Mumbling Madly

I drove all over industrial south Seattle just to locate the City Light building. If you show up and prove you have an account with them (i.e. you pay the bills to keep your house lit) they will bestow upon you 3 fluorescent light bulbs and a water-saving shower head. Those bulbs are not cheap, so I’ll take any freebies I can get…and the shower head is for my parents.

Every now and then I feel like an outsider looking in. I live far…so far that sometimes the idea of getting into my car and aligning myself with the I-5 on-ramp makes me want to barf.

I’m married too…and I don’t know anyone in Seattle who has been with the same person for as long as I have been. While I too, was once privy to scandals and heartbreaks, I rejected those experiences quickly in favor of the often challenging comfort of being married. Perhaps if we had stayed in Seattle, in the land of Living in Sin (which we did for many years), filled with artists and free thinkers, we would be content with merely shacking up. But we lived in a state that did not care for common law marriages, family members who were perpetually uncomfortable visiting our Duplex of Unmarried Woe, and then there was the health insurance thing. I once referred to Josh as being such a big part of me, that he was like my arm…attached, dependable, consistent. Nobody doubted we would get married eventually; our entire beings were completely in sync with each other.

Just last week someone at the theater stumbled on the information that I was married–and for five years no less! He was really shocked, ‘you never mentioned a husband,’ as if I had betrayed him with this lack of information. Now, the ego maniac in me believes that this person thought I was open for business. But, really I think in our culture we’re really into the wife who clamors about her man every few seconds in conversation. This has never been me…you can’t exist in the theater if you’re talking about anyone but yourself–self-promotion is key! Half the dance of performance is convincing the audience and actors to like you.

But many don’t recognize that marriage takes work. It means leaving the after-party to be with your man (even if you find him comatose on the couch when you get home). It means declining certain offers and changing certain topics. It means closing yourself off in a way you didn’t feel like you had to when single. (“You’re so lucky: you can have reliable consistent sex whenever you want,” a friend mused.)

With age, Josh and I have lost the constant need to be in each other’s faces. He is content with not trucking off to every single improv show and performance and I am fine with not being dragged to some hideous corporate party filled with 23-year old yuppies. We eat every night together, companionably, something that I have fixed: homemade pizza, meatballs and spaghetti, baked chicken, ice cream from the machine. Often we say, ‘life is short’ and find ourselves watching the Simpsons while eating our meal; I usually add a glass of red wine. We’ve tried to have sit-down meals, but until there are children to impress, it hasn’t materialized. We are the type of couple that reads the newspaper side by side when going out to breakfast.

Many folks might recognize that they might be quickly slipping into roommates instead of partners. We go to our separate rooms in the house, clacking on our computers, talking to different people on our respective cell phones. And then something happens…something like Josh not coming home at his usual hour of 5:30pm. Time clicks by and I dial his cell phone repeatedly. Sometimes I leave a message (‘I’m worried, where are you?”) but often I let it ring until his vmail answers. I do this every 15 minutes, every 4 minutes, annoyingly consistent. Of course, if he’s in a meeting it’s pointless and merely serves to embarrass him (oops). Or if the cell phone has been left in his car the phone sings to itself, alone, on the front seat–only to be found with 14 missed calls.

This marriage, fortunately, is not exciting. There is never any passionate throwing of vases to make a point, stomping out of the house to stay in a hotel, or even one person sleeping in the bed and the other out on the couch in defiance. But every now and then Josh will get tied up at work and neglect to call me. I’ll putter around the house, listless, worried, waiting for him. “What would I do if he were gone? Just like ‘that’?” I wonder to myself. In typical fashion, I imagine the worst and then back myself up. The worst is that he’s DOA in the emergency room. I realize his license has an expired address, so how would they contact me? I’m sure there are ways, his employer for one has up-to-date info…and I think our phone number is accurate. I think about the life insurance policy, what I would do with the house, if I would return to Portland instead of forging on in this city alone. But then I rationalize that if there is no phone call from the police, he is probably okay. Maybe, just a little wounded. Maybe the neighborhood has finally got him…a flat tire led to a gang of kids attacking him on the side of the road. Perhaps his cell phone died…

Eventually he will call me…apologetic, comforting, lightly teasing me for the repeated phone calls to his vmail. Everything is fine…our marriage continues like normal. We will continue to go out on dates, watch Netflix movies while entwined on our enormous sagging couch, make fun of our cat continuously, and hash out our differences. We will resume our partnership without fanfare, in a city that is young and sometimes wistful towards the committed, boring to most of our friends. We will operate with the knowledge that anything but being together would be unacceptable and despite occasional doubts our unity pushes on.

My second cousin took this really nice picture of Josh and I. We’re sitting on the patio, at grandpa’s house, eating spaghetti sauce that we had pulled out of the freezer. My grandpa posthumously fed twenty people that night.

My grandpa was a prominent member of the SLC Italian-American community, was responsible for getting the SLC Opera where it is today, and was a ‘real fox’ according to one of the ladies who spoke at his Rosary the night before his funeral. In order to convey the experience I’ve come up with two lists.
–What made me cry:
1) Ave Maria. Don’t know what it is, but I end up in a little puddle every time I listen to this Schubert aria.
2) Mention of my grandfather’s incredible love for my grandmother who died suddenly 17 years ago. None of us, not even the steeliest of cousins, was immune to the incredible passion my grandpa carried for her year after year in solitude. We all openly wept when the priest acknowledged grandma, many of us visualizing the two of them shopping somewhere in heaven together looking for bargains.
3) Entering and exiting the church with the casket. It was like a crying parade with me somehow always ending up in the front. The finality of bringing grandpa in and then escorting him out was so heartbreaking I blubbered until tears came off my cheeks, down my chin, and fell into my cleavage.
4) Red roses on the casket that we plucked for pressing.
–What made me feel ok:
1) Watching Erin hold a little umbrella over the terminally ill priest who was not doing well in the hot cemetery sun.
2) Joining hands with ten family members as we hauled the heaviest casket ever across the cemetery and to the grave site.
3) Connecting with my Great Uncle who looks so much like grandpa it was heartbreaking, (imagine going through the entire day thinking, “Grandpa! Oh no, wait, that’s just Uncle Rocco who looks like grandpa from behind”).
4) Making garlic bread with my cousin for a large dinner the eve of the funeral.
5) We gathered all the left over spaghetti sauce in the freezer that my grandpa had made, put it into a large pot, and served twenty people with it. What a bittersweet meal: the last time my grandpa would ever feed us with his signature sauce.
6) Taking pictures with people who share the family nose, the family temperament, the family “worry about getting to the airport on time” trait.
7) Making plans to return in October to watch “Madame Butterfly” at the SLC Opera. They plan on dedicating that particular opera to my grandpa and I plan on being there, (and crying I’m sure).
Picking out several ties–specifically a unicorn tie for my sister who couldn’t be there and a snazzy red patterned tie for myself.
9) I also arranged every sweater he owned by color and pattern on his bed. His sweater collection was enormous and we kept finding sweaters in various hidden locations–some still in their plastic wrappers and many of them purchased on sale. The family spent hours going through his sweaters and trying them on. None of us are the square shape my grandpa was, having inherited my grandma’s height, but many of us picked out sweaters anyway out of love and the need to be closer to grandpa. I took one sweater that I’ll make into a pillow and one to wear around the house.
10) Finally, and most strangely, I got around to asking my Uncle Tony why I gasped for air right before I was put under anesthesia for my ear surgery. Being an anesthesiologist, he explained that there are two drugs: one for knocking you out and one for paralyzing you so you don’t move during surgery. Normally they knock you out first and then paralyze you while you’re sleeping. Sounds like they didn’t wait long enough between drugs, administrating them one right after the other, and my lungs were reacting to the paralysis setting in. Someone fucked up big time.

Two months ago we thought we were going on vacation in mid-July. This was the furthest thing from a vacation. Four flights in five days, hideous airport smells, a funeral smack dab in the middle of the pre-wedding festivities. WTF? Despite the reroute to SLC we still had some fun in LA. Some positive highlights:
1) In and Out burger. We were driving back from the airport through Modesto, CA around 11pm after a looong day. We needed some food. The burgers were excellent, amazing, tasty. The atmosphere was festive, the placed packed with kids and families (guess little tykes get to stay up late for In and Out burgers). I still prefer Burgerville, but I have to say these were almost ‘restaurant quality’ burgers in their own right.
2) Taco Mesa…that translates to “Taco Table.” We showed up there the day after the funeral, beat, tired, hungry, I think I had been crying. The food was blissful. I have yet to encounter Mexican food this good, not since my job at Los Tarascos in FC–which still holds the gold standard for Mexican food. Granted, the family was from Mishocaun which uses mostly fresh ingredients, spices, and black beans so it’s hard to compare to the standard Mexican-American fare that dominates the states. At Taco Mesa the sauces were obviously fresh and available for sampling in little cups, the meat grilled, crisp little salads on the side, it was heavenly. Offhand, we didn’t have a single poor meal in So-Cal. I was really impressed with the food.
3) We found a beach right next to the airport on a whim. Actually, we finally broke down and bought an LA map since our teamwork navigation that had carried us throughout the day was starting to fail. We had a little extra time before we had to load up and go to SLC so we pointed the rental car toward the direction of the water and wahlah! Beach. It was empty, just a few drunken boogie boarders and us (later one of the boarders drunkenly changed into a different pair of shorts–treating us to full frontal nudity). Airplanes sailed dangerously close overhead, disappearing into the haze of the watery horizon. Josh took his shirt off and tried to even out his magnificent farmer’s tan. I took my shirt off too, the laid back attitude of CA giving me permission to rock my black bra like a bikini top. We crinkled our toes in the sand, played in the water, dried off in minutes and headed back to our long arduous journey. Here’s a self-portrait from the perspective of the sand:

4) I loved Venice Beach. I loved the oddity, the art, the strangeness of the whole thing. The air was fresh; we were there with friends; my shoulders got ridiculously sunburned. Josh bought a wild black and white belt for 10 bucks from a street vendor. There were scrunchie trees, a dog with sunglasses, and fake boobs. Highlight: coming across a shooting for Californication and catching a glimpse of David Duchovny!

5) Of course there was also the wedding in Newport Beach…which I’ll post about later.

My grandfather died. He loved opera. Because of this I love opera, have always loved opera. Today, I listened to the following piece from La Bohème–one of my favorites–and sat on my floor and cried. In a rare gesture of compassion Hobbes showed up and licked my knee in comfort. Perhaps my grandpa sent Hobbes…here’s what I listened to:

I’m going to the airport right now…

When it rains it pours.

The incident where the man was punched for putting a traffic cone in the street in order to water a traffic circle? 8 blocks away from where we live. That man died in the hospital a day later.

My grandfather, the one I visited less then a month ago, has slipped into a coma. Not expected to live for much longer (read: the next 48 hours).

I’ve become an advocate for my sister. I’ll leave it at that.

The sun is shining mercilessly, forcing me to turn the other cheek. I found a beautiful top at Anthropologie two days ago on sale that I didn’t buy. I didn’t have the money. The same day I received a check in the mail for some jewelry. Now I have the money. Now I must have that shirt. It seems silly, but I think that shirt just might make me feel a little better.

I made Gina a tote bag out of an old zine symposium shirt. Here we are admiring it at the farmer’s market:

(I have no idea this package contains a metallic silver halter leotard from American Apparel courtesy of Abigail of gold hot pants fame…)