Courtesy Moment

My wife’s friend Winonna dropped by for a visit yesterday and I had to remain in her annoying presence for a full minute before being allowed to escape.

This torment is the result of a rule my dear wife instituted years ago called the “Courtesy Moment,” something that came about because of my habit of seeking solitude whenever any of her friends came to our home to visit.

Let me explain my desire to be elsewhere when certain friends come to call. My wife has more friends than a human being needs, and certainly more than I have or would want. But at least the very few friends I have are interesting.

My wife, a lady of charm and wit, has, in my opinion, almost no friends with either of those attributes. I am married to a woman who possesses knowledge and wisdom vast enough to compete credibly and profitably on Jeopardy, yet not one of the people she knows has enough sense to know when to buy a vowel on Wheel of Fortune—if indeed they know what a vowel is.

My sweet wife is the kind of person people want to know. They like to visit her and talk to her and unburden their miserable lives upon her, knowing that without fail, she will ease their pain and smooth out the rough path down which they trod with hanging heads and heavy hearts.

And that is the problem. I have no sympathy. It’s not that I don’t care about the tribulations people bear; I just believe that when faced with a problem, one should examine it, analyze it and determine the most reasonable and effective solution.

For example, when my doctor told me years ago that the two packs of cigarettes I was smoking every day would soon cripple and probably kill me, I quit smoking. Of course it was hard for a quite a long time, but a shortened life with cigarettes is inferior to a longer life without them. Case presented and examined; decision made; life goes on. Case closed.

This never happens in the lives of those who seek out my dear wife’s wise counsel. They try to quit smoking but gain weight. They give up the weed but lose friends when they point out their new-found understanding that smoking kills. One simpering wimp actually moaned that when she stopped smoking, she was no longer welcome in the smoke-filled break room at her job.

“They make me stay in the office and answer the phone while they smoke,” cried the tearful woman. “I have to do more work than they do now, and it’s just not fair!” The word fair was accompanied by a stomped foot and a hand slammed on the table.

Early in our marriage, when I saw one of these whimpers walking up our driveway, I ran to my study to hide until the danger passed. And the danger was that if I stayed in the room, sooner or later I would say something like, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, woman—grow up and get a life!” (This is perhaps why many of my wife’s friends think I’m unpleasant—or worse.)

It was then that my wife created the “Courtesy Moment;” I was to stay in the room, smile and make small talk, then offer a reasonable excuse and depart, still smiling.

Here is where the “Courtesy Moment” becomes sticky. How long is a moment? And what constitutes a reasonable excuse?

The dictionary defines “moment” as “a very short, minute period or portion of time.” So I would remain in the room very briefly, which was acceptable to all parties, they not wanting me around any more than I wanted to be there. The real trouble came from my “reasonable” excuses; the dictionary says reasonable is “not extreme or excessive; sane, sensible and prudent.”

My dear wife added to her definition of reasonable the word “believable.” Not wanting to tamper with the work of Webster, Roget and the folks at the Oxford English Dictionary myself, I challenged my wife to find believable as a synonym for reasonable. She is still searching; until an official term is produced, my reasonable excuses must be believable, which really takes the fun out of meeting her friends, even for a “Courtesy Moment.”

After about a minute of small talk, I used to be able to say, “Well, got to run—I’m studying for my blood test.” Another favorite was, “All my crayons melted together and I’m trying to sort them out.” Now, I must dismiss myself with something believable; “I don’t like you or anyone like you,” isn’t acceptable even though it is the truth.

I tried “I found a very sick rat in the yard—wanna see it? Do you know what the plague looks like? Maybe it’s just the flu.” When my wife’s visitor left in tears, she gave me that look that said, “Find the rat—he is your only friend.”

Thirty Years

Today marks thirty years since I quit drinking. In a world of complexity and confusion, the fact that I once was an alcoholic and I am now sober is the single simple fact in my life.

Simple because there are no questions, doubts, worries about this reality. Simple because it is black and white, no if, ands, or buts. Simple because it is life or death for me.

When I was 15 years old, I started to drink. And from the second time I drank, it was to get drunk. I was a very bitter, confused young man, having very recently discovered that while I grew up knowing that I was an adopted child, my parents had always told me that they knew nothing at all about my life before they adopted me, it was all a lie.

My parents had always known that my name was Martin James Weed, a fact that I discovered by sneaking around in their private papers. Confronting them with this, they admitted that, yes, they did know a few things. But the conventional wisdom was to hide these things from me for my own good.

When I laid out my many, many questions, they said that, no, we don’t know this or that or the other thing. It wasn’t unreasonable, I didn’t think, to reject that. My belief was that they were lying before and they were lying still.

From that time on, I trusted no one. I believed nothing. I chose to be alone, to live alone, to drink alone. It worked for me; it suited me; it hurt no one. I adopted as my gospel the words of a Simon and Garfunkel song:

I've built walls, a fortress deep and mighty, that none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.

I am shielded in my armor, hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.

Frankly, I enjoyed my life. People never questioned me when I wanted to be alone, and very few people wanted to be a friend. I carried that life into a Bible College, from which I was expelled for drinking; I lived that life in the U.S. Navy, from which I was discharged for alcoholism, and I lived it still as I earned a A.A. in Culinary Arts at a tech school.

And I lived the life of a very active alcoholic when I met, fell in love with, and married Kathy. For seven years, everything went well, in my opinion. We had a son, and Kathy was pregnant again. After seven years of marriage, I had everything going my way.

Then I hit a rough stretch. Not the first time, I told Kathy, probably not the last time. But it would all work out—it always did.

I was fired from my job, we were evicted from the house we were renting, our car was repossessed, all within a few unpleasant days. But better days were coming, I promised Kathy.

It was at that moment that I began to understand true love. Kathy gathered around her the strength of her family, my family, our church, and most vitally, her own amazing strength to do what was right for her and for our family.

Holding our son, with her brother, sister, and brother-in-law around her, Kathy explained calmly and slowly what was going to happen.

“Danny and I are going to stay at my parent’s house [they were vacationing in Mexico]; Dick is going to drive me there. Bert will drive you to your parent’s house. They will drive you to the bus station on Tuesday. The pastor has a ticket for you to an alcohol rehab in New Jersey.

“The program lasts for 90 days. If you complete the program, come to Vermont and we will talk. If you leave early—it is over. I love you, and I want us to be a family. But you can never drink again. Do you understand?”

That is what I mean by simple. I won’t say that the 90 days passed easily or quickly. But I completed the program, we are now a family of five—and today marks thirty years since my life became simple.

I’m not claiming that everything is been perfect, ideal, or even good. Nothing in life is “heaven on earth;” hard times come and go—and too often linger far too long.

But this one thing I know: my life is simply entwined with Kathy, and nothing is so valuable or tempting that I will risk losing her love or my life. It really is that simple.

Why I stopped going to parties

It started as a simple enough conversation about the possibilities of remarriage after the death of a spouse, and since I am the elder and less healthy of this couple, I naturally asked my dear wife if she would consider remarriage if I should died before she did.

“Highly unlikely,” she said very quickly, which pleased me. Had she hesitated as though giving the question some thought, I would have been hurt.

“I’ll ask you the same question,” she said. “In the unlikely event of my very premature passing, who would you marry?”

Do you she the way my dear wife’s mind works? She didn’t ask if I would remarry—she asked who I would marry. I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I’m quick enough to avoid certain doom by answering a loaded question like that.

“Let me rephrase your question,” I began. “You meant to ask if I would remarry, not who I would marry …”

“No,” she interrupted. “I’ve noticed that you gaze quite approvingly at a few of the ladies in my office, and I have wondered which one you have chosen, should the unthinkable happen.”

She does this all the time. You ask a simple question and suddenly you’re up to your neck in impossible choices. It’s like going to the beach for a little swim in the sea and being commandeered to serve as captain of an aircraft carrier. You’re over your head before you get your feet wet, and there’s no turning back.

To illustrate, let me describe one of the earlier episodes of this asking of unanswerable questions. Many years ago, when many more of our friends smoked, we were at a party together and one of the guests—an attractive young lady who seemed to be alone—got quite ill in the stale air of the smoke-filled house. The combination of a few drinks and the stifling air overcame this woman and she opened the sliding glass door that led to the deck next to the in-ground swimming pool our host had recently installed.

I was on the deck, alone, in my own attempt to escape the tedium of the small talk, and the smoke (I’d quit smoking the previous week and was having a bit of trouble resisting the temptation of two dozen smokers luring me back to the dark side).

The woman leaned against the railing around the pool, but it had not been nailed into place very well; it gave way and she toppled into the water. My instinct was to attempt to rescue the flailing young lady, so I jumped into the water fully dressed and grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up and out of the water just as the entire cast of characters from the party, hearing two quick splashes, rushed to the deck.

Embarrassed and soaking wet, the woman whispered a quiet ‘thank you’ in my ear, but to my dear wife, it appeared as if she was nibbling on my ear.

“Thomas,” she said coldly, “Rebecka was an alternate on the Olympic swimming team two years ago. Don’t tell me you thought you were rescuing a world-class swimmer—so what were you thinking?” How does one answer a question like that?

Back in the present, I knew this wasn’t going to end pleasantly for me, so I stalled for time by playing deaf and stupid. “I don’t know if I understand your question, my dear. Did I hear you correctly—are you asking which of the girls in your office I would marry if you died?”

“You heard me correctly and you know what I’m talking about,” she said in a huffy voice. “It’s annoying when you stall for time by playing deaf and stupid. You are neither. Your problem is that you refuse to confront your wandering eye. Were you more adept at concealing your fantasy voyages of the mind, we wouldn’t have these silly little maneuvers.”

Giving in and hoping to move on, I said, “All right, if you must know, I think I’d marry Jessica—if you passed on and left me a lonely widower.

“Jessica? That blonde in accounting?” My wife actually looked stunned. Jessica rivaled my wife in her devotion to cats, a fixation I most certainly do not share. Jessie had five at last count, and she was always on the look-out for more.

I smiled the smile of a victorious man—an unwise thing to do when dealing with someone smarter and quicker and meaner that yourself.

Recovering her wits almost instantly, my dear wife asked, “You do know that Jessica is in therapy?”

I didn’t know and said so. “That doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ve been in therapy before and it can be a most cleansing and satisfying thing.”

“You went to therapy to quit smoking,” said my wife. “Jessie is in count-ordered therapy because she hit a man who kicked a cat.”

“She’s such a little thing, my dear,” I said. “Even her hardest punch couldn’t break a …”

“Jessie hit him with her car,” stated my wife slowly, with much relish. “Twice.”

Tissue Issue

How does one approach a delicate topic politely? I think I’ll just say it quickly: There are few frustrations more discouraging than the difficulty one often encounters when opening a new roll of toilet tissue. There—I’ve said it.

I know I’m not the only one who believes that this is a problem. It’s just that most people are too polite, or perhaps too shy, to bring it up. But I know it’s a problem because toilet tissue manufacturers have attempted to solve the tissue issue with lavish advertising campaigns promising relief with new and improved products.

These ads and products, I am sad to say, are all evidence of the decline of integrity in American business, because not one of the products is any easier to use than the products they replaced.

Let’s look for a moment at the problem as I see it; I hope and expect that you’ll agree if you give it some thought. There is a sense of urgency in getting that first bit of paper flowing, and lately, the toilet tissue makers seem to have gone overboard in an effort to keep the rolls from unwinding all by themselves. Most of these products are nearly impossible to get started. That first sheet of paper glued in place, or crimped there by some heavy-duty crimper, or even welded or riveted.

But it wasn’t always that way. Once upon a time in America, toilet tissue was one of the simplest and worry-free products found in outhouses and bathroom across the nation. Open a 12-pack, load a roll on the spool and one touch got things rolling along nice and smooth. But something happened.

Let’s research the manufacturers need to keep the rolls intact. It seems that some time ago, on certain October holidays, holding one end of a roll of toilet tissue and then rolling the rest down a street, or wrapping it around a house, or draping it over a statue in the public square was a big thrill.

On the day after Halloween, tons of the stuff had to be cleaned up in cities and towns all across America, and I suspect that someone in a high position in one of these hamlets had a friend in the toilet tissue industry. I imagine that the conversation went something like this:

“Harry, my store gets papered every year and I’m sick of it,” said Mr. Angry Businessman. “How about you doing something to make it harder to get the roll started. Then the worst that could happen is that we’ll have whole rolls to pick up, not miles of paper strewn around like confetti after a parade.”

“Sounds doable to me, Bill,” said the paper maker. “I’ll get my R & D guys on it right away.”

Next thing you know, getting a roll of toilet tissue started is harder than convincing a bill collector that the check is in the mail. But why would the paper people be so willing to make using their product so difficult? Because we use more of it now—we lose about a quarter of a roll just getting that vital first sheet ready to use.

It’s expensive and it’s frustrating, and you don’t want to be thinking about money or be agitated in the bathroom at that point in time.

For years, the paper pushers got their way and their profits, until enough of us complained. That’s when the “Easy-Start” toilet tissue roll was born. But nothing really changed in the product itself—it’s still harder to get started than a teenaged boy on a cold morning.

Oh, they trumpeted the new stuff like it was a new idea instead of what it really was—a simple return to the way things used to be. Just ask anyone over the age of 60. We never had a problem with toilet tissue when we were growing up. The difficulty began when the children raised by my generation found the soft, cheap rolls to be the perfect weapon against defenseless trees, statues and buildings.

These corporate wizards told us how they’d spent a fortune on creating this marvelous product just to make our lives easier, when in reality, the rolls were, if anything, harder to unravel.

One would think that this is a minor thing to complain about. My dear wife said that if having trouble starting a roll of bathroom tissue was the biggest problem I’m facing, life must be very, very good indeed.

Of course, this bothers her as well; she just won’t admit that it aggravates her. In my view, it’s the worst problem of the bathroom. She just brushes off my tissue issues and offers her opinion. According to her, the fact that I leave wet towels on the floor is irksome; my using the bathroom as a “reading room” is selfish and childish; my alleged inability to place all worn clothing in the hamper is “typical male behavior,” and any one of these offences is worse by a factor of ten than my petty paper problem.

Obviously, we are not going to settle this delicate issue in our home any time soon. My dear wife decided that we would drop the subject, but not before she got in one of her favorite “How many men does it take” jokes.

“How many men does it take to put a new roll of toilet paper on the spool?” she asked with a wicked smirk. Not waiting for my reply, she said with great gusto: “No one knows—it’s never been done!”

You know, I’m beginning to envy the simplicity of the life of a cat—a bowl of food, another of water, and a litter box.