The Cake. And it was VERY good!
Wedding party…The Groom…Mr. W…Liz R…Mike (Scotty had to run to work, darn!)
After the deed was done. Liz R…Mr. W…B…Scotty Gorenstein.
I’m making that face because–look where his hand is!
Mr. Wow Marries
“Sadie, Sadie, married lady, see what’s on your hand. There’s nothing quite as touching as a simple wedding band/Oh, how that marriage license works, on chambermaids and hotel clerks/The honeymoon was such delight, that we got married that same night!”
What?—do I need to tell you those are lyrics from “Funny Girl”—the mighty amusing “Sadie” sequence, after Barbra marries Omar Sharif. (I don’t use the character names—please. It’s Barbra and Omar.)
Anyway, I, me, Mr. W. at age 61, am finally a Sadie!
Tomorrow I marry the boy I met when I was just a boy of 17. (We’ve been “together” since 1976, when I was a man of 24. Well, I was 24, anyway.)
Now, I think most of you know I’ve never been a sentimentalist or a romantic about marriage. My mantra has always been that since heterosexual Death Row prisoners can marry, gay folks should have the same rights as killers. Fair is fair.
But I never yearned for a wedding. After the first decade or so, I figured we were pretty much “married.” Later, when B. supported me unconditionally through my HIV diagnosis and a to-death’s-door-illness-and-recovery, there was no question. We were, as Shakespeare said of Kate and Petrucio, “madly mated.” However, the legalities never interested me. Or any kind of fuss. And we have cats. No adopting adorable abandoned Asian children for us. So, I was content.
B. however—as you know—is much smarter. He has saved his pennies, invested well. I have not. We both have wills (mine is hilariously threadbare) and I figured that was that. Neither of us has any immediate still-living family. Two weeks ago he said to me, “I want you to read something and consider it carefully.” He didn’t add, “There are pictures of Marilyn Monroe, Liz Taylor and naked guys, too.” Just “consider carefully.” Yes, like I always have!
It was a letter from his lawyer, detailing his finances and suggesting various ways I would be best protected in case he goes first. (I’m hoping the house explodes and we go together!) The lawyer’s conclusion? Marriage would be best. One of the other considerations was moving to Florida! Not until I change my name to Yetta.
“So?” said B, after I finished reading.
“Darling” I said, “This is so sudden!” We laughed. And then he declared, “Well, I suppose I should do this properly,” and he got down on one knee.
Okay, okay. Even for a non-romantic like me, I was kinda overwhelmed.
We went for the license in Hoboken, and that was a bit of an ordeal. My wonderful friend Scotty was our witness. Though we’d filled out the forms already, the guy at the office was, well—officious! (Even though he wore an earring.) He asked all the questions over again and we had to answer them all verbally.
It was fine until the question concerning my name. I’d asked B. if I should bring my birth certificate and he said no. One of his few errors. I had to field a barrage of questions about my last name…my mother’s maiden name…why there was no father’s name on my birth certificate (I volunteered this after a bit of parry and thrust) and what did it all mean? Well, it meant my mother had entered into a basically arranged marriage, so as not to bear a child as a single woman and so that I would have a surname. But it still was blank on my birth certificate where it said “Father’s Name.” (Oddly, my mother did list my real father’s real profession—bartender. Well, I got his drinking Irish genes, the bastard.)
I became flustered and embarrassed and finally exclaimed, “My God, do I have to defend my mother’s reputation even now?!” There was a woman behind the desk and she got it and whispered to the officious officer. The license was approved. We all had to give our ages. My friend Scotty, there with us, did not—though he had to give a lot of other info. When we left the Place of Licenses, he said: “Good thing he didn’t ask my age, or you’d have to be looking for a new witness.” Even though it would be easy enough to cut him in half and count the rings, I allow him his mystery.
Now, don’t get excited. There will be no veils or rice or partying. We have three witnesses. The aforementioned Scotty. My wonderful friend Mike. And my BFF, Liz R. (Not to be confused with any other Liz.) She is giving us a little wedding luncheon. At least I hope it’s little!
The Great Event happens 10:A.M. at the HobokenCity Hall. No vows. That I know of! I mean, if there were vows I guess I’d vow to be more sensitive, try cooking again (I gave up after twenty years), and drink less. B. would probably vow to pretend to believe my vows.
There will no wedding bands. I don’t like to wear jewelry on my hands or wrists. However, I did mention if he found something around nine carats, emerald-cut, I could wear it as a pendant. Barring that—a mink. (Apologies for all PETA people out there.) Oh, and I will forever refer to him as my “boyfriend.” Not doing the “husband” thing. It just creeps me out.
It is difficult for me to accept this. To accept love. I can barely accept “like.” I said to B—“I can’t believe anybody who really knows me could love me, no less marry me!” But he has. And nobody knows me better.
We have had hard times. He has certainly not been perfect. I felt on at least two occasions that leaving was the only way to go. But I didn’t. How do you leave someone who is, well—you? That’s how close I feel. When I finally fell in love with B. (after years of casual—on my part—encounters) I thought, “FUCK! I don’t want to feel this and he can’t possibly—I am a loser and a slut and everything bad.”
Also he was entangled with others at the time and being something of a shit to everybody, but he swore he loved me. (He was kind of a loser and slut himself at that point, but I always see the worst in myself.)
I gave in. I moved from city to city with him and we struggled in so many ways. But…he was my B. It seemed, for all the sturm und drang, that I could not see myself without him. Even when I thought I wanted to, I couldn’t.
Honestly, to this day, don’t know what he saw in me, or why he stuck it out. I was cute, but not extraordinary. I had nothing but myself to bring to the table. It wasn’t a lot. And in all the years since, I don’t feel I’ve ever filled that table properly.
“But….she recovered” as Judy Garland memorably uttered in the “Born in a Trunk” sequence from “A Star is Born.” And I guess, for all my self-misgivings, I’ve recovered.
Enough to say “I will” anyway.
All my love to all of you, from both of us.
Mrs.B
Oh, yeah—the August 5th thing. Totally unplanned. When B told me I shrieked, “Marilyn’s death day!” (She died the night of the 4th, but the world didn’t know till the 5th.)
“Uh, is that a good thing?—death and all.”
“Of course it’s good. Marilyn’s death was the beginning of her acceptance. Clifford Odets said, right after she died that she would be ‘fresher, greener, in death, than she was in life.’ So we will be fresher and greener. It’s just the beginning!
“Okay. But we don’t have to die, right? We’re just getting married.”
B. is so literal.
Healthy Again!
Watching, Reading, Worrying and…Cats. Mr. Wow Returns. (Don’t get excited—this is all silly stuff!)
Okay, I’ll give you the complain-y part of this first. Winter and spring were crap. I had another bout with “a touch of pneumonia” as I did last year. I just could not shake the coughing, sniffling and lethargy.
But…I recovered. Now it’s July and while I have not quite re-gained my old get up and go—which to be honest, was never a ruling passion anyway—I’m livelier. Not quite as corpse-like. Even during the lowest I kept reading in my compulsive way, watching TV in my manly channel-surfing way, and tortured myself with cable news and the precipitous fall of Barack Obama. I was never an Obama man to begin with. I preferred Hillary. (Then, anyway.) But what the hell, it was thrilling to see the first man of color as president.
He’s had a hard time, but he hasn’t helped himself much, either. I bang my head on the wall to see him now, almost giddy with the possibility of being sued by John Boehner, with little sense of the importance of optics, and disaster looming for Democrats in the mid-terms—which will inevitably lead to a Republican president in 2016. I wonder if he has been driven slightly mad by the intransigence of his foes. I predict he will be both the most embittered and happiest of ex-presidents, once he free of that terrible job.
I don’t see him becoming a statesman like Clinton or Jimmy Carter. He will be silent. But it won’t be the relieved silence of George W. Bush, who was also very happy to leave Washington. Obama will be a sad, mad man for a long time. But he’ll look twenty years younger twenty minutes after he is no longer Commander in Chief.
Hillary? I’ve never thought she’d run again for president. Or that she should. The iffy sales of her book, her clumsy answers and statements while on her book tour, and what has to be her own sense of people’s exhaustion with her and with Democrats at the moment, can’t be encouraging.
Not that Republicans are riding high, but people want change, starting at the top. That she continues to play this game, stringing her supporters along, is unconscionable. There are NO viable Democratic candidates. It should have been her job, once she left her office as Secretary to State to find and build and encourage the aspirations and lift the recognition value of a few worthy Democrats. It’s almost too late, now. Joe Biden? A joke.
Professional Victim Monica Lewinsky—Please go away. If it was so humiliating for you, stop talking about it. (This is revenge or a Republican is paying Lewinsky to vomit out all the crap we already know. Hillary wasn’t your nemesis, honey. Remember Linda Tripp?)
I fear the virulence of the extreme right wing. I fear a theocracy, which is certainly what many religious extremists hope for under a Republican president, reigning for eight years. I worry about my Social Security. I intend to take an early “retirement” (although in terms of a salary, I was “retired” about two years ago.) Applying for SS at 62 won’t amount to much, but it’ll be something. Who knows what’ll happen by the time I’m 65 or 66?
I can’t imagine rebuilding a career at this point. Writers don’t make much money. I’m an old-timey writer/columnist without a strong name of my own, never had a byline. The business has altered so drastically I hardly recognize it. If I can screw up my courage I’d like to ask my boss—yes, still in the office every day—to use her name, to continue the brand. My name wouldn’t need to appear. I’ve never looked for that kind of recognition. I think the brand could continue and it’s the only way I feel I might be suitably motivated to carry on. I enjoy certain aspects of what I do, still. But…I doubt my boss would be sanguine about such a suggestion. The last time I broached something similar, way back in the day—just my name on the bottom of the column everyday—it was like she discovered hemlock in her tomato soup. But that was the peak of our popularity. Times have changed. Who knows?
B. has been stalwart and supportive beyond anything I expected. I underestimated him. But then, I never believed he could truly love me. I never believed anybody could. Who could love me?
Have you all fallen into a coma yet?
Sorry this isn’t more fun.
I finally read Henry James’ “Portrait of a Lady.” This is a book I have had resting near me for years. It was part of a goodie bag, when the Nicole Kidman version of the book came out. Yeah—that long ago. But, while I was mulling my demise during the worst of the winter doldrums and a hacking cough, I finally settled in to read it. It’s literature and not of this era, and I’d forgotten a bit how difficult the language and phrases of that time can be. But pretty soon I was swept up and found “Portrait” to be astonishingly modern and full of remarkable perception about human nature. I marked up my copy with a pen.
I also read Donna Tartt’s “The Goldfinch.” My best friend gave me her copy and said, “I think you will love this.” I wasn’t so sure. Not big on modern fiction unless it’s a thriller. And I was irritated at the first 30 pages—so much writing. But as with “Portrait of a Lady” I was soon carried away, not the least because I identified strongly with the fucked-up protagonist, his disordered childhood, and the mistakes that came back to haunt him. Actions have consequences. And sometimes one feels incredibly trapped by what one has set in motion. I loved it. I cried. My actions have had consequences.
I have become re-acquainted with Oscar Wilde.
B. bought me The Complete Works, which I once had, but in our various moves was lost. I’d forgotten the power of his fairytales–so perfect for melancholic children and depressed adults. And it brought back something wonderful. One night when I was about 12, my cousin Stephen and I read aloud “The Importance of Being Ernest”. We screamed with helpless laughter throughout. It is almost surreal in its humor. Reading it alone, I wanted very much to find someone with whom to share it–and laugh like a child again. That night with Stephen is one of the great memories of my life. All about discovery and humor and being far wiser than the adults who pestered us and looked askance at such unseemly hilarity. I miss my cousin so much.
Oh, cats. For about a month and a half, B. and I have been passing by the local Hoboken vet, mooning over two beautiful, small cats. Sisters. A little over a year old. Nobody was adopting them! There was even talk they’d be set “free” if they went un-adopted for much longer. The two of us had “joke-y” conversations about taking the cats in, but with three already…I mean, come on. (There was a point in years past when we had five cats but even then we thought we were nuts.) However, after B. came back from the vet one more time, we had a more serious chat. Yes or no? I was concerned about the reactions of our other felines and the cost—litter, food. I’m not providing much $ these days. To make such a decision seemed reckless and selfish on my part. B. assured me the cost would not be so great.
And now we have five. The new girls are Sunny and Maude and they are very slowlyadjusting to life outside a small cage and amongst humans. (They were brought to the vet as feral cats.) They get on well with Doll and Dude and Tiger, and gradually seem to be trusting us. They eat and use the litter properly. But we don’t see them much. I said to B—“Well, I was worried about having five, but it’s still like we just have three. Maude and Sunny are phantom cats!”
So, I am officially an old cat lady. I suppose that means I have to be extra grumpy when I answer the door. Or extra friendly. (Hello there, hot Fed Ex boy.)
My skin has cleared up nicely recently (lemon juice!) and I have been trimming my own hair. Doing a pretty good job, except for the back. It’s kind of mullet-like now. I need to have it shaped. Or, I could simply embrace the mullet. Why not? I have five cats. I should be wearing a shawl and orthopedic shoes.
Watched Elizabeth and Richard in “The VIPs.” Fun movie, especially Orson Welles, Maggie Smith and Margaret Rutherford. Taylor wears clothes by Givenchy. Mistake! (Audrey Hepburn looked good in a beige knit dress. Miss Taylor resembled an opulent sofa.)
And, right off filming “Cleopatra” La Liz had adopted the paint of the Egyptian queen. The eyeliner extensions were slightly less extended, but she still tended to look liked a glamorous raccoon. Having seen ET in person for the first time when she was age 41, and much less made-up, I can assure you, she didn’t need the camouflage. But again—the movie is fun to watch, and Taylor has one gorgeous outfit, an overcoat with a fur hood, framing her face perfectly.
Well, friends, I’m afraid that’s it for now. I apologize for my long silence and the rambling nature of this post. It has no point. But, do we need a point? I myself have been a pretty pointless person, soooooo…..
I won’t be away again for long and when I return maybe I’ll have something more substantial to convey.
Or not.
Love,
Mr. W.
So here we are again. I can’t say I’m much excited except perhaps for the possibility of Kim Novak appearing! I don’t know if I’ll look at the screen when Liza Minnelli, Lorna and Joe Luft are supposed to sing some sort of tribute to “The Wizard of Oz.” It’s always nice to see Bette Midler, if she can stay on key. Rooting for Cate Blanchett but for the wrong reason. I suppose Leo does deserve an Oscar at this point, though I found his “Wolf of Wall Street” perf pretty much what he’s done since he lost his short-lived looks. The movie itself was a trial. But then, so was “12 Years a Slave.” Prefer Bradley Cooper or Michael Fassbender to Jared Leto in Best Supporting Actor. And June Squibb for “Nebraska” in Best Supporting actress.
No politics, please, but somebody with an amusing buzz on, could be welcome. Ellen will be sweet. That’s fine.
Braced for tomorrow’s snow. I will NEVER get rid of this cold.
Let’s try to have fun and not be too bitchy. Kidding!!
Madonna accepts her Grammy, in geisha drag, 1999. Hard to believe that I think of that moment as “the good old days!”
Rock Clutches Liz as Liz Clutches Her GG, 1985
Rock Clutches MM as MM Clutches Her GG
Hmmmmm….doctors orders say there’s only one cure for me. Surgery!
The Christmas Photos Are In!
Mr. Wow Quacks!
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again—I ferociously do NOT agree with the wonderful new political correctness that suspends and fires people from their jobs; people who express themselves publicly. Often in a foolish or profane manner, but that’s not the point.
If the guy on “Duck Dynasty” wants to say he thinks homosexuality is a sin and that black people were “happy” under Jim Crow (it is this latter comment that I found truly offensive!), it’s his right. He shouldn’t be punished for speaking his mind. Or what passes for his mind. Have we all become such babies? Are we—if we are offended—unable to speak up? There are a multitude of news outlets to express dismay and disgust. We’ve come a long way from the old “Letters to the Editor” days. Everybody blogs, everybody tweets, everybody speaks, everybody vents and purges.
Commentary today is—if you want to get Biblical about it—like a plague of locusts. Nobody needs to be fired for stupidity or prejudice or a sincere expression of religious dogma. Disagree with these opinions? Cool, go out and shame the perpetrator. CNN…MSNBC…Gawker…TMZ…Salon.com–they are all waiting to fill their yawning hours with nasty back and forth. (Fox News fills their yawning hours with Sarah “He’s palin’ around with terrorists” Palin. As if that wasn’t ghastly, irresponsible, potentially deadly rhetoric.)
And stop demanding apologies!! They are always patently insincere and crafted by lawyers, press reps or the CEOs of whatever corporation feels threatened by righteous indignation. (Or, usually, leftist indignation.) Accept the facts of life—not everybody loves what you do in bed, what color you are, your spiritual beliefs (or lack thereof) Work to change laws, strive to educate the young. How much more effective if the useless tools at GLAAD had stated: “We are disappointed with the remarks of Mr. Duck. We hope he will someday truly come to Christ and understand how harmful his views are. In the meantime, we pray for him.”
Do not put people out of work.
I am gay. I am liberal. I still believe Obama is a good man, if a shitty president. I also believe the Left shoots itself in the balls every time they get on their high holy horse and demand the heads of those who are not as enlightened as they so strenuously think they are.
Stop it! I feel like I am talking to spoiled, unruly children.
Let the ducks and the savages have their say. Be smart enough to come back with something more potent, creative and useful than “You’re fired.”
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good quack.
Love,
Mr. W.
View as we walk in the door.
Mr. W’s inner sanctum
slightly blurry view from kitchen
The far end of the bedroom suite…we have more cushions now
Another view of the Mr. W Room of Madness.
Comfy couch…I need to dust that window!
Part of the kitchen…(you don’t want to see EVERYTHING.)
Friends of B. and Me, hanging out in my room.
B.s desk area.
Mr. W. reads a lot…
Our youngest cat, Tiger, who is fascinated by street-life.
Mr. Wow and B—Love It Or List In Hoboken? (A History of Our Homes—and Quite a Bit More!)
Longtime readers of Mr. Wow might recall that from time to time he has complained about the condition of his home. (Yes, I know—what hasn’t he complained about?)
Recently there have been some changes on the home front that have given me hope. I’m not tossing my hat in the air—although why such an action is considered a sign of happiness I’ll never know—but I feel…better. And that’s as much as I can ask for or expect at this point.
Some background is needed. My mother was something of a neatfreak, and so was my “older friend” of many years, Jack. So, I was pretty neat myself. I didn’t leave clothes on the floor or the bed, I scrubbed out the bathroom, and kept a fairly organized environment. And then I spent my first night with B. (This was years before we were “official”—I was still living with Jack.) I was horrified. I mean, eventually I was horrified. After the sex. I had never seen such clutter. It was beyond clutter. The kitchen was scary.
I washed dishes and tried to straighten up. I admonished him for living in such chaos. (Of course, this was back before I drank, and I also shook my finger at him like Carrie Nation over his beers. It would be funny if I hadn’t eventually developed a drinking problem myself.) Maybe that was why I was always trying to lure him into hallways and alleys. I didn’t want to see his place again. (Or I was just a danger-seeking slut. You decide.)
We’ll fast-fast forward the intervening years, which for anybody new to this site can be found archived. So, let’s pick up in 1977. B and Me (I like that better than the grammatically correct B. and I.) were in Chicago. He was there working, I was there because I loved him and wanted to change my life. I was jobless. And since I was, it was my responsibility to keep the apartment neat. It was an uphill battle. But we didn’t have much, so things never got out of hand. Detroit was our next stop. (“Are you kidding me?” I said when I got off the bus from Chicago to Detroit—B. had flown ahead. “This looks like Berlin after the war!”) It was actually a nice place, if only it hadn’t been in Detroit. I was still jobless, and unlike our year in Chicago I was unable to get welfare. It wasn’t a pretty period. The majority of the apartment was fairly neat. Once again, that was my “job.” But there was one room B. used as an “office.” After a few months it looked scarily like his old place in the Village, where we first connected. I didn’t even attempt cleaning that. Also, I was coming to learn that B. didn’t want his clutter un-cluttered. He didn’t want it touched. No neat stacks, please. (And he didn’t say “please.”)
After a mostly miserable year, I decided that love was not enough—not if you live in Detroit without a job. I wrote to my mother and asked her to send me some money—enough for a bus ticket. I planning to leave. Not just B. and Detroit, but I was willing to leave books and scrapbooks and photos—my own few possessions–to get away. Luckily, this wasn’t necessary.
One afternoon in downtown Detroit, near the ironically named Renaissance Center, we were almost mugged. B. declared suddenly, “We’re leaving Detroit!” And within two days, he had secured us yet another destination—Hoboken. (“Hoboken?! Now you’re taking me to Hoboken?!”) Our first apartment was a small ground floor spot. Nice. Huge kitchen. Again, I was supposed do the cleaning. However, I wasn’t so sanguine anymore. For one thing, I was eligible for welfare, so I took it. But I also took it upon myself to wander into a little thrift shop down the block. The people who owned it were nice (crazy, but nice.) I offered my services to help them out and before you knew it I was opening and closing the store and going out to flea markets! (These were some of my best experiences. I was/am good with people, it was fun.) So, I had some money. A fortune, as far as I was concerned, and I contributed what I could (very little, but I did my best.)
And while B. appreciated my efforts, he didn’t appreciate them enough to help out cleaning-wise. Once, I attempted to make a point about how unnecessarily sloppy he was. I did not, when I dealt with the bedroom, clean his side of the bed, which quickly became a mess of a mass of beer cans and overflowing ashtrays (he smoked then.) I thought I was being very clever. Not. B. flew into a rage. We rarely argued, not because I was so placid, but I felt I never had enough authority in the relationship to argue. And he would not accept that kind of aggression from me—or anyone, for that matter. (He has his own issues from an unhappy childhood.) In the end, I lost my little battle, and cleaned up his side.
But as our year in this space drew to a close, I had developed a passion, an obsession, with the house in which my thrift shop employers lived. The top two floors on an old-fashioned brownstone. Massively high ceilings on the first floor, a marble fireplace, a great staircase. It was on the same block—so convenient for moving! This couple kept saying they were going to move, and I knew the rent was miniscule, even for that era. I made it clear that I wanted, almost expected them to recommend us to the people who owned the entire house (they occupied the first two floors.) I tormented B. I was convinced this was our “dream house.” (Oh, and the bathroom had a huge club-foot bathtub and a skylight.)
My campaign was relentless. At one point, they said they were moving, we packed and then at the last minute they changed their mind. When they changed back, several weeks later, I was so possessed—and fearful of their flaky nature– I went over to their place (my place, as far as I was concerned) and packed “for them.” This rightfully outraged them and almost queered the deal. Eventually, however, they were gone. (No, I didn’t kill them. But I won’t say it hadn’t crossed my mind.)
So, despite the drama, we were in. I remember our first night there, sitting in the almost empty living room, with those high ceilings. I thought, “Wow, maybe it is too big for us?” Of course it wasn’t. And in many ways it did become our dream house. B. was sufficiently motivated to build some nifty shelves (there’s really nothing he can’t do!) We entertained. We decorated the place lavishly for Christmas—those ceiling were perfect for stringing glittery garlands loaded with ornaments. And my own life was changing. By then I had met my boss and had began working, outside the bosses office (I would come in two years later) Checks were sent when my work was acceptable. I was still selling knick-nacks in thrift shops, so there was more cash. But by the time I was putting in a nine to five job, I was less willing than ever to be the only person who cleaned. B.’s desk area was a disaster, and it was right next to the door, the first thing to hit my eyeline when I got home. What had been his darkroom initially, upstairs–we were young and pretty and took lots of pix of each other—turned into a storage space, almost impossible to move around it—a lost room.
I developed a “career”—I traveled, I went out, my life got bigger. Also I was increasingly able to contribute and even go to the theater (we saw a lot for quite a few years.) I became less pliable, more argumentative, more willful. Some of this was a positive assertion of my own place in the relationship. Other aspects of the “new me” were childish and self-destructive.
I put myself into terrible credit card debt, despite B.’s advice that I pay each bill in full. He took it upon himself to write out my first credit card bill in total—I had no checking account, I just gave him the money. I was outraged. This was MY money, and MY life and I’d pay MY bills as I wanted—who was he to control me? He said, “fine, go ahead.” (As ever, you were an asshole, Mr. Wow.)
Still, B. was as averse as ever to a simple argument and resolution, which led me to having to use humorous repetition of a complaint as my way of getting through. This was exhausting. But it did work.
My drinking was slowly increasing. B. was loathe to admit I had a problem—“it’s your work…it’s your friends!” he’d insist. He had his own issues in that area, which could be frightening. (I myself was sloppy and dangerously casual about flirting in situations I might not be able to control after a few more drinks. In the age of AIDS I was risking both our lives.)
As a result, the house began to suffer. I would clean but with a savage resentment. And then I wouldn’t. And then would—half ass.
There were also problems with the house itself. Massive water and leakage problems. Year after year. Our bedroom ceiling literally sagged. The living room leaked disastrously—once on the TV and all our electronic equipment. (We came home from the theater one rainy night and were rightfully shocked.)
The owners of the house—a mad old pair—were always saying they wanted to move and sell the place—to us! At first this seemed unrealistic. But in time, B. had wisely saved and invested. It could have happened. We both still loved the house. And how great if we had the entire thing. I could put B. on the ground floor with all his shit. But it seemed eventually they were not serious.
The house grew ever more tatty, especially with the cats (remember, we always had cats) ripping at the carpets and such. I had a bi-yearly monologue with B. about keeping the place neat, and he would listen dutifully and…nothing.
Finally, after one especially destructive bout of water damage, B. announced suddenly—as was his eternal wont—“we have to move!”
I was still devoted to the place but agreed we’d never own it and maybe, yes. We went house-hunting and found quickly our current digs. It is on a series of blocks that are very old. The houses appear tiny, like doll houses. But inside, though narrow, they have a good amount of space. And B. made sure we got the house with the most extra space—it had been built out. It was charming. We both loved it. Moving was pretty much a breeze. Three blocks away. I carried a lot over, night after night. Construction was needed. Walls were knocked down, staircases moved and re-built. At one point we had a supremely cute guy, Dave, doing some work for us. Adorably personable. He and B. got along well. They chatted a lot. B. was never very social (all our past “entertainments” were my friends.) I was jealous. (Why wasn’t Dave chatting with me?”) I was so jealous I actually pulled a tantrum in front of the two of them. B. had to say “behave yourself!” That made me laugh. It reminded me of the big scene in “The Way We Were” with Barbra and Robert Redford. (“I won’t behave myself. I wanna get out of here!”)
And so our new life in our new house began. It seemed big enough. On the second floor I had my room. He had his room. The third floor was a large open bedroom suite. And the living room and kitchen on the first. But I soon saw signs of the old problems—I had insisted I would NOT move from the other place unless B. promised to clean up his act. He promised. But old habits were hard to die.
His room became cluttered. The couch in the living room became cluttered. The floor in front of the couch became cluttered. One weekend he went off to see his parents. I took it upon myself to straighten up the mess around the couch. I didn’t remove one thing. I just stacked. Mistake! He came back late. And had obviously been drinking. (Not that I blamed him. He’d been with his parents. ) I was upstairs, but I heard a terrible racket as he tossed around some of things (CDs) I had down there, yelling, how dare I move his stuff?! I slept in my room that night. We had no conversation the next morning as I picked up my CDs and took them to my room. He did not apologize. But—he never drank again. (And although I’d backed off the brutally excessive imbibing of years before, I was still a binge drinker. This was—and remains—an issue.)
But he did continue to clutter. The house then became a scene of much unhappiness. The death of our most beloved cat Nigel, at age 23…my diagnoses with AIDS…quitting my job a few years later…going back (at a much reduced salary)…suffering an extreme depression I can’t say I have ever escaped…B.’s early retirement. With his retirement came a massive influx of books, clothes, gadgets. Amazon was his favorite word. Every night–after a day in the chaos of my boss’s office–I came home to a grisly mess. More cats died. Some he spent thousands on trying to save, even when the vets said let it go. We had more water damage! (Neither of us are Pisces or Scorpio or Cancer–what was with the water following us everywhere!?)
I gave up cooking. Twenty years was enough. B. Stepped in and of course he is a fabulous cook. (There is really nothing he can’t do.) But the condition of the house and my general depression was overwhelming. Even with somebody coming in every two weeks to clean, the mess was overwhelming. And I didn’t think we needed somebody to come in. Certainly two men could take care of this small house without much trouble. But when I tried to prove that, by cleaning up day after day, after the cleaning woman had done her job, it was the same old story. He didn’t really care to mop and sweep and dust. But if I wanted to—cool.
Finally, I had one of my annual monologues—I hate the house. I hate Hoboken now. I hate my life. I am so unhappy. WE are so unhappy.” B.—“I’m not unhappy. This is your problem.”
Me: “Well, but…surely you don’t expect us to die here?”
B: “Yes, I do.” (At this point, I’d been so unhappy, depressed, complaining and a pain in the ass for so long, I don’t think B. appreciated the impact this had on me.)
His response sent me spinning to the point I was again planning to leave him. Again, with few assets. (I’d drained my paltry bank account paying off credit card bills and keeping up while I was unemployed.) “He wants to die there!” I cried to as many people as I could.
Later, I found out B. himself was depressed about the house, and its continual structural flaws. He felt pretty defeated. It wasn’t that he was content and being cruel. He actually tended to be far more affected by house issues than I was. My take was “We have a house, these things happen.” In most ways he is much more sensitive than I am.
In the midst of this, I began watching a lot of cooking shows. Though I didn’t cook anymore, they were oddly calming. And then I started on HGTV—
”House Hunters”…”Love it Or List It” and the rest. I also watched “Hoarders.” Sometimes B. would come into my room and ask what was I watching? “Hoarders” I’d say with as much tragic emphasis as I could muster. Well, B. never watched “ Hoarders” but he did begin to get into HGTV. A lot.
About two months ago, B. never one to change the tactics of surprise, announced, “I think we should have somebody in to clean the place out and re-decorate!” I was stunned and unbelieving. But as good as his word, a little team arrived and B. was on board with clearing out his mess. He exhibited almost no resistance to a lot of his stuff going out the door. He had made up his mind and that was that. (Which is what he told me years ago about me—he loved me from the start, he said, and decided we’d be together in time. No matter what. Determination is not to be despised! )
I was so impressed and excited that I cleaned out some of my own excess. And I immediately reversed my habits, inherited from B.—no clothes thrown about, etc. Then we confabbed on new couches and chairs and a fresh paint job and putting up photos and artwork we either had taken down during a flood or never bothered to put up at all. I was unable to contribute one cent to this, still “working” as I am without a salary. B. didn’t turn a thick hair. (His mane remains impressive, if a bit grayer than when we first met.) He has been the proverbial doll.
Today I walk into an entirely different environment. B. will never be a neatfreak but he controls his tendency to clutter. His own office is wonderfully clean and approachable. We have beautiful new furniture. I have a marvelous new couch in my inner sanctum of DVDs and videos and memorabilia. The massive third floor has been improved with cushions and pillows and paint and—we even make the bed now!
I don’t hate the house anymore. Hoboken? If I won the Lottery, we’d move. But I think I’d keep this house. It’s seen a lot. Maybe its history hasn’t been the happiest. But maybe we learn from living with, and transforming, discontent.
I am not content, yet. I have work to do on myself that only I can do. But, I can do it now in a home I love coming home to. And to a man whom I will always love and who knows me better than anybody ever will. So, I guess—who needs the Lottery?
Mr. WOW
PS—After this I have SO much shit to say about Alec Baldwin, Anderson Cooper and Our President!