What Would a Good Wife Do?

  

 

     I ponder the question, what would Alicia Florrick do if her husband came home with a pair of silver balls?  Where some of you may see this as a perverted riddle, I found myself faced with this exact dilemma just a few short months ago.   

     My hubby Joe wanted to lose weight although he continued to eat his daily party size bag of Wise Potato Chips into the wee hours of Frazier reruns.  I tried explaining to him, if he wanted to lose any of the gut he had been so public to complain about, high fat and starch was not the diet for a man who had no time for physical activity.  I was not the good wife, I couldn't be blindly supportive when I myself had so much to offer in the arena of diet and weight loss.

    I wish that I myself was a good wife, sweet, supportive, loving, sensitive, and self-sufficient.  But put me in front of a man who complains about weight gain for the first time in his life at the age of 42-and I have no sympathy. 

      On the subject of weight loss, I was a qualified non-professional.   I lost 16lb at the age of nine on a bet I had made with my dad.  No diet plan, just me, smarter food choices and exercise.  Then again at 18, again before winter vacation 2X, then pregnancy weight 2X.  Joe probably thought that since I had to do it more than once in my life, I have not earned my Victoria Secret wings (and without the help of a sharp knife and a skilled cosmetic surgeon, never will).

     Joe’s know it all mentality and my attempt to push my own experiences reminded me of our family trip to Aruba in 2001.  Joe had never been further than Mexico for a hot vacation.  His olive complexion and lazy mornings in had always been a good enough sunscreen.  Joe approached us on the white sandy beach in board shorts, a white t shirt, and mirrored Ray Bans (that I still can't get him to trade in for a pair of Tom Fords). 

     "I've got Banana Boat sunscreen, 30 or 50." I smiled to Joe.

      He shooed away any friendly offering of sunscreen, sunblock, or zinc.

     "Joe," my father warned him, "we're very close to the equator."

     "Equator, shmequator....dad, I'll be fine!!!"  He said laughing at the rest of us slathered in sun screen and taking cover under one of the beach huts. "I didn't realize I was marrying into a family of dermatologists."

      There was no skewing him from his belief that he knew everything under the sun, from fast cars to skin care.  We had fun that picturesque day in Aruba.  We went Banana boating, we went sailing, we smiled through two for one Pina colada  Happy Hour.  After the sunset, and a short lived nap, Joe awoke to the curse of the dreaded sun god.  He couldn't move, he said it even hurt him to blink.

    "Call a doctor.  I'm freezing and burning up at the same time."  He said through a groan.

    I touched his burning skin and he let out a yelp.  "What IS this?!"  Joe screamed.

    "It's a sun burn Joe."  I said semi-sympatico.

     Here we were fifteen years later, dealing with the same sunburn ignorance disguised as a fat ass.

     "Joey, it's midnight.  There are five servings in that bag......that's 750 calories....450 fat calories before sleep." I scolded him.

      He shook the bag, the truth of his skilled shake suggested there were only three servings.   It wouldn't bother me so much if I didn't have to witness him checking himself out in the mirror each morning.  "What the hell is going on with my ass?!"  Joe screamed the next morning looking at his profile.

     "It's Wise."  I said indifferently.

     "It's huge!"  He complained to me.  "I don't get it.  I've been eating the same way my whole life....I never had a problem..." Now he was hyperventilating.

     My inner goddess was thrilled.  In my single days, one of the requirements of my Mr. Wonderful was that he be tall, athletic, and weigh more than me.   What I ended up marrying was someone whose body frame made me feel like the before photo from a fad diet infomercial anytime we stood together.  

   The scales had finally tilted in my favor.  Joe walked into the bathroom.  I could hear the hateful body image machine scraping against the brown tile floor, followed by a painful sigh. 

     Joe went to get dressed, downed his coffee in one gulp, like a Kamikaze shot, and quickly left the house.

     That evening Joe walked in with a smile.  I was relieved to see that he wasn’t carrying the number that set him off in such a hurry that morning.   I offered to broil fish, cut up a salad and we’d go through his diet voyage together.  I began to explain the ins and outs of good nutrition.   Once I realize that he hadn't absorbed a word I said, I stopped talking about high fiber and healthy snacks.  I stared at him as he smirked me into silence.

     "I got the balls."  Joe announced.

     "Excuse me?"  I muffled in hysterics.

     "The balls.  I got those silver balls."  He flicked his earlobe, exposing the shiny silver ball, round and proud.

     The silver balls, otherwise known as the Sadkhin Diet uses acupressure points behind the ears combined with a strict intake of vegetables and milk.  Sure, I'd heard of it before.   Within the first ten days one can expect to lose 5 - 10% of their body weight.  It sounded a bit radical for a guy who'd never eaten a salad.

    Could I play the theme song for Saturday Night Fever each time he rotated his miniature disco balls from behind his ears?   Maybe I’d wrap a towel around my head and chant as Joe rotated his pair, O’Great Genie of weight loss, please grant me a body free of fat.   I wasn’t putting down his attempt to make a positive change, or was I? 

   Alicia Florrick would cut her husband’s vegetables and pour his milk.  She would stand behind him and push him to go to the gym.  She would perform Google searches looking for the best recipes for dieters following the Sadkhin Diet.  She would not be making petty jokes about all the ball rubbing her husband would have to endure.   Nor would she spew facts about Weight Watchers and how diet and exercise give much quicker results than diet alone.  She would not go to the lengths of playing Bee Gee songs every 2 hours… that would be me, Nazira Chabbott.

     Maybe I had a thing or two to learn about myself.  Help is when someone is asked to be useful.  Joe never requested my involvement in his weight loss journey.  Instead of being the sounding board he needed I was being pushy.  Diet is a very personal subject and each person has their own preference.    By Joe’s choice, he’d rub away the pounds with the balls of his choice. 

     So, what does a good wife do when her husband comes home with an extra set of balls?  My answer…  NOTHING.  Smile, congratulate him on making a choice to better himself, (try not to hate him for dropping ten pounds in two weeks)-and laugh silently when he goes back to BBQ chips at midnight.

    

Just a Spit in the Bucket

     It was the end of a beautiful Sunday at the Casino beach club.   The four towels that we brought to the beach, now mixed with ocean water and sand weighed 30 pounds a piece.  I find it strange and adorable how two kids who barely tip the scales at 46 pounds themselves can manage that.
     The 150 pound crab beside me grunts.  "it wouldn't be so cute if it were your car seats embedded in sand."
     Joe usually likes the beach.  Except for the sand, the wind, the ocean spray, the carrying the chairs to and from the locker, the sitting in close proximity to everyone, the miscellaneous treats found while hiding his big 'ick' toe in a sand pile, the broad babes in petite swimwear, the tattoos, and as of today-the tobacco spit bottle.
      Because of his ADHD, and his 'like' of the beach, Joe takes frequent smoke breaks.  During one of his breaks, I found a Nestle water bottle that was making its way towards the ocean with the rising tide.  Being true to my Jersey roots, I picked it up and put it in the cup holder of Joe's beach chair.
     It wasn't long before I heard, "Ert!  What the hell is this and who put it here?"
     My eyes became watery as a result of holding in my screaming laughter. "Whah?"  I tried looking at his disgusted and disapproving frown as he jiggled the small bottle labeled 'Nestle Water.'
     "I just saw it lying there and the waves were coming it.  It would have washed out into the ocean."  I said wincing my eyes.
     "Next time....LET IT GO."  Joe huffed, "This was someone's spit bottle."
     With no chalk or blackboard on hand, Joe taught me that you don't have to be a M.V.P. on performance enhancing drugs to chew or spit out chewing tobacco.  "It was probably one of those animals over there."  In no act of secrecy he pointed a strong finger at a tattooed woman in a yellow crocheted bikini (Angelina Jolie, Johnny Depp, Adam Levine, and Rhianna all have tattoos, I don't think that makes them litter bugs, but I'll keep that debate to myself).
     Once again, Joe rises, but this time it isn't to decompress, it's to dispose of his newest object of disgust.  His objection will not keep me from cleaning up the mess of other pigs (though I do hit my limit on dirty diapers-yes, people leave those on the beach too), though it does leave the open question in mind-where is it's owner?
     Hoping the Fall leaves everyone with warm memories of Summer, and clean thoughts for the next one!

Big Time Worries

  Tonight is the Big Time Rush concert, we booked the tickets from two months ago.  It's going to be great, but today is a full day of anticipation.  I don't know when or what made me become this way, but when there's an event pressing on the calender, I'm as nervous as a terrorist wearing the explosives on the way to point of 'kaboom!'  What used to be a worry-free Zee, has turned into 'Caution-worry ahead.'
      For example, tonight's distress:
1)  Traffic
too much traffic and we're very late to concert
too little traffic and we make it to the stadium hours before the concert.
Joey's patience (or lack of) in traffic
2)  bathroom breaks
Bathroom accidents in the car.
What if there are no rest stops?
What if I have an accident in the car?
Do I need to pack a change of clothes, and if it can happen to me, it can happen to the kids-do I pack a carry on for the occasion?
If I have an accident in the car, will the kids still respect me?
Will my husband still respect me?
Will Joe have to pull off the road and have the car 'emergency detailed' before he can proceed and drive.
3)  Forgetting something at home-

sandwiches
     What if I didn't bring enough.
     What if the kids didn't like the choices?
ear plugs
     What if Joycee's swimmer's ear is still bothering her and she doesn't let me put them on her?
toilet paper
Purell
water
dvd's for kids
4)  Our seats in stadium-
what if the people sitting in front of us are taller and kids can't see?
what if people in front of us are standing the whole time?
what if Joycee can't take the noise?
what if she wants to leave after the first few songs?

View before concert.

what if the seats aren't so good?
What if Joycee is disappointed about not getting closer to the stage?
Will I be able to rise above her disappointment?
Will I always disappoint her?
5)  no time for the kids to bathe.
  Joe freaking from kids not having time to bathe.
  Joe making kids bathe post-concert at 2am.
  Why is Joe so insane about showering?
  Does Joe keep tabs of my shower habits?

     It isn't so much about the worries anymore as it is the 'sub-worries.' the imaginary problems I create inside of the regular ones.  I used to be (almost) worry free, spontaneous with a 'blow in the wind' kind of attitude.  I'd rather blame it on being a responsible mommy or systematic spouse instead of aging worry wart.
     In the end, all went well.  No accidents, car or bathroom to report.  Our tickets had the words 'rain or shine' printed in bold faced letters, we noticed that once we were in our seats that the entire stadium was outdoor seating.  So glad I hadn't known any of that before.  I'll just have to keep the faith  and realize that I am not in control of everything in the universe.  It's less exhausting that way.

View during concert.  LOL!

    

Obsession is not a Scent

     It’s our anniversary.  My husband introduced us a year ago today.   You were dark, sleek, and silent.  I didn’t know that feelings like this existed.  With you, I went from my life of   domesticity, to a place of fun and adventure.  I saw a world which was unknown to me just a few short months before. 

      It was freeing to have a conversation with a willing participant.  Even at a party where I knew no one, with you brushed up beside me, I was never alone.

     We were perfect.  Until I started worrying about being caught, this led to the fear of being without you.  From the still waking moments until my lids were heavy with sleep, I continued to obsess about our next moment together.  I became more of an introvert, you were always there for me, why talk to anyone else?  Errands could wait, dinner could be ordered in, the kids could fend for themselves,( but the homework could not be ignored).

     You never complained about me being too frail or too heavy.  Why did I have to choose between you and my family?  Life is so unfair.

     I told you things, and you kept them inside.  You reflected me, yet I never looked away.

     It became unhealthy when I could look no further than your delicate exterior. There could be an ocean with white powdery sand in front of me, and in your presence it all went unnoticed. 

     The question remains, do I come clean and tell my husband, or do I try to break free on my own.  I’m afraid I’m not strong enough.

     It was my six year old daughter that made me realize what I was doing was wrong, and as of today-it’s over.

    Yes, Candy Crush will be deleted from my phone, but what's a mother with an iPhone to do? 

    Me, myself, and i. 

     If I let go, (yes, I’ll consider going back to the no frills flip-phone) will I ever be free?

Just Hold It

   There are days that I give myself ample time to look like a responsible mom, self assured, and going about my day tending to the daily duties of my home happily.  And then there is today.
   As I walk the streets the gusty wind takes a random chunk from my hair, pulled back into a tight bun, and makes it dance, but today I am not in the mood for creative expression, so I fight it back down and straiten my librarian glasses.
   My pocketbook is overweight, I curse, having forgotten to leave the sports bottle of Poland Springs in the car.  So between the water, my wallet, and my sinus cold, I am carrying around ten extra pounds.  Today I am not like all the other uber-models running their missions in leather and stilettos.  I am the dumpy nerd in the ripped black coat with a pocket full of soggy Kleenex.
   As horrible as I look today, it's never  reason to be rude, so walking in and out of the grocer, the dry cleaners, and Duane Reade, I hold the door open to others. The reactions I get from strangers and some who are just strange is confusing.  Some people fight to hold the door open, while others just play the bull charging at the sight of red-the open door.  The bulls don't bother me, but as they run me down, I think, would it be so horrible to say "thank you?"
   Bulls seldom do, they also don't smile much.
   Whenever my dad held the door opened at a restaurant, the movies, or a party, it seemed as if a conga line had formed, separating him from mom. "It's okay to hold it open and be polite, but every time we go out, you turn into a doorman."  My mom would joke.  Dad just shrugged, that's what he knew from.  That's how he was brought up.
     It can't even be blamed on Smart Phones. For years before the social faux pas of  cellular there were the drivers that zoomed past you to be the first one to sit at the next red light, the people who were polite enough to use blinkers, and the ones obnoxious enough to steal the parking space you were patiently waiting for.
     I think the main problem is that everyone is focused on their personal 'bubble' life, sometimes I don't even realize that I'm being spoken to because the 'to do list' part of me is on auto-pilot.  Each of us is walking around with our own set of life errands bouncing off other bubbles and oblivious to the little dances and scoots we do along the way. 
     It is so easy for me to become distracted by the silly, futile, insignificant when looking at the bigger picture.  The time I am able to see it best, is when I stop to hold the door for someone else and catch myself.  So my advice to anyone who wants to be in the moment is to stop-and just hold it.