Goofy grin

The last several days I have caught myself sliding into a goofy grin.  I recognize this grin and the state of mind behind it.  What I don't know is whether it is premature.

To fill in the story I have to back up: a few days to Christmas Eve, or possibly twenty years.

Twenty years?  Why yes.  Twenty years ago next week -- the very beginning of January, 1993 -- I started a job at a small tech startup here in town.  (The company has since closed and I'm working somewhere else now.)  My position had been created new, because they realized they needed someone to handle a certain collection of tasks full-time; up till then those tasks had been covered at best part time by a woman I'll call Debbie, who had finally insisted that someone else needed to take them over.  So while my boss was some other guy, Debbie did most of my training.

Debbie and I spent a lot of time together, first because she was training me and then because we were just talking.  I liked her a lot: she was quiet, serious, and compassionate -- Unitarian, for what it's worth, with all the social sensibilities that usually implies.  And she seemed to like me.  I never pushed it any farther than talking -- "just good friends" -- because, well, I'm shy and we were both married and this was twenty years ago.  I wasn't ready to go there yet.  And so I never really had any way to check whether she had gotten to the point that I had gotten to, where my heart did a little flutter whenever I was around her, or thought about her.

More precisely, she never said anything about feelings on her side, but I had my suspicions.  About a year later, maybe less, she and her husband and their daughter moved to Europe for a couple of years.  People often lose track of each other after a move that significant, but we kept in regular touch by e-mail.  When they came back, she returned to work at the same company part-time for a couple more years.  Her hours were such that we didn't see each other a lot, but we had lunch together when we could.  Sometimes at a local restaurant.  Once or twice she drove me to her house and we ate there.  And then after a while suddenly every time we met for lunch it turned out that her husband had asked to join us too.  Every single time.  His idea, or hers?  It couldn't have been just my charming personality.  Had she said something at home?  Was he feeling jealous and overprotective?  Or did she feel she needed a chaperone?  And if the latter, was it because she was worried about where I might be taking us?  Or about herself?

So many questions, and I never asked them out loud.  I never learned any answers.  And then after a while Debbie took another job somewhere else and we really didn't see each other any more.  Once in a great while I would hear what was going on with her through common friends.  Occasionally she would send out a mass e-mail to her friends when something big happened ... like when she changed careers altogether, or when her daughter went off to college, or when she and her husband split up.  I saw her once when a bunch of us from that company (long sinnce closed) got together for the funeral of one of our erstwhile co-workers, but we didn't exchange any words.  The crowd was big and it was hardly the time.

And then this week -- Monday, Christmas Eve -- I had to go out to the grocery store for one or two last-minute things that we just had to have.  I had picked them off the shelves and was standing trying to decide whether to get one more bottle of wine as well or whether to check out ... when I noticed that there was something familiar about that woman over there in the checkout line.  She was greyer than I remembered, and looked older ... but then we've all gotten older with time.  Was that Debbie?  Or just someone who looked kind of like her?  I admit that I stared for a minute, trying to decide.  She looked around -- maybe she felt my eyes on the back of her neck -- and saw me.  We just looked at each other face to face for a moment, each thinking.  Then she picked up her basket of groceries, murmured "Excuse me" to the woman behind her in line, and came out to talk to me.  It was Debbie.

We talked a little bit.  How are you doing?  OK, how about you?  I told her that the boys are both in high school and doing well (though I'm not quite sure whether they were even born yet back when we worked together).  And I told her that Wife and I are separating.  She asked if I had heard that she and her husband had divorced.  (I had.)  She added that it had taken a long time to get everything finalized, and I get the impression that it wasn't exactly a smooth divorce.  She agreed with me that even a failed marriage can be very educational.  Then we exchanged e-mail addresses and went our separate ways.

A couple of days after Christmas I sent her a quick note to follow up.  I wanted to keep it light, because (as noted) I really wasn't sure if she felt quite the same way I did.  And for that matter, how much of my feelings were just a decade and more of accumulated fantasy, rather than anything based in reality?  Better to start off light.

Bright and early Thursday morning, I wrote her:

Hi Debbie,

It was great to bump into you at the store the other day.  Once the hubbub of the holidays has subsided, does your schedule have space in it for a cup of coffee?  I'd love to continue the conversation.

All the best, as always,

Hosea

Not twenty minutes later, I got back a reply:

Hi Hosea,

It was, indeed, good to run into you, although bittersweet.  I find you have been much on my mind these past few days and I have been wishing you well-being and the best possible outcome, whatever that may be. 

I'd love to continue the conversation over a cup of coffee after the holidays!  As I mentioned, [here she discussed some holiday plans that last through January 3rd], so any time after that would be good for me.   I work [these and those days].  Most other days I have time free, so just let me know what will work for you.

may you be well,
Debbie

Bittersweet?  I've been much on her mind?  Sounds promising.  So I wrote back:

Hi again,

I'm glad we'll be able to get together.  Too often I have dawdled or neglected to follow up with someone and the meeting grows stale.  I wanted to be sure that didn't happen with you.

I go back to work on the 2nd.  [Then I described my schedule for the next couple weeks.]  So gosh, shall we throw a dart at a wall?  How about noon on Friday the 4th?  Or if that looks inconvenient, by all means toss back another day instead.

And then the next big question: where? 

Looking forward to this,

Hosea

She agreed to the 4th and asked me to propose a place.  I suggested three options, and she wrote back:

I like [this one] and their quiet little tables nestled into nooks and crannies are good for talking, so let's go there.  Shall I meet you there at noon?

As I said once before, it appears that I have a date. Let's see how it goes.

Oh, and in case I forget to mention it ... Happy New Year!

Wife's sleepover?

This was a little odd.  A couple of days ago, Wife announced -- to me and the boys -- that she was going to spend the next couple of nights over at the house of Boyfriend 7 (Jenner).  To my knowledge she has never discussed her affairs openly with the boys (although I sometimes suspect that she confides in Son 2), so I cocked an eyebrow at this.  Her story was that Boyfriend 7 and his wife were both home, but that she was very sick and he had injured his hip so he couldn't look after her.  So she had offered to come over and look after them both.

Huh?  I didn't think she was all that close to Jenner's wife; and while of course she is fucking Boyfriend 7, she has never discussed it openly.  The cover story made almost no sense, so I assumed that it was a transparent fabrication, that Jenner's wife was out of town visiting relatives, and that this was an excuse to spend the next few days humping like bunnies with Boyfriend 7.  Even so I was a little surprised that she would schedule it for now, when she has always claimed that her top priority is to spend time with the boys and here they are both home on Break.

So I did a little snooping on her phone and found out I was wrong.  The story was absolutely true, as far as Jenner and his wife were concerned.  I still can't be sure of Wife's motivations, but the back story was correct.

Also, in the end it never happened.  She got as far as packing an overnight bag with enough stuff to last her a couple of days, and then Jenner texted her not to come.  Apparently their daughter had offered to come over that night (now that makes a little more sense); then the next night Jenner's wife was feeling better and the situation had passed.

Still, it was odd.

Normal teenager

Janeway has suggested -- I believe with respect to my last post -- that I tell Wife that the boys are just behaving like normal teenagers when they want nothing to do with us.  Hell, I remember being a teenager, and "spending a whole lot of time talking to my parents" sure wasn't one of my top priorities.

But I have had limited success pitching this concept to Wife.  Or rather, let me call it inconsistent success.  Some days she is perfectly willing to accept the explanation.  Other days she insists that when she was a teenager, by God she wanted to talk with her mother every single day and she even kept in touch with her father out of duty: so what's wrong with our kids, anyway?  [Her parents were never strictly speaking divorced, but they lived apart almost all the time Wife was growing up.]

When she was ranting about Christmas presents (and segued into ranting about how Son 1 doesn't keep in touch with her) I did try suggesting that Son 1 was, in this, behaving no differently than she would have behaved at her age.  Surely she didn't really want to spend a lot of time with her folks?  Couldn't she put herself in his shoes and translate that sentiment to him?

She answered, "Well I had a reason, because at every holiday or school event or family get-together my father was always drunk off his ass, dribbling spit and embarrassing everyone. And I don't do any of that, so it's not the same."

It was on the tip of my tongue to explain to her, "Yes it is the same. No, you don't get drunk and you don't dribble spit. But at every holiday or school event or family get-together you do indeed embarrass everyone ... by insisting on joining every conversation and then misunderstanding what it is about so that your 'expert comments' have nothing to do with the point, by nattering on so long that nobody else can get a word in edgeways even when you have nothing to say, and by complaining bitterly about everything. It is just as embarrassing as anything your father could ever have done, and it is no surprise to me that the boys want to keep you insulated away from their lives and their friends."

But I didn't say it.  I have learned that the things I really want to say because they give me a warm, self-righteous glow while saying them are always things I regret later.  Some day, maybe after the paperwork goes through, I think it might be useful for her to be told these things.  But maybe not right now.

When Christmas is a competition

For the most part, I think Christmas went pretty well.  Wife, Son 2, and I drove to my parents' house, as usual.  We met Son 1 there -- he had gotten out of school for Winter Break a couple days before and had just stuck around their house helping out rather than making the several-hour trip home just to turn around and drive back Christmas Day.  (I think I have mentioned that my parents live about five minutes from Hogwarts.)  The day was festive, we all had lots to eat, and Wife didn't get into any bitter arguments with my dad ... or anyone else.  When we left that evening, it all seemed fine.

Once we were back home, however, it became clear that Wife was wound up over the presents.  One of the ones that troubled her the most was that Brother had given Son 1 an electric guitar. 

A bit of background: Brother is the rock musician in the family.  He works various temp assignments as a day job, but his real interest is music.  Apparently he and Son 1 were visiting some time recently and Son 1 started plinking on one of Brother's guitars, trying to pick out a tune.  They talked and then Brother e-mailed me asking if it would be OK for him to get Son 1 a guitar for Christmas.  I couldn't think of any reason why not. 

Brother: I suppose I was just thinking of how you and the neighbors would like the noise?

Hosea: You mean like when you were Son 1's age and Dad got you some second-hand drums? No, I'm not too worried. Heck, it will mostly be his dorm-mates who have to listen to him.  I think it's fine.

Turns out, though, that it troubled Wife.  Why?  Because it was more expensive than anything she got him, or I did. 

Wife: That must have cost $800. There's no way I can compete with that!

Hosea: Uh, ... compete? What do you mean?

Wife: Well I can't afford to buy Son 1 anything costing $800!

Hosea: So what?

Wife: "So what"?? I'm his mother, that's what! What's he going to think when your brother gets him such an expensive gift and I can't do the same?

Hosea: What do you mean? Are you saying that every Christmas you want the most expensive gifts to the boys to be the ones coming from you?

Wife: Yes! Well, ... or from you. But yes, I still want to have some kind of place in his life.

Hosea: You do. What are you talking about? You're his mother. Of course you have a place in his life. We both do. And if you didn't, do you really think you could buy a place with gifts?

Wife: Are you happy with the place you have in his life?

Hosea: Of course. What do you mean?

Wife: Because I'm not! I have no place in his life any more. I text him several times a week and I get nothing back ... or at most a one word reply. I call him and he won't pick up the call. OK, I get it, he might be in class. But then he "forgets" to call back -- ever! If you're happy with your place in his life, then obviously he answers your texts and he takes your calls. Obviously you must talk to him all the time -- you must have a thriving communication with him -- and it's just me that he's avoiding! It's just me that he never wants to talk to! And now I can't even give him Christmas presents that he likes? What does that leave me, Hosea? What in Hell does that leave me?

There was nothing that I could say to this.  The errors were so obvious: her place in the boys' lives has nothing to do with buying them gifts; I don't talk to Son 1 any more often than she does, but I'm OK with that; whether he likes a present has nothing to do with how much it costs.  And so on.  But I have tried to tell her this kind of thing before, and she can't hear it.  I might as well be speaking Chinese.  And so I had nothing very useful to say for the rest of that evening.  Fortunately it was late and she went to bed soon.

Boyfriend 8

By the way, not that it matters (not that you care, nor I) but Wife has added another boyfriend to her stable.  This one is an unemployed physicist, or something like that.  He has spent the last couple of years just seeing her for coffee, nothing more.  Turns out he figured she was off the market because she and I hadn't actually instituted proceedings.  (I guess she must not have told him about Boyfriends 6 and 7, to say nothing of those in the past).  Now that we are filling out discovery forms for each other, he suddenly wanted her in bed. 

(And no, she didn't actually tell me any of this; I just found out anyway.)

Whatever.  Maybe if she collects enough boyfriends at a time she'll be less of a selfish, grasping harridan as we work out a settlement.  Maybe pigs will fly.  You just never know.

Anyway, it's someone new to keep her busy.

Sleeping pills

Wife takes sleeping pills before she goes to bed.  OK, fine, she takes so many other kinds of pills that what's one more?  She says she can't sleep without taking them.

Only why does she also take them in the morning?

I think it is force of habit -- maybe -- but if it is then this is a habit that is impermeable to reason or common sense.  When she wakes up in the middle of the night to pee, she always takes another sleeping pill before going back to bed.  It's absolutely routine.  She fears -- can it be fear? -- that she won't be able to get back to sleep without it.  And she fears -- again, is that it? -- not being able to get back to sleep.  So she reaches for a pill.

Only, ... what about this morning?  Son 2 (who has been home on Christmas Break since Saturday) had an early doctor's appointment, so she was planning to get up at 6:00 am to get dressed and breakfasted in time to take him.  She set her alarm expressly last night before turning in.  And then she got up to pee this morning at 4:47. 

I happen to know the time because she rolled over just before getting up and poked me in a way that woke me sharply and immediately.  (At the time I thought it must have been deliberate, because she often pokes me like that if she deems I am snoring too loudly.)  Anyway, I woke up and saw the clock.  And a couple minutes later she got up and toddled into the bathroom.

When she finally came back it was nearly 5:00, and I was still irritated at having been (so I thought) deliberately awakened.  So I rather unkindly got up, turned on the light, and suggested we both get up.  This way she'd have more time to get ready in the morning, which always takes her amazingly long anyway.  She was understandably displeased, but went along with it.

So here we were getting going a little after 5:00 in the morning.  I got dressed.  She started making coffee ... grumbling but perfectly coherent.  Within a half an hour, though, she was staggering, unable to focus, and unable to speak clearly.  I asked her what was wrong and she explained -- as peevishly as she could manage in her stupefied state -- that she had taken a sleeping pill when she had gone to pee.

What the fuck??  It was nearly 5:00 then ... had she forgotten that she was planning to wake up anyway in just over an hour?  Admittedly it was still dark -- hell, it's winter -- but how hard would it have been to glance at the same clock I saw?  Or the big clock on the wall immediately to her left in the bathroom ... actually in front of her while she was on the toilet?  How hard would it have been to reflect that the pill would take thirty to sixty minutes to dissolve in her stomach, and so would only start taking effect about the time she wanted to get up anyway?  Or a little before, sure, but there is no possible way it could have worn off by the time she wanted to get up ... no way it could do anything but incapacitate her.  How could she not see this?

But this is normal.  I don't even say anything about it any more, because I know she is incapable of understanding.  I could say "Don't take a sleeping pill if it is within two hours of when you want to wake up," and she will say "But then I won't be able to get back to sleep."  Whatever I say at that point -- for example, "Maybe so but in that case you just have to live with it because if you take the pill you will never wake up on time" -- she'll answer "But I have to have my sleep. I'll get sick if I don't get enough sleep."  And then she will alternate those two answers from there on out, no matter what else I might try to say.  She will not -- cannot? or is not willing to? -- understand that there can possibly be a bigger picture than the one she has painted for herself that says:

1. If it is bedtime, you have to go to sleep so go to step 3.
2. If you wake up and it is still dark then you have to go to sleep so go to step 3.
3. Any time you have to go to sleep (such as in steps 1 or 2), take a pill.

I cannot tell if this is willfulness or stupidity.  But there are certain conversations where she is defended by a mental wall that is just impermeable.  This is one of them. 

So in the end I gave her a shove in the direction of bed and she fell back asleep.  Son 2 got up and asked why Mom wasn't up yet, adding "Is she plastered on drugs?"  I rolled my eyes and sighed Yes.  So I took him to his doctor's appointment and got to work late.  They spent the day decorating the tree and it looks very pretty.  And now she is in bed  again for the night, having taken her nightly dose of medications, including her sleeping pills.  And so it goes.

Peace, Molly

Sometimes I think I talk too much about movies.  But a well-done movie can often convey a point better and more forcefully than I ever could on my own.

This evening I saw Steven Spielberg's Lincoln.  Of course it has gotten much praise as a fine movie.  I have seen several reviews praising Daniel Day-Lewis's portrayal of the President.

I have yet to read a review, though, that says much about Sally Field as Mary Todd Lincoln.  Let me say, for my own part, that she nails it.  More precisely, I don't know a thing about the historical Mary Todd Lincoln.  The character that she nails, perfectly, exquisitely, is Wife.  Not in all the surface details, perhaps, though the hints at her spending mania are a nice touch.  But the psychological characterization is scarily exact.  Watch the scene where Mary falls completely to pieces and Abe threatens her with the madhouse, and you have seen any number of the shrieking fights between us over the years.  I don't claim to have struck as honorable a figure as Day-Lewis's Lincoln in these arguments, but Field's Mary is perfect.

And if you are able to see a kind of greatness in her hysteria -- a jagged, rough-hewn grandeur in the sheer magnitude of her suffering, something that compels your respect and awe even against your will -- then you will have some idea what I saw in Wife all those years.  You will see -- beyond all the mundane practicalities -- a deeper part of why I stayed so long.

P.S. added in September, 2021: For purposes of future retrieval, you can think of this post as if it were subtitled "Movie meme 3.5." 

Eating while drinking, 2

Is it just me, or has anybody else found that different kinds of alcohol work differently on them?  I find that wine and beer make me sleepy and sluggish, while spirits – whiskey, brandy, vodka – are more likely to energize me if I sip them slowly.  It’s strange.  I can drink a glass or three of wine with dinner, and I’m ready for bed.  But if I then pour myself a nightcap of something stonger, I can stay up for hours.  I may have to refresh the nightcap, of course, and I won’t vouch for how I feel in the morning if I make a late night of it.  But it intrigues me that the same chemical can have such different effects.

Meanwhile, I am putting on weight again.  I mentioned in an earlier post that I have been drinking more regularly as a way to damp down the anxiety of living with Wife.  And elsewhere I believe I have mentioned that drinking encourages me to eat more.  Q.E.D.  At this point I figure I’ll cut back when I’m somewhere else.

God, I have got to get out of here!

Thoughts on failure, 5: hiding

A while ago, TLP (The Last Psychiatrist) wrote an article around the subject of narcissism, where he used this selection from the movie “Glengarry Glen Ross.”  In it, Alec Baldwin’s character delivers what must be the most hostile motivational speech in the history of cinema, telling three poorly-performing salesmen that they had better turn their numbers around or else get out.  And he claims to be reasonably clear in his own mind that the speech is a waste of time, because “A loser is a loser.”  In other words, if you guys were going to perform you’d already be performing instead of sitting around krechtzing and making excuses.  You’re not going to make it in sales.  Leave.

TLP’s recurrent theme is narcissism, so he broadens the application of the scene past merely sales.  Don’t feed yourself a story about “who you really are” when it flies in the face of reality.  Don't tell yourself, “Well my day job is XYZ – just to pay the bills – but in my heart I’m a writer and as soon as I can get some money ahead I’ll quit my job and start writing.”  The answer, of course, is “So what have you already written?”  Because the only way to be a writer is to write.  (Ursula LeGuin makes the same point with light humor and a lot less belligerence in her essay, “Talking about writing”.)

So what about me?  Do I “define myself” [awful phrase] by my day job?  Hell, no.  As you all know far too well, I think of myself as some kind of freelance intellectual or workaday philosopher.  But that’s certainly not how I earn my living.  D once commented on this too, saying, “Hosea, I sometimes think you spend 95% of your time hiding.”  She pointed out that I am cheerful and pleasant to people, but in a way that keeps them at arm’s length; she added that that my work is just a role I put on in the morning instead of being something integral to me (as being a teacher is integral to her); and she wondered aloud what my life would be like if I ever stopped hiding and simply chose to become who I am.

Why don’t I follow her advice?  Do I really prefer beguiling myself with narcissistic fantasy to living in the real world?

It’s not that, exactly.  It’s rather that – long before I ever saw the movie – I worried that “a loser is a loser.”

For a long time my father told himself he was an actor, even while he worked at a number of other careers including professor and businessman.  He’d be in every show the local community theater put on; he’d play summer stock; and honestly he was (and is) pretty good.  Then finally, when he was about the age I am now, he had the opportunity to devote himself full-time to acting.  He didn’t need to go to an office, he didn’t need to answer to anybody else, his time was his own to spend on his art.  And he pissed it away.  He squandered time on any number of stupid projects that went nowhere.  He sat around and read.  He dreamed … the way he dreamed when he still had to go to work, the dreams he was supposed to be realizing now.  And yes, he got some small parts here and there.  He made a couple of commercials from which he still gets residuals.  But he never became the next Lionel Barrymore.  Hell, he never even became the next Danny DeVito (which is more the type he would have been playing).  When he didn’t have an external structure imposed on his life from the outside, he didn’t have any structure at all.  And what he accomplished was not much.

This is why I have always wanted to make sure I work for somebody else: self-employment holds no charm for me.  This is why I never want to strike out on my own, seeking fame and fortune as … well, whatever the hell it is I think I am.  Because I think it won’t happen.  The reason we celebrate great successes, after all, is that they are rare.  I know I can piss away my time every bit as unprofitably as my father did; comes the weekend, I can watch myself do it.  And there is a kind of comfort in working for somebody else, even doing something kind of dull and meaningless, because that means somebody else will make me get out of bed in the morning.

It may be hiding, but I fear the alternative.  And I do not have the confidence that I can overcome my own impulses towards frittering and lethargy.