A Walk in the Snark (10 page)

I probably spell it a little bit differently than you do:

C-L-O-S-E-T S-P-A-C-E.

Does your guy speak CLOTHING? (Especially the little-known dialect of WALK-IN?)

Sure, there are important things like attraction, commitment, and ability to cook. Pishposh. I can tell you right now that if your man doesn’t understand that a chick needs to make room for all her girliness, in all its forms, can you really be sure that he’s THE ONE?

My guy loves to do everything together. He’s the type who draws his energy from other people. I’m the opposite. I love my private time and crave time alone.

So what does this have to do with the closet?

Well. When we moved into our new home last year, I noticed right away during the initial walk-through that the master bedroom has a decent sized walk-in closet with lots of built-in shelving. It looked just the right size for all of my clothing, plus shoes and handbags. Oh, and don’t forget my costume jewelry. Like you would.

The husband, on the other hand, commented that we could
finally
share a closet.

Honey, say what?

Me:
Darling. Sweet child of mine. I love you and all but ARE YOU FREAKIN’ CRAZY? I haven’t had to share a closet since I was a kid and had to share Barbie space with my older (had to get that in) sister, Caren. I still have emotional scars from
that
disastrous wreckage. Do you
know
what she did to my Skipper doll? Let’s just say Skipper “skipped” for good reason when she was done with her.

Husband:
Yes, I know, I know. And I know she drew red lipstick on your favorite Raggedy Ann doll’s face, sweetie (which only made me love her more). But sometimes married people do things like this. It’s called
compromise
.

Me:
Eek! There it is.
The C-word.
You know I hate that word. Baby.
Sweetheart.
We’ve successfully not screwed up our eighteen years of marriage so far by never uttering that word. And by not sharing closet space. While not the only reason for our success—I do let you hold the TV remote—I feel strongly that I must make a stand here. In my Manolos. (Shows feet prettily.) Aren’t they gorgeous?

Alas, gorgeous feet and all, I failed to make my point. However, I did successfully manage to utilize over 80 percent of the closet (I measured). It’s not like I actually
wear
all that stuff. But I MIGHT. At some point. (Why do they always ask us that question? Men.)

So I did learn there are sacrifices one must make for marriage. Sigh.

And I made him buy me some bitchin’ Prada Mary Janes.

Actually, I think I kinda like this sacrifice thing.

I’ve now got my eye on a pretty Louis Vuitton wallet—red patent leather, just gorgeous.

Me:
Honey, if you want, I’ll share the kitchen with you!

(Note: I did give away a bunch of clothing to our local shelter for abused women and their children. In Orange County alone, domestic violence is up by 25 percent for women and over 60 percent for children this past year. I want those ladies to feel beautiful after all the hell they’ve been through and the kids...well, no words. If you’d like to donate, check out
Laura’s House
. Thanks.)

***

“
I joke about hating to cook, but to be honest, I don’t really hate it.
I detest it w/ every fiber of my Louis Vuitton handbag.”

PAPER TOWEL WARS

Eighteen years of marriage has given my husband and me lots of time to bond over the little things: our love of sci-fi movies, our children, great food (that I don’t have to cook), and that he doesn’t question my closet space needs.

But what I still can’t understand are the little wads of paper towels he leaves lying around—aka scrunchies. No wonder I hate going in that room where ya know, food comes out of.

Shivers.

For some reason, men and paper towels just don’t mix.

Well, let me amend that. Men will USE paper towels. They just can’t seem to throw them away. They leave them scrunched up around the kitchen like little paper gifts for you to find later; small, white, non-shiny presents you never asked for and certainly don’t want.

The gift that keeps on giving.

Except it’s not like, ya know, Prada.

My husband and I have discussed this tissue—I mean issue—at length. Why doesn’t he throw out the paper towels that he uses? The rest of the family doesn’t seem to have a problem, after washing our hands, with throwing a paper towel away in the trash can that’s not more than a few feet away.

Is he becoming arthritic? (I mean, he did just turn fifty-six.)

Or are the paper towel droppings part of the bigger issue of his general
M.A.N. Disease (Male Avoidance Neuroses)
?

Did I need to stage a Paper Towel Intervention? I don’t remember this chapter in the wife manual.

No, no, he said. That’s not it at all. You women (so Mancode of him) just don’t get how we guys think. (Um, hello. It’s called
marriage
. But that’s a whole other article. Or book. I’m not sure yet.) Anyway...

Enlighten me, darling, I replied. (But first, a martini please. Dirty, extra olives.) I have a feeling I have to gird my loins for this one.

Okay, man o’ mine. Continue.

Men are hunters. We’re men on the move. We’re here, we’re there. We’re dodging one bullet only to find that another is headed our way.

I raise my hand. Um, bullets? We live in South Orange County, sweetheart. In a gated community. That hasn’t had a crime worse than someone TP’ing a tree in over thirty years.

Don’t be so literal, honey. You get my meaning. Guys don’t have time to worry about throwing some silly paper towel away when we have to stop big-screen-TV-threatening water leaks or kill wife-eating spiders. We use the paper towel and move on, baby. It’s out of our consciousness. Eventually we’ll get back to throwing it away when the war is over. But by then you women have entered into Def-Con Hissy Fit #1 over the invading paper towel and have tossed it—just to whine at us about leaving it around.

Besides, a man never throws away a perfectly good paper towel when he can use it again. Them thar’s supplies, and a soldier don’t waste supplies.

At this point, he washes his hands and uses a paper towel. Given that the only war going on is our war of words (and his dearth of grammatical errors), I’m waiting in stealth mode to see what his battle strategy will be.

And
he leaves his paper towel absentmindedly on the counter and walks out.

Not kidding.

Sigh.

I grab the towel and fold it in half neatly as I lean back in my chair and put my feet up, reflecting that it all works out in the end.

I did need a coaster for my martini, after all.

This war stuff is hard work.

As I ponder my final olive, I hear a little noise and turn to see my guy peering at me around the corner, the smallest smile of victory on this face.

Damn. Dude just played me.

Sneaky bastard.

***

*Poignancy Alert*

THE DIFFICULT KIND

Yes, this is another poignancy alert. You see after I wrote a few posts about D’s strange reappearance in my life and then sudden, unnatural departure, I thought I would be done. But grief and acceptance come in waves. So here is another piece that doesn’t contain my trademark snark. Hopefully you will find some value in the piece. If not, skip ahead, like I said, I’m not watching :-)

Contact broken. Contact regained. Contact severed. Some people, or things, are meant to stay in your life. If it’s something transitory (like, eww—bugs) then, awesome —they’re gone as quickly as they come.

But people—now that’s not quite the same thing.

When you break up with someone, you expect him or her to be out of your life. And yet…you know this person is still around, like a shadow in your heart. You take these people out once in a while, hold their memories, and then put them away for safekeeping.

But you
never
expect that anyone will take his own life.

This particular Sheryl Crow song, “The Difficult Kind,” has always resonated deep within me and I knew from the moment I heard it back in the ’90s that, for me, it was about my relationship with my ex-love, D.

What’s astounding is that we were able to speak of it before he killed himself in October ’09. He was a country boy, through and through, so he was unfamiliar with the song. I told him to listen to it and pay particular attention to the words.

After he listened to the lyrics, he told me to go outside and look at the moon. “Whenever I’ve seen a full moon, for twenty years, I’ve thought of you, Rach,” he said.

I’ve never shared that with anyone before. That just kills me. D wasn’t a man of many words. He wasn’t emotional. To share that with me showed me how deeply he cared—over all those years. It stirs my soul.

THE DIFFICULT KIND is from the Sheryl Crow album THE GLOBE SESSIONS.
Great song. Little known fact: Her sister sings backup.

I think I was wrong.

I think you were right.

All my angry words,

Will keep me up at night.

Through the old screen door

I still hear you say,

‘
Oh Honey won’t you stop

Treatin’ me that way.’

~ Sheryl Crow, “The Difficult Kind”

Mid 1980s:

He had betrayed me. Twice. I told him that he didn’t deserve to be in my life. No woman deserved to be treated that way. I felt like I was stuck in a bad country song.

It wouldn’t happen again because I was kicking him out.