Fortunately, the contest ended before I had to transform old plots from CSI: Miami into convincing personal anecdotes. By then I had begun to realize that our emails had become the only coherent nuanced conversation I was having with a two-legged polysyllabic creature on a regular basis. They were a reminder that I, as a human being, had a need to communicate in ways more layered and complex than simple ball throwing.
Therefore, when his girlfriend left and he became single, I had no hesitation about dating this guy. And when I say “date,” I mean wake up at two in the morning to accommodate his late-night schedule as a musician. His workday started when I was finishing dinner.
“No, no, three A.M. isn’t too late for a visit,” I would lie as I searched my cabinets for a box of Vivarin. Then, having consumed in pill form the equivalent of ten cups of coffee, I would shower, put on makeup, and whip up a little entrée I hoped he would find half as impressive as the dogs found my mostly empty salad bowls. Spending a decade alone, as it turns out, makes a person more amenable to the idea of thin-slicing mushrooms for chicken marsala at three in the morning.
After so many years of isolation, I kind of enjoyed the late-night activity. I began to realize that there were advantages to older love. For instance, by the time this guy met me, I could actually cook something more complicated than oatmeal.
Once things between us started percolating, I found that stepping into the relationship arena at the cusp of (some age or other) was quite a different experience than it had been in previous decades. Younger love, it seemed, was mainly about the idea of potential—the illusion that magical transformations were bound to occur when the person you think you love has a miraculous unprompted awakening after some metaphorical lightning bolt, made out of your wishes and projections, suddenly brings them to their senses. On the other hand, older love is all about what you are hoping is still possible, after you have mourned the death of the idea of yourself as a manufacturer of miracles. Older love starts with the unpleasant truth that expecting a person to change for the better spontaneously, simply because you wish it, makes as much sense as counting on the lottery for next month’s rent.
My new gentleman caller stood out immediately from his predecessors. For one thing, since we weren’t living together, he didn’t have the option of yelling “Okay, then get the fuck out!” when tempers flared. This meant that even irrational fights eventually ended with a discussion containing adult perspective, introspection, and resolution, a marked improvement over olden times, when I seemed to always be the one to shrug before retreating to my bunker to silently embrace the rashes, stomachaches, and asthma attacks that accompanied unilateral disarmament.
Now, after many years of therapy, I had learned how to stand my ground. No more volunteering that everything was my fault, especially on those occasions when everything actually was my fault.
And so it came to pass that almost three years into a relationship where we saw each other only on weekends and Wednesdays, my gentleman friend called me to say that his landlord had decided to sell the house he was renting and now he was going to have to look for a place to live. No one was more surprised than I to hear my mouth speaking the words “Well, then, why don’t you move in with me?”
While I spoke, I could feel my stomach knot as I was swallowed up in a rapid montage of fiery images from the dying moments of previous relationships: the lying, the swearing, the screaming, the vitriol, the day I filled a car with a boyfriend’s clothes as if it were some engine-driven suitcase and had it removed from the premises. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” I said to myself, “because I am not sure I was properly consulted on this decision.”
Cut to: one bright summer day, as I was helping this new man pack his belongings into cardboard boxes from Staples.
“What about your edict?” I asked myself, aware that I was ignoring it the same way I do my New Year’s resolutions. “Remember that thing you said about never living with another man unless you got married first?”
“Well, I’m not sure I ever said that,” I replied, as I rifled through his cupboards, throwing away the pots I’d seen cats sleeping in. “You know me. I’m always making jokes. I can’t keep track of everything I say!”
“No, you definitely said it,” I argued. “You were acting like it was a big revelation. I think if you consult your diaries you will find that you wrote it down.”
“Do you have any idea how many diaries I have?” I sighed, opening and closing closets, checking to see if there was anything useful inside we needed to pack.
“You won’t have to go through all of them, because I can put a date on when you said it,” I reminded myself helpfully, even as I was tuning myself out and heading outside to help pile boxes into the back of my car so we could get to the post office and file a forwarding address before it closed for the day. “Why did you ever say ‘Never again unless I get married’ if you were going to totally ignore it?”
“Well, I’ve only known him for three years,” I argued back. “Don’t you think it’s a little premature?”
“Plus two years of emailing,” I argued right back. “That’s five years.”
“Five years in the context of a human life is not that long. Have you ever met a five-year-old child? They are basically infants. Tiny babies,” I said.
“Getting married is an important thing. Gay couples wake up feeling like second-class citizens for being denied the opportunity to do what you’re avoiding,” I replied, shaking my head in disgust.
“Well, then why does everybody end up getting divorced and saying they will never get married again?” I countered as I drove his stuff across town.
“For the same reason that you said you would never live with someone again without being married,” I explained. “Will you stand still for a minute? I am getting sick of following you from one room to the next!”
“Listen to me,” I said. “Why do you have to make such a big deal out of everything?”
“I make a big deal out of this because it is a big deal, or else why is this whole country in a contentious debate trying to keep gay people out of the marriage club?”
“You’re just being a contrarian,” I replied. “Marriage is one more thing you refuse to play along with because it is expected of you, like being on Facebook. Admit it: you just delay final decisions on everything because you’re wishy-washy.”
“If you’re going to start calling me names, then this discussion is over,” I said as I was going through the big display case in my front room, throwing out my snow globes to make space for his ceramic Napoleons. Then I stalked out and never bothered to talk to myself about this again.
Back to my flight over that Google Earth map of my life.
Now when I’m airborne and gliding above those worrisome corpse-strewn trenches of Verdun that gape like surface wounds after an asteroid collision, I quickly head due west, then north, where I come to a recent addition: an improved recreation area full of rolling hills, a manicured picnic area, and a lake surrounded by flowering trees. It seems to make the rest of the map look more balanced, less haunted and disturbing—visual proof that there is a payoff for having had a checkered past. How nice to see that at some point, you find that you’ve gotten better at checkers.
So where edicts are concerned: never again.
Why I Love Dogs
I LOVE DAVID ATTENBOROUGH DOCUMENTARIES. I WATCH THEM over and over. Every three-toed sloth hanging on the underside of a tree branch and every grimacing hyena that walks in slow motion across a grassy plain fills me with empathy and awe. I immediately begin to yearn for quality time with blue-footed boobies, proboscis monkeys, and frill-necked lizards. I want to be close to them, to help them forage for potato bugs, or dung beetles, or whatever it is they have in mind for dinner. That is because the idea of living with a member of another species has always seemed enlightening as well as thrilling.
No wonder I fell in love with dogs from the moment I met any of them and found out how w
illing they were to share my home.
From my earliest experiences, dogs have not really been pets to me so much as exceedingly cooperative exchange students from another planet. In our unlikely union, mystified though we are by each other’s habits and customs, I continue to be impressed by how they are willing to meet me halfway. In most cases, not only are they eager to cooperate, they are fine with doing it on my terms at the location and time of day of my choosing! (Well, maybe not with the things they find patently insane. For example: waiting until sunrise for meals.)
I got my first dog when I was in kindergarten and instantly found his presence to be comforting and entertaining. After a long day of dealing with teachers and parents who seemed impossible to please, what a relief it was to join, in progress, a species who honestly felt at any given moment, that “this is the best moment of my life … Until right now, which is slightly better … Wait, I meant this … No, this … No, I spoke too soon. This moment right now is the best one ever.”
And if we hit a lull or a snag, all that was required to set everything back to perfect again was a cookie, a simple item whose massive importance has no real equivalent in the restless, fickle world of the human.
But along with the ability to value life’s simple things, if I’m being completely honest, I would also have to admit that dogs err on the side of being a teensy bit self-absorbed. Though I must add that of the fifteen dogs with whom I have shared my home since childhood, not a single one has ever let me down—providing I adjusted my expectations so that they were in line with what the dogs had in mind to deliver anyway. Thus it’s also hard not to conclude that in some ways dogs may be the biggest narcissists of all.
After many years of therapy, I can’t really tolerate human narcissists anymore. I don’t care about their tragic self-doubts or the roots of their pain and rage. Yet oddly enough, I still love being around dogs. When I try to analyze why, it’s definitely hard to figure. It certainly isn’t because of the behaviors they exhibit around me, which, taken at face value, are pretty disturbing.
For instance, if even the most adorable man or beloved family member insisted on busting in through the bathroom door and running up to kiss me every time I sat down on the toilet—not just once or twice but every single time I went to the bathroom—then stood around staring adoringly, mesmerized by my activities, not only would I find it unnerving, it would fill me with fury. If the person were a relative, this scenario would become an unending topic with the shrink. If it were my husband, it might be grounds for divorce.
I also wouldn’t find it cute or in any way entertaining to have an assortment of my seemingly inconsolable friends hovering behind me while I was cooking: rushing in to lick any spills or crumbs up off the floor, than staring, drooling, and pleading with me to give them a morsel of food. Even if they had earned my empathy with their stories of escape from some violent, war-torn homeland, I would still find this blatant bit of manipulation so offensive that I would turn and, in a harsh tone of voice, insist that each of them leave the room.
But if, after I did this, they only went as far as the door and then stood there continuing to stare at me and make sorrowful pouty faces, it is unlikely that I would reinforce them further by relenting and giving each of them a small bowl of whatever I was preparing, followed by a kiss on the head. And if, for some reason, I did do this, and their follow-up reaction was to gulp whatever I’d given them down in a single swallow, then look up at me with streams of whatever it was dripping off their noses and chins while still continuing to try to gain my sympathy by appearing wretched, I can guarantee you that I would not react by saying “Awww” and asking them if they might like another helping.
The wide berth I cut for dogs runs counter to the way I have learned, over time, to deal with the dilemma of terrible houseguests. Throughout my life, I have had a number of unfortunate incidents with people who have abused my hospitality by alienating me with their inconsiderate behavior. I have deplored their incompatible rising times, their complaints about the menu, their impulse to talk while I was working. When their stay was over, I was always gleeful as they departed, vowing never to let them spend the night again.
Which is why it is hard to imagine inviting not just one person but four to stay with me for fifteen years, aware that they not only do not speak my language but will never make the slightest attempt to learn. Plus they will also expect me to pay all their medical bills and funeral expenses: privileges I, of course, happily offer my dogs. How insufferable would it be if even one person who came to stay exhibited so little interest in my daily affairs that they never so much as asked what I did for a living? How rude would it seem if they never even offered to help with the dishes? It would not be the least bit endearing if, say, my brother and his family jumped on top of me in the morning before I woke up, then stood there looming over me at six A.M. yelling, “Food! Food! Food! Food!” And if I tried to ignore them by rolling onto my side and placing a pillow over my head and they proceeded to put their faces right next to mine and make whimpering noises, I doubt that my reaction would be to compliment them on their intuitive timekeeping abilities, then jump up, give them a hug, and make them breakfast. Not only that, but also happily pick up all the toys and clothes and garbage they had knocked onto the floor and shredded, no questions asked.
And after breakfast, I definitely wouldn’t allow them to sit with me in my office for hours on end, staring at me while I worked on a book.
If, say, my grandmother sat on my feet, under my desk, her face visible somewhere down by my knees, and every now and then reached over to scratch me on my calf with her really sharp nails before unexpectedly letting out a loud wail of agony that had no meaning except as a way to remind me that there was some activity she wanted me to share with her, well, I can tell you right now that I would want to spend less time with Grandma, not more. I not only wouldn’t be moved to comfort her, I also cannot imagine remarking about how clever she was, then agreeing to go out with her for a walk. More likely I would mutter something harsh about needing time to myself, just before ordering her to take her damn walks alone.
In fact, a grandmother who behaved like this would be so on my last nerve that after I got up and moved into the other room with my laptop, if she followed me and came over and sat right on top of my keyboard, knocking off all my papers and books, and tried to kiss me, I would scream and tell her to get the fuck out of here right now. And then if a little later I found her sprawled out in the middle of the hallway in front of the door to my bedroom, oblivious to the fact that because she was using up all the available floor space I was having to jump over her just to get into my own room, my reaction would not be “Awwww, see how much she trusts me?” I would be so insanely aggrieved that I would stop speaking to that grandmother entirely. Then when I got the time, I would change my email address and my phone number.
Because the truth is, I cannot imagine continuing to love anyone who had the gall to think that it was acceptable, after many hours spent digging in the mud, to crawl into my bed, lean up against me like a fifty-pound sack of rice, and make snoring noises like a broken exhaust pipe. In fact, I have never thought the sleeping position of any man I loved deeply, even if we were spooning after a passionate encounter, was so adorable that I wouldn’t wake him up and ask him to move when I felt my arms going numb.
It’s also not likely that I would be motivated to maintain a cordial long-term relationship with any human being, no matter how attractive or influential, who emitted sulfurous odors every time they sat down beside me. I would be correct to find this behavior unspeakably boorish, and sensible to resent having to interrupt my activities while the room was airing out.
It’s too unpleasant to even fantasize about what would happen if the man I lived with behaved that way among people I cared about during a dinner party, to say nothing of putting his head down on the table right next to the full plate of one of my guests, in the hopes that she would hand over some of her food. Oh s
ure, I guess at first I would try to ban him from the room. But if he refused to go, then ran under the table and started to weep, and I later discovered that he had stolen all the extra food off the counter in the kitchen and taken it out into the yard, where he had eaten it behind a row of shrubs, leaving behind big wads of partially eaten Saran Wrap and aluminum foil, what recourse would I have but to accuse him of having an untreated mental illness and, after the guests went home, insist that he seek professional treatment? I would get a restraining order to keep him off the premises. And if that didn’t work, I would sell my house and move.
And if all of these things continued to happen, plus I found that he kept taking dirty napkins out of the trash and shredding them in order to extract all the last remaining food particles before scattering them all over the rugs … or standing directly in front of the TV screen, right in the middle of the inauguration of the first black president of the United States of America, happily squeaking on a noisemaker for no reason … what choice would I have but to suspect that this person had sadistic motives and a dangerous emotional disorder?
So it must be something else my dogs are doing that makes me love them so much.
Because there’s no way in the world that I would consciously want any part of living with anyone who exhibited these types of behaviors.
Cool, Calm & Contentious Page 5
