Men and Women: Another Difference, Part 2

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Back in high school, a good friend said after meeting my family, “Your mother is so beautiful. What happened to you?!” I laughed. Good question. Part of Mom’s looks have been their enviable resilience to time which she never took for granted. Korean women remain vigilant against the insistence of gravity on their face, and here I am without the aid of benevolent genes. All the more I really should groom. Mom saw the photos I sent and called me with an opening commentary on my husband. “He looks so good. He looks better every year. But…you! Take care of yourself!” she urged. She meant the face.

I came across a group shot of friends from five years back and was shocked to see how young we looked. One guy is not yet 40 and has since gone gray. But he doesn’t look bad. Somehow his wife doesn’t wear the wrinkles so well. Mom has chased her attractiveness with the diligent day-and-night regimen in a way Dad was free not to have to worry about. My husband is aging like wine. Me? I’m the milk that’s been sitting out.

You men. Just how do you turn the card with the salt and pepper hair and crow’s feet? Dignified. They say you look dignified. Ugh. Not only have you escaped angst over a biological clock but you also enjoy a longer visual expiration date. To add insult to injury, all you have to do is shave and get a buzz to regain three young, handsome years. As a statistic, you die before we do. Your eye candy, your wife, loses her sweetness and you’re gone.

Several readers have asked to get together off the blog. I’ve taken a rain check for circumstances that keep me busy and close to home but I’m tempted to reconsider. God knows what I’ll look like in a year.

Here’s Part 1.

Men and Women: Another Difference

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I deserve flak from my female cohorts. As a young adult, I never got the I-AM-WOMAN-HEAR-ME-ROAR hullabaloo. Why Oprah and devotees, TV shows, and pop culture rattled on about the woman with all the balls up in the air, exhausted in the attempt to satisfy diverse roles. Then I got married.

And became a mother.

The breadth of the tasks in my day-to-day, not to mention the depth, is such that I actually forget a lot of what I do. It is a great much, the littlest things one tends to as a mom.

I tore out a page of our calendar for you. I usually do more lessons, and doctor visits obviously are not a regular affair. But this day was typical in the way it packed one activity right into the next:

Breakfast
Dental checkup 45 minutes away
Lunch
Groceries
Brief playdate
Return: traffic
Martial arts
Math lesson
Dinner
DisHeS
Laundry
Prep for husband’s lunch next day

It was 6:40 when I was able to sit. Come to the computer and catch my breath – for eight minutes before showering Tennyson and tucking him in. In the past, I’ve gone on to cook two, three meals ahead for the little Foodie, find my way to the end of the dish pile, and clean the kitchen. This year, I’ve let myself write.

So I give you a glimpse of my week to share a rendition of a pretty amazing show we have going in our home.

LoungeOne day I walked into the master where I found Husband pacing. Out streamed from his mouth an uncharacteristically impressive list of To-Dos he had drawn up for the day. “…and I have to do oil change and detail the car and replace the tires pick up the timbau from Riverside mow the lawn get ready for Samba…”

*Pause*
*Slow exhale*

“I think….I’ll naaap.”

And he sank himself into the lounger with the grace of a deflating hot air balloon on landing.

Once I had picked my jaw up off the floor and my bug eyes had resumed their Asian size, I kicked him out, his laughter trailing him. The thing is, he’d meant it. The man really was going to take a siesta. It wasn’t just at my stunned bafflement but for the delight in the sweet change of plans that he’d crowed. It is beyond me. My husband is beyond me. Men are beyond me. If mothers so casually replaced obligations with sleep or every impulse, the human race would go extinct.

My Husband Threatened Me

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Mr: I’ve had these thoughts on death. If I ever blogged, it would be a post. I think death is necessary because “….” What do you think, honey?

Mrs: Nod. Hmmm.

Mr: So can I guest blog on your site?

Mrs: Without missing a beat. Nope.

Mr: What did you say?

Mrs: Nope. (Writing’s not exactly his forté, as good as he is at everything else.)

Mr: Well, with the WordPress password you’ll be giving me, when you die I’m going to put up all sorts of poorly written posts with bad grammar.

*PROGRAM UPDATE*
So no one’s getting my password. I’d rather die and leave A Holistic Journey a sealed vault of aspiration than let anyone spill a careless word in it. If you don’t hear from me for three months, know that I’ve been dining with CS Lewis. I’ll be looking over your shoulder as you blog. Keep those standards up or I’ll get mad and rattle your window.

Related post Ode to My Readers

Tiger Dad and Tiger Wife

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Dinner one night, and Tiger Dad pushes wife about the schooling.

Husband: Does he know what nouns, prepositions, verbs are?
Wife: Honey, you know he’s been learning the definitions. He’ll understand better as he gets older.
He’s only seven.

*Pause*

Wife: Wait. Do YOU know what they are?
Funny look. PAUSE.
Husband: I know adverbs. They have -ly.

30 minutes later, 7:30 pm
Out all day on field trip and back from little man’s martial arts,
Mom walks in, puts on apron and gets to work on dinner.
Elbow-deep in dishes after the meal with one eye
on her Holistic Journey upstairs in the office:
“I’d better stop and get on the computer or I’m going to start resenting life.”

=======================
Another day

Wife: So you got the mold off the stall?
Husband: Yeah (hanging head like he’s about to break bad news) but I couldn’t get all of it. We’re gonna have to hire someone next time.
Wife: NO. *Snort* You just have to keep it from building, clean more often.

=======================
The other day

Dad asks son: Did you like Kung Fu Panda?
Wife: It was violent.
Dad: It’s KUNG FU.

========================

After his fourth serving
Tiger Mom: No, Tennyson. No more. You’re literally eating into your lesson time.
You’re gonna have to stop.
Cub: But I’m still hungry. Please. PLEEASE, I BeG you.

st r u gg ling artist

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                               so   i    decided
i am more than the answer to "what's for dinner?"    
     the unrelenting pile of dishes

     more than the name i changed at the altar,
     and the ways i fail Husband

     more than the boy i nursed 'til i was spent
     and would give my only breath to, more
     than the worry over the
     mishaps that visit children

caught. i feel caught  between
the rock of guilt   and   the hard place of time

as i push push my way through this beautiful life i don't deserve
for a chance to paint the helpless run of words

en route to errands i pop in an audio - Pooh's tales,
then settle back for the story that wants to tell in my head
and catch it on paper when i park the car

i race, i snatch and just the same watch
the minutes fall 
                       through
                                      hungry fingers

i am more than the faith that rose from my dead life
     because we are more than spirit but too, flesh and mind,
     borne of the Living Word that justifies our reply

what does it say of me as Wife and Mother, my grateful honor --

but that i am happiest
     (clap hand over mouth)

when my dreams find their light in the words
that come together, sometimes soldiers
in sharp line or ballerinas
in fluid form?

i realize they are never a burden, a fresh joy each time

i am the song of history and hope
(except the Greatest Women past and present have denied themselves)

i delight through the hard
hard way to get it down    just so
so u can s e e    the art and grace  in the world that thrills me

i know the prince and the pauper are apportioned the same
hours but my time feels rationed

pl e a se, let me finish this thought, but
    -- the but --
                     incommodius conjunction, my dissolution

i am more than the Kitchen i have loved but it needs taming 
Wife and Mother, there i go to 
the unrelenting pile of dishes i am 
more thanApron
I am indebted to my husband, to whom I dedicate this poem, for doing his 
darnedest to leave me to my words.

I May Be a Man, Part 2

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I know why the Serpent went to Eve first. She had thought God was speaking her language. “Don’t do it.” We’ll talk some more, she thought. If Adam had stayed single the poor, simple man would’ve just listened to His Maker. The Serpent knew he could bring the world crashing down on its head if he could tickle Eve to analyze what God’s word had really meant and why He had said it.

I’m just glad God is a man.

Speaking of guilt, our new miniseries is right around the corner.

I May Be a Man

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What is UP with the drama? Look, I don’t need any. See me over here sitting quietly on the end of the girly, feminine spectrum? I hate shopping, don’t do eyeliner, clip these nails the moment they’re long enough to go. If you want to torture me, force me to endure a bridal or baby shower and make me play the games – your idea of fun. I have nothing to add to inane talks about your favorite TV shows because I’m a bore who doesn’t watch TV or movies. I’d rather be writing my book on the meaning of life. Are you getting this? I’m not a busybody, don’t know pop culture, don’t gossip. And I still attract drama.

Because I am a woman.

Oh, to be a man! When life is as simple as the pork juice on your chin and the beer bite on your tongue. To be able to hear yes and no without translating no and no. To enjoy the peace of mind that a few minutes of exchange will not spin into a saga. Why in the world did I spend those months investigating the sport of fighting, wondering why men punched one another and then hugged? Oh, if I could upper cut a woman who pushes me over the edge, shake her hand, and call it good with some honest fun in a mean game on the court. Only with women could a BFFship of years dissolve in one hard acid day.

And how do you men take your nice, strong arm and sweep the clutter of To Dos off your mental table? It’s a gift – the amazing ability to check in with yourself, distill competing voices down to your need in the moment. Why did I ever complain of your one-track mind? Food, sex, game that’s on, sleep. You just roll over, close those eyes, and…”Honey? Honey? I was saying –” You’re gone. Way off in a deep sea of sweet nothingness. I’m jealous. I’m stupid. I mean, why wouldn’t I want sex or sleep? Ah, but I carry within the million-dollar answer. Hostage to hormones. People say that time of the month like it’s one day. It can run a week, people. And that’s all just the merry prelude to the bloody show. Did you know many of us also feel discomfort and get emotional when we ovulate? How many clear and free days does that leave us in the month? I’m pleased not to be one of those women who can call up tears at will. But catch me on the right days, and I’m a bawling mess. Weeks like this, I’m not sure which is worse. To be a woman or to have to live with one.