babybloomr

I am a very messy gardener.

Here’s what my deck looks like when I plant my flower pots:

 

Also, this:

 

But, the results are worth it.

Even Thea is stopping to smell the roses strawberries!

 

And look! Right in the middle of all of those weeds, there’s a gorgeous head of lettuce– from LAST YEAR’S GARDEN! It just volunteered to show up! 

So I ate it.

The End.

 

I live next door to a marital cautionary tale. I like these people, so I don’t want to violate their privacy or be snarky about them. I know that they are unaware that this blog exists, which is the only reason I would write about this– because being the true daughter of the South that I am, I don’t mind talking about someone, but I would just die if they found out!

Here’s the deal: they are both in their early 70’s, retired, second marriage for both, first spouses died. Been married to each other about 10, 11 years. Somewhere along the way, She got disillusioned, or felt gypped, or something– at any rate, She is now completely soured on the marriage. He has the smooth manner of a politician or car salesman, always smiling and pleasant, always puts the best possible face on things. He seems to live in a state of stoic denial. In the two years that we have lived here, the relationship between them has deteriorated to a Cold War status. She stays inside a lot, and when she speaks to him it is in the manner of someone who has just stepped in a big pile of dog poo and is now addressing the dog that produced it— barely controlled anger, outrage and total disgust. Just mean, basically. He works outside in their immaculate yard. All. The. Time. Seriously, like from dawn to dark. They have rose gardens and fountains and a vegetable garden and trees and muscadine vines and a gazebo and a putting green and a koi pond and rows of pie-plate red hibiscus bushes. He just added some bamboo yesterday. It’s like living next door to the Biltmore gardens.

Basically things have gotten to the point that, as the saying goes, if He walked on water, She’d complain that the damn fool can’t swim.

Now all of this would be None Of My Business, except for the fact that they both have taken to confiding in me over the fence about their miserable state of affairs. I am determined to remain Switzerland in this situation, so I have this standard look of sympathy and compassion that I slap on my face when they talk to me, and I nod a lot and say kind of inane, neutral things like, “Well, I really hope you are taking care of yourself through all of this.” (What does that even mean, anyway?!) It actually kind of breaks my heart a little, because they are both genuinely nice people, in a highly dysfunctional kind of way, and it makes me sad to see how their lives have changed so much in the last two years. They used to go out with friends, attend Garden Club meetings, go to the country club, travel a little. Now, She’s inside, pissed off, and He’s outside, avoiding her. She tells me she can’t take it any longer, she wants him to leave, but he won’t. He tells me that it is hard to live with someone who is so fundamentally unhappy all the time, and that nothing he does pleases her, but he’s not going anywhere. She goes to lots of therapists who tell her that He is not her problem– she is unhappy with her life, and even though He is far from perfect if he were gone it wouldn’t solve all of her problems. He thinks there is ‘something wrong’ with her, and appears to be very long-suffering, but according to Her, he explodes a lot. And maybe drinks too much. Where is the truth? Somewhere in the middle, I guess.

Since I refuse to be recruited into being the Marriage Counselor, I’ve decided that I will allow myself to occasionally (with limits) serve as a sounding board and just express my sadness that they are going through such a rough time. Period. And since I have a tendency to lean towards the self-helpy, this is showing remarkable restraint. You know that metallic taste you get in your mouth when you’re biting your tongue ’til it bleeds? ME TOO!

But here’s what the whole situation is teaching me: Show me any male of the species and any female of the species and I’ll show you irreconcilable differences. We are so fundamentally different that if we live together long enough, it is inevitable that each of us at some point will feel misunderstood and alone. If I wanted to be with someone who really, really gets me, I should have married my friend Bonnie. Or a gay man. And trust me, there have been times in my life that those two options seemed way preferable to the one I was living in. I think the trick is to find the places that you DO connect, and nurture those– and to do it before you let time and resentment alienate you both so completely that there isn’t any hope of finding your way back to each other. Also, could we all just cut each other some slack, for crying out loud?  ‘Trying’ ought to count for something! Watching the War of the Roses next door has made me want to be a kinder, gentler version of myself in my own marriage. Most of the time, I think we’re both doing the best we can with the knowledge and experience we have– we’re not doing it perfectly, but we need to be encouraged when we do it half-assed right, not jumped on and attacked when we do it half-assed wrong. Marriage is hard, and people are fragile. If it ain’t fixed, don’t break it.

And that, my dears, is the sermonette for the day. By Reverend Preachy McKnow-it-all.