Well, in one week it will be the day-after-Christmas morning. Oy!
Yesterday, December 18th, 2010 was our 25th wedding anniversay. I tend to forget that day, as it comes so close to Christmas and I have other things on my mind. Sometimes I only remember when I see a giant bouquet coming up the driveway, or sometimes I only remember two weeks later as I am making a New Year’s toast.
It was no different this year. I was listening to the radio on Friday and the announcer gave the date, the 17th, and I thought, “OMG, It’s our anniversary tomorrow, the big quarter century,” and I wondered if my husband had any surprises in store for me. I had noticed, from the scratches on the kitchen calendar, that although he had been scheduled to work the 18th, he had taken the day off.
Well no.
I said, “What are we going to do for our anniversary?”
He said, “I don’t know. What do you want to do?”
Was that a sly smile? I still wondered if he had something planned. Why would he bother to take the day off?
Well, no.
He suggested we go to the local high-end restaurant, the one where my son used to work.
“We can do that for any occasion,” I replied, being bitchy just for the sake of it. Well, for the sake of all wives, everywhere – and sounding an awful lot like a cliche mewling housewife, even as bad as Madame Bovary, maybe. EEEeeew.
“But this is a special occasion. And besides, you can’t wait to the day before the last Saturday before Christmas to make a reservation anywhere nice.”
“Well, I thought you had mentioned that’s what you wanted to do.”
“You know, you sound just like a cliche clueless husband, ” I snapped at my hubby. “Like Homer Simpson, or someone. I hope you didn’t get me a bowling ball for the anniversary.”
I wasn’t liking myself at that moment, but I nonetheless soldiered on.
“It’s our 25th wedding anniversary, the ONLY 25th wedding anniversary we will EVER have. And you didn’t plan ANYTHING?. I asked you two weeks ago if I should plan anything for that day, and you said NO. (And now we’ll never get a reservation anywhere.) Why did you say NO?”
“We failed to communicate,” he replied. “That’s all.” (His usual line.) ” And besides, I’ve been sick all week with this terrible cold.”
“What’s that got to do with it? You had ALL YEAR to think of something.”
“You know I am no good at that kind of thing,” he replied, rubbing his still-leaky nose against my cheek.
And despite all this, I still continued to harbour hope that he had planned something special – and was merely teasing me, like in a happy four star fantasy rom-com and not Love Actually, where Emma Thompson gets disappointed by Alan Rickman in a sad scene truer to life.
But no.
(My husband really IS like Homer Simpson or one of those other classic sitcom husbands,well-meaning but somewhat clueless when it comes to women. He would do anything for me, and our sons, but these little (or big) rituals of the mating game bamboozle him.
We never really dated, formally speaking, because had I waited for him to ask me out, my eggs would have withered up for the delay.
Still, the other day, I happened to meet a woman my age in a cafe, who was my age and recently divorced from a workaholic husband who, from her perspective, had never participated in the marriage and child-raising.
And although I could empathize with many of her issues (because all marriages, good or bad, are alike, in some respects. Sorry Tolstoy) I realized, at that moment, that I have it very good.
As it unfolded, my husband phoned my son, who works part-time time as fourth chef in a classy restaurant, the Domus Cafe,and managed to get a reservation for the next evening.
So for our 25th wedding anniversary, my husband and I shook things up just a little and drove for 1 hour and a half West towards Ottawa (instead of East towards Montreal) and had a fabulous (and trendy) Canadian seasonal meal. I ate heritage pork (and I never eat pork) with raspberry and anise and other delightful local gourmet fare. They gave us complimentary champagne and an organic beet salad to die for.
It was just ‘the something special’ my SAD syndrome afflicted soul needed. I know in the movies the magical life-altering destination is usually under the bright lights of the Eiffel Tower, but Murray Street in Ottawa, Ontario can be as befitting a 25th anniversary, if you go with the flow.
I got ‘dressed up’ in my basic black Liz Clairborne tunic (40 dollars on sale at the Bay) and wore the string of fresh water pearls my husband had just presented me with. He wore the new suit with the violet striped shirt and purple paisley tie I bought him last week from Moores, because the only suit he owned was from the early 1990′s. And I even managed to find a place to put that oversized heirloom art nouveau butterfly pin that once belonged to my grandmother, on the belt.
It’s the most important piece of jewellry I have, so I felt I had to wear it.
We were ‘overdressed’ actually, because the Domus Cafe restaurant is a simple, unimposing space, and the rest of the patrons were casually attired. (The restaurant was bustling, so we were lucky to get a table on such short notice.)
But that was good too. It felt right. It made the evening more relaxing for us. And it felt even better because my youngest son was ‘with us’ working there, in the open-style kitchen. Just like home.
(And my husband sure loves that boy.)
Marriage. It’s a major theme of Flo in the City. Or as writer Gertrude Atherton wrote in a 1913 article about suffragettes in the Delineator Magazine, “It’s still the theme of the novel.”
I never thought much of the institution, (and after researching Edwardian times I think even less of it) but for some reason it remains the major theme of my life story. (That is until I finish writing Flo in the City and the book becomes a BEST SELLER.)
Bullwinkle, on the kitchen floor. I needed a place to put this cool picture.
