How I Annoy My Husband: Losing and Misplacing Things at Our House

             At least twenty times each day I ask Paul the following,

          “Have you seen my phone?” or less frequently,

          “Have you seen my (insert anything smaller than a kitchen table.)

          Paul has stopped helping me look for my misplaced items.  Maybe he has faith in me to find them, or maybe he’s just tired of helping me look.  I’d like to think it’s the former, but I’m guessing it’s the latter.

          When I find the lost item, I usually ask,

          “What’s it doing over there?” 

          More disturbingly, I sometimes ask,

          “What are you doing over there?”

          I fully expect an answer and also assume the object has moved itself to a place I would never put it.  So far, I’ve received no answers, but I might one day.

          I have found my cell phone in such unlikely places as on top the clothes dryer, on the bathroom counter, in the linen closet and in the refrigerator (was I waiting for a “cold call?”)  It’s also been sitting innocently on my tall dresser, on the bed--both under and on top of clean or dirty clothes. Luckily it’s never been in the oven or the microwave that I know of. I can only assume it’s because my phone, although mischievous, doesn’t have a death wish.

          Here is some background on my long history of losing things.  As a child, I spent weekends at my Dad’s house. When I lost something he’d say, “It’s where you left it.”  I didn’t respond or tell him my theory about items moving themselves and he didn’t waste energy helping me look.

          At my Mother’s house, I was the designated finder of lost things. She’d say, “Elyse, can you help me find my (insert object)?”  Maybe since it wasn’t my item, I was able to calmly find her lost object.  And I knew her items didn’t move themselves since only mine did that.

          But I digress. Back at my house with Paul, for some reason he can find things when he loses them. This annoys me and maybe since he can easily find his things, he has less patience for my problem finding lost things.

          He will say, “Have you seen my glasses?”

          Not five seconds later, he’ll say, “Oh they’re on the Dr. Seuss table.”

        The Dr. Seuss table is the adorably lop-sided table my daughter made in college from exactly 100 pieces of wood.

          When I asked Paul “What else do I lose?” he gave me a long list of items I forgot about: keys, handkerchief, mug, the TV remote, and glasses.

          About those glasses, after I lost them a few weeks ago, Paul actually helped me look for them. Maybe because I hadn’t lost them before or because they are expensive and I was particularly frantic about finding them. We searched the car’s front and back seats, the floor, the glove box and even the trunk. I checked my jacket pockets, desk drawers and all surfaces in the house.   Finally I realized I’d dropped them on a long hike we’d taken the proceeding weekend.  We discussed how the person finding them might leave them on the side of the path or on a fence, near the bathrooms, or on a sign.  We decided to return to the scene of the crime and retrace our steps on the two hour hike.

          Before we drove back that weekend, I happened to reach under my computer stand on my desk and not one inch away from the glasses case sat the offending glasses!  It was a miracle! Paul rolled his eyes of course.

          I lose gross things like my handkerchief.  Paul finds them gross anyway. I believe I am being a good citizen by not using tissues and killing trees.  I use colorful bandanas that are unfortunately too big to fit in my pocket, so I leave them in a prominent place like the arm of the couch, the kitchen table or counter, or on my bed. Naturally, I can’t remember where I left them.  I ask Paul,

          “Have you seen my handkerchief?”

          “No, and I definitely won’t help you look for it.”

          Paul has recently made a good suggestion.  “Why don’t you leave one handkerchief  in every room?”

          I love this idea and so now there is a cheery crumpled bandana in each room. This might be a good solution to many problems.  I guess I need a cell phone for each room too!

 

How I Annoy My Husband: Nagging and Nudging at Our House

 

I am really good at what I like to call “reminding” my husband to do things.  Paul has another for it: “nagging.” My Dad would often tell me to “stop being a nudge.”  The definition of the Yiddish word nudge is: “one who pesters and annoys with persistent complaining.”

 I think part of the problem is Paul and I have a different time table for getting things done. I like to get things done as soon as I notice they need to be done.  I typically keep a list of chores for us both on the kitchen table and one of my favorite things to do is cross something off that list. I often cross it off and put a check nearby it. Sometimes I even draw a smiley face. I feel relieved as the list gets shorter and when everything is finally done, I tear it up with a self-satisfied riiiiiip. Of course, I immediately start a new list so my relief is short-lived.

Paul likes to wait and doesn’t seem too worried about shortening the list. I wouldn’t objectively call him a procrastinator but compared to when I like to get things done, everyone is a procrastinator.

Here is an actual recent conversation.

“Sweetie, can you please vacuum today?” (By “today” I really mean “now.”)

“OK. I’ll do it soon.”

“But sweetie, there’s cat hair all over the living room rug and it’s gross. Can   you please do it?"

“I’ll do it later.”

“Don’t forget, ok?”

“I won’t. You’re nagging me.”

          This continues for a few minutes until I finally give up. Eventually Paul will usually do it. But sometimes he forgets.  It’s not earth-shattering, but I can’t cross that chore off my list and it bothers me.

Here’s another example.

“Babe, can you please take the patio chairs out of the shed?”

“Ok. I’ll do it soon.”

“But I really want to sit outside.”

“I’ll do it later.”

“Don’t forget, ok?”

I won’t. You’re nagging me.”

You get the point.

Sometimes I wonder if he’s purposely waiting longer to do a chore because of my constant reminders.  I think, if I keep reminding him, he might take longer to do it. I know I should stop, but I can’t help myself. 

Can a person be addicting to nagging? Maybe there should there be a self-help group called “Naggers Anonymous” I could go to meetings and get a sponsor.  I wonder if the members would nag each other.

“Can you help me set up the chairs now?”

 “Don’t forget to pass the collection plate.”

 “Remember to say the Serenity Prayer.”

” Don’t forget to come to the next meeting.”

I wish I was more like Paul. I exhaust myself getting things done quickly or stressing about them.  He doesn’t seem concerned when things don’t get done.

I also nag Paul about how and what he eats.  Paul eats quickly as if he’s worried about someone or something taking away his food at any moment. My dog used to eat that way.  Chomp, chomp, gulp, gulp.  My husband shovels food into his mouth at such a fast pace I can barely see his hand moving.  It’s like a sped-up movie. Of course I nag him about that.

Our meal conversation usually sounds like this:

“Sweetie, slow down!  You’re almost done and I’ve barely taken my first bite.”

Paul will make a sheepish grin and put his shovel, I mean fork, down near his plate. 

“See, I’m eating slowly.”

“Good job.”  I say while rolling my eyes.

Maybe he has a reason to eat so fast. When we eat different foods, I often say, “Can I have a taste?” This annoys Paul because he believes he never has enough food in the first place.  But he does give me a tiny bite about the size of half a green pea. “Thanks a lot” I tell him.

 I know he would be far happier eating at his usual pace. After all, one day I might actually grab his plate and eat all his food before he’s had a chance to finish it.

Paul is also a member of the clean plate society. No matter how much food I give him, he finishes it all. I used to put the serving dish in the middle of the table, but I noticed him finishing that off too. So now I give him what I call “a human portion” and put the rest of the food in the refrigerator. Of course he always complains there isn’t enough. “Is that all?”

I also nag Paul about what he eats.  He has pre-diabetes and at the end of the day I used to write down the carbohydrates he’d eaten to help him keep track of them. But soon he asked me to stop doing it. I don’t know why.  When he talks about ice cream and cookies on a daily basis, I say, “You don’t need that.”  I’ve begun hearing Paul say it to himself.  I guess I’ve really gotten into his head!

            How I Annoy My Husband: Hearing and Seeing at Our House
 
    As previously described, I have some hearing loss following years of teaching kindergarteners.  I don’t like to admit that and it annoys Paul.

    For example, I “turn on the words,” my lingo for using the captions, while watching TV because I missed dialog. I tell Paul, “They talk too fast” since I don’t like to admit I can’t hear well. Usually Paul is one step ahead of me and leaves the captions on or turns them on if they’re off.  

    Even with captions, I miss dialog so with a heavy sigh Paul rewinds the show. Luckily we use a device or service called a DVR. I think that’s what it’s called anyway. But sometimes I miss some speech because I daydream a bit or the show makes me wonder about something else more important like how much do elephants weigh? while we watch a nature show.

    Several times I have almost whispered, “Paul please turn on the words” while watching a movie in the theater. I’ve thought it in my mind anyway.  I also found myself searching for my seatbelt in theaters too, but that’s for a future installment. 

    I think hearing loss can provide some entertainment.  The words I think people say are usually more humorous than what they actually say and often rhyme. Maybe that’s because I used to write poetry.

    For example, when a friend said, “My law firm did divorces,” I heard “My law firm did the horses.” I almost said, “Oh, it’s terrible they were gambling!”

     “I can’t hear you!” I shout at Paul he tells me something from another room in our small house. I can’t imagine how difficult our life would be if we lived in a mansion.  That’s why I don’t ever want one, plus there are a lot of rooms to clean and I tend to accumulate stuff to fit my space, I’ve noticed.

          I’m proud when I can hear all kinds of useless things like roosters crowing while we take our long walks. But I miss important things.

    “You have a text,” Paul tells me when I miss the musical chime on the cell phone. The phone was buried in my purse so of course I couldn’t hear it.

    My vision is a problem too. I have glasses for distance, but at my last appointment the eye doctor said I only need them for driving. I’ve begun to notice I can’t see rabbits, roadrunners, birds, or lizards well on our walks. 

    “Look at the rabbit!” Paul says while pointing in the direction of the cute critter.

    “Where?” 

    “Near the big tree over there.” 

    “What tree?”

     “The one to the left of that blue house”

     “What house?” 

    Paul sighs loudly.

    I also trip on branches and small logs on our nature walks because I can’t see them.  I fly forward, but am usually able to catch myself before I fall.  Very graceful I know.  I think that’s why Paul has nicknamed me “Grace.”

    While on our walk, I often say something like “Oh my goodness!” because I think I see a dead bird or rabbit on the road ahead of us.  As we near the object, I’m relieved to see it’s just a brown rag or branch. Paul sighs and probably rolls his eyes, but I can’t see them.
     I think it’s about time for me to see that doc again.
          

    When wearing glasses, I enjoy seeing individual leaves on trees besides the cute wildlife I’m missing. I am also more sure-footed and see fewer dead animals.

    Sometimes I wonder why I am resistant to wearing my glasses or getting hearing aids. Am I afraid of appearing old? I don’t think so. Glasses require you to remember to wear them and I forget. They take a little while to get used to, and I’m lazy. I don’t think the frames are very attractive. I guess I need new frames. I also like to be au natural.  Not that I go naked outside or anything.

     Hearing aids seem complicated, need maintenance and are expensive. I’m not very good at any sort of mechanical device, I tend to drop things and lose things, and I’m cheap.  But one day Paul will insist I wear my glasses and/or hearing aids and I’ll feel more motivated.  I guess I need to make sure he doesn’t read this.
 

 

 

How I Annoy My Husband: Computers and TV at our House

Paul works from home doing computer software stuff for several companies. Although he’s tried to explain what he does, I still don’t understand it.  He tries to dumb down some of it and that helps. A bit. 

He’ll say something like, “You know when the schools adopt a new reading program because what’s newer seems better?  You used to complain about it being a waste of money. I’m going through something similar at my job.”

I can understand that, but what he actually does while sitting in front of the computer for hours on end is a complete mystery to me.  He doesn’t even attempt to explain that.

Paul works in his study which unfortunately for him, is about ten feet away from my study.  I’ll typically be on the computer writing essays about how I annoy him or researching important things like “Do crows fly south for the winter?” or “What is one hundred and forty divided by five?” when something weird, mysterious, and unexplainable will happen to my computer.  It’ll get really slow, or several windows will open at once, or a key will get stuck, or I won’t be able to open a file, or I won’t be able to find a file, or I’ll delete a file by accident. You get the picture.

In my unusually loud voice I’ll shout, “Sweetie!  Can you please help me?  Something’s happened to my computer!” I remain sitting at the desk to make sure whatever happened doesn’t stop happening.  I can yell pretty well if I do say so myself.  Since I grew up in New York City, I learned how to successfully hail a taxi above the din of traffic.  You can’t just raise your hand. You have to bellow, “TAXI!”  As a retired teacher I also know how to roar “Hey, listen up!” over the noise of 20 kindergarteners.  It’s a lethal ability.

After I scream for help, Paul will usually come running into the room to see what mess I’ve created.  He’s such a helpful guy.  Or he’s just anxious for the yelling to stop.

If he doesn’t come to my aid, I’ll shout again.  All of a sudden I’ll realize he may be on a conference call.  Oops, I’ll think to myself.  I’ll sheepishly walk into his study to find him staring at the screen and listening intently with his headphones on. When he turns towards me I’ll make a face that’s meant to say, I’m sorry! while putting a finger to my lips to signify be quiet.  I guess I’ll be saying it to myself.  I’m really not sure why I’m saying it to him.

Paul will make a stern expression while continuing to listen to his phone call.  He tells me repeatedly to check if he has his on his headphones before I shout for him, but sometimes (often) I forget. 

If he’s available, my husband will quickly solve the problem so he can get back to work.  I attempt to watch him fix whatever he’s just fixed, but he does it so fast I can’t follow him. 

“If you fix a wife’s computer, it’ll be fixed for a day.  If you teach her how to fix her computer, she’ll be able to fix it herself for a lifetime.”  I’ve never actually said that to him, but one day I will.

Believe it or not, thanks to Paul, I have actually learned a few things on the computer. I can use a video conferencing app. fairly well and host two different weekly meetings.  I know, I’m impressed with myself too.  I was motivated to learn them by the lack of my usual social activities due to the pandemic.  If I didn’t use the app, I couldn’t see my writing group or other old friends. I also began facilitating a social group for seniors. Of course, using this program isn’t rocket science, but I like to think it is. 

Another reason for my shouting is that I’ve had some hearing loss after teaching for many years.  When I watch TV, I typically “turn on the words” which is my technical lingo for using captions. I also turn the volume so loud the TV can be heard across town or at least down the block.  When I finally got around to watching “The Crown,” which is a great series by the way, Paul could easily hear the show while he worked so he closed his door.  I guess he was tired of hearing, “Your Majesty…”

          The bad part about his shut door is that when I’m confused while trying to use the four different remotes to switch from Netflix to TV (and vice-versa,) and shout for him to help, he can’t hear me.  I have to get up from my comfortable position sprawled on the couch and walk to his study only to find the door closed.  I guess he must be working, I’ll think to myself.

I also talk loudly on the phone while cleaning the house or cooking. I use ear buds so I can use both hands for my chores.  Of course Paul will close his door during those times.  I never hear him slam his door, but I wouldn’t blame him if he did.

Maybe Paul likes my company and thinks it’s worth the interruptions.  I always make his complicated salad for lunch and that’s no small chore.  He likes greens covered in cut up carrots, red peppers, sliced turkey, avocado, celery, a hard-boiled egg, and pinto beans.  Very healthy, but I don’t like cutting peppers.  The little seeds are annoying and get all over the counter.  Anyway, I need to do extra to make sure Paul is patient with my lack of technical abilities and my shouting, RIGHT?

 

 

How I Annoy My Husband: Different Versions of Clean

Paul and I have slightly different versions of cleanliness, but we’re learning to compromise. He’s learning my version and I’m learning to be patient as he learns it. I know my version annoys him, but he’s such a trooper he seldom complains about it.

To be fair, he’s already a neat guy, if you ignore his study. I mention the mess in there on a weekly basis, but don’t insist he clean it. After all, it’s his space. I think a mere question about why he’s not throwing something out doesn’t constitute insisting, right?  Paul’s desk is piled high with papers of all sorts including envelopes, paid bills, and junk mail. A large bookcase behind his desk has a shelf where we keep the printer. The small area behind the printer has become a catch all of various objects including a camera in its case, some tools, and for some reason, a Yosemite Sam Pez Dispenser without the Pez.

On a smaller bookshelf near his desk sits a two-tier plastic shelf haphazardly filled with several years of old tax returns, expired Costco mailers, several pairs of reading glasses, and other papers he means to eventually file or toss. A gray handmade bowl holds about $700.00 in spare change. Another obviously child-made clay bowl is filled with knickknacks like random keys, a Master Lock from middle school and various hooks of unknown use or origin.

“Why are you keeping that Master Lock?” I asked him.

“It has the coolest combination! Number, number, number!”

Of course, I can’t reveal the combination since he might actually use it again one day.

“What are those keys for?”

          “I don’t know, but I might need them.”

The study also carries the scent of eau de cat poop since we keep Rufus’ cat litter in the closet. Our guest bathroom is so small we’d have to stand in the litter to use the toilet if we kept it there. At least I would. I guess Paul could stand to the side of the toilet. Rufus doesn’t mind going into the open closet to do his business and fortunately Paul doesn’t have a good sense of smell. The downside is that Paul can’t always tell when the litter needs cleaning.

“Rufus, P.U.!  Babe, can you please clean the cat litter?”

I can smell the poop from the living room, and it ruins my concentration while watching the news.

Since Rufus was Paul’s cat before we met, cleaning litter, cat vomit, and feeding the always-hungry feline isn’t my job.

We mostly agree on how neat and clean to keep the rest of the house. I’m not a clean freak, but some things are important to me. For example, since I cook dinner, Paul does the dishes. For a while, his timeline for doing dishes was different than mine.

“Sweetie, can you please do the dishes at night instead of leaving them in the sink until morning?”

          “It’s not a problem. I’ll do them in the morning,” he said.

          “Yes, but the food stays on all night and we might get ants.”

          “No we won’t.”

          “But when I do my neti pot, it drains onto the dishes.”

Paul started washing them each night.

Paul makes his coffee in the morning and for several weeks I found coffee grounds on the counter and even on top of the Brita pitcher. How they got there, I’ll never know.

“Babe, I keep finding coffee grounds on the counter. Can you please be careful?”

          Paul couldn’t figure out how they got there, so he reenacted how he makes coffee each morning. It was fascinating. Now he fills the coffee filter over the sink.

Sometimes I find clothing around the house, but luckily not underwear. I place the item on Paul’s side of the bed, so he has to put it away before he goes to sleep. He’s also a messy eater. I always find piles of crumbs on his placemat and on the floor under his chair. I don’t comment on these minor infractions. I know to pick my battles.

Paul leaves the vent on after he takes a shower. I ask him to avoid using it since I’ve heard about those motors overheating and causing a fire. I think that happened at one of the schools where I was teaching. He forgets, so I turn it off myself. But he always remembers to wipe down the chrome shower fixtures and safety bars and squeegee the glass door.

Since Paul works from home, I clean the house. When I wiped off the bathroom counters, sometimes I found tiny black hairs from his beard trimming. Our own hairs don’t bother us, anyone else’s are gross.

“Sweetie, can you please wipe up your beard hairs next time?”

Paul’s solution was to kneel in front of the bathroom counter and trim his beard over the sink. One of the many reasons he’s so wonderful.

Speaking of wonderful, Paul always puts the toilet seat down after he uses it. He has done this since I’ve known him. He also changes the toilet paper roll without being asked. There’s almost nothing worse than going to the bathroom and having nothing to wipe with. Maybe in his past life he was asked too many times, “Can you please bring me some toilet paper?” and he found that annoying.

           

 

                                                     

How I Annoy My Husband: Paul’s Diet

Illustration by Kat Russo

Several months ago, Paul developed a red spot on the ball of his foot. He thought it was a basketball injury, but when it began to swell and throb painfully we went to Urgent Care. We thought it might be fractured or broken or worse.

The doctor’s diagnosis shocked us. “It’s gout.”

         “What?” we said in unison.

. Wasn’t that what kings and rich people got from all that rich eating? And Paul wasn’t even remotely related to the Queen of England.  As for rich…? The doctor sent us off with a prescription and ten pages of instructions, which promptly landed on his desk at home, unread. He’d just joined my health plan and they weren’t taking new patients, so we couldn’t make a follow-up appointment. We decided to schedule with a doctor in a contracting group.

The name of the practice included “Integrative Health,” so we were suspicious. Would they recommend magical herbs and elixirs? But they had an opening the next day, so we took it. The office walls were covered in ads for rejuvenating supplements—not a good sign. The nurse escorted us into a large room and Paul removed his shoe and sock. When she entered, the doctor gave us each a limp handshake and sat down behind a massive wooden desk on the other side of the room.

The practice should have been called “Interrogating Health” because for the next 30 minutes the doctor asked Paul a multitude of questions related to his general health—basically everything but his shoe size since she wasn’t interested in his shoe or his foot. She didn’t even peek at his foot. She would have needed binoculars to see it from behind that huge desk.

Without looking at the paperwork we had brought, she gave us a few prescriptions for gout. When we picked up the medicine at Walgreens, we made sure the pharmacist thought the medicines were the correct ones. They were, to our surprise.

A few days later, when the ten pages of Urgent Care instructions accidentally fell off Paul’s desk and floated to the floor, I noticed the words, “Follow up with Dr. Foot, a podiatrist.” Oops. Dr. Foot confirmed Paul had gout after actually looking at his foot. I was disappointed in myself. I had been remiss in my job as an overprotective Jewish wife by not reading all of the paperwork and following up. I doubled down in my care or as Paul calls it, “pestering.”

I put Paul on a gout preventative diet and the fun began.

“Sweetie, you should limit foods with uric acid, including beer, red meat, tuna, salmon, poultry, mushrooms, asparagus, spinach and cauliflower.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. I like those foods.”

“Yes, but they could trigger another attack.”

“I’ll be fine.”    

“But remember how much it hurt?”

“I’ll be fine.”

You get the picture.

These conversations continued for several weeks until Paul was able to see his new doctor. Dr. Mew thought Paul had “pseudo gout” since his diet wasn’t bad enough to have caused actual gout. We were so happy! No restrictions on his diet! We celebrated until his blood work came back.

Turns out, he has pre-diabetes, high cholesterol, and high blood pressure. We were back to the diets and his complaining.

        “Let’s count your carbs each day and you need to cut down on salt, fat, and foods with potassium.”

Paul was amazingly cooperative about counting his carbs to control the pre-diabetes. He even stopped eating those salty crackers and pretzels he’d usually nosh on all day. But limiting other salty foods wasn’t as easy.

“Mustard and ketchup have a lot of salt you know,” I told him.

“What’s a vegetarian burger without mustard and ketchup?” he complained.

“We should donate those salty soups to Roadrunner Food Bank.”

“But I like those soups.”

“I know, but they’re bad for you.”

He finally let me donate the soups along with some other canned goods in a closed-up cardboard box. Not seeing them made it easier.

Then we had to limit potassium because of the ACE inhibitors. I found out every food has potassium, but we’ve cut out some of the ones with high amounts like potatoes. I also no longer buy vegetables he used to eat in his daily salad like mushrooms, avocados, spinach, and black beans.

“I want bananas. Let’s put them on the grocery list,” he announced one day.

“They have lots of potassium.”

“I like them. I’ll be fine.”

“But they’re not good for you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

You get the picture.

During dinner, I review Paul’s carbs for the day by writing them down on a small pad.

        “I had my usual breakfast. Then I had two graham crackers with cottage cheese, a container of yogurt, an apple, and a granola bar.”

“Great job!” I tell him like the retired teacher I am. I once offered him a sticker, but he refused it.

Sometimes I have to say, “Ooops, your carbs were a bit high today. I know you can do better tomorrow.”

After dinner Paul always says to me, “I’ve been so good, I deserve some chocolate.” I shut myself in my study and slowly open the closet’s sliding door to prevent any noise. From a well-hidden stash, I take out one small single-wrapped bar of a Milky Way or Twix. I present it to Paul like the treasure it is.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, this is about ten carbs. Enjoy!”

         I’m surprised he’s still married to me.

 

                   

 

                    How I Annoy My Husband: My Hair

                                    (with illustration by Kat Russo)

    Part I

    At least twenty times each day I ask Paul, “Have you seen my hair?”

The question doesn’t mean I have lost my hair, but it might mean two completely different things:

 “Doesn’t it look ridiculous?” Or

“Hey, it actually looks good at this moment!”

    Poor Paul is left to decipher what I mean by my expression and tone of voice. He usually glances at my face and hair to see if I’m smiling with glee or shaking my head with a despondent frown.

    Since the COVID-19 pandemic began ten years ago (it seems that long ago anyway,) I have decided to avoid getting my hair cut. I don’t want to expose myself to indoor areas in close proximity to a possible virus carrier for a prolonged period of time.

     I have had bangs for the past 35 years and letting them grow has been traumatic.  I pin them back with bobby pins, clip them to the side, or use a clip with a side part.  The rest of my hair used to be worn in a short cut, so now it’s growing out in what looks like a 70’s mullet combined with an 80’s perm.  None of those styles is currently fashionable nor particularly attractive.  So when I wake up in the morning I’m full of despair.  I shouldn’t even look in the mirror, but of course I do. 

    The face staring back at me is usually partially hidden behind a mass of unkempt brown tangles rising several inches in random directions.

    “Have you seen my hair?”

    I ask Paul, even though he’s been sitting across from me at the breakfast table and was hopefully looking at my face between spoonfuls of cereal.

    Paul has stopped saying, “Oh no, we’re talking about your hair again.” He’s begun saying, “Your hair looks nice.” This comment prompts me to jump up and check my reflection in the small kitchen mirror on the other side of the counter to see if it’s changed somehow. He often says it and waits and watches to see how long it will take me to look at that mirror. Sometimes I try and resist, but my inner thoughts will go something like this:

    I wonder if my hair actually does look good? How amazing would that be!

    Or

    Maybe he’s kidding and it looks ridiculous.  I’d hate to miss a good early morning laugh!

    Usually, it’s the latter and usually I’m right.

    Immediately after I wash it, my locks wave into something that has me resembling Shirley Temple in the movie “The Good Ship Lollipop.”  She was probably about six years old when she made that movie.  Not a good look for a woman of my advanced age.

    As soon as I put on a hat, my hair flattens into an uneven mess in some sort of shag again, not currently fashionable nor particularly attractive.  So when we take our early morning walk before my shower, I put on my hat with a small prayer.

Dear Lord, I pray I will not have to take off my hat for any reason whatsoever.

    Yes, there are more important prayers and I promise I say them too. Right after the hair one. 

    It’s amazing how a bad hairdo can ruin a person’s day, or give them a lift.  I mean, your hair surrounds your face in a kind of frame, right?  But it also can be an indication of your physical and emotional health. A woman can wear no make-up (like me during the pandemic,) but if her hair looks horrible, we think there’s definitely something wrong with her.  I should try and attend one of my Zoom meetings without fixing it and see how long it takes for the women to shout,

 “OH MY GOD, are you ok??”

    I’m not saying men wouldn’t notice, but they probably wouldn’t--not until the women shouted out with sincere concern and offers to bring food to an obviously very sickly person.

    My Hair, Part II 

    The other question Paul has been hearing since the pandemic (and for many years before) is:

    “Should I color my hair?”

    This is another trick question. If Paul says, “No” it means he doesn’t like how it looks when I color it or that he doesn’t care either way.  If he says “Yes” it means he doesn’t like it gray, or doesn’t care either way.

     He usually says something neutral like, ‘Whichever way you like it is fine with me.”  Or if he’s trying to win points, “You look beautiful either way.” Or if he’s tired of the whole hair conversation, “Are we talking about your hair again?” 

    I drive myself insane by obsessing over how my inch-long gray roots contrast with the faded red hair on my scalp. I become so offended with myself that I finally decide to color it again.

    Right after I color it, I assume that Paul has not noticed me walking around the house in a ratty red- stained tee shirt for 30 minutes, my hair wet and piled tightly on my head, or the noxious ammonia scent coming from the bathroom nearby his study. I know he will also not notice my noticeably different hair color (noticeably different to me since I study it at great length) because 1) He’s working from home and has more important things to think about and 2) He’s a man.

     I walk into the room interrupting his online meeting and shout,

     “Look, I colored my hair!”

    Paul sees my smile and says, “Wow, it looks great!” Ten points for my patient husband.