We have been married fourty-plus years now and there's a strange phenomenon that I have observed about men and women, when it comes to preparing for events. I do not remember this being a problem when my Mama and Daddy readied for such things (but then again, I also don't remember them having scads of people show up for random and large soirees. If I'm gonna clean up for company, we might as well invite a hundred people...) The problem with marriage is that folks tend to have expectations. If the couple happen to be polar opposites in personality (and most are), these assumptions can vary wildly. As in, when I look at a room, I see the beauty and color (or lack thereof); Ken sees the giblets on the floor and the remote control out of place. We have had many a fight when it came time to whip our house into shape for company. My thoughts run to straightening the house, cleaning the bathrooms and getting the food ready. But especially vacuuming. The roof might as well be falling in, if we haven't vacuumed before the company arrives. 99% of my problem is that I wait until there's a deadline looming and there's precious little time left to get my tasks done. I work best under pressure, I tell myself. Truth is, I've seen what happens to pressure cookers when they explode. It's not pretty. Ken's priorities, however, run to the bizarre. I'm sure he'd say the same about me...
A prime example of the subject at hand: several years ago, we were preparing to have fifty or so people over for a church-sponsored meeting. We had four very young children, whom we were also homeschooling. I was mad-dashing about the house to get it (semi) sanitary. Ken resisted my to-do list and said he had his own, so I frantically buzzed and tried to stay in my lane (does anybody really stay in their lane?) The time was almost up, I was sweating like an old fishwife, ready to jump in the shower, when I noticed a smudge on the wall. On closer inspection, I saw that there were several such marks down the main hall. I hunted down my husband, to find him with a rusty old can of paint and a brush, "touching up" the walls. To my dismay, I found that he had done this all over our big house, in literally every room, without noticing that the rust was mixing right in with the touch-up paint. After falling on the ground in a fit of despair, I righted myself and got in the shower. Somehow, some way, no one was murdered that night, we had the event, and lived to see another day. The next few weeks were preoccupied with repainting much of the interior of the house. We figured out our lanes: I don't touch his yard. He doesn't touch my paint brushes.
I've discussed this phenomenon with other wives...and they concur with me that men have strange priorities in these circumstances. When the one (you know who the one is) is cleaning and preparing the food, the other is cleaning out the garage (that no one will see) or maybe shoring up the foundation on the house, just for kicks. Or perhaps he'll take the cars to the carwash and detail them (because the company's going to be inspecting the interiors for sure). But it might be just the day to put the new brakes on the car. Yes, there's that.
I saw this play out in front of my eyes this week. Our dear daughter is two weeks overdue with their second baby, miserable and great with (probably) a 10-pound baby girl, if the past is any indicator. She doesn't want drugs, epidurals or interventions, so she's waiting on the nature of things to take their course. Her precious husband, whom we love greatly, decided to put brakes on her car for the first time. We are very proud of him...he has been learning to do all manner of things since they married -- he's learned how to tile, lay flooring, build out a fancy closet, strip furniture, how to manipulate wood into lovely things, and lots of other skills in the course of a couple of years. All the while working a job in a new field and acing it, as well as being a good husband and father. Not to mention, he mostly does the cooking around there. I might have skipped that part of homeschooling my daughter, I fear. But the woman can change brakes. If she can do that, I guess she can figure out the rest of it.
While she was travailing inside the house, he pulled the car apart and started on the brake job, which turned into one of those nights where the evil-universe-dominoes decided to fall. You know those times, where this thing breaks and the next thing is messed up and you didn't know that all the things were worse than originally noticed? Wailing and gnashing of teeth was heard around the neighborhood, as nighttime and frozen air descended and the car was still up on blocks. They gave up and came on over to our house, where I cooked sub-par spaghetti and we laughed on the sofas, Liz looking all the world like she had a giant beachball attached to her tummy. Ahhh, I well remember those days.
So we're still waiting. I popped over to their house late last night on the way back from an appointment to check on them, and I saw that our son-in-love had the car fixed and put back together. We foolishly stayed up too late (I had no clue the hour), laughing and eating all manner of food. A frantic Ken called me at midnight, after arriving home from work with no wife in sight. All these expectations! Eventually, everyone got swaddled in at their appropriate homes and we all slept like kittens. Life is a mighty fine shindig. Jesus take the wheel...
No comments:
Post a Comment