Nature vs. Nurture?

Recently, friends and I were weighing the pros and cons of presenting the concept of “being gay” to elementary school children.  Some were concerned that the mere talk of it could be the equivalent of notifying children that they have options from which to choose.  Yet, from my experience raising my son, Aaron, an only child, I observed that children are who they are at a very young age.

 Even in Kindergarten, when I had 11 little boys joyously celebrating my son’s 6^th birthday on an apple farm in PA, there were clear divisions among the guests.  They drastically differed in size and shape as well as personality.  Ten boys would be pleasantly engaged in a 5 on 5 Wiffle ball game.  Sure, a few barely knew what was going on and one or two may have been picking their noses instead of fielding a grounder.  Two others would be off to the side—one trying to put a firecracker in an apple and another, riding my son’s Big Wheel down a steep hill to see how it would feel to crash into a birch tree.  Then, there was the one sweet boy, who followed me around the kitchen suggesting that the pale blue napkins would make a better color palette then the Yankee's themed napkins.  One other boy iced the cup cakes and asked if he decorate them with pink and blue sprinkles, instead of malt ball baseballs.  

Meanwhile, I thought I would have some control over shaping what type of man my son would become.  I insisted that he would never play with toy guns.  In the early 80s, there were many experts claiming that violent movies and toys were “turning” America’s children aggressive.  Meanwhile, he loved Legos, Transformers, and his amazing little Computron Computer.  He was having fun and guns would never be allowed in my house.  Was this too strict?

 I thought I might have been and was more than a little concerned when I took my son to Toys R Us to select any toy he wanted after he received perfect scores on first grade report card.  My grandmother started this tradition with us when we were younger.  Back in the 60s, she was shocked when my brother selected a baby alligator as his prize after making the Honor Roll in 4^th grade. Nanny kept to her word and my brother got whatever he selected, despite her disgust.

I stood back in Toy R Us as my son went up and down the colorful aisles assessing which toy would be his best reward.  I knew immediately that he found something when he jumped up, and then “skipped” a bit as and declared, “This is it.”  My heart sunk…but if my grandmother accepted an alligator, I too had to keep my own mouth shut.  My face instantly tightened, yet I was able to force a really straight smile that more resembled gritting my teeth.  “Are you sure, Aaron, honey?” I asked.  He said, “Yea, I love this!”  He handed me a clear bubble package that contained a pink plastic blow dryer and 8 pink curlers and rushed to the register.   Did this mean what I thought it meant?

I begrudgingly paid for the selected item and sighed as my little blonde haired boy excitedly skipped through the parking lot to our white Ford Tempo.  He was  giddy.  I was sick with worry.  I asked, “Aaron, you seem so happy.  Why do you like this toy so much?”  He stopped, took the bubble package out the plastic bag, letting the bag drift away in the wind.  He pointed to the hair dryer and said, “This, here, is my ray gun.”  Then he pointed to the pink curlers, “And these are my bombs.”

 I sighed relief.

Still, to ensure that I was an open-minded mother, I decided, against his father’s strongest objections, that my son would have a doll. I wanted him to be able to demonstrate his nurturing side. One day, I bought him the “My Buddy” doll, which was a 36 inch stuffed boy doll wearing blue cover-alls, an orange and yellow striped shirt, and a red baseball cap covering blond hair.  I wanted to prove that I was able to let my son enjoy gender neutral toys. 

When I came home late from coaching basketball one night, I walked into the living room to find my son on the couch with his doll.  He had his left hand on the doll’s cap and the other on the crotch.  “What’s going on here?” I asked on the inside.  Aloud, I said, “Hey, Aaron, what are you up to?”

Aaron stood up on the coach and lifted the blue clad “My Buddy” doll over his head.  He nodded to direct my attention downward to the drab beige carpet, where seemingly hundreds of olive green plastic army soldiers were lined up in rows as if they were advancing on him to “take” the couch.  He said, “Look, Mom, this is really cool!”  He shook the doll above his head and shouted, “This is a huge bomb that could take out all of these soldiers at once.”  With that, he threw the cloth doll with great force, knocking most of the soldiers onto their sides.

He jumped off the couch, danced around in his Ninja Turtle briefs and tee shirt, and shouted, “USA, USA, USA!”

Ahh, that’s my boy?

Repeat: Lost in Translation

My day job has kept me too busy recently to add a new blog, so I'm going to post one that I posted earlier in May because I think it's funny.  I hope you agree.

My husband and I are fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful neighbors, who are year-round residents, in our Florida condominium.  To our left, lives a remarkable couple, who just celebrated their 50th anniversary.  Like many successful seniors, they came to America from another land and worked tirelessly to secure the American Dream for their children.  Their three daughters have all earned college degrees and have been extremely successful.

However, with the economic downturn, one of their daughters was unemployed last year.  My neighbor, Maria, approached me while I was walking my dogs and asked if I would consider reviewing her daughter’s resume to see if it could be improved.  I work as a grant writer, but while teaching English for 12 years, I always included lesson plans on resume writing, so I had some experience.  Later in the day, Maria gave me a Post It size paper containing her daughter’s e-mail address, so that I could introduce myself and encourage her daughter to e-mail me a copy of her resume.  When I sat at my computer to write to Maria’s daughter, I struggled to read Maria’s printing.  The letters and numbers, comprising the e-mail address, were printed neatly but they were so tiny.  Even with my most powerful reading glasses, purchased in bulk from BJ’s, I couldn't make out all of the characters in the handwritten e-mail address.  I struggled and came up with the best e-mail address I could manage.

The next day, when I was walking my dog again, I saw Maria.  Humbly and gratefully, she inquired about whether I was able to e-mail her daughter.  I stuttered a little as I explained that I tried to do so.  I said, “Maria, I’m so sorry, but your writing was so very tiny that I could hardly read the address.  I sent the e-mail anyway, but honestly, I’m not sure if it went through to the correct address."

Maria, who would rather die than inconvenience anyone, reached for my hand and put the other to her head.  “I’m so sorry,” she said with a broken accent.  “My daughter, Katerina, told me, 'Momma, make sure when you give Katie the   e-mail address that you use only small letters.'  So I tried really, really hard to write it as tiny as possible.  I even did it two times.”

I burst into laughter.  I gave Maria a hug and said, “Maria, Katerina meant that you should not use capital letters in the e-mail address--not that you should write really small!”  We laughed so hard that my dogs thought we were crazy.  Fortunately, Maria's daughter did get a job and all is well.

Child Rearing?

Recently, I attended a picnic at my friend’s house.  I got relief from the heat in heavenly air conditioning as I helped her to carry-out some trays of food.  While inside, I heard a car arrive.  It was the grandparents of the children whose parents were hosting the picnic.  I was stunned as, from the sliding glass door,  I saw the grandfather struggle to get to the house.  His baby steps allowed him to cover just inches at a time as his son helped him.  I heard he had been seriously ill, and his arms displayed the tattoos that were dark bruises from IVs.  His face was fully crimson as he struggled to reach the glass storm door.  Clear tubes connected him to an oxygen tank that his wife managed behind him. As he got closer, I looked into his piercing blue eyes and saw nothing but determination.  If he could have spoken,  he would have voiced his deep commitment to see his family at one final picnic before he died.

As he stepped through the doorway into the living room, his 10 year old grandson spun around in a burgandy Lazy Boy chair and said, “Hi, Grandpa,” but made no move to get up.  This cushy chair was the only reachable piece of furniture near the door that Grandpa could get to before collapsing from his immense struggle to enter the house.  I waited for it to be said, but heard nothing.  I tried to keep quiet, but couldn’t.  Eventually, in my most stern teacher’s voice, I took a step towards the grandson, who was still swiveling in the Lazy Boy.  I said, “Jason, you get out of that chair this moment and let your grandfather sit down!”  Immediately, I knew I had crossed a boundary by speaking to someone else’s child this way, but I couldn’t stop myself.

Jason squished his tan face into defiance and stared back at me with wide brown eyes.  He exclaimed, “I was here, first!”

As if slapped across the face, I opened my mouth in shock and looked from his face back two steps behind me where his mother was wiping her hands on a dishtowel containing sunflowers.  Inside, I’m thinking, “Okay, now she’s going to let Jason have it!’

The mother's face turned to stone as she put her right hand on her hip and said, “He’s right. Jason had that chair first!”  Then, her raised eyebrows asked me how I dared to talk to her son that way.

I was raised by a schizophrenic, catatonic, psychopath and yet every hair would be ripped from my head if I ever failed to give my seat to an elder, a pregnant woman, or a disabled  person. What is Jason learning?  Who will pass down our society's basic courtesies in the future?

Crazy, Mom, thank you for all you did right.  Maybe a kick in the rear is a good thing every now and then.  The truth is that there are probably no bad children or bad dogs, only bad trainers.

Bad Season Finale?

Many of us, who are in our middle years, will never forget the historic season finales of beloved television programs.  Immediately, I think of MASH, Newhart, Seinfeld, Friends, and Sopranos.  Because of exquisite writing, it was difficult to say good-bye to characters that shared our living rooms with us for years. Collectively, as a nation, we grabbed our favorites snacks and settled in on our couches to see how skillful writers would force us to bid farewell to Hot Lips, Kramer, and Carmella.

Well, here in Central Florida, this week, we faced another television loss, as the most watched program of the season, The Case Against Casey came to an end.  The daily broadcast of the Casey Anthony murder trial, couldn’t have been better scripted by a Noble Prize winner.  Central casting couldn’t have selected better actors and actresses.  On a daily basis, we watched for emotion on the face of the shapely, attractive mother accused of murder.  We felt as frustrated as the stammering Defense Attorney hearing “Sustained” over and over again. We joked that he could have starred in “My Cousin Vinnie.”  We admired the verbal sparring skills of the aggressive blond lead prosecutor, always wearing sexy pumps, and supported by her white-haired Perry Mason-like teammate.  And then there were the grieving parents, broken and emotional, but always available for a “Meet and Greet.”

Despite the fact that I was utterly disgusted by the television promotions: “Customize your Casey coverage on your phone, Twitter and Facebook,” I couldn’t turn away.  In fact, even on vacation in Las Vegas, the perfect place to escape all reality, I turned on the television whenever I went back to my room to see what was happening in the trial at home in Florida.

Why?  What compelled us to watch this case?  Was it that television has become so grossly inferior as a form of entertainment that no modern program could equal the caliber of character and plot development that this trial offered?  Was it that every day was as compelling as a season cliffhanger leaving us with more questions than answers? Why wouldn’t a mother call the police after her daughter was missing for 31 days?  Why would a former police officer call the police to report a gas can stolen?  Who is more reliable, the medical examiner that conducted John F. Kennedy’s autopsy or reality TV star, Dr. G? Where was the DNA, hair fibers, and other stuff we learned on CSI, CSI NY, CSI Miami?

Then, the worst possible thing happened.  We’ve experienced the same emotion in the past when Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer were let out of jail and went their separate ways. It was a bad Season Finale.  The show didn’t end the way we expected.  Casey Anthony was found not guilty.  How could this happen?

It could happen because Radar never really died. Jerry was never really arrested for being inconsiderate. Bob Newhart didn’t really wake up in bed with his old television wife.  Television is not real.  Even our news is not real. What we saw every day and every night, related to the case, was not the same thing that the jury saw. We never saw the photographs that the jury saw.  We never saw any of the real evidence that the jury shared.  We only saw what a camera could capture. We saw the distorted perspective that is broadcast as entertainment. At the same time, our perception of the little we did see was constantly reshaped by talking heads—so called experts who spent every single day 24/7 telling us what we should believe we saw.  It’s not real—just as it is not real as it relates to any other aspect of our society.

While on our summer hiatus, I hope viewers remember this because every, single one of us, could be put on trial by this same media and could someday swim with the fishes, like Big Pussy. We have to get a grip on reality! At this moment, I could point a camera at the water hitting the ground from our sprinkler system and any viewer would believe wholeheartedly that it was raining.  But it's not.  The sun is shining. The limited camera cannot take in all of the perceptions that we are blessed to enjoy.

Topsy Turvy Tiff (Update)

On May 26, 2011, I posted a blog about my retired neighbor’s Topsy Turvy Times.  To recap, in an effort to give her retired husband a hobby, my friend Rosie went with Henry to Walmart to buy a Topsy Turvy Tomato. For the price of $ 14.99, they would have all the tomatoes they could eat. That’s how the saga began.  Here is a quick summary of the events:

·         They realized that the Topsy Turvy doesn’t come with tomato plants. They headed back to Walmart to spend $30.00 on tomato plants.

·         Henry planted 15 pounds of tomatoes in the planter and then hung it outside on the balcony wall.  He realized there was not enough sun there for tomatoes. They went back to Walmart to buy a longer wrought iron plant hook for $10.00.

·         Henry drilled the balcony wall and hung the plant on the new hook.  Later in the day, he realized that half the container would always be against the wall and wouldn’t get any sun.  He decided it would be better if he built a stand for it. He drove to Home Depot to buy $20.00 worth of wood and $12.00 worth of screws.

·         He built a plant stand in the exact shape of the stick stand you would draw on a piece of paper if you were starting to play the Hangman word game. Henry was still unsatisfied.  He said, “You know, I can’t just keep this wood natural.” Henry ran to Home Depot to buy the best quart of white semi-gloss paint for $14.00.

·         Once Henry painted his plant stand bright white, he put it onto the balcony, hung his Topsy Turvy tomato plant.  But, all the next morning, Henry realized that his plant was only getting a few hours of sun a day. Henry took the wheels off Rosie’s favorite huge cactus plant and added them to his tomato stand.  This way, he could wheel the stand around all day to catch the sun for his Topsy Turvy tomatoes in various locations on the balcony.

·         After three days of peace, Henry called Rosie outside. He was red, sweaty and upset.  He noticed a round water stain on the floor of his balcony. Henry headed to Home Depot to buy a few 2” x 2” and 1” x 12” pieces of wood for $16.00.  He built a rectangular tray to catch the water that drips from the Topsy Turvy plant.

·         Henry was still unhappy because he didn’t want the new wooden tray, he just built, to get ruined by dripping water.  He ran into the kitchen pantry and grabbed one of Rosie’s favorite serving trays to put it onto the wooden tray he build to protect the wood from water stains.

·         When Henry invited me over to see the Topsy Turvy tomato. I said, “Henry, I hate to even say this, but the leaves on your tomato plants look shriveled.” He said, “You know, you’re right. I knew it too.”  He walked over to a small plastic tool cabinet and said, “I didn’t tell Rosie, but I went Walmart’s and bought this tomato food for $12.99.  I mix a ½ capful of food with a gallon of water.” I said, “Henry, Let me see that bottle.”  He passed me a yellow plastic bottle and after putting on my reading glasses, I read aloud, “Mix 1/3 cap of food with 2 gallons of water for 20 square feet of garden every 14 days. “Henry,” I added, “I think you’re killing your tomatoes with kindness.” Henry paused and stared, thinking hard. He walked around the plant stand once and said, “Rosie, get in the car.  I have to go to Walmart’s to get some new tomato plants.”

Well, recently when my husband came home from one of his food gathering expeditions, he mentioned that he ran into Henry and Rosie at Walmart.  Chuckling, he said, “Rosie and I couldn’t stop laughing. It turns out that the new tomato plants Henry planted in the Topsy Turvy Tomato stand were patio tomatoes.” My husband, an avid gardener, added, “Patio tomatoes are hybrids. The leaves are darker than most tomatoes. The fruit is much smaller and some consider the skin really tough.”  He continued describing how in the store Rosie was crossing her legs, trying not to pee her pants when she told my husband the update.  She said, ' Henry picked three tomatoes and put them on the table. 'That’s it?' I asked.  ‘They’re putrid!  I’m not eating those. You eat one first.’ Henry took one look at them and said, ‘I ain’t eatin that shit either!’  He picked up his three golf ball sized tomatoes and chucked them right into the trash. In the store, facing my husband, Rosie rolled her eyes behind Henry and used her pointer finger to make small circles around her right temple indicating that Henry was crazy. My husband chuckled again, “ When Henry turned around suddenly, Rosie stood like a statue and tried to look sad about Henry’s tomatoes."

A few moments later, when my husband saw Henry and Rosie in Walmart again near the cash registers, their moods had changed completely. Both of their faces were filled pride as they each pushed their own shopping cart as if they were baby carriages in which babies were nestled.  That’s because each cart, Rosie’s and Henry’s, contained one tall hearty new tomato plant sitting up straight in the toddler seat portion of the metal cart.  They delicately moved their tomato plants to the register and Henry pointed to his and said, “We’re starting from scratch.  We don’t want hybrid cars and we don’t want hybrid tomatoes!  These are normal!”

A week later, Henry and Rosie had a repair man in their condo to service their two central air conditioning units.  Henry, a former union tradesman, welcomed the opportunity to converse with another man who knew his way around a tool belt.  After the two men traded war stories, revealing their knowledge of complex cooling units,  the air conditioning service man mentioned that he spent some time after work in his garden.  With that, Henry invited the service man to step out onto his balcony for an exclusive private viewing of the Topsy Turvy Tomato stand.  After taking a step back to take in the six foot tall, bright white, hang man style, ornate Topsy Turvy Tomato stand-- with its custom-made humidity tray, the air conditioning man nodded his head and seemed quite impressed.  He said, “Henry, I can really appreciate the craftsmanship of this stand.  It’s outstanding work. ”  He paused, put his thumbs inside his tool belt and added, “I hate to tell you this, though…but the truth is that it’s WAY too late in the season to plant tomatoes.  They’ll never grow now.”

Rosie, who was standing just inside, behind the screen door listening, heard the air conditioning man’s comment and her shoulders sunk.  Without a word, she pushed the sliding glass door over to th side until it was fully closed, locked it, leaving the two men on the balcony. She left and went to the grocery store to buy a big juicy tomato to make herself a BLT for lunch.

Mucho Macho Men

Watching the Belmont Stakes and seeing a horse named Mucho Macho Man reminded me of a funny story that my husband told me.  Anyone who knows him would acknowledge that he is a big man with massive shoulders, developed in his early twenties, when he invested time in intensive body building.  Throughout his thirties and forties, he demonstrated his amazing athleticism and earned the nickname, “The Vacuum” because of how adeptly he fielded grounders as the short stop for the local softball team.  Meanwhile, well into his late forties, he was arguably the best racquetball player in our local tennis club-- where he spent every Friday night participating in a round robin league. 

He would dupe new players by walking onto the course wearing complex knee braces leading his opponent to think that he would be playing against a virtual cripple. Then, when my husband entered the court, his sheer size, although he is just 5 10, so let’s say… his notable width, pervaded the court.  He would position himself in such a way that a mere flick of his wrist would send his opponent scurrying after that blue ball, in every direction, until he was spent.  Dripping wet, the new player would shake hands and concede that my husband was, indeed, the best racquetball player in the club.

It’s true, that now that my husband is 65, some of his shoulders have sunk into a sloping belly, but he’s still an imposing figure.  With his dark black hair and beard, gold horn and pinkie ring, black Lincoln Continental and trunk, big enough for cement shoes and a body, he’s someone not to be messed-with.

That’s why I was surprised when he entered our condo dripping with sweat after leaving the cavernous underground garage in our building.   He heaved to catch his breath and was doing that dance little boys do when they have to go to the bathroom urgently.  At the same time, he was bending over laughing and laughing, unable to stop.  After visiting the bathroom, he resurfaced again, still bent over, holding his stomach, unable to control his laughter.

He eventually told me the story.   Our neighbor, Benny, and he were in the basement garage area talking.  Bennie is a former Wall Street trader that resembles Sean Connery, with his salt and pepper hair but with tough New York talk and city swagger.  Benny and my husband had the main building garage doors opened to let in the ocean breeze because they were both going to do projects in their respective garages.  While they chatted, my husband saw a spider enter the garage.  He said, “This spider was so big, it cast a shadow.  I swear to God.  It was walking towards us.”

 “Step on it, Bennie.”

Bennie jumped back and grimaced. “I’m not stepping on it.  I’m wearing sandals.  You step on it.”

My husband said, “No way, I’m not stepping on it either.  It’s too big. I’m not going near it!”

Like Batman seeing the Bat Signal and heading to the Bat Cave, Bennie’s tone turned ominous and he instructed, “Wait, here.”

He went to his individual garage with his unit number 207 on the outside in fake gold letters.

Like Bruce Wayne, he punched a secret code into his keypad.  His garage door opened, revealing his sky blue Mercedes convertible.   My husband waited, a little confused, as he heard the tweet of the key fob and soon Bennie pulled- out of the garage, moving his arm to push the button to roll down the front window.  He called my husband over to him, pointed to the tires, and said, “We’ll run him over!”

They both guffawed and then instantly took on the serious tone of former leaders of men with a mission.  My husband used his broad shoulders to take a position in between the car and the spider. He lifted both arms simultaneously like a member of a ground crew signaling a plane’s arrival at the gate.  He put his pointer fingers up and waived Benny forward.  The men’s eyes met and mirrored each other’s intense focus.

“To the left, Bennie, left.  A little more.  No, missed him.  Back up.  Back up now. Go back!”  Frank mumbled, “Get in the game, for Christ sake!  Concentrate.”

Bennie, who is a little hard of hearing, put his head out the window and asked, “Did we get him?”

“No!  We didn’t get him.  Come on!” Frank shook his head in frustration.  “No, we missed him.”

 My husband moved closer to Bennie than back.  “Try it again.  Finesse it!”

My husband took his position, spread his legs to give him extra balance, lifted up his arms and directed Bennie.  The wide Mercedes tire was eventually directly in front of the spider.

“Little more.  Little more. Go Right. Right.  Little More…  Got him!”

My husband’s feet left the floor as he and Bennie cheered.  They hooted as if the NY Giants had just scored a field goal to again win the Super Bowl.  My husband rushed up to the car and the two Olympians high fived.

“Good job,” Bennie shouted.  “That was teamwork!”

Bennie backed up his Mercedes passed his garage to the one for Unit 210.  Then, turned right and pulled his car into the garage.  He closed the garage using the keypad and said, “Hey that was a workout. I’m going to have a scotch to celebrate.” 

“See you later,” my husband said feeling content.  He headed up the steps instead of using the elevator to get to the second floor.  Midway up, he partially collapsed because the ridiculousness of it all hit him at once.  He just couldn’t stop laughing.  “I was laughing so hard I was afraid I wasn’t going to make it up here without peeing my pants.” 

His laughter was contagious so the two of us stood in the kitchen laughing as we haven’t had in a while.

Then, when my husband finally caught his breath and said, “Another job well done.  Time for a nap."

Couples Credit?

As someone who was once employed by my spouse, I had lots of experience with him getting credit for what was actually my work.  If I wrote a grant, newsletter, or article for him, inevitably, he read it, paused, contemplated, grabbed a pen, and made one tiny swipe of his huge hand to add a comma.  He smiled, sat back in his high, burgundy-upholstered office chair and said, “That’s better.”  He looked over his glasses at me on the other side of his mahogany desk, as if I were a peon and added, “That comma made all the difference.” 

Instantly, the unfairness of it all simmered in my chest and I came close to erupting into an explosive argument, but I held my tongue.  After all, I reasoned that his organization paid me for my words, so they were now his.  But does the same rule apply in our personal relationship?

For a few years, my husband and I drove every Sunday from our home in PA to NJ to visit his mother in a nursing home.  Each time, we had the same argument.  All the way down Route 78, until we exited into the suburban town, I instructed, “Pull over.  We’re going to a bakery.  We’re bringing your Mom some pastries.”

“She doesn’t need any damn, pastries!  She gets all the food she needs.”

“You pull over right now.  We’re not going there empty-handed.  Where are your manners?  A few baked goods really make her day.  She can share them with her friends.”

“I’m not pulling over. You’ll be in there for a freaking half hour.”

“Pull over, now!”

Inevitably, I won.  I rushed into the bakery and pointed to various display cases filling one box with Italian cookies, another with brownies, and still another with a cheese Danish ring.  I fumbled through my wallet to pay and tip the lady in white because she responded to my anxiety and got everything ready so quickly.

I felt content and proud of myself as I carried the tower of white bakery boxes, tied with string, to the automatic glass door of the nursing home.  But, since I was unable to navigate ice and snow with my hands so filled with delights, my husband said, “Here, let me take those for you.”

 I relinquished the boxes, so that I could ensure that my Sunday best outfit was not covered with powdered sugar.   I brushed off my skirt and did my final primping as we walked down a maze of hallways.  Then, just as we entered my mother- in-law's room, where she waited facing the door in her wheel chair, my husband inched in front of me like a thundering race horse, nose to nose, with another at the finish line.  He’d lift up the three boxes slightly, with just a barely noticeable shrug of his shoulders, as if to say, “Lookee, here!”  Then, the celebration started.

His mother’s arms lifted towards the ceiling, in a Baptist Halleluiah gesture, and came back down as if folded in a prayer of Thanksgiving.  She put her eyes down for a moment and shook her praying hands forward and back.

“My a son, My a son.  Look what he brings me.  He’s such a good boy!  I’m the luckiest Momma on earth.  Come give me a hug.  Oh by the way…Hello to you.”

So what’s wrong with letting my husband look good in his mother’s eye? But what about when he does it with my own family?

When we lived in PA and had a pool, deck, hot tub, and volleyball court, our place was the spot to gather for Fourth of July and Memorial Weekend events.  My husband pushed a stocked shopping cart through BJ’s while I selected baby back ribs, flank steaks, and sausages.  All the while, he tagged along behind me mumbling swear words --that cleaned up a bit amounted to, “Throw a freaking hot dog on the goddamn grill!  Why do you have to get all this crap?  Because they're your brothers?”

After an amazing day of drinks, volleyball, swimming and incredible food, my brothers and sisters and their spouses lined up at the front door to say their goodbyes.  Each one passed me by, grabbed my husband’s hand in a hearty handshake, then rethought it, and wrapped theirs arms around his big shoulders in a grateful bear hug, and said, “My man, Frank, you throw the best parties!”

It’s one thing to be recognized for fine backyard grilling, but now that my husband has retired, his credit- seeking ways have penetrated other areas-- like the kitchen.  He would have never dreamed of getting involved there before.  As I rush from the refrigerator to the stove, putting the final touches on pot roast, stuffed cabbage, loin of pork or filet mignon, he has been known to enter the kitchen from the other doorway.  He waits until I’m in the dining room setting the table, he looks left, then right, to make sure the coast is clear, and stealthily adds a dash of pepper to whatever I’m cooking.  That’s it.  One dash of pepper. 

After guests take their first bite and I straighten my posture in my dining room chair preparing to be garnished with accolades, my husband clears his throat.  Just in time to interrupt the first tidbit of praise, he states, “Ya know, she’s a good cook, but I put the finishing touches on this dish with my secret formula.”

Amidst the “Ohhs and Ahhs” and “Delicious, Frank!” I fume.  What?  You’ve got to be kidding me?  All you did was add pepper-- which it didn’t even need, I might add!

The thing that I find most upsetting about this credit stealing conduct is that my husband has so many of his own talents to be recognized.  He has a PhD.  He was a successful Superintendent of Schools.  He can do any home repair.  He recently added crown molding to our living room and raised panel molding to our dining room.  He installed hanging lights above our kitchen counter—demonstrating electrical skill.  He’s even a better golfer.  Why does he need to take credit for my only skills, writing and cooking?

When couples recently visited our condo in Florida for an indoor Memorial Day barbecue, they were so impressed with how beautiful our tile floor looked. My husband had purchased beige grout stain online.  He spent an entire weekend, on his knees, applying the grout stain with a toothbrush into every dark line of our 1800 square foot condo that has tile in every single room.

As each guest asked about our floors, since grout lines are a big topic of discussion in our neck of the woods, I stepped in front of my husband and said, “It took me hours.  I rolled up and down the rooms in my office chair, leaning way over and painting every single line by hand, myself, with a tooth brush.  It was backbreaking work!”  I put on my best martyr face.

My guests were interested for all of one second.  One wife turned fully away from me, rubbing her hands together in anticipation, and said,

“I can’t wait to see what Frank made for dinner tonight.”