That Awkward Age

The Year I Got a Hunka Hunka Burning Love For My Birthday

Today is the 30th anniversary of what will surely go down in history as the most unromantic gift in dating history.

You see, today is my 59th birthday. 

Then I was 29, early in the two-year dating phase, about a year-and-a-half before I finally get tired of waiting around with my eggs that are getting older by the minute, when I finally ask, "Are we ever getting married, or what?," and he says, "You just couldn't wait for me to ask you, could you?," which kind of forever sets the pace and tone of our relationship.

On this first birthday when we are dating, Bob invites me to his house for dinner. I'm bemoaning the fact that I've only got one more year in my 20s, and how can it possibly be that I'm leaving the decade in which I went to college? What was the thing that people said way back then in my college days? Never trust anyone over 30? Oh, woe is me!

The evening is also special because it is the first time I am to meet Bob's special long-time friends, Bruce and Jackie. They arrive from Richmond, and after introductions and small talk, Jackie keeps me occupied in the kitchen. Bob and Bruce busy themselves doing something noisy in the living room, which turns out to be hanging streamers and "Happy Birthday" signs.

Finally they call us into the living room and yell "surprise!" looking very pleased with themselves, and Bob hands me a large wrapped box. I act surprised. I know right away it isn't jewelry. But it could be a Gucci handbag! Another good choice!

I peel off the wrapping one strip at a time to find a small appliance box. I'm thinking that perhaps Bob wrapped my Gucci handbag in this box because he didn't think to have the department store to do it. But, no, this box obviously has never been opened. This is not a recycled box.

There are three people -- one I'm dating and two I've just met -- eagerly awaiting my reaction to receiving a TOASTER OVEN for my 29th birthday from the man I am dating.

It has to be a gag, right? My real gift, my Gucci bag, is hidden somewhere, right? So cautiously I say, "thank you?"

Bob beams. "I knew you needed one," he says. "I was afraid you were going to set your house on fire with that crummy one you've got."

It's not a gag gift. It's the gift.

"Yes, I suppose I do," I said, adjusting my expectations. "And a fine toaster oven it is! It even has an automatic switch that pops up when the toast is done. Imagine that!"

I remembered all the times that my dad would tell my mother that the snow tires they just bought was her Christmas present or that the hog they had butchered and put into the freezer was her birthday present, and I swore that I would never put up with that. I wanted my parents to be romantic like couples were on TV, not practical.

Thirty years later, and he's still a lousy -- but sincere -- gift shopper.  Now that his Parkinson's disease keeps him from doing a lot of shopping, I've been known to buy my own gifts, give him the credit card slip and tell him that he bought it for me.

But one thing's for sure: I've never, ever had a kitchen fire.

Photo By AlishaV

Real Men Always Have Full Pockets

When a geek retires, his pockets are too light. They’re all stretched out from carrying wads of keys, scanner cards, pagers, lots of spare change, a few screws and washers, and a couple of cell phones.

But for a guy already having balance problems due to Parkinson’s, losing that extra butt ballast can be a real problem.

So what’s a geek-at-heart to do? No need to waste all of those old perfectly good pocket protectors, after all. 

After Bob retired last year and had to turn in all of his electronic paraphernalia, shopping for a cell phone was first on his list. After a two-week cost-benefits analysis, he selected the $50 free phone on the family plan I already owned. But there were still so many pockets to fill! 

So a couple of months ago when Bob read in the paper that a rabid raccoon had been spotted in the neighborhood, he called a local gun distributor for some protection.

“Yeah, man, you want to get yourself a nice Smith & Weston before the liberals take our rights away,” the metal pusher said. “And we’ve got all the ammo you’ll ever need.”

“Ah, yeah . . . Actually, I just want some pepper spray to carry when I’m walking the dog,” Bob told him. “You never know when a raccoon might be packing.”

Another pocket successfully filled. 

Then last week there was a front-page story in the paper reminding residents that there is a $250 fine for failing to scoop your dog’s poop. Bob is not a pooper-scooper.

Understand, he’s not generally a squeamish man. I could usually depend on him to handle the grosser aspects of parenting without tossing his cookies, but there’s something about picking up warm dog poop through a plastic bread bag that just doesn’t work for him. 

But being tighter with money than he is squeamish about dog poop, he decided – with much grumbling – that he’d better start carrying a plastic bag in the fourth pocket when he walks the dog. 

But that’s not the end of the story.

“What’s up with all the plastic bags in the laundry room?” I asked him after noticing them strung up on all the hooks where I hang up clean clothes. 

“They’re bags I haven’t used yet,” he explained. “I just carry them in case I run into a cop.” 

“So you’re just carrying a decoy bag?” 

“Yeah, pretty much,” he says, shrugging. “But yesterday it fell out of my pocket and spooked Scottie, and he almost pulled me down.” 

“Well, look on the bright side,” I offered. “At least you can call me on your cell if you fall, and I can come get you.” 

What I didn’t tell him is that I’m not letting him into the car if he’s covered in dog poop and reeking of pepper spray. 

I’m calling the cops. 

Photo: From brenbot

Lunch? Dinner? What’s in a name? That which we call lunch by any other name would smell like Hamburger Helper.

If the meal that falls between breakfast and lunch is called “brunch,” what does one call the meal between lunch and dinner? Lupper? Linner? Dunch?

Europeans call it “tea,” but it seems odd to call it that without a pot of hot tea and crumpets.
It’s the quandary of our star-crossed marriage.

I’ve heard that it takes a lifetime to really get to know someone. That appears to be the case with my husband, who always asks, “What are we going to do about lunch?”

Translation: “Are you going to stop what you’re doing (even though you’re on a client deadline or in the middle of recaulking the tub or fighting incoming with rocket launches) to make lunch for me, or should I plan to eat out?”

For nearly 27 years, the answer to that question has either been an eye-roll or “I don’t know what WE are doing for lunch. I only know that I’m not cooking.”

Then Bob takes himself out to lunch.
 It’s a ritual that, until Oct. 1 when he retired, was restricted to weekends.

Now it’s daily.

Bob can make a mean pan of bacon and eggs, but other than that, he’s not the cooking kind of guy. A couple of months after we started dating, he invited me to his house for dinner. I was impressed. When I got to his house and noted that nothing was in preparation, I asked if he had decided that we’d go out instead.

“Oh, no,” he said, reaching into the freezer and pulling out two frozen lumps of Banquet Boiling Bags. “Would you rather have the beef stroganoff or the meatloaf?” 

I was doomed.

This is a guy who expects a meat, a vegetable and a starch at every meal and thinks chicken and fish are vegetables. If there’s not a steak the size of a commode lid, it’s not a meal.

So early on, I laid down my rules. I’ll cook one meal a day. You pick.

When I was commuting to work in Virginia Beach for two years, it wasn’t uncommon to get home two hours later than Bob. I’d walk in -– hoping against hope –- that he had started something for dinner to find him and the three boys on the sofa lined up on like bowling pins, the stove cold and the table bare.

“I thought you’d never get home,” he’d say. “We’re starving.”

“Why didn’t you warm something up –- can’t you start something?”

“I didn’t know what you wanted to do.”

While the kids were young, I implored him to remarry quickly if I should die. Otherwise my kids would starve. I even picked out a few potentials for him based on culinary skills.

How is it possible that I married not one -– but two -– men (sequentially) that not only couldn’t -– but wouldn’t -– learn to operate a microwave? Bob can rebuild a computer, troubleshoot a transmission or rewire the house. But take leftovers out of the frig and warm them in a microwave? Clueless.

Now that he’s retired, mealtime has become a roulette. Because he sleeps later and is painfully slow, especially in the morning, because of his Parkinson’s, he’s usually not ready for breakfast until 11:30 or 12. He’s pouring cereal when I’m foraging for lunch.

Around 4 or 4:30, he’s ready for lunch while I’m just beginning to consider what I might nuke for dinner.
“What are you planning today?” He’ll ask. This is a food-based question, not one about my work schedule.

“I cook one meal a day. You pick.”

“I’m hungry now.”

“Is this going to be lunch or dinner?”

“It can be whatever you want to call it.”

And so methinks the question remains, as hunger hangs in the balance for yet another day. Ah, the sorrow.

Photo: Romeo and Juliet

http://www.flickr.com/photos/frted/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

Sometimes Impossible Things Come in Small Brown Packages

Bob’s computer crashed two weeks ago, and he’s got it ripped apart, with the pieces lying all over the floor trying to fix it. Geek that he is, he’s in hog heaven. Like a little boy with a box of Legos.

So today when the UPS man brought a package with his name on it, he was delighted to find it in the foyer.

 “Oh, great!” he says, as excited as my mother was some years ago to discover that you could buy pre-pitted prunes. “It’s my memory!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Honey,” I say. “Maybe tomorrow he will bring your hearing and libido.”

“What?”

Well, one out of two wouldn’t be bad.