Middle Rage

Part 6 -- Oma (Oma's Other Toy is 1DICK1)

Scott and I are watching Jeopardy! when my phone goes off.

"What is carbon?" Scott demands, riveted to the screen. Then, to me, "who's that?"

"Unidentified number." I toss the phone onto the couch, unanswered.

"Probably some scam," Scott opines. "Don't answer. You get more scam calls if they connect to a live person." This is the same conclusion I've come to, why I haven't answered the phone. I can't tell if this is a moment when he and I are perfectly in sync, or if he thinks he's enlightening me on the nature of phone calls. "What is Peru?"

The phone rings again. Same number. No message. Maybe something's happened to one of the boys and they've had to use someone else's phone. Aiden's at band practice, Hale at soccer. I hesitate. The ringing stops. They'd know to call our ancient landline if I don't pick up.

Jeopardy! goes to commercial. Scott loves this show; now that the kids are out of the house in the evenings, it's our thing we do together. Especially now, when it seems like we have less and less in common, and fewer parenting issues to fill our conversations. I make the effort to sit by his side, to up our count of shared bonding moments. My mother always said that: You have to have seven positive interactions to make up for one negative. Because the negative are so much more memorable. She's been married fifty years, so she must know something.

But even here, sitting in silence, I struggle. So many white guy contestants on this show. Lately, I've been making a point to root for the one woman or one person of color. It's amazing how rarely they win, their small numbers and disappointed faces as Alex shakes the winner's hand.

"Do you think Jeopardy! is biased?"

Scott gives me THE LOOK, now an unpleasant fixture in our conversations. "It's a show about facts. Anybody can know a fact."

I try not to say anything. No good can come of talking this out with him until I know what I'm talking about, and I hardly know what I'm talking about. "Well, today it's three white guys with no one at all for me to root for. I know Ken Jennings. Can you name the last woman who won?"

THE LOOK, THE LOOK. Like I am a sore loser. Like I am proving the point that women aren't as smart by following this line of thought out loud. Like I want special dispensation for having ovaries. "So because more women don't win, you think it's biased?"

"Well, working backwards from the theory that men and women are equal, I'd say yes, there's probably some bias going on if women rarely win." But I guess if you believe men are inherently smarter, the show probably looks neutral as facts on a screen, I don't say, because maybe I don't want to take this argument to a place where my husband accidentally betrays his belief in exactly that. The show comes back on, final category.

"I'm going to go pick up some milk," I push off the couch. We're out, the boys like cereal for breakfast, and Scott and I drink it in our coffee. I want to think this is one of my seven positives for my husband– making myself useful, tending to our family – but things are so snarled in my head these days, I wonder if this is one more negative for me. Why doesn't he get the milk? I don't ask. Seven positives, Oma.

"OK." Scott says, sullen. And as I get my keys, "...maybe Jeopardy! is biased. We could check the internet, see if anyone else thinks so." It's his reluctant, keeping-the-peace voice. I don't know what kills me more. I can feel his stress, how I've opened my mouth and made this swirl of discord between us again. How I stupidly keep believing I can explain what's going on inside me in a way he'll understand. How part of me is enraged all over again. I don't need the internet to back me up. The facts are right there in front of us.