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On Being Married

 Do you recall the famous "Simpsons" episode where Homer needs to purchase a gift for Marge, and he chooses a bowling ball?


And Marge is so upset with this transparent self-service, she contemplates an affair with another man? (I think this might be "Last Exit to Springfield.")

The other night, my husband showed me an image of plaid flannel pajama pants; the pants had snapshots of my dog's head scattered all through the fabric. My dog was wearing a Santa hat, and he was surrounded by the words: "DOG DAD. DOG DAD. DOG DAD."

I drew a thick, bold line, right there. "You may not buy those pants for me, for Hanukkah or Christmas. If you want them, you must buy them for yourself."

My husband answered immediately, as if I had just tapped into an argument raging within his own head: "I can't give myself the pants. I'm too tall. I'm sure they'd end at my knees."

This has been a somewhat difficult year for Salvy. He became too much of a vacuum cleaner, so that strangers began commenting on his weight. "You know what they say about yellow labs...and their hips..." Salvy also had a benign lipoma--this proved not to be a problem at all--and in the early days, before a doctor verdict, the lipoma made everyone edgy. Now, while dieting, Salvy must eat frozen green beans each day.

I continue to notice that no one handles life's challenges with more grace, more stoic resolve, than Salvy.

I'll skip the pants, but still, DOG DAD is an important term to me. I wear it on my heart, if not within the stitching on my outerwear; I wear the term with pride.
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