Patsy Porco

Posts Tagged ‘marriage’

Let Me Lead!

In dance, Humor on June 3, 2018 at 9:17 pm

My husband and I took an hour-long dance lesson at a local Fred Astaire Dance Studio this past week.

A beautiful, young, Russian dancer, Tatiana, taught us the steps to the foxtrot, the rumba, and the merengue. I didn’t think my husband would enjoy the lessons but he surprised me. When Tatiana told me that my husband would lead every dance, his eyes twinkled. When we coupled up to dance and I automatically started to push him around the dance floor, he would stop dancing and say, “Let me lead!”

Tatiana, probably tired of my resistance, told me that I had to suppress my urge to run the show and allow my husband to take charge. That was really hard for me. But I tried. Like learning dance steps, I realized that learning to surrender control to another person takes time and practice.

When we got home, we practiced everything we had learned. Dancing on our own, without supervision, was the most difficult part of the dance lesson. Neither one of us could remember the order of the steps to the three dances, or even the actual steps.

At first, I thought that we had just wasted an hour of our life. But I had to concede that it was an enjoyable hour. So, even if we still couldn’t dance, we did have fun together, as well as a topic to dine out on, so it wasn’t a waste of time at all.

And, best of all, since we forgot all of the dance steps, we also can forget the part about my husband leading.

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Peanuts and Concrete

In Humor on June 23, 2017 at 6:07 pm

whiskey barrelOne of the whiskey barrels on our deck had rotted and was falling apart. No, there wasn’t whiskey spilling out all over the deck. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be complaining, which is what I’m about to be doing.

What was spilling out between the rotten wooden planks was dirt … and Styrofoam peanuts. Hundreds, if not thousands of Styrofoam peanuts. Maybe millions. At least it seemed like millions to me while I separated the peanuts from the dirt they were embedded in.

I went inside the house for a break, and to malign the former owners of our home.

“You know those whiskey barrels on the deck?” I asked my husband.

“You mean the half-barrels?” he responded.

“Yes, whatever,” I said. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“You’re the one who’s always correcting people about the proper use of words and grammar,” he said.

I sighed. “You’re right. Okay, yes, the half-barrels.”

“What about them?”

“Well,” I said, “The one closest to the grill was falling apart, so I took out the slats and removed the metal rings around the barrel. Guess what was inside?”

“Styrofoam peanuts,” he said.

“How did you know that?” I asked, flabbergasted.

He looked at me in the way that signifies he’s going to leave the room and end the conversation. I grabbed his arm to make him stay.

“Let go of my arm!” he said.

“Not until you answer me,” I said.

“I saw some peanuts lying around the half-whiskey barrel.”

“Didn’t you wonder where they came from” I asked, as I released his arm.

“No.”

I breathed deeply. “Well, the former owners of our house filled the bottom of the barrel — do not correct me and say half-barrel or I’ll kill you — with those damn peanuts instead of dirt or rocks. Then they threw in a bunch of wood to take up even more space before they added dirt. Now we’ve got mounds of dirt, peanuts, and wood on the deck that I have to clean up.”

“Nobody told you to take it apart.”

“It was an eyesore!” I kind of yelled.

“Are you asking for help?” my husband asked.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m just letting off steam. Can you even believe that they took that shortcut, without thinking of the mess they were leaving us?”

“They probably weren’t thinking of future owners of their house when they did it,” he said. “Those half-barrels have been here for the 11 years we’ve lived here and probably for many years before then.”

“Don’t take up for those inconsiderate jerks,” I said. “We never would have done such a thing.”

“Sure we would have,” he said. “In fact, we did.”

“When?” I spluttered.

“When the former owners of our last house left piles of broken concrete next to the garage and, right after we moved in, you had me dig a giant hole in the backyard and bury the concrete.”

“That was different,” I said.

“How, exactly?”

“We had to bury it. The dump wouldn’t accept it and Norwalk forbids putting building materials in the trash.”

“But we still left a hole filled with concrete for the new owners. If they ever decide to plant something in that exact spot, they’re going to be very angry,” he said.

I thought about that for a minute.

“I’m going back outside,” I said. “The next time I want to complain, I’m going to tell someone else.”

“Oh, please don’t,” he said.

He didn’t sound very sincere.

peanuts

Addendum: After this was published, my friend, Christine, an environmentalist and gardener extraordinaire, posted an explanation on my Facebook wall (where this story also appeared) for the use of peanuts and wood in planters. It turns out that the former owners of our house weren’t inconsiderate jerks after all. Only we were.

Christine’s Comments: Uses for Foam Packing Peanuts: Check out #10: “Pour peanuts into a large pot and add soil to boost drainage and make it easier to move.”

Use of Wood: It’s permaculture practice to bury old pieces of wood because they absorb water and, as they compost, they release lots of good stuff into the soil. I don’t do the peanuts but I do bury lots of wood and it works wonderfully. I don’t have to water as often. When I read your story, permaculture was the first thing I thought of. That and the fact that I’ve found several pits of buried concrete in the yard usually just where I want to plant a tree!

‘Til Death Do Us Part

In Humor, Marriage on January 20, 2015 at 12:47 am

I was sick all weekend, including today, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day—a paid vacation day at my company. No Marty Party for me (credit my husband for that fun phrase). All of my ailments were in my head and face, which I’m being treated for, so I dutifully took my handful of pills and lazed around the house. Then I got a burning sensation in the center of my chest. My husband said that I had heartburn, but I knew better. I told him that I was dying and that we’d better get our will written—stat. He told me to lie down (code for “knock it off and be quiet”).

He then surprised me. “Hey, do me a favor,” he said. “When you die, will you give me a sign from the next life so that I know there is one?” I wasn’t surprised at his request for me to contact him. But, I was surprised that he needed proof that there was a next life; Catholics are supposed to know this for a fact.

“What kind of sign?” I asked.

“How about flicking the lights in the house three times, when I’m home, the day after you die?”

“I guess I could do that,” I said. “But what if there’s an electrical storm that day and everyone’s lights are flickering?”

He gave that some thought. “You’re right. We need a backup plan.”

We pondered for a while and then he said, “Play our wedding song on the station I’m listening to in the car the day after you die.”

“You want me to play Summer Wind, sung by Frank Sinatra, on the classic-rock station you listen to?”

“Yeah, that’s a good plan. Then I’ll know you’re contacting me from beyond.”

“But, how am I going to get a rock DJ to play Frank Sinatra? Or, what if you’re listening to that 24-hour sports-talk station?”

“You’ll figure something out,” he said.

Suddenly, my heartburn was worse than ever.

State of the Marriage Address

In Humor on September 11, 2014 at 1:08 pm

I walked into my kitchen and my husband was sitting at the table, drinking coffee, and complaining about me to former-president Bill Clinton. Bill was empathizing with my husband, and adding his own complaints about his wife.

“This has to be a dream,” I thought. “This can’t be happening.” But I wasn’t sure, because my dream life is often remarkably similar to my awake life.

Either way, something had to be done, so I put in a call to Hillary and told her what was going on. She was not pleased.

She and I are getting together next week to complain about our husbands. It did turn out to be a dream, after all, so scheduling our meeting is going to be a little tricky, but nothing a former-Secretary of State’s assistant can’t handle.

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