In Sickness and in Health

Ah, illness. There you are. I know you must have missed me, but I really didn't miss you.

If I could, I would sleep through any illness in its entirety. We'd figure out some way for my family to slap patches on me that would enable me to absorb medication and nutrients through my skin, and I'd just sleep until the illness was gone. Doesn't that sound good?

There are apparently some really nasty illnesses going around right now. My husband has been sicker than I've ever seen him, and I've known him since he was 22. He doesn't usually get sick. On the rare occasions that he does, it isn't very severe and goes away quickly.

Once, he was uncharacteristically feverish and miserable. I know how that feels, and I know that he likes to be fussed over, so I made him tea, brought him blankets and medicine, and cooed over him. He fell asleep, slept all night, and woke up feeling fit as a fiddle.

"Wow, that virus really kicked my butt," he said.

While happy that he felt better, I was also outraged. "NO! It did NOT! It CANNOT be a butt-kicking if it lasts all of 4 hours!"

He was puzzled. "But it was a miserable 4 hours."

"I don't care! That's not a butt-kicking! That barely qualifies as sick! That's just… mutant! You're a mutant."

In the last 6 weeks or so, though, he's gone from strep to bronchitis and back to strep. The bronchitis really did kick his butt; he was barely functional for a week. That's par for the course with me, but it's unheard of for him. He has never had active, misery inducing symptoms for that long.

I did everything I could to roll up the welcome mat and hang a "no vacancy" sign, but the bronchitis moved into my lungs anyway. Aside from the growly voice it gives me, there's nothing good about this. Well, except for the huge, horse pill-looking antibiotics that I'm on. Those are pretty good. Yay for modern medicine.

Now, it's about getting enough sleep and keeping warm.

Years ago, when my husband and I were first living together and figuring out how the other person ticked, he came home from work when I was sick to find me wrapped in a quilt on the couch. That's pretty standard when I'm sick. He'd barely closed the door when he said, "It's stifling in here," took off his shirt, and turned the ceiling fan on high. I made a noise like a Bloom County cartoon – "AIEEEE!"

"Are you trying to kill me? I'm SICK!"

"I know, but it's hot in here. I'm just trying to get the air moving."

"It's an arctic wind, blowing right on me!"

I unwound my quilt and scrabbled down the hall to the bedroom, griping the whole way, and cocooned in more layers of bedding. In the living room, Dan was opening a window.

"Don't do that! It's cold out there!"

"It's like 80 degrees in here! You're going to melt me!"

I generally can't stand the sensation of wind, at all, and that's when I'm not sick. I can't sleep if I'm breathing on my own arm; I have to pull at least the sheet over it. If my husband is literally breathing down my neck (or on my arms or worse, into my face) in bed, I can't sleep; I shove him over to the other side of the bed. Dan would like to sleep with a fan on. I've tried, and I just can't do it.

A few years ago, he again came home to me sick on the couch, wearing sweats and thick socks, curled into a fetal position under a down quilt."Awww," he said, and snaked his hand up the covers and up the pant leg to rub my calf. He was shocked when my skin felt chilled to the touch. "You're cold!" he said.

"Of course I'm cold. I'm sick. Why do you think I'm sitting here like this?"

He had to check the rest of me to see if the calf was an anomaly, so he reached under my shirt to feel my tummy, which was also cold to the touch. "How is that physically possible?" he demanded. "How can you be cold underneath all that?"

"I don't know. Gimme back my covers." I tucked the comforter back around me tightly. I never bother anymore to think about how it's possible to be cold, because I obviously am. The best I can guess is that my body is so busy fighting the illness that it has no energy left to generate heat. This would also explain why I get sick if I'm out in the cold for too long – in order to try and keep me warm, my body diverts all its energy there, and I have nothing left to fight off any germs. Whether that's accurate or not, the fact remains that cold often makes me sick, and illness further damages my ability to make my own heat.

This is part of our deep seated temperature incompatibility, my husband's and mine. He is always hot. Always. And he stubbornly refuses to wear shorts because he doesn't think he looks good in them, which is maddening in so many ways. It'll be summer, I'll be in shorts or capris and a short sleeved shirt and he'll be in jeans and, frequently, a long sleeved shirt, and he'll crank up the evaporative cooler. "Quit blowing cold air on my bare skin and take something off!" I'll gripe.

I have sat in chairs he's recently vacated and been overheated just by the residual body heat. He's like a furnace.

I, on the other hand, have a standard body temperature of about 97 degrees. I get cold easily. I can't tell you how often I've had to get out of bed to put on a pair of socks because my feet are too cold for me to sleep. I can't let them touch each other or any other part of me when they're that way; instead of body contact warming them up, it causes whatever they touch to get colder. When I'm sick, I feel unreasonably cold, all the time. I cannot sleep when I'm cold.

When our family made a visit once to the Exploratorium in San Francisco, we stood in front of a screen that showed heat signatures. The warmer something was, the more it glowed green. My husband and middle daughter were bright green apparitions, chuckling over the fact that some body parts, like armpits, glowed even brighter. My oldest daughter and I couldn't see ourselves, and everyone was starting to wonder if we were somehow standing outside the view of the sensors. Then, we moved directly between the rest of our family and the sensors, and finally showed up - as black, body shaped voids in front of their glowing greenness. "I can't believe you're so cold you don't even show up! That's wierd!" Middle Daughter said. "Welcome to our world," I said.

Our bedroom is unheated (long story), which is great for Dan. Most people sleep better in a cool room, but I can't do it. I sleep with a comforter in the summer. In the winter, I have layers and layers on the bed. (Dan frequently sleeps without covers, even in the winter.)

The old upper crust custom of separate bedrooms makes a bit more sense to me now than it did when I was a kid.

Dan bought me a heated mattress pad, which is one of my favorite birthday gifts ever. It says not to sleep with it on (or you risk burning yourself), but I can see no other reason for its existence.

The first time I got sick after he bought it, Dan encouraged me to go to bed in my thick sweats and socks and turn the bed heater on. I did – I couldn't feel the heater at all. He didn't believe me until he did the hand-against-bare-skin test again and discovered that my skin still felt positively refrigerated. The thick clothes kept the heat from getting through. This made no sense to Dan – for him, staying warm is about holding body heat in. For me, it's about getting outside heat. With the sweats on, I needed the heater at a 9 before I could feel anything. With bare legs, a 2 or 3 felt toasty.

Even better, I bought a new comforter that's so warm I rarely need the bed heater. When I was a kid, we had quilts that were cotton exterior and cotton batting – those things weighed a ton. I loved them. We also had down and feather mix filled quilts that were so heavy and warm. Our sleeping bags were canvas with cotton batting and flannel lining. Newfangled nylon things with polyester fluff just never felt as warm, until I got this comforter. Back in the day, we called this filling "polyester fiberfill," but my new comforter touts it as, "hypoallergenic down alternative." Well, la-di-dah. Still, it's so warm that I occasionally overheat and have to peel it back.

I sense signs that I will feel human again soon. I did some laundry – yay! – and minor straightening. Then I had a nap. Naps are magic.

So, we're in for a ride, illness and me, but one day it will be forced to give up and go away. Until then I will commune with my non allergenic comforter and my orange juice. Good night.

The Eye of the Beholder

As a creator of art myself, I tend to be pretty laid back in my attitude about art other people create. I don't like to over criticize; I don't feel that others need to pass some kind of litmus test before I consider their creations legitimate.

I also think that the purpose of hotel art is to be almost nondescript. Hotel art tends toward the pleasantly bland, like plain oatmeal. Hoteliers don't want guests stealing the art off of the walls.

I also think that's an untapped source of revenue, though - "Like this painting? Buy it at checkout!" It might be a bit of a pain in the butt, stocking all kinds of prints behind the desk, but without frames, they wouldn't take much space. You wouldn't have to charge much to make money.

Anyway, that's not the subject at hand.

I recently stayed in a very nice hotel. It was a high rise condo building - not normally my first choice, as I'm not a big city dweller. Some of the units were owner occupied, and some were short term rentals. The property was downtown in the Honolulu business district, walking distance to banks, offices, and the courthouse. The hotel had conference facilities and the like. Instead of a regular room service menu, they had a brochure for local places that would cater your meeting.

I have to assume that they assumed that the guests wouldn't be spending much time outside the property. That's the only way I can explain the art.
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In the kitchen, there was a print of ferns - that was the only remotely tropical subject. In the bedroom, there was this print:

Outside the window was this building:

I've zoomed in, obviously - it wasn't that close. I'm trying to demonstrate something. Yes, indeed, it is the same building. I'm really unclear on the thought process at work here: "Look! Here's what's right outside your window!"

At least the architecture is interesting. I am entirely baffled by the largest piece of art in the place, this watercolor hanging over the dining table:

Yes! It's a painting of a stoplight! Whose idea was that? Why in the world would someone say, "You know what? I really want to paint a traffic signal." It is beyond comprehension that someone would say, "This is what I think best represents Hawaii."

Was it specially comissioned? Were the property owners hoping that people would forget that Hawaii has beaches, waterfalls, luaus, boating and many other places and activities more exciting than a stoplight? Are they afraid that if you spent all day at meetings, in your suit and tie, you would become unhinged at the sight of palm trees and beaches? Were they hoping you'd feel good about long work days if you could look at the art in your room and say, "Hey, I saw that. This trip hasn't been wasted."

It's a mystery.

I Miss Mayberry

In honor of Valentine's Day, here's my musings on fictional TV characters from my growing up years who formed my idea of what men should be like.

SHERIFF ANDY TAYLOR (The Andy Griffith Show)

Andy is just about the perfect man. He's usually the smartest person in the room, but you never, ever get the sense that he's laughing at others behind their backs. He never looks down at, or talks down to, them. He never points out how bright he is (because, frankly, the more often someone says it, the less often it's true.) He's very, very good at what he does, but quick to listen to others and ask for help without being patronizing.

He's an amazing dad, not too indulgent, too strict, too distant or too smothering. He depends on Aunt Bee without being helpless. He allows Barney the autonomy he needs, and encourages others to accept him as an authority figure, but it's always clear that Andy is the boss. He lets Barney (and for that matter, Opie) experience the consequences of his mistakes, but steps in before irreparable damage is done.

After the work day is over, he sits on his porch playing his guitar and singing. He says hello to everyone as they pass by, and he means it.

I rarely fantasized about being married to rock stars, but I frequently thought about how perfect it would be to be married to Andy Taylor.

DOCTOR LEONARD "BONES" MCCOY (Star Trek)

Kirk was admirable, and Spock was amazing. I watched both to glean insight into the kind of character traits I wanted to have (keep the loyalty, insight and powers of observation; skip the promiscuity), but the one that I wanted to get the girl, especially if the girl was me, was McCoy.

He wasn't, and never aspired to be, in a command position, but he never felt overlooked, second best or relegated to lower status. He was good at his job and convinced of its value, but also valued the work of others. He was a rule follower, but when the rules conflicted with his moral code he was not conflicted himself; that choice was easy.

He enjoyed the wonder and majesty of the universe, but never quite trusted the machines that took him there. I could completely relate to his distrust of the transporters.

If you didn't know him, some of his conversation would lead you to believe that he was a bigot, but he wasn't. If his best friend had had an artificial leg, he would have called him "Gimpy" or "Stumpy," and made comments about him being less than a complete man. It was his way of blowing off steam; politically incorrect, but not malicious.

COLONEL SHERMAN T. POTTER (M*A*S*H)

I love Harry Morgan, but I was so completely prepared to truly dislike Col. Potter. Losing Henry Blake was so painful. Over 30 years later, I still cry every time I watch his final episode and hear Radar say, "There were no survivors." It would seem that anyone would be better than Frank, but I was still not prepared to give the new guy a fair shake. "He's regular Army!" I complained to my mother. "He'll ruin everything!"

Instead, I quickly adored Potter. By the end of his very first episode I was thinking, "This guy is OK." Soon, he was a cherished friend. I missed him, as I missed them all, when the series ended.

Sensible, unflappable, plain spoken, a lover of horses and a talented surgeon, Potter was a stabilizing center of the storm. He knew when to cut through the b.s. and when to tolerate or even encourage it. He loved his country and had chosen to be career Army, but he hated war and its destruction. He loved his wife and kids, and couldn't wait until he was home barbequeing in his back yard.

So many times, couples focus on falling in love, not being in love. If you're lucky, you end up old and gray haired together. Colonel Potter gave me a glimpse of a man, and a life, at that age that looked very appealing. And who wouldn't love a man who said, "Horse hockey!"

BJ HUNNICUTT (M*A*S*H)

BJ made the best of circumstances he never asked for. His rebellion was usually quiet and never for its own sake, but spoke volumes. His pink shirt said more, and said it more eloquently, than words would have. He knew that silliness did not necessarily equate to frivolousness. He didn't worry too much about how others perceived his work or how he stood in the hierarchy - he did his best work because it was the right thing to do, not because someone might be looking or because he might be promoted.

His love for his family was as much a part of him as his right arm. He didn't have to constantly tell you it was there; he didn't have to work at it. It just was.

He wasn't perfect. He drank too much, and once cheated on his wife. He didn't do either of those things because he was self indulgent or felt entitled; he did them because he was in almost unbearable pain.

He was funny - not spotlight grabbing, "look at me" funny, but "share this with me, let's all enjoy ourselves" funny.

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All of us grow up looking at people we know, the TV we watch, the movies we see and the books we read, and we form opinions about life and people. My life is better because these fictional men touched it.

What Are You Wearing?

The other shoppers kept looking sideways at me as I advised my daughter on clothes today. "Neon colors," I'd say, looking through racks of blouses. "Shoulder pads." "A blouse with a big, floppy bow at the neck," (to which she replied, "Oh, NO!") Looking through skirts, I advised, "Think denim with lots of lace and shiny things. (Slightly puzzled, my 24 year old queried, "Like bedazzled?") The most surreal moment came in the shoe department. My daughter wondered aloud whether she should buy a pair of high heeled, pointed toed sandals made of gold snakeskin, and my reply was, "If you can imagine Madonna wearing it, you're probably safe." There's a sentence I never imagined myself uttering.

We were shopping at Goodwill, trying to find an outfit for the 80s themed party my daughter's attending this weekend. I'd pull dresses off of the rack and say, "This is very 80s," or, "Look for those big, puffy sleeves that you hate." After about half an hour, my daughter said to me, "So, what I'm hearing is, find the most hideous clothes that you can."

I'd contemplated loaning her my wedding gown, but I don't think it would fit her. Besides, a wedding gown would probably be wildly out of place at a party.

Later, standing in front of the costume jewelry at WalMart, she'd asked, "Is this 80s?" and, "What about these?" "It's hard to remember," I told her. "I was never fashionable."

She laughed out loud - "Great, Mom, great," but I wasn't kidding.

In 1980, I was graduating from junior high. By 1990, I had a high school diploma, a husband, a mortgage (on the second home we'd ever bought), and two preschoolers, who would turn 3 and 4 that year. Never, in all that time (or any other), was I dressed fashionably.

Trying to think back, so I could help my daughter choose, I was mostly thinking about movies. What, besides the prom dress, did Molly Ringwald wear in "Pretty in Pink" - or was that the 90s? What did Madonna wear in "Desperately Seeking Susan?" All I could recall were fingerless gloves and some kind of big, mesh bow in her hair. What constituted the New Wave look? I tried to remember the fashionable kids in high school.

When my kids were born, we got keepsake "Baby's First Year" calendars, the kind where you put stickers to commemorate rolling over, visits to grandparents and the like. At the top of each month were places to put things like the baby's family tree, headlines and other records. One month had a headline that said something like, "What Was Popular." Some of it I could fairly easily fill out - "President of the U.S.," "Hit Songs" - but the line for "Popular Fashions" stumped me. I had to really think, and then wing it. For my daughter born in 1987, I wrote "acid washed denim." Even as I wrote it, I pictured her asking me, years later, what made acid washed different from any other denim, and me fumbling. "It looks kind of faded, but not like regular fading from wear..."

I wore jeans and T-shirts, which became knit pants and T-shirts. I never had Big Hair. I may never have been fashionable, but I'm recognizable, and not embarrassed by my old photos. Or my current ones. Maybe I'm just oblivious, but if I am, I'm OK with that.

My daughter has wondered aloud at the wisdom of throwing a party where "we all look like crap." Hey, kid, it's a theme - go with it!

She settled on a neon plaid madras shirt with a turqouoise top underneath, leggings under a very short, ruffled skirt, black tennis shoes, turquoise feather earrings, plastic bangles, blue eyeshadow and a ponytail sprouting out of the side of her head. She'll look amazingly authentic - and without puffy sleeves. Now, if I can only talk her into some big shoulder pads...

Small Town USA

OK. It's settled. When we retire, I want to live in Genoa, Nevada.

OK, maybe "settled" is too strong a word. Can we call it "on the short list"?

As a kid, I was sure that I wanted to live in a tiny apartment, preferably in a tall, narrow, aging home, in a big city. I'd walk to the quirky corner grocer, where I'd know everybody by name. When I could, I'd ride the train downtown to the theater and museums.

I never would have predicted that what I really want is a big, rambling house in a small town, maybe a town too small to even merit a stop light.

It should have occurred to me that my early childhood would affect where I'm most comfortable. When I was no more than 2 1/2 or 3, my parents or big sister would help me up onto the back of big, gentle Lady, our Thoroughbred horse, and I'd follow my sister or my mom, on sprited Querida, out of our back pasture and through the neighborhood, which was dotted with small ranches. There were two places within easy riding or walking distance where we occasionally went to watch the practice sessions of the local rodeo competitors. We ice skated in our back pasture. One of our dogs, gentle, razor sharp Duchess, was half coyote.

I was 12 years old before I ever vacationed anywhere except the wilderness. I was used to camping, fishing, swimming and hiking. Visiting my best friend in Sacramento, and then taking a day trip to San Francisco, was an entirely new experience.

I still didn't expect to spend my life in small towns. Then, just before our wedding, my husband's company transferred him to a small farming and ranching community. I was furious. I dug in my heels. "I'm not going. You can't make me. You can find a new job." Cooler heads prevailed, and I found myself in a town that had five brothels, but was just opening its first movie theater (two screens!) We had one grocery store, and a business that was a combination tire/craft/satellite store.

I loved it. We bought a home outside of town on an acre and a quarter, had two babies, built a chicken coop and brought home 24 baby chicks. We spent a lot of time on dirt roads, and discovered new favorite picnic spots.

When my husband's company offered him a transfer back to his old plant, we bought a home in a small town rather than face the culture shock of moving back to Reno. I loved our little town. It made the front page of the twice-weekly tri county newspaper when we got our second stoplight. The largest park, where the 4th of July festivities were held, was across the street from us. My kids performed at the community center in the yearly Christmas pageant. We were on a first name basis with the librarian.

Eventually, we moved back to the Reno area, buying a house two and a half blocks from the house I grew up in. (The ranches were long since relegated to memory; it was a ordinary, suburban neighborhood.) That's another story.

I still find myself feeling wistful when we visit small towns. I pick up real estate listings and think, "We could afford that." I daydream about ponds, a horse, farmhouses and trees. It makes no sense right now to move anywhere, but retirement and a place for my grandkids to visit isn't too far off in the distance.

I'm allergic to fur, but still find myself thinking about just one horse - just enough to pull a carriage. Doesn't that sound perfect for grandkids - and portraits?

This is what my kids did today:

We were about 50 miles from home, at an indoor pool that made this kind of activity perfect for a winter day, even though there was snow in sight of the pool.

I didn't feel like swimming; I felt like a solo day with my camera. So, off we went, to nearby Genoa, the oldest town in the state.

This is the equivalent of downtown:

This house is for sale, just two doors down:

My daughter tells me that no self respecting man would live in a pink house, but I work in the wedding industry. With its period furnishings and charmingly landscaped grounds, it looks like the ideal place to hold weddings. Would a self respecting man be married in a pink house?

Only steps away, on the corner, this girl fed three deer stale bread out of the back door of a cafe:

I know, it's always a bad idea to feed wildlife, but how charming is a place where this happens?

I spent the day shooting crumbling stone structures, horses, barns, and houses like this one:

Farm equipment sat in the fields like sculpture:

It was a day well spent, and a reminder of what might be someday.

Am I Blue

When I was a kid, I had fairly clear ideas about the color different rooms should be. No room should ever be green. Kitchens should be yellow – it just seemed sunshiny and breakfasty and cheerful. Bathrooms should be pink. Pink seemed like soap bubbles, shampoo and powder puffs.

(It's worth noting that I've never had a yellow room, or a pink one. Or green, for that matter.)

Blue has always been my default setting, my "go to" color for just about anything. It still took me a long time to notice that, given a choice, I'd decorate any room, and any occasion, in blue and white.

When I was a newlywed, the hot colors in home fashions were slate blue and mauve. This was a switch from the formerly hot colors of mustard yellow, avocado green and chocolate brown and, in my opinion, a big improvement. I loved the gray-blue and dusty rose colors that everything seemed to come in. Still, I tried not to overdo it, knowing that what's hot now is embarrassingly outdated tomorrow.

Geese were also hot. My first kitchen featured ceramic geese wearing big, floppy blue bows. I loved them. (They made my best friend want to vomit, but hey, it was my kitchen.) I had wrought iron hooks shaped like geese in my living room, and I hung heart shaped candles from them. They went with my painting of teddy bears in big hats and old fashioned dresses. Yeah, yeah, I know, it's causing tooth decay just to read about it. I like cute and charming. Deal with it.

My dishes were ivory stoneware with white and blue designs featuring, yup, the geese with bows.  My flatware had blue handles.

One Christmas (when we were several years past the newlywed stage) the woman in charge of our church's annual Christmas dinner decided to mix up the usual planning. "This year," she said in our women's meeting, "I thought it would be nice if we got to eat off of real dishes, with real napkins and tablecloths and everything, instead of paper plates and plastic forks." She passed around a signup sheet, so each woman who wanted to could sign up for one or more tables. We'd bring the linens, dishes, silverware, centerpieces and anything else we wanted. "I think it'll be fun to see everyone's decorations, and get a sense of what it would be like to have Christmas dinner at your homes."

I raised my hand. "Is there a color scheme, or any theme beyond Christmas?"

"No, no. Just set the table however you would do it at your house. Don't go out and buy anything new! Use what you already have."

I was pretty excited about this idea. I signed up to do one six foot table, with settings for eight.

 I wanted to see how everyone else would do their tables. Maybe someone would go with one of those silver tinsel trees as a centerpiece. Maybe someone would have a feather tree. Someone was sure to go with all out glitz, gold and silver everywhere.

When I showed up at the church to do my table, only two other women were there. I had somewhere else I had to be, so I hurried to set my table.

I lay down my white lace tablecloth, the one that had been on the cake table at our wedding. It was what we used for all special occasions. Then I put blue placemats, my blue and white dishes, blue handled flatware and blue napkins. For a centerpiece, I used my blue and white stoneware pitcher set in its matching dish. I had an arrangement of bluegreen artificial spruce, with frosted pinecones and tiny blue and silver packages, that I put in the pitcher. Instead of a runner, I had blue and silver bead garlands and globe ornaments that I ran down the center of the table. It looked exactly like it would have at my house if I was going all out for company. I loved it. I couldn't wait to see what everyone else did with their tables.

Every other table in the whole room was done in ruby red and deep, pine forest green. Every other table, including the ones set up for the potluck buffet.

Wow.

We all know people who simply must stand out, at all costs. They are the kids who'd rather be in trouble than feel ignored. They equate "ordinary" with "worthless," and will do anything to be seen as unique. I am reminded of Louisa in "The Fantasticks" pleading with the Almighty: "Please God, please – don't let me be normal."

Then we know people for whom conformity is everything. They never, ever want to stick out as doing something differently than their peers. They are sure that being the same as those around you insulates them from ridicule, judgment or mistakes. They must have up to the minute fashionable clothing and possessions.

Then there's me. I am sure that I am commonplace and my actions predictable. Then I emerge into the real world, where my Christmas table is an icy, pale blue island in the midst of matching jewel tones and Santas. I had not sought to either conform or rebel; I simply expected there to be more variety.

In the magazines I read, there's quite a bit of holiday variety. One magazine described a woman's color palette of lemon yellow and lime green as "a twist on the traditional green and gold." I saw a spread in which a woman did her home in pink and pale yellow for Christmas, even buying poinsettias in those colors instead of the traditional red. Any color combination can be adapted to the holidays, right? Besides, what's more wintery than snow and ice?

Frankly, blue and white is the perfect combination for any season. Think spring; forget me nots, robins' nests filled with pale blue eggs, fluffy white baby bunnies – tell me you couldn't decorate for the perfect Easter brunch that way. Summer is a no brainer – sand, sky, water, seashells, sailboats. Fall is perfect for denim, navy blue flannel, wool sweaters, plaid blankets and plaid shirts. Winter looks positively Dickensian in deep blue velvet and lace.

A friend recently moved into a new house, and wanted to keep the fresh paint the sellers had used. Both children's bedrooms were blue with white trim. She'd gone with sailboats in her son's room, but was having a hard time thinking of anything for her daughter's room. "It's just hard to make it look feminine," she said. She'd gone with a Peter Rabbit theme, tying the paint into the blue of Peter's jacket. For a preschooler, as her daughter is now, that sounds adorable. My youngest daughter had a Beatrix Potter theme in her first bedroom.  I immediately started thinking, though, of a theme for an older child. It would be easy to stay with the same nautical theme as in her brother's room. Artwork featuring 19^th or early 20^th century women and children at the seashore in floaty white dresses and hats, or charming sailor suits, with the homes in the background featuring intricate white painted gingerbread trim, would be charming. Anything pearl, abalone or mother-of-pearl would be perfect, as would seashells. Or, she could use a garden theme, furniture and accessories featuring the look of a white picket fence or trellis, accessorizing with lots of silk morning glories, hydrangeas and delphiniums, and maybe a mural with a cottage or a castle.

I didn't tell her that. I worried that I'd sound like a bit of a buttinsky. I hate it when people get overly involved in others' choices.

Besides, we've all seen that my taste is not reflective of everyone else's taste.

No one said anything about the Christmas table, either positive or negative. I didn't get any patronizing compliments, nor was I subjected to the lecture about how, "I didn't think we'd have to spell it all out for you. It should have been obvious." (I've gotten that lecture a few times.) As far as I know, it didn't bother anyone. Still, I can't quite get over the fact that everyone else seemed to be on the same page. Is there a code?

Just so you know, if you ever ask me to do any decorating for you, you'd better like blue. Or issue very specific instructions.

The Green Eyed Monster

I'm thinking, rather uncharacteristically, about jealousy.

I always think I have a handle on the human experience, that I understand other people's feelings, until I'm exposed to actual humans who seem so alien.

I figured that I "got" jealousy. Someone else has something you'd like to have, and you don't. Who hasn't experienced that? It seems so universal.

It's apparently not.

I was always annoyed by stories of siblings who were deeply resentful of each other. It seemed so cliche' and annoying. Now I'm reading another book with such siblings; one sister just has to have anything her sister has, and that translates into seducing every boyfriend of her sister's, and disparaging every accomplishment her sister achieves. I spent so many years dismissing such people as unimaginative fiction, but then I met so many of them that I finally understood where the cliché' came from. I'm still taken by surprise; I'm evidently a slow learner.

I grew up with siblings, and it never occurred to me to wonder who our parents loved best, or to covet what my siblings had. I thought my oldest sister was the most beautiful woman on the planet, but I was not resentful about it at all. I wished I looked like her, but I didn't. It was disappointing, but not anger inducing. I never wished that she was unattractive, or that a boyfriend would dump her, or any such thing. She was amazing – she still is – but I didn't think I was unattractive because she was pretty, or that because she was smart that I had to be stupid. We were all smart – I thought that it ran in the family.

I never avoided what my siblings did best, for fear that I'd never measure up, or insisted on redoing everything they did, hoping I'd outshine them. Sometimes I did the same things; I was a photographer like my big brother, and I won the middle school spelling bee, like my big sister. Sometimes I didn't; one of my sisters won track medals, and I was never going to be a runner.

Whenever one of the other kids compared themselves to me, whether it was positively or negatively, it annoyed me. That gorgeous older sister would forever make me, and our other sister, bare our teeth in the mirror and then lament, "My teeth are so yellow! Yours are white!" I hated it. My other sister would get weirdly competitive about things beyond anyone's control, like whether my chocolate chip cookie had more chocolate chips. "Let me see that," she'd demand, determined to count the chips, while I'd take a big bite and say, "No! Eat your cookie!"

"You had more than me! You just don't want me see it!" she'd say. Boring little pragmatist that I was, I couldn't understand how she could turn being given a treat into something to be upset about.

I did not value the qualities of being competitive or ambitious; those things just looked like misery to me.

Years ago, I asked my mother if I was just misremembering, and creating a little Zen persona that never existed. No, she said, all in all we were remarkably noncompetitive, and sibling rivalry or jealousy was the exception, not the rule, among the kids.

Once, after they broke up, one sister's former boyfriend asked if he could take me out sometime - "Or would that be too weird?" Too, weird, I agreed. I didn't gloat; I wondered why he'd asked.

It wasn't just my siblings. I didn't feel I was in competition with my friends, either. Sometimes I had the best grade or art project whatever else, and sometimes I didn't. That's how I expected life to work.

When another person got a part I'd wanted, I occasionally got angry at the director, but not at the person they cast. One director I worked with years ago was so deeply predictable in his casting that it got to the point that I could pick out from the group, before any of us had actually auditioned, who would be cast. He cast people he thought were beautiful. I did not qualify. That's the director's problem, not the beautiful people's problem.

Being a photographer was a big part of my sense of self from the time I was eight years old, and being a yearbook and newspaper photographer was a huge part of my high school identity. Still, my friends frequently asked to borrow the camera I brought to school every day. I let a couple of them borrow it on a regular basis. When one of their photos would be chosen for the yearbook, especially if someone complimented me on it, I'd say, "Scott took that one," or "That one's Ariane's." I was proud of having talented friends (and a nice camera), and glad we had a good variety of photos for the book. The other photographer and I couldn't be everywhere. The book was supposed to represent the whole school.

When I was a senior, Ariane took the camera to her science class, and got a great photo of the class python going straight up the side of the glass enclosure, while a student sat just inches away watching him. The yearbook advisor called me over when she saw it on the proof sheet (it's a film reference – either you're old enough to remember, or I can't explain it to you.) She assumed it was mine, and wanted details about when it was taken. "That's Ariane's," I told her. "Ask her. She'll know."

"I really want to enter this at Press Day. I think it would have a good chance of winning," the yearbook teacher said. Press Day was a competition for high school newspapers, held once a year at the local university. I'd entered things at Press Day, writing and photos, but never won. Press Day awards were the high school equivalent of a state title, and they were coveted.

In order to be entered at Press Day, the photo had to, of course, appear in the paper, and to appear in the paper, it had to be tied to an article. "What's going on in the science department?" the teacher quizzed us. "There has to be something we can write about!" Finally someone scrounged up something newsworthy, and the photo went into the paper, with Ariane's byline.

She was not nearly as excited about the photo being entered as the teacher and I were. "I'm not even a photographer!" she said.

"You took that photo, and it's good," I told her.

"But I'm not even on the newspaper staff!"

"Shut up. You don't have to be on the staff. You go here. That's all that matters."

The photo took first place in the photo category at Press Day. Our school hadn't won a first place for years, and the staff was giddy.

Later, someone asked me if I was angry or upset about it. "Why?" I wanted to know.

"Well, because you're a photographer, and you didn't win. She isn't even a photographer, and she did."

I can't even remember who asked me, but it was unwise. I was Ariane's biggest cheerleader, and defended her fiercely when I thought I needed to. Besides, aside from basking in her reflected glory, which I often did, there were so many ways I figured that this win was a great thing for me. I was Photo Editor of the paper, and we had the first place photo. Even better, my best friend took it, with my camera. Maybe it's self centeredness, but I thought the win had plenty to do with me. Even if it didn't, Ariane deserved it. I think I was at least as proud as her parents.

Would it have been great if it was my photo? Sure. But Ariane taking a great photo, or hundreds of great photos, didn't diminish my talent at all. It's not as if there's a finite amount, and in order to take a great picture she had to leach talent away from me.

My husband hates to go places alone, so we've frequently arranged for him to take a female friend with him when I can't go somewhere. He's taken some very beautiful women some great places. One of our friends was his "date" so frequently that she referred to herself as his "girlfriend." She still does, occasionally. I am not bothered. Neither is her husband.

So, I'm puzzled, really baffled, when I run across somebody who is deeply jealous. It makes no logical sense to me.

I've actually set the book with the whiny, jealous sibling down and picked up another novel. It was just too aggravating. I found myself wanting to smack this character once too often, so now I'm deep in a new Patricia Cornwell. I mean, sure, there's a psychotic killer, but you're supposed to dislike the villain.