Before I got married I went for some preparation classes. At my first class I learned about the fundamental structure of a Jewish Home in those words:
“Consider it a glass wall. Every so often there will be a glass wall in your home, one that no one will see but it will separate you from your spouse. It will make sure that you do not come too close to each other”.
It didn’t seem like an awful piece of furniture, especially when the teacher ended by saying that when the glass wall is not there, you and your mate can be so close, you can even play a game of rummy together.
Rummy?!!! Blink. Really? Bliiiiiink, blink. Wow!
Life as a married woman was full of surprises. One of them was the glass wall. It wasn’t half as simple as I thought. Let me tell you about that slob.
The Glass Wall is just the name for an animated ogre made of misshaped gooey glob of soft glass, the ugliest creature to ever walk the planet. It talks in a nosey thin voice with an ever present cheerful disposition. Little feet drag its tummy-dominated body all over in small quick steps. Most of all, it hates me.
It arrives into my life with or without notice, on its own whim. “Hey, hunnee” I find it sitting on the toilet tank reading a pashkaville that was retrieved from the garbage bin. He doesn’t even bother to look up. “I missed ya galfriend" he teases.
I cringe and storm off. It hops off and runs after me. “Cheer up, will ya? Life’s good, life’s really goooood.”
It follows me to the bedroom where I tuck myself into bed feeling miserable. I know what’s in store for me. Glass will make himself at home around here for a good few days and suffocate my personal space. I put the pillow over my head and let the mood swings bring about little sips of cries.
I feel my bed moving, and I peek out to find a sweating Glass pushing my bed farther apart from the other one. He dusts his palms off and hands me a pair of men’s washed-out socks. “Here, put this on. And close that top button of that nightgown. Sheesh. A little decency. Is that too much to ask nowadays? What’s the world come too? People have no more pride in this day and age. That’s all I see- - -okay, okay, I’m ramblin’ on…”
Just the sound of that voice makes my insides grind.
It gets lonely, talking long distance to your own husband from one pillow-planet to the other. I eat clementines while we discuss our day in the depressing way these things work. Glass sits on the night table, next to the glowing lamp, yawning away. Just when we are starting to forgive each other for an argument earlier that day, Glass perks up. “Duh, you guys are so boring. C’mon with all the mushy. Whew, gross! Can’t a guest enjoy himself? I mean, get a room!”
I roll my eyes hatefully and turn to the wall. I see rummy cards all over. There, there. A joker!
During dinner, Glass piles extra ketchup, mustard and seltzer bottles on the table. He has no table manners whatsoever. And he talks so much; I can’t put a word in edgewise.
Scrubbing away the dishes later, as I yell the chorus of Father Don't Cry in my lethal way of singing, Glass flutters his eyelashes in frustration. "He-l-l-l-p!" he holds both hands over his ears. "Have pity on me, will ya?!" And so, my music comes to a barbaric end.
When I get ready to go outside with my husband, Glass too schleps his hat on and hurls a scarf around its neck, all hyped. He walks between us, throwing me almost off the curb, going on about this and that with rolls of freezing vapor escaping his mouth.
I don’t even pretend I’ll miss him when I find him packing to leave the next day. What a relief it will be. Life, the way we knew it.
Grrrr! Change of plans. Something came up, I have no idea what, and Glass is staying for another week. At this point I'm so angry I don’t know how to let go of all that fume.
Ah! Yoelish! Good ol’ Yoelish! He can handle some of my feelings, can't he? It takes no time at all for me to be complaining to him, then about him, then with him and ultimately blowing at him in the silent way that eats me alive.
“Finally some quiet around here!” Glass lying on the carpet between our beds, sipping a beer. “This place is full of chitty-chatty, chitty-chatty” he gestures a moving-duck-face with his hand.
I get beside myself with anger when Glass visits us outside the home. Like while we’re on vacation or at a relative. Oh, the maternity ward, that makes my nostrils expand in lack of a better gesture. Just when the unborn child is about to make its debut, I notice glass curled up on one of the hospital chairs checking the channels. When the baby is born to its teary-eyed parents, Glass pushes his way in like a real grandparent. Takes the bundle from me, swings it from side to side, but forgets about it if me and my Yoelish are about to celebrate.
“Not now, you people. We’ve got this cutest baby to look at! Lookee here, doesn't the kid look just like its papa! coo. tsu, tsu...”
The day Glass leaves our home is a holiday. I walk him out the door with a beating heart, feeling newly-married all over. As I close the door, he presses his face back to the peephole:
“Ya neva, eva, know when I’ll be back, ya extra-kind hostess o’ mine! ! !” and tapping his belly he makes his way down the hall with victorious “ha, ha, has!”
I lock the door, close every bolt.
(Note – This post is my last one” blineder” that gets carried away with outlandish, over-the-top analogies... I couldn’t resist just this one more time...just this one time… :)