HONEYMOONS are a conspiracy — by whom I have yet to know — to lull you into a false sense of security, to make you feel good before real life hits you in the face. Kind of like those first five questions on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” that make you feel superior by jokingly answering questions like: Who works at a bakery? (a) The Baker (b) The Lawyer (c) The Teacher or (d) The Host of “Millionaire”?
Coming back from the honeymoon, the feeling of euphoria continues. You are on top of the world. The reception to welcome back the honeymooning couple, the stories you have to tell how you pretended to be from China on a visit to an ancient fort in the Philippines, the places you saw and of the risks you took; riding on a horse, jet-skiing, parasailing. Then one day you find yourself alone in the house, the hoopla all over, you are no longer the center of attraction — the star of the evening.
Saturday, 7.30 a.m.; following our return from the honeymoon: My husband’s grouchy request for a cup of tea jars me out of sleep and my dream of coconut trees and a sandy beach so vivid, I could almost smell the almond oil. A frantic hunt in the kitchen — worthy of any challenger on “Survivor” — produces no Lipton teabags. Just a carton of some obscure foreign tea — or so I assume since it’s written in Chinese! Our families, you understand, had stocked our kitchen in our absence. My husband is out of the house; I sit back on the sofa (a la Steve Martin in “Father of the Bride”) surveying the havoc wreaked on the house by a weekend of celebration. Glasses scattered everywhere, plates along with pots and pans piled sky high in the sink — ashtrays filled with mountains of cigarette stubs, and a layer of dust that had settled on the tables — the laundry basket peeking from behind the door overflowed and vied with the pillows for supremacy of the floor. The sight was more than enough to make even Cookie Monster faint.
I mourned the loss of the fairies that came to magically tidy up our suite, launder our clothes and change our towels when we left in the morning to go to the beach; the loss of room service to bring us delicious dinners when we are too wasted by a day of sightseeing to have the energy to dine outside! Armed with a determination however to make a go at it and do my duty as a wife — I make another foray into the kitchen; the cupboard below the sink yielded an assortment of cleaning liquids and other concoctions, more colorful and plentiful than an aging actress’ beauty creams. Ah hah! Success.
As my cleaning project gets under way, I begin to actually enjoy the feeling of having become the mistress of the house, supreme ruler in this kingdom, master of my own destiny. Let’s not get too carried away here — not to mention all the calories I was surely burning as I diligently scrubbed the bathroom floor.
However, I am soon robbed of my delusions....
Not for all the tea in China could I figure out how that darn washing machine could be eating my husband’s socks (not the pair — worse — one sock out of each pair!) or how the vacuum cleaner swallowed his prized collection of lighters. All my grand notions (“Of course I can tell the difference between the dishwashing soap and the laundry detergent!” I told my mom when she called to check up on me, all the while thinking “Is that flood of soap suds that’s coming out of the dishwasher normal?”) were no match for the real world. By the time I had finished cleaning up that mess it was 2 p.m. and no lunch in sight. I collapsed on the sofa, tears welling up in my eyes and started to doze off from sheer exhaustion — all the while thinking, Snow White didn’t go into a death/sleep because she bit a poisoned apple — it was more likely cooking and cleaning for seven men that did her in!
The sound of a key in the door startles me awake.... I know with certainty that the only way I am going to get out of not having cooked lunch (along with a ribbing at my poor efforts at menage) is to fake an anniversary (one month since our wedding sounds good), along with a few tears because my husband has forgotten to buy me some flowers on this happy occasion. That will surely get me at least lunch at Toki! I wipe away my tears, smooth my hair, paste on a brilliant smile and quickly get up and go over to greet my husband.
That’s a woman for you!
