I Lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression (4 page)

“How come?” asked a woman.

“Because all he did was sit there and bark.”

The men howled with laughter until I thought they were going to be sick. The women sat there puzzled.

“Dear,” I interrupted, “it wasn’t because the dog just barked. It was because all the dog talked about was his operation.”

“That’s not funny,” he said.

“It’s not my fault,” I countered. “It was your lousy joke.”

“If it’s my joke, then how come I can’t tell it my way? Why would a dog rehash something so painful as an operation. You know what you are, you’re sick. I bet if I said the dog sold his hospital bed before he got back to it, you’d have laughed yourself silly.”

But being generous, I forgive him for his bad jokes and I even forgive him for being tall. I am 5′2″, and he is just under 6′. According to him I get my kicks out of life by moving the car seat up to within three inches of the steering column and leaving it there.

“Okay, you win,” he said, staggering into the kitchen and slumping into a chair.

“What are you talking about?”

“I am too weak to fight you anymore. My kidneys have been destroyed by a door handle. I have burns on my neck from being flogged with a shoulder belt. My head is bleeding from a clip by the mirror and I tore my pants on the left-turn signal.”

“Is that what you were blowing the horn about?”

“I was blowing the horn because every time I exhaled, my belt buckle pressed against the horn.”

“You are upset.”

“Aren’t you quick? Next year, you may even get tie shoes.”

“There is no need for you to be sarcastic.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You have never tried to fold a pair of legs into a parachute and ‘drop’ into your own car before. Look at these,” he shouted, putting his feet on the table under my nose. “Do you know what these are?”

“They are feet,” I said softly.

“That’s right. They were never meant to be folded, spindled or mutilated.”

“Then why are they forked?”

“Because I have just rescued them from the jaws of the glove compartment. I thought perhaps if I crawled in from the passenger side I could wind my legs around my neck and then unwind them under the steering wheel.”

“What happened?”

“I was attacked by a sun visor and in the skirmish my foot was half eaten by the glove compartment.”

“I don’t leave the seat up on purpose,” I began.

He jumped from his chair. “Oh, but you do. You have never really gotten over not marrying the Hunchback of Notre Dame, have you? Now,
he
could have fit in your mini-car, couldn’t he? You’d like one of those cardboard cars whipping around with Barbie and Ken and Midge. Or Eddie Arcaro. You should have married a jockey. Or Mickey Rooney. What a twosome you would have made sitting on your pillows! Or Dick Cavett. Storing a picnic basket under your feet. Or what about that guy on top of the wedding cake?”

I think one of the real tests of a stable marriage is being married to a man who worships at the shrine of burnt food—the back-yard chef.

Last spring, we decided to remodel our kitchen. We installed a stove that does everything but burp us, a refrigerator-freezer that coughs ice and defrosts itself, a line of counter appliances that makes humans obsolete, a dishwasher and disposer that eliminates leftovers, and shelves and storage to stagger the imagination.

On the day it was completed, my husband stood in the middle of this culinary carpetland, nodded his approval, then hit for the back yard, where he proceeded to cook our meal in a fetal position over a hibachi, using a bent coat hanger for a fork and a garbage-can lid to hold the salt and pepper.

Most men go through it. It is called the Back Yard Bicarbonate Syndrome, better known to most Americans as the “cookout.”

The condition is usually brought about by the acquisition of a new grill, a fun apron that reads,
BURNED IS BEAUTIFUL
or a neighbor who delights and amazes his guests every weekend with dishes from his new Neanderthal Cookbook.

Somehow you cannot help but admire the courage of these virgin cooks who heretofore thought a pinch of rosemary was something you did when your wife wasn’t looking and who considered aspic a ski resort in Colorado.

The big question is how to survive it.

When you are invited to a cookout be sure to check the invitation. If it reads “7
P.M
.” assume that is the time of arrival. The time you are served may vary as much as forty-eight to seventy-two hours from then depending on:

(a) a confused host who puts the potatoes in the oven and turns on the clothes dryer for 60 minutes;

(b) an emergency visit from the local fire department that got a call that a tire factory is burning;

(c) a group of guests who are all members of the U. S. Olympic Drinking Team and are celebrating their victory over the Russians.

In order to survive a cookout you must also be aware of some of the old myths and clichés.

There’s the perennial, “After all, what can you do to a good steak?” This line is often accompanied by a high, shrill laugh and a nudge.

The implication is that it takes very little skill to throw a good chunk of beef on the grill and get it off while still edible.

The answer to this question is obviously, “You can burn it.”

Secondly, no cookout is complete without a large, furry dog who hangs around the grill all night. There is a myth that large, furry dogs never take the meat off the grill and
run. Unless you have chased a dog through three back yards, a shopping center, and a sprinkler you might be lulled into believing this.

Next, there is the myth about “the couple that cooks together stays married together.”

The other night I tripped over my husband who was hunched over his hibachi. “Is that you?” I whispered in the darkness.

“Who did you think it was?” he asked.

“I didn’t care. If you hadn’t moved I was going to eat you.”

“Just a little longer,” he said. “Are the guests getting hungry?”

“I think so. They are sitting around watching their stomachs bloat.”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“Are you kidding? It’s the first time I’ve ever seen my fingernails grow.”

“Just a few minutes and the coals will be ready.”

“Do you mean to say you haven’t even put the meat on yet?”

“Give them some more hors d’oeuvres.”

“It’s no use. They’re beginning to get ugly.”

“Then go check everyone and find out how many want their steaks—rare, medium rare, medium, medium well, and well done.”

I left and returned in a few minutes.

“Well?” he asked.

“Thirteen raws. Hold the horns.”

“Very funny,” he said. “How about the fourteenth guest?”

“He ate his coaster and said that would hold him.”

“That tears it,” he said. “That’s the last time I waste my special barbecue sauce on this group of ingrates.”

The survival of the cookoutee hangs solely, however, on how well he is prepared for the outing. Guests should
never be without their Survival Kit which should be stocked with:

A flashlight to see what you are not eating.

Bright trinkets and beads to barter with the natives for bits of food before dinner is served.

A calendar to keep track of time.

Sterile face masks to keep from getting high on bug spray.

Dry matches for the host when he admits he was never a Boy Scout.

The other night, after the guests had gone and I was crawling through the grass, retrieving my silverware, my husband said proudly, “Well, it couldn’t have been a complete disaster. Evelyn Weard just called and asked for my recipe for barbecue sauce.”

I could hardly wait until morning to call Evelyn. “Is it true?” I asked. “Did you really ask for my husband’s barbecue-sauce recipe?”

“I certainly did,” she said excitedly. “You see, the other night when I dropped a bit of the sauce on my skirt, it didn’t spot. In fact, it took a spot out. I made a batch of it this morning and would you believe it, your husband is a genius. His barbecue sauce kills crab grass, took a wad of chewing gum off the dog, the oil stains off the garage floor, and cleans chrome.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “Just keep it out of the reach of children.”

“I know,” she said.

My husband and I have produced three children, survived three wars, comforted one another at funerals, and dedicated ourselves to one another through sickness and in health. The other day, I backed out of the driveway, turned too sharply, and hit the side of his car. He was a perfect stranger.

“Where are you going?” I asked as he left his dented fender and bolted toward the house.

“Don’t move your car,” he said. “I’m going to call the police.”

“The police!”
I shouted. “For crying out loud, I’m your wife.”

“This is no time for nepotism,” he said stiffly.

I should have known better than to compete with a man and his car. For years, psychologists have been telling us that a man’s relationship with his automobile supersedes even sex.

For you women who are skeptics, let me ask you a few questions.

Does your husband have an insurance policy on you that includes no-fault, comprehensive, and is fifty-dollar deductible? Or do you have the basic ninety-six-dollar burial policy that puts you on a public bus and takes you to the edge of town?

Do you have a guarantee for a complete oil change every six months and/or 1,000 miles, whichever comes first? Or do you only visit a doctor’s office for major surgery?

Does your husband fly into a rage if he finds someone stuck a candy wrapper in your pocket or a piece of bubble gum on your instrument panel?

Has your husband ever patted you on your trunk and remarked what a beautiful trade-in you’d make?

Does he take you to a restaurant three times a week and instruct the waitress to “Fill her up”?

Does he care if the kids put their feet on your upholstery?

Does he object if your teen-agers drive you all over town?

Would he pay eight dollars to have you towed anywhere?

If you didn’t start in the morning, would he stay home from work?

If you answered “No” to any or all of these questions, then you have a four-wheel correspondent in your divorce suit.

As the policeman surveyed our situation, he turned to my husband and said, “Sir, you are illegally parked. Your car should be at least fifteen feet from the edge of the driveway. Are there any witnesses to this accident?”

“Just my wife,” said my husband smiling at me.

“I never saw this bum before in my life,” I said.

After the policeman had gone my husband mumbled, “Joanne wouldn’t have been so unfeeling.”

“Who’s Joanne?” asked our eleven-year-old.

“Joanne Woodward,” said my husband. “I don’t know if you’ll understand this or not, son, but Joanne Woodward is like shaving at twelve, she’s like going to buy a car and having the salesman take you directly to the convertibles. She’s like having your mother-in-law allergic to you, and not having to have a belt to hold your suitcase closed.

“Joanne isn’t mortal. She never wears hair rollers, never has chenille marks on her face, and never cleans a fireplace without gloves. She doesn’t have to stand up to lose her stomach or talk about worming the dog during dinner. Joanne is.…”

“Does she ride a horse good?” asked his son.

“I knew you were too young to understand,” he said sadly. “But I forgive you and I forgive your mother.”

For the first two years of a child’s life you try to get him to talk. For the next ten years you devote your life to getting him to shut up. For the remainder of his life you try to get his lips moving again and sound coming from his throat.

Personally, I have always said if the Good Lord had meant for me to speak in the mornings, He’d have put a recording in my chest and a string in the back of my neck.

I don’t understand people who can hop out of bed and synchronize their lips with words to form sentences and communicate ideas. I don’t reach this point until after lunch.

I have a basic morning vocabulary of twenty words: “No. I don’t care. It’s in the dirty-clothes hamper. What’s your name? Mustard or catsup? In your father’s billfold.” There have been no subtractions or additions in twenty-three years.

The other morning I shuffled to the kitchen and mechanically

did my thing. My daughter said, “I need to buy …”