• Kathy Coudle-King

All the Days of Your Life

Let it be said: I love my husband. I'd give him a kidney if I hadn't been so hard on it in my early-20s. However, I share this with you today, because I KNOW I am not alone during this pandemic when I say, I like my partner more when we're not sheltering in place. God bless the newlyweds; after the sex, it must be scary.


Okay, fine. Every relationship is different. Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick were on CBS Sunday this morning talking about how they've never been closer than during the pandemic. Well, la dee frickin' da for them. (Watch the clip. Notice how Matthew says very little during that segment? Yep.)


I've been married for 30 years and four months. Yes, to the same man. (Smart asses, all of you!) The last two weeks should make us eligible for a silver anniversary gift. Yes, there are days when the man deserves sainthood for being married to me. I have clothes all over the house in hampers and piles. I am no fun to be around after I eat ice cream or copious amounts of cheese. And I may have been called "moody". Once. (Twice at the most.)


Then there are days when, quite honestly, I deserve sainthood. Since this is my blog and not his, I'm gonna write about that.


My husband and I are among the fortunate who can work from home. Our children are mostly grown, and mostly out of the house. While I've been home since Friday the 13th, he's been going into work -- his building is empty -- from about 8:30 to 4 every day. He goes for a walk at 4, and then after five p.m. he's all mine.


We cook. He asks me if I want steak. I say I'm a vegetarian now. He asks if I want chicken. I say, no, that's still meat. He looks confused. Since the youngest ran away to college in Washington, it's pretty much just the two of us -- alone. The news seems to mostly be on rewind, aside from the virus numbers that continue to climb at a frightening rate. The Dems and the Republicans continue to fight, and the very strange trip of the Trump administration continues . The news briefings seem redundant. People are still hoarding toilet paper. (What the hell, people?!)

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Anyway, after we make sure the world is still spinning, we find something else to watch. Here's where the conflict starts. I don't know why it matters to me what he watches, but it does. I can leave the room, but I don't live in a mansion, and I can hear that guy's voice on 48 Hours droning on about a murder.

Or maybe I walk thru the living room and my husband is watching animal planet. What is it about men in their 60s and lions and tigers and alligators -- oh, my?


I really would prefer sports, but alas, football is over, and basketball and hockey got canceled (Didn't they?)


So, we watch a movie. One we can both agree on. Safe enough, but my husband, who is a smart man with a lot of knowledge, feels the need to annotate whatever we're watching. The very thing I fell in love with first -- his smarts -- has come back to bite me in the ass. He knows about history; so I might get a lesson on Nixon. He knows about science; so I might get a lesson on genetics. And what he doesn't know about -- he speculates about. It's a never ending lecture and all I want to do is watch the movie!


Like I said, I know I have my quirks, which, come to think of it is probably why I don't see him all day. Huh.


This morning I told him, "Joan Rivers had Edgar, Mrs. Maisel has Joel, and I have you. There's a reason why God brought you to me, a writer. I'll never run out of material." Seriously, I love you, honey, please don't ever stop talking to me!

(What will I write about?!)

P.S. - Check out how Lorna in the Laundry room deals with being shut in with her husband.


Writing Prompt: In Lorna in the Laundry Room, Lorna calls her 96-year old mother for advice. My own mother passed away in 2012, and would have been 98 this year. There are so many times when I wish I could pick up the phone and call her. If you could call someone who has passed on, who would you call, what would you ask, and what would they say to you? Write for 10 minutes.

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Frances Perkins

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