Broken Promise

     "I never throw up," I bragged to B on one of our first dates. This was sometime in 2003. At the time I was working on a no-throw-up record of almost 30 years.

     B was pretty; she was smart; she had a great personality. I liked her. So I thought this was a good selling point for myself. I mean, who likes someone who throws up a lot? But I guess what I was doing, with my lame attempt at humor, was making a kind of promise. I would stay healthy for her. She was not signing on to be my nursemaid. No throwing up.

     The last time I'd thrown up was in 1974 or 1975 when I'd had a terrible bout of the flu. And, well, stuff happens. Soon after, I fainted and cracked my chin on the bathroom sink as I went down. My wife (my first wife) panicked when she saw me crumpled on the floor with blood running down my face. She called 911. The first thing I knew, I woke up with my wife hovering over me and two male faces murmuring some mildly reassuring words.

     That's how bad it has to be when I throw up.

     But last weekend . . .

     We had just gotten home from our trip down south. Our grandson had had a bout of stomach flu. So did someone else in the family. But I kept my distance, washed my hands. And anyway, that was four or five days earlier.

     The morning we got home we went out to breakfast at a diner. We had never been there before, but it was crowded. Must be good.

     I ordered eggs, pancakes and a side of fruit.

     The portions were huge. But the fruit looked good. I dug in. As usual, B forked a few pieces for herself. But I was the one who gobbled up most of it. 

     Later that afternoon I just felt tired. I don't know why. I'd slept well. I hadn't really done anything vigorous or taxing. But we'd been traveling. That creates more stress than you think. Maybe it made sense that I was tired.

     At dinner the food, to me, looked intimidating. I ate a bite or two of chicken. It was too rich, too spicy. The asparagus seemed stringy and hard to chew. I left most of the meal on my plate.

     I did the dishes, as usual, then went upstairs to my desk. I tootled around on the computer for a bit, then B came in. We had an engagement the next day. She wanted to discuss what time we should leave and other details of the outing. I looked at her and said, "I hate to say this, but I don't feel so good."

     She looked disappointed, but understanding. "Well, let's see how you feel in the morning."

     It was about five minutes later when for some reason the thought crept into into my mind: I'd better get to the bathroom.

     I'll spare you the details. But it's a good thing I did. Because my now more-than-40-year throw-up record was over. In spades.

     Luckily, B decided to sleep at the other end of the house. I got more exercise than sleep that night. But finally around 5 a.m. I settled down and slept till about 10. I heard the phone ring a couple of times but didn't pay attention.

     I got up for an hour or two and found that B was still there. She had canceled our engagement. Then I went back to sleep. I got up again around 2 p.m. B asked me if I wanted anything to eat. I said no. She asked about dinner later on. Some toast? Chicken soup? No. No. Then I saw a potato on the counter. "How about mashed potatoes?" I asked.

     I took another nap from about 3 p.m. to 7 p.m. Got up. Ate a few mashed potatoes. I was worrying that I would lie awake all night since I had slept most of the day. But no. I fell asleep listening to a podcast and stayed asleep until 8 a.m. the next morning.

     I got up. I don't know if it had been the flu or the food, but now I felt fine. Well, mostly fine. I felt like I had been through a fight, and was now recovering, like the guy in the movies who is sitting there half-dazed with a bandaged face and an arm in a sling.

     A day later I was back on my feet. I went to my class, played table tennis that night. I had met the enemy and had won. And the silver lining -- I'd lost about five pounds. But it took two days out of my life. And I had broken the promise I'd made to B, all those years ago.

Travel Is a Lot Like Sex

     I just got back from a two-week trip to Las Vegas, Utah and Arizona. Our trip was part vacation, to see the sights of Zion and Bryce, and part family, to see some relatives and a new baby.

     And it occurred to me this morning that travel is a lot like sex (Don't worry, I'll keep it PG rated).

     First, there's deciding whether or not you're going to do it. We were invited out when the baby was born, last January, and we did think about going then. But traveling in January? After all the festivities of Christmas? It seemed too much. We didn't want to say no. We wanted to do it, eventually. So we teased them -- maybe we'll do it; well, not now, maybe later. And then we finally did commit, and did the deed in June. 

     B and I made sure we were traveling together. I mean, you can travel alone, just like you can have sex by yourself. But it's much more fun with another person. (I won't get into the group thing. B and I have no interest in traveling with a group. Like taking a cruise with a  group of friends? Not for us!)

     Actually, sometimes B and I will travel alone. She will make a four-day trip to Charleston to see her grandson. I typically take a little extra vacation by myself in Florida in the winter. But like I said, these are quickies. Whenever we go anywhere for any length of time, we go together.

     Then there's the anticipation. Half the fun of travel is making the plans, deciding on the itinerary, making hotel reservations, scheduling the airplane. Thinking about what you'll be doing, imagining how it will be. 

     There's also the anxiety. You have to pick the right clothes. Go to the right restaurant. Will we be able to perform? I worried about how much hiking I'd have to do at Zion and Bryce, given my bad knee. B worries about the airport and the hotels and all the connections we have to make. As it turned out, we were able to do the required minimums. I walked the flat paths and the walkways around the canyon. I didn't even try to scale the heights of Angel Mountain, or plumb the depths of Bryce's hoodoos. And B was happy that the airport, the car rental, the hotel reservations, all worked out just fine. 

     Afterwards, of course, you wonder if the reality of vacation measured up to the promise. When you're actually there, you're probably not thinking about that. But afterwards, you look back on the vacation with fondness, remembering the good parts and not dwelling on the occasional hardships or uncomfortable moments.

     Of course, there are always certain vacations when you just say -- well, I enjoyed it, but I'm not going back there again. Or you might even say ... well, that was a mistake.

     Travel is an adventure. Sometimes we do it just for fun. Or when we travel with someone, it often brings our relationship closer together. Sometimes there's a purpose. The point of our trip to Arizona was to see the new baby. Sometimes we forget that travel and babies go together.

     And then, the very next day after I got home, I began to wonder. Okay, that's done. I wonder where we should go next? Home life can be so boring. We want the next adventure. You see, travel can be addictive too!

While the Wife's Away ...

     B's mother and sister live about an hour and a half west of us. It's just far enough so we really don't like to go for the day, although we've done that a few times. We usually go overnight, or sometimes for two or three nights. Sometimes we stay with her sister; sometimes we pony up for the bed & breakfast located halfway between her sister's house and the assisted-living facility where her mother lives.

     Sometimes B and I go together. But this time she's visiting by herself, and I am home alone.

     I love B dearly. But, you know, in any relationship there are lots of little compromises. So I like being home by myself. I get to do what I want, instead of what we want.

     Since B likes to have all her stuff around her, and I'm the neat one in the family, the first thing I do is go around the house and tidy up. I put all the dishes are in the dishwasher and clean off the kitchen counter. I take her clothes off the bed or the living room chair, fold them up and put them on her dresser. I gather the Sunday paper and the old magazines and catalogs and toss them in the recycling bin. Now I can finally see the top of the coffee table.

     But there is at least one lapse in my tidying up. It's my job to make the bed, partly because B usually gets up before I do (except on golf days). Besides, making the bed is a habit of mine leftover from summers at Boy Scout camp. I never made much of a Boy Scout, but one thing I did learn was how to make a bed. (Yes, the camp counselors did bounce a quarter on the bedspread to make sure it was tight.)

     So pretty much every morning of my life, I make the bed -- except when B is away. Then, who cares? Nobody else is around. You see ... it's a little bit of a vacation.

     When I'm on my own, and only answering to myself, I can do whatever I want. I could drink beer or stay up late if I wanted, although I don't do either of those things. But I still have the opportunity to indulge my bad habits. And the only reason I give myself license to do that is because I know when B gets back, I'll have to stop.

     So, normally, B cooks dinner for us almost every night. She's a good cook and always includes a vegetable or two. This is good for me. I know it, and appreciate it. But when B is away, I sometimes go to Panera's, with free refills of Pepsi -- and dessert only costs an extra dollar. Or I get a couple of slices of pizza, with . . . well, what do you know, free refills of Coke.

     The other night I went to our local grocery store that puts out a spread every day, like a cafeteria. I had peppers and sausage, mashed potatoes, and some macaroni and cheese. Then a berry tart for dessert. While I was there I bought some Halloween candy. And when I got home, I tried it out. Just one piece. Well ... two pieces, but they were very small.

     I should also admit that I spend more time watching TV when B is away. It's easy to plop down in front of the TV when I'm eating breakfast. Or it's 4:30 p.m. and I'm home and it's not time for dinner yet, so I flip on the set and see what's going on. Maybe I catch an old Seinfeld rerun or just mindlessly watch the weather or one of the cable news shows.

     At night I'll watch something on Netflix. I'm currently in the middle of "Moneyheist", a Spanish crime drama recommended to me by a friend. It's okay, but the dubbing is terrible and the plot is slow-moving at times.

     Of course, I do my regular activities while B is away. This week I tutored English on Monday at the library, and on Tuesday I went to the dentist. On Wednesday I ran errands. After B gets back from visiting her family, we're leaving for Charleston, SC, so I'm paying bills, returning books to the library, going to the bank, stopping off at the post office. I even went to the YMCA to do my exercises.

     So I'm not totally playing hooky from life. I'm doing what I'm supposed to do, for the most part. But I will admit, on the way home from the Y, I stopped at our local ice-cream emporium. The butterscotch sundae is one of my many weaknesses.

     B is due back later today. It's a good thing. I'm okay by myself for a couple of days. But after that, my stomach begins to act up, the kitchen counter looks barren and empty, and the coffee table seems bare and abandoned. Besides, I get tired of my own company. It gets pretty lonely around here.

     Speaking of which . . . I better go make that bed.

Fashion Advice, Seriously!

     I feel a certain responsibility to the public, because I know when people think fashion, they can't help but think Tom Sightings.

     But seriously . . . I was taking my honey B out to Valentine's dinner the other night, and I noticed she was wearing a very nice sweater. We were sitting at our table at a popular and lively restaurant that features international cuisine. I regarded the sweater and asked if it was new.

     She looked down, ran her fingers over the material. She thanked me for noticing and said yes, as a matter of fact, it was.

     Where did you get it? I wondered.

     Then she told me about a new website called Stitch Fit. Maybe you've heard of it? She'd learned about it from a friend.

     The idea is, you go to the website, answer a series of questions about yourself, and then the site puts the information into the computer and makes a selection of clothing that will suit your size, shape, coloring and personality.

     In other words, what Pandora is to music, Stitch Fit is to clothing.

     The site sends you five items of clothing. You keep what you want and send back the rest. B kept two of the five items -- the sweater and a stylish black vest -- and sent the other three items back.

B's sweater, without B (she doesn't like to be photographed)

     The clothes are moderately priced -- about the level of Macy's (or, maybe there's a broader range, but the computer just concluded B is a Macy's level shopper). Apparently, you can sign up to get clothes just one time, or on a recurring basis -- once a month, say, or once for each new fashion season.

     Two big benefits of the site: You no longer have to go to the mall and face the crowds, the noise, the frustration of trying to find what you want. Also, the algorithm on site figures out what clothes will make you look your best -- something (at least, according to B) you don't always know on your own.

     The only downside is that you have to return the clothes you don't want -- and there is a time limit. So you have to pay attention, or you end up buying clothes you have no use for.

     I don't know anymore about the site than that. To me it sounds like a great idea, and B likes it, at least so far. But I cannot give it my personal recommendation because I haven't tried it. Apparently, the site only sells women's clothing.

     Still, there's a benefit for husbands. How? B and I were on our way to the aforementioned Valentine's day restaurant.  We were at the mall, walking through Nordstrom's department store . . . okay, to clear up any possible confusion, the Valentine's day restaurant we were going to was a Chinese place at the food court in the mall. (But seriously, to defend my reputation as a romantic, we'd already been out to a nice restaurant for lunch earlier that day.)

     So anyway, as I said, being a romantic type of guy, I was trying to be solicitous of her needs. "We're not in a rush," I said to her as we ambled through the women's shoe section. "We can stop somewhere if you want, you know, if you'd like to shop a bit."

     "Oh, I don't need to," she responded, airily. "I don't have to mix with the great unwashed at the department store. I have my own personal shopper now."

12 Reasons Why Women Have It Easier Than Men

    I did a post awhile back called 10 Reasons Why Men Are Better Than Women. It's proved to be a very popular item  -- although I fear not for the humor involved, but for all the wrong reasons. Does anyone seriously think there are any reasons why men are better than women?

     Anyway, in the interest of, um, let's call it equal time, I thought I'd point out why . . . well, look at my title. So without further ado:

     1.  Women get to live longer than men -- in this country by an average of about 4 years. Although the way things are going with politics, the economy and the Boston Red Sox, this might very well be a mixed blessing.

     2.  Let's face it, women have the upper hand when it comes to sex. They decide if, when and under what circumstances sex will occur, with their husbands, boyfriends, or anybody else.

     3.  They get all kinds of praise and admiring looks just for lounging around on a couch, drinking beer and watching football on TV.

     4.  They get free drinks at bars.

     5.  They don't have prostate problems.

     6.  In school (and don't argue with me on this, I've done extensive research), four out of five teacher's pets are female.

     7.  They don't have to learn how to fix cars. They can call AAA without hesitation, embarrassment or fear of humiliation. Ditto for home repairs. The corollary: women can criticize men (for messing up the home repair, for example, or wearing the wrong shirt) while men can only compliment women (for wearing such a beautiful shirt) . . . and then get criticized because the compliments aren't good enough. (No, really, it's gorgeous. It highlights your eyes, makes them sparkle!)

     8.  Women get to ask directions.

     9.  Women can go to the doctor without feeling like a wimp.

     10. When women fail at work they can blame male chauvinism, the long tradition of male dominance, the glass ceiling, their husbands . . . anything but themselves. Men have no excuses. They can only blame their own dumbass selves.

     11. When traveling, women get to pack as many clothes and shoes, as much makeup and other paraphernalia as they want. It's up to the men to carry it all around.

     12. Women get to raise the kids, clean the house, hold down a job, handle the family finances, cook the meals, drive everyone around, arrange the family social schedule, all while taking care of their clueless husbands, their elderly mothers, their ne'er-do-well brothers (and brothers-in-law) and nursing anyone in the family or neighborhood who's sick.

     You see? You've got it all!

Getting Married

     B and I have four children between us. Tomorrow, the first of them, her younger son, is getting married. At age 23, he is the youngest of the four.

     That seems a little young to me, in this day and age, but he and his bride seem mature for their age, and well suited for one another. They grew up together, went to the same high school, and started going out together when they were freshmen in college. She transferred after her freshman year, in order to be closer to him, and now they've been living together for almost two years.

     Some people balk at the idea of two people living together before they get married. But B and I are hardly ones to object, since we have been living together for eight years without benefit of marriage.

     But, for us, there is no benefit of marriage. At least not financially. Neither one of us needs to piggyback on the other's medical insurance; and we'd have to pay more in taxes if we got married. We won't be having any more kids; so we don't need to make it official for that reason. In fact, if we were to get married it might just complicate things for our kids.

     But B and I might get married anyway . . . eventually. Even though we're not raising a family, there's still something appealing about marriage, making the relationship official, for all the world to see.

    Anyway, we're going off to watch our little boy (well, not my little boy, but I've known him since he was in 8th grade) march down the aisle.

     They're doing it up pretty big -- with a minister, at a fancy wedding venue, expensive rings, with a rehearsal and rehearsal dinner and roughly 150 friends and family at the wedding. Flowers, professional photographer, gift bags, bachelor and bachelorette parties. All the women in the wedding bought a new dress for the occasion, and they are going together to get their nails, hair and makeup done.

     It seems a bit over the top to me. But then, I got married in 1973 in a little church in the country with about 15 guests, and my bride wore flowers in her hair and we all went out to lunch afterwards. We were together for 28 years, raised two great kids, and had a pretty good run.

     So if that simple little ceremony was good for 28 years, then B's son and his bride will be married forever.

Waste Money ... Who Me?

     Last night I saw B in front of her computer. I went over, and as I approached she quickly clicked off the page, and her email account flashed onto the screen.

     "Whatcha' lookin' at?" I queried innocently. I thought maybe she was searching on Homeaway, because we're starting to plan our summer vacation.

     She looked at me. Her face flushed a little. Then she sighed. "Well, actually, I was shopping."

     She clicked back onto the first page. I saw a pair of earrings, kind of spangly, probably made out of gold. I didn't really look very closely, because . . . well, because I don't know a thing about earrings.

     Then I did a double-take. The earrings cost $174.99. No wonder B was looking a a little guilty!

Waste of money?

     But I don't care. B has a job. She has her own money. She can spend it any way she wants. It's no business on mine if she wants to blow close to $200 for little shiny things to hang from her ears . . . that no one will even see because they'll be hidden by the hair that she's been growing out lately.

     Recently, B came home from work at the library and was amused to tell me about a woman who'd been asking for some tax forms. The woman confided in B that she filed her taxes separately because her husband gambled, and she didn't want any part of his finances.

     My sister also keeps her finances separate from her husband. This is her second marriage (and his third), and they got married late in life, so they'd been used to doing things their own way and they thought they'd keep it that way -- besides my brother-in-law fancies himself a day-trader in the stock market, so he has complicated taxes with a lot of short-term gains and losses. And my sister doesn't want any part of it.

     My brother-in-law sometimes brags about the money he's made. But my sister told me that he actually loses about $5,000 a year. "I don't let it bother me," she says. "After all, for him this is entertainment, and it costs less than owning a boat, or taking a vacation."

     So anyway, like I said, what business is it of mine if B wants to squander her money on jewelry. Or shoes. Or little knickknacks for the house.

     I guess, being a  (ahem) fiscally responsible person myself, I don't understand why people want to throw away their hard-earned money on useless stuff. I spend my money on more substantial goods and services, ones that are socially responsible and contribute to the greater good of mankind. For example: golf.

     No, wait! Seriously. By playing golf I help employ a dozen or so American workers -- mostly senior citizens -- who help run the course. The golf course provides much-needed green space in my overcrowded suburb. And it also provides an inviting environment for wildlife, such as deer, raccoons, skunks, snakes, ticks, mosquitoes. And geese. The geese provide lots of fertilizer.

Good investment?

     I play on the public courses and pay about $40 a round. B has never once accused me of wasting money on golf. And why would she? I'm actually saving money. After all, I could join a fancy country club. It might cost me $10,000 a year. At that rate it would cost me $300 or $400 a round. So by going to the public course, I save $250 to $350 every day. The more I play, the more I save!

     I've been eyeing a new driver down at the golf shop. It costs $399.00. Does that seem expensive? Maybe. But on a cost-per-pound basis, it's a much better deal than the earrings.

     This is just one example. There's my new car . . . I could have gotten a Mercedes like my friend Joe, so I saved a lot of money in buying a Honda instead. My gym membership . . . okay, I don't use it that much, but I save $15 a month because I'm a senior citizen. At the rate I'm going, we'll have saved up enough money to pay for vacation in no time.

     Anyway, after our little encounter at the computer, I went into the kitchen and got myself a snack. A few minutes later I saw B was still at the computer. I wandered over, and saw . . .  she's still looking at earrings. Only these earrings cost $224.99!

     However, being the suave, debonaire, cool-as-a-cucumber guy that I am, I didn't even react. I just nodded thoughtfully. "Those are nice," I mused. "But, I think I like the other ones better."

     She looked up. "Yeah, I agree," she said. "Besides, I'd be saving $50. That'll help pay for our vacation." 

I Guessed a Christmas Present!

     B likes to shop, but what with her job, and church, and a house and two kids -- plus, she has me to contend with -- she doesn't have a lot of time. So she shops mostly online. We have packages arriving at the house from UPS and Federal Express and sometimes the U. S. Postal Service, especally in advance of Christmas.

     So last night B and I went out the front door to walk the dog, as we do every evening, and I noticed there were two packages right outside on the front porch. One small box, and one big box.

     We walked the dog and as we came back in, I picked up the smaller package and opened the door. I went inside, put the package down, unleashed the dog, then went back outside to get the other box. It was big, so I lifted it up with two hands . . . but it didn't weigh much.

     "Oh, this is light," I said to B, as I elbowed my way back inside.

      "What?" she said. She was in the kitchen, taking off her coat. "Don't go feeling those packages!"

     "Oh . . . I'm not," I said. "It's just that it's so big, and so light. I wonder what it is."

     "Never you mind," she said, turning toward me as I entered the kitchen. "Just forget about the box."

     "Hmmm," I wondered. "Is this a present for me?"

     "Who wants to know?" she teased.

     "I hope that big box isn't full of styrofoam peanuts," I said. "They're a pain to throw away."

     "Just don't worry your pretty little head about what's inside the box," she said.

     I'd placed the big box on the floor by the door, and I was now in the kitchen, taking off my coat. Then I did a double-take back to the box. There was writing on it. It was upside down, but I could make out Travelpro. "Wait a second, here," I said. "I know what that is!"

     "No, you don't."

     "It's the suitcase you were going to buy for Richie!" Richie is her younger son, and I knew he'd been asking for a new suitcase for Christmas.

     She got red in the face. She was a little embarrassed.

     "Why, you were leading me on!" I suddenly realized. "You were pretending this was some mysterious present for me!"

     "No, I wasn't." But her red face gave her away.

     "Hah, you can't fool me," I stated proudly. "I wasn't born yesterday, you know."

     "Well," she said, ending the conversation. "That's for sure!"

What Are Your Least Favorite Foods?

     Yesterday B sent me up to the store with a short shopping list. I thought I knew all her preferences. Tropicana orange juice with no pulp. Twinings tea, not Lipton; decaffeinated. And we both drink only 1% milk.

     But I made a mistake. I brought home Hunt's ketchup instead of Heinz.

     "Well, what's wrong with Hunt's?" I asked. "Besides, you didn't specify Heinz."

     "You never looked in the refrigerator, and noticed what kind of ketchup we have?"

     "Um, I guess not," I confessed.

     So do you have your favorite foods, and your favorite brands? And the ones you simply cannot tolerate? It seems silly. What's the difference between Hunt's and Heinz? And yet, I know, Coke and Pepsi are essentially the same thing -- sugar water with food coloring. But I like Coke, not Pepsi.

     When I was a kid, each of us was allowed to "reject" one food that we didn't like. If my mom served it, we didn't have to eat it. But otherwise, we were expected to eat what was served to us . . . because, you know there were people starving in China. My parents were children of the Depression. And they did not like to waste food, or anything else.

     I rejected broccoli. But when my mother served cauliflower, I would claim that, no, it wasn't broccoli I'd rejected, it was cauliflower. No, not broccoli, cauliflower!

     But now, ironically, I actually like both broccoli and cauliflower.

     Today, there are a lot of cheeses I do not like. Blue cheese, for example, and Parmesan. And I do not like goat cheese. B and I were out the other evening, and we split a sandwich. B asked me if I liked it. "Yeah, it was pretty good," I replied.

     "It had goat cheese in it," she said.

     "It did?" I replied, startled. "No, it didn't. I didn't taste any goat cheese."

     "I'm pretty sure it did." She was enjoying this . . . maybe she thinks I'm a finicky eater. I swore off red meat a few years ago. I don't like garlic. I don't like a lot of New Agey stuff like couscous and hummus.

     I couldn't believe there was goat cheese on the sandwich. Goat cheese has such a distinctive flavor -- it tastes like a barnyard. I would have noticed it. So I asked the server. And he informed me that, yes, the sandwich did indeed have goat cheese in it.

     So don't tell us your favorite food -- it's always chocolate, right? Don't tell us what you're allergic to -- like gluten or peanuts. Tell us: What foods do you just not like? The foods you cannot stomach. I do not like foods that stink (like goat cheese or blue cheese). I do not like croutons in my salad or soup. (Why would you put toast in your soup?!?)

     And despite what B thinks, I believe I'm being perfectly reasonable -- not like, you know, making a big deal out of ketchup.

     Anyway, I guess the French have a phrase for it: a chacun son gout. But I have a new theory -- I think that goat cheese gave me bad dreams the other night!