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“What you talkin’ bout Willis?”

   

My husband Ettore and I love each other very much.   I think it is because we never have any idea what the other person is talking about.  Ettore has lived all over Europe,  has owned his own successful European bakery and restaurant for over 24 years, and speaks four languages.  I graduated from a top university, worked in the media for years, and even interviewed the president of a country, but together we can’t seem to find our way out of a paper bag or manage to go from point A to point B without needing a Dr. Phil intervention.  For some it is a simple tomato (tomayto) vs. tomato (tomahto), but for us it is more like tomato vs. steak sandwich.  We are nowhere close.

I had to go back to Kaiser Hospital AGAIN.  This time for an upcoming knee surgery, not my vagina.  Even so, there I was AGAIN at Kaiser in my underwear and a paper gown.  When the doctor asked me to lay back and relax I broke out in a cold sweat and locked my knees together.  Understandably I was a bit nervous, thankfully Ettore was kind enough to drive me to my pre-op appointment.  That is where the trouble started.

Both of us knowing our history of miscommunication, when Ettore dropped me off in front of the medical office building we looked directly at each other hoping to avert a catastrophe. 

Me:  “OK Love, here we go. I will be in THAT building on FIRST floor Orthopedics.”

Ettore:  “OK Sweetheart, I got it. That building (points) first floor Orthopedics.”

Me:  “Great Pookie!  Just one more time,  not Ob/Gyn I already had the baby, not Psychiatry, I already see a shrink, not Urology, I give up on trying not to sneeze and pee…Orthopedics on the first floor.”

Ettore:  “Kitty, don’t worry I will be there when you get out of your appointment.”

Thirty minutes after my appointment……we have no idea where the other one is.  Forty-five minutes after the appointment Ettore has asked the nurse if I actually had an appointment and I am freezing my ass of wandering the parking garage thinking my husband, who is twenty years older that me, is dead.  We both want to strangle the other.

After frantic phone calls to Ettore and Ettore searching the halls, we bump into each other outside the building.

Ettore:  “Where have you been?”

Me: “I thought you were dead!”

Ettore: “Who’s dead?”

Me:  (Trying not to kill him) “No one, what happened?”

Ettore:  “You tell me, I went to first floor Orthopedics.”

Me: “Impossible, I was at first floor Orthopedics.”

Ettore:  “No, I was there, UP THERE…..on first floor Orthopedics.”

Now, despite the freezing cold, a stillness rests over Ettore and I.  Neither one of us says a word.  Like a detective, I think my suspect just coughed up a nugget big enough to crack the case.  I don’t want to make any sudden moves and have him recant.  My pulse is racing, palms sweaty, I think I got him.  This could be it.

Me:  (S-L-O-W-L-Y) “What…did…you…say?”

Ettore:  (On to me, knowing I might be setting a trap) “I was up there (points up to the second story), first floor Orthopedics.”

Me: Breaking under the pressure. “There is no such thing as UP THERE for the FIRST FLOOR, there might be an OVER THERE, but the FIRST FLOOR IS NEVER UP ANYWHERE BECAUSE IT IS ALWAYS ON THE GROUND!”

Ettore:  “Not in Europe.  In Europe the first floor is the ground floor or level floor, and the second floor is the first floor.”

Me:  “What? That makes no sense.”  (It makes a little sense if you think about it long enough) “How long have you been in America?” I ask.  ”We are not in Zurich, Switzerland.  We are in Roseville, California.  Kaiser is a long way from the Alps!”

Ettore:  “Oops, sorry.” 

Shit foiled again.  What do they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.  We call a truce, and decide the car is a way better place to be than outside in the cold.  As we walk up the parking garage laughing at our mis-steps I realize that miscommunicating is better than not communicating and in a marriage you love each other no matter what floor you are on.