I like to pretend that I am strong, some kind of new millennium Katherine Hepburn, chin stuck out, ready to take on the world or maybe just walk around looking really sleek in trousers. But in truth, I am not a Kate. Other than a fervor for a proper foundation garment, we have little in common. Those who know Esteban probably agree that he is just as grumpy and exasperating as Spencer Tracy, although he doesn’t look like a pug dog (seriously, spend some time looking at Spencer Tracy, really looking at him. His face turns into one of those magic picture things that were big in the early nineties) nor wear a suit quite as well.
I would like to think that my locus of control has moved away from others and to myself. I heartily believe that I can do anything I set my mind to. I believe all things are within your own power and that life is not a spectator sport.
My big point that I am trying to make (really, I have one) is that if I am not watching myself closely, if I am not ever vigilant, if I am not careful every damned second, I whine.
The first person who makes a “Wendy Whiner” comment will ensure that I never speak to them again.
I don’t know why this is. Where in our DNA is the whining chromosome? Did I end up with a mosaic mutation there? From discussions with my aunt and grandmother, I was a relatively patient and complacent child. My bitter inner voice usually pipes up to say “because I’d been taught to have low expectations” but whatever. It is what it is. And now? Somewhere along the way, I have become a lover of immediate gratification. Of getting what I want. Ok, I know that seems really obvious, but you did not have my mother and you do not know. One has only to look at my intense need to make people happy, to fix the things that are making those I love unhappy, to get some sense of how much that will fuck your shit right up.
I really hate this new development. I know it started somewhere in my late twenties, when things started going right, and probably blossomed in my early thirties when things started going, dare I say it, really well. And also, as some have commented, Esteban really can’t say no to me and therefore goes along with whatever set of plans I’ve laid out, as long as they do not involve home repair.
Once, mid-conversation, a friend said “Was that just a whine?” and I turned a deep shade of crimson. It takes a lot to make me blush, ok? And usually it involves some crazy act of carnal knowledge and not a comment on this whole entire load of emotional baggage that I betray with a waver in my inflection.
I think I do a pretty good job of quelling it most of the time. The desire to raise the pitch of my voice into annoying levels, make big eyes at God or whomever is listening, and proclaim helplessness starts to come over me and I can usually manage to swallow it, to thrust my chin outward and declare that This Too Shall Pass. However, if I’m not paying attention, it will slip out, peek around the corners in phrases of speech, and lurk just beyond the last thing that came out of my mouth, aching to be voiced.
Sometimes I am trying so hard to control the whine that a tiny pout slips out.
I am not proud of this either, but would like to point out that the alternative is so God-Awful that it would curdle milk. Whereas the pout, which I will deny every time, even in the middle of a category 8 full lip jut, is merely petulant and immature. The pout is just a glimmer of my inner Veruca Salt, had she not been sullied by someone who was bound and determined to have a Violet Beauregard. I want to believe that I am more than this desire to sulk around with a pathetic little moue. I want to believe that I’m not knowingly playing emotional head games with the people around me because god damn it, I settle my differences in much more adult ways than that.
Like, ignoring them completely. Or communicating through intricate hand puppetry.
While at the snooty grocery store in Milwaukee, Esteban refused to be impressed by anything, not even their incredible pastry selection. I asked him if he wanted one of their fudge-topped ‘clairs and he grumped “No!” and then stomped off to stare blankly at the olive bar. I think he has an inferiority complex in sympathy for our sleepy little town, because there was no denying that this particular grocery store was ten times better than any of the grocery stores in our area. That night, we got home very late and I didn’t eat my delectable ‘clair.
The next morning, I got a call at 8:05 am.
“Hey’Can I have your ‘clair?”
“What?!” I sputtered. “You-you’I asked you if you wanted one and you made me feel like I was being frivolous! And now you’re eating mine?”
“Not if you say I can’t have it.”
“I can’t believe you sometimes.”
“Can I have it or not?”
“You may. But know that you are a complete piece of work.”
“Yes, I knowmm’smack smack slurp’Tanks.’
‘You start eating it while you are still on the phone? Classy. Wait… you had it right there in your hand when you picked up the phone. You already knew that you’d get it.’
‘Sorry. Thank you, darling most perfect wife.’
This is where I made the vomit noise back at him. Because you’re not really married until there are moments where you devolve to age eleven and treating your spouse as though they are your annoying sibling.
Maybe that’s what the whole ‘This is my bedroom. And this is my bed.’ Sleep talking was about. I wanted him to get the hell out of my room or I was going to tell on him.
My baristas are starting to understand my routine a little too well. For the past week, the Miss Prindle barista has been working the register and when I pull up in front of the ordering box, she sees me on the close circuit camera and says ‘Hi Weet’ the usual?’ and then when I say ‘Yes’ she asks if I am hungry today or not (I usually eat a proper breakfast in the morning, but on days when I’m rushed, I end up with low fat blueberry muffin or, God help me, a Toffee Almond bar. I wish they’d bring back the Peanut Butter Penza bars, because those tasted just like those Special K bars that maiden aunts make for church socials, but alas, anything I love at Starbucks (and also The Body Shop) is never long for this world. Witness the Cr’me de Menthe syrup debacle of 2003.
This morning, I had a fake Ho Ho Mocha (venti white peppermint nonfat no whip mocha, although a real Ho Ho Mocha is full of fat and whipped cream) and it caused dismay and concern on the other side of the speaker. Miss Prindle repeated it to me four times. Four times! And then more concern when I declined any breakfast (I’m pretty sure that the drink is four thousand calories as is). They do not like these changes. Lindsay Barista leaned out the window to do a visual. Did I look ok? Was this some imposter? Christ, people, sometimes I like to mix it up, ok?
This is a fucked up world we live in, where I feel like I have to build a defense for changing my Starbucks order. Tomorrow, I’m bringing the puppets.
