'Til there was you

Twenty-four years. Over half our lives.

Three children. Three houses, three apartments, two interstate moves, a plethora of cats, many and sundry jobs, two separations, one set of divorce papers, nine cars, too few vacations, too many bad decisions, a lifetime of late night discussion and laughs.

Daily I love yous. Sometimes in anger, confusion, ironic, stark contrast to actions.

Our mutual friends tried to introduce us several times. Things got in the way. Then we met on accident - without the intervention of friends. And ------ nothing. He was chatting up blonds in the kitchen. I went for a motorcycle ride with one of his friends.

Timing.  It deserves all those cliches.

On October 1, 1987, The Bodeans played at Jake's in Bloomington, Indiana. Jared wanted to know if I was going. Oh, yeah. I wouldn't miss it this time. I'd missed the band's swing through town the previous spring. One of those times when other plans got in the way.

Save four seats if you get there first. I'm coming with friends, Jared shouted over his shoulder. We were hurrying between classes.

Seats saved. One was for him.

August 21, 1988

Dear lord, why did I say yes to this dress? There is no way to explain it away. I've tried. I was young. I was drunk. I was in a hurry because my mother hadn't taken her nerve pill.

Shockingly and contrary to what our friends and family surely thought, but were to polite to mention, I only looked pregnant.

I thought his mullet was hot, loved running my fingers through his curls. I still love running my fingers through them, even if they're on his back. Literally.

Happy Anniversary, MathMan. Despite our lightening fast beginning. Despite ourselves.

I love  you.

Is this an instrument of communication or torture?

Source

Before I became interested in watching IU basketball, I had the good sense to stay out of the room or at least occupy myself with other activities while MathMan sat glued to the television during sporting events. I cannot tell you the number of White Sox baseball games I've ironed through.

In fact, if you were to do a little window peeping while I do domestic duties while MathMan watched sports, you'd think you were looking at Ward and June Cleaver. If Ward and June got handsy with each other in front of Wally and the Beaver and seasoned their conversation with the occasional utterance of the word fuck.

Anyway, MathMan forgot that it's best to make oneself scarce while one's spouse is indulging in a bit of televised pleasure. And thus, that is how I ended up taking notes during the last episode of Season 2 of Downton Abbey. I'm hooked. MathMan was lukewarm, tepid, sorry he'd agreed to let me watch the program in the bedroom where he normally cloisters himself to watch whatever he wants on Sunday nights.

Disclaimer #1 Possible spoilers for the Christmas special aired on Sunday, February 19, 2012 so please don't read unless you want to risk it.


Disclaimer #2 Despite his use of the pejorative puss, MathMan is a relatively evolved man. I mean, it took me only two days to get him to understand the value of putting down the toilet seat. Besides that, I do believe he was sending me subliminal signals. Either he wanted to get some or he thought I should feed the cats. 

MM: I like her, too.
Me: Daisy, the maid? She's cute, isn't she?
MM: Yeah. She cleans, too.

MM: Who gets the ruby in the Christmas pudding? (Remark based on Hercule Poirot's The Theft of the Royal Ruby)

MM:  He's a douchebag. A huge douchebag. And the other guy's a puss.

MM: So what? Does Maggie Smith have a contract so that she's in everything made in England?

MM:  I think someone is going to punch him before it's over. (re: Sir Richard)

MM:  What are you doing?
Me: Taking notes of your commentary.
MM:  Oh, I see how it is.
Me: I don't think you do.

MM:  What's the point of watching this if it's going to be so predictable?

MM:  Which Sybil is pregnant? One, two, three, four, five or seven?

MM:  Is the stuffy guy (Sir Richard)  her fiance?
Me:  Yes.
MM: That's a dumbass move.

MM: Someone's going to get shot for sure.

MM:  She's not going to marry that clown.

MM:  Wasn't he part of some Monty Python skit?

MM:  I feel like this is an episode of Poirot without the murder. You know which one I'm talking about.
Me: The Mystery of Hunter's Lodge
MM:  I guess. Yeah, that's the one.

MM:  The only drama is if the pretty woman marries the dumbass.

MM:  Wasn't that on the Young Ones? Sir Something Old Fart? What was that? That's who Sir Richard is.
Me: Sir Boring Old Fart
MM:  That's it!

MM: He shouldn't have given her that dumb pussy speech in the graveyard because now he's feeling bad because now she's going to marry that dumbass.

MM:  (regarding Matthew) Now he's going to get in trouble with his mom.
Me:  For letting Mary go?
MM:  No. For being a puss.

Lady Mary:  It shall be hard.
MM:  It's not hard. It's easy. Just say,"Shut up and piss off."

MM:  Here's where he gets punched in the face.

MM:  (Re: Matthew) 'Cause he's going to get a punch in the face if he acts like a pussy again.

There's definitely a theme here. Let's unpack it, shall we? No, nevermind. I'm not qualified to delve that deeply into anyone's mind. The funny thing is, he's not a violent man so I don't know why he's so hellbent on predicting violence. It's obvious that he has little patience for melodrama and emotional games. I'm not surprised, of course, because he lives with me. Watching it on TV is a busman's holiday.

When I mentioned I thought there was time for them to declare Mr. Bates innocent, MathMan rolled his eyes. "They're going to leave you hanging on that one."

When the show ended without wrapping the Bates storyline, I whined. "Wah! I've got to wait months to know what happens to Mr. Bates. They have to tell us how Mrs. Bates really died. Was it murder or suicide?"

MathMan simply shook his head.

"But don't you want to know what happens?"

"I want to know if that guy's going to stop being a puss."

Oh, he's hooked.

What do you watch on TV as a compromise? What about Mrs. Bates? Murder or suicide? Who did it? What's going to get in the way of Mary and Matthew's wedding? Have we seen the last of the guy who claimed to be Patrick who allegedly drowned in the sinking of the Titanic? Will the Dowager Countess embrace the Jazz Age? Will Thomas and O'Brien ever stop scheming?

30 Day Photography Challenge - Long Exposure

"Hey, when you take your shirts down from the closet, can you grab the hanger, too? Toss it on the bed or put it in the hamper. That way I don't have to go hunting hangers when I'm in the basement doing laundry." She turned and looked at him. His eyes were on his computer screen and he didn't reply.

"Honey?"

He looked in her direction.

"Did you hear me?" She wiggled the hanger in her hand interrupting the heavy air between them.

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Hangers in the hamper. Okay."

"Thanks."

*****************

Nothing changed in that regard. The hangers remained askew from where he'd yanked the shirt down in his rush to get out of the house. She'd sigh that annoying martyred sigh, reach up and pluck the hanger from its spot, often having to untangle it from its neighbors.

On her bad days, those hangers are the symbol of one more thing she does for people who could do such things for themselves. She knows this because there was once a time when she, too, rushed out the door to get on with her day and the hangers made their way to the laundry room without her morning hike around the house.

On her good days, she'd remember that those hangers never made it to the laundry room unless she reminded him and the children to bring them down. Or, as was often the case, she spent her evenings after work and weekends going from room to room retrieving them and resenting the fact that despite of her job and long commute, she bore most of the domestic duties, as well.

Also on her good days, she'd remind herself that he was busy. Always working. Away from the house and at home. She'd recently joked (okay it wasn't so much a joke) that with the hours he put in planning and grading and answering emails and all the other things a teacher does, his hourly wage was probably hovering near minimum wage.

All their married lives they'd struggled for balance between them - who was giving enough, who was giving too much, who wasn't paying attention, who was using work as an escape, who was looking out instead of in. These last two years had been a real test of their ability to adjust the scales.

So what was it about the hangers that lit the pilot of her ire?

********************

"Where's the hanger for my jacket?"

One simple sentence. A legitimate question asked by a reasonable man who just wanted to hang up his hoodie now that the day was warming. At other points in their twenty-three year marriage, she would have been thrilled that he even thought to hang it up.

"I must have taken it when I collected them to take downstairs. I'm sorry."

He stood holding his jacket and frowning. "I just wanted to hang this up."

"I'm sorry. Put it on the chair and I'll bring up a hanger in a little while." Unbelievable. He was pissed at her for keeping the wheels of domestic order in forward motion? Did he think all this shit got done by magic? She'd asked him more than once (and yes, that matters when you're keeping score) to deal with those fucking hangers at the time he took his shirts out of the closet and he'd either forgotten or refused (which would not be unlike him to spite her in a little way like that!) and now he was bitching about not having a hanger.

He repeated his grievance. "You know, I just want one hanger."

"I'm sorry. I said I'd take care of it!"

These words got said over and over, louder and louder until she left the room, slamming the door behind her.

********************

Monday morning came and everyone with somewhere to go raced out the door or, in the case of some of them, dragged themselves out. She wandered the house, picking up things that had been discarded without a thought as to where they belonged, making beds, tidying this and that. The closet door stood open and there hung an empty hanger slightly askew. She reached up to take it then stopped.

UPDATED: Geoffrey has a different and essential perspective.
Randal is not Armin Tanzarian, but you might remember him from such blockbuster films as Librarians Go Wild.

Resistance is futile

1990. MathMan and I strolled through the baby department at Carson Pirie Scott looking for a gift for our precious niece (who just had the nerve to graduate from my alma mater Indiana University). I was struck by the delicate beauty of a pair of newborn socks. My hormone balance tipped, my voice went up two octaves and in that instant my campaign to grow our family from two to three became my goal like it's Mitch McConnell's goal to see to it that President Obama is a one-term president. I was uncompromising.

A year and half and one purloined used condom later, we had this.

1994. Chloe was such a good baby that I decided we needed another. I started making advances toward MathMan who insisted that he liked the kid we already had. I assured him that we could keep her, too. The hospital didn't have a trade-in program anyway.

After some "convincing," we had this.

1998. Back from a misguided attempt to go home again, MathMan and I moved the furniture back into our house in Illinois and tested out the mattress thus producing this before we even discussed what we'd do next....

Later that summer, Chloe, who had begged for years for a cat, finally got her wish. We visited the Chicago Humane Society and brought home the only cat that was younger than a year old. Mean, territorial. Vicious with her claws, but Chloe loved her and named her, ironically enough, something soft and beautiful. Daisy. Daisy the Hellcat. From Hell. Of course the cat fell crazy in love with MathMan.

2003. The move to Georgia. Daisy remained in Chicago with our wonderful neighbor Dan and his cats until we got settled because we didn't know where we were going to stay when we got here.

November 2003. Daisy was retrieved and settled into her new home with all kinds of cool windows to gaze from and a stunning array of wildlife visiting the bird feeder aka The buffet.

Nathan and Sophie felt left out of being owned by a cat. Chloe made it abundantly clear that Daisy was her cat. A want ad. Free to a good home.

We'll take two.

2004. A pregnant cat is treed by a dog. A sucker brings her in because the tails of hurricanes have been passing through and it's miserable outside. Four kittens are born behind Sophie's bed.

Of course we keep the runt.

Who are you calling a runt?

 2009. I'm hanging out with Becky and not answering my phone when Sophie calls. She's attracted another cat and can we keep it please? Pretty please?

MathMan is disgruntled. Enough, he says. This is insane, he says. It's madness, he concludes.

He's all bluster in the face of this face.

 July 15, 2011. MathMan, Chloe and I arrive home from seeing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows 2. Sophie and a couple of the Covered Bridge Springs Tarts are on the back porch squeeing about this.

Please, People of the Internets, save my marriage. Free to a good home. Not the husband. The cat. He's precious, affectionate, has a high tolerance for cuddling. Needs a place to live because six cats? That would be crossing the crazy line. Five cats may be crossing the crazy line, but six? We'd be outnumbered.

And yes, I did just conflate cats with kids. At some point, both are just as darling and just as annoying. True, the cats won't care for me in my dotage, but there's hardly any guarantee that my children will either. I assure you though, when it's time for the tough choices to be made, I'll play dirty. I'll remind them that they and the cats are here because I insisted on making it so. Left to his own devices, MathMan would likely be living a wonderful, carefree life with a hot car, a hot girlfriend and more money than he knows what to do with. See how I ruined it for him with my bright ideas?

That's what he gets for drinking tequila shots on October 1, 1987. A lifetime supply of Lisa.

Listen, if you know of anyone who needs or wants a cat, please email me at lisa h golden dot gmail dot com. We'll figure out how to get this kitty to you even if it means  I drive him to you. In fact, he's so smart, he might even drive himself.

Until then, he'll be soaking up the love and leaving gifts in the litter box.

A Little Less Bob and Emily, A Little More Rob and Laura

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I used to wonder why my parents took separate bedrooms after all the kids moved out of the house. Not to share too many of their secrets, but I think it had something to do with the fact that Dad worked different shifts and he snored in a way that made Fred Flintstone's snore sound charming.

I think the first real shift happened after they realized the waterbed was a huge mistake. Funny how when MathMan and I were first married, my parents offered us the use of their room during our visits. Meanwhile they retired to my and my brother's former bedrooms. What I remember most about trying to sleep on that waterbed with a bedfellow was repeating the phrase "We must be doing it wrong because I do not understand the appeal."

At least my parents got a decent night's rest. Unless, of course, they heard the shouts of "I'm hanging ten!" because we were newlyweds, after all.

No matter, my parents discovered the joy of sleeping alone again and they never turned back.

Now I understand. I love my husband. I love being close to him, I love a before sleep cuddle, but I am so ready to have my own bedroom, or at the very least, my own bed. Our mattress is in desperate need of replacement and when there is finally enough money to purchase one, I'm proposing we go with the Rob and Laura Petrie twin set.

Just imagine, no fighting over the covers, no sheets being pulled all cattywampus by someone who likes to cocoon himself, no hot breath on your neck, no garlic laced burps, no chest hairs tickling your back, no playing Did You Do That? or Dutch Oven. No tangled limbs, no elbows up the nose, no fussing about who is sleeping in the middle of the bed while someone else is relegated to a tiny corner of the mattress and look, I made an outline like at a crime scene to prove it!

I could even wrestle with my pillows on a sleepless night without waking my darling. Hell, when I'm really having trouble sleeping, I could watch TV or read without leaving the bed or without having someone give me the mole-eyed grumpface and heavy sigh routine.

This idea has promise. We'll be better rested. We can place the beds side to side with a swell little table between them just like the Petries and burn extra calories jumping from bed to bed. I haven't done that since I was a kid. We can push the beds together when we feel like it or play eenie meenie miney moe to decide which bed will be that morning's playground. Yes, I said morning. It's how we roll in the hay.

Speaking of - the last couple of mornings I've awakened to find MathMan's pillow over my face. After a brief struggle, I realized that it wasn't a murder pillow, it was an abandoned pillow. Nevertheless, it's a rough way to start the day and I'm not completely convinced that he wasn't as some point holding that pillow in place. When I confronted him about it he looked away and whistled. If my cartoon symbolism is up to snuff, that means a he's lying.

There's also the issue of MathMan's limbs which seem most content when draped over me, pinning me to the mattress so that I can't shift without waking him and if I wake him, we're likely to have that tiresome conversation again about why don't we try sex at 3a.m. instead of 7a.m. all the while some of my body parts are tingling not because of a happy rush of blood, but because they've been deprived of circulation.

MathMan is never satisfied with my response that I don't do anything well at 3 a.m. so I try to distract him with humor. "You don't want me to just lie there and giggle, do you?"

"Couldn't you work in an occasional 'Oh, god, oh, god?'"

"At 3a.m.? You must be dreaming."

"If I were dreaming your panties would be off already."

Maybe I should start snoring.

Here's the mutiny I promised you

Millet - Gleaners

I'm itching to set things on fire. Yesterday I got my manual labor freak on by mowing the back hill and raking a metric ton of leaves. Our oak trees cling to their dead leaves like that mother gorilla with the dead baby held to her chest in the television special that still makes me cry so raking in the autumn, while a seasonally appropriate romantic idea, is a complete waste of time. The wind rattles the brittle saddle brown leaves, but they stay put high above the ground and the bullying rake.
I'd been supposing I should mow all week, but never got around to it. I used every excuse I could think of. My bee phobia. Potential rain. Potential wind, sunshine and maybe the need to be at the ready to fetch a sick kid from school. How would I hear the phone if I had my iPod set to deafen and the mower going?

Yesterday, I did what is most effective for me. I dove into the job without over thinking it. When MathMan came home from baseball practice, he noted that I'd been a busy beaver. Oh, baby, I can do it all. Oven fried chicken, corn pudding, strawberry shortcake and a pile of leaves that stretches from here to Chattanooga. And I didn't even ask for a ride back home from Tennessee.

As I did my thing yesterday, it occurred to me that it's wired into my DNA to receive a certain pleasure from committing acts of manual labor. My people were not philosophers, clergy, or aristocracy of any kind. Heck, they weren't even shopkeepers like MathMan's grandfather who owned a grocery in Chicago. No, my ancestors were the farmers, the sharecroppers, and before that - the peasants of Ireland and Scotland. They didn't own the land, they just worked it.

Just. Ha.

So when I spend my time doing things that require a lot of physical exertion, I feel a sense of satisfaction that I don't get from doing things on the computer, for example. Just this morning, I used the flexible snake thingy and pulled the equivalent of a small, dead animal except it was mostly my hair, out of the shower drain. I really should get a haircut, I guess. Anyway, despite its unpleasant smell and sliminess, you wouldn't believe the pleasure I received from having accomplished my mission of drain cleaning. I was ready to find an aircraft carrier and hang a banner. But then, just like our former President's declared Mission Accomplished, this war with the dirt, clogs, grime and general muck is ongoing. You can't fix other countries and you can't ever clean and be done with it forever.

Someone steer me back, please.

So this morning before MathMan left for work, I mentioned that I'd like to dispatch those piles of leaves for good before they start to blow around. I wanted to be done with the job thoroughly and without question.

"Would it be bad if I walked by with a lit match and accidentally dropped it into the leaves?" I cooed, stroking his chest fur. I knew what I was up against so I was using my feminine wiles to persuade him.

It was no use. He gave me one of those Oh, Lisa looks and issued his verdict. "No, you can't burn the leaves. It's too dry."

I hate it when he's practical. I offered to stand by with a hose, to make a circle of wetness around them, to haul them out to the dry creek bed behind the house and do the fiery deed there.

After a few more minutes of pleading and promises of sexual favors, he called me Beavis and escaped to have a shower.

He can afford to worry about things like brush fires. He's not the sorry sucker who'll be loading those damn leaves into bags to haul to the dump, I griped under my breath as I made the bed and considered how I could explain the burn marks where the leaves had been at the end of the day.

MathMan came out of the bathroom as the local news reported about a firetruck in an Atlanta suburb that was involved in an accident as it sped to put out a brush fire. I avoided his eyes, but he wasn't letting me off the hook. "Brush fire," he said pointedly.

"Fine," I snapped, my best impression of my fourteen year old self.

This martyr is going to spend the day not writing or reading or doing anything to further her career, but rather bagging up stupid leaves in stupid bags and calling the recycling center to see when I can bring them over. It's going to take me five trips, at least. All I have to haul them with is Chloe's little Toyota Celica Roxanne.

I hope MathMan's happy. He'd better enjoy it while it lasts because he's probably not going to feel so happy when he sees the little present from the drain I left in his shoe.

Who are you spiting today? Any martyrs out there?

There's a war going on for your mind

When last we met I was referring to myself in the third person and worrying about unemployment benefits.  Family members were all up in each other's business as we got through Snowbound Day2 and the cats took to dark corners of closets for fear they may become stew.  Or casserole.  Who cares?

That's my prevailing attitude. Not only was Wednesday cancelled, but so were Thursday and Friday. A long weekend.  It's the winter break that never ends.

Does my voice sound strangled?  I feel strangled. I miss my alone time.  I've gotten some writing done, but it's been chaotic with kids darting in and out of the house bringing cold air and the metallic smell of snow with them.  I'd get started on a good writing jag and someone inevitably needed something.

I'm hungry. Have you seen my gloves? When do I get a turn on XBox? I left my phone charger at my friends, can I get a ride back over there? Can I mix this with this? Who took my last piece of gum?  The container of pudding in the fridge is mine, I may or may not have spat in it.  Who did that?  That's not one of mine.  Why do you have your purse, Mom? Are you going somewhere?

I'm not going anywhere.  I'm fleeing.

I did get the unemployment issue sorted on Wednesday afternoon.  A representative explained that my year was up and they had to see me in person to re-certify.  Nevermind that I was just there on December 28th.  So I'm back on the dole, sucking up the resources the rich so desperately need and clicking through the jobs websites and whimpering at the paucity of openings.

I looked for any excuse to nor sit down and focus on writing. I usually found one, too.

One afternoon, MathMan, sick of my whining about not having the peace and quiet to write, duct taped decorative pillows over my ears and motioned to me to sit down and start typing before he left the room, slamming the door behind him. That was some slam. I could hear it through the pillows.

Another morning, he watched me from the back door as I shoveled snow.  When I came to the door, he opened it and announced, It's nineteen degrees. When we move back north, I assume you won't complain about the cold. You just shoveled snow in your pajamas and slippers. No coat, no gloves, no boots, no hat.

I was wearing gloves.  I showed him my hands.  He made that face.  I bet his students are familiar with it.

I didn't feel like typing, but felt compelled to use my hands. To do things that required tools, that could be easily completed. That I could point to and say, "I did that and it is done and it is good."  Except for blog posts, I'm not getting that from writing at the moment so I sought substitutes.

"You know, I love Naked Lisa, but Naked Lisa with a screwdriver peaks my curiosity," I didn't realize he was paying attention. He'd been deep in the development of a Calculus Powerpoint.

"The drain is clogged. I thought I'd take care of it before I got dressed instead of getting my clothes wet."

"I'm coming in to see your plumber's crack."

I assume the Phillip's head will leave a star-shaped scar.

Reduced, it would appear we were either rocking each other's socks off or snarling and circling each other with our marital, I know your weak spots knives drawn.  But mostly we just shared the space of our bedroom which doubles as an office, he doing his mathy things and me getting into word mischief.  Him snoring softly to some video while I stayed up til the wee hours reading.

It wasn't all wasted time and minor stabbings.

I learned how hard it is to photograph birds close up.  I lured some to the deck with birdseed so I slunk down the steps into the daylight basement and dropped to the floor so I could crawl commando style across the floor.  I reached the door, raised the camera to the window and watched through the viewfinder as the finches took flight in every direction.

A cat sat on the window sill a few feet away looking at me like I was an idiot.  I mean, more so than usual.

The Wisdom of MathMan

MathMan, bless his heart, was full of one liners this weekend.  Sadly, most of them revolved around my breasts.  I swear, it's like the pair of them are a third person in the relationship.  Thankfully, they don't ask for much.  Just an occasional tweezing of the rogue hair (WHAT is THAT all about?) and a good bra (alas, they are often denied).  Oh and they do appreciate being released by the bra, any bras, as soon as the clock strikes 8:00 p.m.

So this man of mine, this light of my life, this guy who helps me figure out percentages, he wakes up on Sunday morning and announces "I like sleeping with big naked boobs."

I blink awake.  "But I'm wearing pants," I yawn.

"You're even funnier without your shirt on," he said before getting up to go weigh himself and pee.  Actually, it's the other way around.  We're all about bragging about our weight loss to each other these days.  You can pretty much the determine the tone of the day by what happens first thing in the morning in the bathroom.  If there's a Woot! it's going to be a good day.  If there's a a "Damn it, I shouldn't have had that half a pizza before bed," it's going to be a tuna over greens day.  Those are not particularly happy days.

Same morning, a little while later, MathMan lay absentmindedly tweaking my nipple while I checked my email on my phone. I'd bet cash money he was using my body while he fantasized about the other woman, Calculus.  The tramp.

"Do you mind?" I skeezed out.   I can take only so much nipple tweaking before I'm compelled to ask the tweaker for an explanation.  "What are you doing?"

He continued to stare off into space.  "I'm communicating."

Family therapists, please take note.  Nipple tweaking is an effective means of "communicating."  I pinched his penis and said, "What I hear you saying is......"

We continued to lollygag about in the bed.  Sadly, that is not a euphemism.  We had other people's kids in the house, you see.  That will keep us locked in our room, looking for entertainment that doesn't make the springs squeak, I tell you what.

I rolled over and one of my ridiculously large breasts became uncovered.  MathMan was on the scene immediately.  "That's better," he smiled.  He put a hand on the exposed flesh and said, "Don't want to let this go to waste."

The rest of the morning went on in the same vein.  Me in need of coffee, but reluctant to leave the room unrestrained.  My breasts in need of some serious corralling.  MathMan waxing poetic about them while thinking about math concepts that are completely over my head.  Probably over my breasts' heads, too, but they'd never tell.  They're always putting on airs like that.

Finally, the Spokescat, who had been rattling our bedroom doorknob and begging for food for what seemed like hours got on my last nerve.  Even all the mammary chat couldn't distract me any longer. I threw the covers off and growled, "That's it, I'll put on a bra.  I can't go around scaring those other kids."

MathMan had a solution for that.  "And that is why we should always say no to letting the kids' friends sleepover.  I guess I better put on some pants, too."

And then he went back to thinking about Calculus.  I'm sure of it.

What's your favorite body part?  Are you a face person?  Do you look at a person's hands first?  A butt aficionado?  Or is it the eyes?  How about the spleen?  I'm rather fond of venting mine........okay, your turn to talk.  I'm shutting up now.

And It Wasn't Even On The List

This ad has nothing to do with this post. Or does it?

 We experienced a close call here the other day.

MathMan, who is working multiple jobs - teacher, department chair, and coach to girls' softball, the boys' JV basketball team and baseball (okay maybe that's 5 jobs) - is clocking long days that often run from 6:30 a.m. with the start of his long commute until he returns home at 9pm from some coaching job.  When he gets home, he's not done.  He still has work emails to answer and send, lesson planning, papers to grade  and whatever other random stuff comes up.  And two kids who sometimes need help in math.

The man is on overload.

He was at the end of his patience about some work related thing when he came into the bathroom and said, "I am doing everything I can and it's never enough."

What triggered his exasperation may have been work-related, but the impact of the words hit me square in the forehead I was exfoliating when he stormed into the bedroom to search for his calculus book appendage.

Old instincts kicked in.  We've lived this life before.  Early in our marriage, MathMan managed a Radio Shack and worked about eighty hours a week.  I worked regular hours and took care of the apartment.  I hated that dynamic so much that I once sat down and made a list of reasons why he should find another job. 

Now I'm not even working regular hours.  Am I not pulling my weight?  I'm looking for a job and writing a novel, but that doesn't look like work.  Writing is what I love to do.  Keeping house doesn't count for much because so much of it is invisible.  I'm alone much of the time so no one can see what I do.

If a woman cleans a toilet and no one is there to see her do it, did it really happen?

I blinked at MathMan  as I tried to think of a response.  The old fight or flight response poked its head up and sniffed around.

Down boy.

"What do you mean by that?"  I'd decided to ask for a clarification, for him to flesh out that thought, to tell me if I should be doing more.

Something in my face must have indicated that the old instinct was alert now.  He picked up his book and explained that his job frustrations were mounting and he was struggling to juggle all his roles.  He was clear - this wasn't a home issue.

The fight or flight instinct settle back into place and quieted.  I tried to be supportive, mostly by just listening.  He went back to his desk to finish one last work assignment before coming to bed.  While I finished getting ready for bed, I silently congratulated us for getting better at this.  In the old days, this would have escalated into ugly words before it become a tense, angry silence punctuated by only the most necessary of polite words through gritted teeth.

I also thought about what else I could be doing to ease his burden and to show how much I do appreciate all that he does.  My thoughts ranged from taking over the yard work to getting this novel published.  A wide range, I know, but I have been so lucky to have him support and encourage me every step of the way.  Even when I know he must be thinking it would be nice for me to have a regular, paying job again.

I pulled out my notebook and jotted down a few ideas.  I'd talk to him about it later.

The next morning, I asked him how he was feeling.

"Much better.  Venting helped."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Yeah, I needed that.  Thanks."

I smiled at him and swung my legs over the side of the bed. 

He touched me on the back and laughed.  "The fact that you've taken to sleeping topless doesn't hurt either."

Gratuitous pic of my honey.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice, I Mean Cats and Men

Art imitates life. Or cats imitate art.  Or in a few months, we might have free kittens for good homes.

Yesterday I got my IUD removed which means MathMan and I must use a new method of birth control.  (Please note the copay for the elective surgery called vasectomy is and always has been out of our range of possibilities, so thanks for the suggestions, but no can do.) 

Considering our past inability to find and use effective methods not involving hormones, this should be fun.  We already have three "unplanned" children.  Unplanned does not equal unwanted (most of the time.)  We have living, breathing, food consuming, mess making evidence that neither coitus interruptus nor a wish and prayer - against, not for - are not, I repeat not, no matter what that guy told you in high school - effective methods of birth control.

And while all of our children were wanted and treated like happy little surprises until they pooped that first time, only one of them was a conscious decision.  On my part, that is.  MathMan just got dragged along for the ride.

Which would explain why, in anticipation of my IUD removal, he reminded me of my determined efforts to have a baby back when I was a silly young thing of twenty-five.  I'd stopped taking the pill because of weight gain and as a youngish married couple, we employed methods ranging from Russian Roulette to Hey, Nice Pearl Necklace! and when we were feeling responsible, condoms.  The Diaphragm and Spermicidal Jelly Incident proved both disastrous and traumatic.  MathMan didn't enjoy having a burning wang and I got woozy watching him standing in the shower trying to rinse out his third eye.  We were both such delicate creatures back then.  Parenthood would solve that.

We made that trip into the Carson Pirie Scott Baby Department where I saw those booties and next thing you know, I'm in Mom Training big time.  I started watching Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street on PBS, purchasing books on why midwives are superior to ob-gyns, quizzing my sister-in-law about her cesarean section and tossing around baby names.  MathMan knew trouble was brewing.  He just didn't realize how much trouble and how sinister it would be until it was too late.

So a couple of days ago, he thought it best to remind me of my past determination or folly, if you will.  "Listen, our anniversary is on Saturday.  Please remember what happened the last time you bit a hole in the condom on our anniversary."

Clever gods took their cue.  Chloe walked by our open bedroom door and glanced in.  "What?"  It's how she likes to open conversations these days.

I blinked at her and turned back to MathMan.  "I remember."

We've agreed that we will not tempt fate.  Abstinence, oral sex or butt sex it is.

Put your money on abstinence.

As if we needed our resolve reinforced, those same clever gods delivered this healthy dose of reality:

Nate went downstairs this morning to find Fiona the Not Exactly a Kitten Anymore standing outside the patio door staring back at him.

Oh.  Dear.

Listen, ever since I was that girl watching the city works guy on the cherry picker coaxing my kitten from the top of the electric pole, I've tried to have indoor cats only.  I can't take the stress of what if.  For weeks after that electric pole drama, I would not let that kitten out and when he did sneak out, I would search the streets, sobbing and calling for him before I would go inside to cry into my pillow and dream of horrible things happening to my precious.  So this kitten, who is yet unfixed because we haven't had the extra money to pay for her surgery, has been kept inside, forcibly maintaining her virtue even as she's been serenaded by the neighborhood Toms.

When the urge got to be too much, she'd bump and grind at our indoor male cats.  Since they no longer recognize the need, they responded with uncomfortable looks, searching for a quick escape from her mewling advances.

Last night she got out.  I believe she sneaked out while Chloe and her friend were coming or going. Thankfully, or maybe not, Fiona survived her nocturnal prowlings, but I doubt her virtue remains intact.  Upon her reentry into the house, all the other Pussies for Peace took defensive postures.  It was Crouching Tabby, Flattened Maine Coon Ear. Both male cats sniffed suspiciously around her backside. For her part, she acted a bit bored as she picked spider web from her whiskers.

Someone hissed.  It could have been me, but I think it was our alpha male tabby.

Bad Girl Fiona gave him a look.

"Hey, I offered.  You weren't interested, you eunuch," she said between bites of her food.  She was ravenous.

Before.

And In the End He'll Always Be A Numbers Guy

Reality gained another toehold here in our semi-safe haven of a home.  I think that makes six now.  Six toeholds, I mean.  I believe that you get handle reality any way you damn well please.  So in my imagination, reality is required to have all ten toes and its prehensile tail wrapped firmly around the branch of your life and be hanging upside like a sleeping possum before you have to accept it.

And I don't care what Reality thinks. This isn't Reality's blog.

Yesterday, MathMan learned that, despite his best efforts to reduce and manage via diet and exercise, his cholesterol numbers have remained stubbornly high.  He is now a card-carrying member of the Zocor Club.

He is ever so pissed about it.

Last year, during his annual check up, his doctor used the dreaded phrase that begins with the words medically and technically and ends with --ese.  While the doctor meant well and, like lots of bad people of yore, was merely doing his job, this information and the specific use of that phrase cut MathMan deeply.

In response, he became an exercise machine.  He took up running and weight training.  He took on a greenish tinge from eating all those salads.  He's consumed enough steel cut oats to cleanse the Gulf.  Lots of times, when I accuse of him of wasting time on Facebook, he's actually poring over information on realage.com.

The overall results were spectacular.  He shed twenty pounds, ran a (something)K race and now has what is commonly-referred to around here as Lisa-like blood pressure.  See, I was like a vampire before being a vampire became cool.  I have the kind of numbers that spur confused doctors to retake my blood pressure themselves.  The midwife who delivered the kids used to hold a mirror under my nose to ensure I was breathing.  She didn't care that she couldn't see my reflection.  She just wanted to see that silvery glass fog!

So MathMan has some seriously positive items in the "win" column.  I'm incredibly proud of him.  He looks better, feels better and he's staved off some of the worst aspects of heredity - high blood pressure and heart disease.  But genetically, he's been unable to beat the high cholesterol bugaboo.

He hasn't said much about the one thing I know he's thinking even if he doesn't say.  You don't live with a person for 537 years without gaining a little insight. Or, if you do, shame on you.  Here's a karate chop for being daft and self-involved.

The truth is, MathMan's parents - both of them - passed away before the age of sixty.  His father died of a freak aneurysm while he was being hospitalized for something else having to do with a series of heart attacks he had starting in, I believe, his late thirties.  Born in the mid-twenties, he'd suffered damage to his heart during a childhood bout of Scarlet Fever.

We don't know what killed MathMan's mother because there was no autopsy performed, but she died in her sleep one night after feeling ill.  There are still bad feelings, I think, about the fact that he doesn't know what ultimately killed her.  She was both an alcoholic and borderline diabetic.  Looking back at the photos taken between 1988 when we married and 1992 when she died, it's clear that she was ill.  She lost of a lot of weight and her hair had lost its sheen.  Sadly, it was so gradual, she was so stubborn, already a widow and her whole family was pretty wrapped up in their own lives.  No one noticed until it was too late.

So I don't think any of this is far from his mind now that MathMan has been given the word - some things can't be dealt with through diet and exercise.  As we get on, we are going to have to make little concessions to Big Pharma.

Damn it.

Last evening we made a foray into the grocery store.  It took us four and a half hours because MathMan was more like Rain Man.  He stopped and pulled random things off the shelves and read their nutritional content.  Oreos, potato chips, frozen Skyline Chili, Krispy Kreme Donuts, butter.

He was definitely reassuring himself that by forgoing most of those items, he'd been doing the right thing.  Yes indeed, they did have very high numbers.  Four hours in, I finally lost my patience.

"Honey, let's go.  You don't even eat Scrapple."

"I know, but look at the cholesterol count.  Holy shit."

Like that.  And then we forgot the stupid cat food on top it.

So now every decision I make about food prep is fraught with suspicion.  She's serving cheeseburgers and french fries.  She's trying to kill me!   She's making meat loaf!  She's trying to kill me!  She brought home some ice cream from the store.  She's trying to kill me!

It's more likely that I'm trying to kill me, but right now his perspective is a little skewed.

Those of you who know me on Facebook might have seen that I'm trying to convince him that we need to drink more red wine, not less.  He just rattles his long list of Things You Need to Know About This Medication at me and shakes his head.

"Besides.  I'm not going to enable your alcoholism like my father did with my mother's."

Oh.  I see how it is now. 

Time for me to go fry some bacon.....

Don't You Know There's a War On?

I sat on the can reading an ancient Erma Bombeck that I picked up the Friends of Library book sale the other day and  laughed so hard that the kid sprawled across my bed watching some Disney Channel something or other called in to make sure I wasn't finally melting down to nothing.  It's not like they're waiting for me to finally once and for all lose it, but let's just say a few days after such an event, one of them would say "Well, that was bound to happen sooner or later, wasn't it?"  To which they'd all self-consciously agree no doubt.

Anyway.....

"Laughing or crying?"

"Laughing!"  I wiped the tears from my eyes and tried to go back to reading.  Too difficult.  I'd reached the laughter point of no return.  You know the one?  Can't stop long enough to focus.

I put the book down, finished my business and stood staring at my blotchy face in the mirror. While I washed my hands, I realized that by not really writing much about MathMan, I'm missing out on a lot of material.  Sure you may think I write a lot about him, but oh baby, I barely scratch the surface.  And it's not bad stuff.  It's funny stuff.  The man is full of delightful one liners and spoonerisms, and what's more, he's a constant source of physical comedy.

Don't judge.  It wouldn't exactly be like I'm picking on him.  Besides, like he's always telling me, he chooses to be here.  It's not like the madness is news to him.

Now if you'll excuse me, there's a cat on my lap who keeps trying to scratch behind her head without falling off.  I guess that's my cue to start picking fleas.  Good thing I've grown out my talons again.

So tell me, what have you missed out on lately?

Celebrating Merrrily

Tomorrow Sophia and I will be driving to Indiana to attend my parents' 50th wedding anniversary party. When I've mentioned this to anyone, each has offered words of congratulations and a bit of wonder, too.....fifty years. Wow!

I must say I share this attitude. Knowing what I do about my own marriage, I find it amazing that anyone stays together through who knows what kind of drama, upsets and ennui over the course of fifty years? I don't really know what my parent's marriage has been like - not that I really want to know. But I assume it has suffered and enjoyed the same kinds of highs and lows any marriage does. I'm also sure it's been unique, as well, and those are probably the things I want to know about the least.

I wonder if it's true that people follow their parents' examples in marriage? Of course there are statistical outliers. Of my siblings, I'm the only one not divorced, but that's not for a lack of trying. For those who haven't been around this blog and my others, MathMan and I have been separated, lived apart and have filed for a divorce that never happened. Hello, Deputy Sheriff. Sign that paper? Okay. And a couple of years ago, I ran away from home briefly.

Some days I think it's because we are such innate contrarians that MathMan and I have stayed together. That's just a fancy way of saying no one else would have us. And by us, I mean me.

I don't think it's any surprise that MathMan's parents stayed together, too. Sadly, they both died in their fifties so we never got to see what their marriage would look like when they didn't have kids at home. MathMan was only a freshman in college when his father died suddenly. I never met his father, but the stories I've heard about him and about his relationship with my mother-in-law lead me to assume that they would have had a grand time as they aged together. Not perfect, but definitely worth the wait through raising six kids.

MathMan and I were lucky to have the examples we did. There may not have been many or any examples of open affection (something that I've gone to great lengths to overcompensate for) or anything even close, but our parents clearly loved (I guess?) and liked (very important) each other enough to last.

In the era we grew up in, it would have been at least easier than in the past for our parents to have split up when things got difficult or boring or complicated. The fact that they didn't probably says more about their relationships than memories of flashy gifts or loud declarations of love and passion ever could.

Wishing my parents all the best on their 50th......

Sing it with me, People of the Internets....

Take Your Pick

5:14 a.m., the alarm goes off
MathMan: I had a dream that I ran for Congress and won.
Me: That's cool. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

5:30 a.m., the alarm goes off again
Me: So in this dream, you were going to be a congressman?
MathMan: Uh huh, I was talking to Phil Gingrey about it.
Me: I see. So he was still a congressman, too?
MathMan: Yeah.......you know, it was only after I won that I thought about the skeleton in the closet?
Me: Jesus Christ! Which one?

I Read You, I See Me, Part 2

Continued from yesterday....

Much of Powell's book makes me cringe from a certain, palpable recognition, but I won't go so far as to beat up Powell for her issues surrounding her husband. I was especially annoyed with the female reviewers who claimed that Powell treated her husband like crap. Well, perhaps so, in some ways, but the truth is - and I'm speaking from experience here - her husband stayed in the relationship out of his own desires for whatever it is that he gets from the situation.

I seriously doubt that Powell ever pulled a knife on him and told him that he couldn't leave so that she could continue to cuckold him and then write about it. No, there's more to it and I won't pretend, unlike those other reviewers, to know what it is. Powell's husband is a grown man with a mind of his own. If he were so unhappy, he would leave. Why doesn't he or why can't he? Perhaps he could write his own book and explain. Perhaps he doesn't feel the need.

All of this is to say that as I've plucked images, people, moments and bad actions from my own life to write my book, I have fretted over how my characters would be viewed because they, too, are incredibly flawed people. Not one of them is all good or all bad. Like most of us, each has their quirks and demons. Each of them can appear utterly normal while a river of ick runs below the surface. And each of them will just carry on, as people do, stumbling, picking themselves up and trying again. Some will even be kicked while they're down and the person doing the kicking might surprise the reader. But isn't that how life is?

So do I love the Powell book? Probably not.

Honestly? I'm reading it with the same self-absorption that Powell wrote it. I'm making it all about me. I'm skimming the butchery parts because I got dragged out to the slaughterhouse one too many times when I was a kid and reading those parts can give me an olfactory flashback that is most unpleasant. Nope, I'm a perfectly self-absorbed reader, searching for the words and passages that resonate with me, that reflect my own situation or that illustrate perfectly and quite eloquently the relationship MathMan and I have shared lo these twenty-two years. More embarrassingly, I cling to the bits that describe her obsession with her lover because it, too, reflects my own personal mismanagement that sent me skittering toward madness a couple of years ago.

Would I recommend it to you? Not without caveat. As one reviewer said, "If you believe in the sanctity of marriage, this book is not for you...." Oh, agreed. A big heaping helping of agreed. If you're a sanctity of marriage person, consider this my Danger! Danger, Will Robinson! moment. Do not bother yourself with this book.

But if you think that people get married for all kinds of reasons - known and unknown - and that each marriage is the sum of its parts, rather than some spiritual binding, then you might like this book.

The fact is - infidelity is but one way to hurt your spouse. There are sins of commission and sins of omission. No one ever wants to talk abut the damage done by withholding affection or love or intimacy. No one wants to discuss how marriages begun in one's twenties might just outlive their realistic shelf life when the couple reaches their forties, fifties or sixties. Perhaps the whole reason we've seen a cultural shift in the average age at which people marry for the first time is because the younger generations understand that who you are when you're twenty-two isn't the person you want to have picking out the person with whom you'll spend the rest of your life.

For my part, I'm going to finish my story the way I'd originally intended. Yesterday morning, as I was going over it with MathMan, fussing about what the moralists might think (fingers crossed they'll have their chance to moralize about it!), MathMan asked why I should care? I care, I guess, because I know that I will just as protective of my characters as I was of Julie Powell, a character of her own making. It irritates me that often the same people who can get totally insane about marital fidelity are the same people who would insist that people stay in unhappy marriages - kind of the 'you made your bed, now you must lie in it' approach to living. It's punitive and petty and unnecessary.

Of course, Powell puts herself out there for the attacks by the simple act of writing about her life - warts and all. I suspect she must have a relatively thick skin by now, but who knows? And besides, as someone once said, respectability is overrated. I'm sure Powell has heard that before...

I Read You, I See Me

MathMan and I lay in bed this morning doing what we do when the day stretches ahead of us with no work, no plans for anything in particular. Talk, snuggle, fight over the blankets, bemoan a sore back (me), spoon, talk some more. I know, it's almost embarrassing in its wholesomeness, and you thought I was going to tell you something much more risque, didn't you? Admit it. You thought it was Thursday.

Anyway, as we lay there in the new morning light, I told MathMan some more parts of the story that I planned to write today. Sometimes I actually do try to work out the action before I put the words on paper. Thank goodness for MathMan. He's been my sounding board on so much of this story, he's been key to any of it that's actually gotten finished.

I told him how I'd finally decided to keep the story as fiction, partly because I was so brought up short by the reaction to Julie Powell's book Cleaving. I saw some reviews of it via a couple of online resources and I was a naively surprised at the rancor and venom directed at Ms. Powell for what is likely her pretty straight forward telling of an extramarital affair that was more like an addiction.

Mind you, the complaints were not about Ms. Powell's writing, although one person noted that even though she may have been a "good blogger," that doesn't make her a good writer. Noting that all the reviewers I read yesterday evening were women, I felt a bit protective of Ms. Powell. I was pretty huffy after reading one from a woman who spent lots of words to tell us all what a "despicable" creature she believed Julie Powell to be.

For those of you who've been around since the PoliTits days and who remember the Drama of Golden Manor Part XI aka UnGlued, you're hardly expressing any shock to yourself or your cats right now that I was a wee bit stung by the sanctimonious moralizing of people - okay women - who think that Julie Powell is a piece of trash because she admits to cheating on her husband, being a weak individual and generally using sex and alcohol as her guiding lights when all else failed.

Of course she's flawed, but isn't that the point?

As for those reviewers who noted that Ms. Powell is self-absorbed, I have to wonder how they missed the fact that the book is a memoir? People who aren't a least semi-self-absorbed don't write memoirs. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that most of us, even the most ardent of those reviewers, don't want to read a book about a life that is entirely without conflict, drama or an occasional bad thought.

Would you go to the library or bookstore and pick out the book that sells itself like this:

Lisa Golden lives a clean life. She never does anything wrong. She is a good mother who never falters, never yells, never lets fast food cross the threshold of her perpetually tidy and sanitary home. She has never been guilty of letting her kids stay up late and she's never bought a single thing to simply make a kid shut up. She loves her husband completely, but with just the proper amount of reserve to retain her respectability. She never questions authority. She consumes a healthy, balanced diet and gets just the right amount of exercise. She's never been hospitalized for anything other than giving birth. She is a solidly adequate daughter, sister, and employee. She wakes up happy or at least mostly so every day and never thinks about the bad things that happen to good people or any of the world's injustices. She knows better because that kind of thinking only leads to unhappiness. And Lisa has no room in her life for unhappiness. Furthermore, Lisa has never knowingly physically harmed anyone, been a party to a international incident, invented anything, solved any mystery nor won any big jackpot or major award. She has never driven in a NASCAR race, ran for office, found Jesus, developed a method for helping herself, interviewed a wildly famous person, slept with anyone of note, or climbed the Eiffel Tower wearing a Spiderman costume. She's usually on time for things and has not starred in any production of anything. She's never jumped out of an airplane, rescued anyone or run any kind of marathon. She hasn't cured, created nor destroyed anything. She is not a spy. Her life has been remarkable in its absolute mediocrity, steadfast adherence to all society's mores and a belief that average and safe is everything it's cracked up to be. She is the epitome of never doing anything that would make the neighbors talk.

What? You're waiting for the "but," aren't you? You're expecting the dust jacket text to finally tell you where the story really starts. Yeah, yeah, Lisa is living this happy life and all is well. But..... but nothing. That's it. That's all there is to the story. There is no "but."

Would you buy or borrow that book? Hell, you wouldn't even steal it. Not even to use to even out the legs on a wobbly table.

See - the story is the but. The story isn't the ho hum drum of a perfectly ordinary life. The story is what happens that makes it different - not good or bad, but different.

Now, does this mean I'm recommending adultery, selfishness and a serious lack of impulse control to anyone? Of course not. Is Powell self-absorbed and self-serving, hell yeah. But, frankly, who isn't on some level? Even the most altruistic people get some sort of satisfaction from giving without any expectation of receiving.

Powell's book, well-written in my estimation (that means easy to read, the prose not too overworked), is a memoir. It's not a bloody how to, although there are some recipes scattered throughout. I understand from some of the reviews that there a sort of travelogue in the last third of the book. I'm not there yet, but I'll bet you dollars to donuts that it will make me seethe with jealousy that Powell had both the financial resources and the familial freedom to just up and travel and I'll probably start hating on her, too. Only I'll hate on her for her success, not her moral "failings."

So far, though, here's what I'm getting from the book: It's the story of a flawed woman who is honest enough to write about it and who can make me both laugh and want to strangle her because I see myself in her. As she describes both her relationship with her husband and her (former) lover, I am struck by how very close to the bone she gets. (No pun intended.)

I keep reading because I want to see how Powell might or might not resolve things with her husband. I want to see if and how she figures out how to banish her lover from her head. Although her situation is far more flexible than mine (she now has some financial freedom due to the sale of her first book Julie and Julia and there are no children involved), I want to see how she uses the crazy in her life to move forward or not.

As I've been reading in fits and starts (kind of like my writing these days), I can tell you that it's clear that Powell is not making this shit up. There are some passages that make me worry that she's used some crazy military-grade tapping system to see inside my psyche and memory banks. Her flaws and predilections are so much like my own, I have to put the book down sometimes to clear my head.

To be continued tomorrow.....

And the Rocket's Red Glare......

(Note: This post contains real life and imagined sexually explicit information about middle-aged married people getting it on. If you are squeamish or inclined to think ewwwww!, then I suggest you move along. Oh, and if you happen to be a child of mine, please not that this is pure fantasy. Daddy and I only did it three times. We don't remember it and I would definitely not blog about it. There now. Mama loves you. Shall I call the therapist and make an appointment?)

He told her how he loved to watch her after she showered. He watched her rub the lotion into her skin. The motion was so sensual, the scent of cocoa butter in the air, he watched from the shower as she spread the lotion on her arms, across her breasts, over her rounded belly. It didn't matter how long he'd known her or how many times he'd seen her naked, he still got a thrill when she stretched her leg, with an utter lack of self-consciousness, up onto the vanity to rub the lotion into her calves. He could just glimpse the pink recess that still made him stiff.

That morning they were sharing that space as usual, but there was a distinct electricity between them. Their affair of so many years, a love life of stolen moments, snatched from the clutching grasp of the mundane - bills, jobs, children, pets, house. They had to find those moments when the obligations of daily life could be swept aside, leaving space in the mind for desire.

On that particular morning, luck was with them. Two of their three children were out of the house. The third was occupied in the Saturday morning ritual of cartoons and sugary cereal. Over the sounds of some science report on NPR, they bantered with each other until she shocked him by turning to him and kissing him hard. Before he could recover from it, she was on her knees in front of him.

Because she wasn't such a nubile young thing anymore and the tile bathroom floor was cold and hard, it didn't take long before she suggested that they move to the bed. Once there, they went through the motions of a couple who know well how to please one another. Although new sex is exciting in a breathtaking, heartracing sort of way, sex with someone you've been with for years can have the amazing ability of reminding you of the passion you once felt for your beloved.

Mmmmm. Ooooh. Yeahhhhh. Right there. Mmmmm. Like that.

And then - of course - there was a gentle rapping on the door. It was punctuated by a cat who only partially believed that one needed a thumb to turn a doorknob. He was anxiously rattling the knob while the child knocked. Such sweet teamwork. They weren't going to stop until they were acknowledged.

"Yes, we'll be out in a minute!" she called.

"But what are you doing?" came the little voice.

In unison: "We're getting ready to go!"

And then he added, "Now get away from the door and take the cat with you."

They could hear her harrumphing back down the stairs. She was ten, after all, and could figure out that they were up to no good in there and that it included nudity and private parts. Disgusting. The cat offered two more forlorn rattles of the knob and then gave up, as well.

Now this couple knows each other very well. Momentum had been lost. Could it be regained? During the break in the action, a part of her mind had noted that the bathroom radio was still playing NPR and a promo had just announced that Car Talk would be coming up next. Car Talk? No. That would not do. She could not see herself climaxing to Click and Clack, the Tappit Brothers. Not these days anyway.

"While you're up," she smiled at her husband as he came back from checking to make sure the bedroom door was locked, "could you turn on the t.v. and turn off the radio?"

He was happy to accommodate her. She watched him move around the room and smiled at how handsome he still was. He touched the power button on the television and Mussorgsky's Pictures at An Exhibition flooded the room. They'd fallen asleep to the satellite television music channel that played pops music and short orchestral pieces. He had a wicked habit of looking as though he were asleep and then announcing within just a few notes of a piece, the composer's name and the title of the piece. A son of a music director, he was raised with classical music in his house. She, on the other hand, had a mother who listened to the local AM station's Swap Shop in the evening and the obituaries in the morning. With considerable effort, she might be able to tell Dolly Parton from Loretta Lynn, but she didn't know Rimsky from Korsakov.

He moved back to the bed and hovered over here where she lay waiting. They kissed tenderly at first then letting it build into something deeper, harder, more urgent. These moments seemed so few and far between lately. After a long day of herding cats or wrangling teens, neither of them were terribly interested in sex. Okay - that's a lie. He was. She was. But it just seemed like too much work. It required too much intimacy, too much concentration. The brain - free of the stresses of the day - was an important component to good sex.

He slid down her body, leaving a trail of kisses as he went. She gasped quietly (little ears) as he reminded her of where they were before being so rudely interrupted by the child with the "OMG, my parents might be having sex!" radar.

She closed her eyes and let her mind focus on the delicious sensation. The room was quiet. She moved in time with him. Mmmmm. Yeahhhhh. Right there. She could feel herself being pulled toward the edge. Close now.

Her eyes snapped open. She lay there, trying not to listen, instead trying to refocus on what he was doing, on that feeling of build up that was just there - the beautiful explosion of light and color behind her closed eyes, the rush of the endorphins. It had just been in sight. She could feel herself moving toward toward it when.......when, the song changed and the beautiful, mournful Pictures at an Exhibition gave way to the patriotic strains of God Bless America.

She tried not to laugh. She tried again to refocus. She shifted slightly and he changed his pace. Mmmm. That was nice. Oh yes. There. She tried to tune out the rousing stanzas and banish the images of baseball stadiums, waving flags and 9/11 that went skittering across her mind's eye.

She was just getting her groove back when the room went quiet again. Ah, yes, now perhaps something more lovely, more sensuous or even something less bombastic would come on next. She had no more thought these thoughts and imagined finally getting there when, wouldn't you know it, the one song that she could actually name came floating over her soft moans.

She opened her eye to confirm her musical acumen. Indeed, she was correct. It was Dvorak's Humoresque. Also one of the tunes mangled on the violin by Jack Benny, a comedian who had given them many a shared laugh over the years. They loved his old radio and television shows.

Obviously, this orgasm was going to be more difficult than most. She briefly considered announcing her knowledge of the piece, but she knew that once they started laughing, that would kill the mood and the sound of laughter was almost as big a draw to the child as were the hushed rustlings behind the door. If she heard, she'd be back at the door demanding more explanations. Kids hate it when you laugh without them. They hate it more when you laugh without them and you refuse to explain what you're laughing about.

She closed her eyes once more and tried not to think of the phrase "Just close your eyes and think of England." Because that really wasn't the case. She wasn't enduring - she was enjoying. England need not get involved.

She stopped herself from giggling and figured that the third time was the charm. Focus, focus......