I found a present at the Goodwill for my wife, for Valentine’s Day. I paid $2.50 before tax for a sort-of-romantic book I think she’ll really like, rounded up to $3.00 for their charity, because even if you feel you have to go to Goodwill, why not be charitable for pennies? The retail price was still on the back, $22.00, score!
I thought about the buzz of Valentine’s day- romance, roses, wine, candles, dinner, and then I recalled the lovely Carolyn Jones as Morticia Addams, doing this:
It’s iconic, anyone who saw the show or the movies watched the actress do this. It’s also a metaphor that speaks truth from somewhere deep in my hopeless romantic Gomez Addams soul. See, the blossom is normally the beauty. The soft texture of the petals, the velvet, but somehow still intense, color, or soft white. It’s the best effort, the very success of the rose bush, but Morticia cuts off the blooms as undesirable.
It’s also, sometimes, and more frequently than I appreciate, a picture of my relationship with Mrs. M. Roses and romance are lovely, but impractical. Illogical. I love her more desperately than Gomez loves Morticia. And if I bring her roses, she complains I’ve wasted money. And then she cuts them (on the bottom, for best water absorption) to last a while, puts them in a vase, she might look at them twice and smell them once, and then there they sit until they’re dead and I put them in the trash and wash the vase.
I love Mrs. M. And I am a hopeless romantic, being impractically amorous around the house, interfering with her gathering ingredients to cook, disturbing her when she’s on the computer, interrupting her when she’s watching a TV show, delaying her when she’s on some task or trying to leave the house for the day, sometimes grossing out the kids, while I believe I’m teaching them something for future reference. But, those interruptions are my rosebuds, and she goes about cutting their heads off. She patiently endures my affections, for a very short amount of time, if there is any, and then brushes them off to return to the practicalities of real life. You wouldn’t believe that she brushes me off. You wouldn’t believe she hates my whiskers and either complains they make me look old if I don’t shave, or they’re too sharp if I do, or certain other aspects of my life that I can’t really do anything about. It feels like rejection.
You wouldn’t believe she notices, after I’ve washed 200 dishes, that there’s one in the corner over there that I didn’t wash, and doesn’t mention the 200. Or the speck on the floor after I have vacuumed or mopped. It feels like being taken for granted.
She has patiently endured, with what I can almost feel as annoyance, for more than 20 years. Why? Because she wants that power over me, and I have surrendered. Fuck me (please) twice, I’m like a drug addict craving my next “fix,” which is a time when I can be with her, except I have to earn the opportunity. I have to work for it. I have to have the energy to set her free from the housework and the kids and then catch her in the magical moment between realizing the kids are out of the way and realizing her eyes are closed and she’s asleep, presuming I’m not already exhausted. I really dislike the dynamic, when I’m depressed and I need her to be supportive and loving, and instead she’s practical and matter of fact and “no nonsense.” But that’s who she is. It feels like a critical spirit.
Maybe I’m a dreamer and that’s why I am so attracted to her practical nature. But sometimes it sucks being opposite. My romantic nature wants to be praised for being romantic, for all the little things I do. Her practical nature wants to take for granted the little things I do, and to be critical of any little things I don’t do. She’s a realist. But I want to be the light in her eyes, the spark that makes her feel young and act foolish. I want a little nonsense. I want to be romanced, if she’s going to act all practical all the time.
I want to be her raison d’être. And if she were a little more like Gomez, she’d attack me in a fit of passion, just for speaking a phrase in “…French, my darling!”
And her moustache would tickle.
Happy Valentines Day to all of you. I can’t believe I’m early, but I do suck at weekend blogging.
If the only romance you feel is the fact that I care,
…or a boy. Whichever you like.
(for the record, Mrs. M. does not have a moustache.)