After my father congratulated Javier and me on our engagement, he took me aside and offered the following advice: KISS. It stands for Keep It Simple, Stupid.
That’s my dad—always the pragmatist, never the romantic. It is strange that he studied Victorian Literature in college because I have never known him to be “worked up” or fluttery. Unlike Oscar Wilde, he does not see the value of linen handkerchiefs or of pretending to be Earnest in town and Jack in the country. However, my dad does like caviar. It’s his one nod to the outrageous and flamboyant and its consumption is limited to New Year’s Eve.
“You realize you’re getting all dressed up to eat a slice of cake,” he reminded me over the phone. “You realize that, right?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Stop worrying about the crystals or whatever. And start worrying about getting yourself a career. Freelance writing does not pay.”
“Okay, Dad.”
There was an uncomfortable silence followed by, “So, do you want to talk to your mother?”
My mother is a big Brazil nut. I am also a nut, but a smaller one, like a pignolia. When we’re together we often have a blast, but sometimes we’re mixed up, pissed off, and salty. The other day I said, only half-joking, “Instead of registering, I’m going to request cash.” “Uh-hunh,” she said, only half-listening. And then she realized and yelped, “What?! Oh, no, Elizabeth, that is so gauche.” Gauche. Who uses that word? Only my mother—the same woman whose favorite cardigan is pink with yellow ducklings on the cuffs.
Still, my parents deserve respect. They have been married for 37 years. They’ve stayed together through unemployment, cancer, the deaths of their parents, and they’ve raised two puppies and two daughters, one of whom is extremely successful and the other of whom is me. Every Sunday they sit together on the couch, reading different sections of The New York Times.
They make marriage look simple. Javier and I know it isn’t and wasn’t for them, but they are graceful. My mother doesn’t slam doors the way I sometimes do. My father has never angrily played computer chess for seven hours on a Saturday night. They have stalked around like cats for a few days, but then they’re back on the couch—she reading the Styles section, he the Week in Review.
How have they done it? I have no idea. I asked them and, alarmingly, they have no idea. Perhaps it is just incredibly good luck, but I suspect that it is a rare love. The kind of love that wakes my dad early every morning to make my mom black tea with sugar. And it’s that love that compels her to tell me, “You know, Elizabeth, your dad used to look like a young Sean Connery, but now he looks spectacular, like an old Sean Connery. Mmmm.”
How We Met
We met at my friend Inna’s 27th birthday party. Javier was hovering over the
hors d’oeuvres. I went up to him. “Like nachos?” I said.
“Yeah.” He said. He seemed uncomfortable until I asked him what he did for a
living. Then the flood gates opened. He was a teacher. He went on about public
school reform, curriculum assessments, MCAS. I suppressed a yawn. He didn’t ask
me one question. Why is it that men love to talk about themselves? And why in
heaven’s name do women pretend to be remotely interested? We are too kind.
“Uh-hunh,” she said, only half-listening. And then she realized and yelped, “What?! Oh, no, Elizabeth, that is so gauche.” Gauche. Who uses that word? Only my mother—the same woman whose favorite cardigan is pink with yellow ducklings on the cuffs. 
