Something New (9781101612262) Read online

  • Eleven •

  Whoever coined the phrase Wednesday is hump day should be shot. I say this because not a Wednesday passes that my husband misses the opportunity to repeat this pithy phrase and wink at me like a Monty Python character, nudge-nudge included. For the past thirteen years, every Wednesday—that would be six hundred seventy-two times—I have endured this same joke with a smile and an obligatory chuckle. So now, on the six hundred seventy-third time, all I can manage to do is raise my eyebrows and groan. And this is the beginning of my uber-fight with Jonah. (Why I didn’t just let out a guffaw and get on with it, I still don’t know.)

  “What’s with you?” he asks, pouring out the last of the coffee into his mug.

  I have been struggling with today’s post since I returned from dropping the kids at school forty-five minutes ago. I had expected Jonah to be gone by the time I got back, but he has decided to work from home for the better part of the morning.

  “Nothing’s with me,” I say as the blinking cursor mocks me. “I’ve just heard that one before.” In my mind, I think I am being gentle, but the look on Jonah’s face tells me I might as well have zapped him with a verbal taser.

  “Got it.” Coffee in hand, he stalks from the kitchen.

  “Jonah,” I call after him, but get no response. I throw my head back and push away from the computer. Sally jumps to her feet expectantly, and her eyes implore me. Cookie? Cookie? they say.

  “Sorry, girl,” I tell her. “Gotta deal with Daddy first.”

  I head for Jonah’s office just off the living room and glance at the mantel over the fireplace, which houses a panoply of family photographs. The images of my children in various stages of their young lives beckon me, as they so often do, but I resist the urge to go to them. I have another matter to address. My husband.

  “Jonah,” I say, entering the twelve-by-ten-foot space that he has claimed as his own. The kids have nicknamed this room “Dad’s Domain” because every single one of his belongings, other than his wardrobe, is crammed into this office. A built-in shelving unit of blond faux wood makes up the far wall. One shelf holds trophies dating back to high school (apparently he kicked ass in shot put), another is filled with his business self-help books that have titles like You DO Deserve to Be a Millionaire and Chitchat for Winners: Small Talk That Makes Friends and Customers out of Anyone! A third has presents from the kids that Jonah won’t throw away because he fears karma (even though fearing karma sounds a tad un-Zen). He honestly believes that if he dared to throw away the papier-mâché goat Matthew made when he was five, or Jessie’s clay ashtray, which resembles dog poop that was stepped in and then glazed and fired, or the Daddy Voodoo doll that Connor made before he dropped out of Scouts (which I consider one of the creepier projects they were assigned), some terrible tragedy will befall the bearer of the gift. This is a superstition akin to walking under ladders, which Jonah never does.

  A few years ago, Matthew’s second-grade class made pumpkin turkeys. The kids glued feathers and eyes and a yarn waddle to these apple-sized mini pumpkins and called them decorative. Matthew proudly bestowed his to Jonah, who hemmed and hawed and pretended he didn’t notice that the eyes were two different sizes and not in line, that the feathers shot out the back of the pumpkin like projectile diarrhea, and that the wattle was on top of the turkey’s head instead of under it. He placed the turkey pumpkin in the prized real estate that was the center of the kids’ tchotchke shelf. It sat there for four and a half weeks before it started to rot. Jonah didn’t even notice the smell for another week, and even then he didn’t equate the stench with one of his children’s arts and crafts treasures.

  I finally walked in one day to a putrid assault on my nostrils, and, after locating the offending item, which had begun to ooze, quickly and efficiently deposited it into the trash. Jonah was so overwrought that he slept by Matthew’s bed for a week and virtually shadowed my son for the whole winter break, convinced that Matthew was about to be impaled by a renegade patio chair or flattened by a meteor. And I won’t even mention the tirade he gave me about my lack of appreciation for our children’s artistic efforts (which was a load of hooey), and my lack of respect for his space, and my lack of sensitivity to his needs as a parent. In response, I told him he was lacking a few things as well: a sense of smell and his marbles.

  Jonah’s computer takes center stage on his desk, surrounded by stacks of office-supply catalogs, company brochures, business magazines, and invoices.

  At this moment, he is searching through one of the stacks, his face a mask of consternation. He doesn’t find what he is looking for and sidesteps over to the rowing machine, where another pile of debris adorns the seat. The pile and a thick layer of dust belie the fact that Jonah has not exercised in a while.

  “Jonah,” I say again, ignoring that fact that he is ignoring me. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  His back is to me now as he crouches next to the machine and fingers through his magazines.

  “I’m not upset,” he replies in a monotone.

  “You’re right. It is Wednesday. Hump day.” I have reached a new low today, I realize. Do I honestly believe that regurgitating this stupid joke is going to turn things around with Jonah?

  “It’s a stupid joke,” he says as if reading my mind. “But don’t worry. I got the hint.”

  “Jonah, I love that joke,” I lie. Wow, two new lows in the space of thirteen seconds.

  “Right,” he scoffs. “Just forget it, okay?”

  “Look, why are you so upset? I’m sorry. I was trying to concentrate and you kind of interrupted my train of thought.”

  He pulls a magazine from the bottom of the pile and stands, then turns and smacks it on the desk. “Well, excuse the hell out of me. I sure didn’t mean to interrupt your train of thought.” He spits out this last phrase as if it is unimaginable that I actually do have a train of thought. “What are you doing on the computer anyway? You’re always in front of that damn thing lately, and I know for a fact you haven’t joined Facebook. I tried to friend you and it turned out the Ellen Ivers I requested is ninety-two and lives in a nursing home on Long Island.”

  “I’m writing.”

  “Writing?” Confusion overtakes his features. “Writing what?”

  “Just writing, Jonah. You know, that thing I used to do before we got married and had kids?”

  “Why?”

  Why? Why? The problem with this question is that it brings back some ugly stuff for me, like my resentment toward Jonah for never having taken my writing career seriously. I earned a modest living as a writer, but because I was willing to give it up so readily when we started a family, he assumed either I wasn’t any good or I didn’t have the motivation to seriously pursue it. Frankly, Jonah wouldn’t know whether I was any good because not once has he ever read, nor shown any interest in reading, something I’ve written. For a long while it irked me, and I would bring it up when I wanted to take an argument to the next level of nasty. But as time went by, and life got crazy, and I saw how hard he was working to support his family, I let it go and gave him a pass on the issue. Until now.

  “I’m a writer, that’s why.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. (Dr. Phil would be disappointed, but fuck him.)

  “Writer? Ha! You haven’t written anything in fourteen years,” he retorts.

  “Twelve,” I correct him, aware that my pulse is throbbing in my neck. This always happens when I get angry, and right now I am so enraged I finally understand that TV show Snapped! In fact, I am contemplating a course of action that will definitely get me my own episode.

  “So what is it?” he asks, his voice dripping with condescension. “Your memoirs? A self-help book? Another novel? Don’t you remember what happened last time?”

  I feel my eyes practically bug out of my head. Jonah’s dismissing my writing as frivolous is normal, par for the course. He is not an artistic person. In fact, it is possible that he has no right brain inside his skull at all, though I have n
ever forced an MRI on him to prove my suspicions. He just doesn’t understand the whole creative process. But he has never been so hostile about my creative pursuits, or about any other subject, for that matter. I wonder if perhaps I am witnessing a midlife crisis in the offing and he is choosing to explode all over me and my writing because I just happen to be here. Somehow, this possibility doesn’t make me feel better.

  “Seven chapters, wasn’t it?” he continues, riding the wave of derision. “Seven chapters and then, poof! Stowed away in a filing cabinet, never to be worked on again.”

  “You are being a complete asshole,” I seethe, but he isn’t even paying attention to me.

  “I know, I know, honey, you gave it up for me. But you needed a lot more than seven chapters to be the next Janet Evankovich.”

  “It’s Evanovich! And it was eight chapters, thank you very much, and if you remember, I stopped working on it because I had a fucking baby!” My voice rises in volume with each word until I am shouting at Jonah across the four feet of space that separate us. Those four feet might as well be a chasm. “And then another baby, and then, because you wouldn’t get a fucking vasectomy, another!” I hate myself for throwing out this last bit of venom because I cannot imagine my life without Jessie in it. But after Matthew was born, I was so overwhelmed with the two boys that I was ready to hang up the No Vacancy sign and be done with procreating. I asked Jonah on numerous occasions to at least make a consultation with a doctor, but the idea of having a needle in the proximity of his ball sack caused him to practically weep with terror. (He wouldn’t last one minute on Fear Factor.) I had chosen not to go on the pill because I was still nursing and was afraid birth control hormones would affect my milk or pass through to the baby. I refused to get an IUD, as I had tried it right after we got married and bled like a spigot for six weeks straight until I had the damn thing removed. Jonah promised me that he would not get me pregnant, joked that he was probably out of sperm anyway and that condoms had never failed us before. Famous last freaking words.

  “What are you saying? That you wish we didn’t have Jessie? You’re unbelievable!”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “Or that it’s her fault you never got back to your illustrious career?”

  I start taking huge gulps of air to keep the top of my head from blowing apart. This man in front of me is someone I don’t recognize, a stranger. And the suddenness with which he has appeared is alarming. Jonah and I fight, like most married couples, but we usually manage to keep our arguments civil and the outright nastiness to a minimum. He is purposely attacking, belittling, and provoking me, and these are things he rarely does. This is a fight I was not planning on having and will not be able to win. He won’t win either, and I think this is just occurring to him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “You’re right. I’m being a jerk.”

  “I said asshole.” My voice is stony.

  He nods. His mouth is still set in a grim line. “Okay. I’m being an asshole.”

  “Okay.”

  Now this is typical Jonah, calling a ceasefire before things can get irrevocably out of hand. I am relieved that my husband has returned to his body, but also annoyed that I didn’t get a few more zingers in. Plus, I am totally furious at him for the things he said.

  “I’m just a little stressed out with work,” he tries to explain. “But I have no right to take it out on you. I’m glad you’re writing again, I think it’s good for you.”

  I call bullshit. “Mmm-hmm.”

  He perches his butt on the front of the desk and sighs. “So. What are you writing?”

  None of your goddamned business, I think. “Nothing important,” I say. Then I turn and walk from the room.

  Sixth Post: March 21, 2012

  SomethingNewAt42

  WHO INVENTED MARRIAGE?

  I think it is safe to say that I would enjoy marriage a lot more if it didn’t come with a husband. Or if the obligatory husband lived on another continent. Anyone who blathers and moans and complains about how hard long-distance relationships are is definitely not married and clearly doesn’t know how friggin’ lucky she is. Marriage is not for the weak. Being married is like being thrown into the Colosseum in ancient Rome. You better hope you’re a lion, because if not, more than likely, you’re going to get ripped apart.

  I have heard women say how wonderful marriage can be if you’re with the “right one,” and I have listened to many a blushing bride-to-be extol the virtues of matrimony before she has even walked down the aisle, and I have watched with eye-rolling skepticism single friends confessing that all they want is to feel the dreamy, starry-eyed bliss that comes with linking your soul to another’s for all of eternity. Oh, please! Get over it.

  The problem is that the idea of marriage is so much better than the actuality of marriage. It’s like when your child learns to read. The idea of it is amazing, and you are inordinately proud of him (or her) for finally embarking upon this wondrous journey, but you also want to rip your hair out in frustration and boredom because it takes your kid twenty minutes to read the sentence I do not like it, Sam-I-am.

  And there’s also the problem of disillusionment. Because in the beginning, it’s all about the idea. The happily-ever-after that is promised to all young girls. You’ll notice that all fairy tales end with the wedding or the kiss or the wondrous reunion of the star-crossed lovers. They never show the prince and the princess two years later when Cinderella is having postpartum depression and raging around the castle screaming “What happened to my waist?” and “I’m a freaking milk cow!” and Prince Charming has taken to hitting the singles scene, feeling up every courtier with a decent set of nonlactating breasts. The happily-ever-after ends and the real work of marriage begins and then the rose-colored glasses come off and everything starts to look a little gray.

  I often wonder whose idea marriage was. I find it hard to believe that a loving God would create an institution that potentially breeds hatred, mistrust, and insanity. He’s a Good Guy, right? Not a Malicious Prankster. I like to think that marriage was invented by a couple of monks sitting up late one night drinking a little too much mead, bitching about the accommodations at the monastery: their six-by-six cell-like rooms, the itchy wool blankets that cause a rash, the growing bald spots on the backs of their heads, and the fact that they aren’t ever going to get laid. So they try to figure out the best way to make the rest of the population of the world as miserable as they are. “What if,” they say, “we deem that a man and a woman shall have to cleave themselves unto each other, cohabitate, share their meager gain, and only layeth with each other for all of their days?” At this point the monks laugh mischievously. “They shall killeth each other,” says one. “Hallelujah!” cries the other. “Let’s do it!”

  If I sound jaded, you’re damn right I am. I have been married for eternity—uh, make that thirteen years. And while I love my husband, and on good days I am convinced that he is the one I’m supposed to be with, and that we are a team, a unified front in this game of life, blah, blah, blah, I sometimes think that human beings should take a lesson from those little grunion fish. My nameless relative loves grunions, by the way. Gets her kids up at three A.M. when those scaly bastards are running and trudges down to the beach to watch their antics. They all flop up onto the beach, the females burrow into the sand and deposit some eggs, the males come in and spray a little sperm over the eggs, and then they all go on their merry way. I know it sounds a little bit like the disco era of the 1970s, but it might be worth a try. You don’t see grunion bashing their spouses’ heads in with a frying pan or stirring arsenic into their spouses’ gin and tonics, now do you?

  Oh, gotta go. My husband’s home and in need of a cocktail…

  • Twelve •

  Thursday dawns with the promise of being the best day of my week. I have managed to smooth things over with my two younger children, who I’m sure were just polishing up their letters to the producers of Wife Swap. As for Ma
tthew, I was able to find a Surf or Die T-shirt on eBay, and although I had to endure a bidding war with someone whose username is shaka14, I won it for $39.95 plus shipping. (Crummy old “softly used” T-shirt: $39.95. Bribing your children for their forgiveness: priceless.)

  I catch Matthew as he is rummaging through his dresser drawers for something suitable to wear, showering the room with the cast-offs, which are numerous. I let him know that a new (used) Surf or Die shirt is on its way via UPS Ground and will be here in three to five business days. I could have waited until it came and then led him to believe that I did, in fact, forage through smelly and slimy debris at the dump, but I continually try to convince myself that honesty is the best policy, even if that in itself is a bald-faced lie.

  After my heartfelt sermon on how, no, this is not the same shirt, it is exactly like the T-shirt his cousin gave him and he can easily transfer all of his warm fuzzy feelings for Luke onto the new T-shirt that, “for your information is a size larger and therefore will fit you for a lot longer than the original would,” Matthew seems unimpressed. Until I let slip accidentally on purpose exactly how much I spent on it. At the mention of $39.95 plus shipping, his eyes go wide, as he has never seen that much money in one place at one time, and he proceeds to throw his arms around me and start to cry.

  “I didn’t mean it when I said I hated you,” he reveals. I pat his head and tell him that I knew it all along. Score one for Mom.

  At breakfast, I make a point of being totally supportive of my daughter’s wacko decision to eradicate animals from her diet. I carefully set a platter of fresh fruit at her place, coupled with a whole-grain cereal and a pitcher of rice milk that I bought at Trader Joe’s the day before. When she enters the kitchen her eyes are cast downward and she says not a word. She heads for her seat, frowning, most likely expecting to see sausage or Canadian bacon or a suckling pig on her plate. It takes her a moment to process what is in front of her and I watch as her frown literally turns upside down. She looks up at me, her eyes glistening.