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Welcome to the World of Stage Parents


During the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation (a truly awful affront to die hard Trekkies in the opinion of my husband, and I whole-heartedly concur) there is an episode where Picard and his crew find themselves saddled with the descendants of a group of space colonists after their planet is threatened with solar flares. They come to discover that the expedition that founded this colony had a sister ship that was lost, leading Picard to search for them in hopes of finding a new home for these refugees who are now setting out to settle one of the Enterprise’s landing bays. His search leads them to a planet of clones, descendants, of sorts, of the missing second ship and it’s occupants. The clones are suffering from “replicative fading” and will die out without fresh DNA  infusions into their society which they try to unsuccessfully steal from the Enterprise crew. At the end of the episode, Picard unites the long separated groups after realizing that each can help the other with their problems. The first group  by “loaning” their DNA through reproduction, and the second by offering a new planet to settle on. What I remember the most about this episode is the scene at the very end when it is revealed that the women in both groups will have to engage in polygamous marriages in order to keep inbreeding at bay. Reverse polygamy by the way, not the kind that is so often forced upon females by religious groups as man and harem, but a woman with multiple husbands.

 

This episode came to mind when I was reviewing my present situation. I am a polygamist. I am Rob’s wife, and I am the house’s wife. I know for a fact that I find the former more satisfying than the latter. My relationship with Rob is a give and take, whereas the house takes. Oh, I know that some would argue the house gives too….in its own way. Shelter. Warmth. Safety. But does it have a choice really? What it takes in time, sweat, and Rob…. from me doesn’t make it’s contributions seem as great. In some ways, Rob is more of the house’s bitch than I am. Where it expects near constant cleaning from me, it demands structural upkeep from him that can be downright hazardous. Tonight for example he is replacing the back landing. Masonry needed to be removed as well as framing and floor. While the house passively observes, Rob saws and hammers, dodging exposed nails and his own efforts too judging from the ripped shirt and the bruised elbow he is confident will bring much by way of sympathy and consolation later on. Ah, to be known so well already.

 

I think the house suspects I don’t love it as much as I do Rob. It was an arranged marriage after all, not the love match Rob and I have. I guess it would be hard to live with the knowledge you will always be second best. Still I do my best to give the house what it needs. It should feel better knowing that I clean it more than I ever cleaned the last house I lived in. Truthfully, I have had a deep fondness for this place from the first night I walked in. Disorganized and in as much need of purging as where I was living at the time, it still said “home” to me and welcomed me. Ghosts and all, I knew I would love this place and I do. But like any polygamist, I have my favorite mate and the house will just have to learn to adjust.

The House’s Wife


During the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation (a truly awful affront to die hard Trekkies in the opinion of my husband, and I whole-heartedly concur) there is an episode where Picard and his crew find themselves saddled with the descendants of a group of space colonists after their planet is threatened with solar flares. They come to discover that the expedition that founded this colony had a sister ship that was lost, leading Picard to search for them in hopes of finding a new home for these refugees who are now setting out to settle one of the Enterprise’s landing bays. His search leads them to a planet of clones, descendants, of sorts, of the missing second ship and it’s occupants. The clones are suffering from “replicative fading” and will die out without fresh DNA  infusions into their society which they try to unsuccessfully steal from the Enterprise crew. At the end of the episode, Picard unites the long separated groups after realizing that each can help the other with their problems. The first group  by “loaning” their DNA through reproduction, and the second by offering a new planet to settle on. What I remember the most about this episode is the scene at the very end when it is revealed that the women in both groups will have to engage in polygamous marriages in order to keep inbreeding at bay. Reverse polygamy by the way, not the kind that is so often forced upon females by religious groups as man and harem, but a woman with multiple husbands.

 

This episode came to mind when I was reviewing my present situation. I am a polygamist. I am Rob’s wife, and I am the house’s wife. I know for a fact that I find the former more satisfying than the latter. My relationship with Rob is a give and take, whereas the house takes. Oh, I know that some would argue the house gives too….in its own way. Shelter. Warmth. Safety. But does it have a choice really? What it takes in time, sweat, and Rob…. from me doesn’t make it’s contributions seem as great. In some ways, Rob is more of the house’s bitch than I am. Where it expects near constant cleaning from me, it demands structural upkeep from him that can be downright hazardous. Tonight for example he is replacing the back landing. Masonry needed to be removed as well as framing and floor. While the house passively observes, Rob saws and hammers, dodging exposed nails and his own efforts too judging from the ripped shirt and the bruised elbow he is confident will bring much by way of sympathy and consolation later on. Ah, to be known so well already.

 

I think the house suspects I don’t love it as much as I do Rob. It was an arranged marriage after all, not the love match Rob and I have. I guess it would be hard to live with the knowledge you will always be second best. Still I do my best to give the house what it needs. It should feel better knowing that I clean it more than I ever cleaned the last house I lived in. Truthfully, I have had a deep fondness for this place from the first night I walked in. Disorganized and in as much need of purging as where I was living at the time, it still said “home” to me and welcomed me. Ghosts and all, I knew I would love this place and I do. But like any polygamist, I have my favorite mate and the house will just have to learn to adjust.

A New Hair Stylist


 

I am looking for a new hair stylist, and I swear it is easy to find a different gynecologist then someone to cut and color your hair. The cutting part isn’t as important to me as the coloring however. A bad cut will grow out. A bad batch of chemicals and you’re hair is crispy and falling out in clumps. But, I do need to touch up the highlights and sprinkle in a few low-lights as well. Rob seems to think that letting my natural color grow back, and allowing the grays to continue their obvious take-over, would be a good thing. I guess, being a man, he doesn’t see the point of something that needs such time intensive upkeep. For me it’s more about the natural color than the grays, which are actually white. If I were all-white, which I will be one day I guess, I would look like an albino for starters. But the trouble is, I am nowhere near all white yet, and my natural color is a dark red, not quite auburn, that I have never liked. I have been lightening my hair since I was about 18. The low-lights are recent. Until I tried them, I hadn’t ever dyed my hair, just bleached it. 

 

For many years I just went back to my hometown to have a high school friend of my sister’s, who is a stylist, do my highlights. It wasn’t until I married Will that I found a stylist in the area near my workplace. Coming to Alberta meant finding someone new again and without the benefit of someone I knew to make recommendations. Both of Rob’s daughters manage to avoid salons. The older one has a friend who is a stylist, and the younger does her hair, from cutting to coloring to styling, herself, and quite beautifully I might add.

 

My first cut here was just a trim, and I went to a fellow who used to play beer league hockey with Rob back in the day. He did a good job. Wasn’t pushy, did what I asked, but a trim is not a highlight. A new acquaintance recommended a stylist at a spa in the nearby town. She said that he got high marks from many people she knew when she first came here. It’s funny, and not so, that I am putting more thought into this decision than I did into picking my daughter’s new school. Of course, a school experience is usually what you as a parent choose to put into it, and if you are paying any attention at all problems can be headed off or corrected before damage occurs, my hair could be ruined in an instant.

 

It’s so ridiculous. To worry so much about what amounts to a bunch of dead skin cells. I guess it goes back to my childhood. Even when I was fat and awkward, people would remark about how beautiful my hair was. Today I listen to people say the same thing to my daughter, and I watch her soak it in and wonder what the long-term effects of that will be. For me, even though I am not the fat girl anymore – I am told often enough that I am thin and even pretty – I still guard my hair and consider it an asset of great importance. Interesting is hardly the word for something so pathetic.