Had the eventual thaw and apologies not been exchanged, I could see my mother carting three of us off to live frugally in a cheap motel, with nothing but Cheetos to eat and a pack of 49 playing cards to entertain us.
The disagreements between Deb and I were more low grade. And often layered with sarcasm and sprinkled with little jabs and knowing barbs. For instance, when our first baby was on the way and we had agreed to name it after her late father Robert, meaning we needed an 'R' name.
Convinced, as any young father to be would be, we were having a boy. I threw some names on the table. Deb did too, like Riley, Reed, Raymond, Reese and Reuben. No son of mine was gonna be named after a sandwich, albeit a delicious one.
I was stuck on one name, a name that had some majesty and unique flavor to it: Romulus.
I'd often wake up, kiss her extended belly and greet little Romulus while he was preparing to make his entrance.
"Even if it is a boy, we're not naming him Romulus", she'd say sternly and with an eyeroll.
When Romulus burst - if you can call 36 hours of labor bursting -- on the scene, I couldn't help noticing he was lacking a penis. And so we concurred on Rachel, a name that somehow fits her to a T. Or an R, as the case may be.
Of much greater importance, there was the issue of our pre-marriage gift registration. Sorry, for the longwinded intro, but context is everything.
Mind you, I had never been married before. And neither had Deb. But if you'll excuse the broad sweep it occurs to me that when it comes to weddings, women have some very hardwired instincts about the whole affair.
She picked the venue, the Riviera Country Club which was 1/3 of the price of other fancier places.
She selected the menu, also thankfully a lot less than other places.
She selected the flowers, none of whose names sounded even slightly familiar to me.
And with little consultation on my part, she made out the registry. Keep in mind Deb was not a strict traditionalist in any sense of the word. She married me and I'm hardly any conventional woman's idea of a prize. But when it came to the gifts we were requesting -- a strange phenomena in and of itself -- all I saw was stuff I could not fathom ever wanting, much less needing.
China
Silverware
Gravy Boats
Butter Coffins
Little fancy ramikens for olive, cherry or peach pits
Inordinately expensive 1000 thread count linens
Dainty hand towels
The list literally went on forever. And no where on that list was a new basketball backboard for the garage. A heavy duty punching bag. A bigger TV. A leather club chair. Or a light up neon sign that read, "It's Happy Hour."
I bring all this up because now I am tasked with uncluttering the house, a house that is jelly-tight with the ungodly collection of dishes, pots, pans and pit collectors. And that's not counting the detritus we have amassed from my late uncle's house in Palm Springs.
Now it's time to start emptying the shelves. I think I'll start with the shelf in the medicine cabinet and some pre-emptive Tylenol.
Registry? You had a registry?
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