When Bruce and I first got married in 1987, I knew he needed a little training. Not much; just a little bit to bring him around to being a tiny bit more civilized.
We had met at work where he was a sworn member and I was a civilian, both with the Calgary Police. My first impression of him was that he was a jackass. I knew his work partner Mark who was from Nova Scotia and I always like talking with Mark because I loved his accent. Plus, Mark used to pronounce words like Chicago as Chi-car-go so it was tons of fun trying to figure out what he was talking about. One of the best was solving the mystery of the Kook-li-harla. At first I thought he meant the Chupacabra, legendary beast from Puerto Rico, but after interrogating Mark for several minutes, I finally figured out that he was talking about the Coquihalla Highway in B.C.
All the while, Bruce would sit there and not say anything. Maybe that was the attraction. I don’t know.
Eventually Bru and I connected over smelling one of those old Jiffy markers that radiated fumes like gasoline and meth. We were working together in this little office at work for a couple of hours, and I noticed the jiffy marker on the desk. I wrenched off the cap and took a deep whiff, as would anyone born in our era who knew why these were banned. I offered him the marker so he could take a hit. He snagged it and took a whiff. I asked him out and the rest is history.
We moved into our first house just before we got married. My Catholic mother had the vapors for that month in case any of the relatives got wind of the living situation. We pulled it off, had a quiet wedding and set about being the Coles. I went from Judy O’Byrne to Judy Cole and was thrilled to start life with my new alias. Fun Fact: the first time they published my new name at work, they showed it as O’Cole. I thought that was kind of nifty and maybe I would keep that. But they corrected it to Cole and my one month of having a vaguely hyphenated name was over.
The first hint I got that Bru required some tweaking in his behaviour came when we went grocery shopping together for the first time. I had a list, Bru had a truck, we had a few bucks and we were golden.
We shopped together through the grocery store and had a great time. He got stuff, I got stuff, we got everything on the list but when I went up to the check-out, I could see that standing in line was not going to work for him at all. I have no problem with it because at the check-out I’m still shopping. That’s why they put all that great stuff up there. Need a last-minute bra/traffic cone combo? Get the Zip Up Madonna. Need to shave your legs from the roots? Get The RipCord. A knitted band for your hair when you are sick? Get the Knit One-Hurl Two. It was all there and I wanted everything.
The first time I suggested he go to the magazine rack in the store while I check-out, his eyes lit up and he was gone. Done. When I was finished and the cart was full of bags, I stood at the door waiting for Bru to catch up but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I went looking for him and found him lost in the magazine world of camping and computers.
The next time I suggested that the magazine rack was a great place for him to hang out, but I needed him to be aware of when I was done so I didn’t have to go looking for him. He agreed in theory but this was hit and miss. A good magazine can trump a wife with a cart full of groceries anytime.
I honed his training as we adjusted to each other and finally just left the store with the groceries and unloaded them into the truck myself. If he was there, fine. If not, I would do it myself. Remember, I was raised Catholic and I had a vagina, so I could whip up a Martyr face in the middle of a tornado in Kansas.
That got his attention and he started to watch the check-out to see when I was leaving and he was always by my side when I went out the door. Excellent. Phase 1 complete.
Then I realized that Bru would come in really handy if I had forgotten something and didn’t want to leave the check-out to go find it. So I mentioned that it would be good if he would keep an eye on me while I was in line just in case I needed him to ‘Run and Get Something’. I was beginning to have a whole new respect for my mother Clara as she had dispatched us children on various errands throughout our childhood. As I may have mentioned, for the first 5 years of my life, I thought my name was ‘Judy, Run and Get My Purse’. I’m surprised she didn’t have more kids.
It got to the point that if I turned around and faced into the store, Bru would be there and I could just send him on his mission. Why had no one ever mentioned this part of marriage before? Seriously, this was so handy. Is this why people marry at 16 in Kentucky?
I hadn’t realized how seriously Bru took his responsibility as the ‘Getter’ until one shopping trip in our local IGA in Lakeview. Smaller grocery store but it usually had everything we needed. I had unloaded the cart and I remembered we needed carrots. The produce section was really close by so I just scooted over, grabbed a bag of carrots and was hurrying back when Bru emerged from an aisle and we almost collided.
He saw me with the carrots, heading back to the check-out and his face went to sheer horror. He whispered OH NO. I just looked at him, at his face and the realization of everything hit me. He wasn’t reading magazines anymore. He was skulking around the store, waiting for the call, lurking in aisles, watching my every move at the check-out like a crocodile, in anticipation of being sent out for something that I needed.
I burst out laughing. So did he. We walked back to the check-out, he hung out with me through the whole bagging procedure and we left together.
This was our shopping M.O. for years. It never changed. Bru lurked, goofed off, did whatever he did out there in the store and when I was done, he was always there at my side when I left the store. I could usually tell approximately where he was because there was a higher concentration of Security personnel, but what the hell. For him to be waiting for me to beckon, what more could a girl ever ask for?
When Bruce and I got engaged, I was renting a place and he was living at home. He bought a house that we both loved and he moved in. I stayed in my place until a month before the wedding because I am Catholic and moving in together any sooner than that simply wasn’t done. We were walking the edge as it was. But seriously. We took the pre-marriage course through the Catholic Church and we did our homework together laying side by side in bed.
Our wedding was just going to be a very small evening affair with our parents and there was a reason for that. Without going into a great deal of detail, I had been engaged a couple of years prior and had put together a decent sized wedding. My fiancé passed away of a heart attack 30 days before the wedding. He was 33 years old. At no time while Bru and I were engaged did I believe he was going to survive until the wedding so I really didn’t take much of an interest in planning for it. I threw together an evening service because there would be less to cancel when he died, and I was convinced he would, and I managed to piss off most of my immediate family and all of my friends. It didn’t matter because what no one knew was that Bru wasn’t going to be at the wedding anyway, so who cares? I didn’t tell anyone except my mom how I felt and she understood. She had been by my side when I was cancelling the big wedding and putting together the funeral all at the same time. It was insane.
So anyway, back to the frivolities of Bru and me not moving in together before the wedding. It simply wasn’t done, remember? We took the Catholic course, and one day I was making him bacon and eggs and I asked him where the splatter screen was for the frying pan. He reached up over the fridge into those two little cupboards up there that no one ever uses because you need a ladder, and he pulled out the screen. I took one look at that and decided that church or no church, I had to move in right now or he was going to get settled and find this acceptable.
I gave my notice at my place, we packed up my stuff and I moved in with my dreamy boyfriend.
Poor Bru. I was unpacking my stuff and he was working that day. He came home mid-day and saw all this girl stuff around the house and went white as a sheet. He left in a hurry and I worked really hard to get everything put away before he got home so he would feel better. I did it and he came back to find very much the same house he had left.
This is where the actual training began because the splatter screen was now firmly placed in the drawer under the stove. I had rearranged the kitchen a bit and showed him how the coffee mugs were now in the cupboard right over the coffee maker. He pronounced me a Genius.
I showed him where the laundry would go but told him I would be in charge of all laundry. He saw me as this incredible unicorn that had come into his life but I did not want him getting his mitts on my clothes. There is no way this guy could handle a washer and dryer combo. Nope, he would never touch the laundry.
I encouraged Bruce to cook whenever he liked. Especially his special dishes that only he could make. Spareribs was one of his specialties, so I’d buy the fixin’s and then pronounce him ‘In Charge of Supper’. Then, as the time arrived he would get up off of his chair and announce I AM GOING TO START SUPPER.
To which I would reply I SHALL REMAIN HERE, RECLINED, AND YOU MAY CALL ME WHEN SUPPER IS READY.
Genius. He is making his specialty. I don’t know how to make it. The recipe ends with him. Hush, don’t tell me any details. YOU make it. I am just going to grab a quick nap before supper.
And so on. He really came around nicely.
But not everything stuck like shit to fur. Every now and again he would try to manipulate me into doing something. I would just stare at him, not blinking, for about 30 seconds and he would wither and go OH, YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT ONE TOO. Yes, yes I do. Then I would instruct him on the proper way to get me to do stuff. A million years later and we are still having this conversation. He goes for the manipulation every single time. I just look at him. Really?
For example, he will be coming back to the table, in his wheelchair, with a bowl of chips, and drop the bowl. I am in the office on the computer listening to music with earbuds. So, he will stomp the floor so I can feel it and then wait a beat or two, the say OH NO, THIS IS A DISASTER, because he knows I have taken out the buds when I heard the floor shake.
Whenever anything is pronounced a DISASTER in our place, I am going to be the one who has to deal with it, box the carcasses, bury stuff late at night, etc. So, him saying this will literally get me off my ass and out to see what is on fire. I pick everything up and get him new chips, etc. When I initially figured out that he was hoping and wishing I would come out and get him new chips, that’s when I started the stare and the talk – INSTEAD OF ALL THE DRAMA, WHY NOT JUST ASK ME TO HELP YOU AND GET YOU SOME NEW CHIPS?
He says that, yes, next time he will certainly do that.
There is a male ego here is what I suspect. Asking is hard, I suppose, but I still tell him.
And finally, the last little thing that also didn’t take as well as I would have liked.
Whenever we are getting low on something, tell me, so I can put it on my list and plan a shopping trip, depending on how desperately we need it. Him: Yes, I can do that.
Tuesday – 7 PM – I am working dayshift the next day and I have to get up at 3:30 am.
WE ARE OUT OF MILK. I don’t drink milk; it is for his cereal.
HUH?
WE ARE OUT OF MILK.
LIKE OUT-OUT?
YES, I USED THE LAST OF IT THIS MORNING.
WELL WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THIS MORNING SO I COULD HAVE GONE OUT FOR SOME?
I DID (Mind Fuckery – never works)
NO, YOU DID NOT.
OKAY, BUT WE’RE OUT OF MILK.
NO, YOU’RE OUT OF MILK. I, PERSONALLY, HAVE ALL THE MILK I AM EVER GOING TO USE.
So, we negotiate. I look like a troll, so I am not going out now for milk. I find him something else for tomorrow’s breakfast. He is happy. I get milk on my way home the next day. Win-Win.
I ONLY HAVE 4 DAYS LEFT OF MY PRESCRIPTIONS.
EXCELLENT. I SHALL PICK THEM UP TOMORROW.
I pick them up. He’s happy. I’m happy. Win-Win.
Tuesday – 7 PM – I am working dayshift the next day and I have to get up at 3:30 am. I look like a troll.
I NEED MY PRESCRIPTIONS. I USED THE LAST DAY TODAY.
WWWWWHHHHHHHAAAAATTTTTT?
Yeah, like that. I have no choice but to de-troll, and go get them because, well, his life literally depends on his pills, for the most part-ish. They are important and he can’t miss a dose.
So, as I’m leaving the house, he will be watching me silently from his wheelchair, and I might throw out a quick MOTHERFUCKER as I am walking down the steps. But it’s in a sing-songie tune so it’s not as bad. And once I get the prescription and stop at Walmart and buy some new clothes, I’m golden.
Bottom line, you can train em, but it isn’t all going to stick. And sure, I may need some training as well, but you will never know about it unless someone else writes a Blog. Right now, I am perfect.