get a phone call.
“Ruth. I’ve met her. You’ve got to meet this one. She’s perfect for me!” Then I’ll get a detailed description of her perfect smile, or sense of style, or her hair, or her perfect apartment, even. Whatever it was he’s been looking for in a woman – she has it. Although, how someone could fall in love with someone over an apartment is really beyond me.
His relationships progress in classic form: the dinner at his place, the impromptu weekend at the beach, the songs he picks out and shares with her – one perfect song each day for the perfect woman. I’ve often wondered if he creates a whole new list of songs for each new woman, or if there are re-runs, like there are re-runs in the impromptu beach trip, and the dinner. Val is great at luring them in, making them fall – and they do fall. They fall hard for that version of Val, the romantic.
But something always happens to drive him away. The woman with the perfect smile fell and broke a tooth at his place. The woman with the perfect sense of style didn’t own a bathing suit. The woman with the perfect hair got it cut. And the woman with the perfect apartment, well, it turned out to have plumbing problems.
And, then Val ends up at my door.
“Mind if I join you for dinner? Want to grab a movie? I don’t know, Ruth, I just can’t find someone I can talk to as well as you.”
So, tonight, it is the perfect laugh, and when I hang up with Val, I walk around my not-so-perfect apartment, practicing my gurgle, squinting my eyes, and crinkling my nose, because this is what a woman has to do to attract men these days. I’ve tried being a good friend and listener, but it’s evidently not enough.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Giggling Gaggle of Girls
This poem was included in the March, 2011 "Newsletter for Writers" produced by Clarity Works. http://www.clarityworksonline.com/
Giggling girls are great,
except when you’re on the outside looking in,
then they’re more like a gaggle of geese –
or the bevy of swans at the park who come after you with their beaks ready to attack,
when all you wanted to do was share some leftover ciabatta from last night’s dinner.
Swans have their own agenda,
their own experiences,
their own plan.
They aren’t worried you’ll hurt them,
but you might give that tiny piece of crusty bread to the team of ducks quickly approaching,
and they’ll be left foraging for whatever it is swans eat – worms or bugs,
or a stale cracker crumb left over from the last child who came with an arm outstretched,
whose mother thought it would be good to take the kids to the park and feed the beautiful swans.
And, here they come to attack my daughter,
biting at her tiny ankles,
pulling at her little ponytail,
and all I want is to rescue her,
but I don’t.
I stand beside her and let her feel and experience the terror;
I know she’ll learn from this.
She’ll learn that swans, while beautiful on the outside, are nasty creatures on the inside.
She’ll learn that an outstretched hand might not always be accepted the way it’s intended.
And she’ll learn that she can stand alone on her own two feet,
she’ll survive the abuse she takes from these swans,
these beautiful young swans,
who are giggling and laughing at her
and pulling her tiny ponytail.
She’ll survive, and learn, and grow, and find her own bevy of swans,
or gaggle of geese,
or team of ducks.
But, oh, the temptation is there, still, to just pull her away and protect her.
Girls can be so mean.
Giggling girls are great,
except when you’re on the outside looking in,
then they’re more like a gaggle of geese –
or the bevy of swans at the park who come after you with their beaks ready to attack,
when all you wanted to do was share some leftover ciabatta from last night’s dinner.
Swans have their own agenda,
their own experiences,
their own plan.
They aren’t worried you’ll hurt them,
but you might give that tiny piece of crusty bread to the team of ducks quickly approaching,
and they’ll be left foraging for whatever it is swans eat – worms or bugs,
or a stale cracker crumb left over from the last child who came with an arm outstretched,
whose mother thought it would be good to take the kids to the park and feed the beautiful swans.
And, here they come to attack my daughter,
biting at her tiny ankles,
pulling at her little ponytail,
and all I want is to rescue her,
but I don’t.
I stand beside her and let her feel and experience the terror;
I know she’ll learn from this.
She’ll learn that swans, while beautiful on the outside, are nasty creatures on the inside.
She’ll learn that an outstretched hand might not always be accepted the way it’s intended.
And she’ll learn that she can stand alone on her own two feet,
she’ll survive the abuse she takes from these swans,
these beautiful young swans,
who are giggling and laughing at her
and pulling her tiny ponytail.
She’ll survive, and learn, and grow, and find her own bevy of swans,
or gaggle of geese,
or team of ducks.
But, oh, the temptation is there, still, to just pull her away and protect her.
Girls can be so mean.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Giants are in the World Series, again.
"Dim the lights," he said. "It's way too bright in here. These lights give off too much heat."
She lowered the toggle, noting how many times she'd wanted to do this over the last twenty one years, and finally her husband was agreeing to a romantic candlelight dinner.
"It's amazing the changes that can happen in a marriage, if you'll only be patient," she said taking her seat at the kitchen table. She carefully unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap. "Cheers," she said, raising her glass of half sweet-tea and half lemonade to the love of her life.
"Cheers," he replied. "Do you mind if we watch the World Series? The Giants are in it, again."
She tilted her head, wondering how to respond. If I say yes, does it set a precedent? she wondered. Can you even set a precedent after this long? At this point, isn't it already set? "Sure, no problem," she answered, but he'd already put down the remote.
"I don't really care who wins," he said. "I'd rather talk to you, anyway." He grinned at her.
There, she thought. That's romance. "Thank you," she acknowledged. "So, how was your day?"
And he told her. For twenty minutes he talked to her about the intricacies of his landscape business. He recreated conversations he'd had with his employees, and with his customers. He discussed the changes in the new health care reform, and how the effect it would have on his bottom line.
Somewhere in this discussion, her mind drifted. What did we used to talk about when we were dating? she wondered. Surely we had something in common when we first got together. But she searched her memory bank and it came back void. When her husband paused in his daily re-creation, she posed that very question to him.
"Do you remember what we used to talk about when we were dating?" she asked.
"No, what?" was his response.
"I can't remember," she said, baffled.
"Why does it matter? We have plenty of things to talk about, now."
"Like what?"
He chuckled. "Boring you with my work stuff, again?"
She smiled.
"Okay, tell me about your day, then."
And she began to recount the various activities that made up her day.
"I had to take Drew to school today, because he missed the bus. Then I came home and did laundry."
He nodded.
"I'm thinking about getting out of that investment club and using the money to buy a new washer. Ours is on its last legs."
Her husband put a bite of noodles in his mouth.
"What else did I do? Let's see ... I talked to Sylvia about her trip. They're thinking of having another baby. She's just like your mother, you know? It's no wonder your brother married her. They're both crazy."
Her husband nodded, again, swallowing a large gulp of the tea and lemonade mixture.
"I cleaned the kitchen and listened to a really interesting interview on the radio about Japan. You'd have liked it."
Her husband didn't nod this time; he was wiping the napkin across his lips.
"I guess my day sounds about as boring to you as yours does to me," she acquiesced.
"Your day doesn't sound boring, honey." he comforted. "It sounds relaxing. I'm glad you had such a fun day."
Fun? she thought. Was it a fun day? Is this what fun is at forty? She had a vision of herself at ten, dreaming of the day she would one day be happily married. What were those dreams about, she couldn't say specifically, just some vague idea of bliss and joy.
"I don't think I'm happy, honey." she admitted, looking down at the untouched plate of food in front of her. "All of those things sound great, but it's as if I'm missing something in my life."
"What?" he asked, a concerned look suddenly on his face.
"If I knew "WHAT?" don't you think I'd go get it?" she snapped.
He paused for a minute, took a breathe, and asked, "What can I do?"
"I don't know," she answered, the snap gone. Do all couples have this? Is this normal marriedhood? Each day I make a new list of things to do, but each day the list is the same. Normal for me is cleaning, and cooking, and caring, and fixing dinner. Every day - 365 days a year - for twenty one years! "I think I need a break." she said. "I want to go back to being twenty something when life was still ahead of me and see if I'd make the same choices."
"I see," her husband responded. "You mean you want to see if you'd still marry me." he asked.
Shit! That's not what I wanted to do. I don't want to hurt this man who's been so good to me. I just want to find my way to be happier here! "Oh, honey," she said. "It's not you, it's me."
He grinned at her. "Okay, Costanza. How about if we turn up the lights and watch the World Series together tonight. That's probably something we did when we were dating."
She nodded.
"Do you remember who won the year we got married?"
"No, who?"
"The Angels, honey. I can't believe you don't remember! They beat the Giants!"
She wiped her lips with the napkin, and then smiled.
She lowered the toggle, noting how many times she'd wanted to do this over the last twenty one years, and finally her husband was agreeing to a romantic candlelight dinner.
"It's amazing the changes that can happen in a marriage, if you'll only be patient," she said taking her seat at the kitchen table. She carefully unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap. "Cheers," she said, raising her glass of half sweet-tea and half lemonade to the love of her life.
"Cheers," he replied. "Do you mind if we watch the World Series? The Giants are in it, again."
She tilted her head, wondering how to respond. If I say yes, does it set a precedent? she wondered. Can you even set a precedent after this long? At this point, isn't it already set? "Sure, no problem," she answered, but he'd already put down the remote.
"I don't really care who wins," he said. "I'd rather talk to you, anyway." He grinned at her.
There, she thought. That's romance. "Thank you," she acknowledged. "So, how was your day?"
And he told her. For twenty minutes he talked to her about the intricacies of his landscape business. He recreated conversations he'd had with his employees, and with his customers. He discussed the changes in the new health care reform, and how the effect it would have on his bottom line.
Somewhere in this discussion, her mind drifted. What did we used to talk about when we were dating? she wondered. Surely we had something in common when we first got together. But she searched her memory bank and it came back void. When her husband paused in his daily re-creation, she posed that very question to him.
"Do you remember what we used to talk about when we were dating?" she asked.
"No, what?" was his response.
"I can't remember," she said, baffled.
"Why does it matter? We have plenty of things to talk about, now."
"Like what?"
He chuckled. "Boring you with my work stuff, again?"
She smiled.
"Okay, tell me about your day, then."
And she began to recount the various activities that made up her day.
"I had to take Drew to school today, because he missed the bus. Then I came home and did laundry."
He nodded.
"I'm thinking about getting out of that investment club and using the money to buy a new washer. Ours is on its last legs."
Her husband put a bite of noodles in his mouth.
"What else did I do? Let's see ... I talked to Sylvia about her trip. They're thinking of having another baby. She's just like your mother, you know? It's no wonder your brother married her. They're both crazy."
Her husband nodded, again, swallowing a large gulp of the tea and lemonade mixture.
"I cleaned the kitchen and listened to a really interesting interview on the radio about Japan. You'd have liked it."
Her husband didn't nod this time; he was wiping the napkin across his lips.
"I guess my day sounds about as boring to you as yours does to me," she acquiesced.
"Your day doesn't sound boring, honey." he comforted. "It sounds relaxing. I'm glad you had such a fun day."
Fun? she thought. Was it a fun day? Is this what fun is at forty? She had a vision of herself at ten, dreaming of the day she would one day be happily married. What were those dreams about, she couldn't say specifically, just some vague idea of bliss and joy.
"I don't think I'm happy, honey." she admitted, looking down at the untouched plate of food in front of her. "All of those things sound great, but it's as if I'm missing something in my life."
"What?" he asked, a concerned look suddenly on his face.
"If I knew "WHAT?" don't you think I'd go get it?" she snapped.
He paused for a minute, took a breathe, and asked, "What can I do?"
"I don't know," she answered, the snap gone. Do all couples have this? Is this normal marriedhood? Each day I make a new list of things to do, but each day the list is the same. Normal for me is cleaning, and cooking, and caring, and fixing dinner. Every day - 365 days a year - for twenty one years! "I think I need a break." she said. "I want to go back to being twenty something when life was still ahead of me and see if I'd make the same choices."
"I see," her husband responded. "You mean you want to see if you'd still marry me." he asked.
Shit! That's not what I wanted to do. I don't want to hurt this man who's been so good to me. I just want to find my way to be happier here! "Oh, honey," she said. "It's not you, it's me."
He grinned at her. "Okay, Costanza. How about if we turn up the lights and watch the World Series together tonight. That's probably something we did when we were dating."
She nodded.
"Do you remember who won the year we got married?"
"No, who?"
"The Angels, honey. I can't believe you don't remember! They beat the Giants!"
She wiped her lips with the napkin, and then smiled.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Color Her Red and Blue
Color her red and blue,
With a dab of purple around her eye.
Paint the colors carefully,
No one will suspect.
Color her red and blue
Maybe some white, too,
And world might say
You’re doing your patriotic duty.
Color her red and blue.
Add some green and white;
She’ll be ready for all the holidays!
You’re so very sensitive -
Teaching others to respect
While you disrespect your own.
Color her red and blue
Then hand her a book.
She’ll sit in the corner,
Lost in her fantasy,
Living someone else’s life.
She’ll be quiet.
She won’t bother you.
Color her red and blue
And she’ll be ready for any rally.
She’ll study the candidates carefully,
Make thoughtful decisions.
Don’t ask her to debate though,
She’s too timid.
She still remembers what it was like
The day you colored her red and blue.
With a dab of purple around her eye.
Paint the colors carefully,
No one will suspect.
Color her red and blue
Maybe some white, too,
And world might say
You’re doing your patriotic duty.
Color her red and blue.
Add some green and white;
She’ll be ready for all the holidays!
You’re so very sensitive -
Teaching others to respect
While you disrespect your own.
Color her red and blue
Then hand her a book.
She’ll sit in the corner,
Lost in her fantasy,
Living someone else’s life.
She’ll be quiet.
She won’t bother you.
Color her red and blue
And she’ll be ready for any rally.
She’ll study the candidates carefully,
Make thoughtful decisions.
Don’t ask her to debate though,
She’s too timid.
She still remembers what it was like
The day you colored her red and blue.
The Edifice
“Edifice?” she said. “I’m your edifice? Noah, do you even know what that means?”
He shrugged his shoulders so far they reached the tips of his earlobes, the lobes she teased him about the other day, saying they were “too crinkly”. When his shoulders moved, the bright orange football jersey he wore exposed the pink skin beneath it. She had cautioned him to wear a shirt underneath the jersey when he wore it on Fridays – the one day of the week football players were supposed to wear their uniforms proudly to school – but he had refused, insisting in wearing the garment with its tiny holes to school, where he was bound to get cold in the brisk fall air.
Noah’s toe drew circles in the dirt as they waited with the other students for the bus. The morning dew combined with the dirt and collected on the top of his shoe. She’d told him before how ridiculous this looked.
“A grown man,” she said, “playing in the dirt,” and yet he continued toeing the ground, refusing to look up at her
“An ‘edifice’ Noah, is a building,” she announced, shifting the pile of school books she carried around from one hip to the other. “You can’t call someone a building. I’m not like a brick wall or something.”
Noah stopped his concentric circling and looked up at this creature who had been calling herself his girlfriend.
“I’m not going to be able to take you to Homecoming after all." he said. "I’m going to ask Honey, instead.”
And with that, the tension he'd been feeling for weeks suddenly dissipated; the formidable wall, the one he’d been slamming into for months, crumbled before him.
He shrugged his shoulders so far they reached the tips of his earlobes, the lobes she teased him about the other day, saying they were “too crinkly”. When his shoulders moved, the bright orange football jersey he wore exposed the pink skin beneath it. She had cautioned him to wear a shirt underneath the jersey when he wore it on Fridays – the one day of the week football players were supposed to wear their uniforms proudly to school – but he had refused, insisting in wearing the garment with its tiny holes to school, where he was bound to get cold in the brisk fall air.
Noah’s toe drew circles in the dirt as they waited with the other students for the bus. The morning dew combined with the dirt and collected on the top of his shoe. She’d told him before how ridiculous this looked.
“A grown man,” she said, “playing in the dirt,” and yet he continued toeing the ground, refusing to look up at her
“An ‘edifice’ Noah, is a building,” she announced, shifting the pile of school books she carried around from one hip to the other. “You can’t call someone a building. I’m not like a brick wall or something.”
Noah stopped his concentric circling and looked up at this creature who had been calling herself his girlfriend.
“I’m not going to be able to take you to Homecoming after all." he said. "I’m going to ask Honey, instead.”
And with that, the tension he'd been feeling for weeks suddenly dissipated; the formidable wall, the one he’d been slamming into for months, crumbled before him.
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