I'm a Kid! How can I be a Grand-parent?

I haven't been blogging in this space for quite awhile, but with the "extra" hours of this coronavirus flat circle of time, I returned.

Since last posting, I have published another book, continued with my biblical studies, and kept in pretty good physical shape. Despite these consistencies, and feeling internally just as I always have, something happened to me that re-defines my position in life.

It started when my kids were teenagers. My son, the third of my children, for instance, at age 17 started dating a very beautiful redhead. Post high-school, he spent a year abroad, dreaming of her and trying to find internet connections so they could communicate.

Five years after he met her, my son married this lovely, smart, loyal woman, who continued in her own education to become an oncology nurse. They had a breathtakingly lovely wedding and, despite my son's youth, soon found themselves expecting a baby.

But wait! I'm supposed to be the Mommy! You're supposed to be the baby!

Nevertheless, they produced the most physically perfect little red-headed daughter, who burst from the womb with n unstoppable personality and before a blink, an amazing vocabulary (albeit with the most charming pronunciations).

But...me a grandma? Impossible. Everyone inquired, "What's your 'grandma name' going to be?" I didn't want one. I finally said, okay, little Julia can call me what my own firstborn was able to say earliest: "Meh-Meh."

But Julia couldn't say the shvah "eh" sound, so I became "Mimi." I didn't choose Mimi. I chose Mommy, Mama and Mom. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt.

Julia started toddling and became increasingly irresistible. Then she got a job: flower girl at her aunt's wedding. She was to wear a fern wreath on her hair and walk down the aisle dropping rose petals. The wedding, on Memorial Day in a forest,  was exquisite. Julia refused the wreath, eschewed the petals, and paused along the walkway. And stole the show, at least for a few minutes.

Several months later, Julia got a baby sister, Emily. A dark-haired beauty whose language is smiles. But it was too late to start over: I am Mimi, like it or not.

Several months more, and now, in June, 2020, in the midst of coronavirus craziness, the bride Julia momentarily upstaged gave birth. A boy! Definitely the cutest little boy to ever fill a mama's forearm. And I'm no longer to deny my status. Yes, I'm a...Mimi.

So, Mazel tov to my daughter and son-in-law on the arrival of little Micah, and continued pride to my son and daughter-in-law on the ongoing accomplishments of Julia and Emily as they wend through toddler-hood into childhood, and remind me that time does not freeze. In fact, they say it's like a roll of toilet paper: It goes faster the closer you get to the end. (Back to that river in Egypt!)

Wife Keeps her Name at Marriage--and Other Ways to Get Respect

An article last week in in the New York Times argued every-which-way about changing or retaining names at marriage. It provoked a huge response, because the central issue isn't really about keeping a name, but retaining respect as an individual.

The piece mainly described women's dilemmas and choices, noting that men haven't rushed to claim their wives' names. A Lesbian couple made their own mashup: Ms. Rothman and Ms. Gerkin became the Gerkmans. (Seems odd; classmates of any future children could taunt "Jerk-Man!" and their choice includes "man" when neither partner is one.)

"Third wave" feminists, the now-marrying generation, often take their husbands' names, even though their own mothers kept their original names out of conviction. The older moms seem disappointed when daughters don't follow their examples, but one youth suggested, “Your generation did all the work, now we can go back to having our husbands’ names.”

One hundred twenty comments, almost all by women, reveal the passion this issue still evokes. The majority of writers insisted that keeping their names preserved their identities, and posed no difficulties. But awkward stories threaded through the rest, bemoaning confused contexts, hyphenated horrors and attacks for choosing the traditional path.

One couple avoided the entire his/hers issue by making up a euphonious Tolkein-esque name and both changing to it in court.

Now that marriage is optional, divorce ubiquitous and unmarried parenthood acceptable, what's the big deal? The crux of the passion is a need for respect as an individual. For many nowadays, taking another person's name feels like a surrender of one's persona, a loss of the unique individuality established and nurtured throughout life.

I think people should be called by whatever they prefer. More crucial for engendering respect than a name, however, is title. "Dr.," "Ms.," "Mr.," and even "Miss" or "Mrs.," if desired, should precede whatever name someone uses, because titles confer respect.

Graffiti, foul language in public (and in media), and pushy drivers all reflect the same decrease in respect for others that dropping titles demonstrates. It's a societal malaise--haven't you noticed it?

Lack of respect begins when a youngster's allowed to address adults casually, by their first names, teaching him there's no difference between children and elders. When a well-meaning teacher tries to "get close" to his charges by going by his first name, students learn that they and the teacher share similar status; children become elevated and the teacher loses ground. The snot-nosed kid gets snotty because nobody's ever superior to him; no one else's position or needs trump his own. Self-esteem's great until it destroys deference to anyone else.

When a store salesperson calls me by my first name, I'm unpleasantly surprised, because the context dictates that he cater to me. A doctor should address her patient as Mr. or Ms., and a child should use those titles for neighbors, because of something becoming startlingly rare: common courtesy. Courtesy is at root respect for others.

Respect is the entire point, the nexus of name-passion.

Feminists want acclaim for their own accomplishments, not as extensions of someone else. They'll get it no matter the last name if we insist upon courtesy and respect for every individual in every circumstance. Titles are one small and perhaps superficial means to remind all present to recognize and honor others. The secondary results might be less inclination to vandalize others' property, cut in when in traffic, and dull sensitivity to politeness with public swearing.

As one of those earlier-wave feminists, I thought it dumb that tradition saw wives as
husband-extensions--and then I fell in love with someone I was proud to extend. More precisely, I was honored that this particular man wanted me to share his future, and delighted we could create our own family united under a single moniker. Suddenly it didn't bother me anymore that I would "lose" my name, because in marrying, I was entering a new phase, as a partner in a new enterprise, the adventure combining my husband and me.

This is the key to what I believe is the value of marriage, and a couple sharing a single last name simply symbolizes it: the whole of the two individuals creates something that is different from, and better than, what each person can be alone.

Each individual deserves respect. But so does the entity of a family, the commitment of two people to each other. If that universal respect was restored, perhaps more people would guard and protect their marriages. And if problems arose, they might work to overcome them, rather than divorce, hurting so many others, and destroying the history and combination they've built.

Soulmates: Milton and Rose Friedman

I always cry over a good love story. Right now I'm in tears over the end of one about Rose and Milton Friedman.

Milton and Rose were married 68 years, partners in every sense. They'd met in Professor Jacob Viner's 1932 Economic Theory class at the University of Chicago; she the daughter of Jewish immigrants who'd escaped their Russian village of Charterisk just ahead of World War I, settling in Portland, Oregon; he a native of Rahway, New Jersey who'd never been west of the Delaware River.

They were seated alphabetically, Rose Director next to Milton Friedman. Their romance flourished, but they waited six years to marry, on June 25, 1938, until they were confident that they could be securely self-reliant financially. It was this staunch belief in independence and initiative that echoed throughout their professional collaboration, books, articles, presentations in the field of economics that shaped generations of policy and set thousands of young people, usually without their realizing it, off to create their fortunes. They promoted freedom and options--especially in the field of school choice, and millions came to understand the value of enterprise, and its role in fostering synergy and advancement through their co-written 1980 book, later to become a 10-part PBS TV series, "Free to Choose."

When my husband was writing his new book on business, he asked me to find and transcribe a famous little musing by Milton that capsulizes the astounding impact of economic cooperation--and underscores why any impediments to such associations (eg taxes, lobbies, unions) chop the creative spirit and stifle progress.

Sitting casually in front of the camera, Milton Friedman contemplates a pencil--and the hundreds, even thousands of people whose work had a role in producing and bringing it to his hand. The illustration inspires profound gratitude for the efforts of others, and a respect for the industriousness that seeks success and reward for providing things we need and desire.

Rose, meanwhile, didn't seem to mind that her husband was more in the spotlight. According to a statement by the Friedman Foundation, "Milton acknowledged Rose as having been a crucial partner in nearly all his economic and public policy work. And, in addition to her many other accomplishments, Rose had the distinction of being the only person ever known to have won an argument against Milton Friedman."

The couple called their joint 1998 memoir "Two Lucky People." "We've had our ups and downs--the downs early, the ups later," they write, "but our love and confidence in each other was strengthened and deepened by the downs as well as by the ups." During the years, the couple was often photographed holding hands.

The love between them produced two children, Janet and David, four grandchildren and three great-grandchildren, as well as a banter that gives hope to all who believe love can endure. In a July, 2006 Wall Street Journal interview, the Friedmans answered reporter Tunku Varadarajan's question, "Had it helped their marriage -- [then] in its 68th year -- that they are both economists? Rose (nodding affirmatively): 'Uh-unh. But I don't argue with him . . . very much.' Milton (guffawing): 'Don't believe her! She does her share of arguing . . .' Rose (interrupting): '. . . and I'm not competitive, so I haven't tried to compete with you.' Milton (uxoriously): 'She's been very helpful in all of my work. There's nothing I've written that she hasn't gone over first.'"

At left is a photo of the couple waltzing at the news of Milton's 1976 Nobel prize.

Milton died on November 16, 2006 at 94. Rose joined him two days ago, on August 16, age 98. The conclusion of these remarkable entwined lives evokes in me the same indescribable emotion of a wedding--deep sentiment inspired by the melding of two opposites--male and female--into one superior combination. Soulmates forever.

Man, Woman, Marriage...Anniversary

I'm trying to rein in my procrastination and write my book on marriage as the combination of opposites. To that end, I've been reading definitions of that august institution, and how those have been twisted of late.

Today happens to be my 24th wedding anniversary. My research has highlighted the ways my husband and I are different, and the unique combination formed by the two of us. I'm fortunate that I'm interested by him every day, often surprised and amused.

After so long together, it may seem odd that he's still a bit alien to me. But part of his masculinity--or perhaps his personality--is a need to have things done crisply, his way, which may not be mine. I know he'd deny that. In fact, he'd immediately list the many ways he gives in to me, often spending his minimal discretionary time accompanying me to places I enjoy (craft fairs, tulip fields) rather than locations he'd prefer (dank forest paths, record stores).

We have different styles, and over the years he's relaxed enough to allow them to co-exist. He let me decorate our kitchen in the bright Caribbean colors I crave. He voluntarily relinquished the entire upstairs of our home to our guests, children and me, lest he discover the disorder he despises. Not that I'm so disorderly, but the collage of family photos on the wall above my desk is to him the epitome of chaos; the clothes dropped by children on their bedroom floors intolerable. In his comfort zone, books must stand upright, arranged by height and color within subject; I'm known to let some slant, and at times my desk is encircled by piles of papers on the floor, organized by task. By contrast, he handles each incoming piece of mail only once, and can't bear to see items that could be disposed of or dealt with resurface again on, say, a chair.

Our differing approaches have enhanced our marriage. I'm easy, flexible, smoothing things out. He keeps me (and us) moving, completing, focusing like a laser beam. Our family benefits from both. As a team, I benefit from him; he tells me the same.

Though I was a proud feminist when that term was progressive and liberated rather than passe, now my life looks embarrassingly traditional. Even biased university scholars presently admit that sex-related stereotypes weren't just the result of oppressive socialization, but based on validated gender differences. Post-women's lib, a gathering current acknowledged the truth; graduates of Women's Studies classes launched Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus onto best-seller lists.

Gender themes have become difficult to abjure. Guys are more physical, sexual, controlling, and competitive than women, who tend to be nurturing, social, verbal, emotional. I've got a dozen books sitting right behind me on the shelf with studies and statistics to support what nearly every culture has incorporated in its structure over the past four thousand years. And yet, policy and politics repeatedly try to deny what physiology posits.

In our marriage, my husband laments the chore of paying our bills, but won't delegate it to me despite my offers, lest he lose control and mastery over even the smallest aspect of our finances. He insists that each expense over $1 be recorded immediately. He's a guy, exhibiting the male need for control in the "responsibility to support the family" arena.

(I know there are many macho men whose finances are a wreck. But they probably express their needs for control in another area. Sports? Work? All of the above? I know there are many wives who are expert in handling family finances. But is it a control thing, or a nest-keeping skill?)

My husband's collection of classical music CDs is aligned in his office precisely, in alphabetical order by composer. The shelves of CDs he has yet to open are in one section (acquisition of the music is his hobby); the discs he has consumed in another. His filing system seems obsessive-compulsive, and yet his vast knowledge of music (and indeed, nearly everything) engenders my awe.

And yet, as invested as he is with his CDs, he is equally indifferent regarding his wardrobe, earning the descriptor "sartorially-challenged." Every plea to take him for a quick trip to Men's Warehouse is rebuffed with disdain. Efforts to purchase clothing for him at Nordstrom Rack result in a perfunctory try-on at home with instant dismissal. "I don't need new pants," he says definitively, light glinting off his shiny knees where once wale adorned corduroy.

After a meeting at the White House, he was taken aside and told his black jeans and light-colored sport coat were a bit below the bar.

But I've given up worrying about that. After all, he understands what this woman wants: flowers. He buys me a bouquet every day. One of many good things about him is that he hears, and heeds. What gender trait causes women to like receiving flowers, especially if you pick them out yourself and present them with a word about why those were chosen? If he's been out of town, the next time he stops at the market on the way home, he gets two bunches. To make up for the gap.

I'll be posting some of what I'm writing, about marriage as the only setting to mesh the opposite sexes. But today, on my 24th anniversary, I'm grateful to have such an endlessly fascinating opposite as my soul mate, with whom to contrast and enjoy. I absolutely cannot believe it's been so many years since the photo above...

Wanted: More Liberals to Take my Survey--Plus, Some Preliminary Results

It's been less than two days since I posted my survey asking about men's and women's roles in marriage, and already I have more than 550 responses. If you haven't taken the survey (described in the post immediately below), please do:
Click Here to take survey

Most participants came from my link on Townhall.com, and therefore include respondents who describe themselves as conservative or "right-leaning" (93%). I don't really have connections to any blogs or sites frequented by liberals/progressives, but I'd love to have a broader picture--so I'd appreciate if you could please refer others, or link to my survey.

In the meantime, I'm moved by the thought and insight in the answers provided so far.

As of now, more husbands than wives have responded (60%-40%). Participants were married from 3 months to 57 years, with lengths of marriage pretty evenly represented (fewer as years married increase, of course).

Sixty-four percent said they were "very happy" in their marriages; another 28% chose "happy."

An aside: I wonder if this reflects recent research showing that by every measure, conservatives are happier than liberals. Arthur Brooks, summarizing the research from his 2008 book Gross National Happiness to Free Republic, explained it this way:

"About half the 'happiness gap' is explained by two demographic differences. Conservatives are far more religious than liberals, on average, and much more likely to be married. Faith and marriage both strongly improve life quality for most people."

My survey was for married people, so one criterion for happiness was met. They also overwhelmingly reported preference for religion, many using religious references in their comments, so, two down.

Brooks continues, "The other half of the gap is explained by differing worldviews. Conservatives generally look at society and see a collection of individuals. Liberals are much stronger at the level of the collective... Conservatives feel more in control of their world than liberals do; liberals are more likely to feel like victims when others don’t behave the way they 'should.'” Interesting.

Back to my results: Participants in my survey provided perceptive and personal responses to the open-ended questions, especially regarding what makes their marriages work. My eyeballing of ingredients to their happiness, and advice to engaged couples, reveals themes of 1. shared religion, 2. shared devotion to children, and 3. communication/intimacy.

Though in many marriages the wife did not work, a similar number reported wives bringing in the bulk of the income. Only three surveys showed the husband bringing in 0% of the income, however. A large majority reports that the wife does most of the housework, though several people thought I should have included a housework category acknowledging children's contribution. Many noted that the economic climate now requires both partners' incomes, even if they would prefer the wife to focus on home and children.

Questions about the passage of California's Proposition 8, and views on same-sex marriage brought the expected traditionally-minded responses, with many citing the Bible or religious basis for their positions. A large number expressed compassion for gays, but while not opposed to civil union, insisted the time-honored definition of marriage remain.

These findings are not surprising given the self-selected audience, of course, but the eloquence of the personal expressions was touching and will be useful in my book. I just read over one survey where the writer's answers broke my heart--the psychologist in me kicks in! I want to personally respond to so many of the comments--I hope on Wednesday when I guest-host the third hour of the Michael Medved radio show, I'll be able to have a dialog about some of these issues.

I can argue the reasons why gender differences are the crux of marriage but the passion and sense of the comments I've received adds dimension and vitality to the discussion.

I feel honored so many people took the time to complete my survey, and if you did, I hope it was personally beneficial. Please share the questionnaire with your spouses and friends (and especially, refer liberals!) This isn't just about a book project or a political proposition, it's about the very essence of our most central and intimate relationships, a topic always worth exploring.

I Married a Republican... and now I'm One, Too

Woke up to my husband shoving in my face an article he'd torn out of the Sunday NY Times. Half-awake, the first thing I noticed was that it had been ripped from my personal favorite part--how dare he eviscerate the Sunday Styles section?

He'd pulled out an article called "I Married a Republican: There, I said it," by Ann Hood, in which against all logic and her peer group, the author marries one whose party identification is "not a Democrat"-- but in the end (spoiler ahead) after much embarrassment and anguish, triumphs when he puts an Obama sign on their front lawn.

I can identify with Ms. Hood.

Before I married my own Republican, I had been a registered Democrat, surrounded by like-minded souls in the liberal halls of academia, for a dozen years. Not that I had an investment in progressive politics--as a dutiful student, I merely echoed the "wisdom" of my teachers and fellow students, not spending the time to question or think much about the basis for their passion. The implicit message was that we were compassionate, generous and caring, while the Republicans were selfish, restrictive, old-fashioned and materialistic. We were young and vibrant; they were old, blue-haired and tired. We represented the future, the Age of Aquarius, in which adversaries negotiated rather than fought wars that took young people out of school and sent them to dangerous places.

I had rehearsed my arguments enough that when I found my Republican, I had my standard defenses in order. But, unfortunately, he had been there, too, and switched stances based on real-life experiences, an encyclopedic knowledge of history and fact, and an awareness of the prejudices of academia. And because I truly didn't care much about politics, but cared increasingly about him, I let go of my means of acceptance by my professors, and started listening to one once deemed the enemy.

I couldn't read much of Ann Hood's article without wincing. Her disrespect for Republicans rang too familiar, and too shallow. Her identification with her own cohort, membership in which was dependent on sharing the liberal mind-set, was too deja vu. (Can't shake Yogi Berra's "all over again" tag). Her naive acceptance of what she'd heard and what she was told was too close to my own experience.

But the capper--that her husband chose Obama--put the lie to her entire story. No matter how you slice it, Obama is not a Republican, and, other than his declared affiliation, we don't even know he's a Democrat. His platform is vacuous, filled with platitudes that any Republican could embrace. He says "yes we can," but to what?

To say "I married a Republican" who puts up a sign for a Democrat is not really too tough a trick for a liberal, because, wink, we know by the fact he married YOU, Ann Hood, that he must be sane, after all.

Puh-leeeze.

And wouldn't it be nice if the NY Times acknowledged that conservatives can be intelligent, too? Imagine the headline: "I Married a Democrat: There, I said It!" The response: "So?" But that dream is for another Sunday, when I'm not awakened by the rustle of mutilated newspaper.

The Parallel Universe of the New York Times' "Style" Section

I think the New York Times' Style section is the thin connection between ours, and the parallel universe it describes to the rest of us. In this universe, people are intensely aware of the labels inside peoples' clothes. They carry $3,000 purses. They buy dresses that cost as much as their purses and wear t-shirts that cost thirty times what mine cost.

Many of the individuals in this other world appear to have small antennae that hone into nightclubs where they care excruciatingly about whether or not they gain entry. Once inside, they must locate the tables with the most prestigious people encircling them, and they will take note effortlessly of each costume in their vicinity, and they make sure their vicinity is with others with the same obsessions but who are more frequently mentioned in the newspaper.

Let's go through the rabbit hole and take a look at life in this parallel universe on one random Sunday. The universe allows visitors on Thursdays as well, but Sundays are the days when the universe parades itself most proudly.The parallel universe is comfortably homogeneous politically. It is understood that everyone is progressive. In this universe, there are no liberals, and no Republicans. But everyone believes in marriage; here, marriages are frequent, and love is exalted.

We peek now into this other world as it exists on June 10, 2007. A lead story announces that cocaine is "very visible on the social scene" and we are told that in the universe one often hears "Take a ride on the snow train," or "Skiing on the beach tomorrow?"

We see there's a man in Beverly Hills, an outpost of the parallel universe, who enjoys buying multi-million-dollar homes owned by movie stars, fixing them up, and turning a mega-million-dollar profit. Another story reveals that for some peculiar reason films are not portraying abortions in their plots. "Nearly two-thirds of unwanted pregnancies end in abortion, data from federal surveys shows." And yet several recent films, "Knocked Up," and "Waitress," use the protagonist's pregnancy as the central plot point. In this universe, where abortion is normal, the strange avoidance of it in film is worth pondering.

But the real reason the parallel universe is worth a visit is to behold its nuptials.

Many weddings are performed by Rabbis, male and female alike, though many others are performed by friends of the bride and groom who are ordained in the Universal Life Church just for the occasion. In this parallel universe, no bride is younger than 25, and no groom younger than 30. None completed their educations with high school, and most received their college degrees from elite universities. In fact, at least one partner of nearly all the couples has either authored a book, written music, is a doctor, or is descended from the inventor of something we use every day. Take the "cute meet" of Maya Alperowicz and Justin Florence, that occurred while both were pursuing their graduate degrees at Harvard. His father, by the way, is the author of nine books, including "Blood Libel" (University of Wisconsin, 2004).

Some weddings even have themes. Like the "retired" wedding: "Nancy McDonnel Maloney, a retired lawer, and Jacob Berry Underhill III, a retired insurance executive, were married on Tuesday. Beverly S. Cohen, a retired New York State Supreme Court justice, officiated at her office in New York. The bride, 57, will keep her name...The bridegroom, 80, retired as the President of New York Life Insurance Co....The bride's two previous marriages and the bridegroom's three previous marriages ended in divorce." (This is emes. Direct quote from p. 14 of the journal of the Parallel Universe, the New York Times' Style Section.)

Many couples share common professional interests. Deborah Swacker, a lobbyist, and Jeff Nussbaum, a political speechwriter, share the political bent, and the groom is co-author with James Carvel of "Had Enough?" and of "Intelligence Matters" with Bob Graham, "the Democrat who at the time was a senator from Florida." Film joined Mary Firestone, 30, a film actress ("Just My Luck," 2006, and "Little Black Book, 2004), and Napper Tandy (James Napper Tandy II), who "was a writer of 'Two Roads to Baja,' a promotional film for Toyota that played on Speed Channel cable network in January.'" By the way, "the bride is a great-granddughter of Harvey S. Firestone, the founder of Firestone Tire and Rubber Company."

Writing is the bond for Pilar Queen, who happens to work as an agent in the office of my own literary agent (emes again!), and Andrew Sorkin, who works for the New York Times, graduated from Cornell and runs an online Times web site. His mother is "a playwright and librettist, whose credits include '(mis)Understanding Mammy: The Hattie McDaniel Story,'...and an operatic version of 'Strange Fruit'" to premier this month in North Carolina.

Yes, couples often have much in common. William Hughes is an investment partner (his mother is a professor of medicine at Tufts) whose marriage to loan officer Gray Holmes shares the financial theme. But their announcement requires careful inspection because they provided no photo, and the bride, "Gray," (MBA from Harvard) has an ambiguous name. Photos have become very useful tools when reading Parallel Universe wedding announcements. Not only do many of the couples' faces look alike, but some pairs nowadays would even look uncomfortably similar were they to appear, literally, in the altogether.

You see, in this parallel universe, connubially linking two of the same gender is, like abortion, normal. Joyful proclamations of single gender partnership, marriage and civil union mingle with more traditional combinings on the pages of the parallel universe's journal.

Andres Freyre and Morton Ballen smile from the photo above their announcement. Their commitment ceremony was led by "two friends" at Frankies Spuntino, a Brooklyn restaurant. But from the photo, we don't know if it is Mr. Freyre or Mr. Ballen with the bald pate and soul patch. Only when the body of the piece tells us "Mr Freyre (above, left)" do we get a clue.

Every issue of the parallel universe journal features one couple to celebrate in a half-page article detailing the history of their relationship, with two photos. This week, the 5-inch by 9-inch picture is dominated by Sarah Bune, leading the ceremony with arms outstretched. On either side of her stand the two partners of the wedding couple. Both in white sheath gowns.

Mary McBride, the "country-folk singer and songwriter," 37, became committed to public relations professional Leslie Klotz, 48, known for her "amazing art collection and about 27 layers of black lacquer" in her apartment entrance hall. After meeting at a Christmas party, the two proceeded through dates and emails until "Ms. McBride proposed to Ms. Klotz on Nantucket last summer. 'Without even blinking an eye, she said "Perfect,"' Ms. McBride recalled." And their ceremony does sound perfect: Mary and Leslie two-stepped before 180 guests in Montego Bay, Jamaica, "down a rose-petal aisle, each wearing a different Elizabeth Fillmore gown, to an altar made of bamboo poles and fluttering Tibetan flags." All is happy and gay in the parallel universe.

There's much more amusement to be clandestinely enjoyed when the universe displays its secrets on Sundays. But the lives described on Style's pages is not reality as nearly all Americans live it. Most everyone spends the wee hours of the night not clubbing but snoozing before a 7 am alarm awakens him for a day of activity far from Beverly Hills' multi-million dollar flipped into mega million-dollar homes. Where abortion isn't on the calendar and cocaine isn't even on the radar screen. And where most everyone gets along and has a nice wedding and doesn't feel the need to broadcast one's grandfather's inventions or mother's latest book title.

We, in the normal world, are voyeurs. We who would not buy "The Globe" or "People" at the supermarket checkout will indeed devour the Style section because while the celebs in "People" may be well-known, we don't particularly want to know when they became anorectic or who cheated on whom. Instead, we glean amusement from the sophisticated exploits of Harvard-educated brides and descriptions of three-thousand-dollar dresses and the wacky ways those so far--and yet not too far--removed from us get their kicks and then, by us, their knocks. It's a different world, and it's so nice to know that you can put it down when you've read to the end of the last page.

Happy Anniversary to ME

Happy Anniversary to ME! I've been married for as many years as...well, as I've been alive. Though my marriage has been wonderfully vivifying, that is not a testament as much to its liveliness as to the fact that I can scarcely believe that I am more than 22 years old. That time can zip in such a blink has been lamented by just about everyone, including my--what? 14-year-old son (!?) who recalls the births of children for whom he now babysits. Well, I recall HIS birth as if it were the proverbial yesterday, and I recall each of my three children as if they are, oh, 7, 5 and 2, even as I talk to them on their cellphones trying to pry out some crumb of what goes on in their lives.
Twenty two years of marriage. Sometimes I get frustrated with my husband, and then he turns around and gives me "that look" and I melt. I don't get frustrated much or for long; he brings me flowers on his way home from work, whether that's at 4 pm or 10. The checkers at the supermarket know him because he's always zipping in to buy a little bunch of flowers, and when she comes through the door with them outstretched in their plastic Albertson's bag, I am always surprised. He chose them; he always tells me why he chose those particular flowers. "I thought those yellow ones looked particularly perky." "I haven't brought you irises in awhile." "I know you love peonies" Well, that one is true but I really don't get many peonies. They don't appeal to his male eye because they usually come, when they do for two weeks in May, as little balls stuck on stems, awaiting their new home before unfurling.
So, you ask, aside from graciously receiving flowers, to what do you attribute twenty-two years of happy marriage? Here are the rules that come to mind:
1. Take it easy. That means go with the flow; don't let things bug you, just be easy. Not much is worth anybody getting upset. Let it go. Just do it, even if you think he ought to. Just forget it. A friend of mine wrote a book a long time ago. You don't need the book, but the title was essential: Winning by Letting Go.
2. Be his/her biggest fan. I just came across a study from the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology (no, I don't subscribe; it was covered in a New York Times article) from about a year ago. It said that the way couples respond to good news determines the quality of the relationship far more than the reaction to bad news. The part I highlighted in pink said that "in most relationships, positive events outnumber negative ones by at least four to one." That means you have four chances to cement the relationship for every "poor baby" opportunity. One thing that I think of is that there are lots of people--ladies--out there who would jump up excitedly to know that my husband was going to be coming through their door. So, every time my husband DOES come through my door, I jump up excitedly. His coming home is good news. And when he gets some CDs (ie classical music) in the mail, that's good news; I get happy for him. If he writes something, just about constantly, I praise him for doing it. After all, he IS doing it; he IS accomplishing. I'm much better at procrastinating. This is not a strategy on my part. Long ago I decided that we are a team, one unit, and if he succeeds, I succeed.
I don't always love everything he writes. But I always love something about everything he writes. I don't always agree with everything he wants. But if I disagree, I try to put it in a way so that he knows I'm on his team, and not trying to undermine him by feeling differently. And I try to explain why what I want is better. He's reasonable. One of his many strong suits.
3. Clothes don't make the man. Speaking of strong suits, he doesn't have any, sartorially speaking. He's a walking fashion disaster. While being religious, he's also holey. Usually at the elbows. You know the old one about having ties older than you are? Yep.
Truth is, looks don't make the man, or the woman, either. As I get older, I hate it. But while denial isn't just a river in Egypt, and denial is my specialty when it comes to aging, sometimes you can't avoid looking in a mirror and at your spouse. I think a happy marriage is about doing what you can outwardly and latching onto that so-called "wisdom" that comes with age--which is just another way of saying that as you get older, you realize that intangibles are more valuable than tangibles, and that the connection with your other half is not about what you see but who you are.
I hear my other half calling, saying it's time to get to bed...he's got another early work call, and, after all it IS our anniversary. Maybe I'll think of more items to add to my list later. In the meantime, it's fun being 22.