Maddening Matrimony

Positivity training

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Toward the end of a string of a dreary and gray Connecticut December mornings, our birthday boy trudged downstairs, head buried under a hooded sweatshirt, arms folded. He positioned himself directly in front of me and stared.

“Happy Birthday!” I sprang up and engulfed Doug in a birthday hug. “What do you want to do today? Do you want to go on a hike?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Sun’s out. Let’s go!”

For those of you who remember, Doug, who’s been retired from the police force for the past seven years, has been campaigning to move down South. He is counting down every day of the nine years I have left before my own retirement so that we can leave the Connecticut winters and taxes behind–and he reminds me every single day just how painfully he waits.

“It might be kind of nice out later,” I assuaged. “Give me a second….let me click on the weather.”

“Give me a second,” he said, “Let me click on the window.”

With that, he strode over to our kitchen window and tapped on the glass. Behind it, dark clouds amassed in the sky. “Why does it always have to be sh*tty on my birthday?” he lamented.

“That’s not very positive,” I said. “Every morning, if you wake up with a positive thought, it can change the course of your whole day. Go ahead…try to say something nice. I’ll post it on Facebook, and everyone will be inspired.”

He thought for a moment and said, “Let’s see…nice…nice…nice. Here’s something nice. Nothing’s nice, and nothing will ever be nice again. Now get off your computers and go f*cking do something, you a$$holes!”

You’d have to know Doug’s humor to find this even remotely funny and non-offensive. But Doug has made me laugh every single day that we’ve been married, and sometimes it feels greedy keeping his “couple two-tree” liners to myself.

He then drifted into a random monologue about how his seventh-grade homeroom teacher cleared his desk with a single swipe and declared, “You’re the biggest bunch of a$$holes I’ve ever had!” (“If Mr. Capalupo can say it, why can’t I?” he mused.)

I don’t think I’m going to proceed with my positivity training. Sometimes, attention deficit-riddled negativity can be fun.

Hidden surprises

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There have been many toy manufacturers who have profited from marketing hidden surprises.

The makers of the LOL doll made millions selling cheaply made, three-inch figurines covered in layers of paper and extensive packaging. Next followed the “5 Surprise” line, where children must unwrap and unpeel mystery miniatures from each capsule.

When Neno ripped apart his Christmas present yesterday and tore out its innards, we discovered the makers of Frisco Latex squeaky toys had the same idea.

I’ll leave it to your imagination how Doug has been spending the past twenty-four hours modeling, demonstrating, and displaying these squeaky apparatuses.

I apologize for the crassness behind my last two posts. But I have no control over the material that comes my way.

Hang onto those britches

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“What is this?” demanded Doug as he held up one of his pre-Christmas offerings.

“They’re jeans,” I said. “You mentioned none of yours fit. I was at Walmart with Anna, and we just happened to pass them.”

He stared at me for a moment and blinked. “You bought me jeans at Walmart?”

“Yes. That’s not as taboo as it was buying sneakers at Kmart.”

“Did you read the label before you bought them?” he said, pointing at it incredulously.

“Yes. Why?”

More blinking.

“They’re Wranglers.”

“What’s wrong with Wranglers? My dad used to wear them in the 1980s.”

“Exactly. That’s how my mom dressed me until I was old enough to fight back. She called them ‘dungarees.’”

“They’re classic. C’mon, at least try them on. Just so we can see if that’s your new size.”

“Nope. I haven’t put on a pair of Wranglers since I was 11 years old, and I’m not putting them on now.”

“The guy wearing them on the label is hot. So they can’t be that bad.”

“Take them back.”

“Look…we’re not rich. And we’re going on 49. Who the hell cares about labels anymore? Are we trying to find a place at the popular table? Who cares what other people think?”

This morning, here was the scene waiting for me by my computer.

I think Doug’s going to hang onto his britches after all…just for fun.

Vision restored

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For the past six months or better, I’d been driving around like Stevie Wonder in an obstacle course.

I couldn’t see a fricking thing.

The signs were beginning to blur, and at night, the glare from oncoming traffic nearly sent me careening off the road.

It didn’t used to be this way. Back in my days of teaching in Hartford, there was a glitch in our health insurance policy that enabled every teacher in the district to receive corrective lasik eye surgery free of charge. That was twenty years ago, and since then, my vision had been so precise I could count every leaf on every tree.

Up until now, that is. I missed the world in 20/20 (not to be confused with 2020). I wanted to be able to see again.

I’ve worn glasses before, but only while reading. And no matter how alluring the lenses appeared on the rack, I could never quite pull off the sexy librarian look. No matter which way you cut it, they were old lady trifocals. And they were one of the last things I wanted dangling from my nose while I’m driving.

Maybe it was karma, I decided. For a solid year, I’d announced “Sit down, Waldo!” every time Doug boarded the bus to Vogel School in his coke bottle glasses. Maybe, thirty-five years later, payback had finally arrived.

I was contemplating all of this in my driveway from the passenger seat of my car last week. Our minivan broke down, and Doug and I had to drive to Capuano Automotive in Winsted together to pick it up.

Doug came out of the house, opened the car door, slid into the driver’s seat, looked ahead and declared, “Goddamn! Do you ever wash your windows?”

He retreated into the garage, grabbed a rag and a bottle of Windex, and wiped off my front windshield.

And just like that, I can finally see again.