Our friends have a dog and cat that seem to really like each other and they play very well together for a time but in the middle of the game, the cat will leap up to a sunny spot on the couch, recline languorously and lick his paws while the dog runs in ridiculous circles barking and looking for him while trying to finish the game. Something seemed vaguely familiar about this scenario.
Why can I not learn to understand my wife? It has been 30 years now and the easy answer is that I am a slow learner. However, it is entirely possible for a slow learner to be happily married to a shape-shifting enchantress necromancer too. Oh it is a great marriage and I am not complaining, much. I wonder though if all marriages are like this.
Just this morning Dearest Wife arose in the drizzly gloaming dawn. I was well into my morning routine of makecoffeeunloaddishwashefeedthedog; things I can do with eyes closed and one missing slipper. Down the stairs slithers DW stalking the coffee pot and she says something like “Imig goinea tooyahoo dis mourning” and later after her first coffee, she self-interpreted that as “I am going to do yoga this morning”. OH! OK, though I was sorta looking forward to the Swahili grieving ceremony.
The thing is, before she starts her calming, centering yoga routine, she wants TWO full cups of coffee. I am not judging but if it was me, I would be jacked up and leaping from pose to pose . . . Downward Dog . . . Bhekasana . . . Striking Crab Cake . . . Bung in Sauna . . . Lotus be, Lotus Be . . . in such rapid succession that it would be quite a workout! We used to call them calisthenics in fact.
Now, there is a very real risk of her workout drifting over into housework. Such is the nature of an elevated heart rate. So I will be relaxing and watching the sunrise and holding the yoga pose I call EasyBoySana while quietly meditating and cursing over Wordel — note, extra points for multi-tasking. Then the vacuum cleaner will fire up, a basket of unfolded clothes will appear on the couch and I will feel the hairy eyeball of guilt being cast my way.
If one of us is doing housework, we should ALL be doing housework it seems. For this, I blame the Catholic Church. Yes, I know it is a leap, but stay with me here. In her youth, if one of the congregants knelt, or threw the Hail Mary, everyone followed along. If you didn’t, there was guilt and a little forgiveness outhouse you had to go sit in and be spied upon by a dark figure on the other side of the screen, and who wants that?
Sigh . . . I am just trying to be an old relaxed retiree and DW wants to compress a whole day’s worth of chores, a workout and maybe some recreation and meal planning into the sliver of sacred time between coffee and sunrise. It is just wrong wrong wrong!
I have one other duty calling — There is this AM-poop-the-dog activity that befalls me and is clearly a two-slipper, one coffee undertaking. As a matter of fact, if DW slipped some decaf into the morning ritual, the doggy search and retrieve would resemble a midnight Easter Egg hunt on St. Patrick’s Day. But the dog is in on this and seems to be feeling the guilt too. She is moved to do her chore which is quite simple really. I mean, she wakes up naked, eats the kibble provided (I am talking about the dog now . . .) then undertakes a detailed inspection of every grass blade, clump, and dirt spot in a 3-acre field for the PERFECT place to install her masterpiece. It can be an aggravatingly slow undertaking in a cold rain but not so bad when we hear the vacuum howling, dust flying out of the windows and plates clattering inside. In those situations, I tend to urge the dog’s discretion, close examination of all possible spots, and caution her against too much repetition.
Once the shower comes on, the coast is again clear for 5 minutes before another morning ritual of distraction starts . . . “I can’t find my #@$%!! Keys” and the search is on full tilt. However, the dog and I both know exactly where she will find them . . . in the bottom of her bottomless purse, presuming the ecosystem that dwells in there has not composted them yet. Then, with the last tendrils of dust lingering in the air and a saucer still spinning on the counter, she is off in a mist of perfume and heel clicks.
This is the moment I can gently leap up to the sunny spot on top of the couch to lick my paws. . . only to find her already there!
