The Numbers 101

I've been crabby lately. Grouchy groucherooski. Grumpster. Cranky lady.

You can tell I'm crabby because I'm resorting to these biting, annoyingly syrupy......ugh, they're so gross, I don't even know what they are. Which must mean they're epithets on the tombstone of wherever my happy place went and died.

Yet, I shan't be deterred: annoying can die and happy places can be resurrected. And, after a day of rest at home (fully!), I'm just about up to par. There are a few juicy tidbits that have helped along the way: receiving what I'm about to share is but one. It boarded my Happy Boat in blog post form some weeks ago, and I only just read it thoroughly. It's about students. And teaching. And writing. And the perils of teaching students "writing". But, if you've never taught high school or college freshman English, never fear: this is pert dern close to what you'd encounter if you ever had ventured into the depths of writing despair usually preceded by the numbers 101.

Have a giggle - syrup and epithets safe - on me.

The 25 Funnniest Analogies (Collected by High School Teachers)

Update: Tens of thousands of readers have found this post and hundreds of you have commented. A few have said that these analogies were actually taken from other sources and were not written by high school kids at all. Now, we have a link that ends the debate. These analogies are the winning entries in a 1999 Washington Post humor contest, and there are more than 25. Please look at the comments sent August 3, 2008 by “Jiffer” to get to the complete list and the names of the authors.


Original Post: I have to share these “funniest analogies” with you. They came in an e-mail from my sister. She got them from a cousin, who got them from a friend, who got them from… so they are circulating around. My apologies if you have already seen them.
The e-mail says they are taken from actual high school essays and collected by English teachers across the country for their own amusement. Some of these kids may have bright futures as humor writers. What do you think?

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a ThighMaster.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever. 

7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

Go Big

I love my job.

I'm not speaking of the one that's hour-marked by loads of laundry, bags of groceries, floors of sweeping, bills of paying, buckets of organizing, menus of cooking, errands of running.....BIIIIIGGGG inhale.

Because I do, in fact, love that job.

But I'm also a teacher. Which is more than a job. When you can say your job isn't just what you do, but who you are - well, you're living the working man's dream. Or woman's. Whatever.

I remembered why I love my job last Saturday: with one student completing a writing task and two others waiting with their queries, I spared a moment to (internally) shout: "I LOVE MY JOB!" Challenging young minds to think - to actually consider with their frontal lobes the surroundings they call the world - until I see their eyes widen, heads lift, and shoulder rise...well, that supersonics past what I do to become affixed in the firmament of who I am.

In that little moment, I felt big.

 Big in what I do.

Big in who I am.

In how I want to be.

We credit Confucius with the original observation, but the variant that follows has become its own rendering: "Wherever you go, there you are." 

So be there.

Completely.

Unabashedly.

Full throttle.

Whether it's a job, a relationship, a phase, a conversation, a drive, or a longneck coated in frost...

Relish it. 

Prize it.

Live in the little, revel in the much...but whatever you do...

Go Big.

On Page 446

That's where I am on this never-ending manuscript. It's from Random House's subsidiary, Guideposts Publishing, and (more specifically) from their Christian fiction department.

Now, I actually think that, like most genres, there are gems to surely be found in this genre. I've even read one or two. But this is a compilation of novels from the same author that Guideposts is now serializing - and I've taken part in editing two of them. So I can heartily tell you: this stuff ain't that grand. (I feel confident in airing this since I've noted neither the title nor the author and, as a rule, bosses aren't allowed into the private life, you know?).

Anyhow, this is the dregs of copyediting.

But, as my high school friend, Jessica, noted on Facebook: this ain't a bad way to spend a day. Or to make a living, I'd add. (Thanks, Jess, for the perspective). And I'm really not complaining about the job, per se, so much as this particularly LONG (644 pages) manuscript of not all that great composition. It's a reminder, really, of what I often tell students who confide they'd like to be published writers.

Which is also my key point:
Don't write to publish. It just ain't as glamorous as you might think. And, besides, you shouldn't want to be published; at least, not for the sake of being published. If you're really a writer, it's not what you do - it's who you are. Publishing the craft, then, becomes secondary to actually crafting the written word into an expression of communicative art.

If you fail to truly grasp this concept, you'll likely be stymied by a publisher politely declining your word...500 times over. And if that doesn't work, there's always me.
On the other side of the galleys. Posting a blog about your never-ending but less than scintillating and even less brilliantly-written manuscript.

While I'm stuck on page 446.

There Is a Precipice

In January of this year, I wrote a post titled "A Project Worth Mentioning." In it, I spotlighted a writing collection sponsored by National Public Radio with the mission statement "A public dialogue about belief - one essay at a time." The details of my discovering it are a bit sketchy - but I do believe a friend mentioned it to me and thought I should take a look. I did. And then, by extension, you did, too.

When I first visited the project, our community was in a holding pattern as we awaited word of our beloved friend, David Hames, who was in Port-au-Prince during the Haiti earthquake. Also around that time, I wrote another post titled "The Precipice." As often happens with the organic nature of writing, that post morphed into a submission for the This I Believe campaign. I doubt it was coincidental that I found one and wrote the other mere days apart and that the two fit so elegantly together - project and penning, you might say. In any event, I rewrote the post to fit the editors' specifications and, what do you know...the day before my father's funeral, NPR and the campaign's editors contacted me to say my essay was chosen for publication.

 
You can find essay number 76610 entitled "This I Believe" here.

I want to say two things about this publication. First, whether faith in God - or any higher power, for that matter - is your cup of tea, I'd like to be so bold as to ask you to consider the metaphor anyway. The older I grow, the more I realize the fragility of existence in the face of an ever-revolving door of coming and going, staying and leaving...in matters more everyday than death or life. We're all making choices, coming to terms with the realities of life - but how are we doing that? What's our method? And is it working? Because, in the end, we've all got to stare at the precipice, deciding with the power of free will just what we'll do in response to it.

Second, it is not happenstance I received this news the day before laying my father to rest. I reread this piece - for the first time in six months - and see that, not surprisingly, the metaphor applies today...albeit in the face of a different grief under altered circumstances. Nevertheless, I'll go to the precipice again and again in this life, considering issues of should I stay or can I go, whether I should drive away or pitch a tent to stay awhile. At the very least, I am even more fully aware that there is, indeed, a precipice.

And it's hard.
It's a choice.
It's faith unabridged.

This I Believe.

The One You've Been Waiting For...

Yep, this is the one. You've been biting your nails and twisting your hands just itching to discover the answers to these stumpers. Yes, you have. Yes, you have. Don't pretend. Well, here they are...grammar errors.

Ah, grammar. We all use it. Some more prominently than others, grant you. And some better than others, I know. But why not let's all improve, eh? So, here's the common ones I'm asked most about, the ones I see most often in manuscripts, hear in everyday conversation, cringe at (but not openly) during parties and, most especially, wherever alcohol is involved. (Raise your glass).

And you never know...you might just find learning something new is fun. And palatable to your inner grammarian.

Or you can just humor me.

1. Who vs. Whom: In a nutshell, one is the nominative case (who) and one is the objective case (whom). But forget all that. Here's the easiest way to know: substitute a personal pronoun. If 2nd person (he, she, they) fits, use who. If 3rd person (him, her, them) fits, use whom. Examples? 
• You wrote the letter to whom? (to her)
• The boy, who is a junior, plays basketball. (he plays basketball)

     2.  Good vs. Well: If you need an adverb, you need well. If you need an adjective, you need good.
          Adverbs, you might recall, describe or modify verbs while adjectives do the same job for nouns. Easy 
          enough, right? In that case, you'd play the piano well and enjoy a good day at the park. Funny how
          well only sounds right when we use it "right", but good - not so much. Hence, why we proclaim, "She
          sure sings good!" Grimace and groan.
 
     3.  It's vs. Its: Well, this one's just poor spelling, see. It's is the contraction "it is": you need an 
          apostrophe to show it as such. Its is possessive, so no apostrophe. "It's raining" versus "The dog lost 
          its collar."

     4. What's Dangling? If you hear the terms dangling modifier or dangling participle, don't check your fly.
         Not that kind of dangling. A modifier is a "describer," and it dangles if it's not located next to what it's
         modifying in your sentence. Huh? Here's the breakdown:

• At the age of five, his father died.  (You just said the father died when he was 5. You mean the father died when his son was 5).
• Hidden in the depths of the pantry, I found the coveted Snickers bars. (You've got issues if you're hiding in the pantry, but since that's what you said...Don't you mean the Snickers were hiding?)

     5.  Went vs. Gone: Here's the bad: "We could of went to the diner instead!" Here's the good: "We could
          have gone to the diner instead!" Just for kicks, I threw in the good 'ol "could of"...note to self: that    
          doesn't exist. Always use have.

     6.  There's no such word as irregardless. Not a word. Regardless. Or forget it altogether. Other 
          offenders? Alot. Anyways. Whenever (I'll explain). And don't forget everhow. Now three of these are 
          easy fixes: a lot (two words); anyway; and however. But use "when" correctly: "When I went to the
          store" not "Whenever I went to the store." When tells time. Let it do its job. Please?

So, do I sometimes talk bad? Yep, some days I think my language could of went better. But then I remember that there's always room for slang, urban-speak, and the loose lips that never sink ships when you're hanging with the ones you love. Irregardless, its never a bad idea to strengthen everyday skills because as writers (whom know best) will tell you: To say it clear and true, the words will have to do.

Uh-huh.

The Precipice

There is a kind of precipice on which I've stood in my life; a type of cliff that teeters between the here and the there...the faithful and the faithless. Before I stood on this precipice, I would have told you that no such place exists, that the difference between these two doesn't come down to one "choice" line in the sand of the believer's desert. But it does.

When God pushes us into a refining fire, we seem so surprised that it's hot. We ask God to show us who He is, but then our flesh wants to edit Him...deleting the hard parts and cutting and pasting them with the good. The warm and fuzzy. We want God to be the Giver of brand new healthy babies, yet we struggle with the truth that children die the world over every day. This is hard. If there's a heart in your chest, it should be hard. He knows it's hard. But it's not until the fire He pushes you into leaves you begging with a soul consumed by one purpose, one plea, one call to the Living God Who created the heavens and can open up the earth...it's then you reach the precipice. Because, see, faith involves risk. By faith, you ask for what your soul yearns and find yourself facing this most difficult question: What if He says no?

There's your line: will you still believe God is Who He says He is if the answer isn't the one you craved? If yes, you stand. If no, you don't. I want to be a friend who believes in others I care about...no matter what. I don't want to tell them I didn't think they could do it when they achieve a great goal. I don't want to remind them of the odds against them or the obstacles  they still face when they're in the fire of God. I want to stand in the gap for them, lifting them up, letting them feel love. And I don't want to be that believer, that daughter of God who thinks small and finds herself surprised when God delivers BIG packages. I choose to believe.

I have stood on this precipice four times in my life; ironically, what I once didn't believe existed is now familiar, albeit tenuous, territory. Three times, God said yes to my cry...and my husband lived. Once, He said no...and our baby died. This is real. This is raw. Three times I celebrated because God was exactly as I thought He was...as He should be. And once, He reshaped my very soul. Celebrating is fun. The refining fire is not. But I assure you, I am better for it on the other side. When I've stepped away from the cliff to choose faithfulness, a reboot happened. Today, I'm more like Him than I thought I could be...and am more aware of how much further I have to go.

And now I stand for the fifth time. Waiting. On my precipice. With the full knowledge I'll still choose Him. I'd rather have Him as He is in His fullest, than edit Him so I can feel better. I want it all. I want all of Him.

But it doesn't make the precipice any less scary.

A Public Salute

I'm a product of the public school system...or, mostly, anyway. I did attend a private school from K-5, but I transferred to public after that. So, in the ledger of my formative years, I count the largest number in the public column. I went to traditional state universities for both my undergraduate and post-grad degrees, and I'm better for it. I got a great education and learned that school, while fundamentally about the curriculum of learning, is also about far more...like how to resolve conflict, stand for what I believe, express my discontentment, say, "I don't know" and "I don't understand" (two keys to life, I'm quick to add), and learn the real-life differences between love and lust, speaking your mind and biting your tongue, and saying you're a friend versus actually acting like one.

Now our children are in public school and, roughly 15 years since we last left it, the quality of the system has remarkably improved. And vastly eroded. I know many parents making the switch to private, atypical, or untraditional modes of education: and I think that's dandy. Like most other products of a postmodern generation, I say do what's best for you and yours. But I won't stand for slamming the public school system - especially if you ain't in it. Despite what critics may need to believe, kids aren't necessarily getting poorer educations if they go to public and, let me remind you, kids aren't necessarily getting better ones if they attend private. Schools, like people, are a varied box of chocolates where your favorites depend entirely on your experience of trying them and finding what you like.

Grace doesn't even test on the charts of literacy, math, and science. I don't say this to boast; I say it to make a point. And here it is: God made Grace smart. He took my genes and Craig's genes, and they spliced together quite nicely, I think. But it's Grace who does the work to get smarter: she reads, she studies, she asks questions about her world, the people in it, and how she can impact it. And it's Grace's teachers...all 5 of them, thus far, who have stimulated, cultivated, shaped, and generally spurred on her smarts. We don't take credit for it, we just say "thank you" for it.

Now, as Elijah has entered the system, we're adapting to cultivating an entirely different person than his sister: if you're a parent, you know this is necessary because, despite misconceptions about offspring, they're not all the same...I don't care who's raisin' 'em. So we get to see how he, too, is flourishing in a public school. And hats off to parents who recognize that different children have different needs and so may have multiple children in multiple school settings and refrain from scorning any one system.

So, what's my ultimate point here? Well, it's twofold: first, I want to recognize the "public" teachers who have touched my children's hearts and minds. Amy Amsden, Jamie Minette, Angie Kelley, Kate Motley, Heidi McClure, and Julie Nealy...you're the cream of my crop, literally. You have planted seeds in the field of my precious harvest - my children. And I won't soon forget you and your contribution. I plan to continue telling my children that superb quality doesn't have to come in expensive or elite school packaging - you're a testament to that truth.

Which leads to my second point: don't slam public school. It's an option that for our family, and many others like us, has proved to be a blessing beyond measure - and one I wouldn't trade. Please remember that our history was founded on a public system, on the belief that no child is more important than another whether yours wears a uniform to school or mine wears blue jeans. We're all trying to do what's right for our families and best for our world and teaching, no matter where you do it, is a hard, hard line of work.

So remember the teachers, public or private or otherwise, who have touched and are touching your lives and the lives of your children. We serve and bless ours for all their commitment to leaving a legacy of learning.

I thank you.

And my children thank you, too.

Grace's 2nd grade teacher,

          Mrs. Motley.

Grace's Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Minette.

We Are All Learning

So this picture is the summation of my life the last two weeks of every semester: grading, grading...and then more grading. Now that it's over, I'm reflecting once again on this intense phase that comes and goes twice a year. Though it leaves me with this heady, rather euphoric feeling (minus the "happy" head that comes with it), it's rather like a relationship you find yourself engaging even if you aren't always on the best of terms. Think Old Man Winter or Spring Fever (or Cabin Fever, for that matter).
But this time of year also reminds me of how much I love to teach. I recall each May and December that I am not only doing what I love, I am doing what I am. I treasure that opportunity because, in a world where dollars and cents often trump worth and bliss, we find ourselves punching the timecard at a place we don't belong doing work we don't value. But I get to start with 20 faces every semester and teach their minds. Teach their minds, I say! What a privilege!

After 10 years in the profession, I've become accustomed to "seeing" these students, even after the first class: I can tell you who's going to drop...and even make a pretty decent wager on why. I can tell you who's hungry, who's thirsting for knowledge and personal betterment: who's wanting to become the person they wish they'd always been, hoped to always be.

Learning is what changes us. Grows us. Takes us someplace we've never seen, been, or dreamed. Learning changes us. And I get to teach them that, above all else.

For we are all students. We are all teachers. When I sit and listen to our pastor's sermon on a Sunday, I am a student of his Biblical knowledge and fervor for the Word. When I help my children resolve conflict without hitting or name-calling, I am a teacher of love beyond self. When you take my childrens' hands and tell them everything's going to be okay, you are a teacher of compassion and mercy and grace above all else.
When I observe my husband's conviction to be a better man, I am a student of his zest for godliness and dying to self. And when you embrace me and tell me you're with me come what may, you are a teacher of loyalty and friendship that never dies.

We are all teaching. Every day.

This semester, I met a woman recently divorced. After decades of marriage, her husband had decided to move on to something...and someone...better. Younger. Fresher. She has three children, one the same age as Grace. She's never been to school, never thought it mattered before. But now she must feed and clothe and nurture these children without a husband. Without their father.

Could this have been you? Could this have been me?

She wasn't a great writer at first: high school is a faint blur in the rearview mirror of her life and there's been no practicing in between: there's not often cause for rhetoric when you're changing diapers and wiping noses between carpool, lunches and mopping the kitchen floor. But, she was determined, this one. She was hungry. She wrote fairly average work, but always applied my feedback, always struggled to grasp every new piece of information - until about midway through the semester. I sat down to read her essay, and I knew it was different. Instantly. She had a new confidence, a bolder stroke with her words. A fervor to communicate beyond the average, you might say.

And I graded her essay.

And I tallied her points.

And I wrote a purple "A" at its bottom.

And I felt rich.

Next class, I asked her to see me for a moment at break. She came up front, her step a bit hesitant, probably worrying the news was not good. I laid her paper face down on the table and said: "I want you to hear this before you look at your grade. I want you to understand what I want to say. I want you to know that you are the reason I teach. I want you to know that you should be proud of this grade...not because I taught you  or because the book helped you. Not because your peer reviewed it or because your computer checked it. You should be proud because you wrote it. You did that. You did it well, and I'm proud of you."
And she turned over that paper and saw her grade. And she cried. She actually cried. And she taught me something in that moment...

We are all learning. Every day.

Who's the Boss?

Kelly's message today at church was about bosses; namely, he queried, "How do you behave respectfully to your boss?" These types of Sundays have a strange vibe to me: our worship pastor is away on tour (yeah, on tour...how wild is that?), so we have a fill-in who's fabulous in his own right, don't get me wrong. But he's not Fike, and Fike is the regular. I mean, have we met? I'm the epitome of anal-retentive and, when you take my regular regimen away, you've left me naked and bald. Don't worry, I cope on the inside so I appear sunny on the outside.

Anyway, I'm in this strange vibe already and here comes this message. Now I don't have a boss. No, that's not entirely true. I do have a boss. But in the world of freelance writing and editing and teaching as part of the Adjunct Faculty, my bosses are not folks I see each day as I sip Starbucks in a meeting or talk "Lost" at the water cooler. I like it that way, quite frankly, since I'm already at full capacity (and, some days, then some) with my plate of relationships.
So I'm listening to Kelly and thinking the typical meanderings: "Hmmm....I'll have to think about that." "Funny guy." "Um, that's not a word." "Um, that's not even English..." Well, you get the drift. And then it hits me: I DO have a boss. I DO, I DO, I DO! Now, this choice of words is ironic because they're the reason I have a boss....you see, Craig is my boss.

Now, listen ladies, don't get your hackles up just yet! Though I could argue Scripture with ya and even debate the emotional and spiritual "economics" of this position, let me just say: You don't have to agree, believe, or certainly prescribe to my way of thinking. But it works for me.
Each day I have a mission to live out, tasks to achieve, atmospheres to create. To whom am I accountable? It would be most spiritual for me to say God, that's true. And I do believe that, live for that, and otherwise strive for that. Yet, on a flesh level, the truth is I'm responsible to Craig. Just as I expect him to provide, to cover, to protect us, he expects I will nurture, construct, navigate, and love us as Christ loves His church.

I'm not afraid to have this boss: his love is the greatest salary out there; his provision offers the best health care and benefits package; my life with him is my guaranteed retirement; and, through our children, he's given the best support team and little flock of ducklings I could imagine. I do respect my boss: he's earned it, for sure. And I genuinely like my boss: I guess all that helps me realize I love my job, too.

Day's dawn brought coffee and dry toast. No purpose, no snap of inspiration. New day meant old monotony. But with evening's twilight came a hot bath and a “Dear Diary.” Then she came alive. That had always been the case. She loved baths. Even as a child, while her playmates bawled in protest, she pleaded for the sanctuary of baths. Scorned for an utter lack of adolescent folly, she was often the source of obvious speculation. In fact, this was almost always the cause for her retreat to a corner in any room she found herself. It was, she often mused, as if she was always apparent yet somehow never visible.
But she loved baths. They were the best corner of all…a place to hide without anyone knowing you were hiding. Now as an adult, she wrote each night in a diary constructed not of pen and paper but of steam and bubbles. Baths caught her tears, heard her sighs, secreted her stories, and still remained her friend. Baths meant alone. And, even as a child, alone felt right.
That day had been as any other, really. The humdrum of conference calls, staff meetings, and too many trips to the espresso bar was followed by a trek onto the congested freeway. She punched on the radio and surfed restlessly, checking each station for the song she wanted. She didn’t find it. She drove the rest of her route anticipating the plush sink of the carpet and the cool of the bathroom tile. She'd finally ease her pinched toes from the high-end heels her co-workers envied and shed the pencil skirt that clutched a bit too tightly. She'd discard the sheik jacket that squeezed her chest and cinched her waist. Free at last, it would be time for her evening’s most faithful companion. She’d fill it with liquid tonight – perhaps lemongrass with a drop of lavender – and light the plain white pillars around the basin. She hadn’t used the white in a while: she wanted to be plain and overlooked like them. She eased into the water, imagining a raucous applause that disappeared as abruptly as it came. She was alone again. At last. At best. And there she lay; for how long she could only guess. The garage door beneath the bathroom rose, grinding out its announcement of his arrival, like the house’s teeth couldn’t bear to receive him without some note of its displeasure. She sank lower into the bath.
First, she saw his shoes: black leather with ridiculous patterns narrowing at the toe. She thought he wore them to demonstrate fashion saavy; to show he could, in fact, pick out the shoe with pizzazz making him different from all other men wearing black leathers with ridiculous patterns narrowing at the toe. Of course, they all bought the same shoe, so she rather figured he wore them for no reason at all: he simply did what everyone else did and tried to look unique while he was doing it. Stupid boy. The shoes were followed by the pants, the hand, the tie, and the jacket. All superficial. All artificial. All his. She met his eyes, and he smiled. It was broad, big even, and showed lots of teeth. She blinked back and asked, “How was your day?” He spoke, but she didn’t hear. She wasn’t alone in her bath anymore.
He emerged from their closet naked. “Mind if I join you?” came the query. But he’d asked as he was already dipping one pedicured toe into the water. It was tailed by a foot, then a leg, and before she could reply, he’d assumed the majority of the quiet place. He was reading her diary.
“The garage door is grinding again. I think its chain needs some WD 40.”
He’d never greased the garage door, and she was fairly certain he didn’t even know where she kept the WD 40. She was positive he couldn’t identify the garage door chain.
“I’ll look at it tomorrow after work.”
“Good,” was his contented reply.
Sigh. Of course, it didn’t matter how many times she greased the door: the door wasn’t the problem. Like her, their house simply didn’t like him, and it would always complain.
“Did you not get to the gym today?”
The bath water was cooling. The bubbles were breaking. How do you answer those “not” questions, again?
“No, I didn’t.”
“Hmmm. You know discipline will make the difference in those last five pounds.” Pause. “Don’t you think?”
Ah, there it was, that game where he told her what she should think without asking what she did think. She looked at his hands again. Long, thin fingers, twiddling away in the water. His wedding band was gold. It shone brightly in the candlelight's shimmers, laden with frothy orbs set atop its curve.
“Yes, I like discipline. It helps keep the tongue in check. Don't you think?"
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. You’ll go tomorrow, then?”
Sigh. “Sure." Pause. “So, how did your meeting with clients go?”
She wasn’t sure he’d met with clients today, but it was likely. He met with clients any other day. It didn’t really matter that she didn’t know, didn’t care, and wasn’t listening. He stroked her leg as he answered; some doldrum about the trials of lunches and assistants that didn’t schedule tightly enough. She could only pay attention to the strokes. They were long, comfortable … absent-minded. They were either the signs of stale familiarity or initiation of sex. It was hard to know which. Sigh.
“And how was your day? Lots of sighs tonight. Did anything go wrong today?”
“No, just the typical stuff. You know.”
“Sure.” The stroking stopped. He looked thoughtful, far from her, though he sat in the water mere inches away. The ring glittered again; a quick flash and then gone. “You’re happy, right?”
The answer came so quickly, she didn’t even think. “Absolutely. Why wouldn’t I be? You?”
“Most definitely. My life is just as I want it.”
She smiled meekly, just a small, fleeting upturn of the corners of her mouth. Then it was gone, like the flash of his ring before. It pained her. She rose, then, with water sluicing off her body. He looked up in appreciation as she stepped from her diary, tonight’s entry complete. She would be alone again, soon. But tonight’s bath was over. The water had grown cold.