I have learned that when I’m not in love, it’s miserable. For our sixth year anniversary, we flew to Australia for three weeks. Through Sydney and over to Adelaide, where we caught a little two prop plane to our first official stop, Kangaroo Island. All the while we held hands, smiled at each other, and pointed out the windows. We were going to see Kangaroos, Wallabies, seals and if we were lucky, penguins in the wild, mate. Mate! Everybody talks like this, mate! G’day, mate! So cool! This was going to be our dream trip, a fantastic, romantic, adventure of a lifetime.
And my biggest worry, driving in a car built backwards, on the other side of the road was turning out to be a piece of cake. Kangaroo Island wasn’t very populated. All the roads were two-lanes surrounded by nothing but shrubbery. I was focused and as always Christie became my little navigator; looking at maps, pointing out signs and feeding me snacks. We were this great happy, happy team. This was love.
We first drove to seal beach where we stood next to thousand pound seals sunning themselves after a morning swim. Awesome. It was like actually being in one of those Discovery Channel shows. The guide taught us things like, the seal can swim for 17 minutes without coming up for air and can dive as deep as a mile for food. That they would charge out through the waves toward Antarctica trying to escape the greatest of all predators, the
Great White Shark.
Christie and I stood against the railing overlooking the ocean wrapped up in each other’s arms. We looked at each other with deep admiration, thinking, “I love you.” “Thanks for making this happen.” I’d say, “Christie, you want your jacket honey? You cold? Here you go, let me zip that for you.” “You want a picture with that seal?” She set her love filled eyes on me with a smile that wouldn’t stop. Hand in hand we walked back to the car, ready for our next adventure.
I’m driving along the empty roads toward the exit of the seal sanctuary when Christie says, “Ohhh, look John, we have some cookies. You want some of my cookie? Huh? You want some of this?” I think, “I’m driving 25 miles per hour. No one around us. No one on the road. The long road lined each way with only shrubs. Shrubbery everywhere. Sure, I’ll have some of your cookie.” I nibble at her fingers as I drive. I look at the road, look at the cookie, look at her, then back to the road. Nibble some more. I think, “this is fun, this is love, this is living!” And as I am nibbling the chocolate off her finger tips, I make a left turn onto another empty road, into the wrong lane.
“John what’re you doing?! You’re on the wrong side of the road,” she yells. “Okay, okay,” I say. My hands casually spin the wheel into the long empty lane to our left. “O-kay, Christie, we’ll just get back over here.” I smile over to her, “I mean there is no one around for miles, so it’s okay.” My smile drops. “John you could of killed us! Aren’t you watching where we’re going?! You have to stay on the right side of the road! I mean what if someone else was coming,” she says.
“What?! What, Christie, what?! What is the risk? What is the big deal, What am I going to do drive into a shrub,” I ask.
But on she goes, “John you have to get this! I mean we are going to be driving in the city. Maybe we shouldn’t drive. Maybe we shouldn’t of rented this car. Maybe this is a big mistake, John. This was a bad idea! I mean do you even think what could of happened?!”
All I can think where is the love? It’s like all the love’s getting sucked, phoomp, out the window. It’s like she’s hitting my head and hitting my head and hitting my head with her words. Boom! Boom! Boom! You’re wrong! You’re wrong! Wrong! Hitting me down. She’s taking my head and just rubbing my face in it. It’s like I’m that one seal that charges out through the waves and runs right into a mouthful of huge white teeth and blood and chomping. And chomping! Chomping!! She’s completely changed. One second she’s feeding me cookies, it’s this romantic trip and the next second, I look ... and she’s the great white shark. AAAhh!!
That’s when my wall goes right up. I think, “You don’t want happiness? Fine. I’m not going to talk, not going to turn on the radio. I’m just going to drive. I’ll be the perfect driver for the next three weeks. No fun. Not going to sing, not going to smile, or look for animals, or make cute voices. I’m not going to think anything. I’ll just be the perfect driver for the next three weeks our romantic anniversary trip.” I hate this feeling. Why do I turn into this pulsing, frustrated, angry man? I could just take this steering wheel and just bend it right in half. I could get out, rip out the seat, take the car and throw it off a cliff. But... I don’t.
I try to hold on, because this has happened before. I used to clench my fists and sometimes hit my leg. Then she’d say, “Oh, what are you doing, John? You want to hit me? Is that what you want to do? Am I your leg you’re hitting?” “No,” I say, “I don’t want to hit you, Christie. I am not a wife abuser. I am just angry at the situation, Christie, can’t you see?” So, I just get quiet and don’t say anything. I just breathe.
She says, “Oh, okay you are just going to be quiet and not say anything? You just do that, don’t talk to me.” And that stupid last word tennis match starts. “I won’t.” “Fine.” “Okay.” “Good.” And this is our trip. I feel so ugly. In the silence my brain the questions pour in. Racing through my head in an instant. “Am I really in love with this woman? Is this going to happen for the rest of my life?” This mood feels permanent, like being tortured in hell. That scares me. I just want to be happy with her, nibbling at her fingers, like I was one minute ago. One minute ago! Feeling inside like I can’t wait to be with her. Like when I get home from work and see her standing in the door with her cute smile and hug. I’ll just want to eat her face up, gobble up her cute little lips and cheeks and hair and all of her and that’s love. That’s where I want to be.
Instead, all I can see is myself getting out of the car saying, “you drive. No? Well, that’s it. I’m going back to LA and you can stay here with the seals.” I think, “Where is that Australian girl from the airport? She’s cute with that accent. It would be fun to get to know her. She wouldn’t complain about my driving. She’d think I was doing good for an American. No, she’ll probably complain about something. Everyone has something. Everyone has something.”
I think, “Okay, I must be doing something wrong. How could I have dealt with this better?” I hear another man speaking through me. My perfect man in his perfectly calm voice, saying, “Okay honey, yes drive on this side of the road. Thanks for reminding me, little navigator. No, I won’t kill us, you little jokester. I was eating your cookie and nibbling at your sweet fingers. Can you blame me, really? We can’t be doing that anymore. Yes, I was bad, bad, bad.”
And she could say what ever she wanted. And I would just smile unaffected. I’d be like a porous sponge. It would soak into me, but at the same time, it would just go right out of me and it wouldn’t mean anything, because I know she’s acting this way because of her own fears or something.
But, unfortunately, I’m like a big net that catches all her comments, tones, and feelings; trapping them inside. They glow red like lava and want to explode out like a volcano. That scares me. That volcano could ruin everything. I could ruin this marriage. So... I sit... in silence... breathe.
A couple of hours go by, sometimes more, sometimes less. It seems like days and months. It feels like a dessert waiting for rain. No life around, only hot steamy air that’s suffocating, and dry-hot sand to crawl on, and no relief. Where’s the rain? Where’s my relief?
Then, finally, the clouds break. A laugh, or an accidental touching of elbows, a look at her cute lips, or a touch of a hand pulls me away from my wall of angry solitude. I get to the end of my cycle remembering, falling over what really makes me happy. Her gift of love, encouragement, a team mate, a playmate through life, for life. Kisses and closeness and sharing. Our relationship, our six years. How I can’t imagine it any other way.
I let go and see clearly what love is. It’s not me leaving or the other girl. It’s me, not hitting my leg or raising my voice. It’s me wanting to be better, to grow, to evolve so that we do live in the happiness, in the love, more and more. And then I know... I do love this woman.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Scary Lips and Killer Spiders
Sometimes I just look at my wife and wonder, “How long she could possibly talk.” I mean, after a while I’m really not listening to what she is saying. I just look at her and in my mind I think, “Look at her lips, aren't they getting tired? Could she get a cramp in her tongue, her cheek, both cheeks, her lips? What would happen if she got a cramp? Would her mouth pucker up like she bit a lemon? Would she say, “owwwwththth,” and then try to keep talking through the whole cramping? Would it make her cry?”
Lips are funny when they just keep moving and changing shapes to make sounds. I see them transforming and morphing, moving so fast, vibrating, like the wings of a hummingbird. You can’t fix your eyes on them for a second. They blur. They go from looking like lips, to looking like slugs on her lips, to no lips, to lines of pinkness, to monkey tails, to fat worms wiggling up and down right under her nose. They dance. They do a rain dance celebrating all the new ideas that will come out of the hole of knowledge. They celebrate every word, loving every vibration. Her lips just keep moving, open, close, open, close, a little open on one side, a little more, then close and ooopen on the other side, then aaallll open and aaallll closed. I am amazed, transfixed, and hypnotized sometimes by just her lips and how they dance in front of me on her pink stage of a face.
More amazing is how she just keeps going, one subject flowing smoothly to the next having nothing to do with the one before, but joining it as if one long, long, long, long sentence that never ever ends. She even asks questions in the middle of the talking, but there is never any time to answer. And it doesn't matter where she is; in the kitchen, outside in the backyard, the bedroom, the back of a store at the mall. I hear her voice roaming and flying into my ears calling my name and asking questions. In the middle of it all she’ll throw a pop quiz. “Are you listening,” she asks? Staring into her face, at her lips, I say, “Yes, I hear you.”
She continues, “I am so tired, John. Why do you think I am so tired? I slept last night, except I was thinking of the birds in the backyard and about the clothes I bought. I couldn't get out of my shopping bag. I can't look at my clothes before I go to bed. I was hungry last night. Were you hungry? I didn't eat anything before I went to bed. I should eat toast, but then I worry I’ll just get into the habit of eating toast and then I'll eat it when I am not hungry. I should take a nap today. What are you doing? I am going to my friend Heather's she is having a birthday party for her baby, Jackson. Do you think what I got him was alright? Ohhh, my spine hurts. That spot in my spine. What do you think it is? Will you feel it? Will you just look at it? I just hope it's nothing serious, like c...” Finally, I speak, replying, “Don't say something silly. I don't want you wishing something on your...” “It just hurts,” she says. “Why don't you go to the doctor? Make an appoint...,” I try to input. But she cuts me off again with, “I know what he is going to say and do. I know, I know. Are you hungry? I am hungry. I am going to get a bowl of cereal. Do you think that green top would be good for pictures? I think I need to go buy one that is a different shade.....” And it goes on and on and on.
I wonder if there is no filter for her thoughts. Do they just run straight out of her brain to her mouth? Then I wonder, “What is wrong with me? Why don't I have anything to say? Is there something wrong with my brain that keeps it moving so slow, like Jello eking out of a faucet? Like one thought at a time, just one thought, so slow, like Jello. I have nothing to say, nothing to say, like a big slug! I am a big slug of Jello just sitting here with nothing to say! All her talking takes my breath away. Where is my voice? Where has it gone? My mind is a white eraser board and there is nothing written on it. A chalkboard without chalk searching for its’ own relevance. I think of nothing when I open my mouth, these little things that contain my day are just that, little things. I try. I say, “I am going to write today and try to workout and I slept pretty good today, I mean last night. I don't remember what I dreamt about, but I didn't think about my clothes. Sometimes I think about what I need to get done the next day and I can't fall asleep.” Then she looks at me with that, “I know what you are doing,” look and says, “Stop it you are being annoying.” And I just, well, I am amazed and my jaw drops and I just look at her as she gets up walking away to get her breakfast. I am just different and will never understand.
Like when we watch a documentary on TV. You know one of those ones that talks about animals? Like last night we watched one on Killer Spiders. I sit down to join her on the couch. Now shows like this are meant to explain things to you about things you might not know so much about, like Killer Spiders. But she must think I am an expert at everything, like I wrote the show and studied spiders, because while we are supposedly watching the show all she does is ask me questions and I just get frustrated. She says, “Why does it...” The announcer is saying, “It builds a web like that so it can....” And she continues, “…build a web like that?”
All I hear is, “Why doekdnkdlkghakdufmkmjglkjldkjj,” and turn to her to say, “What?” Then she asks, “Why does he build a web like that?” So I turn back to the TV to see why, because my first impulse is to answer her question. I pause for a second while the announcer is talking about webs. So she asks again, “Why does he build a web like that?” In the meantime, I am focusing on the TV. She says, “Did you hear me?” I say, “Yeah, just a second.” She asks, “Why would it go into...” At the same time, the announcer is saying, “They go into people’s homes to...” She continues, “…into peoples homes like that?” And I turn, and my head is turning back and forth from the TV to her, from her to the TV, and my brain is trying to still answer, “Why the web is built like that?”
And then the announcer says, “The most incredible thing about these creatures is that they...” And I am freezing up. My brain feels like it is actually turning to stone as she asks, “So why would it get into someone's bathroom?” And again I hear right after the most incredible thing, “Makjdlkjfalkjdlj.” And I am flipping back and forth and finally loudly say, “Just watch the program and they will tell you everything. That's what it is, that’s what they do, Christie!” And then I feel bad. I yelled and she looks at me as if I am some parental figure, some, “old, trying to be a father figure,” guy, and like she just wants to get away from me. And now we feel like we are miles apart on the same couch. I feel like I can't ever talk again or I will hear, “I thought you didn't want to talk now.” I don't understand, we are just different and these differences are what broke up my parents. “I love your father, Johnny, but I just can't live with him.” I have heard both my mother and father say this and so I am scared.
Lips are funny when they just keep moving and changing shapes to make sounds. I see them transforming and morphing, moving so fast, vibrating, like the wings of a hummingbird. You can’t fix your eyes on them for a second. They blur. They go from looking like lips, to looking like slugs on her lips, to no lips, to lines of pinkness, to monkey tails, to fat worms wiggling up and down right under her nose. They dance. They do a rain dance celebrating all the new ideas that will come out of the hole of knowledge. They celebrate every word, loving every vibration. Her lips just keep moving, open, close, open, close, a little open on one side, a little more, then close and ooopen on the other side, then aaallll open and aaallll closed. I am amazed, transfixed, and hypnotized sometimes by just her lips and how they dance in front of me on her pink stage of a face.
More amazing is how she just keeps going, one subject flowing smoothly to the next having nothing to do with the one before, but joining it as if one long, long, long, long sentence that never ever ends. She even asks questions in the middle of the talking, but there is never any time to answer. And it doesn't matter where she is; in the kitchen, outside in the backyard, the bedroom, the back of a store at the mall. I hear her voice roaming and flying into my ears calling my name and asking questions. In the middle of it all she’ll throw a pop quiz. “Are you listening,” she asks? Staring into her face, at her lips, I say, “Yes, I hear you.”
She continues, “I am so tired, John. Why do you think I am so tired? I slept last night, except I was thinking of the birds in the backyard and about the clothes I bought. I couldn't get out of my shopping bag. I can't look at my clothes before I go to bed. I was hungry last night. Were you hungry? I didn't eat anything before I went to bed. I should eat toast, but then I worry I’ll just get into the habit of eating toast and then I'll eat it when I am not hungry. I should take a nap today. What are you doing? I am going to my friend Heather's she is having a birthday party for her baby, Jackson. Do you think what I got him was alright? Ohhh, my spine hurts. That spot in my spine. What do you think it is? Will you feel it? Will you just look at it? I just hope it's nothing serious, like c...” Finally, I speak, replying, “Don't say something silly. I don't want you wishing something on your...” “It just hurts,” she says. “Why don't you go to the doctor? Make an appoint...,” I try to input. But she cuts me off again with, “I know what he is going to say and do. I know, I know. Are you hungry? I am hungry. I am going to get a bowl of cereal. Do you think that green top would be good for pictures? I think I need to go buy one that is a different shade.....” And it goes on and on and on.
I wonder if there is no filter for her thoughts. Do they just run straight out of her brain to her mouth? Then I wonder, “What is wrong with me? Why don't I have anything to say? Is there something wrong with my brain that keeps it moving so slow, like Jello eking out of a faucet? Like one thought at a time, just one thought, so slow, like Jello. I have nothing to say, nothing to say, like a big slug! I am a big slug of Jello just sitting here with nothing to say! All her talking takes my breath away. Where is my voice? Where has it gone? My mind is a white eraser board and there is nothing written on it. A chalkboard without chalk searching for its’ own relevance. I think of nothing when I open my mouth, these little things that contain my day are just that, little things. I try. I say, “I am going to write today and try to workout and I slept pretty good today, I mean last night. I don't remember what I dreamt about, but I didn't think about my clothes. Sometimes I think about what I need to get done the next day and I can't fall asleep.” Then she looks at me with that, “I know what you are doing,” look and says, “Stop it you are being annoying.” And I just, well, I am amazed and my jaw drops and I just look at her as she gets up walking away to get her breakfast. I am just different and will never understand.
Like when we watch a documentary on TV. You know one of those ones that talks about animals? Like last night we watched one on Killer Spiders. I sit down to join her on the couch. Now shows like this are meant to explain things to you about things you might not know so much about, like Killer Spiders. But she must think I am an expert at everything, like I wrote the show and studied spiders, because while we are supposedly watching the show all she does is ask me questions and I just get frustrated. She says, “Why does it...” The announcer is saying, “It builds a web like that so it can....” And she continues, “…build a web like that?”
All I hear is, “Why doekdnkdlkghakdufmkmjglkjldkjj,” and turn to her to say, “What?” Then she asks, “Why does he build a web like that?” So I turn back to the TV to see why, because my first impulse is to answer her question. I pause for a second while the announcer is talking about webs. So she asks again, “Why does he build a web like that?” In the meantime, I am focusing on the TV. She says, “Did you hear me?” I say, “Yeah, just a second.” She asks, “Why would it go into...” At the same time, the announcer is saying, “They go into people’s homes to...” She continues, “…into peoples homes like that?” And I turn, and my head is turning back and forth from the TV to her, from her to the TV, and my brain is trying to still answer, “Why the web is built like that?”
And then the announcer says, “The most incredible thing about these creatures is that they...” And I am freezing up. My brain feels like it is actually turning to stone as she asks, “So why would it get into someone's bathroom?” And again I hear right after the most incredible thing, “Makjdlkjfalkjdlj.” And I am flipping back and forth and finally loudly say, “Just watch the program and they will tell you everything. That's what it is, that’s what they do, Christie!” And then I feel bad. I yelled and she looks at me as if I am some parental figure, some, “old, trying to be a father figure,” guy, and like she just wants to get away from me. And now we feel like we are miles apart on the same couch. I feel like I can't ever talk again or I will hear, “I thought you didn't want to talk now.” I don't understand, we are just different and these differences are what broke up my parents. “I love your father, Johnny, but I just can't live with him.” I have heard both my mother and father say this and so I am scared.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Pet Me
Pet Me: As Performed for the Comedy Cetral Show Sit n' Spin created by Jill Soloway and Maggie Rowe at the Hudson Theatre in Los Angeles
I know what my wife wants. She wants to be petted. “Pet me. Pet me, pet me to sleep,” she asks. “I can’t sleep.” I open up my right arm as she lifts her pillow up and onto my chest. My arm runs under her pillow bending up at my elbow, then over with my hand to gently pet her forehead. I know how she likes it, because she has told me. “No not like that, not the eyebrows,” she says. “No that’s too fast, this isn’t a race. Soft, don’t rub my skin off. That’s it, that’s right, nice and soft right on my forehead, yes, soft strokes up toward the hair.” My hand strokes and pets her soft skin as quiet hits and she lies there looking foreword to the sleep coming her way.
Does petting work? Yes, and I have found that it actually does feel good on the three occasions she has petted me. Once when I was sick, once when I was trying to nap on the couch, and once when, well, I just give it to her that it has happened one other time. Actually, I don’t know why I don’t get petted more, except that maybe it’s like Valentine’s Day when she gets gifts and dinners and I get her saying, “It’s a girl’s holiday.” Sometimes, I’ll lay next to her, place her hand on my head and move it up and down myself, as if she was one of those wooden back scratchers. When I do, wow, her cool fingers brushing my forehead puts me into a kind of trance. A happy trance where tranquil surrounds my head and all is right and, yes I think I could fall asleep. So I can understand why she wants it, and I don’t mind. I am happy to do it when I am awake and feeling loving, but really I’ve found it to be just a horrible trap.
See, in one scenario, I softly pet her when she is tired, over and over. My arm and hand petting fifty, sixty, seventy times in a row, quietly getting burnt out when all of a sudden I hear loud breathing. Is she asleep, I wonder? That sounds like asleep. So I gently and carefully slow my pettings down until I am just barely touching her head, then I delicately lift up my hand and wait. Is she asleep? She is still breathing hard and hasn’t said anything. But my arm is trapped under her and my hand is frozen in a type of, well, “curling back toward me, suspended in mid air,” position. Not comfortable right? No, not at all and even worse. I know that as soon as I try to just let my arm fall to the bed, which I do as quietly as possible without making any squuking, rubbing sounds like a pillow can make, as soon as it hits the bed, her head will move and “mmmmhhhmmmmmm?” There it was. She said it. “Mmmmmhhmmmm?” Like a whining puppy.
So I put my hand back to work petting her forehead until I hear the breathing start up again, then I slowly stop. With my arm frozen, straight up in the air, trying not to move, I start to think. What can I do? How can I let her sleep and rescue my arm? I think, I’ll just let my arm hang there like a tree until I fall asleep and then I won’t hear the, “mmmmmhhhmmmmm?” and it won’t matter, but I don’t fall asleep at all. Just my arm falls asleep and it hurts as it turns numb. I twist it to wake it up and her head turns and, “mmmmmhhmmmm?” I pet her again and while I send her to dreamtime, I strategize about the next pet-stop. I try to scoot my arm out from underneath the pillow while I am petting her so it will be easy to pull away when she falls asleep. She breathes hard and I slowly stop and as I carefully pull my hand away from the wall, “mmmmmmhmmmmm?” I say, “Christie I can’t pet you anymore, you keep falling asleep, and…” “No I don’t,” she says. “Yes you did,” I say. “I have petted you three different times and you keep falling asleep.” “John, I haven’t fallen asleep,” she barks. “Christie you’re snoring,” I reply. “How can you not be asleep?” She doesn’t answer, then, “mm…” “Honey my arm is going to fall off. I can’t pet you anymore, please get off me!”
I feel bad. I want so bad to fall asleep next to her in some sweet, “movie bed”, laying position, all spooned and smiling, but let’s face it, that’s for the movies. It’s hot, and my arm, I wish I could take it off and throw it on the floor next to my shirt, only to put it back on when I wake up. It’s always in the way. Her hair is tickling and poking my face as I cuddle on her. Then she’ll say, “Get your arm off me.” “What does it weigh? Is it a gorilla arm?” Apparently, all my body parts weigh the same as a gorilla, because they all almost kill her. Oh, except my head. “John, get your head off me,” she’ll say. “What is it a bowling ball head?” So I lay Egyptian style, arms crossed, looking straight up, as if in a coffin. She lies next to me and we try not to touch.
And the other petting situation gone bad is worse than the first. Petting her over and over, stroke, stroke, stroke and sweetly, nicely, quietly heavy breaths are heard as I, yes, I have to fallen asleep and left my heavy gorilla hand sweating up her forehead. My eyes are hitting REM and colors and images are beginning to form as I happily drift off into lala land, “mmmmmhhmmm?” “John, you fell asleep,” she says. Quickly I am pulled back out of the light of dreamland and into reality of her voice. “Pet me, you fell asleep,” she asks. My hand moves up and then down. My eyes shut and my mouth opens and peace covers my face as I begin to breathe hard, falling to sweet sleep. “mmmmmhhhmmmm?” “Huh,” I mutter? I feel her head begging for petting on my chest, like a cat rubbing against your leg, and, “enough,” I think, pushing her over to her side of the bed. “Christie, I am falling asleep and can’t take this anymore,” I say. “Okay, okay,” she says. I lay back down try to reclaim my sleep, but of course now I can’t. I just get to listen to her instantly fall asleep, while I lay there feeling as restless as the undead.
Another petting problem is when I sit on the couch and I really want to take care of her because she isn’t feeling well. I rest her head on my lap and softly pet her. I look down at her sweet, restful face. Quiet, her closed eyes are still and she looks so calm. She’s asleep. I look outside at the birds; I look to the TV, then to the TV remote, but the noise. I look at the magazine….just out of reach. I look back to her head and think, how I could move it without her knowing. But I just can’t. I am bored stiff, she is asleep, and I am trapped sitting on the couch.
You see, these petting traps have made me a more aware man, a man who thinks ahead, who is more patient, a man who can say NO, sometimes. I mean, I always want to make her feel good, but if I am tired, she ain’t getting petted. If I’m falling asleep, I’m sorry honey you can, “mmmmhhmmmm?” all you want, but I’m going to sleep. I now ask myself how tired I am, then decide whether I can pet or not. If that’s what she wants and I feel good, then bring it on. I will pet her like my little lion cub, but if not, she is going to have to count sheep and bring visions of sugarplums dancing into her own head.
I know what my wife wants. She wants to be petted. “Pet me. Pet me, pet me to sleep,” she asks. “I can’t sleep.” I open up my right arm as she lifts her pillow up and onto my chest. My arm runs under her pillow bending up at my elbow, then over with my hand to gently pet her forehead. I know how she likes it, because she has told me. “No not like that, not the eyebrows,” she says. “No that’s too fast, this isn’t a race. Soft, don’t rub my skin off. That’s it, that’s right, nice and soft right on my forehead, yes, soft strokes up toward the hair.” My hand strokes and pets her soft skin as quiet hits and she lies there looking foreword to the sleep coming her way.
Does petting work? Yes, and I have found that it actually does feel good on the three occasions she has petted me. Once when I was sick, once when I was trying to nap on the couch, and once when, well, I just give it to her that it has happened one other time. Actually, I don’t know why I don’t get petted more, except that maybe it’s like Valentine’s Day when she gets gifts and dinners and I get her saying, “It’s a girl’s holiday.” Sometimes, I’ll lay next to her, place her hand on my head and move it up and down myself, as if she was one of those wooden back scratchers. When I do, wow, her cool fingers brushing my forehead puts me into a kind of trance. A happy trance where tranquil surrounds my head and all is right and, yes I think I could fall asleep. So I can understand why she wants it, and I don’t mind. I am happy to do it when I am awake and feeling loving, but really I’ve found it to be just a horrible trap.
See, in one scenario, I softly pet her when she is tired, over and over. My arm and hand petting fifty, sixty, seventy times in a row, quietly getting burnt out when all of a sudden I hear loud breathing. Is she asleep, I wonder? That sounds like asleep. So I gently and carefully slow my pettings down until I am just barely touching her head, then I delicately lift up my hand and wait. Is she asleep? She is still breathing hard and hasn’t said anything. But my arm is trapped under her and my hand is frozen in a type of, well, “curling back toward me, suspended in mid air,” position. Not comfortable right? No, not at all and even worse. I know that as soon as I try to just let my arm fall to the bed, which I do as quietly as possible without making any squuking, rubbing sounds like a pillow can make, as soon as it hits the bed, her head will move and “mmmmhhhmmmmmm?” There it was. She said it. “Mmmmmhhmmmm?” Like a whining puppy.
So I put my hand back to work petting her forehead until I hear the breathing start up again, then I slowly stop. With my arm frozen, straight up in the air, trying not to move, I start to think. What can I do? How can I let her sleep and rescue my arm? I think, I’ll just let my arm hang there like a tree until I fall asleep and then I won’t hear the, “mmmmmhhhmmmmm?” and it won’t matter, but I don’t fall asleep at all. Just my arm falls asleep and it hurts as it turns numb. I twist it to wake it up and her head turns and, “mmmmmhhmmmm?” I pet her again and while I send her to dreamtime, I strategize about the next pet-stop. I try to scoot my arm out from underneath the pillow while I am petting her so it will be easy to pull away when she falls asleep. She breathes hard and I slowly stop and as I carefully pull my hand away from the wall, “mmmmmmhmmmmm?” I say, “Christie I can’t pet you anymore, you keep falling asleep, and…” “No I don’t,” she says. “Yes you did,” I say. “I have petted you three different times and you keep falling asleep.” “John, I haven’t fallen asleep,” she barks. “Christie you’re snoring,” I reply. “How can you not be asleep?” She doesn’t answer, then, “mm…” “Honey my arm is going to fall off. I can’t pet you anymore, please get off me!”
I feel bad. I want so bad to fall asleep next to her in some sweet, “movie bed”, laying position, all spooned and smiling, but let’s face it, that’s for the movies. It’s hot, and my arm, I wish I could take it off and throw it on the floor next to my shirt, only to put it back on when I wake up. It’s always in the way. Her hair is tickling and poking my face as I cuddle on her. Then she’ll say, “Get your arm off me.” “What does it weigh? Is it a gorilla arm?” Apparently, all my body parts weigh the same as a gorilla, because they all almost kill her. Oh, except my head. “John, get your head off me,” she’ll say. “What is it a bowling ball head?” So I lay Egyptian style, arms crossed, looking straight up, as if in a coffin. She lies next to me and we try not to touch.
And the other petting situation gone bad is worse than the first. Petting her over and over, stroke, stroke, stroke and sweetly, nicely, quietly heavy breaths are heard as I, yes, I have to fallen asleep and left my heavy gorilla hand sweating up her forehead. My eyes are hitting REM and colors and images are beginning to form as I happily drift off into lala land, “mmmmmhhmmm?” “John, you fell asleep,” she says. Quickly I am pulled back out of the light of dreamland and into reality of her voice. “Pet me, you fell asleep,” she asks. My hand moves up and then down. My eyes shut and my mouth opens and peace covers my face as I begin to breathe hard, falling to sweet sleep. “mmmmmhhhmmmm?” “Huh,” I mutter? I feel her head begging for petting on my chest, like a cat rubbing against your leg, and, “enough,” I think, pushing her over to her side of the bed. “Christie, I am falling asleep and can’t take this anymore,” I say. “Okay, okay,” she says. I lay back down try to reclaim my sleep, but of course now I can’t. I just get to listen to her instantly fall asleep, while I lay there feeling as restless as the undead.
Another petting problem is when I sit on the couch and I really want to take care of her because she isn’t feeling well. I rest her head on my lap and softly pet her. I look down at her sweet, restful face. Quiet, her closed eyes are still and she looks so calm. She’s asleep. I look outside at the birds; I look to the TV, then to the TV remote, but the noise. I look at the magazine….just out of reach. I look back to her head and think, how I could move it without her knowing. But I just can’t. I am bored stiff, she is asleep, and I am trapped sitting on the couch.
You see, these petting traps have made me a more aware man, a man who thinks ahead, who is more patient, a man who can say NO, sometimes. I mean, I always want to make her feel good, but if I am tired, she ain’t getting petted. If I’m falling asleep, I’m sorry honey you can, “mmmmhhmmmm?” all you want, but I’m going to sleep. I now ask myself how tired I am, then decide whether I can pet or not. If that’s what she wants and I feel good, then bring it on. I will pet her like my little lion cub, but if not, she is going to have to count sheep and bring visions of sugarplums dancing into her own head.
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