(Fill In the Blank) Complete Me

My post about Whoopi Goldberg’s reaction to the line “You had me at ‘hello’” from the film Jerry Maguire needs a correction. As I was tidying my work area, I came across a note that made me realize I misquoted Whoopi. The equally-iconic phrase from that movie that drives her nuts is “You complete me.” Her point was that she doesn’t feel she needs someone else to complete her.

I’m happy to have uncovered my note for two reasons. One is that this explains my not being able to remember exactly why the Whoopster didn’t like “You had me at ‘hello.’” My memory may not be that bad after all. Another reason I’m glad is that it gives me a topic for another post. What would complete me?

I love my husband and we have a great marriage but I don’t feel I need him to complete me. This is a good thing, since lately he’s been wandering off to India for weeks at a time. My cats went a long way toward completing me, which may be why it’s lonely around here now that the last one has gone to the Rainbow Bridge. They added a wonderful dimension to my life, and they filled it in many ways, but I never felt they completed me.

After ruminating on this for a few days, I concluded that much like “You had me at,” what would complete me changes in different situations. For example, now that I’m once again watching how much I eat and keeping a food journal, what would complete me right this minute is a bowl of coconut almond ice cream.

My first car, a 1967 Volkswagon Beetle, probably completed me. Sigh. I had it for 18 years and 100,000 miles and we went on some great trips together. I’ve had three Honda Accords since then. They get me from point A to point B and back. That’s about it, although I do like the heated seats that came with my current Accord (bought used; I didn’t go looking for that feature). These days I’d be inconvenienced without my car, but it doesn’t complete me.

Female condo owners who are enamored with their master bathroom suites might entertain the notion that their Jacuzzi tubs complete them. I haven’t used ours yet and we’ve been here almost six months. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I just haven’t used it as a Jacuzzi. I set up a collapsible clothes drying rack in the middle of it. That’s where I drape laundry that I don’t want to put in the dryer. It’s perfect for that: out of the way and I don’t have to worry about water dripping on the floor.

Male readers might have similar feelings about their Weber grills. We have one on our deck; it came with the condo. As with the Jacuzzi, we haven’t used it yet. All I can say about it thus far is that it complicated clearing the snow off the deck this winter. It will have to go a long way this summer to redeem itself, much less to complete me.

My writing fulfills something within me—to a point. But complete me? Maybe if I had a higher profile or more recognition. I doubt that would change things, since I write for my own enjoyment and not for critical acclaim. I sometimes go for days without writing anything. When it comes to completing me, you’d be smarter to put your money on the Jacuzzi.

I spend a lot of time on my computers in retirement. My desktop Mac is my preferred computer, but my older Mac is also indispensable. That’s the one with the tower on the floor and the ancient Sony monitor that Lily used to curl up on. It has Photoshop and QuarkXPress (desktop publishing) software on it, but it’s no longer hooked up to the Internet. My MacBook Air is highly portable, and I use it a lot for drafting my essays, but it gives me kinks in my neck. So none of these toys can claim to complete me.

Perhaps that’s a good thing. When we reach a point where we feel complete, doesn’t that mean we’re finished? Nothing left to do or pursue? No more dreams to chase after?

When I think about how much I use all my computers, I feel like I’ve come full circle. My first job out of college was programming mainframes in basic assembler language. I’ve made many stops from there to here, each one contributing a piece to the person I am today. This makes me realize that I know how to fill in that blank after all.

The journey completes me.

You Had Me At (Fill In the Blank)

Whoopi Goldberg talked about her reaction whenever she hears the phrase “You had me at ‘hello’.” For those living under a rock, she was referencing the classic Renée Zelwegger line to Tom Cruise in the film Jerry Maguire. I don’t remember exactly what Whoopi said, but I believe it had to do with her wanting to finish the line with something other than ‘hello.’ Or maybe she hated it altogether. In any case…

This got me thinking: What line that begins with “You had me at…” would grab my attention? Thus far, I haven’t come up with a universal word to fill in the blank, one that would stop me in my tracks no matter what the circumstances. I have, however, come up with several that would do it in specific situations.

Certainly in a retail environment “You had me at ‘free’” would do the trick. That doesn’t mean I’d take the free item, but I’d definitely give it a look-see before I went on my way. Many of the other had-me-ats that I came up with are short phrases. Among these are “senior discount,” “includes shipping” and “extra gas points.”

Not surprising given my age, several of my phrases are health-related. Take for instance “low salt,” “covered by Medicare,” “easy to swallow” and lately “gluten free.” (My husband has self-diagnosed that he’s gluten intolerant. Don’t ask.) There are quite a few others in this category, but I’m not going to list all of them. You can probably come up with plenty of your own.

Some popular marketing jargon that could be hot buttons for me, depending on my mood (read: how much wine I’ve had) includes “convenient,” “money back guarantee” and “for a limited time.” In the order in which they’re listed, I’d need an increasing number of glasses of vino to care about those promises. “For a limited time” usually means about as long as it takes me to finish a bottle of chianti. That’s also about how much I’d need to have imbibed to take the bait.

I used to sit up when I heard “quick.” Now that I’m retired, I don’t care a lot about how much time something may take to accomplish. “No mess” and “long lasting,” on the other hand, are still motivational for me. I should mention that the way I define “long lasting” has changed as I've gotten older. It used to mean for at least 20 years. Now I consider 5 years a long time. In contrast, my definition of “no mess” has become more rigorous. If it will take over five minutes to clean up, I’m not interested.

Certain words and phrases are more appealing as I age. Among these are “comfortable” and “easy to use.” Both of these are moving targets, however, meaning that something that is comfortable today might be annoying next week. Likewise, it may be easy to use this week, but frustrating to manage next month. Note to marketers: If this is your go-to pitch, you’d better get me on the hook now. Tomorrow all bets are off.

Then there’s a bunch of slogans that would easily reel me in, but that we don’t often hear. In that group you’ll find “hard to lose,” “impossible to forget,” “24-hour technical support” and “made especially for those with arthritic fingers.” These shouldn’t require an explanation, except that “hard to lose” refers to physical items, not weight.

Some claims that once might have “had me” but no longer cut through my mental clutter are “physician recommended,” “AARP approved,” “one of Oprah’s favorite things” and “as seen on The View.” I no longer trust physicians to endorse anything; they’re in the pockets of big pharma and medical device manufacturers. AARP’s approval is now an advertiser’s bonus. Oprah has moved on (and so have I), and The View post-Joy Behar and Barbara Walters is rarely worth tuning in.

Let’s face it. We get crankier as we get older. I suppose if there were one go-to way to fill in the blank that would have a good chance of getting my attention, it’s probably “You had me at ‘goodbye’.” On that note…

Sensor-Activated Restroom Facilities

A recent road trip to Vermont reminded me of the challenges I now face when I use the restrooms on our Interstate highways. New technologies that enable hands-free and paperless cleanup are steps forward for reducing the spread of germs, but they’re often stress-inducing for me.

It seems logical to start with the toilets, since that’s where our visits usually begin. I’ll bet all the women out there have had experiences similar to mine with restroom toilets. They often self-flush before I even get my jeans unzipped, but I’m never sure why.

The facilities in the sink area are sometimes light sensitive, other times motion-activated. I had always assumed that the ones in the stalls were all motion-activated. Now I’m wondering if they have dual controls. The pale moon of my behind seems to trigger a second flush before I even sit down. And yes, ladies, now that my balance is hinky, I’ve given up straddling.

The third flush happens during the cleanup phase. (Mercifully, the toilet paper dispensers have escaped sensor technology thus far.) What is usually the fourth and final flush follows the movement of zipping up my jeans. Not only are all these flushes bewildering, they’re also a flagrant waste of water.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have the flush sensors that don’t recognize that I’ve entered the stall, used the throne, tidied up and prepared to exit. These seemingly nonfunctional units force me to lean in over the bowl, waving my hands in front of the sensor, looking for a push button override. You know where this is headed. Just as my face is squarely over the bowl, the flusher activates, giving me a facial that means an extra cleanup at the sink.

Ah! The sink! The water and soap dispensers are typically light-activated. They’re looking for beams to bounce back from a white top. Or at least a non-black one. I worked in Manhattan for 20 years and I still live in black clothing. I’m sometimes tempted to drop trou and flash my pasty whiteness to turn on the water. Of course, that would be impolite. Besides, by the time I could turn back around, the water would have turned off.

What I’m sometimes forced to do is to ask a complete stranger who is clad in a light top and using a nearby sink to please stand in front of my faucet. Eventually, I find someone who stays in proximity long enough for me to explain the light reflection problem—black absorbs light; white reflects it. I then stand to the side of my sink and stretch my hands in to reach the water that they have kindly turned on for me.

I fare no better with sensor-activated paper towel dispensers, but those are mostly being replaced. The newer machines with the “blades” of hot air seem to respond better to my presence. They create different problems for me. Sometimes the blast is so intense it almost knocks me over, and I’m no featherweight.

More often, the device is mounted too high for me. In order to get my hands far enough up to activate the air flow, I have to hold them shoulder height or higher. That causes the water on them to roll up my forearms, soaking my sleeve ends. This in turn requires me to stand at the machine for a considerable amount of time until the fabric dries. By then my upper arms are aching. If I’m going to be traveling a lot, I'll need to lift hand weights to strengthen my biceps.

We should have special restroom tools for women, starting with a long-handled flushing device. It should be strong enough to push any override buttons at the backs of the toilets, and it should be white, so it reflects light. A small pouch with a white flag would be useful to trick faucets into turning on. I could tuck it into the neck of my shirt like a lobster bib. Those blade devices will be trickier to get around. I suppose we could carry personal size hot air blowers in our purses, but really…

I think I’ll just take a selfie of my rear end and flash that at any of those sensors. The light will reflect off the photo, or the motion of the paper waving will get the sensor’s attention. I’m willing to provide copies to my female friends free of charge. My male friends will have to take their own moon shots. Most of them probably already have one from their high school days hidden in their sock drawer. And yes I know, gentlemen, this entire post is TMI.

Late Life Body Types

Dame Helen Mirren, actress and senior sex symbol, was on The Late Show with David Letterman to promote a Broadway play she’s in. Turns out she’ll be 70 in July. This is the same Helen Mirren who appeared in a bikini in a popular magazine when she was 63. Seven years later, she’s still sexy.

I realize that those in the public eye can usually afford an entourage to help keep them in good physical shape. But hearing that Dame Helen is the same age as I am set me to looking around for body images more typical of my age group. I discovered that the most appropriate symbols now come from the vegetable patch. To illustrate these types, I looked for examples among people who should be familiar to most of us.

Many men in their sixties and seventies put me in mind of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Men can get away with going to seed; women can’t. This body type has a pasty, doughy look, especially the cheeks. You feel that if you pushed your index finger into their cheek, it would leave a permanent indentation. William Shatner has one of those faces. So does the closing-in-on-sixty Alec Baldwin. I know: Alec is a sex symbol. That just proves my earlier point.

We also have Chevy Chase and Senator Mitch McConnell, neither of whom would be described as sexy. Chevy's face looks better than McConnell's, but he’s still doughy. The comments about his physical condition after the Saturday Night Live 40th Anniversary Special showed concern, not derision. “Chevy Chase Worries Fans After Massive Weight Gain” (LifeandStyleMag.com) and “Fans Fear For His Health” (HollywoodLife.com). If he’d been a woman, the Twittersphere would have lit up with snark. “She Let Herself Go.”

In our seventies and eighties, some of us start resembling string beans. A few still retain our sex appeal, but again, it’s more likely to happen for the men. Take Clint Eastwood, for example. Scrawny as a beanpole these days, but as sexy as ever. If you think he still attracts young hotties because of his money, you’re only half right. No matter how thin he gets, he still has those eyes. Likewise Ian McKellen. Hmmm. Maybe it’s all about the eyes, ‘bout the eyes, ‘bout the eyes.

Women have trouble pulling off the string bean look even when they’re young. (Remember Twiggy?) Once they’re past sixty, it’s called “character,” not sex appeal. Have you seen pictures of Lily Tomlin lately? Or Vanessa Redgrave?

Most older women have to look to other vegetables for our body image. One that comes to mind is the butternut squash, where the inexorable downward drag of gravity causes everything to settle at the base. Well, almost everything. The sexy version comes with two acorn squashes at boob level. Two great examples are Kirstie Alley (especially when she’s fallen off the diet wagon) and Patricia Arquette. Arquette isn’t even fifty yet, but she’s already a butternut-acorn hybrid. If she’s lucky, she’ll still be one in ten years, because the alternative isn’t pretty.

After sixty, we see more dimpled-melon bodies on women. This type has a smaller melon head and a large melon torso; both have lots of dimples. If you’re having trouble picturing this, Google images of Margo Martindale and Angela Merkel. Merkel will turn 60 this year, so she’s only now beginning to take on her melon identity.

When the two melons start to merge into one, we get a Barbara Mikulski, the retiring Senator from Maryland. At 79, she’s the longest-serving female member of Congress. A timeline of her photos shows what that job does to a woman’s body.

Angela Lansbury, Gena Rowlands and Doris Roberts, all well into their eighties, show us what a well-cared-for upper melon can do to divert attention from an ever-more-dimpled torso. Sadly for us women, preventing those facial dimples from turning into deeply-wrinkled creases is a major challenge. A history of Roberts’ images shows us what can happen as we close in on 90.

Most faces of women over 80 are so wrinkled that they cry out to have seeds planted in those furrows. The only good news in this is that they’re not deep enough to grow any vegetables. Then again (bite my tongue, because I love her), have you looked at any recent close-ups of Maggie Smith?

Sexual Desire, the Sexes and the FDA

I’ve recently begun watching PBS's To The Contrary with Bonnie Erbe on Sundays after the political talk shows. Erbe often has provocative topics and interesting female guests. One episode that caught my attention highlighted an example of sexual discrimination at the FDA. The panel discussed a new drug, Flibanserin, seeking FDA approval. It’s designed to treat female sexual desire dysfunction, or Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder as the medical community labels it.

Do not confuse this problem with Hyperactive SDD, aka nymphomania, for which the male-dominated pharmaceutical companies appear to have no inclination to research corrective medication. Hypoactive SDD (or simply HSDD from here forward) is commonly experienced by women of a certain age, especially those who are menopausal. There are other causes as well, but they’re less common and, as far as I can tell, not relevant to my circle of friends.

The company that makes Flibanserin has resubmitted its application for FDA approval of the drug. That would be Sprout Pharmaceuticals, by the way, an evocative name if ever there was one. Their website describes their drug as “a novel, non-hormonal treatment that has shown promise.” The most interesting part of the discussion for me was that the first time out of the gate, the regulatory agency declined to approve the drug because of its side effects. These include sleepiness, nausea and dizziness.

Why did I find this so interesting (you may be wondering)? For two reasons. First, it’s ironic that a pill designed to heighten arousal would cause conditions that are even better than a headache to use as an excuse for not engaging in sex with your partner. Second, (and this is what the panel homed in on), the drug that treats male HSDD was easily approved, even though its side effects include stroke and sudden death. I guess the FDA believed men would feel it was worth it to die with a smile on their face.

One To The Contrary panelist noted that women have more complicated bodies and brains. Hence, the development of a drug for female HSDD would inevitably take longer. Francesca Chambers claimed: "It’s been more difficult to come up with drugs for women because women are different than men. And this is actually a good thing, a compliment to women.” Yeah, right. I’m always a tad suspicious of the word “different” when it’s used to categorize women vs. men. It usually sounds like “inferior” to me.

More likely the FDA rejection notice read: “Women are complicated. They don’t need medication. They just need more time to get aroused. Come back to us when you’ve figured out how to address that.” Don’t hold your breath.

I haven’t been able to find photos of Flibanserin online, but it’s often referred to as “the little pink pill.” One would expect that to be the color of choice for the female alternative to “the little blue pill.” What my search for pink pills did turn up were photos of OxyContin, Naproxen, Clonazepam and dozens of other drugs, including several brands of Lisinopril. This is scary, since that’s one of the most popular blood pressure medications, including my own.

Flibanserin should probably carry a warning for hypertension anyway. After all, one drug group wants to help you lower your blood pressure, while the other is trying to get your blood pumping. A contraindication if ever there was one. In any event, the “little” pink pill had better come in a distinctive shape, to distinguish it from other pink ones. No doubt some chauvinistic developer at Sprout will suggest making it a heart. That’s too corny to contemplate.

As a former marketing and product development executive, I believe I have the perfect shape for them: round with a hole in the center, like a Cheerio. I didn’t see anything like that in my search results. Moreover, Viagra looks a lot like an arrowhead. The little blue and pink pills would thus become symbolic of the sex act itself. I should get royalties for this idea. With my luck, they’ll offer me a lifetime supply of their meds. I’m feeling nauseous already.

Fifty Shades of Creepy

“You start to get creepy when you get to be a certain age.” So sayeth Whoopi Goldberg on The View the week after the release of the movie Fifty Shades of Grey. The show that day had male guest host Ryan Paevey who had tried out for the role of Christian Grey. He didn’t get the part, despite an admirable physique, as evidenced in a blown up ad where he modeled underwear. The waistband read “Girls On Top.” The younger hosts offered appreciative comments on his physique.

Whoopi chose to avoid any cougar-like observations, saying she always pictures a younger man holding a baby rattle. Instead, she wanted to know where she could find underwear with that message on it. This was followed by her “You start to get creepy” pronouncement. I have to agree with her. The TV ads and news items that landed on my scratch paper this week all add up to Fifty Shades of Creepy. More on that in a moment.

Like Whoopi, I don’t indulge in fantasies about younger men. But then, I’ve generally been attracted to older men for whom I might have been the younger fantasy. Or not. My husband is eleven-plus years older than I am, and he’s closer to my age by six years than the man I co-owned a house with before him. But like Whoopi, I’m getting creepier in other ways.

I read all three volumes in the Fifty Shades of Grey series. (Gifts from a friend, I swear.) The first was the trashiest, and as poorly written as reviewers claimed. The second one actually spent time on character development and toned down the BDSM. Author E. L. James clearly ran out of petrol by the time she penned the third one. I slogged through it only to find that things ended like a fairy tale, far removed from the original premise (and promise). I have absolutely no desire to see the movie.

While I don’t lust after younger men, I do appreciate a fine example of maleness in its prime. By prime, I mean anything from mid-twenties to late-eighties. That age-spread alone should elevate me on the creepy meter. Unfortunately, there aren’t many fine late-prime specimens paraded in the media. That leaves me enjoying the early-prime ones.

Take for example #HotDudesReading. It’s a collection of photos taken by a group of women who set up an Instagram account. The men are all reading books or newspapers during their subway rides, seemingly oblivious to the women admiring them. The project is supposed to emphasize that smart men can be sexy. It also appears to say that smart, sexy men are frequently hirsute.

Dudes reading led to a hunk dancing. I watched the BuzzFeed video of Ukrainian ballet star, Sergei Polunin, soloing to Hozier’s “Take Me To Church.” My friend Vicki brought this clip to my attention. She and I regularly attended the American Ballet Theatre and the New York City Ballet in the 1970’s when we both worked in Manhattan. Sergei’s performance brought back fond memories of us swooning over Mikhail Baryshnikov’s fabulous buns. It also explains why Putin wants to reclaim the Ukraine for Russia.

As you can see, creepiness is in the eye of the beholder. It can also be its own reward. Sigh. By the way, Misha is only two years and change younger than I am, so I can still lust after him without feeling creepy.

Returning now to the underwear theme that began this post. After The View aired, I Googled Ryan Paevey. Apparently he’s not just an actor on General Hospital, but also a model—mostly of underwear, it seems. In addition to the “Girls-On-Top” option, the Internet also has shots of him in pairs with “Get A Grip” and “I Want Out” on the waistband. (These appear to be ads for Schultz Jeans, for my fellow-creeps who want to see more.)

Finally, we have a hysterical commercial for Duluth Trading’s Buck Naked Underwear. A rather paunchy cartoon male in “regular” underwear has his private parts in a vice grip and a crank on his behind. He turns the crank, making his undies all the more uncomfortable. (Any of you ladies out there thinking “mammogram”?) Then he tries a pair of Buck Naked underwear and begins dancing with joy to banjo music. A black rectangle obscures his privates. The tag line is “No Pinch. No Stink. No Sweat.”

I confess. I’m more mesmerized by the Buck Naked commercial than I am by HotDudesReading or Ryan what’s-his-name in the Schultz ads. Just color my shade of creepy humorous.

Lost Art of Written Communication

Some events of the past week have me thinking again about the lost art of paper-based communication. I attended Brown University’s Josiah S. Carberry Day dinner at their Faculty Club on Friday the 13th. The featured speaker was alumnus Barnaby Evans, the creator of Waterfire Providence. He spoke about the importance of books—physical ones, not electronic ones—in living a full and rich life. He was preaching to an admiring choir, as Carberry dinners are hosted by The Friends of the Library.

The evening was informative and entertaining and, for me, also provocative. On the almost-two-hour drive home to Connecticut, I was mentally assessing possible blog topics for today’s post. I’ve been writing about communication lately in my usual humorous style. Printed books reminded me of handwritten notes, something that also crossed my path literally this past week. The two ideas came together for a more serious essay about the lost art of written, non-electronic communication.

About three weeks ago we had to make a painful decision to send our elderly cat, Luke, to the Rainbow Bridge. My grandniece Sophie and my grandnephew Bruno, ten-year-old twins, each sent me a handwritten condolence note on our loss. They had met Luke on their visits to our condo not long after we moved to Connecticut last fall. The notes were short, but they each included a hand-drawn picture of Luke and a specific recollection of why each of them had enjoyed meeting him.

The notes made me cry, not just because they reminded me that Luke is now gone, but also because of the thought that went into them. I sent Sophie and Bruno handwritten thank you notes for their thoughtfulness. My messages were written in cards from the Metropolitan Museum of Art that had photos of feline art in their collections. This exchange reminded me of how special such written messages can be, and how rarely they happen in our electronic world.

I'm going to save these notes with other special items from Luke’s life. I hope that the twins also save their cards at least for awhile. More importantly, I hope that they stop for a moment to savor the special feeling that a personal message put to paper and delivered by mail to their own hands can impart.

This thought process reminded me of a project I embarked upon around the turn of the millennium. I had decided to hand write letters to people who had been my friends for decades. In those letters I recounted my earliest memories of wonderful times we had shared that set us on a path to a lifelong friendship. To begin this project, I chose two women whose relationships with me dated back to my first years working in Manhattan after I graduated from Brown. I carefully selected the notecards to hold each letter.

These were women my age. We learned cursive writing in school and penmanship was a serious subject. I was therefore stunned that for a long time neither of them replied. Not even a purchased thank you card. Eventually, one sent me a brief appreciative email promising a more personal reply in the future. (It never came.) I wrote about this in my holiday newsletter a few years later, prompting a new reply from her. She explained that she hadn’t written back because she didn’t know where to begin to respond to my touching letter.

I knew her well enough to take her explanation at face value. (We’re still friends today.) In some ways, I found that even sadder than the total non-response from the other woman. (She passed away several years ago.) How unfortunate, I thought, that the art of letter writing has been so eclipsed by electronic word-bites. And this was well before the popularity of IM (instant messaging) and 140 character tweets.

Perhaps this is why my heart was so deeply touched by the special notes from my grandniece and grandnephew this week. It’s also why I decided to hand write thank you notes back to them. I hope that this is just the beginning of a life-long correspondence between us. (My greataunthood is as close as I’ll ever get to being a grandmother.)

I’d be thrilled if some of that correspondence turned out to be handwritten. But frankly, I’ll settle for a tweet now and then. I am, after all, a realist with romantic inclinations, not a romantic with realistic overtones. If you’re unclear on the difference, I suggest you find a book or two on these topics and check them out of your community library. If you’re not sure what a “community library” is, Google it.

More Spousal Communication

A recent blog post provided an explanation of how spouses miscommunicate. Several of the comments I received presented reasons for miscommunication that I had missed. My friend Mary pointed out that when folks have been together many years, one of them assumes that the other one has become a mind reader. That hit especially close to home in our household. Today’s post explores this issue from a slightly different angle.

When my husband wants a favor, he rarely asks for it directly. Rather, he makes a vague statement and hopes the person to whom he’s speaking will figure out what he’d like them to do. Eventually, I came to see this as his style of communication, but I used to think he didn’t want to be beholden in any way. By not actually asking for the favor, he wouldn’t feel he received one. I found this manipulative and annoying. I tried to force him to be more direct by saying: “And I’m supposed to do what with this information?”

That rarely prompted him to actually ask for help. Over time, my response progressed to a snarky: “And I’m supposed to care about this why?” More often than not, I ended by performing the expected service, accompanied by heavy sighing, the loud banging of pots and the slamming of cabinet doors.

If you’re having trouble following this, here’s an example. My husband says: “I wonder if the box of green tea is empty.” He knows full well that it’s empty, because he used the last bag the previous night. What he really means is: “Do we have more green tea somewhere? If so, dig it out and make me a cup. If we don’t have any more green tea, make me a cup of whatever is closest, and be sure to put green tea on the shopping list.”

Recently I decided to fight fire with fire. I would communicate with my husband the same way he communicates with me. It should come as no surprise that I did not get my desired outcome when I presented him with a vague statement. I then progressed along a scale of communication, gradually getting more specific and more direct. Today’s post explains that scale, with several examples to illustrate the progression. See if you recognize where your spouse sits on the scale. At what point are you generally successful in getting the outcome you desire?

SCALE OF SPOUSAL COMMUNICATION METHODS

1.     Vague description of the condition or situation.

2.     More detailed representation of the condition or situation.

3.     Statement of desired outcome.

4.     Polite request to perform the task.

5.     Outright threat of dire consequences if he doesn’t do it.

Here are some examples.

I want my husband to turn on Meet the Press on TV. This is the progression of how I would try to make it happen, beginning with his own style.

1.     It’s Sunday morning.

2.     Meet the Press should be good this week.

3.     I’d like to watch Meet the Press today.

4.     Will you please turn on Meet the Press?

5.     If you don’t go get the clicker and turn on Meet the Press, I’m not going to make you breakfast. Ever again.

In this example, the desired outcome is to have the trash emptied and put out for weekly pickup.

1.     I just realized that tomorrow is Monday.

2.     The trash bin is overflowing.

3.     The trash needs to go out tonight.

4.     Will you empty the trash and put the bin at the curb for pickup?

5.     I’m tired of reminding you about the trash every week. If you don’t take care of it right now, I’m going to empty the bin onto your laptop.

How about getting him to bring his laundry to the laundry room?

1.     Your underwear drawer must be almost empty.

2.     I bet you have a ton of dirty clothes in your hamper.

3.     I plan to do laundry this morning.

4.     Please bring your dirty clothes to the laundry room.

5.     Empty your hamper or I’m going to cut the toes out of every pair of socks that you own.

Investigating strange noises in the middle of the night?

1.     Did you hear something?

2.     I wonder what that sound is coming from the kitchen.

3.     I think I hear water running in the kitchen.

4.     Will you get up and see if you left the water running in the kitchen sink?

5.     If I have to get up to check the kitchen faucet, I’m going to fill a pitcher with ice water and pour it on your head.

For most things that he wants, my husband is adept at getting his desired outcome without having to progress beyond level two. I’m stuck between levels four and five most of the time. There is no justice in this world.

Luke the Magnificent Is Gone

Luke the Magnificent is gone. He went downhill fast his last two days. He would have been 18 in two months. We took him to the vet Thursday afternoon and said goodbye. He's now at the Rainbow Bridge with his sisters, Pansy Gardenia and Lily Magnolia.

Luke was our first and only little boy; all our other cats were girls. He’s also our only cat who picked me, rather than having me pick him. I never wanted a boy. Thought they’d be too much trouble. All that spraying and, well—catting around. But Luke wanted me and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I wanted him, too.

Luke came to us from a neighbor who had forced him to fend for himself as an outdoor cat. He migrated down the block to our front porch and settled in there about ten years ago. He was so thin that he looked ill. I started giving him the leftovers from my girls’ meals. (That would be Pansy and Lily.) Luke had been starving, so he filled out quickly. I treated his battle wounds with antibiotic creams and they gradually healed.

The next phase of his assimilation into our family was bringing him into the house overnight and in bad weather. I wanted to be sure he had all his shots. Since there are HIPA laws (Health Information Privacy Act) for pets as well as for humans, the only way I could get his history was to own him. In 2007 I formally adopted him from his original owners.

I learned that the neighbor had adopted Luke from the same shelter as my twin girls one month to the day before I took them home. I knew that other kittens in Pansy and Lily’s litter had found homes ahead of them. I like to think that Luke was their actual brother and that he recognized them through the windows on our front porch.

Luke appreciated having a roof over his head, two squares a day and two sisters to chase around the house. Well, really more like one. Pansy was a tough cookie. She’d been the alpha cat before Luke came along and she wasn’t about to step aside, no matter how much more muscular he was. We had a good run together, all of us.

Despite his hardscrabble early years, Luke outlived Pansy by over four years and Lily by over two. He enjoyed his five months in our condo with lots of light and open space. He especially liked finally having his mommy all to himself.

Luke would jump up on the bed after I’d settled in for the night. He’d perch on my chest in meatloaf position and wait for me to pet him and stroke his chin. I told him how much I loved him. He purred back how much he loved me, too. “Luke the Magnificent. Luke the Lion Hearted. Luke of Oriole.” All the while petting and stroking, while he purred.

“You’re so handsome and brave and strong. And did I mention handsome?” Still petting and stroking. And still purring. “You protect us. You patrol the perimeter. You chase away the interlopers and keep us safe.” Followed by more purrs of agreement. And so on, until I fell asleep or he got bored and moved down to curl up next to my feet.

At his checkup two years ago, tests showed he was suffering from several chronic ailments. I had decided there would be no heroics, no surgeries, no heavy-duty treatments that would make him miserable. We took him home expecting to have a few more good months with him. At his checkup 12 months later, he was only a little worse than the previous year. We considered every month a gift, and we had him almost another full year.

He was having problems just before Christmas, but he rallied so we could go to my sister’s for two days while someone checked in on him. He rallied even more at yearend, having a reasonably good January with surprising spurts of vitality. He wanted to go out last week and I had trouble following him around the yard. But time, his kidney problems and other unnamed ailments caught up with him this week. I knew when he stopped eating that there would not be one more blessed rally for him.

It’s strange to come home to an empty house after years of loving creatures there to greet us. The space where Luke’s food station used to be is achingly bare now. I will mourn my Luke for a long time. After a year or two it will get less painful, but the empty place in my heart will never be filled. I still cry for Tulip Wisteria and Daisy Hyacinth and they’ve been gone about 20 years. The losses of Pansy Gardenia and Lily Magnolia still feel fresh at four plus and two plus years.

Luke the Magnificent, who chose me because he knew I would love him dearly, will be his mommy’s boy forever.

Spousal Miscommunication

Now that my husband and I have retired to our condo, we’re spending a lot more time together. This has made me realize that I’m having increasing difficulty understanding what he’s saying to me. This may have always been a problem, but I just didn’t notice it because we spent so little time together. I assume that age plays a role. Whatever the reason for this spousal miscommunication, I’ve now categorized and charted the condition. See which types you recognize in your own relationships.

HOW YOU HEAR AND LISTEN—MAIN CATEGORIES

A.     You hear and understand everything that is said       10%

B.     You don’t hear at all                                                              25%

C.     You mishear what is said                                                     30%

D.    What he says doesn’t make sense                                     23%

E.     What he says isn’t what he means                                    12%

SUBCATEGORIES OF MISCOMMUNICATION

 

Why You Don’t Hear At All

A.     You’re watching TV                                                                20%

B.     You’re on your computer                                                      32%

C.     You’re reading a book/magazine                                        20%

D.    You’re going through the mail                                                8%

E.     You’re taking a nap                                                                    5%

F.     You’ve had 2 glasses of wine                                                 15%

Why You Mishear What Is Said

A.     He has food in his mouth                                                         15%

B.     He’s muttering into his chest                                                  25%

C.     He has chin in hand, which is covering his mouth            20%

D.    He has his back to you and has water running                   30%

E.     He’s in another room and thinks you’re there, too           10%

Why What He Says Doesn’t Make Sense

A.     He’s reading from a webpage and mispronouncing things  35%

B.     He’s changed the subject in the middle of a sentence            25%

C.     You’re in bed and you have earplugs in                                         8%

D.    He’s tired and he’s speaking Hindi                                               10%

E.     You’ve had 3 glasses of wine                                                          22%

Why What He Says Isn’t What He Means

A.     He’s using indefinite antecedents again (Which “he”? Who “they”?) 30%

B.     He has confused the time sequence of events                                  25%

C.     He has used one of his classic malapropisms                                   22%

D.    He doesn’t actually know what he means                                          15%

E.     He’s had just one sip of your wine                                                         8%