A Walk in the Snark (11 page)

Over our five years together, he had shown me such tenderness, a hushed love whispered so sweetly only I could hear.

I was already broken, my heart beyond shattered. He had come over to try to soothe me. Again. But even he couldn’t dry the tears my soul was crying.

I had loved him so wholly, despite the emotional difficulties. He had loved me, too. Love was never our problem. I had given him everything, every part of me. A young man with a difficult life, all his insane truths and self-sabotage making no sense anymore. Did it ever?

So much I didn’t understand…and wouldn’t ’til many years later.

I slammed that door shut tight, in every way possible.

If you could only see

What love has made of me

Then I’d no longer be in your mind

The difficult kind

‘
Cause babe, I’ve changed

Mid-2009:

He contacts me on Facebook. We have had literally NO contact for over twenty years. I didn’t really understand why now.

I crossed the canyon a thousand times

Never noticed what was mine.

What you remember of me tonight

Well, it almost makes me cry,

Yeah, it almost makes me cry.

He says he knows he drank too much when we were together. I ask him why he cheated. To say “I was drunk,” is a total cop-out. “Not good enough, dude,” I tell him. “Pile,” he says.

There ain’t nothing like regret

To remind you you’re alive.

Was it because what I offered was normalcy? The good life? The total opposite of what he’d known? House, car, wife, life? He tells me it was all too perfect. He just couldn’t be the man I expected him to be; that he wanted to be, for me. Yeah, well you know what I learned? I learned exactly what I
didn’t
want in a man.

“Harsh, Rach,” was his reply.

Oh ballbreaking moon and ridiculing stars,

Oh, the older I get, the closer you are.

Don’t you got somewhere that you need to be,

Instead of hanging here making a fool of me.

I’ll forever be in your mind,

The difficult kind.

But you won’t see, no you won’t see,

The good in me,

But babe I’ve changed,

‘
Cause babe I’ve changed.

He said he was different now. He had changed. He was a father. He’d grown up. He knew he could now be that man. For me. It was all still so real to him. He remembered everything—all that I had pushed from my mind. He still remembered my birthday. That crushes me.

Tell it to me slow,

Tell me with your eyes.

If anyone should know,

How to let it slide.

I swear I can see you,

Coming up the drive…

We had some really good conversations before he chose to end his life in October 2009. I didn’t go easy on him. I don’t feel bad about that, although I’ve certainly given it a lot of thought. He contacted me, he said, because he wanted to apologize for so many things. He felt he owed me that.

Another abrupt ending. It was our pattern. I believe that in his heart, he was a really good man. A lost man, a torn man, but a good man. He was the difficult kind.

***

And now a return to the snark…

“
Women think tender is something their men should be;

men think tender is something their steak should be.”

COLD FEET

Like any child, I’ve observed my parents’ marriage for many years. They celebrated their fiftieth anniversary back in 2009 and are still going strong. That’s a lot of paper towel scrunchies.

The inspiration for this piece came from watching my folks do the temperature dance my whole life. I never realized I’d be playing the same game in my own home. And car.

Yet here I am, piling on the clothing while my guy is roasting. Playing musical thermostat. (Who opens windows in the winter? Oh yeah. MEN.)

It’s gotta be hormones, baby. (Surely there was a
Seinfeld
episode about this, right?)

I think MEN and WOMEN should come with an instruction manual before marriage. Some things would be sooo much easier. For example, to say that people can run
hot and cold
is never more true when it comes to a married couple.

Let me explain.

I always find it interesting that a MAN will find it necessary to open every window of the house while exclaiming, “Why is it so dang hot in here?” not caring or even
noticing
that you are freezing/shivering your cute little tush off, snuggled under piles of blankets, with the heat on and a hot mug of tea warming your frozen fingers.

A MAN must have cool air blowing on him at all times. Kind of like a dog in a car.

Speaking of cars, put a MAN and a woman together in a car on a long trip and all kinds of temperature-related hilarity will ensue.

The MAN likes it cool, preferably with the windows down—to get all that fresh air, babe. She, of course, doesn’t like the noise, or all that wind, especially on her freshly blown-out hair that she just paid $50 bucks for so he would think she looks pretty. (He will tell her she looks pretty without all that effort, but we know that’s just B.S. to save money.)

No discussion of male/female temperature intimacy would be complete without discussing cold feet. Not in the “Should I or shouldn’t I marry him/her,” kind; no, this is more of the “Dang woman, get those freakin’ icicles off me and put some damn socks on already!” variety.

MEN, I can see you laughing and nodding.

I’m sure there’s a perfectly valid medical reason that men run warmer (testosterone) and women are usually freezing (lack of Prada) that makes us run diametrically opposite on the temperature scale. Give a woman Prada and I guarantee heat will be generated. Ahem.

See, we women enjoy the fact that our men are like ovens because when we’re all cozy in our blankets, with our laptops, books, and tea (or in my case, coffee) at hand, the last thing we want to do is get up and go put socks on.

In the end, our MEN make for very effective foot warmers.

Among other things…

***

“
There’s a huge swarm of bees keeping me stuck inside this Starbucks.

If this is SB’s new marketing technique, it’s working.”

PIGSKIN, PRADA, AND PRIME BEEF, OH MY

Just as men and women differ about temperature, we also differ with regard to how to get ready for a party. Dudes immediately think food; chicks immediately think clothes.

There are women out there who don’t care about fashion as much I do. To them, fashion is function. If it’s cold, they layer. If it’s hot, shorts and a tank. That’s my mom. She hates to shop and pick out clothes, God love her.

My man knew this going in, and that’s just the way it is.

My mom thinks I’m an alien.

To say that men and women prepare for a
Monday Night Football
bash differently is a wee bit of an understatement.

For me, I want to make sure that the house is presentable, the kids are clean, and that the kitchen and liquor cabinet are well stocked.

But in truth, at the top of my priority list is: What the hell am I gonna wear?

The second my guy informs me that a few peeps are coming over for a party, my mind automatically heads to my closet, of course.

I’m already mentally picturing my cute new jeans that make my butt look
not fat
along with that great new clingy black sweater that make my boobs look
not small
—and that won’t clash with whoever the hell is playing that day. Priorities, ya know.

And of course there are the shoes! Hmmm…too bad it’s casual, damn it. Realizing my new Prada heels would probably make me look a tad overdressed, I sigh disappointedly as I gaze at them longingly in my mind before mentally putting them back on the lonely closet shelf and trading them for my stupid, stupid (though of course adorable) new trainers.

That task accomplished, I’m off to discuss menu options with my man. But wait— what’s this? The guy who is incapable of finding butter in a refrigerator filled with the stuff has not only already been to the grocery store, he’s planned an entire menu around the prime beef that can only be found at the specialty butcher thirty miles away, which he’s already purchased in mass quantities.

I feel as if I’ve entered some kind of
food Twilight Zone
. Cue music.

Couldn’t we have just ordered pizza? I’ve got hair to blow-dry and straighten here, dude.

Husband explains that he’s got a new meat recipe going that’s he’s all excited about and to just chill out. Which I would do, except for the fact that my formerly clean kitchen is now a complete disaster, and people will be here in a few hours.

I certainly hope he purchased vodka on one of his trips to the store. What is it that gets men so jazzed up about football and meat? Maybe it’s the pigskin. Or, is it the animalistic, masculine nature of the game that brings out the need for our testosterone-filled guys to go out and hunt for meat in the wild forests and jungles of our brightly lit, modern grocery stores?

Martini in hand, I wield my hair dryer and mascara wand, mutlitasking like nobody’s business. Dress my wriggling five-year old son, pull my eleven-year-old’s hair back, clean the sink, and announce the house ready for the party. Bring it.

Wait a sec. If he can have his prime beef, then by golly, I can certainly have my Pradas.

Hey, all is fair in love and football, baby.

***

“
It’s a universal truth that men love their TV remotes almost as much as their women. Dudes—you even sleep w/it.”

UNIVERSAL REMOTE

Ask any man where the best place in town is to buy oh, freshly baked cookies or organic strawberries and you’ll get a blank stare. However, ask them where they bought their Ultimate Manly Man TV remote control in order to best watch football on three screens in Ultimate Man Power Surround Sound all at once (especially great for parties), they’ll launch into a fifteen-minute story worthy of a standing ovation.

It’s a universal truth that men love their remotes as much, if not more, than their wives. Many sleep with it, cuddle it, and probably do things with it that are beyond the scope of this book. It’s a relationship therapists have been struggling to define for years.