My Marriage and TayTay

My husband is in love with Taylor Swift.

"Some tickets," he says, "are around $20,000. The Maplewood Moms, in my Facebook group...They're all fuming."

I cluck--in sympathy, I guess? Taylor seems to be a source of diminishing returns for me. I listen to "Anti-Hero," but I don't know what she is talking about when she claims to dream about her own funeral, and about the in-laws who don't exist. I'm lost in that part.

News arrives from Western New York: My brother has spent twelve hours on a dysfunctional TayTay site, attempting to buy seats for his teen daughter. This makes me think of "Little House on the Prairie," when tales of winter hardship are traded around the campfire. "Uncle Jethro saw a bobcat when he was out hauling logs...."

My District-of-Columbia niece shudders as she recalls her own Taylor ticket odyssey. "I hired a deputy to monitor the vendors' website, because I needed to attend meetings all day. But when my helper actually penetrated the site, after several hours, he realized you need various text messages and tier-two security codes to reach the inner sanctum. So I had to abandon my year-end review session. I was running back to the hotel room; the clock was ticking. It was like Tom Cruise...Mission: Impossible...."

I'll sit this one out. On Netflix, you have nine free additional hours of "Unsolved Mysteries." You can remain in your pajamas; UFOs pop up; a murderess rides off into the sunset, and no one sees her post-homicide. This is my private "Christmas Tree Farm." To each his own.

Comments

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...

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...

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...

Liars and Saints

Search This Blog