Couplehood (6 page)

It’s ironic that Everybody Else—to whom you owe nothing—is spared having to see what’s in your nose. As
if
they
deserve better. But your partner, the very person you love more than all others, gets to look right in there and investigate personally. That’s
their
little privilege. One of the many bonuses for signing on for the long haul.

W
hen you decide to share a home with another person, a lot of thought goes into finding the specific home you intend to share.

When my bride first moved into my apartment, it didn’t work for either of us.
She
felt she was getting, at best, half of a place, and
I
, who was doing fine by myself, thought, “Hey, what happened to the other half of my place?”

It turns out, a house is like a bed: When you’re getting along, it doesn’t matter how small it is; and if you’re
not
, all the elbow room in the world ain’t going to help you.

But still, you’re sure that somewhere out there your Dream House awaits.

A
lot of times, when you go to look at a potential home, there are people living there. It’s still
their
home. And I love walking into a place that already has Food Smells going. Those soupy, cakey, meaty smells. I don’t even want the food, I just want the smell.

They should make a
spray
for people who don’t cook: An aerosol can that, for seven bucks, makes the whole place smell like pot roast. Or you could have a fumigator guy come in every three months.

Doorbell rings. “Who is it?”

“Pot roast man!” And he sprays around the house.

“You want me to spray the bathroom?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“How about under the sink?”

“Okay, maybe just coffee and cake.”

It’s hard to reject a house without feeling like you’re rejecting the people who live there; these nice people who are eating dinner while you investigate every nook and cranny of their home. You walk around the house, look in their closets, touch all their things, then look them in the eye and say, “You know what?
No
” And walk away.

In essence, “This house is good enough for
you
, but we’re gonna try to beat it.”

It’s hard. And you always walk through the place imagining a life that has nothing to do with reality. Planning things you’ll never do: parties and soirées with tantalizing guests and performers from other lands. “This is great. We can have a dance floor
here
, a cocktail area
there
, the orchestra can set up near the receiving line …”

And then you move in and spend the rest of your life eating corn chips out of a bowl in front of the TV.

“What happened to the dancing and the waltzing and jugglers and cocktail pavilion?”

“I thought we were someone else. My mistake.”

Because in real life, you’re always in one of three places: the kitchen, the bathroom, or the bedroom. There are only three things to do in life, and that’s where we do them.

W
hen you actually move into a house, you learn quite quickly how little you know about
anything.

Day One, the guy comes to turn on the electricity. He asks me one question:

“Excuse me, where is your main power supply?”

Right there, I was stumped. First question as a homeowner, I had nothing.

“I don’t know. It’s probably outside. Did you look
outside, because I think I saw it there earlier.… Okay, I’m going to level with you, sir, I don’t really know what a main power supply looks like. What is it? Is it a big thing? Maybe it’s
inside.
It’s definitely either inside or outside, I know that. Tell you what—why don’t you
find
it, and that’ll be your first little job.…
You
find it, I’ll
have
it. That’ll be what I do. You find it and do certain things with wires that I don’t understand, and then I’ll give you more money than you deserve. Is that fair?”

I
f you don’t know what you’re doing, you’re at the mercy of anyone with a truck and a business card. And problems come up I never heard of.

We had this
snake
in the backyard. Not a big snake but big enough to make
me
pass out. So I called the guy, the snake guy. Snake Man. That was his name. “Snakes in the Yard? Call Snake Man.” He had a truck with a little picture of a snake and everything. I said, “We have a snake.”

He says, “Where?”

Once again, I say, “
Finding
it will be pretty much up to you. I’m just telling you we
have
one.”

He looks around and then tells me, “Listen, the kind of snake you have there is fine. It’s a
good
snake to have, because they scare away mice. You
want
these kind of snakes.”

I say, “Okey-dokey.” And I pay him. For doing nothing. I give the man forty-five dollars for allowing me to continue to have the snake I already had.

So now I rest comfortably in the knowledge that I have no mice, because the mice are all scared of my snake.

Then I remember, I’m scared of the snake, too. That’s why I called the guy in the first place. Evidently, the only way I’m going to get rid of this snake is to scare him with something
bigger.
A mongoose. A cheetah. But then I’ll have to scare
them
away, and it will never end. The animals will just get bigger and bigger. I’m going to end up with a
hippo
in the living room.

“Don’t worry, honey—they scare away the bison. Did you notice there were no bison around? Why do you think that is? They’re scared. Nice, huh? Hippo Man was here today, he explained the whole thing; forty-five bucks, we’re bison-free for a year.”

I
believe whatever they say. I don’t know who They are, but I trust them. And They say a lot of things.

“You know what They say: ‘Cold hands, warm heart.’ ”

“Who says that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hey, you know what they say about swimming on a full stomach.…”

“Who actually said that?”

“I don’t know, but why would they lie?”

I just assume “They” know everything. “They” and “the Guy,” as in “Ask the Guy,
he’ll
know.”

“I’m sure the Guy can fix it.”

These are the two authorities running the whole show—They and the Guy. The Guy, I believe, is president of They.

“You should have the guy check out that noise.”

“I
did.
I brought it to the guy—he said he couldn’t fix it.”

“The Guy couldn’t fix it? Are you sure this guy is good?”

“That’s what They say.”

A
ll my life, I called the Guy. And if you could
get
him, he’d come over and fix it. Now I own a house, and I
am
the Guy—which doesn’t help anybody. I can
get
me; that’s not a problem. I’m available as hell. It’s knowing what to do when I
get there
that concerns me.

Usually I look at the problem and say, “Honey, call the Guy. I don’t know
exactly
what’s wrong here, but my gut tells me flooding in a bedroom is bad. It can’t be right.”

And I don’t love
dealing
with the Guy when he
comes over. I’m much better at telling my
wife
how to deal with him.

“Look, honey, I gotta go, but when the cable guy gets here, make sure you tell him that we are
not
happy with the reception! Be firm with the guy. That was the problem last time, you weren’t firm.
I
would do it myself, but I’ve got to go Gather and Hunt. I gotta go slay an elk. But if the guy shows up before I get back, for God’s sake—BE FIRM WITH HIM.”

A
gain, this is part of that delicate balance between Men and Women that allows us to be together. In fact, I think the whole reason men and women get together in the first place is because we each can do certain things, and if you get together, everything gets done. Whatever comes up, somebody’s good at that.

Ever catch a sweater on a hook and get that thread that sticks out? Women have learned that’s not a big deal. They know you can turn the sweater inside out, pull it through, tie a knot, and in twelve seconds you’ve got a new sweater. They got brochures as youngsters that explained this.

Men did not get this pamphlet. Men will stare at the rip for half an hour and whine. “Oh, look at that! Do you believe that? Brand-new sweater, too! Now I gotta throw it out. There’s no way this can be saved.”

On the other hand, women rarely get involved with connecting stereos, which is the one thing most men
can
do. Me, anyway.

And it works out well. I’ll be putting up a set of speakers, and suddenly go, “Oh no—look what I just did to this sweater—caught it on the speaker!”

And instantly, we
both
have something to do.

I
can’t believe how much of our life is spent planning food.

“What do you feel like eating?”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“You gonna want to eat later?”

“Probably.”

“So we should get something
now.
”

“Nah, we’ll get it later.”

“
Later
everything’ll be closed. Let’s get something now.”

“Alright, like what?”

“That’s what I’m asking
you.
”

And it never ends.

Since we got married, I don’t think a day has passed that at least one conversation with my wife hasn’t ended with the words “Um, I don’t know … I guess … chicken.”

Not one day. Do you understand this? Not one. The word “Chicken,” preceded by some unenthusiastic whine of indifference and frequently followed by an even less enthusiastic “Or maybe
fish
, I-don’t-care-it’s-up-to-you,” is by far the most commonly heard expression in our home. Perhaps second only to “
You
get it.”

Chicken or fish. That’s basically what it comes down to.

I wish we could just get pills to take the place of meals. Little full-balanced meals in pill form. Then you wouldn’t have to decide, you wouldn’t have to talk about it—huge chunks of your life would be freed up.

Though I’m sure in no time I’d be on the phone going, “What do you feel like tonight—Chicken Pill or Fish Pill?”

H
ere’s the thing with decisions. I can
make
them. I just don’t feel sure about them afterward.

A friend of mine said, “Always go with your gut.”

Then another friend said to me, “You know what? You should listen to your heart.”

So now I have one
more
choice to make: Do I go with my heart or my gut? I can’t decide. I gotta do an entire autopsy. My heart says
yes
, my gut says
no
, my colon is iffy—I just don’t know who to listen to.

Say we’re in a coffee shop, I’m ordering breakfast, and the waitress says, “With those eggs, you want pancakes or waffles?”

Pancakes. Very easy. Firm, clear-cut decision.

She walks away, and immediately I realize I should have had the waffles.… Yup, waffles was the way to go. Look at that guy over there,
he
got the waffles,
he
looks very happy.

“Excuse me, sir, how’re you enjoying those waffles? Pretty good, huh?”

Great.
He
got the waffles. He’ll have a better breakfast, he’ll have a better day, a better life. He’ll go on to make a contribution to society, people will remember this guy for years.…

Me?
I got the friggin’ pancakes.

A
lot of times, you’re home and you’re too hungry to even talk about food. So you stand over the sink and start eating whatever you have—celery and some assorted nuts from a gift basket you got three years ago. By the time you figure out what you’re going to eat, you’re bloated, queasy, and no longer interested in food.

Then there are things you don’t even
realize
you ate. You’re on the run all day, you grab what you can, and at the end of the day you realize—you’re a goat. You’ve eaten whatever you saw, whenever you saw it. And somewhere in your belly lie pathetically odd combinations of foods: