Life With The Campbells

I am a pet person. You could say that I prefer animals to people, but that is not entirely true. I love my children. I have some good friends. My husband makes the list most of the time. But someone said once that “You can’t trust a person that doesn’t like animals.” Or was it “If a dog doesn’t like someone, you shouldn’t, either?” They are both right. It doesn’t matter, because I don’t really want to compare pet people to non-pet people. 

Instead, let’s talk about the pets themselves. I have had both dogs and cats. I have to admit to only two dogs and probably dozens of cats in my life. So I guess I am partial to cats. I think it is because cats have grace and beauty. They can jump really high. But I think the purr is what really sets cats apart. Some scientific study proved that purring is similar to heavy drugs—it lowers blood pressure and stuff. All I know is that purring is bliss. Some people say that having a dog lick one’s face is a similar experience. I have never found saliva to be that comforting. But perhaps I just have higher expectations when it comes to bliss. 

I love dogs. Don’t misunderstand. They have such a propensity for adoration. My late pup never wanted to leave the house without me. She looked back at me beseechingly when someone other than I tried to take her out for a walk. That look could melt anyone’s heart. I think that dogs’ undying loyalty and bravery is undeniable. 

But really, cats are so entertaining. They can turn themselves nearly inside out at will. They have gorgeous, marble-like eyes. And they are so soft. And they chase themselves around the house just for the hell of it. 

The crux of the matter is this: dogs love everybody. If you have bad breath, no internal editing mechanism, and absolutely no sense of humor, your dog will love you, anyway. However, those same attributes will cause any self-respecting cat to spurn you. Cats are very sensitive to things like terrible jokes and halitosis. If you insist on eating all that garlic and using your outside voice, don’t get a cat. It will flee from you at every opportunity. And forget purring altogether. 

I like to think that my cats love me because I am incredibly sensitive, have high aesthetic values, and a big vocabulary. My cats appreciate the fact that I know they hate that canned food with gravy, and so I don’t serve it to them. My cats enjoy crime dramas, and they never watch Downton Abbey, because of the Labrador retriever. My cats prefer their water fresh and with ice. 

Once, my garbage disposal kind of erupted, and sticky black stuff spewed forth. My dog ate it. Then she got diarrhea all over the Persian rug in the living room. Compare and contrast. 

So in conclusion, let me say this: a life without pets is lonely, indeed. If intellectual stimulation is what you crave, get a cat. But if you just want to let it all hang out, eat pizza, and belch at will, your dog will think you are Albert Einstein. 

This is why I keep telling my five cats that we need another dog.

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As far as I am concerned, if you have been married for more than thirty years, it might as well be a hundred. It certainly seems that long. I have been married longer than I haven’t, and I am not sure that getting to know another person that well is an advantage. 

For instance, I can finish all of his sentences. As a matter of fact, I could probably start and finish all of them. There really isn’t any need for him to open his mouth at all, because I can just speak for him most of the time. Frankly, I am a much better story teller than he is, anyway. He messes up the chronology. 

Being married for eons presents other problems.  First off, the mystery is gone forever. Not only do you know what the other looks like naked, but you have the entire topography of your spouse memorized. This bodes well for the times when you can say, “Hey, that mole looks a little bigger. Maybe you should have it checked.” But it is not exactly fodder for romance: “You know, that pot belly gets bigger every month.” 

I met my husband when I was eighteen. At the prime of my physical powers. He was no slouch either, at aged twenty-four. We were mere children. We could dance all night. Not that either of us knew how to dance without looking as if we were having some sort of spastic event. We could eat spicy food and then go right to bed without having acid reflux all night. We could walk on the beach for hours, and never get foot cramps. For heaven’s sake—we still thought our parents were stupid, that’s how young we were! 

If you can remember a time when you worried about losing your husband to “boys’ night out,” but now you just wish he’d get the hell out of the house once in a while, you have probably been married a hundred years. If you swear that if you hear “two rabbis walked into a bar” one more time, you will punch him; you have been married for a century. And if he gets a certain look in his eye and you say “Are you nuts? We did that three months ago,” then you know you are in the century set. 

I have been married for a hundred years. Just last night, when we were out to dinner, I spit on my napkin and wiped a little drip off his chin. Then we doddered home to rub Ben Gay on each other’s backs. He calls me “Hon.” 

I think it may be because he has forgotten my name.

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People are always telling us to have one. That yellow icon is stuck all over everything from produce to car bumpers. We say it in parting. “Have a good day.” 

When I was in my twenties, newly married and footloose, a good day usually meant hot dogs on a grill, lots of beer and friends, and a game of charades if it was cold weather, or something like lawn darts if it was warm. Nobody had any money, but we all had plenty of options. 

In my thirties, a good day meant no projectile vomiting or colic, everybody took naps, and if it was a supremely good day, we all went to McDonalds for Big Macs and Happy Meals. And everybody slept through the night. 

In my forties, good days were a lot harder to come by. By then, working late at the office was common. After work, there was a thrown-together supper, followed by some sort of parental requirement, involving knee pads (oops, forgot them—rush back home to the hysterical cries of the player involved, scolding the entire way home and back), raffle tickets, mortar boards, or prom pictures. 

Ah, the fifties. These are the new forties. This decade is full of good days. Of course, in order to have good days, you have to have the ultimate bad ones: the days when you load the car with clothes, a mini-fridge, two bulletin boards, a computer, and one college freshman. Sobbing all the way home, you feel that there will never be another good day. But magically, two weeks later, you have enrolled in a pottery class, you announce that you may have cooked your last meal, and you discover that sleeping in is NOT overrated. 

Now I am in my sixties. None of your business how far in, for Pete’s sake. A good day. Let’s see. There’s coffee at Starbucks. I can go there every day. No commute, whew! I look back on the days when I was too poor to afford a pedicure, and I wonder how I ever wore sandals. I still don’t cook much, and now when I look in the fridge and say, “Do you want eggs for dinner? Because there isn’t anything else in here,” we get to go to a restaurant that has a wine list and French pastries. I have a fully loaded Kindle and a new, tiny car that reminds me of the one I drove in high school. I can go up and down stairs just fine. And I can balance on one foot.

I am not sure what the future holds. I certainly hope for a huge amount of good days to come. But in the back of my mind floats an image of a woman in a wheelchair, sitting in the sun of some assisted living patio, squinting at a caregiver who, as she adjusts my blanket and puts the lock on the wheels so I won’t careen off somewhere, gaily announces, “Have a good day, sweetie!” That will be my first truly bad one.

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There is gloomy stuff going on all around the globe. Wars, terrorism, racism, and politcians just being themselves. It gets discouraging. And none of it is my fault. 

As a matter of fact, none of it is women’s fault. Women are loving and maternal. They espouse peace. They nest. They make bread pudding with lemon curd. They change the beds, starch the collars, and walk the dogs. Women have the babies. 

Women are just primo. We nurse the sick (I know, there are male nurses, but indulge me in this), we pull the weeds, and we clean the toilets. We listen to the same “short man goes into a bar” joke hundreds of times, and we laugh. We have the faces that launch ships (well, this may not be where I want to go with this). 

The world is a better place because we inhabit it. So what, do you ask, do the men contribute? 

Well, as far as I can see, boys start out on the feisty side. They do disgusting things like farting and nose picking. They seem to enjoy beating up on one another. Boys love to play with guns. Boys also seem to love to shove each other, get in fist fights, and look up girls’ skirts. Then they grow up to be men.  Things go from bad to worse. 

Men cause border skirmishes that turn into wars. They develop weapons of mass destruction. Their testosterone knows no bounds. Let me see: waterboarding, crucifiction, show-downs, gangs, and pornography. Good grief. 

I know. Every man has a mother. And we raise them up to be men. So I guess we have to take some of the blame for it. But really, how many mothers have you seen saying things like, “Stop hitting your brother!” or “If I see you shoot your brother with your finger gun again, you will have to go to your room!” Mothers wring their hands over stuff like Red Ryder BB guns,  GI Joes, transformers, and firecrackers. But we are outnumbered. 

There are violent shows on TV. Oh, and those video games! What is a mother to do? I don’t know the answer to any of this. We all wish for less violence. There doesn’t seem to be a solution. Boys will be boys. What can be done? 

Lop off a few balls, maybe?

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I read a lot of books. I watch a lot of television. I prefer to enter the world of the past, where people had servants, wore long dresses and changed clothes in order to have lunch. I like period detective stories also. Anything by a Bronte, Austen, Alcott, or Dickens will do. 

But here’s the thing. I get very confused about what life must have been like back then, when I compare it to my own reality. There are so many elements that are presented in these plots that I really don’t understand. I will share them with you, because I would rather do that than actual research into the relative truth of these very confusing things. Anything beats research.

 First of all, let’s talk wardrobes. I know we are globally warm. So it must have been a lot colder back when Oliver Twist was picking pockets. So how come in the dead of winter, all the women in London just sallied out with a mere shawl thrown over their shoulders? Or, in the case of those women on the moors, a cape? And in most cases that I see, the cape has just one button at the neck, baring the rest of the wearer to the winds? Oliver and the gang just seemed to get by in London’s chill by wearing caps. Good grief. 

Summer? Just the opposite. At Downton Abbey, long dresses with extensive undergarments. Hose. No such thing as sandals. And when they got parched? Hot tea was just the ticket. Everybody seemed to go outside all the time, to eat at wicker tables or on blankets, playing croquet and badminton in all of those clothes. Sidebar: were there no big bugs or bees back then? Those teacakes sat on a silver platter for hours. How come none of those aristocrats swatted at flies? 

And let’s talk tea. In any crisis, whether it’s murder or mayhem, one is offered a cuppa. How does this help? Or water. Sometimes, when a murder has taken place, the coroner or some other official arrives, takes one look at the bystanders, and orders a round of glasses of water for all. Maybe back then, everybody was on the verge of dehydration all the time? 

Beds are extremely confusing. Nobody in these shows sleeps flat. They all prop themselves up with pillows and shams. Then they discuss the murder, the gossip, or the fact that they need to hire a new ladies’ maid. And then, somebody just blows out the candle or turns down the gas. Period. Eyes closed. Sitting up. 

One more thing that always confuses me. Here in the present, we have social media. I can find out what you are doing for lunch by checking Facebook. But in all the period pieces, notes were sent. And some guy in a phaeton was always right there at the curb, ready to rush the note over to the recipient and come right back. Ladies making assignations seemed to get their answers from lovers right away! How could things be that efficient in times when it was horses they relied on? And how were all these people always available to read these notes being sent around town fifty times a day?

Life seemed so much more civilised in these books. I love capes. And tea with cream looks so good–in those transparent china cups. People’s lives were so much more interesting and picturesque. 

I bet the reality was something very different. It certainly isn’t like that now. Why, just yesterday, I happened to be in the ER, waiting for my flu-ish daughter to be treated. Nobody offered me a glass of water. And there wasn’t a teapot in sight.

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