The Marriage Follies

by Susan Matthewson

People get married for all sorts of reasons. Young men once got married to dodge the draft. Some people get married because they’re lonely or bored. Others marry because they believe that two really can live cheaper than one. And, I guess, some people actually marry for love.

And then there’s Bonnie who got married at 18 to save $200 on a season snowboard pass. Bonnie and Brad were high school buddies attending college near a ski resort. When ski season started, the resort offered a family season pass for $100 less than the individual pass.  When you’re 18 and broke, $100 is a lot of money, so while standing in the ticket line, Bonnie and Brad decided to pass themselves off as married and save $100 each. Unfortunately, the resort executives had also once been teenagers and required proof of marriage.

 Okay, said Bonnie and Brad. “We’ll get married.”

 And they did. They didn’t live together, didn’t even sleep together, but they had a great time snowboarding together. In fact, they had such a great time that they both flunked out of school. Brad went to Alaska to work on a fishing boat.  Bonnie took off for Hawaii to live on an organic farm. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on! And it did.

Bonnie returned home, finished school, got a job, and forgot all about being married. And then one day, she got an email from Brad, who she’d also forgotten about. She almost deleted it as spam, but then noticed the subject line: “Divorce Needed Immediately.” It seems Brad had fallen in love with a girl in California and wanted to get married. That’s when he realized he had a problem.

And that’s when Bonnie showed up in my paralegal office. I’d known Bonnie and her mother for years. We’d both been single mothers raising children alone, hoping to remarry someday. When our kids were younger, we’d had monthly lunches where we exchanged hilarious stories about our dating disasters via online meet-ups or family/friend fix-ups, lamenting our failure to find someone compatible. We didn’t see each other as much anymore, but I knew we were both still single.

I asked Bonnie if she’d told her mother what she’d done. Of course, she hadn’t. So I agreed to prepare the divorce papers only if she promised to tell her mother. I knew how hurt her mom would be if she found out the news accidentally. Just tell her, I said, that you made a mistake when you were 18, but you’ve fixed it now. Then you can move on and not worry about it—not that she’d worried about it up to this point.

Months later, I saw Bonnie’s mother at the mall. I didn’t know if Bonnie had kept her promise, but as we greeted each other, her mom whispered, “Maybe we should try snowboarding. I hear there’s action in the season ticket line.” I laughed and we parted with a hug.

But it’s funny. Ever since then, I can’t help myself. I keep wondering:  Just how much does a season snowboard pass cost these days? Who says you have to ever actually snowboard. Can't you just stand in the ticket line?

After all, people get married for all sorts of reasons.  

A New Man in My Life

by Susan Matthewson
    

I have a new man in my life, an exciting event in my solitary existence, one that has been manless since my divorce when, after 36 years, my husband put me out to pasture and wandered off to greener ones.

Surprisingly, I’ve found that being out to pasture—despite the unappealing connotations of worn-out old mares, crotchety nags, and mangy plugs—has its upside. In fact, in my pasture, I’ve discovered tasty wildflowers that tickle my imagination, shady nooks of towering trees that relax and refresh me, and even a lovely hillside for sunning on a cloudless day. Actually, being put out to pasture has perked me up, turned me into a filly that discovered she has a lot of trot left. However, while many a handsome stud has passed by, and despite my lively interest, none has ever given me a second glance or even a friendly snort. None that is, until Gus.

It was a family member who suggested that I’d like Gus because he was not only intelligent, but good-looking, well-groomed, funny, and likable. To entice me further, my relative noted that Gus was several years younger than I and I’d have a chance to be a cougar!  

Me, a cougar! My fantasies went wild. I’d let my hair grow. I’d get hair extensions like J Lo and the Kardashians, so I could fling around masses of wild sexy tresses. I’d lose ten pounds and get a Spanx, that body girdle that pushes up your boobs, sucks in your stomach, and flattens your fanny. I’d re-read that book about sex, you know, the Cosa Nostra or the Karma Scuba, whatever it’s called.  I was cougar primed, more than ready for Gus.

I wasn’t disappointed. Gus has lovely green eyes, rich brown hair, a muscular physique, and long legs. He is all that he was promised to be with one minor exception. Gus is a puppy, a three-month-old Vizshla, a Hungarian hunting dog that my son bought, somehow forgetting that he had a job and couldn’t take care of Gus. But good son that he is, he remembered his poor old manless mom, all alone out there in that pasture, and Gus metamorphosed from “his” dog to “our” dog. Gus now lives with me during the week.

Gus may not be exactly what I was hoping for, but he has his good points. When we watch television, Gus snuggles up on the couch and tickles my neck with little love kisses. He never wants to be away from me. He whines if I leave the room or if I sit on the couch, unless he can sit beside me. He comes to the bathroom with me, mesmerized while I shower, fix my hair, and dress. Sometimes as Gus licks my arm and rubs against me, I feel like he wants to crawl under my skin, to get that close to me. No man has ever loved me this much. If I had a pouch like a kangaroo, Gus would be in paradise.

Gus also has some qualities that only a woman can appreciate. He doesn’t leave the toilet seat up. He doesn’t leave wet towels on the bathroom floor. He doesn’t hang around the garage operating noisy power tools. He eats whatever I put in front of him with gusto. He doesn’t burp at the table and he never, never asks me to pull his finger, lets one loose (fart sound), and laughs like crazy. Best of all, he lets me monopolize the remote control. The more I think about it, Gus may actually be the perfect man.             

Smiling Meditation

It started with a smiling meditation. Breathe in, breathe out and make a slight smile, breathe in, breathe out and make a broader smile. A few minutes of this and Veronica was a changed woman. It was like magic. She was coming back to life; she could see possibilities. She felt strong, calm, and loving and she decided to try again. She felt it might work this time. She was so lonely, so alone, and she missed Brian. She missed him so much and she wanted him back.

She patted her slightly bulging stomach and loving cooed, “He’ll come back baby. He’ll come back. You’ll see, we won’t be alone I won’t let you be alone.”

Veronica sat down at the computer and started to type. She typed and deleted, typed and backspaced, typed and laughed and cried and typed, her eyes focused, almost boring into the screen, her teeth alternately biting her lip and slamming together to chatter quickly making a hollow chattering sound as if she were cold. Her tongue moved its way from lower to upper until her lips, wet, folded in on each other rubbing up and down. Occasionally all facial movement stopped as her ideas intensified and her fingers flew across the keyboard.

She read the letter out loud with great emotion. At the end tears were flowing down her pale cheeks, and she decided, as she allowed the tears to remain on her face and dry into her skin that the letter was perfect. She was so excited about that thought of Brian reading the letter that she seriously considered e-mailing it, but she thought better of it assuming that Brian might just delete it; but a snail mail letter – maybe put inside of a nice card would be perfect. He’d open it at least before he threw it away. “He won’t just be able to see my name and delete it.” She said to herself smugly. “And rewriting this into a card with beautiful handwriting. He’ll love this. I know he’ll love this. He’ll need to see me after he reads this.” She said to herself. She prayed that he would read it, maybe he would understand that she meant what she said. Maybe he’d be willing to come back home.

She finished neatly writing the letter into a card with dancing cats on the front; she was laughing and feeling better than she had in weeks. She pulled out an old file of stickers and plastered hearts and stars on the outside of the envelope; she filled the envelope with multi-colored confetti. Some said Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and some said love, peace, and hello. She thought he’d find this cute, and funny, and she thought it would make him remember the good times and decide to come back. She loved him so much. She was miserable without him. Veronica had been devastated when Brian left, but even more so when the police delivered the notice. The thought almost made her change her mind, “But he could” she thought “choose to come back if he wanted to.”

She decided that she would walk to the post office and make up her mind when she got there. She loved being outside in the beautiful California sunshine. She walked, or rather skipped to the post office. She waved at people in cars and smiled at kids on bicycles. She even called out little niceties like, “You really should wear a helmet! You don’t want to ruin that beautiful face!” and “Cute dog!”

Arriving at the post office her resolve was slightly shaken. She walked over to a mailbox meant for people in cars to drive by and deposit their mail. She stared down at the mailbox and into the darkness inside. She decided that her good feelings were a good omen, held the card to her chest, wanting some of the love in her heart to seep into the envelope; with her eyes closed, she did another minute of a smiling meditation, and only opened her eyes as the impatient and unkind man in the car waiting to mail his letter beeped at her three times. Ignoring him, she kissed her letter, and gently let it slide down the dark hole that held so many people’s wishes and hopes. This time, for sure, she felt. This time he would come back.

Late Bloomers

With thanks to MJ.

David and Joanna came late to love, just good friends until the hot summer night he first noticed the cereus on her back patio.

“What’s this scraggly thing?” David asked, his eyes smiling.

“My night-blooming cereus,” she said, caressing the sad plant. “My brother in California used to have one and it bloomed once when I was visiting. We kept vigil for a few nights, waiting for it to blossom, and we had a big celebration when it did. It only blooms once a year for one night, so you don’t want to miss it. One night, one huge perfect flower. The next morning it’s gone, drooping like a deflated balloon. It was so beautiful, so fragrant, I had to get one for myself.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” he said. “When will it bloom again?”

“This one’s never bloomed,” she said, shaking her head.

“How long have you been nurturing this thing?” he asked.

“Eight years,” she said.

“You’ve been waiting eight years for it to bloom?” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Amazing,” he said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her gently for the first time.

For the twelve years they were together, the cereus never flowered, never even produced a bud. It sat on the screened-in back porch every summer, and Joanna moved it inside when the air turned brisk in the fall.

“Why don’t you give up on that thing?” David would say periodically. “It’s never going to bloom.”

“Just you watch,” she’d say, “one day you’ll eat your words.”

“Sure I will,” he’d say.

“It has medicinal value, you know,” she’d say in the plant’s defense. “There’s something in it like digitalis, something that strengthens the heart.”

“Maybe it should give itself a shot of digitalis,” he’d say, chuckling.

David would point it out to guests as if introducing a family member.

“This is our never-blooming cereus,” he’d say. “I hear it’s a real wonder when it blooms. Should be any time now.” He’d wink at Joanna.

“Oh ye of little faith,” she’d say, pretending disappointment in him, and she’d hover close to the plant, like a mother protecting her only child.

When David got sick, Joanna nursed him through surgery and chemotherapy, bad days and okay days and even some good days. Finally, he was better and they began to enjoy life again.

It was a mild summer with bright sunny days, and they went to the beach and picnicked in the woods like young lovers. One evening at dinner, after an especially good day, she thought he was joking when he clutched his chest. When he couldn’t breathe, she lost her smile. When he fell from the chair into her arms, they sank to the floor together and he was gone.

She couldn’t cry or sleep as the summer turned sultry. Family and friends carried her from one day to the next until one by one they returned to their own lives, leaving her alone. That’s when she saw the bud on the cereus - just the barest beginning of a flower. She glared at it, anger rising.

“So now you decide to bloom?” she screamed. “All this time I told him – just you wait – and nothing. How can you do this?”

She kicked the flowerpot, wanting it to shatter. When it didn’t budge, she turned her back on it.

But she couldn’t ignore it. Every night she sat up on the patio with the cereus, watching the bud become like two hands cupped together. On a night as steamy as when David first kissed her, Joanna sat, eyes closed, remembering his hands gentle on her face. Hearing a soft pop, she opened her eyes to a beautiful white flower unfolding to the size of a dinner plate. She inhaled the sweet vanilla scent and finally cried. When she had no more tears and the flower hung limp in the dawn’s light, Joanna fell as soundly asleep as if she were wrapped in David’s arms.

Copyright Liz Zuercher, 2010

Poetic Play

Today I offer a few poems. The first one is a copy of William Shakespeare's Sonnet 18, followed by my parody of his poem titled, Shall I Compare Thee to a Winter's Day: Or, Just Drop Dead. The final poem is The Artichoke

SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER’S DAY?: SONNET 18

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare

SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A WINTER’S DAY: OR, JUST DROP DEAD!

Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Thou art more chilly, bitter, and extreme.
One look from you, one testy word convey
Such stinging slander one can only scream.
Yet sometimes even wintry days abate
And grant relief from frigid, freezing times,
Bring milder days that do not aggravate
And give one hope for softer, warmer climes.
But thy eternal winter does not fade
Nor lose intensity of harsh ill will.
My only hope’s for death to grant thee shade,
Deliver me from thy infernal swill.

So long as thee can breathe or thee can see,
So long lives this. I hope it torments thee.

Susan Matthewson
Copyright 2009


THE ARTICHOKE

The artichoke has no fashion sense,
Dressed in olive drab splotched with brown,
Like a raw recruit in jungle fatigues.

Camouflage is second nature to the artichoke.
It hides its tender heart and sophisticated tastes
Under a tough-guy exterior,
Thick-skinned, waxy petals and
Thorn-tipped leaves in overlapping layers
Like rows of shark’s teeth.

Overly sensitive to criticism,
The artichoke has a prickly personality,
It’s given to barbed responses
From its sharp-tongued thistles,
Stilletto-like bayonets fixed to the tips
Of its concentric leaves.

The artichoke is sturdy.
A hefty compact globe,
It looks like the accidental offspring
Of an amorous adventure
Between a cactus plant and a pinecone.

Instensely private,
The artichoke is hard to get to know.
It demands patience and pampering,
A thorough manicure
To prune its sharp edges
And a luxuriant lemon-juice massage.
A steam bath eases its defensive posture;
Its uptight petals relax,
Recline like sun worshippers on tilted lounges.
It shows its softer side then,
Becomes vulnerable to touch,
Secure in offering up its secret self,
Its tender-hearted core.

Copyright 2009 Susan Matthewson

Cinnamon Toast

         Apart from chocolate, nothing says love quite like cinnamon.  The aroma alone warms the heart, and mothers in our family have known this for years.  My grandmother expressed her love with fragrant gooey cinnamon rolls.  My mother pampered us with flakey buttery cinnamon piecrust.  And me?  I was the proud Queen of Cinnamon Toast when my boys were growing up.

         School day breakfasts were a fast and easy cereal smorgasbord – assorted cereal boxes lined up on the kitchen counter for the boys to choose from.  Cheerios, Kix, Crispix and Rice Krispies were favorites, and the boys poured at will into big wooden salad bowls, depending on what they had a taste for that day.  They washed the cereal down with giant glasses of orange juice.  One kid liked lots of pulp – the other hated pulp.  I made sure to have both kinds on hand. 

The one constant was cinnamon toast served on small green melamine plates, and I was the only one who could make it right.  At least that’s the line they fed me.  There’s no big secret to it, I used to tell them, but they wouldn’t buy it.  They wanted Mom’s cinnamon toast, not just any cinnamon toast. 

 I believe I could actually mark their growth by my cinnamon toast production levels.  When they were small I could get by with a couple of slices each.  But as they grew, so did the stacks of cinnamon toast until the two green plates looked like they would buckle under the pressure of the toast towers they held.

It wasn’t there long, though.  Those boys could power through that toast like nobody’s business.  They’d pull their stools up to the kitchen counter, pour and slurp their cereal and milk, guzzle the O.J. and inhale the toast.  Then they were out the door and off to school.  In their wake were bowls puddled with leftover milk, empty juice glasses and green plates glistening with cinnamon sugar.  Popping a finger full of cinnamon sugar in my mouth, I’d clean up the kitchen with a sense of satisfaction that I’d properly carried out my motherly duties.

Sometime during high school the toast production reached a point of diminishing returns, however.  I discovered this after a few days of seeing toast left on the plates, not just crumbs and cinnamon sugar, but whole slices of toast.  I guess like all things, there is a cyclical nature to cinnamon toast consumption.

At first I took it personally.  Was I slipping as Queen of Cinnamon Toast? Had I lost my touch?  Maybe, like a mother who asks too many questions of her teenager, I’d gone overboard with my toasting, overestimated their capacity.  I cut back, relieved the green plates of their burden.  But I found it strange that as my boys grew into young men, they needed less cinnamon toast, not more.  Maybe, I realized sadly, they just didn’t need as much of Mom’s toast.  Or Mom, for that matter.

I still have the green plates, but I haven’t made cinnamon toast in years.  Once the boys were out of the house, the toasting stopped, and we all moved on.  Researching for a writing project, I asked them recently what they remembered about breakfast when they were growing up, expecting them to mention the pancakes or French toast or omelets we’d have on weekends. 

“Cinnamon toast on little green plates!” they both said.  “That was the best part of breakfast.”

“Do you ever make it, since you like it so much?” I asked.

 “No,” they said.  “That’s a Mom thing.  You’re the only one who can make good cinnamon toast.”

And I smiled, feeling like all that toasting had just paid a huge unexpected dividend.  My heart was warm with cinnamon love.

 

Copyright Liz Zuercher 2009

Belated Happy Mother's Day!

by Susan Cameron

I spent almost two blissful weeks away from newspapers, TV news, and even -- gasp! -- the internet, so this Mother's Day offering (inspired by Heather, a fellow writing student) is a tad belated. Nevertheless...

TRUE LOVE

My breasts were once firm mountain peaks
but now they're two balloons with leaks.
My thighs were strong and hard as rock
but now they jiggle as I walk.
My stomach flat, once wafer-thin,
has rolls of fat where none had been.
My stretch-marked skin, once smooth and silky,
maps the way to Albuquerque.

'Til I had you, I used to preen
before my mirror. A beauty queen --
Superficial, shallow, vain.
My body's loss was my soul's gain.
In giving life, mine got its start.
I lost my shape and found my heart.
Back then I didn't have a clue.
I know what love is, thanks to you.

Susan Cameron, copyright 1999 or so :-)