The last time I took an extended holiday was my marriage to Preppy three years ago, so it’s established that I‘m only capable of setting work aside for my own wedding, which is unlikely to be a recurring event.
I’ve dodged several proposed vacations over the years, because I’ve always got a project which requires my attention. Plus, I think money is better spent on improving our home life. Granted, most of the money I’m talking about is my husband’s, but I still have opinions on the subject. Because I have opinions on all subjects. I am an opinionated person.
Preppy asked what was so important at the house that it should trump a getaway. I pointed out we really needed a new sofa. As nice as the trip would be, coming home to our beat-up couch would prove the money could have been used on a long-term investment.
Dear Bristol Palin,
I heard the news this week about your return to “Dancing with the Stars,” for their special All-Stars edition. I’m sure it’s exciting for you to be going back to the ballroom.
Last time you were on the show, there were more than a few jokes at your expense, mostly in the vein of questioning exactly what you’d done to gain “celebrity” status.
We’re funny like that in this country — elevating private citizens (meaning people who did not specifically seek a career in the public eye) to celebrity status, following and debating their every move, and then bemoaning how much attention everyone is giving them. The Kardashians have built an empire on this cultural quirk.
This morning I got the confirmation email for my flight to San Francisco next month. It’ll be our first real vacation since we got married three years ago. My first reaction was excitement, because I wasn’t expecting my husband to buy the tickets, so it was a nice surprise.
This was immediately followed by the anxiety of seeing the price tag. It’s not my money — I won’t be paying for my ticket, or the hotel, or really much of anything — but I’m able to exist in a fairly pleasant fog of denial about how much Preppy covers financially, and moments like this force the fog to clear in a manner I’d just as soon avoid.
The two subjects people most commonly avoid in relationships are sex and money, usually why there isn’t enough of either. This statistic was provided by The Official Institute of Things I Made Up About Relationships.
This story starts with the ending. Mama and Daddy celebrated their 40th anniversary last weekend — impressive by any standard, and even more so when one considers the fact that they were 19 and 20, respectively, when they eloped.
Neither statistical odds nor conventional wisdom was on their side, but they grew together and built a life. Not every leap of faith has that kind of payoff. It is a moment worth celebrating.
I called with congratulations. Mama said their shared hope is that my sister and I will build equally strong partnerships with our husbands. That was the term she used, “Your husbands.” Mama made no distinction between her daughter’s marriage and her son’s, and both were lumped in with her own. Marriage equality has been achieved in the Payne family.
Using old talents in a new medium leads to the birth of a salesman
I’m really into bricks lately. The gateway drug was tearing the wooden steps off the back of our house and building the new ones myself. Standing at the base of my beautiful brick steps, I felt a surge of pride not unlike what the Egyptians must have felt when they completed that first pyramid.
“Ah, yes,” they/I thought. “Here is a thing I did which will last the test of time. Now, let us see what Cleopatra is up to.” Only when they said that last part, they meant the real Cleopatra, not obsessively Googling for more leaked images of Lindsay Lohan as Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra, which is what I meant. But I can assure you, our devotion is identical in every way.
Anyhoo, the back steps led to a retaining wall, which then caused drainage problems requiring a second retaining wall to reroute the flow. And now there are plans for a patio. I can only haul a certain number of bricks in my car at one time, so I make lots of little trips to Home Depot, stopping by after work to pick up a load like one would grab a gallon of milk — only much, much heavier.
When I started buying my own clothes in my teens, grunge was at its peak. A wifebeater, flannel shirt, and a pair of Dickies were considered appropriate apparel for any occasion, which was super handy because you could buy that whole outfit for less than 10 bucks.
In retrospect I see that the fashion trend was started by poor people who had to shop at thrift stores because they were spending all their money on drugs. Then the look was adopted by prep school kids like myself, who went on shopping sprees at thrift stores and still had mad cash left over to spend on drugs. We’d all end up at the same concerts, and the only way you could tell the difference between the real thing and the posers was by sniffing us. The prep school guys all smelled like CK One.
So I was trained to shop thrift, and shop it well. As fashions changed, my shopping habits didn’t, and I grew to take pride in being an excellent excavator of treasures. My husband has a corporate-level position at a clothing retailer, so this offends him on a few different levels.
Maurice Sendak died May 8, silencing one of the most inventive, delightful, ornery voices of the last American century. His artistic endeavors in a 50-year career ranged from illustration to opera, though the work that made him a legend was a 48-page book about a boy in wolf pajamas entitled “Where the Wild Things Are.” I’ve told the story of my introduction to his work before. I hope you’ll indulge me telling it once more in his memory.
I spent entire summers of my childhood at the county library, curled up in the stacks, reading books not intended for children. The children’s section was of no interest to me. I read “Not Without My Daughter” at age 10. I had to look up what an IUD was in the World Book Encyclopedia. I was horrified and fascinated.
But, much to my surprise, a monster drew me in. He was bull-like creature, catching a little shuteye under a red palm tree. Despite my disdain of children’s literature, I occasionally picked up a copy with interesting illustrations, and this intrigued me. The dark, lightly grotesque images didn’t fit my image of kid lit.
Preppy offered our guest room to a coworker in town from Miami, meaning there’s even more conversations than usual around our house involving phrases like “loss prevention” and “opportunities.”
“Opportunities” in particular is a major buzz word at his company. It’s a euphemism for “total fail,” but they’re savvy enough not to say that. But I’ve been with my husband long enough to translate what he means when he says there’s “opportunities” in our kitchen sink.
I’ve been spending my evenings playing Auntie Mame, which also sounds like a euphemism, but is in this case literally what I’m up to. As proud as I am of my career, I do hate it when I’m dressed like a lady the first time I meet one of his coworkers. But some things just cannot be helped.
In Mississippi, your husband could just as easily have been your cousin