I’m sitting here watching Days of Our Lives , and watching Marlena turn evil for what must be the hundredth time. Possessed by a demon, serial killer, shrink...I think, frankly, that the last item on the list may possibly be the greatest of her sins.
Annie sits beside me; her arms covered in bruises from the IV injections. I think today might be the day that she goes home. The junior dermatologist just came by and took a look, and my feeling is that she’ll be given an antibiotic and told to go home tonight. Which is all right by her. The allure of the hospital faded away shortly after the first injection. The first cut is the deepest, you know.
It’s never fun, seeing your children in the hospital. Thankfully this has turned out to be a relatively minor situation. I can just imagine how we would have coped with it had it been something more serious. Thankfully, the old machinery kicked in once again and Josie and I handled the juggling of hospital stays and children and jobs seamlessly, without one ounce of a quarrel escaping between the two of us.
In fact, we were even joking about things, the other day, by the blue elevators outside of Annie’s hospital room. Emmy night, around midnight, I was at the house while she was staying with Annie at the hospital, sitting by the computer, sending IMs to my friend Gil, when the phone rang.
“I picked up the phone and this guy asked if you were there,” I said. “I knew who it was right away. I told him that, no, you weren’t home right now, and he kind of mumbled and hung up the phone.”
“What did you do?” she asked.
“I just laughed,” I replied. “I thought it was funny, quite frankly. I think I took him aback.”
I don’t want to give the impression that I’ve totally adjusted. I still get twinges of jealousy. For example, Saturday afternoon, I returned to the homestead. The kids had slept over the apartment the night before, and Josie had been on a date. I went to the computer and discovered a purple slip of paper on the desk. The handwriting was distinctively Josie’s, so nosily, I opened it up.
“Go to your hiding place, and look for your favorite kitty.” The note read.
“My God,” I thought, fuming. “Does the woman have any sense of decency? Leaving a note like on the desk for the kids to see. What kind of filthy sexual games were going on here last night?” And then I thought about the hiding game we play with the kids on Christmas, where we hide one gift per kid and direct them there through a serious of clues. “That’s disgusting,” I fumed. “Turning a Christmas memory into some sick sexual fantasy.”
I was tempted to scribble something nasty down, but instead crumpled up the note and threw it in the trash.
I walked into the bedroom. There, by the bed, was another paper—this one was folded up, origami…one of those fortune-telling games that kids play. “I can’t wait to see what nasty things she has written on this,” I thought, and, ever the nosebag, opened it up.
I realized as I opened it that it was actually Tiger’s. He had taken out a book on being a spy from the library a few days before. Josie had obviously been helping him with a project. I sat on the bed and burst out laughing.
Still, quite a kinky idea for a night of sexual fantasy. I may just have to use it some time.
I told Josie this story. I don’t know if she found it as funny as I had. But the fact that we can discuss these things is encouraging.
I expect that the mediation won’t be easy, bogged down with details like joint ownership and equity and pension plans. But if we can make it through that void, I think we do have a chance to come out somewhat functional. Wouldn’t that be nice, to quote Brian Wilson.