Forty Years

 Forty years is 14,600 days, 350,400 hours and 21, 024,000 minutes.  It is also how long Paul and I will have been married as of August 21 - almost two-thirds of our lives, which is a little overwhelming when you think of it that way.  All those days, hours and minutes seem to have passed in no time, although they say one-third of your life is spent sleeping so that probably explains some of it.

The year we got married, both of our parents celebrated their 25^th anniversaries, my grandparents celebrated their 50^th and Paul’s would have done so, too, if his grandfather was still living.  I remember thinking that they all were SO old and our twenty-fifth anniversary was light years away.  Right.

So much has happened in the past forty years.  We have lived happily in five places - a cute little townhouse with homemade burlap curtains, a tri-level city apartment with a view of Cincinnati’s downtown skyline from the shower, and three houses, two old and one new.  We have had countless great neighbors, with only the occasional wing-nut - the old couple who engaged in shouting matches on Sunday nights (alcohol was definitely involved), the guy who ran a flea market out of his house and the guy who spent all his time shooting off firecrackers and bottle rockets except when he was in his tanning bed.

Together we have planted geraniums, perennials, impatiens and basil, pulled up carpet on hardwood floors, weeded ground cover beds, painted furniture, washed thousands of dishes and raked zillions of leaves.  We have also passed the ultimate test of a marriage - wallpapering bathrooms together, although not recently – there’s no point in pressing our luck.

Together we have ridden on ski lifts, a hot air balloon, subways, sailboats, horses, a puddle-jumper plane, snow and water skis, rollerblades, tandem bikes, a helicopter, and golf carts.  We have not ridden and will not be riding a jet ski, a motorcycle, a submarine, the space shuttle or the Beast at Kings’ Island. (Our first and last roller coaster ride together occurred on our third date when I wanted to impress Paul and agreed to ride the Wild Mouse at Coney Island – it was literally a white-knuckle ride and not an experience either of us wants to repeat.)

Together we’ve seen The Big Red Machine, the Eiffel tower, bald eagles, moose and grizzly bears, the Roman Forum, Pete Rose and Luciano Pavarotti, mountain meadows covered with flowers, The Sopranos, traffic jams in LA, orcas in the San Juan Islands, London Bridge and the Pooh Sticks Bridge, and so many plays and musicals that I don’t recognize half the titles anymore.  We’ve also been lucky enough to see two babies born and to see them grow into two wonderful men.

Over the past 2080 weekends, we’ve given some memorable parties together.  When Paul was in dental school, at one of our first parties, eight of us put away a gallon of Cribari red wine, four kinds of cheese fondue, a five pound box of chocolates and made a feeble attempt to play bridge –the after-effects lasted for a week.   Our Battle of the Sexes party featured hotly contested competition in events like ironing a shirt, hammering a nail, sewing on a button, blowing up a bicycle tire, and baiting a fishhook. The first of several New Year’s Eve parties that included both kids and adults was a huge success although we did learn that, if you leave a group of grade school kids alone in the basement with a large tin of popcorn, your sweeper is going to get a work-out the next day.  We even survived last minute crises like having both kitchen sinks back up from carrot peel overload just before 16 people arrived for a pizza party fundraiser and having the Shop-Vac spew out ash and dust instead of sucking it up out of the fireplace just before the whole family arrived for Christmas dinner.

So, what’s the secret of a long-term marriage between two people with different personalities, talents and interests? Well, for one thing, in forty years, we’ve developed a workable division of labor.  When we have a computer issue, it’s up to me to solve it.  When we want to send a text message or do anything fancy with the cell phone, Paul’s on it.  I’m in charge of remembering names; he’s in charge of remembering where we parked the car.  He is good at Physics (e.g. siphoning water out of the basement); I am good at foreign languages (e.g. getting directions to the nearest bar in Italy.)  He finds our way out of the mountains or the woods; I find our way out of Macy’s. 

We’ve also learned a lot.  He’s learned that I need to do the crosswords and the Sudoku before I do anything else in the morning.  I’ve learned that if I take just four quarters out of his poker money, he’ll notice.  He knows that, if I’m preparing five dishes for dinner, I’ll make at least five messes in the kitchen before I clean up anything. I know that, if I turn my back on him, he’ll start cleaning up after me and every measuring cup and spoon, rubber scraper and bowl that I need will be in the dishwasher. He’s given up expecting me to hang up the bathmat so it will stay up.  I have given up expecting him to suggest going out for ice cream.

And, after forty years’ worth of disagreements, we’ve finally agreed to disagree on the edibility of lima beans, bananas, peanut butter and coconut, the importance of replacing the toilet paper with the paper coming out the top, and how many times you can wear a shirt before it belongs in the wash, even if it doesn’t have an odor.  We’re still sorting out our driving differences. I say he pokes along in the car like an old man and rips around in a golf cart like one of the Beverly Hillbillies.  He says I speed in the car and drive a golf cart slower than he can walk the course.

While our marriage has survived forty years, most of the things with which we started our married life haven’t.   We no longer have our black and white checked couch, our orange plastic end tables or anything in avocado green.  We have swept up the pieces of many casseroles, plates, bowls, and glasses, especially wine glasses. Recently, we got rid of our last wedding gift appliance, a popcorn popper, after it contracted leprosy -  its yellow plastic coating was peeling plus it gave out an ominous smell when you plugged it in. 

We have one or two pieces of 40-year-old furniture including the desk Paul and my dad made the summer before we were married.  We also have a full set of our good china (thanks to 1-800-REPLACE) and the good stainless steel flatware we got as a wedding gift with only a few garbage disposal dings.  The prize for the most practical, most durable, toughest kitchen gadget of all time goes to a jar opener I got as a shower gift – at 40, it remains in prime condition.  The original Betty Crocker cookbook that Paul’s mom gave me is still on duty as well, even though it is about 5 pounds heavier than it was in 1971 because of the duct tape, scotch tape, reinforcements, crumbs and food spills on its cover and pages.

However, the most important things with which we started our marriage and which have been with us throughout the past forty years are our wonderful family, our constantly growing circle of treasured friends, a sense of humor, a generous measure of good luck and each other.  This post barely scratches the surface of everything that we've experienced together over these incredibly good years. I sure could go for another forty or so.

Click below for a video of my favorite Broadway duet about a long-term love affair

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sISWPzEqHLQ

The Remains of the Week (or The Boss Has Left the Building)

Paul and I babysat for our 15-month-old grandson Willem, aka the Boss, last week while his parents took a well-deserved, childless vacation.  (Megan titled their trip "Bossless in Oregon.")  We split the week with Willem’s other grandparents; and it worked out so well that the four of us voted to make this an annual event, at the very least.

After WMD (Willem, Megan and David) left yesterday, I  worked, reluctantly, at restoring the house to its former condition.  It was slow going because, frankly, I wasn’t in a big hurry to rescue my Tupperware cabinet from total chaos or to reunite pillows with the appropriate couches or to clean the sticky spots off the floor. All the electrical outlets are still child-proofed.The dining room window blinds were still raised enough to allow a very short person to keep an eye on important stuff like the grass cutting crew, the sprinkler and the birds. You can tell Willem’s favorite look-out posts by the finger and nose prints.   

I had the luxury of being able to clean up the kitchen without stopping to follow the sound of fast little bare feet in the back hallway or to investigate the excited shrieks coming from the bathroom. It's not as much fun to do dishes, however, since I'm not racing to get the glasses, plates and silverware loaded into the dishwasher before Willem tries to climb in.

My pantry is down to a bare minimum of baby food – a couple of stray containers of applesauce and a little rice cereal along with the last box of Baby Mum Mum’s, his teething crackers.  That, at least, is a step in the right direction.  I couldn’t find Baby Mum Mum’s at the grocery for his visit last Labor Day weekend and was so delighted to find them on Amazon.com that I didn’t put on my glasses to read the fine print. Instead of a box, I wound up with a whole case and  found myself wondering how they would taste as hors d’ oeuvres with Cajun crab spread or eggplant caponata.

I did collect the scattered blocks, stuffed animals and trucks, along with the garage, farm and Noah’s ark and pack them away downstairs even though there is now a big, empty space in the living room, like when you take down the Christmas tree.  I left Willem’s tub toys in the Jacuzzi which is no problem because, in the 8 years we’ve been in this house, we’ve only used it once.  In fact, we didn’t want to put in a tub at all but our builder convinced us it was a good idea and he was right, seeing how much fun Willem had splashing around in that big tub. Just wait until he’s old enough for the water jets – they'll blow his mind.


Willem’s car was on our back deck just the way he left it – lying on its side.  While he enjoys driving it, he mostly likes its spinning wheels when he’s not spinning the wheels on his dump truck, his fire truck or Paul’s Schwinn Airdyne.  He is probably headed for a career as a race car driver or a roulette player.

For the first time in almost a week, I can go downstairs without climbing over the baby gate which was a challenge but probably good for my  glutes or my flutes or some other out-of-shape body part.  Anyway, without the gate, it was easier to pack away the porta-crib and the diaper changing gear although I wasn’t especially eager to do either of those things.

By the end of the day, I could walk anywhere in the house barefoot, confident that I wouldn't stub my toe on one of Willem's cube chairs or step on a wooden puzzle piece. The only physical evidence of Willem’s stay with us was a few drool marks on the breakfast room chair cushions and some errant Cheerios. I expect one of his chubby, cheerful little plastic people will turn up in an unexpected spot soon.  Meanwhile, Paul and I have countless wonderful memories, backed up by a ridiculous number of photos and we’re already looking forward to the Boss's next visit.  

Hair

I usually save YouTube musical links for the end of my posts but this one sets the stage so perfectly, I suggest you click the link below before reading further.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ri1XicuLdxc&feature=more_related

Summer is a great time for me, hair-wise.  Cincinnati’s heat and humidity let my hair do exactly as it pleases which means a combination of curl, kink and frizz. At this stage of my life, I am at peace with my hair and I love not having to spend time blow-drying, hot-rollering or styling it.  No matter what happens, my hair springs back into action, even after I take off a sweaty bike helmet although you wouldn’t want to get too close.

I didn't always appreciate my hair.  When I was in grade school, I wanted straight hair like my friends in the neighborhood so I could put it up in pin curlers.  My mom insisted that girls with naturally curly hair did not need curlers. Well, maybe not in the summer but, in the winter when cold, dry weather made my hair less curly, it did all sorts of funky things.  Mom’s solution was to comb it with hot water so it did all sorts of wet, funky things. Finally, she agreed to curl my hair using socks; none of the models in “Seventeen” ever rolled their hair in socks, however, and for good reasons.

I wasn’t the only one in our family with hair issues.  Like most boys in the 50’s, my brother had a butch cut which left him with about ¼ of an inch of hair all over his head except at his forehead where the ¾ inch of hair stood at attention with the help of “Butch Wax.”  After awhile, Mom got tired of paying Marshall the barber $5 for this kind of a haircut. I mean, what could be so hard about practically shaving a kid’s head every six weeks?  Mom found out when she ordered a hair trimmer she saw demonstrated on T.V.  Mark’s first (and last) home haircut left him with an assortment of bald patches, tufts and nicks, all of which Marshall corrected (mostly) for $10 since this emergency operation had to be performed on a Saturday.  Mom would have been better off ordering a Veg-O-Matic.

My sister’s hair problems stemmed from the fact that she wanted hair like Sleeping Beauty’s but, in fact, she had hair like Little Orphan Annie’s.  Kay’s hair was thicker and curlier than mine so Mom decided to keep it short.  Kay would come home from the beauty shop, take one look in the mirror and fly into a rage, violently shaking her head back and forth until her hair stood out like that photo of Albert Einstein with his finger in an electrical socket. When my dad came home in the middle of one of these storms, my brother tried to prepare him.  “Look out,” Mark warned him.  “She’s been to the bushwhacker.”

When I got to high school, I graduated from socks to rollers and picked up an ally in the Hair Wars, Scotch Tape, to straighten my bangs and the goofy-looking lock of hair I wore in front of each ear. Unfortunately, I couldn’t always get the adhesive off my face in the morning so my blusher left pink rectangles on my cheeks.

In college, I tried almost everything to achieve the sleek, straight, Cher look although visions of a blistered scalp did make me stop short of ironing my hair.  Even with clips, plastic rollers, sponge rollers, toilet paper rolls, orange juice cans, Dippity Do and hair straightener, my hair only met my expectations about three weeks each fall, when the air pressure, temperature and humidity were at optimal levels. I can’t remember when or why I finally decided to let my hair make its own decisions but life has certainly been easier since then. 

When the boys were young, I didn’t expect to deal with hair issues.  Both David and John followed the family tradition, growing from bald babies into curly-haired toddlers.  David’s first haircut looked like something had been chewing on his head; but, after that, hair styles weren’t an issue with our boys – at least not until their grade school friends turned up with buzz cuts –butches without the butch wax.  Even though their barber, Roger, warned them they’d look like a pair of dirty tennis balls, the boys got buzzed and I felt like I was harboring two prison escapees.

I had forgotten that hair is a means of expression for both sexes in the teenage years.  I must have repressed my parents’ battles with my brother as he transitioned from an early Beatles style to something resembling a squirrel’s nest.  Looking back at pictures of family and friends, I see guys with thick hair who went pouffy and guys like Paul, with thin hair, who went long on the top, back and sides.  Despite my dad’s dire predictions, none of them, however, became deviants, social outcasts or Communists.  

Naturally, after grade school, David and John began experimenting with their hair and Paul and I started biting our tongues, with varying degrees of success.  They seemed to be engaged in a tonsorial Tag-Team match.  When David had a traditional cut, John cultivated a long, over-one-eye look ala Greta Garbo.  By the time John’s eye came back into view, David’s hair was a wavy, shoulder length, with a couple of little braids woven in.  After college, David looked for a barber before looking for a job while John had trouble looking for anything with his mop of eyelash-tickling curly hair. 


At David’s wedding reception, one of the guests, who remembered David’s long hair days, went up to John and offered his congratulations.  “My brother is the groom,” John said, pointing toward the bar.  “He’s right over there.”  A few minutes later when John was at the bar, the same guy came up and congratulated him again. John just returned his handshake and said, “Thanks.”

Currently my hair is happy, Paul’s hair is a little thin, David’s hair is businesslike during the week and more relaxed on the weekends and John’s hair is transitioning out of a year-long Biblical phase.   The jury is still out on Willem’s so-called hair which did indeed stand up in feathery little spikes when he was in the pool last week.  The future of his hair can only be left to the imagination.