The darling and I have been playing a game called Gotcha for about the length of our marriage. The point of the game is to prove oneself more noble—and thus more deserving—through martyriological one-upmanship. I learned early on I could never defeat the maxim she inherited “a man may work from dusk to dawn, a woman’s work is never done!” and set out, of course, to prove. An 80-hour work week could not out-tired her, who had the kids all the time and you don’t know what tired is; she always beats me at collecting saint’s points. That’s because I’m not a natural at the game, it having come to us by way of her family lineage; my family taught us different games. Ain’t no sense in takin’ ‘er on—she’s been raised in that stuff. And she’s passed it on to our kids, in each to a measured degree, though no one has refined the game to such a degree as Soccer Saul, who outplays her 75% of the time, while the rest of us watch, awestruck. That’s what she gets for letting them argue with her when they were little. But I’m glad she did, because I was a discussion, deliberation, pronounce the verdict guy; and they had to learn how to argue for themselves. And besides, after 34 years of losing, it’s gratifying to watch my son beat her in the martyr-off.
Acknowledging that I am eternally and infinitely behind in saints’ points is not to say that I never score a Gotcha or that she never shoots herself in the foot. So walking into the bedroom the other night I discover her sitting on the edge of the bed swearing at the remote unit for the overhead fan, an 80-pound Sears behemoth with a remote control of about 15 buttons she got me for Father’s Day that year I’d wanted a gas barbecue. While the blue language sputtered, “Yep, sure am glad you got me that fan, aren’t you?” Once, I remembered our anniversary and she didn’t, and that was wonderful. In fact, that was the year I discovered that Gotcha was a game. Up until then I took it seriously, which cost a bunch in counseling fees over the years and a lot of arguments. (Though I would observe that she might not have known it was a game, either. We are blind to our own myths, as it is said.)
We are at that stage in life where it’s the thought of the holiday more than the gift (since we can personally afford whatever we decide on), so a couple of years ago decided against exchanging “major” Christmas gifts, ala, “If you want, get me a book”. That took the stress of performance off, but then quite incidentally I encountered a gift of the “major” category and just wanted to give it to her. Christmas morning was wonderful with her totally taken aback by how thoughtful and considerate a husband she has, and I scored some big time points, though that is not what I set out to do. But, you know, it’s in unintentionality that you score the best points, as in, say, Mt. 25 (Lord, when did we see you. . .? etc.).
The same thing sort of happened this past Christmas, with the same no gift discussion ahead of time, but then a sudden gift revelation, while sitting in the family room reading one day, noticing all the crumbs and shit all over the carpet like bugs on a windshield, thinking what a drag it is to vacuum even though I only do it about twice a year. Then I remembered the robotic vacuum cleaner I’d seen at a friend’s house, jumped online and ordered a Roomba as my Christmas gift to her in helping with the household chores (doing justice without personal effort, so to speak). It was a big-time hit at Christmas, and scored me major thoughtful saint’s points, though again that is not what I set out to do. But let’s face it, I’m gettin’ better at this game.
The cool thing about Roomba behind the thought it that it actually works: turn it on and it heads all over the house vacuuming for about an hour. About the size of a bathroom scale, it does this by running into things then changing course; has a bunch of wire antennae sticking out like a cockroach, twitching, spinning. It’s like having R2D2 on the loose in your house. The darling fired it up one day while I was working on a sermon, then went to the store. Blew me away a bit when Roomba came motoring into the office, looking around like a stranger in the house, acting like he owns it. I like the idea that it does its works by banging into things; it helps me see my own life a bit differently: a lot of the direction of my days has been set by the things I’ve banged into. In another vein, Roomba’s mistress settles into the recliner with a sigh, “Ah, it’s time to vacuum.” And I know I scored big time on the saint’s points, even though she was ready for me.
That is to say, she’d gotten me a gift of the “major” category as well, probably thinking that there was simply no way she was going to be caught flat-footed again. It was a high-pressure water sprayer, which will be handy, we know, to clean the flagstone and the deck and the brick on the house she’s wanted done for these last, oh, couple of years. Yahoo. Merry Christmas. Another project. But that’s okay, because I do have to do that, though I didn’t going tearing into the box like it was a Red Ryder Rifle or something. I’ll open it when I need it, which is not in the middle of winter, even if this is Houston, though the darling complained I did not appreciate it. The box sat there unopened, pretty much in the same spot it was when we had the tree up.
Until last week, when I went to get it to start on the deck and flagstone and house and it wasn’t there and upon inquiry learned that “I” loaned it to Wil With One L, the son-in-law. “You gave my Christmas gift away?” “No. I loaned it.” “But it was still in the unopened box! It was still virginal.” “O boo-hoo. You had your chance.” It doesn’t sound to me like she’s ready to cede any points there.
But we both know the truth.
Roomba rules.
And our love dances.
