An Ode to Olof

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published April 5, 2012] © 2012

My adult sons would disagree with me on many points but I think the one issue they wouldn’t dispute is that the best thing that ever happened to the three of us was my second husband, Olof.  This is not to discredit their  dad who has been a hugely active and loving participant in their lives (and with whom Olof has miraculously managed not to compete).   As for Mom, parenthood fortunately seems to be dissipating the kids’ litany of complaints regarding my performance. (For their complete list, email me specifying alphabetical or chronological.)  In my defense, I was a single working parent for twelve years from the time they were three and five.  Let me tell you:  it’s a tough gig.

Considering what a bad rep stepparents have, it is a paean to both Olof and to my ex’s second wife that the kids occasionally mused aloud that their ideal parents would be their two stepparents.  If only they could get rid of Mom and Dad!

This might suggest that the stepparents were pushovers.  Not so.  In fact, neither of them tolerated any grief from the kids and yet were adored.  It was a lesson that Mom and Dad, too busy competing with each other for children’s time and affection during those years, should have learned from. 

Olof (who commuted down from the Bay area for eight years before we married when the when the kids were in high school) would step off the plane on Friday nights carrying a single red rose for me.  On the way home one night, eight-year-old Henri’s voice piped up from the back seat.  “Mom, why does Olof only bring you one rose?  Why doesn’t he bring you a whole bunch?”  I turned to Henri and said, “Because sometimes less is more.”  Years later, at sixteen, when Henri first had a girlfriend, I happened to talk to her mother who said, “You have raised the most romantic young man!  Every time he comes to pick up my daughter, he brings her a single red rose.”  “Wow!” I said.  “What a great idea!”

Olof always managed to cut to the core of any issue with the kids.  I remember him clarifying the definition of manners to them as grade schoolers by explaining that “anything you do that feels natural is unmannerly.”  This they could understand.

He introduced a lexicon of Air Force and engineering jargon to the household, from “Tango Uniform” (it’s seriously broken), Z.B. (zero balance, meaning we were out of something), and the acquisition of new skills in terms of “capability.”  (One became “times table-capable,”  “laundry-capable,” “left turn-capable” etc.)  Every time we pulled into the driveway, Olof lead a chorus of “Cheated death again!”

When the kids were in college, Olof explained that our investment in their education meant that they needed to be prepared to support themselves when they were done, even if it meant double shifts flipping burgers.  (Having spent college summers cleaning toilets at the US Steel plant in Pittsburg, CA (union wages) and roofing in the East Bay’s brutal 100-degree heat, Olof was fairly impervious to complaints about labor.)  But as always, he gave financial emancipation a positive spin:  “Gentlemen,” he said (he always referred to them as gentlemen even when they were ten), “pay your own way and you’re free!  You’re out from under our thumbs forever!”  It was a concept greatly appealing to young men of their ages.    Neither of them has ever asked for a dime since the day they graduated.  Both now support families.

Mom and Dad were hardly crooks but Olof is truly the most honest and ethical man I have ever known.  Not a religious man, he just always does what he feels in his heart to be right, down to obeying traffic laws (annoyingly, he’s never had a single citation), pointing out errors in our favor on restaurant checks, and not so much as taking a pencil from the office.  (After I had to go to traffic school for a rolling stop, he affectionately referred to me as “the felon.”)   When Henri applied to MBA programs, he answered an essay question about how he’d handle ethical situations in his future business life by citing the incomparable benefit of Olof as a role model.   

In an era when stepparents get such bad press, I think it’s important to call out one who for twenty-five years has been revered by the stepees.   Olof, of course, would demur, insisting he simply treats them with respect (and love) and is treated with respect (and love) back. What I still can’t figure out is how he makes it look so easy.

**What My (Pathetic) Life Says About Me

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published March 22, 2012] © 2012

I'm always a sucker for those internet and magazine self-help articles on the theme of "What your car/phone/electronics/hair style/wardrobe says about you" or the 'How-To' pieces:  How to Land the Man of Your Dreams, How to Look Ten Pounds Thinner in One Day, or even How to Look Great Naked.

You know the ones.  Catchy copy breathlessly gushes:  "Your Audi screams fun and flirty!  You're a go-getting jet-setting trend setter yearning for the wanderlust lifestyle!  You were born to live on the other side of the pond.  In your ideal life, Fridays would find you on your way to a rendezvous with your Italian lover!" 

Now, as a regular reader of these articles, the one thing I've noticed is that they never seem to reference my particular car or phone or electronics.  I'm not sure why but it irritates me beyond belief.  I can only wonder, if they wrote about me, what would they say? 

What Your Car Says About You:  Your 2005 Toyota Corolla fairly screams Cheap Car!  But the fact that this one actually has automatic windows says it is a huge step up from your Jetta.  You were truly born without the car gene!  Still, this is the first car you've ever owned that your husband doesn't tell people belongs to the cleaning lady.  Next time, go wild and crazy and get a Prius!

What Your Cell Phone Says About You:  Like your car, it's says Cheap!  Insanely cheap!  It doesn't even have a camera!  The fact that it is a pre-paid minutes phone means it doesn't have internet either!  It also fairly shouts, "I have no idea how to text!  In fact, I'm not totally sure how to answer it!"  When your two-year-old granddaughter watches Yo Gabba Gabba on her iPhone, which she can operate herself, you ask, "What's that thing called?"

How to Look Ten Pounds Thinner in One Day:  Photoshop, Baby!  Heck, go for fifty!

What Your Wardrobe Says About You:  You have a wardrobe?  Did you age out of contention for "What Not To Wear"?  Giving away the iron ten years ago was a great feminist statement:  you're not about to wear anything that isn't wash and wear.  But eventually even wash and wear wears out!  Yes, it really does!  Are you going for Bag Lady Chic?

How to Land the Man of Your Dreams:  Actually, he's already flopping on the dock.  (Love you, Olof!)

What Your House Plants Say About You:    Is it any accident you only have five house plants left?  And they're on probation?  Your philosophy is:  How expensive is a friggin' golden pothos anyway?   If it needs watering more than once a week, it's not happening at your house.  Survival of the fittest!  You've spent your entire adult life taking care of kids, husbands, pets and plants.  Can't let the first three crump (however tempting) but the second the horticulturals make a single demand, they're compost!  Enough already!

How to Look Great Naked:  Short of losing sixty pounds and being reincarnated as a supermodel, there is no way on God's green earth that you are going to look great naked!  Or even OK naked!  That ship has like totally sailed!  Or in your case sunk!  Sorry, Inga, that article was intended for people for whom there is actually hope!  Can't believe you even read it!  The link you were looking for was:  "How to make sure people never see you naked."

OK, I think I'm officially sorry I asked.

*Wishing There Were a Cure for Doctor Worship

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published March 8, 2012]  © 2012

Given the number of doctors in La Jolla, it’s probably not surprising that I would count among my friends a certain number of fellow ex-wives of physicians.  Virtually all of us have remarried (as have our former spouses) and I’m happy to say that despite early rancor, we all have good relationships with them now. 

 At a recent lunch, we were reflecting on our lives when we first divorced.  Overnight his status as a single doctor soared while ours as single mothers tanked to reptilian levels.  But what irked us more than anything was what the exes could get away with that we couldn’t.  We were up against some serious doctor worship.

 After my physician husband and I divorced, I went back into the workplace in an entry level job and with a custody schedule written in stone.  My ex solved the problem of soccer practice on his custody day by charming the female soccer coach – whom he didn’t know from Adam – into taking our son home with her after practice and keeping him until the child could be picked up.  She was glad to do it, she told me reverently.  “He’s a busy doctor, you know.”  

 When the ex brought the kids to a birthday party in mis-matched clothes, jam on their faces, rumpled hair, and bedroom slippers, the other moms all thought it was adorable.  If I’d done that, there would have been anonymous calls to Social Services. 

 Even the school perennially suffered from what I could only refer to as felony physician fawning.  Our divorce decree had stipulated that if the kids were sick on Monday, Thursday, or Friday, it was my problem.  Since Tuesday night was the ex’s weekday custody night, Tuesday and Wednesdays were his days to make arrangements. 

 Like that ever happened.

 One long ago Monday in December, I called the ex and alerted him that the kids had been home with temperatures of 103 and obviously wouldn’t be able to go to school the next day.  He says OK.  The next morning he comes to get them.  At 10 a.m. I get a call at work from the school’s office staff.  They’re not happy.

“Your children are much too sick to be in school today.”

 Inga (puzzled):  “I know.  That’s why I called them in absent this morning.”

“But they’re standing right here.”

“They can’t be."

“They are.  Do you want to talk to them?”

Inga:  “No, but I’d love to talk to their father, whom you’re supposed to call on Tuesdays and Wednesdays per the instructions we gave.”

“We already did, but his office says he’s unavailable.”  (Pause for moment of unctuous deification.)  “He is a doctor, you know.”

Inga (drily):  “Yes, I’ve seen the diploma.  I’ll call you right back.”

Ex’s answering service:  “I’m sorry, but Doctor is teaching this morning and left strict instructions not to be disturbed.” 

Inga:  (Did they think they were dealing with an amateur?)   “Tell ‘Doctor’ to get on the phone right now or I’ll be over in five minutes to blow up his frigging office.”

Seconds later: 

 Ex:   “Hi Inga.  My answering service said a distraught psychiatric patient was on the line and that I might need to evacuate the building.  So I knew it had to be you.”

 Inga:  “You took the kids to school!”

 Ex:   “Well, once I got them in the car, they didn’t look that sick to me.”
 

Inga:   “The perception of illness in a family member has never been within your visual or auditory capabilities.  I pumped them full of Tylenol an hour before you came but they’re still really sick.”

 Ex:   “Gee, this is a problem.  I’m teaching all day.  

Inga (still a little bitter at this stage:)  "Why don't you call one of your horde of hussies?"

Ex (offended):  "They are not hussies."  (Sniffs:)  "They have lives too, you know." 

Inga:  "What?  Making tassels for their costumes?  We are under deadline to submit a huge grant proposal today.  I can't take the day off."

Ex:  "If you could just help me out today, I promise I’ll never do this to you again.”

 Inga:  “Except that this is already the fourth time!”

 Ex:   “Oops, gotta go!  You’re the best!  Bye!”

 (School again:)  “Henri just threw up on the office floor.  These children really need to go home.  Oh, and they’re crying.”

 As I picked them up from school a short time later, the secretary enthused, “It must be wonderful for the children to have a doctor for a father.  Especially when they’re sick.”

 “Yup,” I said, “I couldn’t be more grateful.”

*Contending With The Cookie Monster

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published Feb. 23, 2012]  © 2012

The new year has always been a struggle, grappling with all the avoirdupois I packed on during the holidays.  But now, in a cruel twist of fate, Girl Scout cookies are showing up in January. 

IS THIS A PLOT????

It used to be that hordes of badgey-vested cuties would come around in January and take orders for cookies to be delivered in March. You didn’t mind ordering a box from each of them because the Girl Scouts are a good cause, and besides, you were sure you would have lost all that holiday heft by then and a box of Girl Scout cookies would be a nice reward. Just one. The rest, you promised yourself, you’d send to the kids.  Not, of course, that you ever did.

When the first Girl Scout showed up at my house on January 24, I started to give her my usual order – a box of Thin Mints (like there are actually any other kind) - when I noticed the red wagon behind her loaded with cookies.  At first I thought these were just the samples.  But no, the child’s mother explained, now you get to take possession on the spot.

I don’t think the Girl Scouts have thought this through.  Yeah, I know you can opt to send the cookies to our service personnel abroad so it’s not as though you’re required to oink out on them yourself.   But it has just thrown off my whole system:   Order now, repent later.

I would like to take this opportunity to say that I have not always suffered from embonpoint.  (The French have so many great words for fat.)  Prior to my divorce, I was always a size four, which in today’s deflationary weight currency is a size two or even a zero.  (Frankly, I think size zero should be what you are after you’ve been dead a while.)   Unfortunately, I put on forty pounds eating the Post-Divorce Depression Diet (sample dinner: three Mrs. Fields cookies, half bottle Chablis).  I still think of myself as temporarily overweight, that this extra adipose is a mere blimp, er, blip in an otherwise svelte life.  So you can imagine how shocked I was recently to realize that the divorce was twenty-nine years ago. 

If I were to be completely honest, I would have to admit that in my case, chocolate has been a serious life-long addiction.  I have no doubt that at my funeral, the many massively unflattering chocolate-related stories about me will be recounted by my husband and children.  I keep meaning to write up my own versions and attach them to my will so that people will understand that there were extenuating circumstances.  That leaping upon my startled ten-year-old and shoving my fist half way down his esophagus to retrieve my Mrs. Field’s cookie was a reasonable act.

You just don’t take someone else’s cookie.  Especially after you have already had your own designated cookie and the other party, an overstressed single mother, has been saving hers all evening on a little plate to have as a reward after all her chores are done.  And how the other party was finally ready to enjoy her cookie only to discover an empty plate and the last vestiges of  her well-deserved treat (and marginal sanity) disappearing into the mouth of someone sitting on the sofa watching TV. But I’m sure my son will never mention all that.  He will just tell how, as my fist was entering his intestinal tract, I was screaming “GIVE ME THE &*%$## COOKIE!!!!!!”  I really must get my own versions out there while there’s still time, although frankly, I’m not sure even I can save that story.

Sadly, Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies have a similar effect on me as Mrs. Field’s.  I open a sleeve and it disappears into thin (mint) air right before my eyes.   Last year during Girl Scout cookie season, I awoke one morning to find a note on the counter from Olof:  “Inga – Rats have gotten into the Girl Scout cookies again.  Better call Pest Control or there aren’t going to be any left for you!” 

Well, probably the only saving grace about Girl Scout cookies coming out in January is that I can now have the illusion that I will lose all the holiday heaviness AND my cookie chunké before Easter when all those wonderful Cadbury eggs and chocolate bunnies fairly shout out my name.  I just wish they would lower the decibels.

Not In My Front Yard

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published Feb. 9, 2012]   © 2012

Over the years, my neighborhood has waged a personal war against RVs.  Boats, trailers, and campers tend to not be our favorite vehicles either. 

I don’t think there is a person on my block, including me, who isn’t totally in favor of recreational vehicle ownership.  We truly want you to have fun.  But we also truly want you to store this vehicle somewhere other than in front of our homes. 

This sounds very elitist, I know.  In fact, my older son Rory, a clinical social worker who heads up a VA program for homeless vets, thinks we all lack sufficient compassion for the poor.

“Rory,” I said, “If you can buy one of these pricey vehicles, you do not qualify as poor.” I pointed out to him that no one has ever abandoned their brand new shiny RV in front of my house for months at a time.  That’s because people with nice RVs pay for someplace to store it.  But people with decrepit RVs seem to be attracted like magnets to our block.

 The problem is, RVs beget RVs.  (And campers and trailers.)  As soon as one shows up, word seems to spread telepathically to other RV owners who conclude, “Oh, this must be a friendly place to park RVs!”  Pretty soon, our street looks like Camp Land West. 

 At various times, the neighborhood population has doubled with camper shell residents, whom, I had to agree with Rory, might well be homeless.   One time a woman came to door asking if Tony might have told us where he was going.

 “Tony?” we said.

 “He was living in the green camper across the street from your house for the last few months and suddenly he’s gone.  He’s my boyfriend but I think he may have gone to Vegas with another woman.  I just wondered if he said anything to you before he left.”

 “Houston,” said Olof to me at the time, “we have a problem.” 

 But most of the time, the issue is not people living in vehicles but long-term storage.   Technically, this problem should have been resolved with the advent of San Diego Municipal Code §86.09.06:  Vehicles cannot be parked or stored on a public street in excess of seventy-two hours without being moved at least one-tenth of a mile. What they should have added was:  “…and may not return to that spot for five years.” 

 Even after parking enforcement finally gets out there to chalk-mark the vehicle’s place on the street, some RV owners will drive it around the block (a tenth of a mile) and park it eight feet from its original location. 

 We in the neighborhood refer to this San Diego Municipal Code §86.09.07: the Neener Clause. 

 Now, I’ve always preferred cordial human contact in conflict resolution wherever possible.  In the many conversations I’ve had over the years with RV, boat, and trailer owners, the two reasons they all cite as to why they are parking at my house are these:

 (1) They don’t want to use up their own home or business parking.

(2) Their neighbors have complained that the vehicle is an eyesore.

 Amazingly, they cite these reasons totally straight-faced.  I usually just stand there for a minute  hoping against hope for the “Aha!” moment.  “Oh, I get it!  You don’t want my eyesore vehicle taking up your parking either!” In my fantasy, he jumps in his RV and drives off with a jaunty wave and a “I’ve seen the light!  It’ll never happen again!” 

 But that’s not how it goes.  After a period of silence, I am forced to point out as graciously as I can that a thirty-foot long RV parked in front of my house makes backing out of my driveway an absolute hazard, that we can’t park in front of own house while it’s there, and that we are hoping for a change of scenery from our living room window from this behemoth of a vehicle. 

 Sometimes this works.  Sometimes it doesn’t.  One decrepit RV owner persisted in hanging around for a year, citing inalienable rights.  Determined to thwart the system, he moved his RV precisely every seventy-one hours and fifty-eight minutes in a one hundred yard circuit.  Some months later, Ugly RV’s Clueless Owner approached me and said, “Would you believe, people are vandalizing my RV! You’re the only nice person on this block!” 

 Since I’d long since asked him nicely to move this vehicle back to his nearby business, it was all I could do not to say “Actually, I’m just curbing my overwhelming urge to put plastique in your tailpipe.  I’ve just been hoping that if I take the high road, you will too.  And by high road, I mean that you will take this vehicle on a road, any road, that is not in our neighborhood.”

 Hope, for some inexplicable reason, springs eternal. 

RV owner stores his vehicle in front of our house hoping we won’t notice.

Beware, Oh Beware Of What You Wish For

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published January 26, 2012]  © 2012

I couldn’t help but notice that Olof and I seem to have completely switched roles from our first marriages. 

 In Olof’s first marriage, his one misgiving about his wife is that she came from a background where communication was never done directly.  Trying to figure out what she wanted always felt like a jigsaw puzzle to which he seemed to be perpetually missing the edge pieces, and the big flower piece in the middle as well.  Over time, he learned to read cues, pick up on nuances, and fine tune his intuitive skills. 

 After they divorced, he told himself that if he ever married again it would be with someone with more direct communication skills.

 Come back wife with poor communication skills. All is forgiven.

 Olof, who is never ever mean, has occasionally suggested in the nicest possible way that he has not a single teeny weeny doubt about how I ever feel about anything, including and especially about him. 

 Fortunately, 99% of what I feel about him is hugely positive.  He’s just the funniest, kindest, most generous guy you can imagine.   It’s his insane death-defying work hours that keep him from a 100% approval rating.  “Olof,” I keep saying, “No one our age, which is to say, your age, can work the hours you do and hope to live to retirement.”  He does seem slow to get this message. 

 Olof, for his part, says that it is too frightening to imagine that I was considered the neat one in my former marriage.  And equally incomprehensible to imagine me as the quieter one.  I don’t want to start any fights with my former husband who lives locally and with whom I get along well.  But my ex could be a taddy bit directive (and by his own admission, a total slob, although he preferred the word “casual”); he genuinely wanted to help me realize my potential.  Olof, on the other hand, has always assumed I was as good as I was ever going to get. 

 In Olof’s and my marriage, ironically, I’m usually the one trying to figure what Olof is thinking.  He will never offer an opinion about anything personal unless asked.  Nay, begged.  No, implored.  He’s never said so but I think from his viewpoint, offering solicited or unsolicited opinions about any aspect of a wife is a mine field to be avoided at all costs.  He can visualize the grenades imploding on the serenity of his personal life, the conflagration of hard-earned husband points, even though I maintain I am never ever vindictive. (Well, not towards him, anyway.) 

 He, the former communicative one, confesses he has a hard time seeing himself as the less communicative one.  And as for me being the “neat” one in my former marriage, he says if he were our former cleaning lady, he would have shot himself. (The kids sometimes try to maintain that they grew up in poverty.  Olof demurs, adding, “but you did grow up in squalor.”)

 I have endlessly tried to assure him that I wouldn’t ask his opinion if I didn’t really want to hear it.  I value his opinion more than anyone’s so if I ask him if I screwed up in a certain situation I genuinely want to know his view.  Even if it is totally wrong.   Even if any sane individual could see that I was right and the other party was an irrational numnut. 

 Olof denies it, but there are times I could swear I hear him muttering under his breath: “Beware of what you wish for.” 

Yes, You ARE Contagious!

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published January 12, 2012] © 2012

We’re all familiar with the common fibs people tell – “It’s in the mail,”  “I only had one,” and “No, I haven’t had a face lift, I’m just really relaxed.”  But this time of year, the one that really gets me is “I’m not contagious.”   The speaker invariably has a hacking cough reminiscent of Greta Garbo dying of consumption in the last scenes of Camille. 


Let me say up front that I am hardly a germaphobe.   (One look at my house would convince you.)  But some of the worst illnesses I’ve ever caught have been from people who “weren’t contagious.”  Fortunately, neither Olof nor I get sick all that often but when we do, we tend to get afflictions that take up residence in our obviously weak lungs and refuse to be evicted. So we do our best to avoid them.

There are no lack of virulent organisms floating around this time of year.  Everything you touch is a source of some pathogen (including and especially the keypad at your local pharmacy) but other than washing your hands a lot, you just have to hope your immune system is up to the challenge.  But why dare it by inviting plague into your house? 

Several weeks ago, some friends we hadn’t seen in a long time arrived for dinner, the husband recently returned from a trip through what I call the ebola airline hubs in Europe where the world’s grodiest germs have a chance to mix and match.  The first thing I noticed was that he was exhibiting the Green Snot Sign.  There are few microbes I hate more than green snot microbes which from my personal experience are pernicious and have a door knob life span of decades.  Further, the Manual of Mom Medicine, paragraph six, article two, clearly states that yellow snot is your standard basic cold but green snot requires antibiotics.  As if on cue, our guest croaked from his severely laryngitic throat that he had started antibiotics approximately five seconds before so not to worry, he was “not contagious.” 

I immediately considered letting this guy eat alone out on our uncovered patio in the rain where his illness might progress to pneumonia to which he would hopefully succumb before I had to let him back in.  Olof, a frequent business traveler, has come back from those same airports with some seriously nasty stuff. (Green snot from an ebola airport probably IS ebola.)   But I was overruled by my kinder gentler Other Half, who thinks it’s not polite to be mean to people one has invited over even if they are attempting to kill us. 

Our guest not only coughed and sneezed pretty much non-stop but kept repeating, probably in response to my cringing looks every time he blew Snot Verde across my dinner table, that his doctor told him that once he started taking antibiotics he wasn’t contagious.  He said they’d thought of cancelling but didn’t want to disappoint us.

Please.  Disappoint us.

Let me just say I have no medical background whatsoever, other than having been previously married to a physician, including the medical school years, which makes me among the most medically dangerous people on the planet.  But I would still like to officially challenge every law of contagion ever put out there.  According to the Dr. Inga School of Unsubstantiated Medical Facts, if you are even remotely sick, you are contagious.    So when you say “my doctor says I’m not contagious” (like I believe you, or him), I think it’s only fair to ask for his or her number because I think he or she ought to be willing to treat me for free when I get sick from you.  I’d also like affidavits of non-contagability, lab results not more than two hours old indicating the absence of a single shedding rhinovirus, recent articles from The New England Journal citing conclusive evidence that contagiousness can even be quantified, and a Hazmat suit for the guest (and maybe even the host) to wear.  Let no one say I am unreasonable.

But meanwhile, while the flu season lasts, I’m hoping you’ll give me a head(cold)'s up.  My aging immune system thanks you.