Marriage is hard. So hard. I struggle to be a good wife. Truth be told, I don't even know what the term "a good wife" means. Does it mean a good housekeeper? If so, I am fucked. If it means a good cook, again, I am screwed.
If being "a good wife" means being independent and self absorbed, I am golden.
My childhood provided me little to model myself on. My mom and dad fought loud, hard and often and if you drove by our house in Ontario, you would often see red and blue lights swirling in front of our house to signal our dysfunction to the neighbors. Plus, on the housekeeping front, my dad cooked and the house was a mess.
If I compare Adrian and myself to my mom and dad we probably come out well in the wash. I rarely scream and yell and we try not to let our arguments turn to fights.
Most days, I am just trying to keep my head afloat. It is all I can do to deal with Adrian, the two moms, our three dogs, my job as a public defender and my mandatory workout regime. Lately, I have been selfish I admit. I have to be. Being unselfish and giving it all at work and home resulted in me gaining one hundred pounds. I have lost most of that weight and look fabulous (note: humility has never been my strength).
If I have the choose between being a happy fat wife or a trim and healthy divorcee, I will choose being the divorcee. But the questions is, does it really have to come to that? I think not, but who knows?
Truth be told, there is no one else in the world for me. But, sometimes, I think Adrian would be happier with someone else. He says no but there are times when I think yes, Yet, if Adrian is masochistic enough to want to put up with me and my crazy family, then who am I to stop him?
It may be a cliche, but it is truth to say that marriage is full of hills and valleys. The last weeks have been hills if hills are rough and valleys are smooth (I can never quite figure out that analogy) but yesterday Adrian looked at me with tenderness in his eyes as opposed to annoyance and I could see the valley emerging.
Whew.
Panorama of San Bernardino
Monday, May 7, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
Leopold the Cat
I first saw Leopold in a Houston high rise. I was on lunch from my corporate law firm gig at Texas’ largest law firm. He was small and black and mewing in the corner of a cage.
There was a mall attached to our law firm’s office, most everything in Houston is enclosed due to the hot humid summers.
Most days, my colleague Nancy and I would sit at Starbucks and talk about all the bullshit at work. But on that day Nancy was busy and I walked around the mall deciding on what to eat. Chic Fil A was a typical choice.
The mall was sponsoring an adopt a pet day and as I walked by the Humane Society table a young volunteer said, “Wanna get a cat?”
I looked in the cage at the small black cat. Due to my goth girl leanings I had always wanted a black cat. He mewed when I picked him up and I stared into his bright green eyes and it was over. I had always said that I would name my cat Leopold after Leopold Bloom (the main character in James Joyce’s Ulysses).
When I brought the cat up to the registration table, the young girl said, “Oh you picked Leopold”. When I looked at his tag the name Leopold was scrawled in blue ink.
Leopold Bloom Mantz became my confidante. He weighed in at twenty pounds and was more dog than cat. Whenever I got home from work at the law firm, I would walk into my house and say, “Leopold where are you?” Leopold would bound down the stairs two at a time and meow at my feet. I would pat my bed and Leopold would jump on the bed and snuggle in the covers with me purring in my ear.
When I moved to San Francisco I found out UCSF housing didn’t allow cats so my mom and dad took Leopold in. “He’s like a big monster Jenny,” my dad would say on the phone. “He sleeps on my recliner and won’t get off.” My dad complained about Leopold but I could hear the affection in his voice.
When Adrian and I moved to an apartment in San Francisco that allowed cats, my mom and dad drove from the Inland Empire to bring Leopold to us. As they drove up Ninth Street in their beat up car, I could see my mom shaking her head. Leopold sat in the back of the window. My mom pulled up to our apartment and got out of the car pulling at her hair.
“That stupid cat, he got out at the rest stop. Your dad and I had to chase him down.”
My mom picked up his cat carrier and said in an anxious voice, ”He’s not in there where did he go, god dammit!”
“Mom, he’s in the back window,” I said with a laugh and reached in the car and picked him up with a grunt. He had gained at least five pounds.
When my dad was sick and I was down from San Francisco taking care of my dad, he would always ask, “How’s Leopold Jenny? That cat’s crazy.”
After my dad died, Leopold came home to the Inland Empire with me. Poor Leopold was forced to stay with my mom in her senior apartment until I bought a house. Leopold would sit in the front window at night when my mom was asleep. One day, my mom’s next door neighbor told her, “Un diablo en un casa (a devil is in your house)”.
Soon, Adrian and I bought our house in North Fontana and Leopold moved again. He loved the new house and roamed the rural neighborhood.
About a month after we moved in, I went to the LA Fair with my friend Tracy and before I left, I let Leopold outside to prowl. When I got home from the fair, I couldn’t find Leopold anywhere. I tried not to panic.
I put up flyers in the neighborhood. I chose my favorite picture, the one of Leopold in his superman Halloween costume. I offered a five hundred dollar reward. Adrian drove around the neighborhood for days and looked in all the storm drains.
Adrian tried to console me, “We’ll find him, don’t worry.” But I knew. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. He was gone.
One night, about four days after he disappeared, I woke up in the middle of the night and swore I could hear Leopold meowing. I ran outside in my pajamas and followed the meows next door to the empty for sale house. But, I knew there were no meows.
It was just my memory of Leopold’s meows echoing in my head.
There was a mall attached to our law firm’s office, most everything in Houston is enclosed due to the hot humid summers.
Most days, my colleague Nancy and I would sit at Starbucks and talk about all the bullshit at work. But on that day Nancy was busy and I walked around the mall deciding on what to eat. Chic Fil A was a typical choice.
The mall was sponsoring an adopt a pet day and as I walked by the Humane Society table a young volunteer said, “Wanna get a cat?”
I looked in the cage at the small black cat. Due to my goth girl leanings I had always wanted a black cat. He mewed when I picked him up and I stared into his bright green eyes and it was over. I had always said that I would name my cat Leopold after Leopold Bloom (the main character in James Joyce’s Ulysses).
When I brought the cat up to the registration table, the young girl said, “Oh you picked Leopold”. When I looked at his tag the name Leopold was scrawled in blue ink.
Leopold Bloom Mantz became my confidante. He weighed in at twenty pounds and was more dog than cat. Whenever I got home from work at the law firm, I would walk into my house and say, “Leopold where are you?” Leopold would bound down the stairs two at a time and meow at my feet. I would pat my bed and Leopold would jump on the bed and snuggle in the covers with me purring in my ear.
When I moved to San Francisco I found out UCSF housing didn’t allow cats so my mom and dad took Leopold in. “He’s like a big monster Jenny,” my dad would say on the phone. “He sleeps on my recliner and won’t get off.” My dad complained about Leopold but I could hear the affection in his voice.
When Adrian and I moved to an apartment in San Francisco that allowed cats, my mom and dad drove from the Inland Empire to bring Leopold to us. As they drove up Ninth Street in their beat up car, I could see my mom shaking her head. Leopold sat in the back of the window. My mom pulled up to our apartment and got out of the car pulling at her hair.
“That stupid cat, he got out at the rest stop. Your dad and I had to chase him down.”
My mom picked up his cat carrier and said in an anxious voice, ”He’s not in there where did he go, god dammit!”
“Mom, he’s in the back window,” I said with a laugh and reached in the car and picked him up with a grunt. He had gained at least five pounds.
When my dad was sick and I was down from San Francisco taking care of my dad, he would always ask, “How’s Leopold Jenny? That cat’s crazy.”
After my dad died, Leopold came home to the Inland Empire with me. Poor Leopold was forced to stay with my mom in her senior apartment until I bought a house. Leopold would sit in the front window at night when my mom was asleep. One day, my mom’s next door neighbor told her, “Un diablo en un casa (a devil is in your house)”.
Soon, Adrian and I bought our house in North Fontana and Leopold moved again. He loved the new house and roamed the rural neighborhood.
About a month after we moved in, I went to the LA Fair with my friend Tracy and before I left, I let Leopold outside to prowl. When I got home from the fair, I couldn’t find Leopold anywhere. I tried not to panic.
I put up flyers in the neighborhood. I chose my favorite picture, the one of Leopold in his superman Halloween costume. I offered a five hundred dollar reward. Adrian drove around the neighborhood for days and looked in all the storm drains.
Adrian tried to console me, “We’ll find him, don’t worry.” But I knew. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. He was gone.
One night, about four days after he disappeared, I woke up in the middle of the night and swore I could hear Leopold meowing. I ran outside in my pajamas and followed the meows next door to the empty for sale house. But, I knew there were no meows.
It was just my memory of Leopold’s meows echoing in my head.
Monday, April 2, 2012
It's just a microwave
My microwave is keeping me up. It broke today. It seems like everything is breaking. Our washer broke recently and then the television downstairs (both for the second time). We haven't fixed the television yet. We didn't have a choice with the washer and decided to just replace it.
My ten year old Mercedes is in desperate need of repair. I can't go over sixty on the freeway without the steering wheel shaking.
And now this. That piece of shit microwave.
The more stuff you have, the more stuff that can break. And, the nicer your stuff, the more expensive it is to fix. As my husband said before he went to bed, "that's a thousand dollar microwave."
Should any microwave cost a thousand dollars? Maybe my husband's exaggerating. Maybe not. It's a pretty nice microwave. It's built into the cabinet and fancy with all the bells and whistles.
I think back to my first microwave. I bought it at a garage sale for ten bucks. On second thought, maybe someone gave it to me for free. I am speculating here, but it doesn't really matter because the point is, a microwave breaking should not be a calamity.
Except it seems like one right now.
It's late, I have to work tomorrow and I need to wake up early so I can work out at six a.m. and all I can think of is the microwave. We need to fix it because we may be moving soon with my mother-in-law to her house in Hesperia and renting out this huge monstrosity we call a house. Who needs 3700 square feet? Certainly not I said the cat.
My husband and I were happy in five hundred square feet when we lived in UCSF's dental school housing on the hill with Sutro Tower. I could barely fit into the bathroom, but it was enough. Just barely enough, but enough. And we popped our popcorn in a small white microwave we bought at Walgreen's.
Fuck, I can't get that damn microwave out of my head. It just stoppped. No power. We tried the breaker, but that wasn't the problem. I was watching my favorite show "Smash" and I went downstairs to make some popcorn and tried to turn the microwave on. Nothing. The microwave died without a cause.
You take a microwave for granted until you don't have one.
I really want some microwave popcorn. Actually, what really sounds good is the old fashioned kind of popcorn you make in a big pot with kernels and oil. The kind my dad used to make when I was little.
My dad would pop the popcorn and throw it into a Stater Bros. brown paper bag. He would melt margerine on the stovetop and pour it on top and grab the Morton's and shake it all over.
"Watch this girls," he would say as he shook the bag. Me and my sisters would fight with one another to grab a handful of the delicious, buttery mess. It was the perfect combination of salty and sweet.
Maybe that's what I miss. The simple happiness of popcorn from a brown paper bag. Nothing fancy, kind of like my dad. Simple, but sweet.
Unlike my fucking microwave.
My ten year old Mercedes is in desperate need of repair. I can't go over sixty on the freeway without the steering wheel shaking.
And now this. That piece of shit microwave.
The more stuff you have, the more stuff that can break. And, the nicer your stuff, the more expensive it is to fix. As my husband said before he went to bed, "that's a thousand dollar microwave."
Should any microwave cost a thousand dollars? Maybe my husband's exaggerating. Maybe not. It's a pretty nice microwave. It's built into the cabinet and fancy with all the bells and whistles.
I think back to my first microwave. I bought it at a garage sale for ten bucks. On second thought, maybe someone gave it to me for free. I am speculating here, but it doesn't really matter because the point is, a microwave breaking should not be a calamity.
Except it seems like one right now.
It's late, I have to work tomorrow and I need to wake up early so I can work out at six a.m. and all I can think of is the microwave. We need to fix it because we may be moving soon with my mother-in-law to her house in Hesperia and renting out this huge monstrosity we call a house. Who needs 3700 square feet? Certainly not I said the cat.
My husband and I were happy in five hundred square feet when we lived in UCSF's dental school housing on the hill with Sutro Tower. I could barely fit into the bathroom, but it was enough. Just barely enough, but enough. And we popped our popcorn in a small white microwave we bought at Walgreen's.
Fuck, I can't get that damn microwave out of my head. It just stoppped. No power. We tried the breaker, but that wasn't the problem. I was watching my favorite show "Smash" and I went downstairs to make some popcorn and tried to turn the microwave on. Nothing. The microwave died without a cause.
You take a microwave for granted until you don't have one.
I really want some microwave popcorn. Actually, what really sounds good is the old fashioned kind of popcorn you make in a big pot with kernels and oil. The kind my dad used to make when I was little.
My dad would pop the popcorn and throw it into a Stater Bros. brown paper bag. He would melt margerine on the stovetop and pour it on top and grab the Morton's and shake it all over.
"Watch this girls," he would say as he shook the bag. Me and my sisters would fight with one another to grab a handful of the delicious, buttery mess. It was the perfect combination of salty and sweet.
Maybe that's what I miss. The simple happiness of popcorn from a brown paper bag. Nothing fancy, kind of like my dad. Simple, but sweet.
Unlike my fucking microwave.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Taming of the Shrew
The other morning at seven a.m., I had a meltdown in the driveway. Afterwards, images of my mother screaming at my dad in the front yard when I was little flashed in my head like sugar covered plums on Christmas.
My morning had started out hectic as usual. I woke up at five a.m. and went to the gym. After running the treadmill for an hour I got home by six and walked the dogs. I rushed my shower reducing my usual fifteen minute shower down to five minutes and blow dried and straightened my hair. I looked at the clock and hissed when I saw that it was already seven. Parking has been horrible this last week so in order to get a "free" county space, I must be in the parking lot by 7:45 a.m. It usually takes me about twenty five minutes to get to work so I was cutting it close.
I threw on my clothes and ran down the stairs. I watered and fed the dogs and grabbed my keys and jumped in my car. 7:15. I had just enough time.
When I looked to my right, I saw my neighbor's trash cans on the curb. Fuck. Wednesday is trash day.
I ran back in the house, pushed the button to open the garage door and pulled the trash cans to the curb one by one cussing under my breath.
When I got back to my car, Adrian was sitting in his car warming it up. He doesn't have to be at the dental office in Hesperia until 9 a.m. on Wednesdays but he usually goes early and hangs out at Starbucks. How relaxing.
Double fuck. The garage door was still open and I lost my remote last week. I looked at Adrian sitting in his car and motioned toward the open garage door. No response. I turned off my car and looked at him. He shrugged.
"This is bullshit," I thought to myself as I slammed my car door and walked back into the house to close the garage door.
As I walked back outside Adrian was still sitting in his car and something inside of me snapped.
"Fuck, you need to help me more Adrian" I screamed like a possessed banshee and flipped Adrian off not once but twice.
I pulled away tires screeching and saw my next door neighbor and his kids standing by their front door.
On my drive to work, I called Adrian on my speaker phone. "What is wrong with you?" he said in a perplexed voice. He had no clue.
I feel like I do everything. And, instead of just letting it go, i.e. letting the trash sit in the garage for two weeks, I push myself to get it all done and then bitch about it.
I know screaming isn't productive, but sometimes I feel like us shrews get a bad rap. When people nag others it is because shit isn't getting done.
And I get shit done.
So fuck it, this shrew won't be tamed, although I will try and confine her to the interior of the house from now on.
My morning had started out hectic as usual. I woke up at five a.m. and went to the gym. After running the treadmill for an hour I got home by six and walked the dogs. I rushed my shower reducing my usual fifteen minute shower down to five minutes and blow dried and straightened my hair. I looked at the clock and hissed when I saw that it was already seven. Parking has been horrible this last week so in order to get a "free" county space, I must be in the parking lot by 7:45 a.m. It usually takes me about twenty five minutes to get to work so I was cutting it close.
I threw on my clothes and ran down the stairs. I watered and fed the dogs and grabbed my keys and jumped in my car. 7:15. I had just enough time.
When I looked to my right, I saw my neighbor's trash cans on the curb. Fuck. Wednesday is trash day.
I ran back in the house, pushed the button to open the garage door and pulled the trash cans to the curb one by one cussing under my breath.
When I got back to my car, Adrian was sitting in his car warming it up. He doesn't have to be at the dental office in Hesperia until 9 a.m. on Wednesdays but he usually goes early and hangs out at Starbucks. How relaxing.
Double fuck. The garage door was still open and I lost my remote last week. I looked at Adrian sitting in his car and motioned toward the open garage door. No response. I turned off my car and looked at him. He shrugged.
"This is bullshit," I thought to myself as I slammed my car door and walked back into the house to close the garage door.
As I walked back outside Adrian was still sitting in his car and something inside of me snapped.
"Fuck, you need to help me more Adrian" I screamed like a possessed banshee and flipped Adrian off not once but twice.
I pulled away tires screeching and saw my next door neighbor and his kids standing by their front door.
On my drive to work, I called Adrian on my speaker phone. "What is wrong with you?" he said in a perplexed voice. He had no clue.
I feel like I do everything. And, instead of just letting it go, i.e. letting the trash sit in the garage for two weeks, I push myself to get it all done and then bitch about it.
I know screaming isn't productive, but sometimes I feel like us shrews get a bad rap. When people nag others it is because shit isn't getting done.
And I get shit done.
So fuck it, this shrew won't be tamed, although I will try and confine her to the interior of the house from now on.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
My romantic side
I am watching "You've Got Mail" for the umpteenth time. There is something about romantic comedies like this that gets me. Especially romantic comedies by Nora Ephron.
Ephron's "You've Got Mail" is essentially a remake of the film "Shop Around The Corner", a 1940's film involving a letter writing romance between James Stewart and Margaret Sullavan. It also overtly references the Jane Austen classic "Pride and Prejudice" and the main characters of Austen's classic strongly influence the characters of Kathleen Kelly (played by Meg Ryan) and Joe Fox (played by Tom Hanks).
At the end of the movie when Kathleen finds out that Joe, her arch nemesis, is the man she fell in love with over email she starts to cry and Tom Hanks wipes her eye and says, "Don't cry shop girl." To which she responds, "I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly." It gives me chills just to write that scene's dialogue. It is perfect. And it helps that "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" is playing in the background.
The referential nature of "You've Got Mail" is similar to another of my favorite Ephron films, "Sleepless in Seattle" which also pairs Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. "Sleepless in Seattle" is heavily influenced by the film classic "An Affair to Remember." Even though it is embarrassing to admit, I had never seen "An Affair to Remember" and only rented it after I saw "Sleepless in Seattle" for the first time.
The first time I saw "An Affair to Remember" I cried like a baby. The final scene where Cary Grant realizes why a wheelchair bound Deborah Kerr couldn't keep their appointment atop the Empire State Building turns me into a weeping mess.
"An Affair to Remember" is a close second to my favorite movie of all time "Gone With The Wind". I read "Gone With The Wind" when I was six and used to dream about running away with Rhett Butler. When I saw the movie for the first time, at somewhere around seven or eight years old, I remember thinking that Clark Gable was the same image in my head of Rhett Butler after I read the book. This rarely happens. Usually when I read a book and become invested in the characters, a movie casting is a pale comparison to the image of the characters in my mind's eye. "Gone With the Wind" is the exception (and Matt Dillion as Dallas in "The Outsiders").
I used to sit in elementary class and daydream about writing a sequel to "Gone With The Wind". Of course, Rhett and Scarlett would end up together. They would have another little girl and they would grow old together and laugh about all the drama in their past.
Isn't that how all great romances are supposed to end?
Ephron's "You've Got Mail" is essentially a remake of the film "Shop Around The Corner", a 1940's film involving a letter writing romance between James Stewart and Margaret Sullavan. It also overtly references the Jane Austen classic "Pride and Prejudice" and the main characters of Austen's classic strongly influence the characters of Kathleen Kelly (played by Meg Ryan) and Joe Fox (played by Tom Hanks).
At the end of the movie when Kathleen finds out that Joe, her arch nemesis, is the man she fell in love with over email she starts to cry and Tom Hanks wipes her eye and says, "Don't cry shop girl." To which she responds, "I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly." It gives me chills just to write that scene's dialogue. It is perfect. And it helps that "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" is playing in the background.
The referential nature of "You've Got Mail" is similar to another of my favorite Ephron films, "Sleepless in Seattle" which also pairs Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. "Sleepless in Seattle" is heavily influenced by the film classic "An Affair to Remember." Even though it is embarrassing to admit, I had never seen "An Affair to Remember" and only rented it after I saw "Sleepless in Seattle" for the first time.
The first time I saw "An Affair to Remember" I cried like a baby. The final scene where Cary Grant realizes why a wheelchair bound Deborah Kerr couldn't keep their appointment atop the Empire State Building turns me into a weeping mess.
"An Affair to Remember" is a close second to my favorite movie of all time "Gone With The Wind". I read "Gone With The Wind" when I was six and used to dream about running away with Rhett Butler. When I saw the movie for the first time, at somewhere around seven or eight years old, I remember thinking that Clark Gable was the same image in my head of Rhett Butler after I read the book. This rarely happens. Usually when I read a book and become invested in the characters, a movie casting is a pale comparison to the image of the characters in my mind's eye. "Gone With the Wind" is the exception (and Matt Dillion as Dallas in "The Outsiders").
I used to sit in elementary class and daydream about writing a sequel to "Gone With The Wind". Of course, Rhett and Scarlett would end up together. They would have another little girl and they would grow old together and laugh about all the drama in their past.
Isn't that how all great romances are supposed to end?
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Funny Girl
Some may find this shocking but in some ways, being the fat girl was more fun. There was no pressure. You could talk to someone and be funny and witty and there was never more than a hint of sexual undertone.
It was as if the layer of fat that covered my belly and thighs, at least eighty pounds of which I have lost, insulated me from the male gaze. That has changed and I am not entirely comfortable with it.
More accurately stated, I am downright uncomfortable with it.
So there lies the rub. To be thin, and in turn meet society's definition of "sexy", you have to give something up. That something is a certain freedom of being and existing. And, while I would not put back on the pounds, I do wish I could somehow escape that rub. No pun intended.
I want to be the thin, funny gal pal type, just like I used to be the fat, funny gal pal type. There are strategies I could use I suppose: dress more boyish, wear my glasses, pull back my hair, the list goes on. But why should I have to ugly it up to escape the unwanted attention?
And, I have to admit, in a weird way I do crave the attention. Do my contradictions make any sense?
In Vegas this weekend, I was sitting at the bar waiting for my friend to finish at the blackjack table. I fidgeted in my bar stool trying to pull down my too short sequined dress.
A guy sat down next to me and smiled and said, "Are you waiting for your sugar daddy?" I looked at him with a scowl and said, "No, I make my own money." His friends walked up shortly thereafter and handed him a hat to match their own green baseball caps. I looked over and gave a sarcastic smirk and said, "You looked better without the hat." His friend laughed and said, "Oh you're a funny girl."
I nodded my head and said, "Yes I am."
It was as if the layer of fat that covered my belly and thighs, at least eighty pounds of which I have lost, insulated me from the male gaze. That has changed and I am not entirely comfortable with it.
More accurately stated, I am downright uncomfortable with it.
So there lies the rub. To be thin, and in turn meet society's definition of "sexy", you have to give something up. That something is a certain freedom of being and existing. And, while I would not put back on the pounds, I do wish I could somehow escape that rub. No pun intended.
I want to be the thin, funny gal pal type, just like I used to be the fat, funny gal pal type. There are strategies I could use I suppose: dress more boyish, wear my glasses, pull back my hair, the list goes on. But why should I have to ugly it up to escape the unwanted attention?
And, I have to admit, in a weird way I do crave the attention. Do my contradictions make any sense?
In Vegas this weekend, I was sitting at the bar waiting for my friend to finish at the blackjack table. I fidgeted in my bar stool trying to pull down my too short sequined dress.
A guy sat down next to me and smiled and said, "Are you waiting for your sugar daddy?" I looked at him with a scowl and said, "No, I make my own money." His friends walked up shortly thereafter and handed him a hat to match their own green baseball caps. I looked over and gave a sarcastic smirk and said, "You looked better without the hat." His friend laughed and said, "Oh you're a funny girl."
I nodded my head and said, "Yes I am."
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