Love Is A Mix Tape Part 4

I come from a long line of dish-washing men. When I was a little kid, I was amazed at the energy my grandfather had for washing dishes. My mom always told me, "He does it for the peace." I didn't understand until I was grown-up and a husband myself, when it made perfect sense. I found I had joined a club, a tribe extending backward through the centuries, mild-mannered Irish men married to loud, tempestuous Irish women. Sometimes, the only way to escape is to turn on a couple of jets of extremely loud water and disappear into the sound for a few hours. Sometimes, when Renee and I were fighting, I would wash dishes that weren't even dirty, just to create a little noise.

Renee and I were surprised at all the drama we had to deal with, just living together in our tiny room. For one thing, we always argued about the telephone. I'm not much of a phone person. I always vowed if I ever met a woman who ignored a ringing phone for me, she was the one. But of course, this never happened, and I fell for a woman who would have dropped a scalpel into my spleen in the middle of performing open-heart surgery on me to grab the phone. You know the Prince song where the girl's phone rings but she tells him, "Whoever's calling couldn't be as cute as you?" I long to live out this moment in real life. But I doubt it ever happened to Prince either. I bet even Apollonia got the phone.

Neither of us was a skilled fighter. My ancestors were neither warriors nor kings. I am descended from generations of peace-loving shepherds who tended their flocks in the hills of Kealduve and never killed anybody. Their strength was in their patience. Growing up I never got into fights because I never wanted to disgrace my ancestors-G.o.d knows they knew how to disgrace themselves, and fair play to them. But they lived in the gra.s.sy fields, so when the house was full of ugly emotions they could step outside, smoke a pipe, kick a sheep or something, and let the air clear. Renee and I did not have a farm, or even walls in our apartment, so we had to do our fighting in the same room where we had to sleep and eat, and that's no good. Her temper was a zero-to-sixty machine. We were pretty good at keeping the two-minute fights from escalating into three-minute fights. The problem was keeping the three-minute fights from turning into eight-hour fights. When the air in the house got toxic, I would go out into the driveway and sit in the car and read, waiting for the smoke to clear.

One Sat.u.r.day afternoon, I got tired of the driveway, so I said, f.u.c.k this, and drove to the parking lot at the Barracks Road Shopping Center, got a cup of coffee, and locked myself in with a book. I sat there all day, reading Sh.e.l.ley's The Witch of Atlas The Witch of Atlas, hoping for the bad blood in my head to simmer down. When the sun went down, I still wasn't ready to go home, so I cracked the door to turn on the inside light for as long as I could stand the cold. After that, I turned on the engine and sat there with it running and tried to keep reading. I turned on the radio and heard an old 1970s. .h.i.t I have loathed since my childhood: "Hitchin' a Ride" by Vanity Fare. I hate this song. The singer chirps about how he's stuck on the side of the road, hitchin' a ride, since his girl threw him out. "Ride, ride, ride. Hitchin' a ride." There's a flute solo. I sat there huddling in the cold, breathing out steam, fuming, I hate this song. Then I drove home. A couple of nights later, Renee asked, "Where did you take the car the other day?" I told her. She laughed at me.

Stupid s.h.i.t we used to fight about: The Telephone: Would she stop to answer the phone in the middle of a fight about the phone? Yes, she would. This definitely proved one of us right, but I'm not sure which one. Would she stop to answer the phone in the middle of a fight about the phone? Yes, she would. This definitely proved one of us right, but I'm not sure which one.

Money: One of us was a scrimp-and-saver, the other was a big spender. Neither of us was what is known as an "earner." One of us was a scrimp-and-saver, the other was a big spender. Neither of us was what is known as an "earner."

Reproduction: We were programmed very differently about this one, in terms of our ancestry and culture. She was into the idea of having babies fast; I wasn't. Three or four times a year we would have a conversation about this, which would usually begin as a whimsical anecdote about a college friend's baby or a pregnant relative, and suddenly turn into the last twenty minutes of We were programmed very differently about this one, in terms of our ancestry and culture. She was into the idea of having babies fast; I wasn't. Three or four times a year we would have a conversation about this, which would usually begin as a whimsical anecdote about a college friend's baby or a pregnant relative, and suddenly turn into the last twenty minutes of The Wild Bunch The Wild Bunch. Why didn't we discuss this before before we got married? I don't know. We just didn't. Renee had this excellent country-girl pal at her mall job named Tiffany, who quit to have a baby and go on welfare. When she brought her baby to the mall to show everybody, Tiffany asked Renee how come she didn't have a baby yet. Renee said something about saving up. Tiffany said, "Aw, hon, the money always comes from somewhere!" The weird part is, not only did we both love this story, we each felt it proved us right. Strange! But true! we got married? I don't know. We just didn't. Renee had this excellent country-girl pal at her mall job named Tiffany, who quit to have a baby and go on welfare. When she brought her baby to the mall to show everybody, Tiffany asked Renee how come she didn't have a baby yet. Renee said something about saving up. Tiffany said, "Aw, hon, the money always comes from somewhere!" The weird part is, not only did we both love this story, we each felt it proved us right. Strange! But true!

The Word "Repulse": I I hate hate this word. I believe "repel" is a perfectly good word, and "repulsion" is the noun, as well as the t.i.tle of an excellent Dinosaur Jr. song. A compulsion compels you; an impulse impels you. n.o.body ever says "compulse" or "impulse" as a verb. So why would you ever say "repulse"? This word haunts me in my sleep, like a silver dagger dancing before my eyes. Renee looked it up and I was wrong. But I still kind of think I'm right. this word. I believe "repel" is a perfectly good word, and "repulsion" is the noun, as well as the t.i.tle of an excellent Dinosaur Jr. song. A compulsion compels you; an impulse impels you. n.o.body ever says "compulse" or "impulse" as a verb. So why would you ever say "repulse"? This word haunts me in my sleep, like a silver dagger dancing before my eyes. Renee looked it up and I was wrong. But I still kind of think I'm right.

The Word "Utilize": Even worse. Even worse.

Figure Skating: She won this one. I'm glad she did. Figure skating saved us. No matter how bad a mood Renee was in, those twirls and axels melted her b.u.t.ter. Figure skaters were always on TV somewhere. Ice dancers were the best: brooding Slav castrati dudes with tree-trunk thighs, packed into a glittery fistful of L'Eggs, twirling feminine whisks named Natasha or Alexandra, enacting the legend of Orpheus and Eurydice to the orchestral strains of "Loving on Borrowed Time: Love Theme from She won this one. I'm glad she did. Figure skating saved us. No matter how bad a mood Renee was in, those twirls and axels melted her b.u.t.ter. Figure skaters were always on TV somewhere. Ice dancers were the best: brooding Slav castrati dudes with tree-trunk thighs, packed into a glittery fistful of L'Eggs, twirling feminine whisks named Natasha or Alexandra, enacting the legend of Orpheus and Eurydice to the orchestral strains of "Loving on Borrowed Time: Love Theme from Cobra Cobra." How did married people stay together before this s.h.i.t was invented? I honestly have no idea. Renee drooled over Paul Wiley (the clean-cut American), Victor Petrenko (the ruthless Russian), Kurt Browning (the burly Canadian), and good old Scott Hamilton. That guy's enduring success as a s.e.x symbol is the sort of thing that makes me wipe tears of joy from my eyes and proclaim, "Thumbs up, America!" For me, the ladies all dissolved into a blur of vowels and poofy skirts, except Katarina Witt. That girl had an a.s.s on her. The Cutting Edge The Cutting Edge-I don't see why this isn't the most famous movie ever made. Moira Kelly as the skate princess! Brrrrrr-she's cold as ice! She's willing to sacrifice her love! D.B. Sweeney as the hockey stud! "I do two things well, babe-and skating's the other one." Can they win the medal and triple-lutz their way to love? (Of course course they can! Pay attention!) For Renee, this flick was liquid Vicodin. We watched it several thousand times. I can still recite the whole thing from memory. "In case you can'ttell . . . I'm throwing myself at you!" they can! Pay attention!) For Renee, this flick was liquid Vicodin. We watched it several thousand times. I can still recite the whole thing from memory. "In case you can'ttell . . . I'm throwing myself at you!"

TV in General: We both loved We both loved The Banana Splits The Banana Splits and MTV. We disagreed about everything else. As far as I was concerned, TV had been c.r.a.p ever since Freddie Prinze died. But we did our best to appreciate each other's tastes-she got me into and MTV. We disagreed about everything else. As far as I was concerned, TV had been c.r.a.p ever since Freddie Prinze died. But we did our best to appreciate each other's tastes-she got me into The Andy Griffith Show The Andy Griffith Show, I got her into Sanford and Son Sanford and Son. My preferred method of avoiding her shows was just to go into the kitchen and do dishes, turning the water up loud whenever Renee got hooked on a show that involved doctors, lawyers, a small town full of lovable eccentrics, or Kirstie Alley.

Getting a Dog: She won this one easily, as I've already mentioned; I thought my graceful surrender would win me a concession or two down the line. I was wrong. Renee saw the dog not as a personal victory for her, but as a huge favor she was doing me by teaching me the joys of being p.i.s.sed on by an animal. This is just one of the adorable quirks of the dog, the best friend G.o.d ever gave humanity in this crazy little world. Thanks, G.o.d! She won this one easily, as I've already mentioned; I thought my graceful surrender would win me a concession or two down the line. I was wrong. Renee saw the dog not as a personal victory for her, but as a huge favor she was doing me by teaching me the joys of being p.i.s.sed on by an animal. This is just one of the adorable quirks of the dog, the best friend G.o.d ever gave humanity in this crazy little world. Thanks, G.o.d!

The Air-conditioning Commercial: You know this one. It comes back every spring, like the gypsy moth caterpillar. The husband and wife sit sweating at the kitchen table. She says, "Honeeeeeey, why don't we have aaaaaair-conditioning?" He says, "I'll call tomorrow." She says, "You'll call today?" He smiles and says, "I'll call today." Then he's on the phone, giving her a hearty thumbs-up, while Renee sits frozen, knuckles white on the remote, and asks, "I'm not like You know this one. It comes back every spring, like the gypsy moth caterpillar. The husband and wife sit sweating at the kitchen table. She says, "Honeeeeeey, why don't we have aaaaaair-conditioning?" He says, "I'll call tomorrow." She says, "You'll call today?" He smiles and says, "I'll call today." Then he's on the phone, giving her a hearty thumbs-up, while Renee sits frozen, knuckles white on the remote, and asks, "I'm not like her her, am I?" This question is like the cowboy in Mulholland Drive Mulholland Drive, who you see again one time if you do good and two times if you do bad. Answer the question wisely, and you won't have to hear it again for another year. Try to give a clever answer, and you have bigger immediate problems than the humidity index.

The Cure's "Let's Go to Bed": Similar to the above, but when she gets depressed and asks, "Honey, is this song about us?" the strategic answer is, "Yes, but so is 'Just Like Heaven.'" Similar to the above, but when she gets depressed and asks, "Honey, is this song about us?" the strategic answer is, "Yes, but so is 'Just Like Heaven.'"

Fighting: As with most couples, probably, most of our fights were not As with most couples, probably, most of our fights were not about about anything, but rather about fighting itself. We negotiated the rules, slowly, stupidly, over time. The word "sulk" got banned early on, in the summer of 1990. "Pout" was soon to follow. "Don't start" was banned in the fall of 1992. "What is that supposed to mean?" got banned, reinstated, and banned again. "Not that again" took a few years to go on the index. "What are you thinking?" never did get banned, despite my intense lobbying efforts. anything, but rather about fighting itself. We negotiated the rules, slowly, stupidly, over time. The word "sulk" got banned early on, in the summer of 1990. "Pout" was soon to follow. "Don't start" was banned in the fall of 1992. "What is that supposed to mean?" got banned, reinstated, and banned again. "Not that again" took a few years to go on the index. "What are you thinking?" never did get banned, despite my intense lobbying efforts.

Whenever we had a fight, I could never get to sleep, so after it was over I got up, moved to the couch, fixed a sandwich, and watched TV with the sound down. One night I watched this intense Bette Davis movie, I could never get to sleep, so after it was over I got up, moved to the couch, fixed a sandwich, and watched TV with the sound down. One night I watched this intense Bette Davis movie, A Stolen Life A Stolen Life. Even without sound, I could still follow the basic gist. There are twin Bette Davises, a good twin and an evil twin. Both are in love with Glenn Ford. They're in a boat; it's stormy; the boat capsizes. The good twin sinks under the waves and desperately reaches out her hand. The evil twin reaches down, but instead of grasping the hand, she just slides the wedding ring right off her sister's finger. d.a.m.n. That's cold-blooded, Bette Davis. Back in town, she pretends to be the good twin and gets to have post-shipwreck s.e.x with Glenn Ford. I fell asleep, so I never found out if she got caught. After Renee died, I kept meaning to go back and watch it with the sound on, but I never did.

One night, after some fight I'd thought we'd both forgotten, Renee woke up trembling and cold. She gave me very detailed instructions about what she needed. I was to get up, go into the kitchen, open up her stash of pizza dough, and make her a pizza. This would take half an hour or so. I asked if she'd be okay by herself for that long and she promised she would call me if she couldn't make it. She was shaking. I got up and went to the kitchen.

When the pizza was done, I carried it back to bed and we ate it. Renee told me the whole time she was alone in bed, she sang a song over and over to comfort herself. She sang: "The only one who could ever reach me, was the Makin'-the-Pizza Man."

dancing with myself

AUGUST 1993.

One day we were at the Barracks Road Shopping Center when Renee called me over to the cosmetics aisle. We stared at a brightly colored plastic tube dangling from a hook. It was our first encounter with Grunge Gunk or, as it proclaimed itself on the label, "The Alternative Hair Styling Mud!" Of course we took it home ($1.75) and Renee nailed it up on the bathroom door. Barracks Road Shopping Center when Renee called me over to the cosmetics aisle. We stared at a brightly colored plastic tube dangling from a hook. It was our first encounter with Grunge Gunk or, as it proclaimed itself on the label, "The Alternative Hair Styling Mud!" Of course we took it home ($1.75) and Renee nailed it up on the bathroom door.

It was a Grunge Gunk kind of summer.

As Lionel Richie once warned us, there comes a time when we heed a certain call. For us, that time was the summer of 1993. Our first redhead summer smelled like hair dye and nail polish. Renee had only been a redhead for a few months, but she was already burying her brunette past, and the apartment filled up with cosmetic fumes. Renee had a new job at the Fashion Square Mall, working as the Clarins girl at the Leggett makeup counter. At work, she became instant best friends with the Clinique girl, Susan, a Waynesboro muscle-car aficionado. She was fond of dispensing wisdom along the lines of: "The bulls.h.i.t stops when the green light pops!" I'd go to the mall to pick up Renee, take them both a couple of coffees, and hang out while they chattered in their hot white coats. Susan would take Renee to hot-rod shows and run-what-ya-brung drag races. She brought out sides of Renee I'd never gotten to see before, and it was a sight to behold. After a night out with Susan, Renee would always come back saying things like, "If it's got t.i.ts or tires, it's gonna cost you money."

That year, the music we loved had blown up nationwide. It was a little ridiculous how formerly underground guitar rock was crashing through the boundaries. More guitar bands than ever were making noise, and more of them than ever were worth hearing. The first sign of the apocalypse had come during the Winter Olympics when Kristi Yamaguchi, America's gold-medal ice queen, was doing her free-form routine to Edith Piaf's "Milord," and TV announcer d.i.c.k b.u.t.tons said that Kristi psyched herself up backstage by listening to her favorite band, Nirvana, on her Walkman. Renee and I just stared at each other. For her, it was an epiphanic moment-punk rock was now music that even figure-skater girls could listen to. The door was open. Our turn had arrived. Here we are now. Entertain us.

Now we lived in a world of Grunge Gunk, where the bands we loved had a chance to get popular, or half-popular, or at least popular enough to get to keep making music, which is all most of them asked for. One night, before a special Seattle episode of Cops Cops, the announcer said, "Tonight . . . in the city that gave us Pearl Jam . . . the cops are taking out the grunge!" Pathetic? Depressing? No. Awesome, we decided. Why not? We were easily amused. Maybe it was all the nail-polish fumes, but we were buzzing with energy. Our apartment flooded, so we just moved to the couch. For dinner, we cut across the train tracks to Wayside's Fried Chicken. On weekends, Renee and I drove out to the Fork Union drive-in to see cinematic masterpieces like The Crush The Crush and and Sliver Sliver. MTV spent the whole summer blasting the video where Snoop Doggy Dogg wore his "LBC" baseball hat. Renee asked, "Snoop went to Liberty Baptist College?"

We both had raging crushes, which we loved to dish about together. Our big summer crushes were a couple of rookie grad students in the English department, named River and Sherilyn after the movie stars they reminded us of. Thank G.o.d neither of us was the jealous type, or the insecure type, or for that matter the cheatin' type, since sharing our crushes was one of the major perks of being married. Renee would catalogue my crushes. There was Ba.s.sist Cleavage Girl (from the Luscious Jackson videos), Tremble-Mouth Girl (Winona Ryder), Mick Jagger Elastica Girl (Angelina Jolie in Hackers Hackers), Painted on a World War II Bomber Girl (Jennifer Connelly), My Eyes Are So Big You Could f.u.c.k Them Girl (Susanna Hoffs), and Madonna (Madonna). She introduced me to her own seraglio, from the Braves' Javy Lopez ("He sure is put together nice") to Evan Dando ("He must get more cookie than the Keebler elves").

At first, being married made me feel older, but that summer it made me feel younger, just because I had a wife I could count on to make friends for me. Her girlfriends became my girlfriends. I didn't have to do the work of scrounging my own social life because Renee pimped me out. She took me to parties and sent me to circulate among her crushes and pump them for information. At every party we went to, we'd split up at the door and work separate sides of the room. We had the system down: I was to check on her every forty minutes or so, touch her arm, ask if she needed a drink, and then she'd go back to work. On the way home, we'd ask each other, "What did he/she say about me?" River and Sherilyn came to our Fourth of July party, and it turned out Sherilyn was kind of a pyro, so she brought fireworks to set off in the citronella torches. We made mint juleps and had a blast. Renee got a wax burn while blowing out the torches and kept the scar the rest of the summer.

Every party that summer ended the same way: One of the girls would put on Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville Exile in Guyville and all the girls would gather on the back porch and sing along with the whole alb.u.m, word for word, while the boys stood around in the kitchen and listened. It was scary, like the summer after sixth grade, when the girls back home would gather on the stoop and do the same thing, except they were singing along to the and all the girls would gather on the back porch and sing along with the whole alb.u.m, word for word, while the boys stood around in the kitchen and listened. It was scary, like the summer after sixth grade, when the girls back home would gather on the stoop and do the same thing, except they were singing along to the Grease Grease soundtrack. Same girls, same summer nights, just different songs. Liz Phair was asking, "Whatever happened to a boyfriend?" and I would think, Well, some of us turn into husbands, and then n.o.body writes songs about us except Carly Simon. soundtrack. Same girls, same summer nights, just different songs. Liz Phair was asking, "Whatever happened to a boyfriend?" and I would think, Well, some of us turn into husbands, and then n.o.body writes songs about us except Carly Simon.

Renee played this particular mix tape one night when she was sewing. Sewing was her most private activity, or at least the most private one I was allowed to sit in on. For a long time, she needed me to vacate the house whenever it was time to sew. After a while, it was okay if I stayed around, as long as I read a book and kept quiet. I was glad she was sewing because it was good for her. I was more glad when I got to hang out and watch. Her brow would furrow and her eyes would concentrate. Her mind would wander places I'd never seen her go before.

By the night she popped in this tape to sew, she was so comfortable she let me hang out and listen while she worked. I'd never heard this one before. She made private tapes so she could sew or work out to them. (Working out never got to be the kind of thing she could do while I was around.) Of course, the private tapes probably had all the same songs she put on all her other tapes. One side of this mix is uptempo, so I a.s.sume she used it for dancing and jumping around; the other side is quiet, so I a.s.sume it was for meditating or bead-stringing or sewing or other solitary pursuits.

Renee got seriously into sewing that year. She basically stopped wearing any clothes she didn't make herself, except for her Clarins work uniform. None of her store-bought clothes looked good on her. She was getting bigger and wider-broader hips, fleshier thighs-and she couldn't find any clothes in stores that would come close to fitting her. She used to cry when she had to buy ugly clothes from stores like Fashion Beetle or Aunt Pretty Poodle's, which were her only choices in Charlottesville. So she just started making her own. Her sewing-machine corner of the living room filled up with piles and piles of fabric and patterns. She made a dress form of her body so she could design patterns that would fit her. She would go to the fabric store, sort through the boxes of patterns, and buy them so she could copy them into something that would fit her. She basically had one mod minidress that she made over and over. She couldn't do zippers yet, but that summer she finally learned to do b.u.t.tons and b.u.t.tonholes, so she started making all her own foxy shirts. She sewed bike shorts to wear under her dresses so her thighs wouldn't chafe when they rubbed together. And she would come home with the strangest, sorriest fabric: pea pods, seash.e.l.ls, eggs, Queen Elizabeth smiling, anything. The more pathetic and helpless the fabric looked on the rack, the more it would sucker her into trying to make it into a mod minidress.

The more she sewed, the easier it got for her to move and breathe, since she now had clothes she could move and breathe in, and feel totally hot while she did so. It was really intense to see how much control over her body she could have by taking control over her clothes. It took a lot of time to make them all, but she could sew for hours. While she worked she would lose all her nervous energy and glow like a conquering G.o.ddess.

She took me to the fabric store whenever she could. She said she liked to get my opinion about what looked cool and what didn't, but that was a total lie. She just liked having a boy to tote around the fabric store, and I knew it. I was always the only boy there, and she brandished me around the room like my grandmother used to whenever she took me to St. Andrew's with her. Or, for that matter, the way I did when I had Renee with me in a mildewy used-record store. I was a trophy, and I liked it. While she would pore over the giant books of patterns, I would ask the stupidest questions I could think of in a big, loud voice so she could show off how interested her boy was in sewing.

"Um, is that an empire waist?"

"Yes, Rob. Very good. That's an empire waist."

"I see. Why do they call it an empire waist?"

"It was invented during the Napoleonic empire." (I have no idea if this is true.) "But Renee, explain this to me. Why is the waistline so high? Is that like a fitted boudoir?"

"I believe you mean a fitted bodice."

And so on. I would ask, she would explain. Boring. But I loved it and I knew she did, too, and I loved to pump up her vanity. Renee's vanity was a beautiful thing. I loved being her prop at the fabric store. In time, I started to love hanging around the store and exploring all the weird stuff they had there. To my fashion-illiterate mind, it was another planet. The signs they had up for fabric were a dizzying barrage of perfect names for new wave bands: Silk Shantung! Corduroy Remnants! Dalmatian-Print Fun Fur! That last one became the t.i.tle of a mix tape. It also became a pair of pants.

Renee's sewing was a way for her to follow the changes in her body. She felt her hips growing more and more Appalachian, marking her as one of her people. She was starting to look like pictures of her late, beloved Mamaw back in West Virginia; sometimes this would make her uncles misty-eyed. Uncle Troy once gave her a hug and almost cried because the hug reminded him of Mamaw's body. Goldie Hughart Crist died when Renee was sixteen, but Renee felt like she was getting to know her grandmother better than ever now. There was a lot of history in the hips, and Renee was learning her history. With that sewing machine, she was making history of her own.

Around that time we went to Dublin (the one in Ireland, not the one in Pulaski County) to visit cousins of mine. As we walked down the street, she said, "You know, I'm starting to understand this whole Irish boy/southern girl thing."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I have the only a.s.s on this entire street. Look around."

"I've seen your a.s.s before."

"Look at the men. The men are walking into walls."

"That's true. I thought they were staring at me."

"I have the only pair of hips as far as the eye can see. They have never seen a girl before. Holy s.h.i.t!"

"I thought it was my new Suede T-shirt."

"None of these women have any a.s.s at all. This is f.u.c.king awesome."

"It's a really cool Suede T-shirt."

"That last guy turned around three times."

And so on. It wasn't my Suede T-shirt, believe me.

The sewing built up her strength, that was for sure. She started writing down reminders to herself on an index card and kept it in her pocket all the time. The first line was, "Lots of people like me." She crossed out "Lots of" and wrote "Enough."

I'm very expressive.

I deserve to feel pretty.

I kissed the Blarney Stone.

I am strong. I am brave.

I'm a good friend. I am a good sister. I'm a good wife. I am a good in-law. I'm a good daughter. I am a good niece. I'm a good beagle mother. I am a good granddaughter.

I work hard for it, honey.

I'm Superfly TNT Motherf.u.c.ker.

I'm pilot of the airwaves.

I'm a better third baseman than Brooks Robinson.

I B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E.

I have exceptionally beautiful feet, eyes, ears, hips, hair, teeth, b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and shoulders. And fingernails. In a different pen, she added, And eyelashes and eyebrows, plus in yet another pen, And nose. And chin.

I never learned any sewing from Renee at all. That was totally her thing. But the intensity of her presence while she bent over the machine and made it hum-that stayed with me. So did all the pattern lingo and fabric jargon. Just more of that endless, useless knowledge you absorb when you're in a relationship, with no meaning or relevance outside of that relationship. When the relationship's gone, you're stuck knowing all this garbage. A couple of years after Renee died, I was in a room full of friends watching the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice Pride and Prejudice. Everybody commented on those funny dresses Jennifer Ehle wears. "Mmmm, yes, the empire waist," I said. "Authentic to the period, but a daring choice, since it usually looks silly on somebody who isn't very tall. But she wears it well. Nicole Kidman wore one to the Oscars in 1996." All the heads in the room slowly turned and stared at me. I had no idea how any of this was stuck in my head. My friends waited in silence for some kind of explanation. n.o.body was more curious than I was.

how i got that look

AUGUST 1994.

The spring of 1994 was marked by two key events in rock history: the death of Kurt Cobain and the birth of Zima. In case you don't remember, and if you drank any Zima you surely don't, it was a cheap, fizzy, clear, strong, thoroughly rancid malt liquor marketed as a hipster "alternative" beer with a shiny silver and black label that glowed in the dark. Let me reiterate-it was cheap. One night, Renee started rummaging through the kitchen for mixers. She found a sampler box of miniature liqueur bottles-an untouched Secret Santa gift from a day job she'd had a couple years back-gathering dust on our shelves and started trying out recipes to cut the toxic kick of Zima. Cointreau was too bland. Frangelico was too nutty. But then, one night, in a flash of inspiration that rivals the creative energy of Chuck Berry the night he decided to mix country with the blues, Renee poured in some sickly sweet purple syrup called Chambord. With a little Chambord, a longneck of Zima became a handful of flaming violet gla.s.s, a bottle that looked like it could be set on fire and thrown at a bus or drunk with equally destructive effects. One Zima-and-Chambord would knock you on your a.s.s; two would knock you on somebody else's a.s.s. It was the perfect rock c.o.c.ktail. was marked by two key events in rock history: the death of Kurt Cobain and the birth of Zima. In case you don't remember, and if you drank any Zima you surely don't, it was a cheap, fizzy, clear, strong, thoroughly rancid malt liquor marketed as a hipster "alternative" beer with a shiny silver and black label that glowed in the dark. Let me reiterate-it was cheap. One night, Renee started rummaging through the kitchen for mixers. She found a sampler box of miniature liqueur bottles-an untouched Secret Santa gift from a day job she'd had a couple years back-gathering dust on our shelves and started trying out recipes to cut the toxic kick of Zima. Cointreau was too bland. Frangelico was too nutty. But then, one night, in a flash of inspiration that rivals the creative energy of Chuck Berry the night he decided to mix country with the blues, Renee poured in some sickly sweet purple syrup called Chambord. With a little Chambord, a longneck of Zima became a handful of flaming violet gla.s.s, a bottle that looked like it could be set on fire and thrown at a bus or drunk with equally destructive effects. One Zima-and-Chambord would knock you on your a.s.s; two would knock you on somebody else's a.s.s. It was the perfect rock c.o.c.ktail.

It became our drink of choice for a long, lazy, rambling fever dream of a summer, when Kurt was dead but the promise of rock was raging on. The radio was playing hits by Hole and Green Day and Weezer and Sugar and Veruca Salt. I would pick Renee up after work at the Fashion Square Mall, then we would go home and set up our wobbly little hibachi in the backyard, grill some hot dogs, turn up the music, invite some friends over, and start mixing the Zima-and-Chambord rocket capsules. To this day, I still see that precise shade of purple sometimes-on some jogger's track suit, or on some kid's Mylar birthday balloon-and it always triggers flashbacks that involve a throbbing headache and the cowbell solo in the Offspring's "Come Out and Play (Keep 'em Separated)."

Renee made "How I Got That Look" for those nights in the backyard. The t.i.tle came from a monthly feature in one of her favorite glossy fashion mags, a feature that gave away the secrets of the supermodels. Side One was t.i.tled "Pink Chocolate Lipstick." Side Two was t.i.tled "Laminates and Molding Mud." Her big project that summer was her guitar. With a couple of her indie rock girlfriends, Katherine and Cindy, she started a band called Flirtation Device. Like all girl bands, they spent all their time thinking up cool band names and cool song t.i.tles and cool ideas for matching outfits, with only occasional efforts to actually play songs. When Cindy and Katherine had their big falling out over a b-o-y (what else), the band was history-but the songs on this tape still sound great, especially with a Zima-and-Chambord or two for audio enhancement.

Our town finally got an indie-rock club that summer. Tokyo Rose, the local sushi bar, started hosting shows in the bas.e.m.e.nt. It was in a strip mall on 250 East, between the University Laundromat and the Pizza Hut. Our friend Darius talked the owner, Atsushi, into letting him book bands. The bas.e.m.e.nt wasn't big, but it was friendly, with blue paint on the walls and loveseats you could fall asleep on if the band sucked. On a good night, Atsushi would close the sushi bar, come down with his acoustic guitar, and play his original j.a.panese ballads. He also sang some tunes in English, like "I Hate Charlottesville," which always ended up being a big sing-along. At the end of the evening, he would send everybody home with Roy Orbison's "Crying," sung in a falsetto that was wasabi on our hearts.

During this time, Renee quit the makeup counter to spend more time writing about music, and got another job at our favorite record store, Plan 9. Now that she didn't have to wear a uniform to work, every day was a fashion show. She was inspired to sew more than ever. She sewed her first zippers that summer, although she didn't really fully get the hang of them for a few months. She would park her Zima-and-Chambord on the window sill and concentrate on her patterns for hours at a time. She went to L.A. to do the Spin Spin cover story on the band L7 and came back having learned all their makeup tips. Renee also took guitar lessons from a brunette named Mark. He was cute; otherwise, he wouldn't have been invited over to teach her guitar, since he was into terrible jam-bands. He played ba.s.s in a Phish cover band called David Bowie. But he was cute. She would make a pizza, he would teach her Beatles songs, and then he would ask her for girl advice. Renee coached him until he snagged a girlfriend, whereupon he couldn't come over anymore, since his girlfriend didn't approve of him hanging with a married woman. cover story on the band L7 and came back having learned all their makeup tips. Renee also took guitar lessons from a brunette named Mark. He was cute; otherwise, he wouldn't have been invited over to teach her guitar, since he was into terrible jam-bands. He played ba.s.s in a Phish cover band called David Bowie. But he was cute. She would make a pizza, he would teach her Beatles songs, and then he would ask her for girl advice. Renee coached him until he snagged a girlfriend, whereupon he couldn't come over anymore, since his girlfriend didn't approve of him hanging with a married woman.

The big crisis that summer came when the power went out for two weeks. We came back from a road trip and found the upstairs neighbors had skipped out on the Virginia Power bill. The phone was dead and most of the food in the fridge was spoiled. We had no hot water. We didn't have the cash to settle the bill and turn the lights back on, and we didn't know when we would would have the cash. There was no way I could have seen it coming, yet the fact that I couldn't protect Renee from it drove me have the cash. There was no way I could have seen it coming, yet the fact that I couldn't protect Renee from it drove me crazy crazy. How could something like this just happen? Why couldn't I do anything about it? I had felt helpless many times, as an adult even, but feeling helpless as a husband was different from anything I'd ever felt in my life. This was just a temporary snag, but it made me realize how many more of these there were going to be. I was going to have to get used to feeling helpless if I was going to remain a husband. And being a husband made me helpless, because I had somebody to protect (somebody a little high-strung, who had a tough time emotionally with things like the lights going out indefinitely). Man, I thought it was tough being broke when I was single, but being broke as a husband is not even in the same category.

For two weeks, I lay awake at night and said Hail Marys over and over to stop my heart from beating too fast. I suddenly realized how much being a husband was about fear: fear of not being able to keep somebody safe, of not being able to protect somebody from all the bad stuff you want to protect them from. Knowing they have more tears in them than you will be able to keep them from crying. I realized that Renee had seen me fail, and that she was the person I was going to be failing in front of for the rest of my life. It was just a little failure, but it promised bigger failures to come. Additional ones, anyway. But that's who your wife is, the person you fail in front of. Love is so confusing; there's no peace of mind.

Every morning at that time, we went to Bodo's Bagels and split a three-cheese sesame. They always played a mix tape of Rolling Stones tunes there, and I found it immensely comforting. The first song was "Sittin' on a Fence," an acoustic ballad with Mick and Keith singing about how stupid people are for falling in love and settling down. I was amazed at how soothing their voices were, two brash and pretty young mod boys, harmonizing so confidently about how people who stay together are suckers, and laughing at them. And they're right-what could be scarier, stupider, than staying together? How else could you totally guarantee that you would always have reasons to be terrified? "Sittin' on a Fence," that was the life for Mick and Keith. (The crazy thing is, Mick and Keith are total hypocrites-they've been a married couple longer than my parents. If Keith really believed in "Sittin' on a Fence," he'd be Jeff Beck, who never gets trapped in a situation he doesn't control, and hasn't made a decent record since he quit the Yardbirds.) I was still hanging on to grad school, but things were looking bad. The academic job market had crashed, leaving my whole generation stranded. I had failed in my duty to get Renee out of Charlottesville. She'd made a mistake trusting me. I snagged a job interview at the University of Southern Mississippi: adjunct, four comp sections a semester, for less money than we were making writing record reviews, in the same kind of college town we lived in now, except one where we didn't know a soul. It was a dismal gig, the academic equivalent of joining Team Hardee's, but it was our best shot. I didn't get the job and I got depressed.

I didn't want to talk about it.

"Refusal is not the act of a friend," she said. "You must let me draw the water from the well."

"Don't Barzini me."

"You didn't want that job anyway. I'd follow you anywhere, sweetie, but I wasn't dreaming about Hattiesburg, Mississippi. You don't have to promise me anything."

"We'll get out of this town someday."

"We like it here. We have each other."

"Someday."

"I grew up on country radio. You know I'm a sucker for that 'we got no money but we got love' c.r.a.p."

"Someday," I said.

"Easy," she said. "We do not have to give a.s.surances as if we were lawyers."

Kurt Cobain loomed over everything that summer. It's hard to explain, so let me rewind to the day his body was found. April 8 was the Friday of the weekend that the English department grad students were hosting a conference of our very own, t.i.tled "Cross/Roads and (Re) Mappings" or something like that, in true Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney "Hey kids, let's put on a show!" style. Our friends Ivan and Sarah were coming down from Brown to read a paper about Zizek. Meanwhile, we watched the coverage of Cobain's suicide on MTV. They were showing the Unplugged Unplugged special over and over. special over and over.

During that first week of April, spirits were high and hormones were in full rage mode. Charlottesville had a particularly huge load of pollen that spring, and I would walk home every day from teaching, kicking clumps of pollen around. The pollen was lush and green, so green it made me a little sick to breathe it in. Everybody was looking forward to having fun that weekend. The weird thing is, we did did have fun. Everybody went to parties, brought their friends from out of town, drank a lot, gossiped about Kurt. n.o.body was surprised, so n.o.body was depressed. People cracked jokes, even those of us who loved him. We improvised new lyrics to Nick Lowe's death ditty "Marie Provost" ("He was our Brando / He hung out with Evan Dando," etc.). Renee b.u.mmed cigarettes and poured Chambord into people's Zima bottles. News was exchanged jovially. Did you hear that the guy who found the body called the radio station before he called the cops? Did you hear he left a note? Renee and our friend Gina sang "Kurt Cobain" to the tune of "You're So Vain." For people who were into music, which meant almost everybody hanging around all weekend, the Kurt Cobain who finally kicked it was the celebrity, as opposed to the guy who had written all his songs and sung them-the musician. The celebrity was dead. The guy who sang on the have fun. Everybody went to parties, brought their friends from out of town, drank a lot, gossiped about Kurt. n.o.body was surprised, so n.o.body was depressed. People cracked jokes, even those of us who loved him. We improvised new lyrics to Nick Lowe's death ditty "Marie Provost" ("He was our Brando / He hung out with Evan Dando," etc.). Renee b.u.mmed cigarettes and poured Chambord into people's Zima bottles. News was exchanged jovially. Did you hear that the guy who found the body called the radio station before he called the cops? Did you hear he left a note? Renee and our friend Gina sang "Kurt Cobain" to the tune of "You're So Vain." For people who were into music, which meant almost everybody hanging around all weekend, the Kurt Cobain who finally kicked it was the celebrity, as opposed to the guy who had written all his songs and sung them-the musician. The celebrity was dead. The guy who sang on the Unplugged Unplugged special was a little harder to bury. special was a little harder to bury.

This had to be the least surprising rock death ever. Kurt had been threatening suicide for so long that it amounted to playing a game of Clue Clue with his fans. In Rome, with the pills? No, in Seattle, with the shotgun. with his fans. In Rome, with the pills? No, in Seattle, with the shotgun. Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live was already doing "Kurt Cobain almost reached nirvana this week" jokes. He'd posed for more photos with guns than the paper had room to reprint. The Internet barely existed, as far as I was concerned, but it was already raging with a constant stream of Kurt death rumors. When the news arrived on Friday, it was like, Okay, whew, that's the last time we get this news. was already doing "Kurt Cobain almost reached nirvana this week" jokes. He'd posed for more photos with guns than the paper had room to reprint. The Internet barely existed, as far as I was concerned, but it was already raging with a constant stream of Kurt death rumors. When the news arrived on Friday, it was like, Okay, whew, that's the last time we get this news.

Many of our friends reported similar reactions-one of my friends, who knew Kurt, was horrified to hear everybody making jokes within minutes of the body being found ("dead men do wear plaid"). Maybe people were relieved, or maybe they were venting their anger at how he'd abandoned them. All I know is how weird it seemed that Kurt provided the theme for such an intense weekend, one I knew I would always remember and always have. The pollen made the air smell sweet. Everybody looked good. The visitors from up north hadn't had a taste of the warm weather yet. My Boston buddies Ivan and Sarah had never met my friends in Charlottesville, and I got to show them off. The whole summer was going to be great like this, exactly like this. On Sunday, exhausted yet nowhere near hungover, even after sleeping on the kitchen floor all night, the four of us couldn't find any more Kurt on TV, so we watched The Beast-master The Beast-master.

The celebrity death was a temporary rush of excitement. But the dead musician didn't go away, at least not for me. My favorite Nirvana song was "Heart-Shaped Box." I first heard it in our old Chrysler, stopped at the red light between Cherry Avenue and the train tracks, on my way to pick Renee up from work, just as the sun was setting. As soon as I picked her up, I started trying to describe the song I'd just heard, and what it sounded like, and then after I gave up in frustration, we looked at each other and drove straight to the record store at the Seminole Shopping Center. (Note: the "record store" was a popular retail strategy in the 1990s, a building where people would "go" to "buy" "music.") We played In Utero In Utero all night long. Renee kept arguing that the melody of "Heart-Shaped Box" came straight from Blondie, and singing, "Hey, wait, I'm Francis Bean Cobain." all night long. Renee kept arguing that the melody of "Heart-Shaped Box" came straight from Blondie, and singing, "Hey, wait, I'm Francis Bean Cobain."

I liked In Utero In Utero a lot better than a lot better than Nevermind Nevermind because Kurt was singing about being a husband, which was both gauche and scary. It got under my skin. Singing about drugs and despair-no problem. Singing about lithium-kid stuff. But "Heart-Shaped Box" was about the fear of having somebody on your hands you refuse to let go of, and that was so new to me. I was terrified to hear somebody my age singing about it. On the because Kurt was singing about being a husband, which was both gauche and scary. It got under my skin. Singing about drugs and despair-no problem. Singing about lithium-kid stuff. But "Heart-Shaped Box" was about the fear of having somebody on your hands you refuse to let go of, and that was so new to me. I was terrified to hear somebody my age singing about it. On the radio radio.

The Unplugged Unplugged music bothered me a lot. Contrary to what people said at the time, he didn't sound dead, or about to die, or anything like that. As far as I could tell, his voice was not just alive but raging to stay that way. And he sounded married. Married and buried, just like he says. People liked to claim his songs were all about the pressures of fame, but I guess they just weren't used to hearing rock stars sing love songs anymore, not even love songs as blatant as "All Apologies" or "Heart-Shaped Box." And he sings, all through music bothered me a lot. Contrary to what people said at the time, he didn't sound dead, or about to die, or anything like that. As far as I could tell, his voice was not just alive but raging to stay that way. And he sounded married. Married and buried, just like he says. People liked to claim his songs were all about the pressures of fame, but I guess they just weren't used to hearing rock stars sing love songs anymore, not even love songs as blatant as "All Apologies" or "Heart-Shaped Box." And he sings, all through Unplugged Unplugged, about the kind of love you can't leave until you die. The more he sang about this, the more his voice upset me. He made me think about death and marriage and a lot of things that I didn't want to think about at all. I would have been glad to push this music to the back of my brain, put some furniture in front of it so I couldn't see it, and wait thirty or forty years for it to rot so it wouldn't be there to scare me anymore. The married guy was a lot more disturbing to me than the dead junkie.