My Fuckface at 70 years.

Wednesday, November 10th, is my husband's 70th birthday.  We're having four very good friends over for dinner.  I asked them to write something about Barry.  "Talk about why you love Barry" I said.

Sounds like an easy question to answer, doesn't it?  But stop and think about it.  Seriously.  Why do you love your spouse?  It has been a long time since I really thought about this.  I'm at an age now in which friends talk freely about KY Jelly, as if it were WD40, but we don't talk about why we love our husbands.  Besides, a lot of my friends don't have them, or don't love them, so it would be a difficult conversation.

Thirty two years ago, on Barry's 38th birthday, I moved to New York City to be with him.  I could have answered so easily then why I love him.  It would have come burbling out of me.  I probably couldn't have stopped it.  I was besotted with him.  I loved every single thing about him.  Or thought I did.  There's a picture of the two of us.  You can tell how we feel.

But today it's different.  I love him as much.  Maybe more.  But it isn't always burbling up like it was then.  Though I dare you to criticize him.  Then something would burble up all right.  But that's a different thing.

Just a side thought.  I recently sent a friend, Bert, a letter about what a good guy he is.  I'd written it a couple months before for his birthday.  It was hard to write.  But it was so much harder to send.  I think I'm not used to saying such nice things to people. I say it about them, but not to them.  It felt gushy and over the top.  I finally sent it.  And I'm glad I did because he said it made him feel good.  Anyway, off the topic, but I'm having as much trouble writing this as I did that.

Okay, I love his humor.  Barry has always made me laugh.  He has a very good, dry sense of humor.  He's quiet funny.  Really quick.  He says he's funnier than I am.  I'm more obvious: he's subtle.  And he likes subtle.

He can be funny in a less subtle way-- in a physical comedy kind of way too.  He does a great raised eyebrow and some decent funny faces.  And he's a very apt mimic.  I'm always jealous of that ability.

He's very smart, which is almost as important as his humor.

And I love his hands.  I have always loved his hands.  They're sensitive and beautiful, without being effeminate.  Not the long fingers of a piano player.  Just right.

I love how kind he is to most people.  And to animals.  And I love his strong sense of right and wrong, even if I sometimes don't agree with the specifics. Actually I usually disagree, but that's a topic for another day.

I love it that Barry thinks about me.  He goes to the market, and even though I didn't ask for it, he buys something he thinks I'd like.  Or he notices that I have no keyboard batteries left so he orders them.  He puts the little stickers on my car that the DMV sends yearly to show that your car is registered.  (He still shudders from the story of me trying to sell the little Opal GT I owned in San Diego and LA.  The buyer asked if I had an up-to-date registration sticker because the one on it was 6-7 years old.  I didn't know what he was talking about.  That's because I opened the DMV envelopes enough to see that my payment had been received, my registration updated.  Then I threw the envelope away and the sticker with it.  Didn't even realize there were stickers.)

So if Barry dies before me, in addition to hiring the recycling boy, I'm going to have to hire a sticker boy.  I don't think I could replace the one who thinks about me though. And the funny one.  He'd be hard to replace too.  Let alone the one who holds me in the night.

On Barry's 38th birthday I had a birthday cake wishing a happy birthday to fuckface, which is what I called him then.  Still my fuckface at 70.  Yikes!

The View from Gull Cottage

I walked into the house and heard my husband’s raised voice saying, “It’s all your fault”, which is how I knew he had been a good boy and called his mother.

This picture is not as good as the recent photo of my mother-in-law (m-i-l), Jewel, in her hometown paper.   Apparently it is newsworthy that at age 92 she had just gone to a fast food restaurant for the first time in her life.  Never having a quarter-pounder until age 92?  What would life have been like?

The picture below says something about what life was like.  For some reason I'm fascinated by this picture.  First, I just like it: it makes me smile.  And second, it's so unlike the m-i-l I know.  She's the one on the left with the plaster-of-Paris or knee sock on her left leg.  Turns out she was pregnant with my husband (can you can imagine what an old fart he is?!) and that legging is for varicose veins.

  

Her Aunt Belle is kneeling next to her.  Belle looks fun, she has on killer shoes, a great smile, and she looks so stylish, Jewel so un-stylish.  I've never in over 30 years seen her in what I would call a "house dress."  And that's what she has on.  Her mother is standing and looks just like Jewel.  Or visa versa.  And she doesn't look too stylish either.

On the other hand, there's something very sweet about this photo.  Jewel is un-posed and looks very happy.  She looks young and innocent and sweet.  And today she is none of those things.

My husband just walked in and asked if I'm doing this to embarrass him.  No, not at all. Wait till I start discussing the two of us.  He'll be wishing for more on his mother.  I guess it's kind of odd to start this blog with my mother-in-law.  However, aren't mother-in-laws at the bottom of everything?  Along with mothers.