I Hate Everyone, Except You(19)
Damon was already awake; he had an early patient. “I was waiting for your alarm to go off so I could make coffee,” he said.
In normal living conditions, at least in Western society, one half of a couple can make coffee in the morning without waking the other, but when we renovated our apartment I had the brilliant idea of configuring it as one big, open space. “We’re going to honor the architectural history of the neighborhood and create an authentic Tribeca loft,” I had told anyone who would listen. “The bed will be right smack in the middle of the room. It’s going to be superchic.”
Five years later I want to kick myself in the nuts for sounding like a pretentious asshole. I just hope that eventually we can sell it to another pretentious asshole for three times what we paid for it. But because of the floor plan—which is no floor plan—Damon and I need to be on the same sleep schedule, lest one of us do something ridiculous like open the refrigerator and shine the light in the other’s slumbering face.
The coffeemaker, one of those all-in-one numbers that grinds beans, brews espresso, and steams milk, roared and hissed. A few minutes later, latte in hand, Damon sat at the foot of the bed. “Bad night’s sleep?” he asked.
“Yeah, thanks to this pain in the ass,” I answered, referring to Mary, who was listening intently. “Do you see how much room she’s taking up? I’m literally hanging off the side of the bed.” I wasn’t exaggerating. My left arm and shoulder were off the mattress.
“You know, you can train her to sleep on the floor,” he said.
“No, I can’t, Damon,” I said, enunciating both syllables of his name. “She’s been sleeping in our bed for the last seven years. What’s she gonna think when all of a sudden we just throw her on the floor? I’ll tell you what she’s gonna think: She’s gonna think we don’t love her anymore and then she’ll get depressed and wish she was never born.”
Damon told me I was projecting. Or anthropomorphizing. Maybe both. I don’t know. I kind of zoned out, as I usually do at this point in this particular conversation. See, most of the time I enjoy being married to a psychologist. Damon is the most thoughtful, kind, supportive, introspective man I have ever met. When we argue, which is rarely, I find myself saying things like, “I’m sorry for acting out, but I’m frustrated by the events of the day,” or “Let’s step back and examine our rage for a moment.” It’s actually kind of amazing. But when Damon has the audacity to imply that my relationship with Mary is slightly cuckoo, I want to rip out a chunk of his perfect hair.
I’m not an idiot. I know everyone thinks Mary is a dog. And she may very well be, but there’s also a very distinct possibility, as far as I’m concerned, that she’s a human being trapped in a thirteen-pound Jack Russell terrier’s body, albeit a human being who’s obsessed with smelling random puddles of piss on the sidewalk. And so I give her everything she could ever need to live an emotionally fulfilling life: organic freeze-dried chicken, filtered water, treats baked in small batches by local artisans, weekend hikes on the Appalachian Trail, spa days, et cetera.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m just being silly. I’ll start training Mary to sleep in her own bed tonight.” All three of us know I am lying through my porcelain-veneered teeth.
I gently rubbed Mary’s velvety belly, wrested myself from bed, and shuffled across the concrete floors toward the bathroom, where the morning’s clothes awaited me. I had laid them on the vanity the night before with the intention of leaving for work as quickly as possible. Since the renovation, I’ve learned how to get ready for work in just fifteen minutes. Of course it helps that ABC employs a team of people to dress and groom me. I’m really only responsible for brushing my own teeth and maintaining my private parts. They do the rest!
I left the apartment after kissing Damon and Mary good-bye on their mouths. Damon insists I do it in that order for sanitary reasons, though I suspect it’s a hierarchy thing. As per our usual arrangement, he will drop Mary off at the sitter on his way to work. Heading to the subway, I stopped by my favorite coffee shop and ordered a flat white for my walk. It’s a few short blocks away and usually the most tranquil part of my day. At this time of year, the sun and streetlamps halfheartedly compete to illuminate the sidewalks, pigeons coo from window ledges above, and deliverymen unload palettes of bread from big square trucks. Even the 1 train provides a sense of calm this early. A tacit understanding exists among the burly construction men, dozing hospital workers, bankers, and myself: Let’s start this day in peace.
In my orange plastic seat, I opened my e-mail to read the itinerary my assistant, Jackie, sent me the night before.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
7:30 a.m.
Call time at The Chew.
Production meeting.
Rehearsal.
Hair, makeup, wardrobe.
8:45 a.m.
Shoot Episode #756 “The Chew’s Spring Break!”
Airs same day. You’re making your macadamia-crusted chicken with mango and pineapple salsa in segments 2 and 3.
Guest: Paula Deen. She’s cooking with Michael Symon later in the show.
9:45 a.m.
Meet with Jennifer re: upcoming interview with Mekhi Phifer. Meet with Katie re upcoming cocktail segment. Meet with Brad re: upcoming Clinton’s Craft Corner.
11:00 a.m.