Tag Archives: couples

Sharing the bed

My husband stumbles to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I take advantage of the opportunity and reposition the extra pillows onto his side. I also slide the border-defining cat (referred to as “Brother”) back into what I decide is the middle of the bed. I lie on my back and hope 3 a.m. is too early for any spacial commentary.

Groggy husband climbs back into our bed, now wanting to sleep on his back too.

“Move your elbow, it’s on my side.”

“Seriously? Let me just reattach it to my kneecap.”

No response.

Absolutely no response.

I turn on my side and deservingly so, end up face-to-face with cat number 2 (“other Brother”) wanting to sleep on my half of the bed.

Marriage Encounter

After 27 years together in this house,  I know my husband’s preferred routines. While other people would say he’s a softy, easy-going  and  down-to-earth, some of his habits are near militant:

– the man likes his steel-cut oatmeal in the morning;

– knives AND forks need to be pointed down in the dishwasher;

– a whirring fan sound from childhood must continue through every single, solitary night;

– the TV remote belongs next to Papa bear’s chair;

– his collection of T-shirts do not go in the dryer;

– a certain pen must stay in the memo holder, even though there’s a huge basket of pens next to it;

– hubby needs ALL his beard grooming products next to the sink; 

– the coffee corner is ritualesque and has a feng shui, so it should not be disrupted; 

– he does not talk until after the first cup “o Joe;

– he turns on the two salt lamps before bed…

…He is also not a softy, only sometimes easy-going, and always earth-shattering.



Photo credit: Trisha Crowe

Magic Carpet Ride

I don’t own a transforming genie, am not a person of great monetary wealth and am not bewitched. However, if I close my eyes in Durham, New Hampshire I am instantly transformed to a palace 80 miles away.

Thank you to the Aladdin of my life for our open air Jeep time. It was a great way to spend a magical afternoon – and take a nap on the way home.

Love, Jasmine


It’s the middle of the night in New England but I am at the Daytona 500. My menopausal self awakens and discovers my body in our overheated bed. It’s no longer warm from our laps around the track. Instead I am flush red, and there’s a pit crew in my head, taking the blankets on and off as fast as they can. The flurry of activity finally helps me cool down and get back on track to sleep. 

I am dreaming of the finish line although there are hundreds of laps ahead.  I want this race to end, so I can earn the trophy back. 

Welcome to their World World

I took my elderly, but physically and mentally capable, parents on a grocery trip today. As we approached the supermarket, Ma reminds, “Don’t forget to take a basket this time.”

“OK, I know.” my father obeys.

Wondering why an 85-year-old man has to carry a week’s worth of groceries, I bite.

“Why does Dad need a basket? Don’t you guys push a carriage?”

My ‘what will the neighbors say’ Mom explains that they sometimes split up in the grocery store. Evidently, Dad meets back with his haul for a couple of aisles. When he unloads his arms, he also takes items out of his pant pockets. To him, those pockets are a practical and smart way to transport his personal selections. To my mother, it’s a criminal and front page police news article that will transport him to the slammer.

We arrive at our destination and even though I’m driving, we all agree on a space.

I was ready for my walk around the store.

My mother starts off by heading to aisle 4 and my father stops in dairy. He looks at all the butter and selects nothing. We find my mother looking at oils. She asks why he wrote canola on the list? They’ve been buying vegetable for  60 years?

I think my jailbait father was trying to justify his culinary spontaneity as I went back to the dairy aisle to find some yogurt.

A few minutes later, I find my father doing time at the deli and my Mom cutting down aisle 12. I think the efficiencies are now kicking in.


She zig-bags back for half-and-half while he takes his basket toward 12 for hard crust bread.

I decide to use the time to pick up candy for the office. I tell them I’ll meet them in produce.

When I find them, they are discussing the lasagna. He already looked. She looks too. His favorite pre-prepared lasagna splurge is nowhere to be found.

Or so I thought.

There is plenty of lasagna, just none packaged with his expected two meatballs. My mother moves into management mode and pulls someone from behind the counter. I lean on a paper towel display to absorb the situation. It is explained for the third time.

The counter help thinks she’s helping when she points out the lasagna.

“There aren’t any meatballs my mother explains.”

“Oh! I can put that combination together for you in just a moment.”

She moves back behind the counter as my father says, “Thank you. I love that spinach lasagna.”

“Ahhh, spinach lasagna. That’s a different story. I can show you where that is.”


So, with that over and us no longer near produce, my father states he’ll be right back with celery and a green pepper.

My mother goes to the back of the store to pick out a pork loin.

I hang out with the turkeys and pumpkins. They too are waiting for their big moment to leave.

Feeling like a lost child, I remained in the spot where I last saw my parents. They both come back. My mother references her short grocery list for the fifteenth time. I think we are all set.

“Do we need anything else?” she asks.

Sounding like a lost child, I hear my father whisper: “I’d like some apple cider.”

“I looked for it earlier. I even asked. It’s down the first aisle with the milk. They only have it in gallons.” She is very matter-of-fact.

My adult father is back and explains there are probably half gallons near the apples.

I tell my mom I’ll circle back with my dad and we’ll be right back. We walk arm-in-arm to produce. I feel like I’ve been there before.

We quickly find the cider, put it in his basket and head back to meet my mother at the carriage.

The carriage is where we left it. My mother is not.

We stay where we are and wait.My father unloads his basket. We wait. We wait. We wait.

Here she comes…and she too has found a HALF gallon of cider!

One culinary equation is solved twice.

I announce that I’m checked out, I mean, checking out.

The errands with my parents had become a chore.  I was trippin’ and felt like a basket case.