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Marriage and Its Discontents
Nov. 17th, 2015 10:07 amI am pleased to report that the Paris Terrorist Attacks are now officially over: Charlie Sheen’s HIV status has chased them off the front pages of The Daily Mail (my news source of choice.) Way to commensurate! For what price global terror when a B List celebrity is in pain?
###
In other news, I apparently did not succeed in totally alienating Ed when I told him the other day that he should just shut up and stop complaining to me about Pat all the time.
I was raking leaves. Ed had actually come over to laugh at me because I was scooping leaves into black plastic bags by hand.
“Why don’t you just get a leaf-blower?” he asked.
“Cause I fuckin’ hate leaf-blowers? Cause it’s a gorgeous day, and I don’t actually mind having an excuse to play with leaves? You choose.”
“You’ll notice that nary a single leaf defiles the green expanse of the Freeman lawn! That’s because Pat is obsessed with yard work. A true child of the small town Midwest, that Pat.”
“And your point is… ?”
“Me? I don’t have any points. Except I sometimes wonder whether Pat’s obsession with leafless lawns is really an obsession with keeping me occupied in my – as she sees them – feckless retirement years.”
But Ed has complained to me himself about how bor-r-ring retirement seems to him. I guess I’m lucky in that regard – as a writer, I don’t think I’ve ever been bored in my life. In the dreariest doctor’s office, in the longest supermarket line, I can always slip into omnipotent storyteller mode and begin narrating whatever I see around me.
“Is that an issue?” I asked.
“Is what an issue?”
“Pat’s concern about your levels of boredom?”
“Of course, it’s an issue. I’d rather be responsible for remedying my own levels of boredom, thank you very much.”
“Then do it,” I said. “Stop complaining about it. And stop complaining about Pat for God’s sake. Go see a marriage counselor or something.”
###
When I was over at Pat and Ed’s doing my FitBit for Dummies training the day before, the phone rang. Then five minutes later, it rang again.
“Ed,” Pat sighed as she put down the phone. “You know, it’s very weird. He never talks to me when we’re alone together, but he calls me every five minutes when he’s away – even if it’s just a trip to the store.”
###
Anyway, Ed called me yesterday to see if I wanted to go for a walk, so we spent a companionable couple of hours tromping the old Vanderbilt Estate, chattering about Judaism, terrorism, parenting.
A lovely day. Autumn in full Gerard Manly Hopkins drag:
Marriages are peculiar, aren’t they? You’re dependent on your partner in a billion different ways so that, in time, it can come to feel as though you’re really married to your [Insert Parent With Whom You Had the Most Primal Relationship Here].
Once the sexual bloom was off the rose, Ben definitely began relating to me as though I was his mother. And I began relating to him as though he was my mother. (For all intents and purposes, I didn’t really have a father.)
One thing, though: We were always able to talk.
I suppose that’s why we were able to remain such good friends.
###
A rather adorable picture of RTT:
###
In other news, I apparently did not succeed in totally alienating Ed when I told him the other day that he should just shut up and stop complaining to me about Pat all the time.
I was raking leaves. Ed had actually come over to laugh at me because I was scooping leaves into black plastic bags by hand.
“Why don’t you just get a leaf-blower?” he asked.
“Cause I fuckin’ hate leaf-blowers? Cause it’s a gorgeous day, and I don’t actually mind having an excuse to play with leaves? You choose.”
“You’ll notice that nary a single leaf defiles the green expanse of the Freeman lawn! That’s because Pat is obsessed with yard work. A true child of the small town Midwest, that Pat.”
“And your point is… ?”
“Me? I don’t have any points. Except I sometimes wonder whether Pat’s obsession with leafless lawns is really an obsession with keeping me occupied in my – as she sees them – feckless retirement years.”
But Ed has complained to me himself about how bor-r-ring retirement seems to him. I guess I’m lucky in that regard – as a writer, I don’t think I’ve ever been bored in my life. In the dreariest doctor’s office, in the longest supermarket line, I can always slip into omnipotent storyteller mode and begin narrating whatever I see around me.
“Is that an issue?” I asked.
“Is what an issue?”
“Pat’s concern about your levels of boredom?”
“Of course, it’s an issue. I’d rather be responsible for remedying my own levels of boredom, thank you very much.”
“Then do it,” I said. “Stop complaining about it. And stop complaining about Pat for God’s sake. Go see a marriage counselor or something.”
###
When I was over at Pat and Ed’s doing my FitBit for Dummies training the day before, the phone rang. Then five minutes later, it rang again.
“Ed,” Pat sighed as she put down the phone. “You know, it’s very weird. He never talks to me when we’re alone together, but he calls me every five minutes when he’s away – even if it’s just a trip to the store.”
###
Anyway, Ed called me yesterday to see if I wanted to go for a walk, so we spent a companionable couple of hours tromping the old Vanderbilt Estate, chattering about Judaism, terrorism, parenting.
A lovely day. Autumn in full Gerard Manly Hopkins drag:
Marriages are peculiar, aren’t they? You’re dependent on your partner in a billion different ways so that, in time, it can come to feel as though you’re really married to your [Insert Parent With Whom You Had the Most Primal Relationship Here].
Once the sexual bloom was off the rose, Ben definitely began relating to me as though I was his mother. And I began relating to him as though he was my mother. (For all intents and purposes, I didn’t really have a father.)
One thing, though: We were always able to talk.
I suppose that’s why we were able to remain such good friends.
###
A rather adorable picture of RTT:
