and I met Linda when our kids attended the same preschool. Our three families have been doing a monthly potluck for years. All the kids used to come to the potluck but as they got older, one by one they began to drop out, and now it’s usually just the adults (and occasionally Peter) who show up. Without the children as a buffer the dynamics of the potluck have changed, by which I mean it’s becoming more and more clear we don’t have much in common with Linda anymore. Everybody loves Bobby, however.
William sighs.
“Listen, don’t feel like you have to hang out with me while I do myerrands. Probably the last thing you want to do is traipse around some plant nursery with me.”
“I don’t mind,” says William, looking irritated.
“Really?—well, okay. Should we ask Caroline if she wants to come?”
“Why would we ask Caroline?”
“Well, I just thought—well, maybe if you got bored, the two of you could run laps around Home Depot or something.”
After my one failed run with Caroline, William began running with her. It was a rough beginning. He was out of shape, and those first couple of runs were tough. But now they ran five miles a few mornings a week and afterward whipped up spirulina smoothies, which Caroline tried to foist upon me with promises of fewer colds and better bowel function.
“Very funny. What’s wrong with just the two of us?” William asks.
What’s wrong with “just the two of us” is that these days when we’re together, it might as well be “just one of us.” I’m the one who starts all the conversations, who brings him up to date on what’s happening with the children and the house and finances, and who asks him about what’s going on in his life. He rarely reciprocates, and he never voluntarily offers up any information about himself.
“Nothing—of course not. The two of us is great. We can do whatever we want. What fun!” I say, defaulting to my overly enthusiastic Mary Poppins/Miss Truly Scrumptious voice.
I long for a richer life with him. I know it’s possible. People out there, like Nedra and Kate, are living richer lives. Couples are making moussaka together while the Oscar Peterson channel plays on Pandora. They’re shopping at farmers’ markets. Of course they’re shopping very slowly (slowness seems to be a key element in living a rich life), visiting all the stalls, sampling stone fruit, sniffing herbs, knowing their lemongrass from their lemon balm, sitting on a stoop and eating vegan scones. I don’t mean rich in the sense of money. I mean rich in the ability to feel things as they’re happening, to not constantly be thinking of the next thing.
“Hey, Alice.” Caroline walks into the kitchen, waving a book.
So far Caroline’s had no luck finding a job. She’s had lots of interviews (there’s no shortage of tech startups in the Bay Area) but few callbacks. Iknow she’s anxious, but I told her not to worry; she could stay with us until she was employed and had banked enough money to pay the security deposit on an apartment. Having Caroline around is not a burden. Besides being great company, she’s the most helpful houseguest we’ve ever had. I’ll really miss her when she goes.
“Look what I found.
Creative Playmaking,
” she says in a singsong voice.
She hands the book to me and I let out a little gasp. I haven’t seen this book in years. “This used to be my bible,” I say.
“It’s
still
my mother’s bible,” she says. “So, you guys have a weekend alone. What fun things do you have planned? Do you want me to
skedaddle
?” She waggles her eyebrows at us.
Caroline often uses old-fashioned terms like
skedaddle
—I think it’s charming. I suspect it comes from being a playwright’s daughter and seeing too many renditions of
Our Town
. I sigh and randomly flip to page 25 in the book.
1. Have an idea before you start writing.
2. Everything is potential material: the backyard barbecue, a trip to the grocery store, a dinner
William sighs.
“Listen, don’t feel like you have to hang out with me while I do myerrands. Probably the last thing you want to do is traipse around some plant nursery with me.”
“I don’t mind,” says William, looking irritated.
“Really?—well, okay. Should we ask Caroline if she wants to come?”
“Why would we ask Caroline?”
“Well, I just thought—well, maybe if you got bored, the two of you could run laps around Home Depot or something.”
After my one failed run with Caroline, William began running with her. It was a rough beginning. He was out of shape, and those first couple of runs were tough. But now they ran five miles a few mornings a week and afterward whipped up spirulina smoothies, which Caroline tried to foist upon me with promises of fewer colds and better bowel function.
“Very funny. What’s wrong with just the two of us?” William asks.
What’s wrong with “just the two of us” is that these days when we’re together, it might as well be “just one of us.” I’m the one who starts all the conversations, who brings him up to date on what’s happening with the children and the house and finances, and who asks him about what’s going on in his life. He rarely reciprocates, and he never voluntarily offers up any information about himself.
“Nothing—of course not. The two of us is great. We can do whatever we want. What fun!” I say, defaulting to my overly enthusiastic Mary Poppins/Miss Truly Scrumptious voice.
I long for a richer life with him. I know it’s possible. People out there, like Nedra and Kate, are living richer lives. Couples are making moussaka together while the Oscar Peterson channel plays on Pandora. They’re shopping at farmers’ markets. Of course they’re shopping very slowly (slowness seems to be a key element in living a rich life), visiting all the stalls, sampling stone fruit, sniffing herbs, knowing their lemongrass from their lemon balm, sitting on a stoop and eating vegan scones. I don’t mean rich in the sense of money. I mean rich in the ability to feel things as they’re happening, to not constantly be thinking of the next thing.
“Hey, Alice.” Caroline walks into the kitchen, waving a book.
So far Caroline’s had no luck finding a job. She’s had lots of interviews (there’s no shortage of tech startups in the Bay Area) but few callbacks. Iknow she’s anxious, but I told her not to worry; she could stay with us until she was employed and had banked enough money to pay the security deposit on an apartment. Having Caroline around is not a burden. Besides being great company, she’s the most helpful houseguest we’ve ever had. I’ll really miss her when she goes.
“Look what I found.
Creative Playmaking,
” she says in a singsong voice.
She hands the book to me and I let out a little gasp. I haven’t seen this book in years. “This used to be my bible,” I say.
“It’s
still
my mother’s bible,” she says. “So, you guys have a weekend alone. What fun things do you have planned? Do you want me to
skedaddle
?” She waggles her eyebrows at us.
Caroline often uses old-fashioned terms like
skedaddle
—I think it’s charming. I suspect it comes from being a playwright’s daughter and seeing too many renditions of
Our Town
. I sigh and randomly flip to page 25 in the book.
1. Have an idea before you start writing.
2. Everything is potential material: the backyard barbecue, a trip to the grocery store, a dinner
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