Couplehood (7 page)

“A quarter pound of hummus and some Cracker Jacks.”

“Fifteen pieces of bread and a sour ball.”

Foods that have no business being together.

“Chicken salad, blueberries, and a Mounds Bar.”

And couples like to
report
what they had. They need to share. Like without this information, they’d be keeping secrets.

You come home: “You know what I had today? Milk. Milk and a half a cucumber. How do you like
that?
”

Like it’s an accomplishment. You’re proud that you can sustain your body weight despite a punishing nutritional intake.

Sometimes it’s more of a confessional. You feel bad about what you ate, and you want to enlist the help of your partner in berating yourself.

“You know what I ate today? A bacon burger, M&Ms, and a thing of fried onions I found in the car.”

“You’re a bad person.”

“That’s what I thought—wanted to make sure.”
But someone always gets hurt in these conversations.

“I had a bowl of cereal and two fat-free cookies.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I can’t believe I ate so much.”

“But the cookies were fat-free.”

“Yeah, but I ate
two.
”

“Well, you look great.”

“I’m stuffed.”

“So we won’t eat anything tonight.”

“Don’t tell me what I can eat.”

W
ith someone you love, food becomes politics.

We’re in a restaurant and I’m about to eat a big fried piece of something crusty, and my loved one, very discreetly, gives me the little “Do you really want that?” look. I think, “She’s probably right.” And I pass.

Later—during the
same meal
, she orders some Chocolate Sticky Pie of Death, and I, in the most loving tone I can muster, step into the ring with “Sweetie, are you going to be upset later if you eat that?”

She looks at me for a long time, tells the waiter to go away, and then flings one of those really big spoons at my throat.

I say, “Hey, wait a minute, you said the same thing to me.”

She says, “Yeah, ’cause
you
don’t mind.”

“Right, because you said it out of Love. Out of Concern.”

“That’s right.”

“So, if I say the same thing to
you
, wouldn’t you naturally assume that I—”

“It’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because
I
mind.”

You see how it works? There are different eating rules for each of you. But, again, you don’t know what they are until you’ve broken them.

We’re out for dinner, the food comes, and I jump in. I grab the pepper thing and put some pepper on the food. I start eating.

And I notice I’m getting the look. I’ve done something wrong. I look up. “What?”

She skips the specific and goes straight to the general. Very sweetly: “Let me make it easy for you: If you ever have something, anything at all, please see if I’d like some.”

I said, “Did you want pepper?”

She goes, “No, but I might.”

“But you didn’t actually want—”

“It would be nice of you to think of
me.
”

“Okay, I understand that, but just to clarify about the pepper—you don’t want any.”

“No, thanks.”

“You’re not interested in pepper.”

“Not this time.”

See? We were just setting the rules for next time.

S
ometimes you have to make up rules as you go along.

Example:

My bride is trying to not eat meat. I try to be supportive.

“Do you want me to
not
eat this chicken in front of you?”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

“ ‘Cause I don’t want you to be tempted and then eat it and feel bad about it.”

“I won’t.”

“And I don’t want you to make
me
feel bad about eating meat.”

“No, no, I won’t.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Eat the chicken.”

Fine. So I’m eating the chicken, and I notice she keeps watching me eat.

I say, “What?”

She picks up my plate and with a real sad face says to my food, “I’m sorry people eat you, Mr. Chicken.”

“Hey!”

“What?” she says.

I say, “Don’t do that.”

“Do
what?
”

I had to think for a second, then came up with, “Don’t apologize to my food while I’m eating it.”

Isn’t that sad? That was the best rule I could think of. In case it ever came up again, and we needed to refer to a mutually agreed upon bylaw, I decreed that from that point forth, “Thou shalt not apologize to my food while I’m eating it.”

That should pretty much cover it. With, of course, the universally accepted
sub-clause:
“And don’t call my food ‘Mister.’ ”

I
just cleaned out my address book.

My wife pointed out I had names in there I haven’t called since third grade. People who’ve moved off the continent, couples who have divorced, some remarried, and a few names that, frankly, I don’t even know who they are. There was one entry that just said, “Rusty.” And next to it, “Call after five.” For the life of me, I have no idea what this means.

Certain letters in every address book fill up right away. “M” and “S,” for example. Very popular letters. There’s no room. You can’t get anyone new in there—there’s a waiting list of three, four years. If I meet someone
whose name begins with “M” or an “S,” I tell them right up front that we can’t be friends. I just don’t have the room.

Whereas “X,” “Q,” and “Z”—I can move you in today. I’ve got nothing but space. And I’m dying to use those pages. My dream is to meet the Xylophone family and fill that section right up.

T
here’s something very satisfying about starting a new address book. It’s like a new calendar: all fresh, clean, and full of boundless potential.

I’ve noticed that as I get older, I buy
next
year’s calendar earlier and earlier. There seem to be more Things to Do, and we need more time to plan them.

When you’re a kid, you don’t have this problem—you’ve got nothing to do. You can buy a calendar in March, April—there’s no real rush. You remember your first calendar? One appointment: “See that? That’s my birthday. Otherwise, I’m free. I’m absolutely open till the fifteenth.”

But the older you get, the harder it seems to be to make the simplest of plans. I bumped into a friend of mine running out of an elevator the other day.

“Hey, how ya doin’? Everything good? You’re good? Family is good? Kids are good? Good. I’m good, everything is good.”

We just bombarded each other with “goods.” “Everything’s good? Good. I’m good, you’re good. It’s good we’re all good.” There’s no time for details, just headlines. “Anybody we know of die? No? Good. So everybody’s good? Good.”

Some people actually
tell
you how they are, and you might not want to know.

“How are you, good?”

“Actually, I’m just getting over an intestinal virus.…”

“Oh my, look at the time! I thought I could squeeze in a flu story, but it turns out, I can not.”

I
t’s not that we don’t care about our friends. We care, we just don’t always know what we’re supposed to say.

“How’s everything, good?”

“I just lost my job.”

“Ohhh …” You stand there a little while. Silence. Then try and pick things up.

“But everything
else
is good? Family? How’s the family? Everybody good?”

“They’re all sick.”

“Really.…” Check your watch, try again.

“But
you
seem healthy. Physically, how’re you doing? You doing good?”

‘Three weeks to live.”

“Alrighty.…” Then you put down your bags, ’cause you’re in for a while.

W
ith some people, you can tell by the way they
ask
that they don’t really care. Listen to how they say, “How are you?” They don’t really say, “How are you?” They say, “How
are
ya?” Not the same. They hit the “are” and shortchange the “ya.” “How
are
ya … how
are
ya?”

Do you understand the difference?

“How are
you?
” is good.

It’s all about
you. “How are YOU?
I’m interested in specifically
you.
Out of all the people in the world, how is it to be
you?
That’s what concerns me primarily—how
you
are.”

“How
are
ya?” is not the same thing.

“How
are
ya?” means “Just say ‘good,’ and walk away. I don’t really want to know. Register that I asked, then proceed not to tell me.”

And sometimes people assign you to be greetings messenger. I don’t pass on greetings when people tell me to. I don’t need the pressure.

You see a friend, they say, “When you see Alan, tell him I said, ‘Hi.’ ”

Right, sure.

Problem is, if you say, “Hi” to Alan, he goes, “Oh, you saw Joel? Tell him I said, ‘Hi.’ How is he doing?”

Now I’ve got to run back to Joel, “Alan told me to tell you ‘Hi’ and wants to know how you’re doing?”

“Oh, did you see him? How’s
he
doing?”

Why don’t the two of
you
get together and leave me out of it? I have things to do.

B
ut my friend and I did promise to get together.

So, he calls me, and the first thing we have to decide is what
meal
we’re talking about. Socializing invariably involves food, and often, a bona fide meal. Because you need the focal point. You can’t just walk back and forth between two trees and chat. How would you know when you’re finished? That’s why you need food.

At least a hot beverage and a muffin. This way, if the conversation drags, you have something to talk about. “Ooh, that’s good coffee.” (Which offers more potential than “Boy, look how far apart those two trees are.”)

Sometimes your days get so busy, you have no actual meal open. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are taken, so you go for quasi-meals.

“How about drinks at five?”

If that doesn’t work, you have to start making up
new
meals.

“We’ll have peanuts at noon.”

“Corn chips at three.”

Unfortunately, this is another case where you have to let some friends go.

“It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s just that there are no more food groups left. We could do Oysterettes at three-thirty, but what’s the point, really?”

T
hat’s what’s great about Coffee.

It’s the only meal for which the name of the food is also the official name of the event. “Coffee.” “We’ll get together for Coffee.” We know what we’re doing, and we know what we’ll be having: coffee.

Makes it simple when you get there.

“Do you want to look at a menu?”

“No, I already know: coffee. That’s why we got together. We got together for—Coffee. That’s what we discussed, that’s what I’ll be having.”

It’s the only food that has that advantage. You never say, “Let’s get together for lamb.”

“I’m in town, let’s get together for Fresca.”

“Whattya say? Grapes for everyone.”

You never hear it. It’s just not the same draw as Coffee.

I
love coffee. I don’t
drink
coffee, but I love it. I drink tea, and I don’t like it. That’s my life in a nutshell, ladies and
gentlemen, I consistently drink a hot beverage I don’t enjoy.

Let me say something about tea. Tea starts bad and never gets better. You put in honey, cream, sugar, lemon, and you still go, “Ooh, that’s bad!”

And the people who
make
tea know it’s bad. That’s why they give you so many choices. You go into a store, there’s a thousand types of teas. Every herb, fruit, and spice in every combination. They’re desperate to make this stuff palatable.

And it almost works. You think, “Wow! Look at this! Apple Cinnamon Mango Cherry tea. This should be good. I like all of those things. This is going to be just great.”

You take a sip and go, “Nope. That’s still very bad.” I don’t know how they go wrong with that, but they do.

So, when a waitress asks, “How would you like your tea?” I already know.

“I won’t.” Right off the bat. “I won’t enjoy it, but it’s not your fault. Just bring me hot liquid and a muffin, so I can talk to my friend here.”

T
he greatest social food of all time is Chinese food. The whole purpose of this particular cuisine is to
share.
You get lots of different things, put them in the middle of the table, and you all share. But I find, even with people I like, I can’t stop taking inventory.

I’m smiling, but I’m thinking, “How many shrimps
has
he
had so far? This fat bastard’s got fourteen shrimps on his plate—two on his fork, three in his mouth that he didn’t even chew yet; that’s like nineteen shrimps.
I’ve
got three hundred snow peas and a dead noodle.… I can’t even get a fork in there. The man is like a windmill.”

A
nd when couples go out socially, they’re no longer people. They’re
couples.
And couples don’t talk like regular people.

They become
teams.
Little tag-team storytelling teams. She starts,
you
finish, you start,
she
finishes. You correct each other, interrupt each other, and no one knows exactly who they should be listening to.