"The Jennie
Webb Site"
Columns originally published in The
Gazette
COLUMNS
Columns originally published in The Gazette
The Stepmother Files: Week One
The Ramifications of Football Season
The Other Side of Mother's Day
A Lump in the Road to Domestic Bliss
"The Girlfriend's Guide to the Universe"
The
Stepmother Files: Week One
I survived
the first week.
And I’m
counting down the days.
The days
of being a full-time stepmother.
Yes,
up to this point I was weekend stepmom, married to weekend dad. Of course
there were occasional mid-week or extended stays, but for the most part
she lived there and we lived here. And we
were all pretty darn happy that
way.
But for
six weeks this summer, my stepdaughter’s mother is, as she likes to say,
"performing opera in Rome." Or as we like to say (albeit under our breath)
"paying a lot of money to take a class in Europe so she can say she’s performing
opera in Rome."
And the
abandoned waif is, as her stepfather—who’s not performing opera in Rome—likes
to say, "All yours!"
Meaning
ours. All ours. That’s every day. Every night. Except for the occasional
reprieve her stepfather’s agreed to give us, knowing that we’re entirely
at his mercy and must be very, very nice to him. And he’s pretty darn happy
that way.
I had
dinner with a girlfriend last week, and a friend of hers joined us. I mentioned
that we were to have an addition to our household for the next month or
so. This woman says, beaming blissfully, "Ohhhhhhh! Enjoyyyyyy!"
It took
me a moment to realize she was serious.
The woman
obviously doesn’t have kids.
So we
prepare for the first week of "enjoyment," accepting the fact that we’re
all going to have to make adjustments. My husband prepares to stop being
a doting, anything-you-want-honey, anytime-you-want-it dad so that he’ll
be able to maintain our new arrangement, and my ten year-old stepdaughter
prepares to transform from a pleasant, we-can-discuss-this child into a
disagreeable pre-teen. I prepare to spend a lot of time away from the house.
"I can’t
wait for my mother to come back!" has become a familiar refrain.
On that
we’re in perfect agreement.
Thank
goodness I have friends who give me sound parenting advice like "Jennie,
it will get better," and "Jennie, don’t let it upset you," and "Jennie,
come over to my house for a martini."
And my
stepdaughter and I do manage to spend quality time together. In the car.
Where we have fulfilling chats like this:
"We’re
almost there. Put your shoes on."
"But
they’re wet!"
"Your
shoes? Why didn’t you say something before we left the house?"
"I don’t
have
any other shoes!"
"Oh.
We’ll have to go shopping then."
"I hate
shopping."
"Oh.
Well, those socks are thick."
"But
they’re wet!"
"The
socks are wet?"
"No,
the shoes are wet! I told you that!"
"Right.
But the socks might keep your feet dry."
A look
of complete disdain as the socks go on the feet. Followed by, "These socks
are lumpy!" And many whiny, small mole-like noises of struggle as
the shoes fly about the car. "I can’t get my shoes on!" Whimper,
whimper, whimper.
"So wear
the shoes without socks!"
"But
they’re wet!" High-pitched squeal of frustration.
I take
a deep breath to calm myself. A moment of insight. "Maybe we should get
you some sandals. So you can just slip them on and it won’t always be this
big of a deal." Because shoes and socks are always, inexplicably, a really
big deal.
"I can’t
wear sandals! My toes are ugly."
"They’re
not . . ."
"You
know
that! I can’t wear sandals!"
"Okay.
Some new socks then."
"My feet
sweat!"
"That’s
why I thought sandals . . ."
"I
hate shopping! And why do you keep talking about sandals?!"
"Fine!"
A moment
of silence.
Then,
"Aaaaahhh! My socks
hurt! My shoes hurt! My feet hurt!"
And a blood-curdling scream befitting a teen horror movie.
"Would
you stop that?!"
"You
know I have problems with my feet!"
"And
what do you want me to do about it right now?"
"Nothing.
I just need to cry!" This kind of honest statement is from someone who’s
self-actualized.
"Well,
don’t!
It pisses me off!" From someone who isn’t.
Yes,
by the end of the first week I have truly become the evil stepmother. She
doesn’t even have to do anything. And when she does do something—like say
something sweet or make me laugh or ask a question which reminds me she’s
just a little girl—it’s even worse. I have absolutely no maternal instincts.
I am a hateful woman. I am a terrible human being.
The only
reason I didn’t feign an interest in opera and escape to Rome myself?
I was talking to someone I don’t really know all that well, and noticed
a picture of her three daughters. She’s a warm, intelligent, funny woman
who I’d imagine is a really good mom. Unlike me.
Desperate,
I took a chance.
"Tell
me, do you ever, well, um . . . hate your daughters?" I asked her
with little hope of comfort.
She looked
at me with a blank expression, and I cowered, knowing she could see right
into my cold heart and black soul.
"Of course
I do," she said simply. "Sometimes you can’t help it!"
Week
two will be easier. I’m sure of it.
—July 15, 1999
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The
Ramifications of Football Season
"You have
to understand," my husband says to me, holding my hands, his eyes welling
with tears. "It’s been such a long time! Twenty years!"
I’ve
never seen him quite this emotional in broad daylight. This is obviously
something that touches his soul, and my reaction may determine the course
of our still-new marriage.
I smile
sweetly and squeeze his hands and give him a look that says, "I’m there
for you, babe!" But the truth is that I don’t have a chance of understanding.
Not really understanding. I’ll try my best to play along, though, because
this will all be over in two weeks. (Maybe sooner, but we don’t want to
hear talk like that!)
In two
weeks the Rams will (cross your fingers) go to the Superbowl.
In our
house my husband the Rams fan usually does the football thing downstairs.
For the games, he retreats to what we call the rumpus room. It’s his own
personal lair of musical equipment and unpacked boxes and patched-together
furniture and empty beer bottles. Nearly 700 square feet of masculinity
with a separate entrance, decorated in my husband’s definitive style: from
the framed Muhammad Ali lithograph to the Rams lap blanket to the 8X10s
of bands he played in, which he uses as coasters. The rumpus room is the
envy of every man who goes down there. I’ve seen it happen over and over
again: they open the door, their eyes light up, they turn into 17-year-olds,
and they say to my husband, "This is all yours? Cool!"
So the
rumpus room is where my husband’s been spending his Sundays lately. It’s
him and the NFL, having their quality time alone together in their shared
sanctuary.
Only
this past weekend was special, my husband said to me. It was the playoffs.
The Rams were in the running. He asked for a special dispensation to watch
football upstairs. I think he couched it by saying that it would mean a
lot if I were there, watching with him. Joining in the experience. "You
have to understand!"
In reality
I think his request had something to do with the fact that there’s no bathroom
downstairs. But as I said, I’ll play along and pretend to be indispensable.
And so the game begins.
"It was
twenty years ago that the Rams went to the Superbowl," my husband says
to me. "That’s the only time they’ve ever been." His eyes are glued to
the TV screen. Does he not notice that I’m reading the Sunday Calendar,
or not care? "Hmmmm," I answer.
Then
he wistfully adds, "Vince Ferragamo was the quarterback then . . ." The
quarterback was Ferragamo? Was that before he went into the shoe business?
I think to myself. But I only say, "Hmmmm." And move onto the Sunday Magazine.
My husband
perseveres. "They were the biggest underdogs in 1980, and they didn’t win,
but this year they’re really looking good. Go! Stuff ‘em!! These guys they’re
playing are really tough. Some people say that the Rams are doing well
because they’ve played rotten teams, but they really are the most balanced
team. Really. Look at ‘em! They’re explosive!!! WHOOOOO! See, it’s been
ten years since they were anything but laughable, before they left L.A.
to go to St. Louis, I mean they went to St. Louis from Anaheim, where they
moved before they moved to St. Louis . . ."
His monologue
goes on. And on. I look at the TV screen. I am watching one of the sexiest
commercials I have ever seen. It’s for a razor, a razor which has been
specially designed to reduce drag. Another sexy commercial, for a car.
A car which closely cuts curves. My husband is still talking. I start reading
the comics.
The phone
rings. I hand it to my husband, knowing who it is. It’s his buddy, a fellow
die-hard Rams fan, calling to get the score of the game. He’s calling from
England. He gets a play-by-play of the entire first half from my husband.
I glance
again at the television and see padded men dancing around, slapping each
other. It’s half time. The announcers are talking about bobbles. "They
said he bobbled it," says one disembodied voice. "I don’t think that was
a bobble," says the other. "It was little, but it was a bobble." "Is a
little bobble still a bobble? I don’t know." After about ten minutes of
this, one of the them adds, completely seriously, "Bobble is a fun word
to say."
The second
half is about to begin. We know this by the blaring theme music that this
television station uses for its football coverage, which my husband describes
as a Nazi Christmas Marching Song.
"Okay,
I gotta go now," my husband says to his friend. "No, I’m not going to put
the phone down by the TV," he laughs. "This is already costing you a fortune.
I’ll call you when it’s over." Oh, sure. What’s a little international
charge on the phone bill when it comes to the Rams?
"Okay,"
he says as play resumes. "They’re behind now, but that’s because they took
the lead early on. Look! There’s Kurt Warner’s wife. He’s the quarterback.
She’s got a new hairstyle. There was another Kurt Warner, but that was
with a ‘C.’ C - U - R -T. He played with the Rams for a very short period,
less than a year. He was mainly a running back for the Seattle Seahawks."
"Hmmmm!"
And I tackle the Book Review as the game continues.
—January 20, 2000
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Some women
would be ashamed, but not me. It was actually very recently that I . .
. Well, I had a lot of men in my life. It just happened that way. Don’t
get me wrong, I was and am happily married, but sometimes that’s not enough.
Sometimes, some women need something more.
And I
guess I needed more than most.
It all
started with a fellow named Robyn. He was a friend of a friend, and he
was a contractor. It was innocent enough at the beginning. He, too, is
married with a lovely wife and an adorable baby boy. The first time he
came by, my husband was at work. I got an estimate for some home repairs
and remodeling, and that was that. I never really dared to dream that anything
more would ever happen.
But everything
changed with the approval of our home improvement loan. That started the
phone calls, and e-mails, and explicit sketches FAXed back and forth—this
is what I wanted the wall in my bedroom to look like; could he handle that?
Before I knew
it, materials were selected at a local lumber yard and Robyn and I had
set a date for our initial assignation. It was too late for me to get out
of it now even if I wanted to. It was a done deal: signed, sealed and delivered.
I didn’t even feel cheap the first time money changed hands; it needed
to happen, I needed it to happen.
Let the
construction begin!
Yes,
the fateful day soon arrived, and I nervously watched as my husband went
to he office in the morning, with his daughter in tow. He would drop her
off at camp, and I would have house to myself. (Except for the cat, Monk,
but he wouldn’t give me away, would he? I could just bribe him with extra
kitty treats if he started to let the mouse out of the bag.) Just as we
had planned, Robyn pulled up, and introduced me to his band of merry men—he
knew I had what it took to keep them all busy for a long, long time.
There was Phil, always arriving
early and eager to get to work. He had a car with a space ship painted
on the side. He explained that it had been used in a music video, "So they
just gave it to me!" He was a musician, he said. Then there was Scott,
happily in charge of the crew which consisted of Phil and a quiet man named
either Moses or Alex, depending upon whom you asked. Scott had a booming
voice; he was a musician, he said. It lasted for a number of days with
these three. They sweated and I served them lemonade. They made sure everything
was just how I wanted it, and I recommended lunch spots.
When
a sudden bout of flu took Scott away from the job (or was I too much for
him?) it was just me and Phil, who suddenly found himself car-less. It
had gotten impounded, he said. (Take this as a lesson, those of you who
are given free cars from music video shoots.) These were blissful days.
Phil and I had coffee together in the morning, and sometimes in the afternoons
I would drop him off at various locations in Hollywood. Where he’d meet
up with other musicians, he said.
Then
I guess my demands were too much for Phil alone, even with Robyn checking
in regularly. And along came Andrew. Yes, Andrew was from Oklahoma. He
was Phil’s neighbor. He had a car. But above all, Andrew was a man—not
much more than a boy, really—who appreciated my coffee. He took it black,
while Phil was light and sweet. Andrew and Phil were quite a team. But
one morning it was only Andrew. Robyn came to explain to me that he was
going to use Phil on another job. It was for my own good, he said. I’d
grown attached to Phil.
And so
it was Chris and Bernie next. This pair couldn’t have been more perfect:
Chris got along with Monk and was smart and funny enough to keep me on
my toes, and Bernie . . . Bernie was a musician. They’d occasionally get
help from Andrew, or Moses/Alex, or a devilish soul named "Babyface," or
a meticulous painter named Angel. But it was Chris and Bernie who ultimately
did whatever it took to make me happy during the final days. Robyn made
sure of that.
Then,
as quickly as it had begun, it was over. No more concrete to pour, no more
wood to cut, no more braces to be bolted, no more drywall to be plastered,
no more walls to paint. Nothing.
And everything
looks . . . Well, it looks beautiful. I couldn’t be happier, I tell Robyn.
It’s a job well done by all involved, and I mean that.
He was
supposed to come over the other day, Robyn was. Just to give it all a once-over.
For old times sake. My husband had gone off to work and I had brewed extra
coffee in anticipation of his arrival, when the phone rang. It was Robyn.
He’d gotten hung up on another job, and wouldn’t be able to stop by after
all. But he’d call tomorrow.
It’s
okay, I said. There’s really no need; everything’s fine.
It was
a beautiful thing while it lasted. As is our house, now. Just ask my husband.
—August 26, 1999
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The
Other Side of Mother's Day
I’ve always
been on the other side of Mother’s Day. I’m the one calling and sending
flowers and gifts and cards across the country to my own mom and grandmother.
And for the past two years I’m the one arranging a special holiday meal
for my mother-in-law. (This extra trouble is made up for by the fact that
I now get to say "mother-in-law." It’s a great thing. For those of you
without one, try it on for size. Thanks to 1950s television, this is one
of the most evocative phrases in the American language.)
And being
the self-less soul that I am, I’m even the one taking my stepdaughter out
shopping so that she has a Mother’s Day gift for her mother. (Yeah, I may
be playing the martyr, but know that I consider these small efforts well
compensated because I’m able to say when she's a brat, "She gets that from her mother!")
Anyhow,
for me that’s what Mother’s Day was about: other people being the mother.
But this year was different. This was the first year I felt like I should
be on the receiving end. This is the first year that I, the evil stepmother,
wanted some recognition for the stop-gap mom stuff. This is the first year
that I pouted and thought to myself, "Where’s my card?"
Because
this year I was the one taking my stepdaughter school clothes shopping,
picking out hair clips and veto-ing make-up. I was the one talking to teachers,
arranging school meetings, and repeatedly saying, "No, I’m the stepmother."
I was
the one who held her and wiped her tears at the end of "West Side Story,"
who told her how wonderful her songs were, and what a talented artist she
was.
I was
also the one who sternly said to the fiercely defiant child, "Go to your
room!" And the one who was pretty darn surprised when she actually did.
Yeah,
yeah, yeah.
This
evil stepmother gig isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
So on
the morning of Mother’s Day I wake up, knowing I’m going to get gypped.
"Happy Mother’s Day," my husband says to me ever-so sweetly. Right. "You,
too," I say, adding pathetically after he’s left the room, "Thanks for
the flowers." (Not that I really wanted or expected them; I had a hard
enough time training him to stop by a florist on Valentine’s Day).
Then
my child the cat jumps on my chest to give me his Mother’s Day greetings,
which roughly translated are, "Feed me, pet me, play with me, me, me, me,
ME!" I try to convince myself that if he’d been able to go on a sort of
feline shopping trip, he’d have picked out a nice floral chew toy or catnip-scented
sachet for me. But I intentionally don’t do a very good job so that I can
feel put-upon and neglected.
My father
and his girlfriend are in town, and they stop by early for coffee. "Happy
Mother’s Day!" my father says to me. "Thanks," I respond weakly, holding
my chin up like a brave little soldier.
And at
this point I stoically ask my husband, "Shouldn’t we be calling your mother?"
You’re
starting to get the idea. My husband says he’s going to write a song about
our life together, entitled "Joan of Arc is Hard to Life With."
The day
goes on, we take my mother-in-law to brunch, I do some work, call my own
mother, do some more work, call my grandmother, feed the cat, do some more
work, and look around my office, wondering whether there’s room for a shrine
when I have myself canonized.
Then
the phone rings. "We have a singing Mother’s Day Telegram for Jennie Webb,"
the unfamiliar voice says. "From whom?" I ask suspiciously, thinking this
has got to be some kind of scam.
Without
answering my question, a group launches into a chorus of "Happy Stepmother’s
Day" sung to the tune of "Life is a Cabaret." "From your evil stepdaughter,"
a young giggling voice says when it’s over.
I know
I qualify for this holiday, because nothing could have pleased me more.
Then
I remember something. I open a drawer in the kitchen and find a single
bamboo skewer. A couple of years ago, when I was dating my husband, I went
over to his house on Mother’s Day. I arrived just as he was taking his
daughter, then seven, back to her mother’s. She didn’t want to leave. "Remember,
it’s Mother’s Day," he said to her. She looked at me, and picked up the
first thing she saw on the counter. "Here," she said, handing me the small
skewer. "It’s so you can spear fish. Happy Mother’s Day."
How could
I forget such a treasure? A gift which will come in handy on our upcoming
stepmother-stepdaughter spear-fishing outing.
—May 13, 1999
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A
Lump in the Road to Domestic Bliss
This weekend
we got to the bottom of our on-going domestic dispute, my husband and I.
A painful journey, but it didn’t end in divorce proceedings. Not this time,
anyway.
The dispute,
perhaps familiar to some of you, revolves around the fact that if there’s
anything domestic to be done, I’m the one who does it. This includes cooking
(or what I do that passes for cooking), cleaning (or paying dear Esperanza
when she comes twice a month—let’s not push things here), picking up after
a large man and his large daughter, doing dishes, laundry, gardening, shopping,
bill-paying (it is an extremely stressful thing to do, regardless of whose
checking account the money comes from), home improvements and repair (or
ferreting out decent repair people), cat care, decorating (hey, it counts!)
. . . Basically, I handle everything around the house but the TV remote.
My husband’s got that down.
Oh, and
there’s also the little, inconsequential thing I do at home called "pursuing
a career." Always forget about this one.
So does
my husband. That I do work, and do bring in money (albeit not as much as
either of us would like—for the time being, anyhow) always seems to slip
his mind. As does the fact that what I call "work" doesn’t even include
all of the Betty Crocker stuff. (A girlfriend I hadn’t talked to in awhile—a
girlfriend from my not-so-long-ago single, apartment-dwelling, stepdaughter-
and cat-free days—called me up the other day. "What are you doing?" she
asked me when I answered the phone. "You’re not going to believe this,"
I answered truthfully. "I’m baking a casserole and ironing." That was a
sad day for us both.)
You know
what I mean, girls. My married (or partnered, provided their partner is
a man) friends all tell the same story. Guys just don’t get it. "I go to
work all day" is their united, clue-less response, and all of the hours
and emotions and ingenuity it takes for us to deal with the stuff that
never gets noticed—because they’re at "work" when we deal with it—are swept
under the rug.
Do I
hear an "Amen," ladies?
Hence,
it’s only natural that I feel it is my duty to occasionally
remind my own partner of all that I do, insofar as both career path and
domestic-bliss activities are concerned. (I’m sure he’d say that the
occasions are much more frequent than I’d admit. I’m also sure that
he thinks these reminders are issued just to cover-up the real truth: that
I spend my days watching "Oprah" and eating bon bons.)
It was
just last week that I felt he was due for a pleasant jog in his memory.
That is, a kick in the head. I’m not sure what it was, exactly, that got
me going. But it may have had something to do with his general attitude
lately. That is, a bad attitude because the place he goes off to in the
mornings "to work all day" is becoming more and more odious to him. So
when he gets home he has the energy to do just about nothing. And wants
to do more of the same over the weekends.
It was
in a very subtle, gentle way that I set about reminding him of my value
and need for validation. (I wasn’t too terribly shrill, I don’t think;
no glassware was broken.) But when he played the "I go to work all day"
card, I just couldn’t stand it anymore.
"You,"
I said to my husband in the sweetest possible tone someone can use with
a statement like this, "Are a lump."
"Oh,"
he said to me with a smug, lump-like smile. Then he pulled out the real
ammunition: "And what are you, Martha Stewart?"
That
did it. Nobody insults me in that way. I’d call my lawyer in the morning.
Or, since I don’t have a lawyer, find one in the yellow pages under "Divorce."
I’d do this after I got a good night’s rest with our big bed all to myself,
seeing as how the couch is the only place for lumps to sleep.
But I’d
give him one more blow, I thought, before I left the room. (I was planning
an exit wherein I indignantly grabbed my cat and slammed the door behind
me.)
"You
know what this is really about?" I said to him, in my best Saint-at-the-Inquisition voice. "It isn’t about the money I don’t make, or where I don’t
go to make it. It’s that you hate your job so much, you want me to spend
all day doing something, going somewhere, where I’m just as miserable!"
He paused
for a moment. I steeled myself for a lumpish retort. Only then he said,
"Yes. You’re right."
"I’m
right?"
"You’re
right." And he paused again, looking more heroic than lumpy. "There’s part
of me that wishes you had to go to a job you hated, too."
"Oh."
I thought about the many years I’d spent doing just that. And I added,
as much an affirmation as anything else, "That’s not going to happen."
"Good.
I hope it doesn’t," he said.
And then
the lump got up and did the dishes.
—October 14, 1999
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