Medea's Memoirs » mushy stuff

MUSHY LIKE SNOW

scott — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 22:03:17 +0000

“Let’s go to that Japanese restaurant you like,” Amy said on my birthday.

“Later, grams,” I said to my mom as she watched the kids.

It was one of the first heavy snows this month. The downtown lights made the kind of lonely neon Christmas I like. The sushi restaurant was empty in an eerie post-apocalyptical way except for staff and a couple of chefs at attention, waiting for purpose.

“We’re the last ones left.”

“The students must be on vacation?”

“Yeah,” our waittress with the maroon hair and lip ring smiled, “Where would you like to sit?”

We squeezed into a booth and Amy’s scent made me happy to be there. Her hair always smells good. It’s flowery and perfumey when it’s washed. Sweet and sultry when it’s not. If she was a cartoon, even her stink lines would smell good.

“The sushi chef is staring at you,” I whispered to my wife, “Just like at that other sushi restaurant.”

“That’s because we’re the only ones here!”

“Right. He’s probably having fantasies about the Corean occupation days as we speak.”

“Pfft.”

“Hahaha!” I like how I can be as politically-incorrect as possible around my Amy. Half the time I say things just to see if it will surprise her.

“I asked one of the girls at work how she lost so much weight. She said she’s going through a divorce,” Amy said.

“That’ll do it.”

“Her husband’s dating someone already. She thinks he was seeing her all along.”

“Probably,” I added more wasabi.

Cancer and emotional devastation. Two of the most effective weight loss clubs that no one wants to join.

“I went to see my friend from out of town today,” Amy said.

“Which friend?”

“My old middle-school one. We used to hang out all the time, until high school.”

“You’re still friends? How’d it go?”

“She looks older than me now. She was sued last year by an employee she fired and went bankrupt.”

“That’s gotta add a few years.”

I looked up to see the sushi chef across the restaurant still looking at us. Just funny. Good sushi though.

“She’s in the middle of a divorce too.”

“Why’s she getting a divorce?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“You’re not curious?”

“No.”

“How is everything here?” our attentive waittress asked again.

“Great. Great,” we answered.

I caught Amy’s glance as I admired her heroic cheekbones and jawline. It took me a few years to realize that specifically. It wasn’t until I saw Kim Deal of The Breeders and then Jessica Biel’s face that I realized what similarities struck a rare but familar chord in me.

“You ever notice how so many of your friends and colleagues are getting a divorce, or should be?” I asked.

“What do you mean, should be?”

“Like your friend Nicky. If your toddlers are going around saying FUCK YOU in the store all the time because their parents say it so much, that’s a sign. Or like your friend Barb–”

“So?”

“That’s why I always want to know why. Because that’s gotta suck.”

I calculated the tip and left enough to make the waittress’ time in the empty restaurant worth it.

If love is a battlefield, I thought, then marriage is a minefield, because you have to be careful where you step. Sure there are obvious things like not cheating on your spouse or leaving her in the wet spot, but what about the little things, the hidden mines and tripwires around the heart. If I know what they truly are, maybe I can navigate away from them. This is why I want to know why relationships fail. Plus, like a minefield, you’re likely to lose a lot more than just your heart.

“Watch your step. It’s icy,” I said as our coat sleeves brushed together.

“I remember that library,” I commented as we drove past my old freshman dorm.

“Yeah, that’s where you made out with your Indian girlfriend,” Amy teased me right on cue.

“No, that was under the stairs. The library was where my friend told me she was making out with another guy at a Diwali party,” I said without the slightest twinge of regret. I was reading The Watchmen at the time, circa 1990.

Good book. Bad girlfriend.

“It all worked out though. If I stayed with her, I’d probably be one of those divorce stories now,” I smiled, satisfied at my good fortune as if I had reverse time-travelled into this path myself, stopping to admire the stoplight’s red glow on my wife’s skin and pillowy lips.

When we got home, there was ice cream cake and kids. Thirty-nine, not so bad.

FIRST RULE OF DANCE CLUB

scott — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 03:36:00 +0000

It’s never too late to learn something new. But just in case, Amy and I arrived at our first dance class early.

Taking dance class was my idea. I wanted to do something new with Amy. Something out of my comfort zone… but as college kids and mature couples arrived, I had second thoughts. What if we suck? What if we have to switch partners? What if we have to talk to everyone?! I had an overwhelming urge to either leave, or shoot for single leg takedowns on anyone standing (grappling habit).

[a single leg takedown]

The instructor started by asking if anyone was getting married. One of the young couples was. A middle-aged couple wanted to dance at parties. A dour couple looked like they needed couples therapy. Then there was Amy with her ass seated on my crotch. Her territorial side tends to come out in public groups.

The teacher introduced us to the first rules of dance club: It’s for fun. It’s noncompetitive. And it’s going to take time and patience. She stressed,

“This isn’t a competition like Dancing With The Stars. Their so-called beginners have had over 40 hours of one-on-one practice by the time you’ve seen them.”

It reminded me of my first lesson in Brazilian jiu jitsu five years ago, even down to the media comparisons (except in the UFC). The first lesson in that MRSA-colonized basement was,

“This is what a rear naked choke feels like.” It was a sloppy choke – made me hoarse for a week. Lesson two was – “Oops! Forgot to tell you how to tap out.”

There were a lot of ways dancing reminded me of grappling (or submission wrestling or Brazilian jiu jitsu):

1) You move with your partner.

2) Both require close contact (actually closer in jiu jitsu).

3) Hip movement is key.

4) You don’t have to be gay to practice with the same gender, but that’s what people will be thinking when they see it.

“Place one hand at shoulder level,” the dance instructor demonstrated, “Place the other one under her arm”. It had a similar set-up as a particular judo throw, underhooking one arm and holding the other. I refrained from throwing Amy over my shoulder.

“Step one, two, three, four. Now put your hand up and ladies, twirl around it. Keep it loose.”

“This is a very basic dance step,” the instructor stated, “You can bust it out at any get-together.”

Hey, just like the rear naked choke.

[rear naked choke, A for effort at least]

Amy and I misstepped several times like everyone else. An open smile stayed on her happy lips, a rare expression between motherly exasperation and her occasional raucous laughter. She has pretty teeth.

Our own personal habits intruded upon the dance lesson. Amy had a natural tendency to lead. I had a natural tendency to verbally correct things. We both stopped ourselves. Amy let herself try the docile role, and I shut up and admired her eyes and boobies.

Other couples’ roles to each other became apparent too. The desperately bored wife and the timid husband. The got-nothin’-but-our-lovin’ young couple. The over-intellectualizing professor and the practical wife. The last call drinking buddies.

“If you keep your hand up, your partner can twirl and twirl beneath it, until you put it down again. Your partner follows your hand.”

This simple control tactic reminded me of the wrestling adage – where the head goes, the body follows. The idea being that if you control the head, you control the body.

Sometimes our heads wouldn’t be in it at the beginning of class. Maybe one of us wasn’t in the mood or an argument occurred on the way there. But like Dr. Ruth used to say, don’t go to bed angry – have sex anyway. Once we started dancing together, our heads would go where our hearts wanted to go. It’s hard to stay mad after you’ve sweated it out through fighting, fucking, or dancing. Physically, does your heart even know the difference? It just wants that release, one way or another.

We learned basic steps from the meringue, the salsa, the waltz, and others, although initially I couldn’t tell the difference except for “easier, faster, and slower.” We picked up on the American fox trot and the jitterbug swing the easiest. Although, the march-step of the meringue did have a neat arm-behind-the-head move that could have transitioned into an armlock.

“Most of us will take several lessons before we get used to these steps. Then it’ll just flow,” the instructor reassured us.

They call that muscle memory (a more technically correct term is “motor memory” – oops, I’m correcting again). Same thing happens with trained fighters. When I started Brazilian jiu jitsu, I wanted to learn how a fighter or wrestler thinks, how he knows or decides what to do. After a while I found that with some expertise, you simply react with a minimum of cues. You still make choices (especially in jiu jitsu), but like language, you’re not picking out words but rather whole phrases are linked together. Once the conversation between bodies begins, intellectualizing it is limited to a post-game activity. You don’t have to think as much as you just feel. Your head doesn’t get in the way of your heart.

This is why I took up dancing with Amy. I want us to speak that language together.

(And she was afraid she would hurt me in jiu jitsu.)

———-

TRUTH IN ADVERTISING

Sweet Korean [sic] Pancake Mix. Yes it is. There’s nothing more to say about it.

Also wanted to thank Jackie for the twitter link (twout out? twink? twank? twat?).

Thanks to Yuhri for explaining why some people take their meds inconsistently:
“power ups.”

To Rick for starting a new cartoon sensation (no pressure!).

And my sassy dongseng for posting not once, but TWICE this year already.

THE GOLEM AND THE GRIFFON

scott — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 17:56:05 +0000

I arrived at the school fifteen minutes before lunch time. I spied on my six-year old cub protectively through the colorful cardboarded windows of his classroom, relieved to see my shy boy interacting with his classmates enthusiastically. My two fears are that he will be like me, and not be like me.

The school cafeteria was depressingly small, but maybe they all are at our age. I remember when I went back to visit my old elementary school at age 19, I expected Minas Tirith and found The Shire (for non-geeks, The Shire = small people place, Minas Tirith = big kings place). I held my teachers in high regard and wanted to show them what a good person they molded. Most were nonplussed or just didn’t remember who I was. In retrospect, how could they? Childhood makes its own magic. My esteem for them and myself diminished a bit then like a forgotten child and I grew up a little more stoney.

An Indian girl missing her front teeth sat next to Sun Su and me, “Hi Sun Su!” He avoided her gaze as if it would turn him to stone. So much like me. I said hi for him.

I used to think “hot lunch” was awesome as a kid. Now, the styrofoam trays with the chicken cubes in gel sauce plus a roll seemed lonely, like some of the first-graders themselves without parents or little reminders of jokes written by mom on a banana. Little things that seem big now.

The “bring a loved one to lunch day” was actually “lure them in for the book fair day.” I loved book fair day as a kid. All those untapped journeys and secrets at your fingertips. A good book can make the world change around you and within you.

“You can pick two books, okay?”

“Okay.”

He came back with two books – one for himself and one for his sister. Be still my maudlin heart.

“That’s really nice. You can still get one more book for yourself,” the book fairy made me say.

I picked up a Hello Kitty summer activity book for Amy and Ooseung.

“We still have a little time left. You can go to recess or whatever you want,” I told him.

“I want to read my book.” I would too. “Come on.”

“Okay,” I lumbered after him as he flew down the hall.

We sat in the library by ourselves, looking at Sun Su’s new Bakugan book (it’s kind of like Pokemon with magnetic balls – that sounds wholesome).

“They got Gorem’s name from the word ‘golem,’” I observed as Sun Su paged through the guide.

“What’s a golem?”

“It’s a man-shaped creature made out of one thing – like stone or iron. Sometimes they guard things,” I explained.

“And this one’s based on a griffon, that’s –”

“A lion creature with wings,” Sun Su interrupted with a Cheshire cat smile.

“I was going to say that exact thing. How did you know?”

“I just know,” my cub smiled with pride. Like a magician he never reveals the secrets of his knowledge and it cracks me up.

We sat for a little longer, talking about the names and creatures in his book, until I took him back to class.

Then just like that, I realized he had turned me into a heart golem.

TEN YEAR HITCH

scott — Sat, 07 Mar 2009 14:17:15 +0000

I felt quite a bit better after writing the previous post, just getting that out of my system.

When Amy came home from the office outing, she told me that the Seymour guy I’d been complaining about didn’t even show. So the office females started talking about how he sounds like a girl on the phone and how he says “peekaboo” in place of “hi.”

So enough of that. The guy’s got enough problems.

“Your friend left a message,” my mom told Amy when she got home,

“She said happy anniversary.”

“What?” Amy and I said simultaneously.

Then it dawned on us.

“You didn’t know, did you?” we asked each other, clearing each other’s conscience.

Our wedding anniversary. Our TEN year wedding anniversary. We both forgot it. Again.

“We’ve been married for ten years,” Amy smiled.

I read that the tenth year anniversary present is something tin or aluminum to represent malleability and flexibility. (Diamond stores will tell you it’s diamonds though.) We didn’t intentionally get each other anniversary presents but coincidentally, I scheduled dance class for us this Sunday. Plus, I also got Amy (and myself) a netbook this week – she really enjoys using it … in bed … to look up sales at Target in bed, I mean. That’s certainly more romantic than crotchless lingerie she would never wear. So it all worked out.

We laughed about our forgetfulness. Shortly afterwards, we put the kids to bed, and promptly passed out next to them in their separate beds.

Such is marriage after ten years.

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

On an unrelated note, I recently discovered that some versions of Internet Explorer don’t show the link-filled sidebars on this site’s main page. I may try to fix it eventually, but man, why are people still using IE at all – Firefox is just better and safer.

What bothers me most is that it looks (to some IE users) like I don’t link my online friends or anyone else for that matter, which is lame, especially in this dying age of non-commercial non-celebrity personal blogging. Thanks for sticking with the nearly extinct, my friends (by now, only friends still read this).

For now, I’m going to do it old-school and actually make a PAGE of LINKS. I added some people I’ve been meaning to for a while and removed some that aren’t updating anymore (but if you start again, tell me!). If you don’t have a nickname, it’s because I couldn’t think of one, find one, or I probably don’t know you well enough to offend you. (I particularly like the nicknames I gave to sweet GG’s site – Double Gs and Tracy’s group blog – Party of Foxy).

NOT ABOUT THE CAT

scott — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 18:03:17 +0000

“I saw The Wrestler by myself today. It was really good. You missed out.”

“You didn’t ask me.”

“I asked you three weeks ago and you weren’t interested.”

“You said you didn’t want to go out!”

“That was a different issue….”

Maybe we were arguing about why we couldn’t get another cat again. I couldn’t remember.

“Then on my next few days off, you go to the MALL all day with your girlfriend.”

“So? WE didn’t have any plans.”

“I’m saying we only get a couple days off together when I’m off and then you go and plan stuff with other people.”

“…”

“I’m going to see Confessions of a Shopaholic with my girlfriend tomorrow afternoon. It’s the only day she can get a babysitter.”

“Fine. I’m seeing Friday the 13th anyways after my dentist appointment.”

My old lady dentist was replaced with a young pretty dentist with dark brown eyes and the complexion of Rashida Jones. The plaque at the front desk said she was married to Ramesh, did volunteer work in South America, and owned two cats.

When they had their hands in my mouth, she and her assistant talked about Clive Owen and the subtleties of various dental cements.

Two cats.

When I went to get my haircut, the only available hairdresser was an even younger pretty girl. She walked like a new fawn, in high heels and bell-bottoms.

She played with the static in my hair. Asked how long I’d been a doctor. Was amused by the one grey hair in my sideburn. She clipped it.

She offered to trim my eyebrows. Amy stopped doing that a couple years ago. I don’t know why. I said, “Sure.”

It was like being scratched behind the ears again.

The next morning, Amy gave me a kiss before she left for work. Different.

The day after, my mom came over to visit.

“Hey, I found a dance class for us this Sunday,” I told Amy, “If it gets to be a regular thing for us, I was going to drop jiu jitsu.”

“Okay, sure.”

Later, while she was bathing the kids, she casually mentioned,

“The office is going out for drinks tomorrow after work. Since your mom is over to help with the kids, I said I’ll go. I’ll be a little late.”

But my mom’s over so WE can go out, I thought to myself so hard that I’m surprised the bathroom mirrors didn’t crack.

“… Who’s going?”

“Me, Seymore, [female], [female]….”

“…”

Seymore. I hate that little fucker. He’s short, peppy, and might be my wife’s best friend at work. Whenever I stop by the office, he jokes like we’re buddies,

“So are you and Amy working on baby number three?”

I’m always tempted to reply with,

“Are you?”

He already has three kids of his own.

He recently transferred out of his other department to work under … my wife.

“Seymore’s like one of the girls,” she always says.

Right.

“Amy seems to go out a lot,” my mom says.

“Only when you’re here,” I say.

“I’m just saying, son.”

“Shut up, mom.”

I was so quietly mad. They say you shouldn’t keep your feelings locked inside because they fester and rot and your insides get scooped out like a Devil’s Night jack-0-lantern. When I was little, I used to get so mad at my younger brother and he never knew. I’d sit at my desk with blood boiling in my veins. He’d innocently walk in and start playing or reading or daydreaming on my bed just for the company, I realized. Then I’d stop being mad at him every time. Must have happened a hundred times and he never knew.

In bed that night, Amy was reading The Reader. I don’t know anything about it, except that there’s an affair between a woman and a younger male.

I turned off Passive Jon and Psycho Kate Plus 8 Too Many. I defiantly put in Breakfast At Tiffany’s. I sat on my side of the bed. Amy was still reading.

Once it started, she finally noticed.

“You haven’t watched this yet?”

“No.”

She put her book down and started watching too.

“She’s way too thin. You can see the tendons in her jaw.”

“Hey it’s that A-Team guy.”

“Oh, this is the one where Mickey Rooney does that racist shit, isn’t it?”

“She just met him and now she’s laying her head on his naked sweaty chest?”

“Her hand is right next to his penis.”

“And it’s probably still sticky too.”

“It’s like they’re married.”

It felt good to have my wife’s head laying on my chest. Watching and talking together. This is what it’s supposed to be like – like we’re married.

“Isn’t her cat cute?” I had to throw it out there just once.

She fell asleep before the end of the movie. As usual. It perplexes me how she can do that. The ending is the payoff. The point. I guess she saw it before:

“I love you.”

“So what.”

“So what? So plenty! I love you, you belong to me!”

“(tearfully) No. People don’t belong to people.”

“Of course they do!”

“I’ll never let ANYBODY put me in a cage.”

“I don’t want to put you in a cage, I want to love you!”

I don’t either. I love her.