Happy St. Tuesday

He walked through the store with his eyes to the floor
The constant reminders, he couldn’t take anymore
The hearts and the roses and chocolates galore
She’s gonna be mad at me.

He doesn’t like being ordered about

Being told what to buy so she won’t feel “left out”
He keeps his heart guarded, he’d rather not shout
I hope she’s not mad at me.

He keeps his plan quiet, he keeps his head down

If she knew what was coming, she wouldn’t frown
He loves her and in his heart she wears a crown
Sure hope she’s not mad at me.

Without even a mention, he lets the day pass

Demands for affection seem shallow and crass
But with romantic gestures happening en masse
She might be mad at me.

Shamrocks replace pink hearts on the wall

His wife seems like the least loved of them all
But his love goes beyond the stores at the mall
Soon she’ll know what she means to me.

He chooses each blossom with careful attention

He bought the wine he once heard her mention
He rubs his neck, cursing the tension
She’s going to love this, wait and see.

She arrives at the church, not knowing he’s there

She thinks she’s attending a charity affair
At the thousands of candles, she can only stare
She’s definitely not mad at me.

“I don’t say what I feel, I’ll admit it’s a flaw

“That I don’t express love to the fairest of all
“This diamond is real, even though it is small.”
He drops to one knee, and takes her hand
He says, “My wife, my lover, my very best friend,
“Will you do me the honors of marrying me again?
“I hope you’re not mad at me.”

He knew by her tears the answer was “yes”

My, how he loved how she looked in that dress
As he vowed again to love her through worst and through best
He said, “Happy St. Tuesday, from me.”

© Bertha Grizzly 2012.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

The Great Takedown

     If you ask 100 people the question, “What do you find to be the biggest pain in the butt?”, you will undoubtedly received 100 different answers.  For my best friend, Pocahontas, it would be anything remotely connected, related to, or dealing with cooking.  For my fellow “old soul”, Georgia, it would be organizing the basement she has lovingly christened the “Dungeon of Doom”.  For me, it’s taking down Christmas decorations.  It’s not that I feel depressed or let down after the holiday season of cheerful festivities; far from it.  I see Christmas as the culmination of a year’s worth of planning and see December 26 as the first day of planning for next year.  I just find the task of un-decorating to be daunting at best.

      You see, The Yankee keeps the boxes in his garage. 

      I don’t go in the garage unless it is an absolute dire necessity.  Don’t misunderstand me.  The garage is not messy, cluttered, or dangerous in any way.  Au contraire.  It is a well-organized, neatly arranged, modern marvel of order and symmetry.  It is orderly, neat, pristine, untouched, undisturbed, clean, and sterile ... and it drives me crazy.  Every tool has its place and is neatly aligned in size order on a pegboard wall.  All implements are neatly sorted in color-coded bins ready for the next project.  (Since he is averaging one project every 27.46 months, those implements will be stewing in their color-coded loneliness for a while.)  The upper cavern of the garage is a haven of boxes.  Every box that ever housed a tool is neatly arranged in alphabetical order with the warranty and original receipt enclosed in a plastic bag and affixed to said box.  It is among this maddening maze of order that the Christmas decoration boxes are housed. 

      I would go looking for them on my own, but something growled at me one time. 

      Last year, I removed a hundred yards of garland that The Yankee had wound around every fixed fixture in our yard during the mindless haze of his yearly “Christmas fog”.  I took down the lights from the windows, the giant red bows from the curtains, and the stockings from the mantle.  I was ready to put Christmas to rest for another year so I said, “Could you go get the boxes from that horrible attic of yours?”  He looked offended.  “Horrible?  How can organization be horrible?”  I rolled my eyes, “Organization doesn’t bother me.  Super-duper-I’m-a-nut-job-with-color-coded-bins-for-the-tools-I-rarely-use organization bothers me.  I’m not going in there so if you want this Christmas crap out of the house, you must be the one to make the trek to the garage and pull the boxes in the house.”  He says, “I’ll do it when I get home from work.” 

      Well, work got busy, overtime racked up, and our Christmas ornaments began gathering dust.  We invited Tip and Georgia over for a late-January dinner party and I cringed when they walked past the Christmas tree to get to the dining room.  “Well, Bertha,” Georgia said in her Southern drawl, “do y’all still have your Christmas tree up, darling’?”  I was mortified.  “No,” I said, trying to maintain a sense of humor.  “We just put ours up early this year.”  After they left, I looked at The Yankee with eyes of flaming irritation.  “You will get those boxes out of that horrible attic, or I’m picking up the Christmas tree and laying it under the covers on your side of the bed.”  He just smiled.  “I’ll do it when I get home from work.”

      Valentine’s Day came and went.  President’s Day came and went.   St. Patrick’s Day came and went.  I served him candy canes for dinner.  I started blasting “Jingle Bells” over the stereo every time he came home from work.  I finally said, “All I want for our anniversary is a Christmas-free house.” 

      Finally, one glorious Saturday, I was spring-cleaning while Christmas cookies baked in the oven when I heard a happy noise.  The garage door opening.  Rustling through the attic.  Thuds as boxes hit the floor.  Dragging as boxes entered our living room.  Jingles and twinkles as ornaments and bells found their place in each box.  I cried tears of joy as my flip-flops slapped the deck while I helped him haul boxes to the garage.  “You know,” I sniffed back tears as I fingered a beautifully blooming rose in the yard, “I think this is probably the nicest Easter I’ve ever had.”      

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Recalculating

     Talents, personal strengths, and stereotypes aside, there is plenty of fodder for the war between the sexes.  You can argue nature versus nurture all day long, but it is undeniable that there are fundamental differences between men and women.  Differences so deep, so universal, so vast they can only be explained by DNA.  Don’t believe me?  Still hanging on to your obsessive convictions that differences are taught?  Ask my parents for directions. 

      Go on.  I double dog dare you.

      My mother gives excellent directions and I follow her perfectly.  I asked her how to get to the new pottery she had told me about.  “Oh it’s easy,” she said.  “Take the north-bound interstate to Exit 300, which will put you on Jimmy Boulevard.  Go through 4 traffic lights and turn left at Eddie’s Bait and Tackle.  It’s less than a quarter-mile on the right.  You can’t miss it.”  Clear.  Concise.  Landmarks.  I totally get it and I will find it with no problems.

      The Yankee is confused.

      “Jimmy Boulevard.  If memory serves me, I think that’s actually Route 4912 which curves around and becomes Route 4812B.  Now, do we follow it east or west?”  He closes his eyes and turns his body 40 degrees to the right.  “OK, here is True North,” he says, pointing in front of him,” so would we follow Route 4912 east or west?”  Mom sits, motionless.  “That depends,” she answers.  “Which way did you come off the interstate?  If you come from our house and get off on Exit 300, it’s one way so you don’t have a choice.”  As he furrows his brow, Dad steps in. 

      I click my heels together in a furious tattoo: “There’s no place like home there’s no place like home there’s no place like home.”  It doesn’t work.  I’m forced to endure this. 

      “It’s easy,” he says with confidence.  “Travel on the north-bound interstate, driving south in the west lane.  When you get off on Exit 300, travel east to the southwest, which is Route 2960 North.  Drive 2 miles south, due east until you get to the intersection of Route 2991 and Old Route 2995J.  Turn east in the south-bound lane and travel north until you see the overpass to New Route 2995J.  The pottery is due south.  You can’t miss it.”  Mom and I stare at each other.  “What the bloody CRAP did all that mean?!” I shrieked.  “And how am I supposed to tell which way is ‘due south’ anyway?”  Dad and The Yankee elbow each other and laugh.  “Use the sun!  It’s worked for thousands of years!”  I was not impressed.  “You both think you’re so brilliant, but I am going at night.”  They laugh all over again and break into a rendition of how simple it is to find “true north” by using a discarded napkin and a gum wrapper like MacGyver would have done.  I look at Mom and we start speaking to each other in sign language, which irritates Dad and The Yankee because they have no idea if we are planning dinner or calling them a monkey butt. 

      To be honest, north, south, east, and west don’t help me at all.  I’m OK with the legend on an atlas, but N,S,E,W does me no good in the middle of downtown.  The way I see it, north is above us, south is below us, and west is on the left.  Mom totally gets it.  Dad and The Yankee, on the other hand, still talk to each other like Boy Scouts of a bygone era.  Like Lewis and Clark out in the middle of nowhere.  Like, well … men.

      I still have no clue what they are talking about.  Not a clue.  Does that mean their way of getting around is wrong?  No.  Is it insanely different to the point they could safely discuss the hidden location of a body in front of me?  Absolutely.  By the same token, however, my way is not wrong either.  I think this is where many needless fights are started. Do I find the concept of travelling east in the south-bound lane on Old Route 2995J dumb and irritating?  Totally.  But this is how Dad and The Yankee find their bearings in the world.  This is what makes sense to them and they are entitled to feel that way without ridicule … just as I am more comfortable with left, right, and landmarks and deserve to be left alone. 

      I’m not saying directions qualify as the crux of all male/female differences, but they certainly do prove a valid point: you keep doing what you do best, I’ll keep doing what I do best, and we’ll meet in the middle once in a while for dinner and dancing. 

      For me, middle is a left turn at the living room.  For The Yankee, it’s north in the east-bound lane, due south.  

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Hippity-Hop, Your Product's a Flop

Dear Sirs of Acme Good Luck Gifts and Gags:

     Please find enclosed one of your “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” key ring charms, listed on the tag as “Lot 351 Tahitian Purple”.  I recently purchased this item in the sincere hopes of turning around what has come to be a life of misfortune, accidents, and sincere bad luck.  You see, I was born under an unlucky moon, in an unlucky hospital ward, on an unlucky morning.  I am certain you hear that quite often considering the nature of your business, but I must assure you that my particular bad luck is unique:

     It.  Never.  Ends. 

     When my husband proposed to me, I said, “I need to get this out in the open before we go any further.  You ARE marrying a bad luck charm.  I bring a pox to every household I enter, every project I touch, every person I meet.”  He sweetly patted my arm and said, “I don’t believe in luck.”  I snorted in hysterical laughter and retorted with, “You will.”  After a particularly unlucky stretch, I happened into a gift shop and noticed your “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” display rack.  The sign promised to “offer good fortune and protection to anyone” and “turn bad luck into good fortune”.  With my history of jinxed automobiles, mysteriously exploding appliances and illnesses whose diagnoses can be summated by a doctor scratching his head and pouring over medical books with beads of sweat running down his face, I was skeptical that any rabbit’s foot could turn that kind of luck around, but I decided to give it a try. 

     I got up this morning and was in the bathroom trying to get ready for work.  I flushed the toilet and noticed a really weird gurgling sound and the shower was barely a trickle.  I called out to my husband, The Yankee, "Be careful when you flush the toilet; we have no water."  I could hear him say, "Great".  He goes under the house to find out what's wrong with the well pump, but can't find any problems.  I got my daughter, Buttercup, up, dressed, and on the school bus while The Yankee is getting madder and madder and blaming me for everything.  "I wanted you to call the warranty company MONTHS ago but NOOOOOOOOO you forgot AGAIN."  (Like if I called the home warranty company and said, "Do you cover well pumps?", then our water wouldn't have been acting up today ... whatever.)  So I go in the house and read the fine print on the policy.  No, they don't cover wells, pumps, pressure tanks, bladders, underground or outside plumbing, or anything else that isn't a bathtub elbow pipe.  Period.  Well, this gets him even madder, "We're getting another warranty company!" he bellows.  I tried to calm him, "They all have limits on what they cover."  "NO THEY DON'T!!!" he screams.  I don't argue with children so I went back in the house to call my dad.  I tried not to be angry with The Yankee.  I told myself he's upset about yet ANOTHER thing going wrong (which brings our grand total to about 452,581,898,747,852,541,599,985,264,653,115,022 over the last 10 years.  I could kinda understand his irritation.)  So he's going on and on about, "Now we gotta hire a backhoe to come dig up the well pump."  I said, "You don't need a backhoe.  You can pull it out from the top with a winch."  Well, that got him on his "Me-The-Man-You-The-Woman-What-The-Fricken-Fracken-Mother-Father-Firetruck-Do-You-Know-About-Squat" soapbox again, so I just made my phone call. 

     The Yankee is barking at me in one ear and my dad is asking me these technical questions in the other ear like, "So when you pull the top off the shazzmafrazz and look down the glocken-morley, what color is the tape-orfen-jollynot that is attached to the wire coming from the horlen-fritzy-jay?  And if there isn't a wire coming from the horlen-fritzy-jay, then there's probably a switchboard hossen-feeler that's on the opposite wall of the schmarlen rickta-frazz, so tell me which way the hortzen is pointing." 

     I finally said, "Dad wants to talk to you." 

     Long story short, we finally got water at 12:15.  I took a shower and made myself half-way presentable and left for work.  I get on the Interstate and called my assistant to tell her when I would be there and she says, "I hope you're not taking the Interstate because a tractor-trailer accident has both lanes blocked and traffic is backed up for 12 miles."  So I get off on the very next exit and take the back roads in.  The traffic was nuts but I made it.  I stopped at the hardware store and picked up some spare parts for the well pump and when I was leaving the parking lot, the power steering stopped working on the car.  So, I get some fast food, have to work the crap out of my biceps to turn the steering wheel, and finally get to my office.  Running for the front door, I twist my ankle and my food goes flying across the parking lot, dirty little chicken nuggets bouncing down the hill in a mocking tango that fairly screamed, “Take that.”   

      So, here I am, ankle throbbing, stomach growling, and dreading having to tell The Yankee that the power steering is gone and, thanks to a free diagnosis from the mechanic next door to my office, we need a $4,000 engine block. With my fabulous luck, the house will probably be a smoldering pile of rubble by the time I get home.  I would have thrown the “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” in the trash, but I’m afraid it might come back from beyond the beyond and twist my other ankle.  If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be hobbling my way to the break room in hopes of finding some salt to throw over my shoulder, and hope I don’t slip in it on the way back.

With fingers crossed,

Bertha

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Rom-Com Bomb

     I recently had a day off from my day job.  One of those rare, jewel-encrusted, splendiferous days that makes living seem worth while again.  I sent Buttercup off to school, shuffled The Yankee out the door to work, and surveyed my surroundings.  My house was reasonably clean, the laundry was basically done thanks to a laundry marathon over the weekend, and there were no real errands to run.  I had the day all to myself and I was so thrilled, I did a happy dance in the kitchen.  After creating a gourmet 6-cheese and pancetta macaroni and cheese for a late breakfast/early lunch, I was off to watch some of those romantic comedies I’d been saving up for a time when I was alone.  Most rom-coms take place on Planet Earth so that assures me The Yankee will never be caught dead watching one.  I’ve seen my share, but this was going to be a marathon of all the ones my girlfriends keep telling me I just have to see.  I settle down with my killer macaroni and get on with my marathon and day of relaxation. 

      Boy, oh boy, did I learn a lot about relationships.

      First of all, rom-coms are fairy tales for adults.  The characters are the envy of the audience: their problems are light, their relatives are endearingly nutty, their friends are enduringly loyal, and their “messy hair” still manages to look sexy.  Somehow, even single secretaries make enough money to afford a swanky apartment and trips to the local pub every weekend.  The “chubby” friends are a size 10 and that annoying guy who just can’t get the hint would be the envy of most average women. 

      Secondly, I learned that there are three different types of romantic movies: the ones that have a happy, albeit predictable, ending; the ones that have a surprise twist at the end but it works out anyway; and the ones that really have no ending at all.  This last category is the one I hate the most.  I came to watch a story.  A story has a beginning, a middle, and an end.  Running out of ideas does not qualify as an ending.  Forgetting to turn in the last few pages of the script does not immediately qualify it as a “cutting-edge drama”.  You were paid to write a story and you are making me do half the work by writing my own ending?  Shoddy writing, my friend, shoddy writing. 

      Thirdly, the men in these movies are not from this planet, I am sure of it.  The instant I heard a man say, “I was insensitive to your feelings.  I didn’t consider you in my reaction.  You are the most amazing woman on earth and I don’t deserve you”, I would be looking around for a hidden camera or a space pod.  I think I would just speak quietly through my teeth and a fake smile, “Ih ve are veing vatched, just vlink your eyes a hew tines.”  (Admit it.  You said that through your teeth with a pasted-on, toothy grin.) 

      The last thing I learned is that no one, and I mean no one, ever eats.  Even in restaurants they order a bottle of champagne, barely get the glass to their lips with something “unexpected” happens and they have to leave.  I realize it is difficult to allow for chewing, swallowing, and savoring when under a movie’s strict time constraints, but come on!  Real people eat.  I know that would come as a shock to most of Hollywood, given the requisite “Three C’s” diet of coconut water, cardio, and colonics, but someone really should send these directors a picture of normal people seated around a dinner table with food they cooked for themselves. 

      I finished my movie marathon, washed the 6-cheese pancetta macaroni and cheese pan and started working on a dinner devoid of champagne, coconut water, or drama.  The Yankee would be home before too long, Buttercup bouncing at his heels, and they would be looking for food.  I set out the ingredients for mushroom smothered steak and sautéed collard greens, knowing it’s a family favorite.  I look around my house, my kitchen, my decidedly non-sexy bedroom and smile.  I guess in a way my life is a rom-com.  My hair never looks sexy when I wake up, I never have enough money for trips to the pub every weekend, I am the chubby friend.  On the other hand, my relatives are endearingly nutty, my friends are enduringly loyal, and whether or not The Yankee is from planet earth is still undecided. 

      I hear the car in the driveway as I set the table and light a few candles.  My life is a romantic comedy.  And this is one ending I don’t mind writing.

 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Bertha’s Alphabet™: The "ABC's" of Marriage (N-Z)

N is for “No FREAKIN’ Way!” As romantic and surreal as your engagement and wedding seemed at the time, you wake up one day and realize that the dream lover you married has bed head, morning breath, a grumpy disposition, and some really stupid ideas.  Considering that you probably have your own bed head, morning breath, grumpy disposition, and really stupid ideas, the likelihood of a squabble is inevitable.  “No FREAKIN’ way!” is going to be the answer to several brilliant plans: forgoing Christmas presents so we can buy “us” a new lawn tractor, converting the garage into a potpourri-scented craft room, selling the dining room furniture to make room for a new foosball table, going to a blender demonstration instead of that lame football party … well, you get the idea.

O is for Over and Over. Don’t be surprised at the number of times you have to repeat yourself or the fact that you’ll have to remind him 346,922,810,675,519,248 times that you hate onion rings.  You’ve hated onion rings since you were 5 years old.  You’ve hated onion rings since the day he met you.  You’ve hated onion rings every time he’s begged/forced you to try one.  You will hate onion rings until the day you die.  You are seriously considering getting a tattoo of an onion ring with a line through it.  And the next time he acts shocked to “discover” that you hate onion rings you’ll be better prepared now that I’ve warned you.  (Did I mention that I hate onion rings?)

P is for Poverty. Ahh, adulthood.  Nothing lets you know you are fully grown like an empty bank account and a boring Friday night at home with the TV and a bowl of cereal.  To get through this time, refer to the letter “L”. 

Q is for Quality Time, and the violently differing opinions on what that means exactly.  You think it means holding hands over a romantic dinner before he takes you in his arms and tells you that you are the most beautiful, amazing woman God ever put on the earth.  He thinks it means snoring in the recliner while you cook his biscuits and gravy. 

R is for “Really?!” That word you’re going to say at least a hundred times as you discover unfortunate, bizarre, and downright hair raising factoids about your spouse over the next umpteen years. 

S is for Silence.  It’s amazing how when you’re dating, silence is something horrible you avoid like the plague.  Now that you’ve been together for so long, you can actually sit in the same room or the same car in total silence and it’s OK.  He knows you’re there.  You know he’s there.  And if you have nothing to say, the world is not over. 

T is for Tunes.  You will never, ever, ever agree on music.  You think Queen is the best rock group in history and he has the nerve to think Kurt Cobain and his depressing, minor key durges rule.  And, I’ll have him know, Elvis is NOT over-rated, Louis Armstrong CAN sing, and … sorry, that’s a sore wound for me.

U is for Underwear.  The longer you’ve been married, the uglier the underwear gets.  Honeymoon equals brand new skivvies.  Ten year anniversary equals comfy old reliables you won’t get rid of until they get at least 3 more holes.

V is for Valentine’s Day.  That over-rated stinking holiday that husbands forget about once the ink is dry on the marriage license.  Besides, who needs stupid diamonds, dark chocolate, love notes, or a sexy slow dance? 

W is for “We”. You will find yourself saying this over and over throughout the years.  “We love this house.”  “We can’t stand that restaurant.”  “We had the best time!”  And, weird as it sounds, you’ll be right most of the time.

X is for eX-girlfriends who scarred him for life.  “Don’t microwave popcorn!  Annie used to do that before she had one of her panic attacks!”  “You’re getting up early to go to a farmers’ market?  Monica used to do that before she would cheat on me.”  “You know I hate cake.  Tiffany wrote, ‘We’re done, Loser’ on my birthday cake.”  My favorite response to that is, “I’m more sane than Annie, more faithful than Monica, and apparently, more desperate than Tiffany.”  Snaps him back to reality like that.  

Y is for Years that crawl and fly by at the same time.  Someone says, “How long have you been married?”.  When you answer with “10 years”, it won’t feel that long.  But the next time he washes a snow white shirt in the dark load because it has a dime-sized navy flower on the collar, you’ll scream “I’ve been telling you for 10 YEARS to leave my laundry alone!” … and it will feel every DAY of 10 years.

Z is for Zzzzzzz … the sound you’ll hear when you’re in the mood and he’s exhausted from working on the car all day.  Get it?  Exhausted?  Hahaha … ok that one deserved some zzzzz’s of its own. 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Bertha’s Alphabet ™: The “ABC’s” of Marriage (A-M)

A is for Acclimation.  Also known as “getting used to the other person’s crap”.  Just saying ...

B is for Built-in Date.  You will never have to wonder who is going to go with you to the next boring office party.  You may have to wonder how your “plus one” is going to behave, dress, or get you fired, but you’ll never have to wonder who it is.

C is for Clandestine.  The only way you will ever get any time to yourself.  Or sneak a Christmas present into the house.  Or find out what really happened to leave him with that scar on his arm.  Hmmmm ….

D is for Dreams.  Throughout your entire marriage, you will dream together.  “When we retire, we should live over a café in Paris.”  “When we win the lottery, let’s buy a new roof for every church in town.”  “When the kids are able to take care of themselves, let’s take a weekend trip somewhere that doesn’t involve animated characters.”  Those dreams give you something to shoot for; a goal you want to reach together.  Hold on to that in the lean times and you’ll be more apt to attack your problems rather than each other. 

E is for Eyes.  The new method of communication you will adopt within the first few years.  One look can mean, “Let’s get out of here” or “Don’t go there” or “Come hither” or “If you make fun of me again, I’ll hurt you in ways not usually visible to the general public”. 

F is for the Flu.  Sooner or later, the two of you will catch the flu, a virus, or some raging tropical disease at the same exact time.  This will require understanding, teamwork, and two separate televisions.  He will get sick of “rom-coms” and you will get sick of cartoons, tool shows, and hair band reunions. 

G is for Glamour.  Setting up house can seem glamorous on the surface.  I mean, you’re picking out a new house or deciding on a china pattern or dreaming of the days when your grandchildren will want you to buy them candy.  Seldom do we consider real life in all that.  “Real life” as in the mouse in the kitchen, the vomit somebody has to clean up as soon as possible, the horrendous flatulence that sends your spouse heaving to the back deck for fresh air, the bounced check you’d rather forget about, the hideous hair-raising screaming match about crown molding … makes the glamour of Ward and June Cleaver seem like a badly written romance novel, doesn’t it?

H is for Honesty.  And it is so over-rated.  Yes, his hair looks like something Don Knotts sported back in the day.  Yes, that fish he made for dinner was dry and hard to swallow.  Yes, his funny joke is the same one he’s told you twelve times.  But is it worth being that honest?  Not really.

I is for Inside Jokes.  After you’ve been married a while, you’ll have little inside jokes that mean nothing to the rest of the world.  Who else could look across a room, say, “There’s a wall there” and have your spouse dissolve in laughter?  No one else gets it … and that’s precisely the point.

J is for Jealousy.  I told myself I was above such things and, really, jealousy is so childish.  I was wrong.  When The Yankee was a groomsman at a wedding and the bridesmaid he walked down the aisle was a size-4 blonde with more hair than my entire family put together, I felt the twinges of jealousy burning.  I just kept telling myself, “She probably can’t boil water.  She probably can’t pronounce ‘croque monsieur’.  She probably has that un-fresh feeling.”

K is for Kin and Kith (that means “friends and family”).  Those ever-so-helpful people who have plenty of advice to offer when you’re first starting out but run for the hills when the REAL crap falls on your heads years down the road.  (At the engagement party): “Never go to bed angry.”  “Let him have a boys night every one in a while.”  “Remember to send flowers, Dude.  Chicks dig that stuff.”  “Don’t let the little things get you down.”  (Six years later): “Oh, gee, your kids have pneumonia, the company is downsizing, your house lost $25,000 in value, the dog bit a cat lover, and the pregnancy test was positive?  Golly, I’d love to stay and chat but I’m late for my, umm, uh, golf game … yeah, that’s it.”  Don’t worry about these people.  The ones who matter will be there for the good times AND the bad.  Lean on each other and then take evil pleasure in erasing the nincompoops off your Christmas card list …

L is for Laughter.  The oxygen of a marriage.  If you forget to laugh, you will remember to fight. 

M is for “Money”.  That magical green stuff we all need, want, and desperately hate at the same time will somehow disappear faster than fried chitterlings at a bluegrass hoedown. 

Green-Eyed Monster

     After being married to The Yankee since shortly before the invention of electricity, I’ve learned quite a bit about his mannerisms and what they mean.  Looking to one side as he inhales deeply means he thinks something or someone is stupid.  Slower blinking while his mouth is set in a crooked line means he is being stubborn.  And rocking his chair back on two legs while he drums his fingers means he has something to tell me if can summon the nerve.  This is precisely what I saw at supper one night last week.  We were finishing our meal and I could see his chair slowly rocking backwards as his fingers drummed.  My heart sank a little as I imagined what news he was dreading telling me.  Had he lost his job?  Had he found a problem with the car that would cost thousands to repair?  What was it?  The suspense was killing me, but I’ve learned not to press the issue.   

      “Umm, I had this weird thing happen yesterday,” he began slowly.  “Oh really?” I said, trying not to sound anxious.  “Yeah, umm, one of my clients introduced me to his daughter.”  I paused for a moment, carefully measuring what I should say next.  “Why is that weird?”  He swallowed his drink before he continued, “Well, she kept smiling at me and trying to sit next to me, and she touched my arm a few times.”  I was confused by all this but I let him finish.  “Then my client left the room for a few minutes and his daughter asked me if I was married.”

     Ahh HA!  Now we get to the juicy part.

      “I told her yes and hoped she would just leave it at that, but she went on.”  I sat in silence as I pictured this woman, sidled up to my husband, her blonde hair ever so slightly covering one eye a la Veronica Lake, her slender, manicured fingernails “accidently” touching his masculine arms, her perfectly tanned legs peeking out from a size 0 pencil skirt.  I must confess, the mental picture was unnerving.  My heart was pounding but I remained mute as he told me his story.  “She couldn’t just take the fact that I was married and forget about it.  She had to ask me if it was a happy marriage.”  I do not consider myself the jealous type, but this was too far!  “The nerve!” I gasped.  “What did you say?”  “I said ’VERY’ and took a gentle step backwards.”  I’ve never been so proud of The Yankee in my life.  He continued his thought, “She stuck her lower lip out in a pout and said, ’Well, if it’s ever not happy, call me.’  It made me so uncomfortable.”  Shocked by my own jealousy and concerned for his discomfort, I tried to put him at ease.  “What did she look like?”  He slowly inhaled, “She’s short, about 45 years old with frizzy, dyed-red hair.”

      This did not fit my mental picture of Veronica Lake at all.

      He continued, “She weighed about 400 pounds, but it was mostly in her rear end so when she sat down, she was actually taller than me.”  I was so stunned, I couldn’t move.  “Umm, and, uh,” I could barely speak, “This was the woman who was asking you if your marriage was happy?”  He nodded, “Yeah, I felt bad for her.  I mean, she seemed lonely especially after she told me the state had taken away most of her 47 cats.”  My hand flew to my mouth as I stifled a snorting laugh.  Thankfully, The Yankee didn’t notice.  “She had on this sweatshirt with a picture of one of her cats she called Fluff-Fluff.  He was ugly but I didn’t tell her that.  I was too busy wondering how someone can get blackish-orangey flaky nail fungus on all ten toes and then wear flip-flops that are a size too small so her toes hang over the ends of the shoes.” 

      I couldn’t hold it anymore.  I laughed until I nearly threw up.

      “Well I’m glad you find my misery so hilarious, Bertha.”  Through my tearing eyes, aching ribs, and convulsing shakes I squeaked, “But I do!”  The Yankee was not happy.  “I can’t believe you’re laughing at me!  She smelled like an ash tray!  That woman freaked me out, especially when she told me that I had ‘cute little ears’ just like her kitty named Mr. Pickle-Meyer that the state took away to the shelter.”  I laid on the dining room table, tears flowing into the scraps of my dinner plate, as I writhed in laughter and hoped I didn’t wet my pants.  By this time, The Yankee stands up, throws his napkin on the table and marches to the kitchen.  “I don’t have to take this, Bertha!  I thought you’d be supportive, but this is too much!  I’m going to work in the garage.”  I wiped at my eyes and tried to stop snorting as I called out to him, “But, but, Mr. Pickle-Meyer!  Don’t you want to stay and tell me more about Veronica?”  He poked his head back into the dining room as I struggled to stand up without my knees buckling in more hysterical shrieking.  “Her name is Fanny-Faye Snerdly, thank you very much.”  Well, there went my knees. 

      It’s going to be a while before I stop calling him “Mr. Pickle-Meyer”.   

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Bertha’s Bakers Dozen ™: What Marriage Is Not

     Hundreds of books hit the shelves every year touting the miracles of marriage.  What it is, how to get it, how to improve on it, how to keep it, how to let it go, etc., but no one ever seems to tell us what marriage isn’t. 

     Well, Letterman has his ten; Bertha has her Bakers Dozen … and this time, it’s the What Marriage Is Not list.  Whether you think of marriage as floating down the aisle in yards of white tulle or find the entire prospect an outdated waste of time, here is my list of common misconceptions about the mystery of marriage:
 

13) A ceremony.  How many times have you watched those wedding shows on TV and thought, “These people have no idea what they’re getting themselves into!”  The wedding ceremony is such a small part of the marriage, it’s borderline negligible.  I’m all for a personal, deeply spiritual, yet jubilant party to celebrate the union of two individuals, but going into a marriage with the feeling that you will forever be a bride, be greeted each day with flowers and expressions of love from a hunk in a tux, and an exciting adventure at every turn is just setting yourself up for disappointment.  There’s a lot of penny pinching and dryer lint between “I do” and “’til death do us part”. 

 
12) A partnership of equals.  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.  When you get right down to it, we’re all 12 years old at heart.  Immaturity reigns supreme when tensions are high and the door is shut.  It is a partnership of two people who like to think of themselves as equals but secretly vow to melt that “equal partner” if he or she even thinks about taking the last fudgy donut.
 
11) A romance novel.  You aren’t “Valentina St. John, the stormy, voluptuous damsel with hair like a glossy raven” and he isn’t “Demetrius Harmon-Davies, the stubborn, strong warrior with a chiseled jaw and a primal desire for the damsel who refuses to be tamed”.  Puh-leez!  Maybe you’re Hortense, the pre-school teacher with horrible eyesight and an oversized collection of dolls.  Maybe he’s Larry, the pudgy plumber with a comb-over and this stupid, annoying, totally made-up aversion to onions.  Maybe you’re both so weird, you have the perfect relationship.  Whatever your story, just keep it in perspective.  Valentina and Demetrius live in a fantasy world that will never know the horrors of spoiled meat, annoying in-laws, furniture dust, poo-poo, empty bank accounts, or body image issues. 
 
10) A dictatorship.  Whenever two people are together, one person tends to be a bit more dominant than the other.  This is fine as long as no one person takes advantage of it.  I remember once a girlfriend of mine yelled in the next room to her husband, “HEY! Bring me some COFFEE!”  I looked at her, dumbfounded.  “Aren’t you at least going to say ’please’?” I asked her.  She snarled her lip, “What for?  It’s only him.”  And she wonders why he looks for any excuse to head out on his boat.    
 
9) A ledger book.  Yes, you’ve washed a million loads of laundry and he’s done exactly zero.  Yes, you’ve taken the garbage out every night for 35 years and she doesn’t even know where the extra bags are kept.  Yes, this one earns more money than that one and that one stomachs dog poop better than this one … but the point is NO ONE should be keeping score.  A marriage is about working together for the good of the household; not working to fill some points bank and see whose account balance is higher.      
 
8) A disposable diaper.  Marriage is not for us to unload our miseries, nitpick the flaws of the other person, scream when we don’t get our way, and then toss it aside for a shinier, newer relationship.         
 
7) A competition.  People get competitive over the stupidest stuff.  Who’s wound hurt worse.  Who has uglier feet.  Who’s mother is the biggest complainer.  Who cooked more dinners, who brought in more money, who squeezes the toothpaste wrong.  The point is, the more competitive you become, the less “us” there is to cherish.
 
6) A career.  Marrying for money?  Are you kidding me?!  Why not just sell babies on the black market … there’s more money to be had and it’s almost as cruel.   
 
5) A romantic comedy.  Chances are: he’s not going to stand in the rain and tearfully scream his love for you in the middle of a crowd as he begs you to love him back.  She’s not going to give you a half-dozen strapping sons and one of her kidneys and still look like one of the Spice Girls at 55.  There’s no background music, no quirky neighbors to bring you to your senses, no heart-wrenching, whispered soliloquy to be overheard at just the right moment.  This is real life and it is comprised of the choices we make.    
 
4) A cruise ship.  Marriage is an adventure, yes, but moments are not planned out for you.  There will be moments of mind-numbing boredom and monotony so oppressive you’ll pine for the excitement of a long line at the DMV.  Expect those moments, plan for those moments.  Do not use those moments as “proof” that your marriage is doomed. 
 
3) A piece of paper.  This argument just makes me laugh.  How many times have I heard someone say, “Marriage is just a piece of paper.”  Baloney.  Marriage is a contractual agreement between two parties.  Besides the usual stuff like love, respect, and friendship, it is the glue that holds a marriage together.  And believe me, there were a lot of times when that “piece of paper” was the only thing that kept me from throwing my hands in the air and screaming, “FINE!!  You deal with it alone then!  I’m going on a singles cruise!”       
 
2) The end.  OK, I’ll grant you it’s the end of dating, the end of living for yourself, the end of being alone.  But it isn’t the end of adventure.  It’s not the end of fun.  It’s not the end of excitement.  If anything, you have another person there to help in a bind.  A shoulder to cry on.  A buddy to laugh with.  A second income should you lose your job.  Yes, there will be boring moments and difficult times, but they are far from “the end”.     
 
1) A bad idea.  It takes work.  It takes commitment.  It takes work.  It takes a fierce determination.  It takes work.  Did I mention how much work it takes?  It’s a hard job, but it is not a bad idea.    
 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Mr. and Mrs.

     With all the talk about the institution of marriage floating around the internet, the office water cooler, and the court systems, I believe I shall dip my quill into the inkwell and insert my two cents. 
 

      Talk to any girl under the age of 22 about marriage, and the first thing out of her mouth is, “Well, I’d love to have a ______ wedding.” WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG POST FOR AN IMPORTANT NEWS BULLETIN: THE WEDDING IS ONE-ONE HUNDRED THOUSANTH OF A PERCENT OF THE MARRIAGE. It’s a ceremony. It’s a party. It’s a 3, 4, maybe even 8 or 9 hour event that pales in comparison to the thoughts of “every-single-day-for-the-next-sixty-years”. And those next sixty years are going to be full of surprises. You do know that, right?

      I think people have the wrong idea about marriage. It is not a partnership of equals. It is a cohesion of opposites that brings about intensive self-evaluation, personal maturity, and a hint of crazy. It is a union of two twelve-year-olds who still want their own room, their own individual cupcake, their own way, and the last laugh. The façade of two mature adults blending their lives into a perfect union of trust and equality is really funny to me. I knew a couple who appeared to be the epitome of grace and maturity; a true communion of souls in a 4-bedroom house. But, truth be told (over a pitcher of margaritas one night), they were anything but graceful and mature. He liked to skip bathing on the weekends: a) because he’s lazy, and b) because she found it repulsive. She, on the other hand, stopped shaving when the pools closed and didn’t take up the habit again until Easter. I sat there staring at The Yankee while our friends regaled with stories so shocking we couldn’t stop thinking about it. That night, we were laying in bed staring into the blackness and discussing what we had heard. “We’re pretty normal, aren’t we, Bert?”, he said. I thought about that one for a moment. “If you mean ‘normal’ as in you don’t let yourself smell like an outhouse all weekend and I don’t spend my winters with legs and armpits like Donkey Kong, then I guess so.”

      But the real truth is we all have weirdness: stuff that disqualifies us from winning the award for “Most Normal”. Just think about it. My best friend, Pocahontas, can’t watch any show about pack rats because she spends the next six hours throwing away everything that isn’t nailed down. My sister-in-law, Red, faints at the sight of any blood that isn’t her own. My dad grew up in abject poverty and is so scared of running out of toilet paper, he has kept a 12-pack of squeezable 2-ply in his closet for as long as I’ve known him. When it really comes down to brass tacks, I suppose weirdness is the new normal … and if couples can learn to adjust to each other’s weirdness, the world just might be a happier place. I’ve had plenty of practice getting used to The Yankee’s weirdness. He has a love affair with sleep that no basketball game, favorite food, or delicately perfumed wrist can trump.

      It was a Saturday and I’d been up with Buttercup since 8 o’clock. I scrubbed floors, washed clothes, dusted ceiling fans, changed sheets, and baked bread while The Yankee stayed curled up until well after Noon. Then, as he dragged his Yankee butt into the living room, he flopped in the recliner and fell asleep for another hour. I would have a splitting headache if I slept that long, but I’m a girl and girls rule. (Sorry … just a little hint of the 12 year old in me dying to get out and post his drooling picture on Twitter.) As I pull Buttercup’s comforter out of the dryer and head up to her room, I can hear The Yankee stirring. He’s reading one of my “useless trivia” books that I enjoy at the end of a long day and, even though he is not a reader, he enjoys the tidbits of information. As I struggle to re-make the bed, I hear him laughing, the foot of the recliner being lowered, and then his voice reverberating through the house. “Bertha!” he calls, still laughing, “You gotta hear this!” He finds me, props himself against Buttercup’s door frame, and starts reading some pointless fact I would have otherwise found amusing were it not for me standing on my head adjusting a contrary dust ruffle. Part of me was irritated. I’ve been going at this housework for hours and where has he been? Snoozing, that’s where. Taking up space, serving no purpose, contributing nothing to the universe or the household. And now, when I’m continuing my quest for a nice, clean home, he’s tracking me down for useless trivia? Really?!!? Then suddenly, it hits me. He … tracked ME down. Of all his e-mail buddies, of all his weird friends, of all our family members he could have contacted to share this tidbit that made him laugh, he went looking for me. I was the first one on his mind when he wanted to share something. I could have ignored him. I could have huffed, puffed, and made a BIG DEAL out of the fact that I’m the one doing all the housework while he and his blankie spend some quality time together. I could have said something snarky. But I didn’t. I laughed with him, told him how funny it was, and asked him what he wanted for dinner. He inhaled deeply and said, “I smell fresh bread and lemony-fresh cleanser. You’ve been watching that show about people’s dirty houses again, haven’t you.” It was a statement, not a question, and I couldn’t deny it. Yes, I’d been watching it. What? You’ve never seen someone else’s dirt and been inspired to clean up your own? The look on my face was evidently funny to him because he laughed, put the book down, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

      “You’re a dork. How about I go get takeout for dinner tonight, huh? And here, let me help you with that stupid dust ruffle.” Yes, he’s weird, but he’s my Mister. I can handle his brand of weirdness. I wouldn’t trade him for anything, but I could live without that recliner.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011. All Rights Reserved. No duplication or distribution.