Friday, April 18, 2008

You Can Go Your Own Way

You Can Go Your Own Way

Early in our marriage, my husband would passively aggressively agree to go shopping with me. This means that while his mouth was saying, “Sure, I’d love to go to the mall with you,” his tone and pronounced facial tic were saying, “There has got to be a way out of this.”

After nearly 19 years of marriage, we’ve developed a method that seems to work well. He goes his way, and I go mine. But we still run into problems, like the other night at Wal-Mart.

“I tell you what,” he suggested. “You go get the eye drops and I’ll go to tools. Meet me there.” And with that, and the shopping cart, he was gone.

On the way to the eye drops, I directed a woman in obvious distress to the closest bathroom. I grabbed the eye drops then realized I had lost the shopping list. I found the slip of paper and made my way to the tool section. My husband was not there. I was not surprised.

“This happens every single time,” I said out loud. A man scanning the plumbing supplies retreated cautiously. I couldn’t call my wayward husband. He had my purse and my cell phone in that blasted cart.

“I knew this would happen. It always does. ” I had the entire tool department to myself. I debated whether to stay or to go. I peered from each end of the aisle, in both directions, leering. I headed to the grocery section in full pursuit where I ran into a friend.

“Hey, girl,” said Suzanne. “How’s it going?”

“Have you seen my husband?” I asked, trying to smile through gritted teeth. “He was supposed to be in tools. He’s not there. I’ve covered the entire store. “

“Uh oh,” said Suzanne, nodding knowingly. “Been there, done that. Good luck.”

Somewhere within the confines of that superstore was a man stewing in his own juices while I simmered in mine. He couldn’t find me. I couldn’t find him. And I had checked the beer section twice.

Finally, I glimpsed his bright yellow polo, his back to me, heading in the direction of the jewelry counter.

I half yelled, half growled his name across fifty feet of open floor. I learned on a previous encounter with store security that running through a major retail outlet draws immediate and unwanted attention. I watched him. He turned the corner toward tools. Finally, I’d be able to wring his neck.

I rounded the corner among the hammers and nails. He wasn’t there. I stood, stunned. I careened through aisles of hardware, the paint department and automotive. He was gone. Again. I imagined the announcement from customer service I so badly wanted to deliver:

“Mr. Twedt, what’s left of your wife has spontaneously combusted at the customer service desk,” I’d have them say. “Please pick up her smoldering remains IN THE TOOL SECTION.”

At a complete loss, I waited. I tried to calm myself among the hardware and watched as the heat from my infuriated body melted stainless steel. And then, just like that, there he was.

“Where have you been?” I railed, choking on smoke. The look on his face essentially screamed the same.

“I went to tools, just like I told you,” he said. “I waited at least 30 minutes! I decided you must have gone for the groceries. I walked every aisle twice!”

“Well, I went to tools as soon as I found the grocery list and you weren’t here,” I accused. “I swear! I am never shopping with you ever, ever again.”

Admittedly, he did a pretty good job of camouflaging a victorious smile. He left to pick up our daughter from the mall, and I slung food into the cart. I was nearly finished when they returned.

“Wow, that was fast,” said my daughter when she arrived ten minutes later. “Dad said you hadn’t even started shopping for groceries.”

“I guess I spent too much time looking for an appropriate weapon,” I muttered. But, apologies were exchanged. Laughter prevailed. We vowed to never separate in a store without our cell phones. But just in case, I have customer service on speed dial.

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

She Doesn't Smell Well

She Doesn’t Smell Well

Looking back, I can’t believe we didn’t figure it out sooner. Whether it’s the soft scent of baby powder or the pungent pine of Christmas trees, the smell of popcorn erupting in buttery goodness or chocolate chip cookies emerging from the oven, our daughter has never experienced any of these olfactory sensations. Katie has anosmia. It took us 13 years to notice.

Anosmia simply means the absence of a sense of smell. Doctors at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, MD tested her olfactory abilities with a scratch and sniff book of familiar scents. She failed it, big time. While some people have nerve damage or injuries that cause them to lose their ability to smell, Katie’s is apparently a congenital problem, present since birth. Yet, her deficit only recently came to light.

I remember going to places like Bath and Body Works when she was much younger. We would spray the little cards to help us select our favorite fragrance. But while I was choosing from the enticing aromas of citrus or peach, Katie could never decide on one she liked. Once, we laughed ourselves silly when we misread the name on a bottle as “Brown Sugar and Pig” instead of “Brown Sugar and Fig.” I had asked her, “Does that smell like a pig to you?” In hindsight, I recognize what was complete indifference as she sniffed the unscented air and shrugged. Now I realize she couldn’t smell a thing.

Katie readily admits that if she had to go missing one of the five senses, she would pick her sense of smell. The others work just fine, thankfully. Where she may lack the ability to enjoy a whiff of hot baked bread or smell the summer rain, she harbors an amazing talent for seeing the positive side of things.

“When we’re in science lab, I just love it when everybody else is gagging over horrendous odors and I’m just fine,” she told me. “I don’t smell farts, or dog mess or anything else that makes people want to hurl.” While this girl of ours could be bemoaning the fact that her sniffer doesn’t work, instead she finds reasons to be glad in it.

They say that when you lack one of the five senses, the others may be enhanced. We’ve decided the child has supersonic hearing. She can hear the flutter of moths’ wings and private conversations from a mile away. Of course, I worry over the fact that she can’t smell something burning or the stench of spoiled food. She uses deodorant profusely and squirts perfume in spite of the fact that she has no idea if it smells good or bad. I never gave my sense of smell much thought until I witnessed her challenges through a parent’s eyes.

The olfactory bulb in the brain is closely tied to the limbic system, which helps us process memories and emotions. As a result, odors and aromas play a large role in triggering recollections of the past. Cinnamon, vanilla, apple pie. Who doesn’t have warm and wonderful memories tied to these? Not once have I heard my daughter say “That smells so good!” when I cook her favorite foods.

While I am amazed we didn’t discover her anosmia sooner, she laughs at the fact that when the rest of us were extolling the exquisite aromas of steaks on the grill or jasmine in bloom, she always pretended to smell them. What she must have experienced sniffing the odorless air had to be something akin to eating food that, no matter what, tasted like rice cakes.

Katie exhibits an intense appreciation for color and design, for music and hugs. She sees life as full of opportunities as well as challenges. She hears the promise of a hopeful future. She tastes the spice of life easily and gratefully. In spite of puzzling health challenges the last couple of years, this girl of ours is feeling the welcome reward of finally being understood.

Sometimes we’ll exclaim, “What’s that smell?” The look she gives us speaks volumes. I tell her that when she marries, I hope it’s to a man who smells well. Or is that good? I suppose it would be great if it’s both.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Of Trucks and Men

Of Trucks and Men
Without fail, anywhere we went, we’d see one.
Short bed Chevy.
Ford Supercrew.
Tricked out truck with polished chrome, Yosemite Sam mud flaps and a six foot antenna threatening the belly of an interstate overpass.
He’d point out each one, his discriminating eye absorbing the pros and cons of every make and model.
“See, that one’s a short wheel base, regular cab, the last of that body style, about a 1997,” explained my husband. “See the hood on that one? Bad hinges on that model. Every last truck like that will have a crimp across the middle because the hinges are no good.” He talked like I understood, like I knew an overhead cam from a fuel injector.
“They came out with that model when I was in high school. Gets about five miles to the gallon. Oh, man, look at that one. Now THAT’s a truck.” At this point his eyes always glazed over, a boy’s Christmas face frozen in pure idolatry before the department store window.
Truck fever isn’t pretty. It basically permeates every waking moment, every conversation. We’d start out talking about the kids, work, the budget, but ultimately the discussion always turned to towing capacity and extended cabs. Then there’s the song and dance about how every man needs a truck.
It seems the need to haul things, to tow things, to administer horse power in such a way that your masculinity is essentially validated by traveling by truck is inexplicably tied to the Y chromosome. While we needed another vehicle about like we needed multiple sore toes, somehow we decided that a used truck was something of a necessity. Last weekend, we found ourselves at the Woolwine Ford dealership in Collins.
“Can I help you?” Ricky the salesman asked. My spouse salivated. He stood within a sea of new Fords, trade-ins and the palpable magnetism of four-wheel drive.
“We’re looking for a truck,” he stammered. “Not new. Very affordable. “ He looked, momentarily, as if his legs would give out from under him.
“I think I can help you out with that,” Ricky assured us. He retreated to his office and reemerged with a computer printout. Meanwhile, my better half locked headlamps with a ruby red Ford XLT, a 2000 model that I would swear winked at him. It had high miles, but higher appeal. Little flickering red hearts surfaced where his pupils used to be.
“ What about this one?” Ricky studied his papers and indicated the item met our criteria. We walked the perimeter of the specimen, examined the engine, sat behind the wheel. We mentioned the fact that we think the world of his boss, Richard Woolwine whose Aunt Tommie we claim as our own. We shared our story of buying one of our favorite cars, a Mercury Grand Marquis, from that very lot years before. Some might have accused us of brown-nosing. Truthfully, I felt certain that if we left that lot without a truck, my husband might spontaneously disintegrate on the spot.
Ricky got the keys and we took it for a test drive. I witnessed pure pleasure that day. The clouds turned dark, the sky drizzled rain, but the mood in the cab of that F150 XLT reached something akin to unadulterated ecstasy. The odometer had close to a bazillion miles, but the ride was tight, the engine sound and the glistening exterior belied the age of eight years. If ever there was a taker, that truck was it.
I love car salesmen who get right to the point. Not long ago, Tony at Vardaman Honda sold us our minivan with the finesse of a retail wizard and the ease of a good friend. Ricky did the same with that truck. We appreciate that. In less than two hours, we became the proud owners of a pre-owned Ford that might as well have been a gilded chassis fit for a king. Who knew a truck could sprout wings and fly?
The man got his truck and all was well with chromosomes, machismo and trailer hitches. Only now, the 16-year-old son developed a sudden and irrepressible itch for a fishing boat.
Aluminum.
Sixteen foot.
25 horsepower.
Just the thing for that truck to pull.
The tackle box quivers in the toolbox with each mention of “Evinrude” and “Mercury.” What I soon discovered is that with truck ownership comes the mysterious need for men to bond on lakes and rivers, compelled to seek the satisfaction found in baiting bass from watercraft—watercraft that preferably includes trolling motor, live well and depth finder, of course.
Of trucks and men, there is no end to the male patterned boldness found riding the roads in the comfortable cab of their dreams.