burn with irritation. Get out of my kitchen. I know, of course, that in truth, it is our kitchen. We have, after all, shared this house for fourteen years. But in those fourteen years, he has regarded this as my domain. It’s the only place in the whole house where I care to spend any time. Now, here he is in my domain, thinking he can do everything better. What an insult.
Phil has moved on to the spice cupboard. He has taken all the spices out and arranged them alphabetically, as if the way they were was chaos. It wasn’t chaos. I had grouped them according to ethnicity, purposely keeping the ones that crossed over in the middle.
Do you know he rearranged my garden tools, too? I had them arranged according to season. Metal rake and spade for spring. Hoe and trowels for summer. Bamboo rake and pitchfork for fall. His compulsive tendencies and boredom not only insult me, but mess up my systems as well. One could argue that the garden tools were his, too. Sure—the garage was his as well . . . but when, when had he ever done anything in the garden? Never. He never used to be around. Now he’s around all the time—and at a time when I’ve never needed solitude more.
I paint more yellow into the tips of the flames around the raisin and bristle as I watch Phil take bags of food out of the cupboards and trim them down with scissors. Phil apparently doesn’t like to reach down into bags. He trims the bag of corn chips, the bag of sugar, and the bag of flour, for starters. I wonder when he has ever reached down into a bag of flour. I like the long bags. I like having lots of bag to roll up several times so that they don’t come open in between uses. So help me God if he starts implementing the use of those annoying clips. I don’t want to mess with clips. I don’t want to keep track of clips. I don’t want clips. Period. I want my kitchen the way it’s been for fourteen years, functioning just fine.
“Don’t you have anything else to do?” I ask with my hackles up. I’m trying to be compassionate. I really am. I know this is the sum total of his entertainment these days.
His silence is all I need to know that he is crushed by what I just said. He puts the bags back in the cupboard and walks out of the kitchen.
I exhale. I blew it. I resent the fact that if no one had been around, I wouldn’t have blown it. His mere presence set me up for a failure I really didn’t need. I read somewhere that in some Asian country, when women turn sixty, they go live in a convent. Oh, that would be heaven. I would have only six more years to tolerate, and then—finally—I would be no one’s mother and no one’s wife. As it is, there is no end in sight. There is no retirement for women who have taken care of others their whole life.
Phil on Finding a New Pastime
(May 27)
What? Don’t I have anything else to do? No. No, I don’t. I was just trying to make things nicer for her. I don’t know how Anna ever found the spice she wanted, and the bags were out of control—before I took care of it for her, she probably got flour all over her arm when she reached down into that bag.
I retreat to the den and begin reading the phone book in hopes of finding something worthwhile of my time. Aircraft, no. Ballet, no. Boats, no. I never admired people who threw their money away on expensive toys like aircraft or boats. They were people who worked for the good life, instead of working because they loved work and success. There is a difference. I continue to finger through the yellow pages. Books, no. That’s what libraries are for. Churches, no. Coffee, no. Cruises, not a permanent solution. Dance Schools, sure can’t picture that. Dog Training, no dog. Embroidery, now that would be sad. Fishing. Hm, fishing, maybe. I hate to be that stereotypical, though. Fishing and golf, what every man in America is reduced to every Father’s Day. When I pass that fishing and golf crap in shop windows every June, I always think I’m either the
Phil has moved on to the spice cupboard. He has taken all the spices out and arranged them alphabetically, as if the way they were was chaos. It wasn’t chaos. I had grouped them according to ethnicity, purposely keeping the ones that crossed over in the middle.
Do you know he rearranged my garden tools, too? I had them arranged according to season. Metal rake and spade for spring. Hoe and trowels for summer. Bamboo rake and pitchfork for fall. His compulsive tendencies and boredom not only insult me, but mess up my systems as well. One could argue that the garden tools were his, too. Sure—the garage was his as well . . . but when, when had he ever done anything in the garden? Never. He never used to be around. Now he’s around all the time—and at a time when I’ve never needed solitude more.
I paint more yellow into the tips of the flames around the raisin and bristle as I watch Phil take bags of food out of the cupboards and trim them down with scissors. Phil apparently doesn’t like to reach down into bags. He trims the bag of corn chips, the bag of sugar, and the bag of flour, for starters. I wonder when he has ever reached down into a bag of flour. I like the long bags. I like having lots of bag to roll up several times so that they don’t come open in between uses. So help me God if he starts implementing the use of those annoying clips. I don’t want to mess with clips. I don’t want to keep track of clips. I don’t want clips. Period. I want my kitchen the way it’s been for fourteen years, functioning just fine.
“Don’t you have anything else to do?” I ask with my hackles up. I’m trying to be compassionate. I really am. I know this is the sum total of his entertainment these days.
His silence is all I need to know that he is crushed by what I just said. He puts the bags back in the cupboard and walks out of the kitchen.
I exhale. I blew it. I resent the fact that if no one had been around, I wouldn’t have blown it. His mere presence set me up for a failure I really didn’t need. I read somewhere that in some Asian country, when women turn sixty, they go live in a convent. Oh, that would be heaven. I would have only six more years to tolerate, and then—finally—I would be no one’s mother and no one’s wife. As it is, there is no end in sight. There is no retirement for women who have taken care of others their whole life.
Phil on Finding a New Pastime
(May 27)
What? Don’t I have anything else to do? No. No, I don’t. I was just trying to make things nicer for her. I don’t know how Anna ever found the spice she wanted, and the bags were out of control—before I took care of it for her, she probably got flour all over her arm when she reached down into that bag.
I retreat to the den and begin reading the phone book in hopes of finding something worthwhile of my time. Aircraft, no. Ballet, no. Boats, no. I never admired people who threw their money away on expensive toys like aircraft or boats. They were people who worked for the good life, instead of working because they loved work and success. There is a difference. I continue to finger through the yellow pages. Books, no. That’s what libraries are for. Churches, no. Coffee, no. Cruises, not a permanent solution. Dance Schools, sure can’t picture that. Dog Training, no dog. Embroidery, now that would be sad. Fishing. Hm, fishing, maybe. I hate to be that stereotypical, though. Fishing and golf, what every man in America is reduced to every Father’s Day. When I pass that fishing and golf crap in shop windows every June, I always think I’m either the
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