Now consider my approach. I’ve gotten away with some pretty extravagant interior splurges over the years by mastering the delicate, dying art of combining patience with subtlety. I start by planting a few seeds, which usually entails extolling a thing’s functional value, over and over, until Joe wholeheartedly believes that we need it as badly as I want it. The wine bar in our kitchen is a perfect example. If you asked him whose idea it was to buy the gigantic, overpriced, six-piece wall-length Pottery Barn unit, he’d probably say “Ours.” And that’s just what I want him to think.
As soon as I saw it on the cover of the catalog, I knew that wine bar would wind up in our kitchen. We’d just moved yet another wall and, serendipitously, the bar was exactly the right size to fill it; so much so in fact that it would practically look like a custom built-in. I was foaming at the mouth for it but I didn’t go out and buy it or even ask Joe what he thought. I simply ripped the page from the catalog and taped it to the wall.
“What’s this?” Joe asked immediately upon noticing the temporary artwork.
“Oh, it’s something I saw that I thought might work on that wall, but it’s pretty expensive and I’m not sure it would even work anyway,” I replied.
“Why not?” he asked.
“It’s not the cabinet space, because it’s got plenty and that would certainly be nice added storage, like you’re always saying we need,” I said carefully. “And it holds a ton of wine, so we could move the boxes out of the garage that are constantly getting in your way. But I just don’t know if it will fit . . .”
“Well, did you measure the space?” he asked, leaping into handyman mode.
Who did he think he was dealing with, some kind of rookie? Of course I measured the space and it couldn’t be a more perfect fit. It wasn’t really going to be this easy, was it?
“I was going to,” I told him. “I just wanted to get an idea of how it might look there.” I know, lying to your husband is terrible, but that wasn’t technically a lie because I was going to measure it—and then I did. Besides, if I looked too eager, I knew I’d never get the thing. That was where the patience came in.
Within seconds Joe had the measuring tape out and was appraising the space.
“Wow, Jenna, this would fit perfectly here,” he announced.
“Really?” I replied with mock shock. “Because if you think so, it is on sale but only for a couple of days. Were you thinking of ordering it right away?” Did you see how I did that? How I turned it on a dime and now the whole thing was Joe’s idea in the first place so he couldn’t even argue it? I know, I’m brilliant.
Despite a few similarly manipulative little stunts, for the most part I think I am both respectful and gracious in the way I handle the “inside operations.” I might replace a few faded throw pillows or buy a new vase at Target without running the transaction by my husband in advance, but more often than not I seek Joe’s input before making a major change or purchase. I consider his towering height when hanging mirrors so that I don’t accidentally position them so low that he can’t see his own forehead in them. I narrow curtain and paint and bedding options down to a handful I can live with and then ask whether he has a favorite. (Sometimes he even does.) I try to remember to fawn appreciatively when he plants this or prunes that or otherwise busts his ass trying to spruce up the outside. For the privilege of having the house look exactly how I want it and never having to mow my own lawn, I figure it’s the least I can do.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Vacation:
All I Ever Wanted
Most travel is best of all in the anticipation or the remembering; the reality has more to do with losing your luggage.
• REGINA NADELSON •
In a former life—well, it was technically this one, but it feels like a different one altogether because I was young and wrinklefree and rarely carried snack-size bags dusted with pretzel crumbs plus a dozen or more crayons in my purse—I did a lot of travel writing. One of the great perks of travel writing is that you get to see the world and also you get a ton of free shit. When you are gainfully employed in this capacity, generous companies eagerly furnish you with first-class plane tickets, sprawling presidential suites, petrifying paragliding lessons, and as many gourmet meals as you can shovel into your cake hole in the hopes that you might recommend their resort/ airline/cruise ship/death-defying activity to three or four million of your closest friends. For the very reasonable price of a smile and an assignment on official magazine letterhead, I have scaled walls of rock in Utah and mountains of ice in Colorado, plumbed the depths of the Kauai coast with a scuba tank on my back, and practiced yoga poses on a blindingly white beach somewhere in the West Indies. Getting paid to pretend you’re a rich tourist is a sweet gig all around, save for occasionally having to sacrifice an hour or two of your critical “research” time to dine with an annoying PR person.
Call me spoiled (I admit! I was!), but after you’ve experienced the VIP vacation treatment, it’s hard to go back to the budget-traveler lifestyle. Especially when your new husband thinks that camping actually falls into the vacation category.
“Do we have an air mattress?” I asked, surveying the towering piles of camping gear, every last bit of which seemed to be the same shade of camo-puke green. I’d been camping exactly once in my life, as a child, and the only thing I remembered about the experience was the neat orange shag carpet that lined the roof of the Winnebago. I had dabbled in Brownies but didn’t quite make it to Girl Scouts, and I had never slept in a tent in my life. You could leave me alone in a room with nothing but two sticks for all of eternity and it would never occur to me to rub them together and see what happened. I’d said yes to camping easily, because I hadn’t really given the idea any thorough thought. Once I had, I have to admit that the knowledge that the only thing between me and the God-knows-what that was lurking in the forest was a flimsy sheet of nylon unnerved me more than a little bit. Plus, what if it was cold? What if it was hot? What if it rained? And how did a bear shit in the woods? But I was trying to be game, so I purposely employed the “royal we” construction there, because we were married now—and apparently we were campers.
“We have inflatable sleeping mats,” Joe replied.
“Can I see them?” I asked, trying really hard not to sound too skeptical.
Joe handed me a tiny bag.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Our sleeping mats,” he said.
I looked at the sack in my hand. It was smaller than the lingerie bag I take on a long weekend away.
“I’m going to get an air mattress,” I informed him.
When we were all packed up, the truck looked like it belonged to a family of nine about to embark on a crosscountry expedition. We had lanterns and propane tanks, firewood and bear spray (Dear God, we had bear spray?), bug repellent and biodegradable soap, hiking boots and hydrocortisone, a cooler full of booze and a massive three-room tent we had affectionately dubbed the Taj Mahal. Oh, and a king-size pillow-top air mattress that I planned to lovingly envelop in our butteriest sheets and top with a fluffy down comforter.
“You’re not serious,” Joe demanded when I’d set up the Taj’s master suite. The luxurious bed was flanked on either side by a pair of upturned crates serving as nightstands; on top of the crates stood matching lanterns. Our pillows from home perched happily at the bed’s head; there was a small rug at the foot of it all for our dog, Sam, to curl up on.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, hurt. I thought the whole thing was impossibly cozy.
“We’re camping, Jenna,” Joe reminded me unnecessarily.
“Oh, I didn’t realize that meant we had to be miserably uncomfortable and sleep on a bed of rocks and freeze our asses off,” I pouted.
“It doesn’t mean that,” he replied, sounding more than a little defensive. “It’s just that it doesn’t really feel like camping if you bring the whole goddamned house with you.”
“So it does mean that!” I accused. “You
think it’s a more authentic camping experience if we are cold and uncomfortable and drink disgusting instant coffee and eat beans out of a can instead of steak on a real plate. Admit it.”
“That’s not true,” he said, utterly without conviction. And then the last part of my statement seemed to register. “Did you bring plates? And steaks?”
“Of course I brought plates and steaks!” I howled. “And Starbucks coffee and half-and-half and homemade lemon scones. Do you have a problem with that?”
“You’re unbelievable,” Joe said, shaking his head.
I was unbelievable? Unbelievable!
After roughing it up and down the California coast, I have to say that one of my favorite rustic retreats is a central California hotspot called El Capitan Canyon, conveniently located about twenty minutes from my front door. Technically a campground, the canyon claims on its website to cater to “luxury campers,” which if I have to classify myself as any sort of camper, that’s the one I’d choose. You’re welcome to pitch a tent at El Cap, as it’s known, but why would you when you can bunk in a charming two-room cedar cabin that features a fireplace, full-size refrigerator, wraparound deck, enormous soaking tub, and a handy gas grill? Before you say “What’s the point?” let me draw your attention to the fact that the deluxe cabins have skylights and outdoor showers and huge glass French doors, so there are ample opportunities to enjoy all of nature’s wondrous bounties that surround your pastoral pad. Plus the cabins don’t have honor bars or room service, which means you have to remember to bring your own Pringles and smoked almonds, and if you forget your corkscrew, there’s no bellhop on the property to rescue you, so it’s not like you’re staying at the Bellagio or anything.
“Do me a favor,” my sister said after I sent her the link to El Cap’s website and told her we’d be spending two nights there during an upcoming visit. “Call it ‘staying in the cabins,’ not camping.”
“Okay, but why?” I asked.
“Because if my husband and kids think you can camp like this, I’ll never be able to get them to sleep in a tent again,” she explained.
It took the better part of a decade to help Joe revise his camping definition to look a little more like mine, and on more than one group outing we have sat hungrily watching our friends inhale their hot dogs and beans while waiting for our prosciutto-stuffed chicken breasts and marinated portobello mushrooms to cook. But in the morning, it is always them asking us if we can spare a cup of French roast or a splash of cream; never the other way around.
“At Least You’re Not Married to Him”
My husband and I travel quite a bit, and he can endure discomfort much better than I can. Because of this I have had quite a few meltdowns, including one very famous one at Kensington Palace when I had had enough walking and wanted to take a cab; you know, a car you pay money for? My husband had a big problem with cabs . . . until my meltdown in front of Princess Diana’s palace. It was loud and quite legendary. Now he knows that wherever we are, if I say the C-word he starts whistling.
RANDEE
Regardless of whether you are pitching a tent or shacking up in deluxe accommodations, vacations are fun! You get to see the world, take a break from your hectic life at home (although you will have your laptop and your BlackBerry and your iPad along so that you can still feel “connected” to the home you couldn’t wait to get away from), enjoy unfamiliar cuisine, and fight in an entirely unfamiliar setting over new and different things. If you go somewhere exotic—and by exotic I mean anywhere the road signs aren’t also written in English or they drive on a different side of the road than you’re used to—the opportunities to claw at one another’s eyeballs are virtually endless.
Over the years Joe and I have defaulted to pretty static travel roles: He is the pilot and I am the navigator. And I have to say we are both extremely competent in our positions. Nevertheless, because he won’t let me buy a new car that has that sultry gal who tosses out handy navigational tips living inside the dashboard, there is unfailingly a midjourney moment (or seventeen) that looks like this:
JOE: “You’re going to tell me when I’m supposed to exit, right?”
ME: “Yup, it’s coming up here pretty quickly.”
JOE: “Just tell me when to exit.”
ME: “Soon, so get ready.”
JOE: “Which side is the exit on?”
ME: “What am I, telepathic? Am I supposed to have a 3-D GPS tracking chip in my brain? Hang on a second; let me try to visualize the exit . . . Ooh, there it is!”
JOE: “You’re funny.”
ME: “You just passed the exit! I told you, there it is! What are you doing? Why didn’t you get off ?”
JOE: “I thought you were fucking visualizing it. If I get off at the next exit, can I flip around and get back on the highway?”
ME: “Are you serious?”
JOE: “Give me the map.”
ME: “The small roads aren’t on the map.”
JOE: “Well, why did you buy that stupid map then? There were thirty maps to choose from and you picked the one that doesn’t have any actual roads on it. Perfect.”
ME: “So it’s my fault you missed your exit?”
JOE: “If you say so.”
ME: “Oh my God, I hate you.”
JOE: “Right back atcha, babe.”
“At Least You’re Not Married to Him”
Let me just start by saying my husband and I have very different definitions of the word vacation. For starters, he is a resort guy. His happy vacation is Hawaii or Palm Desert, whereas mine is New York City or San Miguel de Allende. I go away to see new cool cultural and art things; he goes away to relax and play golf. As I write this, we are in Palm Springs. He is on the balcony, which overlooks the eleventh hole (that’s a golf term), and he’s watching live, in-person, amateur golf. How fucking boring is that? Not to use a cliché or anything, but watching paint dry has got to be more interesting than watching golf. I’ve been referring to our balcony as the Golf Channel. I think he could sit there all day. He talks to me about golf (players, tournaments, shots), and he’ll even say “I’m boring you, aren’t I?” Of course he’s boring me. Bugging me? No. Boring me? Totally.
KIM
Although we almost always spar when we’re en route somewhere, usually we are speaking again by the time we reach our destination. This is handy because it absolutely takes two people to corral the kids and collect the bags and dole out the dollar bills to the fourteen people who are patiently waiting for a tip before you’ve even put the car in park.
“So what do you want to do?” I always ask as soon as Joe has finished unpacking his bags. Yeah, he’s that guy who fully moves into a hotel room immediately upon entering it, even if he’s going to be there for only one night. He always insists on taking the side of the bed nearest the door, too, an extremely chivalrous move born of the watertight “the axe murderers will have to get by me to get to you” argument.
“We’re doing it,” he replies, stretching out on the bed and clicking on the TV. “Grab me a beer out of the honor bar, will you?”
One of the things I love most about my husband is how generous he is on vacation. Not that he’s ever stingy at home, because he absolutely isn’t, but he goes from being the poster boy for practical, conservative spenders everywhere to Drinks-Are-on-Me Dude, and it’s one of the best reasons to go through the hassle of going somewhere besides vacation sex.
“You want it?” he’ll ask when he sees me fondling some trinket or another in the hotel gift shop. “Get it!”
“No, I don’t want to split an appetizer,” he’ll say as we scan our dinner menus. “Get your own. And save room for dessert!”
“Wow, they actually charge fourteen dollars for a can of macadamia nuts,” he’ll remark, tipping back the diminutive container and downing at least eleven dollars’ worth of nuts in a single swallow.
Even though we fight and probably because he lets me buy a lot of stuff, Joe and I have taken some amazing trips
over the years and have had pretty great travel luck. We rarely lose our luggage, we’ve never regretted not forking over for the rental car company’s added collision insurance, and I only once had to go to the ER in a foreign country for a shot in the ass after waking up with what I was convinced was a brain aneurysm but turned out to be vertigo. Our family did spend a miserable week stuck in a cabin in Tahoe when a nasty stomach bug tore its way through our collective intestines, but we were staying with friends so at least we had someone to bring us Gatorade and fresh sheets and towels.
If It Was Easy, They'd Call the Whole Damn Thing a Honeymoon Page 21
