I’m changing – slowly, but surely, morphing into some life form I no longer recognize as myself. With this neurotic thought stampeding through my mind, I rise this morning and put up a pot of Rose’s favorite coffee—Peets Major Dickason. Despite her penchant to skip breakfast, I prepare a healthful little dish, hoping my angel will think twice: a dollop of non-fat yogurt sprinkled with Urth Café granola and topped with a red glistening strawberry. Into the kitchen she comes, looking every bit the marketing director of an International law firm that she is and the woman whose bras I’m continually picking up off our bedroom floor. I proudly present her the breakfast plate. “Would you mind getting my dry cleaning today, honey?” she asks, walking by me to the coffee pot, where she fills her cup to the brim. I tell her I’ll think about it. A perfunctory peck to my cheek and she’s gone, off to work.
A few seconds later and a forty-pound school bag strapped to his back, Julian comes clomping down the stairs and into my face, “You’re nuts if you think I’m gonna eat that!” he warns, motioning derisively to the plate I find I’m still holding. In one large spoonful I consume the yogurt and take him to school, stopping along the way at Starbucks for his customary ham and egg sandwich; after numerous attempts at getting Julian to eat real eggs I have given up; begrudgingly conceded that the disgusting pale yellow layer in the sandwich he crams into his mouth each morning, while not the Real McCoy, is, at the very least, some distant relative.
I’m changing – slowly, but surely, morphing into some life form I no longer recognize as myself. With this neurotic thought stampeding through my mind, I rise this morning and put up a pot of Rose’s favorite coffee—Peets Major Dickason. Despite her penchant to skip breakfast, I prepare a healthful little dish, hoping my angel will think twice: a dollop of non-fat yogurt sprinkled with Urth Café granola and topped with a red glistening strawberry. Into the kitchen she comes, looking every bit the marketing director of an International law firm that she is and the woman whose bras I’m continually picking up off our bedroom floor. I proudly present her the breakfast plate. “Would you mind getting my dry cleaning today, honey?” she asks, walking by me to the coffee pot, where she fills her cup to the brim. I tell her I’ll think about it. A perfunctory peck to my cheek and she’s gone, off to work.
A few seconds later and a forty-pound school bag strapped to his back, Julian comes clomping down the stairs and into my face, “You’re nuts if you think I’m gonna eat that!” he warns, motioning derisively to the plate I find I’m still holding. In one large spoonful I consume the yogurt and take him to school, stopping along the way at Starbucks for his customary ham and egg sandwich; after numerous attempts at getting Julian to eat real eggs I have given up; begrudgingly conceded that the disgusting pale yellow layer in the sandwich he crams into his mouth each morning, while not the Real McCoy, is, at the very least, some distant relative. I drop him at school, turn the SUV around to go back home, and it hits me – a sudden and strong wave of emotion. I take a deep breath and exhale. Unappreciated. That’s it. I’m feeling unappreciated. And I’ve been expressing it, I realize, in strange ways.
Yesterday, after lunch, I found myself in some greeting card store reading Thank You cards for half an hour. I can’t tell you why. There’s no one in my life I wanted to thank. Yet there I stood, reading contently. The day before that, on my way to Whole Foods, where I was picking up some dried fruit and a few granny smith apples for the compote I’m making this Christmas, I passed a nail salon. Through the window I could see a number of women lounging on comfortable lazy boys, having their nails done. I wanted to join them, I realized; chat awhile; have my fingers and toes attended to by an expressionless Vietnamese woman.
Later that day I got into a discussion – well, argument – with some saleswoman at William Sonoma who expressed the view that slow cooking wasn’t real cooking. Her comment felt like a punch to my midsection. Slow cooking is, after all, the only form of cooking I’m comfortable with at this stage of my development. Incensed, I went on to detail, step by step, how I was making my evenings lasagna and challenged her to give me a better way. A way that she would define as “cooking.” She couldn’t! At least, she didn’t. Instead she moved away from me cautiously while another sales rep chimed in neutrally, “Well, we can all agree that cooking should be fun and relaxing.”
I don’t think Rose understands what I’m going through. It’s hard to keep the home just so, shuttle Julian back and forth to school and his sporting events, cook a hot dinner every night ... I mean, come on... I’m not asking for much... just a few kind words now and then: “Sweetheart, the brisket is yummy;” “Honey, I love how you’ve arranged the flowers on the piano;” “Darling, how ‘bout I send you to a spa for a couple of? ... ” WAIT A MINUTE! WHAT IN THE NAME OF JEHOVAH IS HAPPENING HERE?
Before I can answer the thought my cell phone rings. It’s my mother-in-law, thanking me for the ratatouille I placed on her doorstep late last night. It was delicious. I thank her; then pull my car over to the side of the road, where I sit for an hour, trying to figure out whether her call made me feel great or terrible...
Don Seigel is a comedy writer and producer whose credits include such hits as the "Golden Girls" "The John Larroquette Show" and "Frasier". He lives in Calabasas with his Cuban wife and stepson.