My nemesis, a Smartphone

On Valentine’s Day I found my husband snuggled up in bed with his cell phone. I always knew they were having a sordid affair.

I thought he was still sleeping when I snuck back into our bedroom only to be greeted by the sight of his Smartphone cupped lovingly in his palm. On the universal day of love, that darn phone got the first expression of devotion.

He was blatantly romancing that phone, I tell you.

And I hate it. If I am ever left alone with that thing, I can’t vouch for the consequences of my jealous behavior, especially if there’s a toilet or taser gun around.  

Often of an evening, as I watch him caress its screen and stare at it in obvious appreciation, I ask myself, What does that thing have that I don't have? But too well do I know that it provides my husband with the kind of company that I cannot:

It never argues over directions. It provides them placidly, and he doesn’t even object when it redirects or gives orders
.

It doesn’t speak unless commanded, but when it does, it never nags or raises its ladylike voice in irritation.

It provides an endless array of apps and games for his amusement during those ever so long commercial breaks, plus access to all the knowledge the world has ever known whenever he’s feeling slightly bored or quizzical.

It entertains him for long stretches in the bathroom.

I simply can’t compete.

If I detest the phone, I’m certain it feels the same about me. Whenever I try to scroll across its screen with my thumb, it jumps, protests and encourages me to plagiarize websites by asking innocently if I want to copy their material, forcing me to hand it back to my husband. When I tap it with my nail, it mocks me as it bounces the icon around.

And it ignores me. My husband mysteriously doesn’t get my texts for sometimes a half hour or more after they’ve been sent. Maybe it considers messages from my flip phone beneath it.

Recently, I tried to call him at the store. He had his phone on him but though he had glanced at it only moments before, he didn’t hear the call. He only saw the notification that he had a voicemail. From me. Again.

That phone is laughing at me with a gleeful ringtone that I think I hear late at night while everyone else is asleep.

He says I should try to get along with it. Treat it nicer. Learn to use it properly. Speak to it with respect instead of calling it stupid. Maybe then it’ll give priority to my calls.

But I’m afraid the animosity is too great, and I feel the great woman-versus-technology battle brewing.

If ever my husband asks me to move over in bed, so the cell phone can rest from its hard day’s work someplace other than the floor or dresser, I’ll know it has arrived.

If ever he invites it to dinner, setting a place at the table with its charger, I’ll know the time has come to pull the plug on my rival.

If he ever tells me that he and the phone are going for a walk, just the two of them, on a moonlit night, well…

Perhaps I’m just a crazy, jealous girl who needs her own Smartphone, so I can understand the infatuation. Maybe I should hold my own fascinating conversations with Siri, share my most intimate moments with a a piece of technology, do all my best writing with the help of a tiny keyboard.

Nah.

I could never respect anyone who expects me to tell them what to do all the time, who doesn't even know how to show emotion.

I could never fall in love with a dummy.

Big Foot, Brad Paisley and an Honest Man

Love means never having to say you're sorry

My hormones ate the housework, the cheese and, possibly, the children

A favorite Uncle

I was a cute little squirt but a brat sometimes, too

When my family lived in Tennessee, we didn't often see relatives, no regular Sunday visits with grandparents, no holiday gatherings, no large birthday celebrations. Most of our extended family lived in Idaho where my parents grew up, first met, married and welcomed all four of their children.

I loved growing up in Tennessee, but I acknowledge that more time with the many aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents would have been welcome and enriching. However, I also have very vivid memories of the rare, happy occasions when we did have visitors to that 98 acre farm in Tennessee.

Lately, I have been thinking of the good times we had when my Uncle Art, with whom my mother was very close growing up, came to see us and of the special, simple memory I have of my uncle's kindness to me.

Uncle Art's family lived in Florida, and they came up one summer over Independence Day to celebrate with us.

For the most part I remember running around with my cousins - often down the lane to the creek, sometimes in the field, hula-hooping and playing in the huge yard and sloped driveway.

I also remember that I was somewhat of a brat at that stage in my life, a not uncommon ailment of children in general but of the youngest child in particular. Honestly, I was probably past somewhat and fully in the territory of awful.

The memories may not be wholly accurate, but I seem to recall the night of the 4th of July very well. Dad and Uncle Art shot off fireworks from the yard into the field, and Dad did his best to corral our large Labrador Reuben to keep him from chasing after them and burning his mouth when they plummeted and he tried to retrieve them.

We kids watched the fireworks, but we were frenetic, running back and forth between the house - where there was probably food - and the side yard where our parents sat in lawn chairs beneath a starry but now smoking sky.

Now every spring and summer in Tennessee we had to encounter a bunch of creatures, some not very pleasant to look upon. One of those creatures that I hated the most was the slug. They would slime their way across our front porch in hordes it seemed. Though some salt poured on generously would solve the problem, it was a cruel and revolting solution - possibly more disgusting than the large, squishy, slippery slugs themselves.

On that night I was coming out of the house barefoot in a rush, and, though I would typically navigate around them in horror, I stepped on a large slug full force before I knew it.

I began caterwauling, bemoaning my terrible fate on such a beautiful, celebratory night. I shrieked my way around the side of the house where I attempted to tell the adults of my horrendous circumstances and the thick smear of slime which I could even still feel on the bottom of my foot. My parents had very little patience with me, I think; a slug is a slug, and that's the shakes when you go barefoot on a warm, humid night in the South. But I was beside myself with the horror of it all, inconsolable.

My Uncle Art was the one adult who had pity on me. He took me on his lap gently, hugged me and spoke soothingly to remind me that a slug really is just a slug, another thing of the world. He probably assured me that my foot would surely not fall off, that I would survive this night, and that I should watch the splendid fireworks over the field to distract myself. I don't know exactly what he said or what he did to calm me, but I do remember feeling loved and comforted and cared for. My hope for a fun night was renewed.

It's such a little thing, I know, but I still remember what my Uncle Art did for me when I had the misfortune to step on a slug. And I remember very well that though I had not perhaps really seen Uncle Art before that summer and didn't see him again for many, many years after, I took a shine to him very quickly, and he has remained one of my favorite uncles to this day.

Messy Revenge

Someday my children will be adults or close enough, and I have no doubt that they will maintain a lovely, spotless home. This will either be because they do not yet have children, keep a maid, or run a tight shift of sanitary misery in their family.

OR it will be due to the thousands upon thousands of times in a row that I told them to clear dishes, put away shoes, and pick up toys and dirty clothes as they were growing up.

Apparently, parents must tell their children these things thousands – perhaps millions - of times for the kids to finally form good, cleanly habits. Someone should research exactly how long it takes, so we parents can better prepare for the frustration. Then we can compassionately intone, “Oh I understand, honey. I have to tell you at least 2,483,210 more times before you can finally learn to do it on your own, but I still want you to clear that cereal bowl. ”

Or perhaps, quite simply, our admonishments will only stick after they have left our homes, entered their own spaces, and finally decided that they care to live in decent, socially-acceptable conditions.

But, I assure you, all that cleanliness will go to pot when I come to visit my mature children for three weeks every year.

I will pointedly leave my dinner dishes on the table every night, deposit my stinky knee-highs wherever I please and – while visiting our sons -strongly encourage their dad to miss the toilet when he pees. Every single time.

That is called sweet revenge, and I’m looking forward to it.

Each week as I gaze upon the yellow puddles at the back and bottom of the guest commode, my gripes fester as I recall my boys’ cries of, “It wasn’t me! It’s him. Really!”, as they point toward their brother.

Each evening post-bedtime and every morning after school drop-off, I survey all the littered clothing and errant dishes and sticky surfaces, and I contemplate a future reversal of roles.

I think of my children asking me sweetly, as I have surely asked of them all these years, to please clear my dishes and put my smelly footwear in a hamper and ask their father not to make such a mess of the restroom. Then I dream of the selective hearing I will have, the dumb stares of incomprehension I will turn their way, and the many tired answers – after their fifth or sixth time of asking – I will give of, “Oh, I forgot.”

Am I a bitter mother? Oh, no! I love my little Punky Pants, each and every one of them. But if it weren’t for their handmade cards and notes of appreciation, insane ability to make me laugh and smile, and the fact that they do sometimes pick up dog poop, I would have given them notice years ago for not pulling their weight around here.

As it is, I must look to my revenge.

Our pint-sized Romeo

My youngest boy who will soon be six, Danny Sam, has a major crush on an older girl. It has been going on since before he started kindergarten, when he first clapped eyes on her at his big brother's soccer practice. Perhaps it might never have developed into a crush if the older girl had not, in an attempt to win my oldest son's approval, said about his little brother, "Ah, he's so cute!"

Thereafter, any time she saw my sweet little Danny, she gave him a hug, stealing his heart by degrees.

Hmmpf.

It was then that Danny began to say that this older girl in his brother's grade - we'll call her "Adeline" - was his girlfriend. He was very confident in proclaiming it.

Not long ago he was coloring a picture for school, and I asked why the girl in the picture was scribbled over. He replied, "Because I only like one girl."

Who could that be? His dear mother? One of his classmates? No.

"Adeline," he stated as he continued to scribble.

Our little Romeo even declared one day that he had a true love. Someone, quite surprised to hear a kindergartner say this, asked him who that might be.

"Adeline."

Adeline-Schmadeline.

My husband joked that it's a pretty good match, because they're about the same height. (Adeline is a very petite girl.) We all laughed it up, of course, but I was beginning to feel like the domineering mother who believes no one is good enough for her son - certainly not a girl in middle school.

I've gone so far as to tell Berto that he had best tell his friend to stop toying with the affections of my little boy by hugging him and telling him how cute he is every time she sees him, but when he asks me if I really want him to, I always recant. What's the use anyway?

After all, Berto recently broke it to Danny that Adeline was seeing his good friend Michael. Daniel was downcast, heartbroken, but he soon cheered up.

"I'll win her back!" he declared. He then asked his papa if he could invite Adeline and Michael to his birthday party. Just what public humiliation he was preparing for his rival, we'll never know. His papa said no.

And so it goes on and on. For Valentine's Day he drew a picture of Adeline and him walking together with Cupid hovering above them, one of his arrows lodged in my little guy's heart. Where does he pick up all this love language? Is he reading Shakespeare behind my back, barely tolerating the simple bedtime stories full of dinosaurs and cute animals? For crying out loud, he's only six-years-old! What kind of romantic dramas await us in the future, I wonder.

A teacher's aide in Danny's class came up to me before school last week and said, "I have to tell you something Daniel said. It's so cute." I think she was surprised to see that I had previous knowledge and to hear my disgruntled clucks and grunts when she revealed that Danny said he had a girlfriend in middle school. I tried to act like I thought it was as cute as she did, but I probably failed. My daughter Ana explained that this has been going on for a while.

It's getting serious. Daniel recently told me that if I could give him a little cash, he could take Adeline to McDonald's. He is planning dates, and he seems to have forgotten all about poor Michael.

But no matter how often he declares his admiration for Adeline, I remain obstinate in my firm belief that no gal could replace his mama in our little fast-food-loving, older-woman-chasing Romeo's heart.

At least not yet, but who knows who might catch his eye when he becomes a first grader!

Love stories for a leap day

It was leap day, and I thought I didn't care. I was going to let it pass like any other, but for the first time in a week, I got onto social media that morning and was reminded that the day comes only every four years. It's an extra day, a sort of gift.

So my first thought was about my husband. We should have made plans to spend special time together, at least more time than we usually do on a Monday full of work, soccer practices and religious education. I called my man, but he had no extra time because of meetings. It was a day like any other.

What else was an intelligent, feeling woman to do?

I considered shopping but the idea was insipid. There was only one thing to do. If I couldn't have my man, I must have my writing, another love.

On Leap Day I wanted to finally begin addressing a topic here about which I am very passionate: love stories - the great love stories, classic tales of pure passion.

If you are thinking of any book with the word "Fifty" in its title, I must disabuse you of the notion. I wrote "love", "great" and "classic". That book is disqualified.

[I haven't read it, so undoubtedly some will think I'm being unfair, but that book angers me. It angers me that any woman would confess to a man that she has read it in a world where terrible violence against women is so common and under-addressed. I would rather no man ever thought that we secretly longed to be stalked, disrespected, used, abused and bought.

Apparently, it has also spawned a genre called Babes and Billionaires. Bah!

My 13-year-old son said that there were girls in his class who said they couldn't wait for the "Grey" movie to come out. God help us! It's like a cancer destined to rot people's minds and intentions and purer desires for real love and respect. I acknowledge I haven't read it, but I have read reviews of some of the salacious, disturbing details contained in its pages, and I can only hope that no woman would EVER let her children know she has read it, thereby leading them to believe that she condones its content or that it represents a great tale of love for her.

For my part as a romantically-inclined woman, give me North and South with its insightful social commentary instead! Or Pride and Prejudice in which Darcy and Elizabeth make each other better people, learning humility, forgiveness, charity and selflessness on their journey to love!

There, we're done with that. If I am being unfair, you may tell me so.]

The great tales of love that I esteem are all classics. Their characters have stood the test of time and their actions represent such profound and now too often neglected ideas of honor, loyalty, compassion, sacrifice, and selfless, transforming love. Like any truly great piece of literature, they enrich our experience and our worldview; make us reflect, believe and examine ourselves; deftly reveal the grittier parts of our nature and our proclivities without glorifying them; and remind us that we should always try to be better people for those we love and for the betterment of society in general.

They are, to name a few

Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion by Jane Austen

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell

Far from the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy.

Middlemarch by George Eliot

These are the stories I do or will recommend to my children and friends. These stories I delight in watching with my husband when they are translated into film.

I thought I would share some excerpts of the grand ideas that used to inhabit our romantic tales before we turned scoundrels into heroes, before the selfish, shallow and manipulative Wickhams and Sergeant Troys of literature somehow became our Mr. Darcys and Gabriel Oaks. We all know that literature would be flat without such rotten characters as Wickham in Austen's Pride and Prejudice, but at least there was a time in our storytelling when they were revealed to be villains and their actions to be false and self-gratifying. The women who were deceived by them and their cajolery were afterwards better equipped to acknowledge a good and steady man.

The humble, hardworking and loyal Gabriel Oak in Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd is, for instance, just such a humble, strong and loyal hero. He has the courage and the integrity to say to impulsive, well-off Bathsheba, the woman he loves but who does not love him:

"My opinion is (since you ask it) that you are greatly to blame for playing pranks upon a man like Mr. Boldwood, merely as a pastime. Leading on a man you don't care for is not a praiseworthy action."

Bravo, Gabriel!

Our romantic heroines were also made of sterner stuff, could not be won with mere money, had greater understanding and a greater capacity for self-examination once upon a time. For what are the thoughts of Margaret Hale of North and South when she finds that the man she rejected - Mr. Thornton, the manufacturer whom she yet respects - has found her out in a lie and has nevertheless acted to protect her from the consequences of her choice despite her recent refusal of him?

If she had but dared to bravely tell the truth as regarded herself, defying them to find out what she had refused to tell concerning another, how light of heart she would have now felt! Not humbled before God, as having failed in trust towards him; not degraded and abased in Mr. Thornton's sight.

Where are such sentiments in contemporary literature? I hope such ideals are present in which even simple, brave honesty is something to which people still aspire.

And what does the great and incomparable Darcy say to Elizabeth when he finally wins her after initial alienation because of his pride?

"I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper...

What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."

Lastly, I wanted to quote from Jane Eyre. I have heard that Gothic romance compared to a soap opera, and I understand why to some degree, but I argue here for the characters and their moral battles. Rochester deceived Jane in his quest for peace and happiness, and he is ruled by his moods and passions, a volatile man with whom I can personally relate. But he also tries to rescue his crazy wife from death by a fire she started and rears a child who is not his own. Before Jane leaves him, because she will not be with a man who has a wife (preferring to lose her livelihood and risk her life to keep her integrity), Rochester grabs her in frustration. It is then he acknowledges that the woman he really loves is not a mere physical frame but is - more vitally - a beautiful mind, heart and soul.

"Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it - the savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage will only let the captive loose. Conqueror I might be of the house; but the inmate would escape to heaven before I could call myself possessor of its dwelling-place. And it is you, spirit - with will and energy, and virtue and purity - that I want: not alone your brittle frame."

Jane is the more admirable person in that relationship, but Rochester is at last transformed by his love for her, humbled, and renewed.

Great love stories are not simply about sexual desire. In the best tales the lovers improve each other in myriad ways on the fascinating way to deep love and respect, and love has room to grow even on a very circuitous journey. Sexual satisfaction is not held up as the begin all, end all, be all. Spiritual growth and moral strength are the measuring sticks of relationships.

Those are my thoughts, at least, and these are the stories I don't blush to recommend to others. What great romantic tales have I overlooked or undervalued that you would proudly share with your friends and children?