Skip to main content

Being Married II

My husband has a crush, and it's Andrew Lloyd Webber.

He now sends tweets to Sir Andrew. Over the weekend, Andrew told his many fans that his cat had died--roadside accident....And my husband wrote to express sorrow over A's "lost kitty."

When my husband shows me a tweet like this, there's a crazy look in his eyes, as if he is begging me to talk him down from the ledge. "I did it, I did it," he says, with defiance, but he also seems to be saying, Can you calm me down???

When T.S. Eliot released his cat poems, a crabby lady from St. Louis wrote to complain. And T.S. Eliot answered in verse: a long, rambling poem about how cats are wonderful, and how there isn't a worthier subject for literature. My husband read this poem to me, in its entirety, then did twenty minutes of research on the crabby lady from St. Louis.

Watching "Cats," Friday, I had moments of epiphany. For example, I was certain that Terrence Mann, in the original Broadway production, had earned a Tony nomination for being the Rum Tum Tugger. And I was wrong. Nominations went to Munkustrap--Munkustrap, of all cats!--and to Bustopher Jones. Yes! Look it up!

Also, who remembers how prominent the Rum Tum Tugger is? He has that song about how he likes to fuck, yes--but did you know that he is also one of the narrators of "Old Deuteronomy"? Startling.

My husband really would like to know when the next Broadway "Cats" revival will occur; I'm not sure how to say, The last one just happened....and no one attended.....So....

"I think I like this show more than 'Phantom of the Opera,'" says my husband, apropos of nothing. "It speaks to my soul." That said, I do sometimes hear my husband in the shower, over the crashing of the water drops: "Sing OOOONCE AGAAAAAIN with me! Our STRAAAANGE duet!!!!"

It's important to have an obsession, especially in these trying times. I respect Marc's new interests, and I really wish that Andrew Lloyd Webber would write back to him. Maybe someday. Andrew has announced the conclusion of "The Shows Must Go On," a retrospective tour of his career. You can rest assured there has been some serious mourning in this household. Even in darkness, though, there is light. If I run out to do an errand, I can be certain to return home to the sight of my singing husband, and my deeply puzzled child: "And we all say.....Oh well! I never! Was there ever....a cat so clever as Magical Mr. Mistoffelees????"

And that's life--in our house. Happy Monday.

*P.S. When I say "apropos of nothing," I don't intend to be mean. A passion is something that simply pops up when it pops up. For example, I myself often bring up Taylor Swift--apropos of nothing. I wouldn't have it any other way!
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...
2 comments
Read more

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...
Post a Comment
Read more