Remembering 9-11

On September 12, 2001 I was driving to work in a daze, having been up most of the night haunted and worried about my husband's cousin, and thousands of other lost people at the site of the fallen Twin Towers. On a bridge across the eastbound Long Island Expressway, somewhere near East Moriches, there was a banner made from a ripped white bed sheet. On it was written "Pray for Us" in black spray paint. The sky gray and my windshield speckled with rain, the makeshift banner looked like an abandoned movie prop from a horror film. That scene is etched in my mind forever.

Ironically, the morning before, I was teaching high school English, in the middle of a creative writing exercise that placed my students in a hypothetical emergency situation involving an act of terror when a girl in the center of the room raised her hand and quietly asked if I knew that a plane had just hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. I remember running down the hall shortly after that, meeting some of my colleagues in an empty classroom where they had turned on a television. We ate lunch staring at the screen in disbelief. The South Tower fell just before the bell rang. I pushed my lesson plans and my entire lunch into the garbage pail adjacent to the desk where I was seated, watching in silent horror. What followed were three periods of emotional paralysis as I wondered which one of my loved ones or friends might have perished in front of my eyes as I sat eating a salami sandwich.

The call came when I got home. It was my mother-in-law phoning from several states away. My husband’s first cousin, John Scharf, was missing. John, a 29 year-old electrical engineer for Ohio based Leibert Technology, wasn’t supposed to be in the South Tower of the World Trade Center on September 11th. He was there the day before for the first time ever, on a service call at Aon Corporation located on the 105th floor. John was missing a part for the job on Monday, so he came back on the morning of the 11th to finish his work.

This was the cousin who my husband viewed as a brother, who shared the same first name with him and was the same age, the one who had looked out for him when they went to grade school together. When they were both teens, John was the one who took my husband, then 16 years-old, under his wing after he lost his dad to cancer.

“This is bad. I can’t tell him,” I said, but I had to. “He cannot hear this over the phone,” my mother-in-law insisted.

As I waited for my husband to arrive home from work I couldn’t help thinking of some of the stories he had told me about growing up with John.

“We had so much fun together,” he once said. “In school, John had the market on junior high school blow-pop sales. Even when fellow students tried to compete with John, he found the larger blow-pops and was able to maintain his customer base. In eighth grade, we hid in my family's camper until my Mom went to work. We soon realized that there wasn't much to do staying home from school in the middle of the week. So we walked the four miles to the junior high.”

The good-natured teasing between cousins didn’t end in adulthood. My husband once recalled how he and John competed for years, playing one on one basketball.

“I was small, quick, and thin (with a good outside shot). John was tall and strong (with two left feet). That is how I remember it, anyway,” he’d laugh.

An hour or so after I hung up the phone, I met my husband in the middle of our backyard, which is adjacent to an old cemetery in the Village of Patchogue. He had gone straight from the driveway to the shed to get the American flag. He was clutching it in his hands when I told him. Fighter jets were flying over our house from the east.

I was not prepared for my husband’s collapse at my feet, nor was I ready with any words of comfort as I watched him break down right there on the grass. I heard the jets flying past, but I was too numb to look up. Instead I was squinting through tears toward the back of the property, half expecting to see people emerging from the crypts beyond the fence line. It felt like the world was ending.

And while I have avoided images of 9-11 for the last 10 years, this past Sunday my husband, along with 17 members of his family found himself moving toward that horrific event, on a train bound for Manhattan and the 10th Anniversary Memorial Service. My husband shared his feelings about the Ground Zero memorial.

“It was a solemn ceremony that provided families, for the first time, with a tangible place to feel connected with their loved ones, which led to a general feeling of serenity throughout the memorial park. For me, the sadness wasn’t diminished in any way. Seeing John’s fiancee and daughter side-by-side peering into the memorial pool was painful. I was thinking of what should have been and never was,” he said.

When I met John Scharf, in 1997, I was immediately introduced to his playful sense of humor. Appreciating his quick wit, I liked him right away. He was playing basketball in the driveway of his parents’ house in Manorville. My husband- then boyfriend- was shooting hoops with him when he introduced me to John saying- “This is my fiancée.” His cousin smirked, and whispered in his ear - "Get married? You sure you want to do that?" Then, without missing a beat, he turned to me and said, “Oh, hello. Nice to meet you.” We shook hands laughing.

Although I didn’t share that bond my husband had with John, I saw in him some of the same, perhaps, genetic qualities that I love most about my spouse. He was tough on one hand, being a decorated Marine, but John also had a gentle personality and a million stories about growing up with four siblings that he was always ready to share. He was the guy at the barbecue playing with all of the kids in the backyard. It was obvious that he valued his family and friends above all things.

I have little snippets of memories of who John was. I remember a dinner table debate in 2000 over which baseball team was better- Mets or Yankees. After a long historical comparison of the two teams, John argued that it was a matter of family loyalty. Grandma and Grandpa Christie were Met fans, and so everyone in the family needed to carry on that tradition. John’s speech, however convincing, did not get his cousin to convert.

It was very difficult to witness the Scharf family’s pain after the attack. John had left his life in medias res, with his parent’s house half shingled, (he was helping replace the roof) and wrapped Christmas presents stowed away in his apartment for his little daughter. At his parent’s house, the basketball net still stood in the driveway. I watched John’s sister and fiancée leave the living room repeatedly to call his cell phone number which went to voice mail. I sat quietly next to them on the sofa as heart-crushing images of celebrating terrorists flashed across the television. And the whole time I was awestruck by the strength of this family.

To the victims' families, or those who lost their shoes running away from the collapsed towers, for those who witnessed the carnage and walked across the Brooklyn bridge that terrible day covered in dust, ten years is the blink of an eye. Bravely, we all move forward, without closure, in an altered society, until sometime in the future when the last generation of Americans who were wounded in some way by this horrific event is finally gone. Rather than seeking to “close” what happened on 9-11, many can’t help but stand firmly in the memory of it. They wiped the emotional dust off themselves as best they could and kept walking. After all, that’s what our forefathers would have done and that spirit of survival is what makes our nation great.

Pictures:

first one is John Scharf, the rest are from the memorial at Ground Zero. His daughter, now a teenager, is pictured with Hillary Clinton. Last picture is my husband, in bottom right corner (kneeling), with his family.

This post is reprinted in the September 15th issues of Suffolk County News and Islip Bulletin. Download a copy of the Point of View here.

Remote Control Wars

Milk Man is home from work for the holidays and that means a whole week of Redbox movies. Should I be excited? Yes. Am I? No. Here's why:

Guess who picks out the movies?

Last night I had to endure Body of Lies. Do I like Leo DiCaprio? Yes. Do I like watching him get his fingers smashed with a hammer by terrorists?

Picture me not finding that entertaining. After about five minutes of hearing him scream and covering my eyes, I shout:

"Change it!"

"No, it's just getting good." says my husband.

"Shut it off!" I yell, pulling my head into the case on my pillow.

"NO!" he insists.

So I reach for the remote, but he grabs it too and we wrestle.

God made him stronger, but He made me sly as a fox. Milk Man wins the remote. So, I throw my hands up in air dramatically and march out of the room exclaiming,

"That's enough for me. This is torture. I can't look anymore. How can you enjoy watching this?!"

I retreat to the restroom to find the tissues so I can wipe my tears over poor Leo's fingers. Milk Man is laughing at me. Then I turn mad and he turns surprised.

"It's just a movie." He says, exasperated.

"How can those bad men smash someone so cool?" I slobber the thought all over a tissue.

Milk Man frowns and switches on NBC.

As I sink back down onto my pillow with my tissue box I hear:

"The hills are alive with the sound of music!"

"Ah, a nice movie," I say smiling. (I win!)

Milk Man cringes and mumbles something.

Not even ten minutes pass and he starts rubbing his forehead in frustration. He looks up at the ceiling, over at the door, frowning and whining like a sick dog.

At the scene in the gazebo where Maria and Captain von Trapp declare their love in song, Milk Man jumps up and runs out of the room.

"I can't take this movie anymore. It's torture!" He says.

And I'm left there to wonder:

How did this husband of mine ever graduate from boot camp?

The Way to a Man's Heart is Through a Flat Screen?!

The last minute spontaneous Christmas gift for Milk Man is a small flat screen for our bedroom. Although we've had the same television in the den for the past ten years, a great big technological dinosaur box, it is still being assaulted by crayons and finger smudges. Therefore, it will be several more years before Milk Man gets his dream come true, a den that is transformed into a mini-theatre with the biggest flat screen you've ever seen.

I've asked myself so many times the same question, and I just can not figure out the answer. What exactly is the magical fascination with a flat screen television? Do men have some kind of flat screen television sensitivity in their brains? Does it click off a happy hormone? It's a TV. You're staring at plastic and glass. ??? I say this to the salesman in Best Buy as I look at a 19" flat screen with a built-in DVD player, on sale.

"The picture is pristine, it's sleek and excellent quality for the price." He says, spontaneously sharing that his love for flat screens inspired him to take a seasonal job with Best Buy.

I shrug. "So, what. I'm all that too. It's a freaking television." I say.

The salesman laughs. He's probably younger than I, a reality I'm not sure I totally accept as I approach yet another 29th birthday.

"Um, maybe, but this baby comes with a remote control, and YOU sure don't." He says, and still makes a sale, because despite his "joke" I've already made up my mind.

I still don't understand what's so magical about a flat screen TV, but I buy one anyway for Milk Man, because he's brought home the milk diligently all year, and is an excellent 1930's husband according to an Internet poll. You should see him open it. He's pumping his fists. Then he scurries upstairs with the box, and a bunch of screwdrivers. (The tools, not the drink.) The television is installed in about three seconds, and he's all sprawled out with the remote control in hand, with a big grin on his face, channel surfing. "I'll be watching television all the time up here now." He announces to no one in particular. He might be talking to the remote.

Baby Bigfoot talks to his toy remote. It has eyeballs that blink and it laughs like cookie monster if you press the right button. Like father, like son.

----Here I am removing the "adult-proof" packaging from toys with a hatchet and a Radial Arm Saw. (Not really, I'm just cynical.)

Wedding Gift From Santa

(This post is for Marty Meehan. Thank you.)

1999. That was the year I wedged Santa Claus in between a gray military blanket and a stack of college textbooks marked "USED" on the top shelf of the living room closet in the first house we rented as newlyweds. It was December 26th, my husband's birthday, and he was working odd jobs after leaving a deplorable teaching position in Bedford Stuyvesant, NY. His salary was being held because of bureaucratic red tape. He could no longer wait to be paid and afford the commute. It was a dismal place to work, an overcrowded middle school where he taught English and gym on the fly in addition to social studies, (the area of his certification). He had no paper, no chalk and no experience. His scenic walk to the school from the train station included rotting dead cats in a gutter. (The idea that children have to live, and try to be educated, in such an environment is another story altogether.)

I wasn't really surprised when he came home from work one evening and told me he had quit. I was at the stove stirring noodles, and not at all shocked, but crying, nevertheless. Our rent was $800 a month back then, and I made $700 every two weeks working in a parochial school. We had student loans, combined single-life debt, utilities, you-name-it. It was beyond tight, and I was not used to sharing.

I took down my Christmas decorations the morning after the holiday, irritated by being financially pinched for the first time in my lucky little life. I got right into this paper mache Santa's face, whispering some expletives into his glue-encrusted ear plus: "There's no Santa, after all."

I could not believe it. ME, someone who LOVED CHRISTMAS, was suddenly "Scrooged" by a bad case of fear. I didn't know how long we could survive on my salary, and whatever temporary situation my husband got until a teaching position came along. He was working as an individual aid for a disabled boy in a local school district; he had no health insurance. He had to go to clinics for Veterans to receive prescriptions. Creditors were already starting to call us, since it was pretty inevitable that some of them had to wait to be paid.

Regardless of my faithless declaration, Santa's smug grin remained beneath the layers of blanket and books. I pulled his head out by the hat to check, twice, then push him into the pile until he was no longer visible. This falling out between Santa and I was not something I mentioned to anyone, but I hoped God saw it, because I was mad.

I'm what you might call an early bird. I did things on time before I had kids. I am dependable. The day my husband left his job was the first time I ever burned pasta. "How could you just quit like that?" You're married now!?" I said, exasperated by his fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants personality, a quality that, ironically, I used to think was so cool. Then the water boiled over.

Although I talked fresh to Santa, I still had hope that God would help us through those rocky first months of marriage. I bet God knew that if I really was done with Saint Nicholas, he would have ended up in the trash can. In the closet, beneath the pile of stuff, Santa kept smiling, but I didn't have to look.

One day before the new year, the closet shelf collapsed and the phone rang while I was cleaning up the mess. When my husband hung up, he had a full teaching position with health benefits, thanks to a wonderful friend. I was standing there with the blanket in one hand, and my rejected Saint Nick in the other. I looked down at the paper Santa, shocked by the generous belated Christmas gift. In light of this surprise blessing, he was placed in a spot of honor until Easter 2000.

Looking back to that Christmas now, I'm amazed by how blessed we are. Despite the current grim national economic situation, we own a home and can save each month for the first time ever. Every Christmas when I put that Saint Nicholas on the table, I think of the day I told him off, and secretly thank God for not giving up on us.

Always Kiss Me Goodnight

"That's amazing,... historical, even." I say, leaning into him as he points to the framed document. It's not really, but I'll tell you what is: the fact that I can't remember ever wanting to be kissed so badly. I'm twenty years old, not at all sure what romantic love is supposed to look like, and I've momentarily forgotten that I'm too busy for it.

Sleeping late, leisure time, Chicken In a Biscuit crackers: His appreciation for the small things in life is refreshing. His relief in being free after a four-year sacrifice to the U.S. Navy compels him to frame his discharge form. I'm like a real-life siren, one of the first women he dates after stepping off the plane that brought him home from Pearl Harbor. I'm not trying to start anything. (That's love for you, Dude, you should have kept your eyes closed.)

I step closer, surprised that a person with a deviated septum who can not sense a gas leak can suddenly smell peppermint and soap. The clock is ticking, but in that moment I forget the time. I kiss him first, and no one believes him for the next thirteen years, because I deny it. I play hard to get. I am strong and smart. I have plans; don't change them.

My heart doesn't tell my brain it's planning to make me do that. I step back, embarrassed, apologizing. He's savoring my discomfort, grinning from ear to ear, saying, "You know, I NEVER kiss on the first date." Now I want to slide under his 20 year old shag rug and disappear.

It's more goofy than romantic, but in the embrace I sense this connection is bigger than I expected, one that is worth the chance of taking this person by the hand for life, and possibly getting hurt. This initial glimpse of faith, hope and unexplainable love that glues us as we change and move through life arrives too early to mention aloud. It starts with that first risk, a kiss.





Hanging in our house is a plaque engraved with the words: "Always Kiss Me Goodnight." Even in the midst of tension or stress, it reminds me of that spot by the wall where our journey started, and the blessing of risks.

Can You Hear Me Now?

The Chinese word for "listen," ting, is a combination of four other words: erdr (ear), tulau (mind), yenjin (eye), and shem (heart). I'm not sure how "ting" encompasses all those other words, but it may explain the dubbing problem that exists in Kung Fu movies. Nevertheless, it's a very thorough explanation of what it means to listen, I mean really listen to someone. I'm not talking about the "Uh-huh, uh-huh," listening while you're answering email at the same time, or the "Wow, that's great" listening, (while you have not a clue what the person just said because you were focused on the television). I'm talking about hearing, processing and responding, appropriately, to what someone is saying while making eye contact. This is important in relationships, especially for married couples who'd like to stay that way.

My husband considers himself to be an expert listener, and after today, I have to agree. The best part about his "supreme" listening skills is that not only does he hear me, he acts on what I say. His constant effort to be a better husband is what makes our marriage a keeper, for me. He respects me, and wants to figure me out. I'm not sure how this happened, but I like it. Unfortunately for him, I am an unsolvable puzzle, or I like to think I am.

Case in point, 'tis the season for the question: What do you want for Christmas? My answer this year is a shocker. "Go to Barnes & Noble and look for a book called Porn for Women. Grab yourself a coffee and read it. I don't want the book, just what's in it." Milk Man just stands there with this dumb grin on his face. "Wait, what? Am I asleep right now? You're sending me to a book store to read porn so I can find out what you want for Christmas?" I shake my head, yes. "I don't want the book; I want you to do what's in the book." He is celebrating prematurely, and I tell him to calm down. "I think I just might be the luckiest guy on Earth," he exclaims, heading out the door to start his kinky Christmas quest. I'm shaking my head because I'm in love with a doofus. The book is NOT a man's idea of porn. Women with brains hate that garbage that degrades and enslaves us. In this book men are cleaning the house, watching the kids, and LISTENING to their women, intently. Now, THAT'S REAL PORN. There is nothing a woman likes more than to know her guy listens and cares in the small ways.

I wish so badly that I could be a fly on the wall when he picks up this book. I'd give up a whole season of The Amazing Race to see his reaction. I imagine his jaw dropping when he finds out he has to clean the toilet and watch the kids for a whole day! I stand there imagining the scene until the baby is sitting on top of the kitchen table drinking out of all the breakfast glasses.


I'm sitting in the front porch when he comes home, trying to act like I'm reading. He puts his coat down and hands me a white envelope. "I was driving and thinking about the book you told me to read. I never got to Barnes & Noble, but I know you well enough to understand." Inside the envelope is a gift certificate to a specialty shop on Main Street. "I know you need underwear because you've lost a lot of weight since the baby, and you never buy it for yourself. I want you to go get what you need, and I don't mean lingerie. Just go get yourself some comfortable stuff that fits right." I am surprised. It's not even Thanksgiving yet. "Christmas shopping means you buy gifts that you give ON Christmas." I say, handing back the envelope. "This isn't a Christmas gift; please go get yourself some panties, or whatever. Have fun." He says, pushing me toward the front door. Now my mouth is hanging open over underwear shopping spree money. I know it sounds so dumb, but it really means so much to me. Somewhere along the way of having three babies I stopped paying attention to personal details, not because I want to neglect myself, but because I just don't make myself a priority. That's why an underwear shopping spree shocks me. "Is that porn good enough for you? Why are you staring at me like that?" He asks. I hug him, a little too tightly, maybe because we almost end up on the floor. My question explains my sudden glee, "How can someone who didn't even find the book yet invent a whole new chapter?!"



--Here is a peek inside this very funny book. The guy is saying: "Ooh look, the NFL playoffs are today. I bet we'll have no trouble parking at the crafts fair."

Couple Time: Not a Trivial Pursuit

"Couple Time" can be defined as planned activities for married adults who are confined by children to the home for the evening. In an effort to have some time as a couple one weekend, and since we are too broke to call the babysitter, Milk Man and I list our options.

1. Sit here watching episode after episode of SpongeBob SquarePants until our brains rust.

2. Watch Election coverage until our brains implode, (much quicker).

3. Go out to get a bite to eat at the risk of being jailed by leaving a sleeping five year old in charge of himself, and two younger children.

4. Shut off the television and talk. (Is there possibly ANYTHING we don't know about each other after almost ten years of matrimony?)

5. Play a board game and fight.

We choose number five, because marital fights sometimes lead to fun, and my husband gets the Trivial Pursuit out of the closet. It's the Genus IV version, and he's memorized all the answers. "How is watching you beat me at Trivial Pursuit for the 1,263rd time, (yes, he's counting), going to be fun, (for me), and a positive use of couple time?" I complain.

For the record, I HATE Trivial Pursuit. I think all versions of this game should be given to terrorist interrogators to be used as a form of humane mental torture. Why, because it's %!@#! boring, and it makes me feel...intellectually threatened. I lose, ALWAYS. It's not that I don't get answers right, because I do. The questions I know are either brainless pop culture, or art and leisure. When the game is over I feel a whole lot dumber. Plus, as I lose I eat whatever food is on the table, probably from game-induced depression, as I watch my husband fill his pie with plastic colored triangles.

Finally, I get a question I'm sure I know. "How many children did the the Brady couple have, biologically?" I sit back in my chair, singing the whole Brady Bunch song, with chorus repeats, before answering, just because I'm bored to tears. I'm savoring my right answer for a bit longer. "Zero!" I say, after my performance is over.

I may have won that chip, but the game goes on and on. At one point I try to make it strip Trivial Pursuit, but now the husband is so close to winning that he is more focused on the game; (Can you believe this?!) I picture myself telling a divorce lawyer the INCREDIBLE story of neglect as I watch Milk Man roll the dice, land on roll again, again, again. I'm starting to nod off.

Finally I get a turn again, and I take extra long to roll, to count, to move my stereotypically pink game piece, (that's the color my Superior 1930's Husband picked out for me when I was in the bathroom). I should know this answer, but motherhood has melted my brain cells. "What machine is most often used in a lie detector test?" I feel like one of those dumb people that Jay Leno questions on the street. All I can come up with is "lie-o-graph." My husband is shaking his head and taking the die from me. "WAIT!" I shout, holding on to my turn. I don't care if I lose this one, I want to go again anyway.

"But that's against the rules." Says the husband. He's seen me go into game anarchy mode before. "This is my house, and I make the rules." I say rolling again. "What! Come on, don't mess up the game." He says. I stand up to relive a playground squabble I had about 28 years ago. "You always win, and it isn't fun. So I QUIT!"

Milk Man throws his hands up in an act of marital surrender. "Okay, You can roll ONE more time." I sit back down, ready to bolt at the next ridiculously easy question that I go blank on. "What architect's 1958 plans were revived for the 1995 construction of a convention center in Madison, Wisconsin?" I sit up, beaming in my chair, because this question isn't all that easy, and I know the answer. "Frank Lloyd Wright's" I say, triumphantly.

Milk Man checks the back of the card twice, surprised. "That's right. How did you know that? I had no clue." I share that I took Art History classes in college and I have an interest in architecture."Oh, I didn't know that." He says.

It turns out that this waste of "couple time" isn't a trivial pursuit, after all. Milk Man learns something he doesn't know, and he still wins. What do I get out of it? I'm not sure. I guess I always wanted to be a great martyr, and being married gives me that opportunity.

Next time, I pick the game, and I'm going to make it really interesting.

Readers, What board games should Milk Man and I play against each other?" Send me a comment.

Excuse Me, I'm Trying to Be Mad

After lunch Baby Bigfoot decides to make his own Halloween costume. I find him in the bathroom wrapped in three quarters of a roll of toilet paper. I hold him up to my eye level and say "No, no," sternly. He laughs, and grabs my nose with his fist, then smacks his lips on my cheek in a spontaneous kiss. I have to turn him around so he doesn't see me smiling. I can never stay angry when he does that. He's such a sweet little boy.

Later in the day, I can't find him. I'm running around the den, sliding on books, tripping over matchbox cars, and losing my mind. As I fall on a heap of toys, I think I hear pots clinking in the lower kitchen cabinet. I run into the room and open the cupboard door. There's Baby Bigfoot, sitting inside with a pot cover balanced on his head like a hat. He smiles and shouts, "peek boo!" I pull him out of the cabinet and collapse with him on the floor, exasperated. Leaning toward his face and making eye contact, I say, "No no," angrily. He is delighted to see me, despite my mood. Grabbing me by the ears, he pulls my face close to his with bam bam force, smacking a big, slimy baby kiss right on my lips. I'm stuck in his pudgy grip for so long as he is making the noise, "MMMMMMMMMA!" that I almost start laughing through clenched teeth.

That's what I call his Hollywood kiss, because it's like a baby version of an old-fashioned movie scene. It's sincere affection and it makes me melt, because I'm unusually emotional, (for a Capricorn). When he lets go of my ears we're just staring at each other. He giggles, then attempts to saunter off into more corners of the house to create trouble. I grab him and put him in the pack n' play for safe keeping. I'm trying to figure out if he is actually aware of what he is doing when he pulls that trick. How could he know? I worry that his behavior is a little Oedipal, but that's silly; he's only one year old. If he does it when he's ten, now that will be weird. I decide there is no way my baby could understand that giving kisses gets him out of trouble. He just really loves mommy.

Milk Man comes home after dark tonight; he went to the dentist straight from work. I meet him in the driveway, because I'm putting the garbage out. He hands me a little, shiny silver box, and what looks like a note. "Here, this is for you, sweetheart," he says as he pulls his work stuff out of the car. Wow, I think. What a guy! He feels bad that he was gone all day and bought me a present. I get in the house and go to open the box. Looking closer in the light, I realize it's a sample of Colgate toothpaste, and the note is actually a diagram of teeth. "Oh," I say, my excitement dropping to disappointment so quickly that I touch my nose to see if it's bleeding. "I thought this was a gift." I mutter.

"A gift?" He laughs, obviously forgetting that my emotions can change in a millisecond. "The dentist gave it to me for you..." his voice trails off as he catches the look on my face, and realizes the misunderstanding. "Oh, no, come on," he laughs again. I'm not sure why my eyes are welling up, but I am certain that I'm mad. "You're so freakin' IN...," but I get jerked toward him before I can say "SENSITIVE," and next thing I know my mouth is being smashed by a kiss. When I can finally breathe again I yell, "Damn it, I'm wanna be MAD."

Happily Ever Undecided

Stricken by the presence of Milk Man for four days straight, I fear I might be lactose intolerant. "What do you wanna do today?" I ask. "I don't know, what do you wanna do?" Milk Man says. Our marriage is like that pirate ship ride at carnivals that swings back and forth until you feel like the zeppolies you just ate are going to come out of your nose. It's not like this cycle is anything new; flash back to 1998, and we were probably having the same conversation except we were poorer, less educated, childless and wearing flannel. Luckily, someone decides to be born on Saturday morning and our choices are narrowed down. Our friends have a baby girl. We call Princess Jessica, the babysitter, so we can go to the hospital.

I go about doing what I normally do in the morning, cleaning the bedrooms, but today, Milk Man is following me around the house. He comes into the princess' room where I am twisted in a yoga-like pose trying to reach Polly Pocket dolls, and a Sippy cup from 2007 that is stuck under her bed. He flops on the mattress and leans toward me on the floor. "What are you doing!?" I say, exasperated. He says he's just checking something. I follow his gaze down to my Henley tee that is not buttoned properly. "Come on, you pain in the rear, will you go back to work?!" I say, clutching my shirt. I drag the vacuum down the staircase, and he follows. Next I'm perusing today's newspaper. I come across my horoscope and read it aloud. Milk Man is drinking his coffee in the chair across from me. "Take a break from routines and do something sinfully impulsive." I pause, daydreaming of buying these cool leather boots I saw, and eating a brownie sundae with vanilla ice cream. (I just love the contrast of hot and cold tastes.) Milk man is crunching Cookie Crisps and talking with food in his mouth. Snapping out of my daydream I hear the tail end of his suggestion. " ...I'm sure there's a pole you can use at the firehouse down the road." I'm just staring at this man thinking that little brat, Cupid, really tricked me. "Oh my gosh," I say aloud because kids are around, "I can't even decide what my own sinful impulse will be. This is my horoscope, not yours. You need to go to work," I say, ripping the section out of the paper and stuffing it in my jean pocket, protectively.

I agree with myself that Milk Man will take charge of the kids for a few hours, so I fall asleep on the chair in the front porch. I fall into a dream that I just gave birth to Baby Bigfoot. The nurse covers me with a toasty, white hospital blanket, and hands me a giant... bird. I scream, opening my eyes. A blue jay the size of a cat has landed on the feeder in the porch window, scattering a handful of sparrows in the grass below. Meanwhile, there's a crisis in the den. I shut my eyes again so I don't have to be responsible. It sounds like Milk Man fell asleep on the job, and the princess' water experiment caused a small flood. (She turned on all the faucets in the house for about twenty minutes.) I don't really care right now, because I'm in my favorite chair. Looking down, I see that someone put a big goose-down blanket over me. Maybe Milk Man being off for a long weekend has its perks, after all, I think as he cleans the mess. Maybe I'll even miss him when he's back at work. (I decide not to tell.)

Soon enough princess Jessica has arrived. The kids are running around the house like rabid squirrels. I hug her, promising to say a prayer to St. Michael for her protection later. Then Milk Man and I bolt out of the house, laughing madly. We're finally getting out the door and doing something, with one whole hour to spare before the hospital visit. "What do you wanna eat," Milk Man asks. "I don't know, what do you wanna eat?" I say. Running out of time because we can't decide, we end up at Papa Joe's by default.

Next I'm at the hospital, pressing my face against the nursery glass and cooing. The new baby is as cute as a button, as they say. This old-friend-turned-new-dad exerts his right to give Milk Man an emotional wedgie, asking, "You want another one?" I'm still plastered to the glass. "No!" We both say in unison. The baby wiggles. "Well, maybe," I mumble. "No, way!" says Milk Man. "You're right," I agree, shaking off my newborn daze. In the parking lot the chill of the Autumn air sobers me further. I laugh at the thought. "Well, maybe." says Milk Man.

Then things get ugly. I can't take another minute of happily ever indecision! "Either you buy a magic eight ball, or I want a divorce." I demand, thinking I can't wait for this husband to go back to work.

(Image from Flickr)

“I love being married. It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.” -Rita Rudner

Loren is Fooled Twice in One Decade By a Smart Cookie

It all started with a fourtune cookie. One evening on our honeymoon, Milk Man and I travel all over Provincetown, Cape Cod looking for a Chinese food restaurant. After our meal, I stop in a public bathroom at the back of a bar, stuffing the slip of paper from a half-eaten fortune cookie in my purse.

"Nothing is as it seems," is the cryptic message. I marvel at how clean the bar is; the floor shines. The bathroom door isn't marked. When I come out Milk Man is sitting on a stool. The female bartender is twirling her hair, and laughing as they talk. My new husband looks as red as the lobster he ate for dinner. Obviously, I'm peeved and freaking out remembering the cookie message, especially because the chic is a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe. I drag him out of there and almost start to cry.

"You looked like you were flirting. You never do that." I complain. He starts laughing and spins me around to face a poster on the wall of the building.

"I wasn't flirting, I was squirming. She's a guy." There she is on the poster. The bartender, a drag queen, apparently had a running show there at night. I want to slap her/him, but I'm suddenly overcome by a sense of relief. Marilyn and I exchange waves and smiles through the picture window, and it's clear from her grin that she enjoyed watching our tense exchange outside the bar.

Almost 10 years after the honeymoon, we make dating a priority. I still love Chinese food, in fact, I crave it. On our "date night," this week, Milk Man and I try a new restaurant. The place is really beautiful. It has soft lighting, scented candles and nice Asian decor. We are seated near an indoor pond and water fountain. Our food is really good, a little spicy even, like Thai. I order my old standby, chicken and broccoli, plus soup and an appetizer. The manager and waiters are so polite. This just might be my new favorite Chinese restaurant.

I save the best part of the meal for when we get home, just like I used to do when I was a kid. On the couch, I open my snack. "Look, they liked me so much, I even got extra fortune cookies," I say, storing the rest in the cookie jar on my lap.

Then I turn green. The fortune is hand-written. Milk Man catches the little slip of paper floating down to the floor as I'm already washing my mouth out in the bathroom. He reads it aloud to himself. "That wasn't chicken."

I can hear a voice coming from the television set as I gag in the bathroom,

"The roses are in bloom in Orkney."

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

It’s day one of Rosh Hashanah and Milk Man has the holiday off from work. He’s driving me insane. I can’t wait for this husband to go back to school, I mean work. (He works in a school.)The kids have finally fallen asleep and we have the evening all to ourselves. Sounds romantic? Oh, it is. We’re eating chicken quesadillas in front of the television and fighting over the remote control. It’s the Battle of the Favorite Shows. He wants to watch “Heroes,” and I’m right in the middle of SpongeBob SquarePants: “Super Acquaintances to the Rescue.” So we settle on one of those CSI detective shows. When I go to bed, visions of pole dancers, dead bodies and psychos torturing people are dancing through my head. Now, that’s entertainment!

The next thing I know it's five in the morning and baby Bigfoot is crying at the gate in his room, demanding release. I turn to Milk Man and whisper, "I'll be your best friend forever if you get up this time and get him a sippy cup." Grumbling, he acquiesces. I sleep for another hour with a smile pasted on my face. When I get up, the baby is in the pack n play watching "Morning Joe with Joe Scarborough" on MSNBC with his older brother, who is on the couch eating cookies. Good job, Milk Man. I try to duck behind the kitchen wall, but big brother sees me.

"Mommy, John McCain really took a bath last week, but he still has my vote," he announces. Groggy and confused, I suspect that I might be still asleep. I glance at the kitchen table. Abe Lincoln and a beaver are not sitting there, so I must be really awake. Milk Man comes in holding the baby. He passes him off to me. "Honey, I think his diaper has to be changed. He really smells." I stand there, staring. I put my hand behind my back and start scratching. "What are you doing?" Milk Man asks. "I'm trying to erase the sign that says: "Official POOP CHANGER. Why do I always have to change him? You know where the diapers are." He carries baby Bigfoot upstairs, grumbling again. This time he's audible. He's wishing he were back at work where life is easier. I smile to myself, secretly enjoying his realization, wondering exactly when it was that I became evil.













--Milk Man and I during a moment of marital bliss, (Fall, 2008).

This Weekend Will Challenge Your Assumptions

My laptop is starting to scare me. Every time I look at my Yahoo horoscope, it relates to my life specifically. Today, when I check the site while eating Cheerios, I freeze mid-crunch. My fortune is: "This Weekend Will Challenge Your Assumptions."

"What is that supposed to mean?!" I shout at the screen with a mouthful of cereal. I'm not in the mood for a challenge today, nor do I feel like looking forward to one over the weekend. The worst part about reading your horoscope, or seeking out psychics is wondering endlessly about the snippet of information that you're given, which is subject to error. This is probably why God doesn't want people to seek out fortune tellers, and why the religious gift shop sells worry stones.

I go directly to my dry erase calendar board from Target, that I mounted on the kitchen wall perfectly straight without the help of a level. (Take that, 1930's Wives.) According to the calendar, nothing unusual is planned this weekend. I rack my brain trying to guess which assumption will be challenged, because I have a lot of them.

Is it personal, or work related? Does it mean Milk Man will realize that women like love notes instead of ear wax covered Q-Tips waiting for them on the bathroom counter in the morning? Maybe the kids will start playing "clean-up race" without being prompted. Then, Hell Hound will apologize for eating my wallet and hiding my cell phone in the back yard this week. Next the vet will call me and offer free bark and teeth removal surgery for her. After that I'll go outside with a rake and leaf bags, and discover cash growing on the tree limbs. By Sunday, my kids will like vegetables, and I won't have to mix pureed cauliflower in the butter that covers their toast ever again.

Thanks Yahoo, I hope you're right! If your prediction is accurate, this weekend will be GREAT!

Milk Man Wins Blog Post in Bet

Milk Man takes the 1930's Marriage test, and wins a post on Loren's blog in a bet that he'd score higher than she did. Here's what Milk Man wrote:

-- "How could you marry a score 53, Dude?"

-- "Listen, after the market crash I just considered myself lucky that I worked on the first floor. I jumped, without the desired effect because of my proximity to the sidewalk. So when it came to settling down, one has to put in context that 25% of us were out of luck and on the street. In these difficult economic times a superior husband sometimes has to take what the market has to offer. In this case, I married a 53. However, you have to stay in the marriage like the market for the long haul. By 2008 I'm certain my investment will be worth it. My 53 is the best investment I ever made. "

As a 1930's Husband, I am VERY SUPERIOR!!!
Score = 113
Take the Test, Men!

Loren is named 2008 Wife of the Year by Online Test!

Alarmed over her recent poor test results, which shattered her status as the perfect housewife, Loren went to the Discovery Health Channel website this evening. Luckily, according to a marriage test posted there, there's no need to worry, Milk Man. Even though she may not be the perfect 1930's wife, according to an important man, Dr. John Gottman, author of The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work, your marriage is strong, anyway. Let's just say she's the perfect 2008 Wife. Thank God for the Internet.

Readers, "How Strong is Your Marriage?"

You can Take the Test Here!

Note: The pictures (above and in the post below) are available as magnets, notepads, etc. from http://www.annetaintor.com/ They are hysterical, actual vintage ads reworded.

SCANDAL IN SUBURBIA

Loren discovers she's not the perfect wife. After taking the online test to rate as the perfect 1930's spouse, she scores a 53, which is "average." Miffed, she states, "As the product of a generation of Hippies, I demand to be graded on a Bell (Bottom) Curve!" Take the test!

Grow Odd Along With Me

"You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you odd."

-Flannery O'Connor

"Princess Jessica" the babysitter comes over and Milk Man and I make a quick escape, after changing diapers, Pull Ups, getting bedtime drinks of water, etc. Okay, maybe it isn't that quick, but eventually, we leave the house childless for the evening. We choose a local restaurant, and street-side parking. An ambulance screeches down the road as we cross. I almost get hit. "That would have been bad," I remark. I'm thinking I would have missed an opportunity to go out to dinner. "Yeah, but we would have saved some money if you got hit," my husband says aloud. Reader, there comes a point in time where you don't have to speak as much to your spouse, because you become fluent at mind reading. Sadly, we've reach that point.

The restaurant is candle-lit and crowded. We exchange "day stories" at a small table while waiting for drinks. "I had a light working lunch at the local country club. It was really cool. We had a table overlooking the Long Island Sound," Milk Man says. Then, he asks me how my day was. "Really," I say sarcastically, I had a light working lunch too!" He laughs, knowing what's coming. "I served yogurts and Sippy cups of juice, while I stuffed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my mouth with my free hand. We ate overlooking a suburban back yard strewn with chewed stuffed toys and abandoned Hot Wheels motorcycles."

Milk Man apologizes for the inequality. I tell him it's all right. "I'm planning my escape." He asks where I'm going. Last year I went to Chicago for the weekend with a friend, but she'll be giving birth soon. "She's got some nerve," I say, picking out the croutons in my salad. "Actually, I'm planning several small escapes throughout the year." I tell him I'm thinking about visiting Florida and maybe Flannery O'Connor's house in Georgia. My husband looks confused. The waitress interrupts us to ask how I want my salmon cooked. "Um, not like I cook it," I say. She makes a note on her pad and walks off.

Milk man cuts the bread. "Flannery O'Connor, isn't she dead?" I agree that she is, but her house is still open to the public.

"Really, so on your weekend to escape you're going to crash at a dead writer's house?"

I stop eating my salad. "Sort of. Her house is in Savannah, and that looks like a very cool place."

He laughs. "You're strange."

"You picked me," I retort.

"That's the sorry truth," he mumbles, grinning.

"Well, as Flannery O'Connor might have said if she ever married, 'Try staying at home with the kids; now that will make you odd,' " I reply, in between blowing bubbles into my soda through the straw.

ME Day

I decide to take some time out for myself today to celebrate some recent milestones in my extraordinary little life. First, I lost forty pounds over the course of the past fifteen months, so I feel like my old, pre-baby self again. Secondly, baby Bigfoot has officially crossed over into toddler-hood, walking in the last month and sleeping through the night in a toddler bed.

I break out the yellow pages searching for a spa, as the babysitter, whom little sister has renamed: "Princess Jessica," looks over my shoulder. I run my finger down the page and stop at the word "IHOP." I decide out loud that's where I'm headed. "That's a pancake house," Princess Jessica says, secretly deciding the kids have officially driven me insane. "Yeah, I know, it sounds just... wonderful," I answer, daydreaming about what I plan to order.

I order a huge plate of pancakes with vanilla ice cream and bananas for lunch. Then, really quick, before the weight I just accumulated from that meal shows up on my body, I buy jeans. Not the "Mom Jeans" described in a comedy skit, these pants are cool. I'm so proud of myself, and on a high from the great day I'm having, when I pass PIERCING PAGOTA in the mall. (Yes, Reader, you guessed it.)

Later, over the phone, I'm telling Milk Man about my day. He's still at work. "I had pancakes and ice cream for lunch... I bought jeans and I got pierced." There's silence on the phone.

"You got PIERCED?! ...WHERE?" I ask him why it's a mystery. "Is it your belly button?"
I gasp. "You think I'm going to torture my mid-section further after it's been kneaded in pregnancy three times like dough in a pizza shop? I don't think so. It's just my ear lobes. My ears aren't pierced, Mr. Observant Christie."

He laughs. "Oh, Good for you! Hey, now I have more options for Christmas presents."

Ironic Olympics

"Married life is very frustrating. In the first year of marriage, the man speaks and the wife listens. In the second year, the woman speaks and the husband listens. In the third year, they both speak and the neighbors listen." -From The Ten Commandments of Marriage

Milk Man is a passive-aggressive competitor, and he can rationalize his way out of any situation. He'd make an excellent politician. My first exposure to these less-than-endearing qualities was while we were dating. He traded me in order to better his chances of building a winning Pictionary team. Love is blind, however, and God is the Greatest comic.

Thirteen years later, we're still together and I've helped him multiply "mini-me's." Case in point, he and I are reading the morning newspapers while big brother is bickering in the den with the princess. They're holding their own Olympic Games on green play mats. Big Brother is representing the USA, of course, and the Princess is playing for Switzerland. She starts to cry and next they're rolling around on the floor, wrestling. "I want to be the first one, " she whines. Big brother tells her she can never be first at anything because he was born first. Princess screams.

I summon big brother by his full name and he enters the kitchen knowing he's in trouble. I give him a lecture about doing the right thing, not always having to be first or best, etc. I tell him that I've decided that from now on he will make it his business to make sure all contests, races and other games with the princess result in a tie. He boils over this idea for a moment, pumping his fists in the air, obviously frustrated, as his father and I look stern. "Okay, Mommy, but first the princess has to be as fast or smart as me to have a tie...and I don't think that will happen today." He runs out of the room, to avoid hearing my rebuttal. I look at Milk Man and shrug saying, "This is your mirror, not mine. It looks like your Olympic task is to tone down big brother's competitive nature. "

My husband agrees and sternly calls big brother back into the room. He leans down into the little boy's face, then cracks a smile, saying, "Mini-Me, You complete me." Big brother kisses his nose and runs back into the den, laughing.

"What are you doing," Milk Man asks, as I'm tightening the cap on my Gatorade bottle. I hurl the drink at him and he ducks. It hits the wall. "I'm angry at how you just handled that situation and I feel like pouring this on your head right now, but I don't want to clean up the mess. Good duck, guess you got lucky this time." He thanks me and gives me a score of "10" for marital communication. We both continue reading the newspapers.

Survival of the Sweetest

Here is a picture of a disgustingly huge spider that built its web across the outside of my kitchen sliding glass doors last night. This morning, in a state of grogginess which typically causes me to pour orange juice in my cereal and return the milk to the cupboard, I forget about this horrific creature and attempt to put out the garbage by way of that entrance, walking right into the abandoned web. Hell Hound looks on, head tilted in a state of canine curiosity. Luckily, the spider has disappeared, probably having overheard my plans to destroy it with hair spray. Nevertheless, my screaming jig is inevitable, which I'm sure wakes all the neighbors, the live ones, anyway.

The dead ones are already up, I'm sure, since their landscapers were running weed wackers at 6 a.m. in the cemetery next door. "The dead neighbors are sooooo rude!" I complain to my husband at breakfast after having taken two showers. "Don't they care that I also like to rest in peace at 6 a.m. on Saturday?" Milk Man shrugs and crunches, sips his coffee, and rattles the newspaper. He's engulfed in the latest national crisis. Chris Russo is leaving the radio show, Mike and the Mad Dog on WFAN. I pull the paper down and lean into his face, asking "Will radio ever be the same?" He does not think my sarcasm is funny. "No, it probably won't," he mumbles, putting his coffee mug down and abruptly exiting the kitchen. I'm emptying the dishwasher and laughing. "Are you seriously upset about this?" No answer. "Wow, SO sensitive," I think aloud. "This is a dog-eat-dog kind of world, Milk Man, I guess Mad Dog had to move on." No answer.

Milk Man can be very sensitive at times, and so can I. This quality is definitely evident in the gene pool of our children, which troubles me as we approach their first days of school. They are very nice little people, and some kids can be cruel and aggressive. This is a fear that every mother must let go of, I suppose, as it is beyond the realm of control.

The princess enters the kitchen in her plastic shoes. "AHHHHH! I see the icky spider in the glass. Maybe smash it, Mama." Her older brother protests. "NOOO! Its brothers will be sad if you kill it. Mommy, just move it with my bug box."

Did I mention big brother LOVES bugs? He turns to the princess. "Just because something is ugly doesn't mean you should smash it." She thinks for a moment, then reluctantly agrees. After all, big brother knows everything.

My husband is standing in the doorway, smirking at me as I face my fears and relocate the giant spider in big brother's bug box. I think I'm breaking out into a sweat as we parade to the back of the yard with the creature, so it can safely find its "brothers," and avoid the jaws of Hell Hound.

I bet spiders teach their children the meaning of the phrase "Survival of the Fittest," but this bugger just got lucky today. It tacked itself to the door of two wonderfully sensitive children. I'll save one million ugly bugs if it means my kids stay this sweet forever.

Adult Conversation

I'm really thrilled tonight, and actually, very excited while watering the plants. I share my discovery with Milk Man. "I grew something in a pot!"My husband chuckles sarcastically from the den. I answer him from the kitchen, almost offended. Well, not really. "I'm not talking about your hometown flower, BEAVIS, ...I'm growing an herb garden right here in our kitchen. Martha Stewart would think I'm brilliant right now. The basil and oregano are already sprouting after only three days!" Milk Man does his best Beavis voice. "Uh...Heh,... heh, heh, ...heh. She said herbs." We both start laughing. It's nice to finally have some ADULT conversation once the kids are in bed.