Living [ ] Less

Before I knew how to teach, I stole most of my assignments from other people. Sometimes, they were great; sometimes they were just gimmicky but filled time effectively. One stolen exercise I used for a few years was this one on joining clauses (and how much difference a single word or punctuation mark can make). You start with these two sentences:

Her eyes were like angels. Her heart was cold.

Then you join them in as many ways as possible, from the banal to the radical.

Her eyes were like angels, but her heart was cold.
Though her eyes were like angels, her heart was cold.
When her eyes were like angels, her heart was cold.
Her eyes were like angels because her heart was cold.
Her eyes were like angels before her heart was cold.

Etcetera.

Here's a microscopic personal/emotional version of this assignment I've been working on in my head as I contemplate the ways in which I would like to pare down my life, myself, and my "output."

Living with less.
Living on less.
Living for less.
Living in less.
Living because of less.
Living on less.
Living despite less.
Living according to less.
Living as less.
Living wanting less.
Living towards less.
Living in the name of less.
Living after less.
Living opposite less.
Living unto less.

Etcetera.

The point is... well, of course you see the point. MY eyes are cold, even though--deeply buried as it may be--my heart is like angels. I need to spend some time bringing my feelings back into dialogue with the surface. Case in point: one of our dogs was visciously attacked over the weekend by an aggressive dog at our nephews' little league game (I'll skip over the whole ridiculous context of bringing a dog like that to a field full of 6-9 year-olds!!!). After only two innings, our day was completely re-routed: vet, stitches, antibiotics, the whole shebang... I was totally numb about it until two days later. Rub, our first dog, is my canine twin. He is me. And I was hardly paying attention to him until his eye was completely swollen shut and he shied away from a head-scratch like he was fearful I would hit him. My poor poor boy/self, how could I forsake you/me???

Yesterday, I did a bunch of spring planting and bed edging and weeding without wearing gloves, and I now have multiple stinging hand cuts and splinters that feel better than anything has felt in a while (yes, of course I was a cutter as an adolescent, though we didn't have a whole pathologizing complex for it then...). So what the sam hell am I saying? Writing is great, insight is important, and both of these are the best of all maidservants to living, but the physical aspects of living are ultimately more satisfying, even if I forget that continually.

Some confessions:
My fibroid is only as big as a tangerine.
I don't like Anna Karenina nearly as much as I like Levin or Dolly.
I ate olives for breakfast today.
I'm not going to post any more.

Thanks for everything, gals. Wishing you all good things in the world.

Love,
Jenna

Site Meters, Self-Hatred, and Other Compulsions

I experimented with a site meter for a month. It's gone now, I hated it. I never used one on my old blog, I never subscribe to feeds (also experimented with that once--for mimi smartypants, and then she was, I thought, a bit too smartypants in her comments on another blog I read, and so I'm going to ax that, too), and anyway I really use blogging to clear my head more than to find an audience. Why did I start monitoring? I think I became worried about the transition to not-blogging-about-infertility; infertile women are such a dedicated and verbal bunch. I just haven't been as lovely or as loved since switching over to SLWA from WTTD. I have no interest in "mommy-blogging," and I am just not politically clear-headed enough to blog about adoption. But I am in a great deal of anguish over my marriage, my mental endurance, and my life in general. So I am trying to SAY SOMETHING of SOME IMPORTANCE for SOME UNKNOWN REASON, but I'm just not resonating. Some possible explanations:

• Parenting sucks the intelligence and/or creativity right out of your head--even when you think you're saying something original, you're being multiply derivative.
• Living with a recovering addict is more embarrassing--and less sympathetic--than living with infertility, and so no one really knows what to say in the face of it.
• I'm weird. I pretty much already knew this, but I usually think I'm pretty good at projecting "not-weird, just worried." Bloggers, depite their collective cultural "weirdness" are actually pretty normalizing and clique-y. I never really "got" the Naked Ovary as an IF/adoption blogger, and I don't really fit into the category of "recovery/gratitute blogger" now. I ogle at a lot of craft blogs, but I have no aesthetic talents and thus nothing to contribute to that happy world.
• Waiting for something TO HAPPEN (i.e. parenthood) is inherently more exciting than dealing with WHAT HAS ALREADY HAPPENED (i.e. addiction, breach of trust), at least from a narrative perspective. I'm not trying to get pregnant, get sober, or get an adoption referral. I am merely living. Or trying to. And doing a pretty boring and banal job of it.

I think I'm getting ready to wrap this all up. I should go to yoga. I should deal with the monstrous estrogen grapefruit fibroid I apparently have now; I should re-kindle my love life, plan a professional renaissance, dig in the dirt. I feel a smidge of relief just saying that I'd like to stop blogging, and that's not nothing.

Stay tuned for penultimatopoeia. I'm just that close.

xoxo

III and IV, and some tidbits

I can't sleep. I'm worried about so many things, so many people, so much that hasn't happened yet. I have posts to write about Wolfgang's niece, 17, who recently tried to hurt herself and wound up in a hospital for several days (the good good girl of two well-intentioned, highly functioning, separated, and sad alcoholics); about why I'm actually scared of this pelvic u/s I have to have tomorrow and how parenting makes me really pissed that I'm just as vulnerable as everyone else; about how the aftermath of a partner's addictive acts are even harder than the events themselves; and about why the fuck am I blogging when what I need to do is stop thinking and sorting and ruminating and just live.

We Need To Talk, III and IV

III.

“God, Rub’s going again?!”
“Uchh, how’m I supposed to pick that up? It’s because of the new food.”
“What new food?”“The vet told me to switch—they’re too fat.”
“When? He always says that; you usually ignore it.”
“They had shots last week. It’s for their own good, really.”
“Do you want money for that? It’s usually a couple hundred bucks isn’t it?”
“I paid it. I got a new client. Fifty bucks an hour.”
“For what?”“Editing. Research. Shit like that. A marketing company on the North Shore.”
“Good for you. How’s Lizzie’s?”
“Fine.”
“Fine? Did you bring treats?”
“She’s always gone for work.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Here. They’re low-fat, so Rub might not want one. He’s protesting the diet. Umm, it’s good I guess. She’s kind of phobic about the dog hair, so I worry less about her clothes and stuff when she’s traveling.”
“Is it lonely? Keep your eye on that pit bull over there.”
“The South End is so busy. There are people everywhere, and her downstairs neighbors are loons. I do a lot of work at the Starbucks across the street.”
“That’s good.”
“How are you?”
“About the same. Tired. Depressed. Bored. I miss the boys. I miss you, Poops.”
“Mmmm.”
“Can you come home yet?”
“Can I?”
“I mean do you want to.”
“Yeah, sure I want to….”
“But?”
“I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do yet.”
“What do you mean ‘right’?”
“If I’d be setting myself up or not.”
“For what?”
“Another mess. C’mon, Sugar, no sticks! Get over here, boy. Come!”
“You say ‘another’ like there was something to begin with.”
“Why are you still debating this?”
“We don’t see it the same. Am I entitled to my opinion?”
“What do you see? Tell me that. How is it not a mess, in your opinion?”
“Okay, what do I see…we want a baby. You have no eggs. It’s sad, yes, but we still want to. So we went to Doctor Toth to take it in a new direction. We’re going to get some eggs, and have some babies. Nothing in the world that would make me happier.”
“That’s not the mess I’m talking about.”
“We’ve been over this.”
“You can’t even say it.”
“That I gambled like a sucker for a few months?”
“You mean like an addict? For over a year?”
“You’re wrong about my bank statement. Those charges have to do with the old debts, and I can prove it. I haven’t even looked at a card since April.”
“It’s part of a larger issue.”
“Come on. I haven’t had a drink in thirteen years. I can say no in my sleep. I’m just a person and I made a mistake.”
“A mistake.”
“Let me correct it. Let me take responsibility for myself, and stop assuming that your actions have anything to do with me gambling or not gambling. Live your life. Come home. Write. Walk the boys. Let me pay the bills and worry about the money. I want to take care of it. Please, Poops. Don’t do this to yourself.”
“‘Do this to myself’?”
“You can make a choice here.”
“Choice. That’s interesting. You spend the goddamned fucking egg money, and I’m left with nothing.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Nothing in my bank account. Nothing in my body. Zip”
“Poops.”
“How was that my choice?”
“I know.”
“It’s nothing anywhere near a goddamned choice! It wasn’t bad enough to be a fucking barren desert.”
“I know.”
“I was getting through it!”
“I know.”
“You spent my eggs! You made a choice. Not me.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been busy putting my feet into stirrups so people can ram cold metal instruments into my fucking empty womb.”
“I’ll make back the money. I just have to work more for a year or two. We’ve been over this. It’s all going to go according to plan. Why can’t you believe that?”
“It’s not the money.”
“We can still do it.”
“It’s the gesture. You saw how much I needed you, and you said, ‘hold on, a sec, I have a pair of Jacks.’ That means something to me. That you did that.”
“They’re two totally separate things in my mind.”
“I don’t understand that. How can you not see the connection? Here, give me the leashes.”
“Let’s take another loop.”
“I can’t. I have work to do. I have to get back to Lizzie’s.”
“Come back to the house.”
“No.”
“This is fucked.”
“No kidding.”
“We love each other, Poops; twelve years we’ve been taking care of each other. Now, when we need each other most, you’re choking on me.”
“I needed you most when you were signing up for PayPal at the Dennis Rodman Online Casino.”
“Jeez. Come on, Sugar.”
“Don’t pull and he won’t balk.”
“I think I know how to walk him.”
“Suit yourself.”
“You’re not being fair at all. You think because something bad happened to you that you’re permanently innocent.”
“Car.”
“I see it.”
“You think that because we all make mistakes, all mistakes are equal.”
“How long are you going to punish me? Give me a ballpark, at least.”
“Stop quantifying. How much extra money you can make, how much time I should be mad. It’s not about equal this and equal that.”
“What the hell is it about; can you tell me that?”
“Trust.”
“What about it?”
“You can’t make me trust you again. It’s not in your control.”
“How convenient for you.”
“It’s not even in my control.”
“Even better.”
“You need to live with the uncertainty.”
“What about you?”
“That’s what I’ve been doing.”
“I don’t believe you. You have some kind of plan racing around in there, and there’s something I’m supposed to do to make this better. You’re testing me.”
“Well, this is what I’m saying. You have to commit yourself to waiting to find out if that’s true or if that’s just your fear of what’s true.”
“And that will make you trust me?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Don’t sneer. I’m not being flip. I have no idea what’s going to happen. I have no plan—at least not consciously.”
“Meaning you might unconsciously have given up already.”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so.”
“The boys are beat, and I don’t want to stand here in the parking lot all day. Can we finish this later?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m unconsciously planning to move to Hawaii tomorrow. We’ll have to wait and see, I guess.”
“Sweetie.”
“You want these bags?”
“Wait.”
“The house is empty. I eat alone. I wake up crying. I’m certain I want you and the boys to come home.”
“I know.”
“That’s it? You know?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s not nothing. It’s keeping me from getting my own apartment and coming to get my books, so it’s not nothing.”
“Unfuckingbelievable.”
“I gotta go. Do you have my mail?”

IV.

“Come on in. The boys are on the patio. Want a ginger ale?”
“The realtor called. Yeah. That’d be great. Thanks.”
“What’d she say?”
“There’s a problem with the buyers. Their inspector doesn’t like the looks of the foundation—you know that spot at the back I was worried about, where the slope starts?”
“I guess.”
“Apparently there are some ‘construction irregularities.’”
“Shit.”
“They’re going to get a structural engineer to evaluate it before they sign off.”
“What do you think?”
“Hard to say. They may just be trying to get a deal.”
“What if we can’t sell it?”
“No. It’ll just reduce the selling price.”
“But that’s the whole point—the equity.”
“Keep your pants on, Poops. Nothing’s clear yet.”
“Here. Did you find a place?”
“Nah. Thanks. I’m just going to move into my dad’s for a while and see. You?”
“Yeah. Around the corner. One-bedroom study.”
“The one Lizzie’s friend used to live in? They take dogs?”
“Yeah. Under twenty-five pounds.”
“Good thing they’re on a diet.”
“No kidding. But that’s still fifty pounds total. What kind of sense does that make?”
“I wouldn’t bring it up. I’ll keep you updated about the house.”
“Thanks. Thanks for taking care of all this.”
“No problem, Poops. But…”
“What?”
“It’s too late to change your mind now; you know that, right, Poops?”
“Yeah, I know. I’m okay. Now that it’s in motion, I think I’m okay.”
“Just checking.”
“Thanks.”

***

“Any news?”
“About the foundation? No. The guy was like ice. A real prick. I wanted to shove that clipboard down his throat.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said he’d be in touch.”
“Did you ask what he thought?”
“Of course I did. Are the boys ready?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—. They’re eating. Then they’ll be ready. Here’s their stuff. There’s a measuring cup. Just one third of a cup twice a day. That’s it.”
“What about cookies?”
“Just the tiniest little crumbs. The ones in here break up easy.”
“Jesus. The poor fellas. What’d they ever do to deserve such terrible treatment?”
“That’s what’s so sad. They’re paying for our mistakes. Unfortunately, there’s no other way to fix the situation. Believe me, it hurts me more than it hurts them.”
“Did you hear that horseshit, bubbas? We’re eating nothing but steak and cheese this weekend. Pop’s back in charge.”
“Don’t you dare. It took them a month to lose that pound and a half.”
“Blow it out your ear, shorty. We have our rights.”
“Don’t make me get a restraining order.”
“Tell that to the SPCA when I turn you in.”
“All right, already. They can have one piece of cheese per day. No more.”
“Success!”
“Come gimme kisses, bubbas. You be good boys.”

***

“Hello?”
“Hey.”
“New cell phone number?”
“Yeah. You shouldn’t be paying for me anymore.”
“That’s no big deal, Poops. I don’t mind.”
“I know, but I do. Anyway, I’m not going to get a home phone at the new place, so hang on to this.”
“I got the fax from the engineer. I was going to drop it by later.”
“I’ll be out. Can you slip it in Lizzie’s mailbox?”
“No problem. It’s pretty good news actually.”
“Really?”
“The irregularities are consistent with other houses in the neighborhood—like Joan’s and the Martins’, the ones built around the same time. It’s not a problem, he says, just a kind of signature for the contractor who built ‘em all. Luckily, the guy had done some evaluations in the area before.”
“That’s a relief.”
“They’re signing the purchase and sale today. The closing’s January 28th.”
“I guess that’s it, then.”
“Yup.”
“Will we get two checks or one?”
“Two. Forty-three each.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Not bad for three years.”
“Are there enough book boxes for me?”
“Nowhere near. I’ll go down to the Liquor Locker today and see what they have.”
“Is Gentle Giant available? Did you call?”
“No, I had to call the other one. They’re booked solid.”
“Death Wish?”
“They only do pianos.”
“I know, but I’ve always wanted to hire them; maybe they’d make an exception for us.”
“Right.”
“Too bad we never cut those trees down.”
“Eh. They’ll want their privacy.”
“Probably.”
“At least there’s no yard work in the South End.”
“Who has time? Driving around looking for parking all day.”
“We need to make reservations at Animal House for the move.”
“I’ll do it. Did you call the utilities?”
“Yup. Everything’ll be off on the 30th. So what’s up?”
“What do you mean?”
“You called me.”
“I just wanted to give you my new number.”
“Oh.”
“But, now that I think of it, Lizzie’s got Celtics tickets this weekend. You wanna come?”
“I have to fly to Pittsburgh to set up some work for next month.”
“Oh. Okay. Call me when you get back?”
“Sure.”
“Maybe we can start cleaning out the basement.”
“Whatever you think, Poops.”
“And the boys would die to run around in the yard for a while.”
“I bet they would.”
“Sweetie?”
“Yeah, Poops?”
“I’m having a bad time this week.”
“You sound a little off.”
“Can I come over later?”
“Sure. You wanna bring the boys?”
“Would you mind if I didn’t?”
“Not at all. Do you want to get a bite?”
“Let’s see.”
“Okay. I’ll be home by the usual time.”
“Don’t rush. I can let myself in.”

***

“Nice haircut, Poops.”
“Thanks. It was spur-of-the-moment. Is it too short?”
“I always prefer it shorter. I don’t know why more women don’t get all of that hair out of their faces. Want a seltzer? There’s still some in the pantry.”
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
“Hungry?”
“Eh. You?”
“I could eat.”
“It’s weird being here without the boys.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I miss it.”
“The house?”
“Everything. Our life before—“
“Before I fucked it all up?”
“Before it got so complicated.”
“It was always complicated, Poops.”
“How come I didn’t notice until recently, then?”
“Because you were happy.”
“That’s kind of a chicken-and-egg thing, isn’t it?”
“Your Honor, please let the record reflect that it was the witness here who used the word ‘egg’, thus opening the door for a new line of questioning.”
“Relax. I’m not going to get into that right now.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Hmmm.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m trying to figure out whether breaking up or staying together is the longer road to getting happy again.”
“I thought I was supposed to be the quantifier.”
“I know. But I don’t trust my judgment anymore.”
“Then what are you doing in the South End, Poops?”
“I thought I was trying to think. But I think I’m really trying not to.”
“What can I do? How can I help you?”
“This is good, Sweetie. Letting me jerk you around indefinitely while I pretend I’m making progress.”
“I’ve been doing that for years.”
“Ha ha ha.”
“Let’s get some food.”
“Okay. How’s that new place on Birch?”
“Horrible. But you might like it. Let me call and make sure they’re open Mondays.”

***

“Which airline is it?”
“United. Terminal C.”
“Remind me to take my Swiss Army knife off my key chain.”
“Take your Swiss Army knife off your key chain.”
“Remind me to cut your liver out with it.”
“They won’t serve any food at this hour.”
“Like it’s really food.”
“There’s that trail mix guy right after the security gate. You should get some just in case.”
“Do you have any cash on you?”
“Yeah. You need a few bucks?”
“I meant to make a deposit before you picked me up. Can I leave you some checks and a deposit slip?”
“Sure.”
“You have to pick the boys up by five o’clock. They lock the doors and you pay for another night otherwise.”
“I wouldn’t leave them an extra minute in that prison.”
“It’s pretty nice actually. They’re just very strict.”
“Whatever. They need to sleep in their own bed.”
“Don’t forget to water my plants. Ooh, pull up there. I can check-in curbside.”
“Give your mom a kiss for me.”
“I will.”
“And keep your eye out for the freeloading homeless guy.”
“She moved to Baton Rouge.”
“Good riddance.”
“That’s what I said. Pop the back?”

***

“Hi, Poops.”
“Hi, Sweetie.”
“How’s your mom?”
“Good. How’s my new place treating you?”
“It’d be better if you were here.”
“You mean it would be cleaner and you wouldn’t be so hungry.”
“Everything but the kitchen’s unpacked now, and I put your new shelves together.”
“Thanks. I labeled the kitchen boxes pretty good, so you should be able to find a plate and can opener pretty easily.”
“Thanks. I’m just going to get a sub. Not a bad size kitchen for an apartment.”
“Yeah. It’ll work.”
“I wish you were here.”
“Me, too.”
“The boys are snoooo-ZING.”
“Good. I’m getting sleepy, too.”
“Touch base in the morning?”
“Yeah.”
“Sleep tight, Poops.”

“Hey, Sweetie?”
“Yeah, Poops?”
“I forgot to tell you.”
“Huh.”
“The doctor’s office called before I left.”
“They did?”
“We finally got approved by the insurance company.”
“For the egg thing?”
“For the egg thing.”
“Hmmm.”
“Yeah.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“When I get back, yeah. We need to talk.”
“You got it, Poops.”

Now a Word from Our Sponsor

Just to clarify, this "fiction" piece I'm working on is based on old events (3-4 years old, as a matter of fact). I am an obsessive processer/or. I can't even begin to formulate things creatively until I've sat on them for a while, so I'd never write up stuff like this in "real time"--the terrible lack of narrative detail in my usual posts is evidence of that. The two people in the dialogue are indeed me and Wolfgang, and the conversations are emotionally and rhetorically true, but what I'm trying to get at here is the way a relationship lives in the subtext and the context, and how often what's not said is as important as what is.

Read Mary Robison's novels (Oh! or If I Ever or Subtraction are all great examples) for a much better version of what I'm trying to do.

We're doing alright at the moment. Wolfgang is getting lots of carpentry work and sticking with relapse prevention counseling. I am doing a lot of fun mumma/son bonding, and my perfectest sister (Nate's bio-mom) has just moved in with us to save money for a move to San Fran. We are a weird but cutish bunch, and believe it or not, we are a more "functional family" than any of us came from; life could be worse! Other fun facts: I hate imitation crabmeat, Matt Lauer, and organized religion pretty equally. I just started reading Anna Karenina for the FIRST TIME! I miss my father-in-law a lot. And, oh yeah, I apparently have an "enlarged uterus," so it's going to be old-home week for me and radiology soon... how I've missed those vaginal ultrasounds!

See? You don't really want the real-time details, do you?

Next up "We Need To Talk," Parts III and IV. Any of you reader gals have thought about a novel with no narrative? Can it be done? Should it be? Am I deluding myself?

We Need To Talk, Part II

II.

“Hey, it’s me. Got in a little while ago. It’s eleven o’clock. I’ve tried you now, like, ten times at home and on your cell, which seems, as usual, to be off or dead. I’ll be up for another hour or so. Call me back.”

***

“Hey.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“At my grandmother’s, just like I told you I would be.”
“You didn’t tell me that. ‘Til eleven-thirty?”
“I did tell you.”
“Why so late?”
“You were playing Reversi on your phone and not listening to a word I said while you were waiting for your cab this morning.”
“Did you just get in?”
“Yep.”
“Since when is the old battleaxe such a night owl?”
“She’s always been a night owl. Just like you’ve always been the center of the universe. She wanted me to watch some rabid pro-Bush thing on Fox before I left, and it ran late.”
“Did you have corned beef and fart soup for dinner?”
“You’re so unbelievably not funny it’s not even funny.”
“Can you do me a few favors at my office while I’m gone?”
“Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
“Sure. I just need you to overnight a couple of things and deposit some checks, and—“
“Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Why does something have to be the matter?”
“C’mon. I thought we patched that stuff up.”
“What stuff?”
“About the advance check.”
“Sweetie, please let’s go to bed and talk in the morning. You know my grandmother makes me cranky.”
“That’s because you don’t tell her to go fuck herself when she tells you you have to watch the O’Reilley Factor.”
“It wasn’t the O’Reilley Factor. It was some blond bimbo who reminds her of me. Jesus.”
“What’s wrong, Poops?”
“Did you leave a check for the plumber? They’re coming first thing in the morning.”
“Shit.”
“I can cover it.”
“I know, but I promised. I’m sorry, Poops. I’ll pay you back.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Do you want me to overnight you some money?”
“No. My check came today. I have plenty.”
“Good for you.”
“Good for me.”
“Poops?”
“Yeah?”
“Say something nice to me.”
“I need to take the boys out.”
“Why do you hate me so much?”
“Here we go.”
“It’s so obvious from your tone. It’s like you can’t even stand to talk to me anymore.”
“Talk to you?”
“You know, how we used to always joke around and shoot the shit.”
“We never shot the shit, and honestly I’m tired of joking when everything sucks.”
“That’s mean.”
“No, it’s true. Everything else is mean.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Having to pretend that everything just bounces right back into shape after it all just exploded in our faces.”
“That’s a little dramatic.”
“So is five years of infertility.”
“We’re working on that.”
“So is lying to my face.”
“That’s in the past.”
“So is thirty-thousand dollars.”
“Okay, we’re going to go down this road at midnight?”
“You pushed it. You always do this. You needle me and try to bully me into cooing at you before we get off the phone so you can sleep. Meanwhile, I chew my cuticles and run through all of the sordid details another six thousand times.”
“That is not my fault. Your ruminating is not my fault.”
“Whatever.”
“And I don’t always do anything. Don’t exaggerate. Sure, I want to have a pleasant exchange when I’m on the road and I miss you and I know you’re unhappy. It’s hard enough being away and having to work so much and knowing things aren’t perfect right now. I don’t need the additional worry of having a meaningless fight on the phone at midnight when there’s nothing either of us can do about anything at the moment.”
“Expressing feelings isn’t nothing. God.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“Bye.”

***

“Hi, Sweetie. It’s me. Sorry for last night. Call me when you get a break. The plumber fixed the clog and the leak. It was only a hundred and forty bucks. We ran into Ernie and Tootsie in the park this morning—the boys had a blast. We miss you. Bye.”

***

“Hey, it’s me—are you watching television?”
“Why?”
“There’s a thing on HBO about women athletes and endurance competitions—how they’re starting to outpace men. Like that book you read. Unfortunately, Mary Carillo’s the host, but it looks pretty interesting.”
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll watch it then. I’m actually going to review that book for the Review.”
“Alright. I just wanted to tell you that. Talk to you later.”
“Thanks, Sweetie.”

“Hello?”
“It’s me again. One more thing. Since the HBO special will be on again on Thursday. I just realized Prime Suspect V is on tonight—the first of three parts.”
“Rats.”
“You want me to remind you Thursday?”
“Yeah. I totally forgot about Prime Suspect. I don’t want to miss that.”

“Hey.”
“Hey, what’d you think?”
“It’s a good one.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe the best.”
“Do you remember where we saw the first one?”
“No.”
“Guess.”
“Chauncy Street?”
“Nope.”
“Aruba?”
“Nope.”
“I give up.”
“Just think.”
“I don’t remember these things. Your father’s?”
“Nope… it was that little shithole in Troy, the day before Bee and A.J.’s wedding.”
“Well that explains it.”
“If I remember correctly, you got ‘wicked wicked wicked drunk, Sweetie’ at their reception.”
“I was sitting with the English couple.”
“Nice try, drunkard.”
“There were no water glasses on the table, and Giles just kept refilling my wine before I finished—I couldn’t keep track.”
“Tell yourself whatever you need to.”
“That was horrible.”
“You should be humiliated.”
“Alright. Move on.”
“We ordered cheeseburgers from room service and watched old Janie Tennyson kick some pedophile’s ass.”
“How do you remember these things?”
“Then we got four bags of M&M’s from the vending machine.”
“You really ought to re-focus your energies, Sweetie, that was seven years ago.”
“It’s tragic for you, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say.”
“That I can be so stunningly good-looking and have such a steel trap for a mind?”
“And such humility.”
“We all have faults. And a lot of good humility does you.”
“Tell me about it. We’re going on twelve years. My youth is on the last train to Clarksville and I’m talking about seven-year-old cheeseburgers.”
“Luckily, I’m usually around, so no one’s paying attention to you or your youth.”
“Mmmm, luckily. You’d better get your beauty rest then.”
“Night, Poops.”
“Night, Sweetie.”

“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Night.”
“Night.”

“Yes?”
“One of the Plain M&M packets had peanut M&M’s in it.”
“Good job, Poops. Homerun for the midget from Massachusetts!”
“I’d like to thank my Lord and savior, Mephistopheles.”
“Sleep tight.”
“You too.”

***

“It’s me.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. I’m just bored out of my mind.”
“Did you pack yet?”
“Three hours ago. Laid out my clothes, shaved, ordered my wake-up call.”
“Better early than always.”
“Huh?”
“Better early than always.”
“Okay. I’d give that a C-plus. Better reckless than smug.”
“Eh. B-minus. Here’s a good one: the angels are in the obvious.”
“I’m on the crooked and wide.”
“The silent wheel is left in peace.”
“Count your chickens after they…”
“Die?”
“That’s terrible. How about: fast and erratic loses weight?”
“Weight as the opposite of race? Unh-uh. C-minus.”
“A stitch in time…”
“…is still better than a hole in the crotch?”
“Okay. Let’s quit while we’re ahead.”
“You mean join while we’re behind?”
“Not bad.”
“Hey, you gotta see this.”
“Which?”
“Basketball highlights. Turn to ESPN.”
“I can’t. They’re about to do the final reveal on Extreme Makeover.”
“Incredible play.”
“You should have seen this woman’s teeth.”
“Of course, here come the theatrics.”
“They completely remade her mouth from scratch.”
“Oh, c’mon, he’s fine. The big baby...”
“Wow. You wouldn’t even recognize her.”
“Why are multimillion-dollar athletes more fragile and injury-prone than chain-smoking bums like me?”
“Why does everyone insist on those severe-looking Pam Anderson implants?”
“They spend the whole year training just to get injured in the tenth game of the season.”
“What’s wrong with a tasteful B-cup?”
“You don’t have a B-cup.”
“Mine are real!”
“That’s not Pam Anderson’s fault.”
“What do I have?”
“Where?”
“Name one size I wear for anything.”
“Jesus, what a play! You should see this, Poops…”
“Am I picking you up tomorrow or are you going to the office?”
“Umm, office. I gotta call my dad. Talk to you in the morning?”
“Okey-doke.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”

“Hey, Poops.”
“Yeah?”
“Put your only egg in every basket.”
“Better to say nothing and be thought an idiot than to speak and remove all doubt.”
“That wasn’t opposite.”

***

“Hi.”
“Hey, where are you?”
“Newark.”
“When’s your connection?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Oh.”
“Next one’s in an hour and a half. What are you doing?”
“Looking at your bank statement.”
“What?”
“You’re still doing it.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not an idiot, Sweetie. Depressed and bitchy, but stupid—no.”
“What you are is out of line. Way out. And given that you continue to invade my privacy without permission, I have no obligation to explain anything.”
“There’s nothing to explain.”
“You’re unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.”
“Remember when I said next time I’m getting your parents involved?”
“My parents have nothing to do with this. We’re not kids.”
“You’re only as sick as your secrets.”
“Don’t give me that Al-Anon bullshit. We’re a team. You’re supposed to be my ally, not my fucking prosecutor. And I haven’t done anything. I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation.”
“Me neither.”
“What is it you think you’ve seen?”
“Citibank called this morning to inquire about a large transaction made on your account. So I opened your bank statement, and there are two payments to PayPal on it, as well as several other suspicious deposits and withdrawals.”
“Ooh…You’ve practically got me on video.”
“I’m going to Lizzie’s for a few days.”
“Why?”
“I’m too angry to see you right now.”
“You’re losing your mind.”
“My point exactly.”
“You’re getting paranoid and irrational and it’s going to ruin us, Poops. You don’t understand how poisonous this is, what you’re doing.”
“That’s a good one. You blow the entire home equity loan and max out all of my credit cards, you cry and beg me for forgiveness for weeks and promise me the world, and now you bring us right back to square one. How is this my fault?
“You’re wrong. One hundred percent wrong and you’re not even going to give me a chance to explain. That’s really nice. What a great relationship this is.”
“Every chance I give you brings us one step closer to complete disaster. It was a great relationship until you fucked it all up.”
“Twelve years, and you can’t give me an inch.”
“An inch?! You think this is about a fucking inch?! God you’re deluded.”
“You’re so unbelievably arrogant. You have no idea what you’re talking about, and you act like you’re never done anything wrong in your life. Take that to your shrink. Why is it that you’re always right and I’m always apologizing, huh?”
“In this case, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Neither have I.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“I’m going to Lizzie’s.”
“What about the dogs?”
“Obviously they have to come with me. Aren’t you going back out next week?”
“Next week? You said a few days.”
“We’ll see.”
“I want to see the boys before I go back out.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Okay.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”