My husband just got off the phone with his old friend Vini. Now,
granted, this might not seem like such a big deal to you.
My husband just got off the phone with his old friend Vini. Now, granted, this might not seem like such a big deal to you. However, Vini isn’t just any friend. Nooooo. Vini is my husband’s very best, through-thick-and-thin type pal from high school, who he hasn’t heard from in years. Years.
So when he hung up it seemed perfectly reasonable that I ask, “How’s Vini?”
“Who?” my husband asked. And then: “Oh. Yeah. Fine.”
“Well…?” I asked. And then: “How are the kids? Is he still living in the same house?”
“I guess so.”
“Where does he work? Is he still married?”
“Uh, well, I dunno.”
“Then what in the heck did you talk about for an hour?”
“”Computers,” he said in an “of course” kind of way. “He has a new 286 PC and needed advice on hooking it up.”
Now, that’s just the kind of thing you can expect from a man. They can talk for hours to their very best friend, the very person with whom they were practically soul mates during their high school years, mind you, and not get any good information at all.
Frankly, I should’ve expected this. The same thing happened the time my husband was invited over by a nationally known rock band to fix their computer system. Now, I don’t know about you, but this is the sort of thing that qualifies for my, “Fantasy Island Material Category,” right along with fitting in size seven jeans and finding trendy tennis shoes for 75 percent off.
So naturally I couldn’t wait for him to return home to tell me all of the details.
“Well, how’d it go?” I asked, jumping to my feet the second he walked through the door.
“Fine.”
“FINE?” I cried. “What did their house look like? How did they dress? Did they have a sofa or futons? Real art or posters?”
He shrugged.
“For gosh-sakes,” I pleaded, clutching his lapel in my fists. “Give me some information! Anything!”
“I don’t remember,” he said. “Oh, yeah. They had a really nice big screen television.”
Now, I don’t need to tell you that this sort of thing doesn’t happen with women.
For instance, just the other day I called up the JC Penny catalog department to order a set of ceramic table lamps for the living room.
“Yes, I need two of number 546-A in beige,” I said to the nice catalog operator named Mary over the phone. “But I need to make sure they’ll go with a white leather sofa and olive curtains. What do you think?”
“Well, if I were you,” she paused, “I’d stick with 535-B, the brass floor lamp.”
“Oh?”
“At least that’s what I have in my house. And it looks fabulous, especially since I have Pergo flooring.”
“Hey, me, too!”
By the time I finished, I knew the color of Mary’s kitchen, how long she’s been married, the names and ages of her children, and that her oldest child, a high school senior, just got a soccer scholarship to Colorado State but is thinking about going to Juilliard to study musical composition instead.
Truth be told, if she hadn’t been in another state, we probably would’ve made plans to go shopping and out to lunch the following Saturday.
“What was that all about?” my husband asked after I hung up the phone.
“Oh, nothing. I was just buying some lamps.”
He looked at me as if I was insane or something.
But then, again, maybe I shouldn’t expect more from someone who orders take-out Chinese Food by blurting, “Number 51,” into the telephone and hanging up?
Not that there’s anything wrong with this.
But, between you and me, I can’t imagine going through life this way. I mean, if I did, I’d never have gotten to know my friend Gloria at the bank, who has six cats and is thinking of quitting her job and becoming a midwife. Or Rosie at the grocery store, who went to the Oscars because she has a brother who’s a professional movie extra.
Now, some people might think I’m just being nosey. But I consider it more as being a “detective of human interest.”
That said, I guess there will always be something’s that will remain a mystery to me. Like, for example, how Vini is doing.
That is, unless I call his wife, whoever she may be.
