8

I Am Who I Am

Everyone Has Their Kombucha

Every guy has that one thing they obsess over, whether it’s sports, the remote control or their car. For me, it’s an amazing elixir called GT’s Gingerade Kombucha. What is it? you ask. Kombucha is a fermented tea, thought to be Chinese in origin, that’s said to be an antioxidant, probiotic, anti-inflammatory, digestive superfood. I can’t attest to all that. All I know is . . . Daddy likes!

While Kombucha comes in a whole raft of flavors, my favorite is the Gingerade. It’s naturally carbonated, like a pungent ginger ale, or maybe I should say ginger beer—there are actually trace amounts of alcohol in each bottle. In fact, early on GT realized the fermentation process was running amok and the beverage had as much alcohol as a low-alcohol beer! Can you imagine knocking back a couple at work? “Man, I feel great! Where has this Kombucha been all my life?” Meantime your coworkers are talking about you behind your back as you get wasted at your cubicle. Of course, it would cease to be funny if you had one or two bottles, then got in a car to drive home or pick up the kids at soccer practice.

Well, they stopped production to get a handle on the problem and a month or so later resumed making it. Interestingly enough, they’ve taken lemons and made lemonade . . . or hard lemonade, to be precise. The company now bottles the high-octane Kombucha in black bottles for purchase by those twenty-one years and older.

To liven up its ginger flavor even more, I like to add my own fresh ginger. I started with a tablespoon or so per bottle. Little by little I added more, so that today, I combine about one quarter cup of chopped ginger with a twelve-ounce bottle of Kombucha. I drink an average of four bottles of Kombucha a day and go through about ten pounds of ginger and two cases of Kombucha a week. Did I mention I like Kombucha?

For whatever reason, and I can’t explain it, my love of Kombucha has caused quite a stir in our family. While I know they’re very supportive and happy to see that I have taken control of my health by changing my diet, now they tease me about being addicted to Kombucha, like an addict who gives up drinking but takes up smoking!

DEBORAH

Everywhere we go, Kombucha comes with us. Al and I were at a parent-teacher conference and he pulled a bottle out of his bag and pop, twisted off the cap. It is an unmistakable sound, like a cork coming out of a bottle of champagne.

As soon as we get in the car, Al automatically opens a bottle. It’s almost Pavlovian. His car has a cup holder, so I don’t mind it as much, but my car doesn’t. Whenever I hear that pop, I quickly say, “Not in the car!” because I don’t want it to spill.

While he started off putting a little fresh ginger in to fortify the taste, he now adds so much ginger it’s like “Have a little Kombucha with your ginger!”

It’s a running gag in our house. It’s like watching Al walk around with a pacifier; every time we look at him, there’s that bottle. It’s fine that he loves his Kombucha, really, but maybe he could rein it in—a little?

My feeling is that if what I am doing isn’t hurting my health or causing harm to my family, what’s the problem?

I don’t gamble, don’t smoke cigars, stay home instead of hitting the links or the bars with the boys.

I have one vice.

One!

Kombucha.

Deal with it!

There are far worse things in life to worry about. If it makes me feel good and I’m not hurting you guys, just let me have my Kombucha!

And yet my love of Kombucha continues to rile everyone up because, of all things, it takes up too much space in the refrigerator. Why can’t my bottles of Kombucha be lined up with the other, lesser liquids like juice and milk? And even if I move my Kombucha out of sight to the vegetable or fruit bin, just the thought of the Kombucha residing in the communal fridge drives my family to distraction.

So what did my dear wife do? She ordered a refrigerator just for my stash of Kombucha and fresh ginger and put it in the basement.

THE BASEMENT!

Seriously?

Now I’m like the guy who has to go out on the porch to smoke his cigars. Which, as I mentioned, I don’t do!

Why should I have to go down a flight of stairs every time I want to quench my thirst just so my wife and children don’t have to see my bottles of Kombucha?

Then it dawned on me. Just like the fine folks at GT’s Kombucha took lemons and made lemonade, I suddenly saw this basement fridge as my new best friend. Why? Now I have two places to keep my beloved drink! I use the basement fridge to stock up on more Kombucha and extra ginger.

Maybe Deborah hit on something. Since we live in a four-story brownstone, maybe I should have a fridge on every floor, Kombucha within reach, no matter where I am in the house. Maybe I’ll get one of those flying drones to deliver it to me, straight from the fridge.

Yesss!

And though I know my love of Kombucha grates on my family, for the most part, they have learned to back off and just let me have it—as long as they don’t have to see the evidence in the form of bottle caps left on the kitchen counter or excess grated ginger. It isn’t a lot to ask, so I do my best to be conscientious and oblige.

There are lots of things I can overlook and have been willing to bend on throughout my marriage.

Kombucha isn’t one of them.

In many ways, we all have our “Kombucha.”

For my wife, it’s clothes and shoes.

At the end of the day, I am not going to change her obsession for shopping or hitting sample sales with a passion. She’s not harming anyone, so what am I going to accomplish by coming after her for it?

Nothing.

I could easily go into her closet and pull out mounds of clothes she hasn’t worn for a couple of years.

Me, I have two rules when it comes to clothes and shoes. For every one thing that comes in, one has to go out. Ties, shoes, suits, shirts, underwear (yes, contrary to popular belief, guys do buy new underwear at least once a decade, whether we need it or not)—all fall under that rule. The outgoing gets donated, while the incoming finds a nice, neat, orderly home. The other rule is, if I haven’t worn it in a year, I don’t really need it. Once a season I have the urge to purge.

Deborah, on the other hand, says that she becomes attached to the clothes, the shoes, the handbags. How can she get rid of them? It’s like abandoning her children. Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but she does have attachment issues with these clothes. Although I could harp on her, make her feel guilty or barrage her with nonstop commentary on her fashion “hoarding,” I don’t.

Is that going to promote marital harmony?

What do you think?

Is it worth scoring some cheap jokes at my wife’s expense if it will come back to bite me when I am trying to score that night?

Learning to accept, tolerate and love your partner’s foibles maintains peace and harmony in your relationship. Those quirks are still going to grate on you, but don’t let them break you. Instead of focusing on the negative, remember to look at the whole package—the big picture. There may be a couple of things that bug the crap out of you about the person you share a bed with, but guess what. At heart they’re good—and anyway, no matter how much complaining you do, they’re unlikely to change. And you wanna know something? You’re no walk in the park either. So maybe, just maybe, if you cut your spouse some slack, they might return the favor.

THE ROKER FAMILY

Does This Sound Familiar?

LEILA

My dad is a really slow driver, which makes everyone in our family a little crazy. And my mom likes to tell everyone how to drive—even New York City cabdrivers. If they’re not going the right way, you can bet she will let them know. And if she doesn’t like how you’re driving, she will correct you.

You see, my mom believes in short honks of the horn and Dad believes in one long honk. That pretty much sums up my parents in a nutshell.

Little things happen during most every family outing that inevitably create a silent car ride because my parents are mad at each other over their driving differences.

“Well, do you want to drive?” Dad asks.

“No, it’s fine,” Mom replies, even though we all know she’s seething inside.

“Then I don’t need to hear your comments,” Dad snaps back.

DEBORAH

Whether it’s Al driving too slowly or his aggressive response to other drivers, his behavior behind the wheel makes me nuts.

If another driver cuts you off—and I don’t mean threatens your life, but maybe moves over—Al feels the need to beep the horn in that long, crass New York way—HOOOOOONNNNK. I know I am splitting hairs, but if someone does that to me, I simply go, beep-beep.

To me there is a difference.

Beep-beep means “watch it,” as opposed to HOOOONNNKK, which means “I’m really pissed off.”

I will say, “Honey, why did you do that?”

“That guy was about to kill me,” Al dramatically replies.

When, in actuality, the car just moved slightly over into our lane.

I have come to the simple conclusion that it’s easier not to drive, especially if it’s Deborah’s car. I just don’t want to drive anymore.

DEBORAH

Don’t say another word!

We fight every time I drive and therefore, you know what? I give in!

DEBORAH

Fight? We don’t fight. I’d say . . . it’s more of a skirmish.

It annoys me.

LEILA

Pappers, you need to learn how to tune it out like I do. You internalize your feelings, and you shouldn’t do that.

I have to keep my mouth shut because it never stops. The picking is a constant part of my life. The only way to avoid the endless “tips,” “suggestions” and gentle “corrections” is simply not to put myself in that position.

LEILA

Or you can just nod in agreement, say okay and do what you want anyway, like I do.

No. That doesn’t work when you’re in a car. You see, when you’re in a car, you’ve got no place to go. You’re stuck. You can’t walk out of the room, close your bedroom door and hide.

DEBORAH

Oh, Al. It’s not like I’m yelling at you!

No! It’s worse. If it was only a moment of yelling or mere silence, it would be fine. It’s the constant pick, pick, pick that never stops that I can’t take!

LEILA

But you feel like that with everything! You think everyone does that to you. If someone brings a comment up more than once, they’re picking on you.

Exactly! The irony is that when I do it to you guys, you get upset and I stop and back off. You, on the other hand, keep coming at me and never let up.

DEBORAH

We’re joking! Kidding around.

Not when it comes to my driving!

LEILA

You just don’t get our jokes.

I’m a very funny guy. I have a great sense of humor! But when it comes to my driving, I don’t get your jokes. “Why can’t you speed up?” That’s not funny!

LEILA

But you do drive really slowly! What I don’t get is why you’re always the one getting pulled over.

Thank you, Leila. Way to have my back!

LEILA

You’re like Driving Miss Daisy, whereas Mom could be in The Fast and the Furious.

So, I take a little more conservative approach in the city than your mother does because I know how crazy the other drivers can be. I don’t tailgate or push—

DEBORAH

Are you saying I tailgate?

LEILA

It’s kind of embarrassing when you tell cabdrivers how to drive. I mean, it is their job . . .

DEBORAH

I’m giving them tips, suggestions.

LEILA

Have you ever seen a suggestion box in a cab?

DEBORAH

There are plenty of drivers who are very open to it. Some even say to me, “Sounds great!” or “That worked out very well.”

Oh yeah? How many times?

LEILA

Once.

DEBORAH

A few.

A few? I don’t think so! You’re always coaching them to go, go, go . . . make the light, turn left, go through the park, don’t go up Madison. . . . The drivers are usually a wreck by the end of the ride.

LEILA

We did get into a wreck one time.

DEBORAH

Yeah, the one time I was quiet in the backseat! Leila and I were both looking at our phones instead of paying attention to the driver.

Look, I am not abrasive with my tips. I am very friendly. Like today at Macy’s. I made a suggestion to the salesgirl. I told her they needed a better system. She said, “You’re right.”

What is she going to say? She was trapped! She wanted to make sure you got out of the store and never came back!

DEBORAH

I think she appreciated it.

LEILA

Mom, nobody appreciates your tips except you.

DEBORAH

As a citizen of the world, I feel it is my responsibility to help my fellow p—

LEILA

A citizen of the world? Even you know that sounds ludicrous!

NICKY

Can you all please stop fighting?

DEBORAH

Nicky, we aren’t fighting. We are just having a lively family discussion. . . .

NICKY

Well, it’s a LOUD discussion!

Ahhhh . . . Welcome to my world. When we get in the car, I turn to Deborah and hold out the keys and say, “Here you go . . .” I’m a much better passenger. Happier too. At least there are no arguments.

DEBORAH

Maybe I should try a day of no suggestions?

LEILA

I’ve never had one of those.

Ooooh, listen . . . Is that a chorus of angels?

• • •

Anyone who has ever been in a relationship or who has kids has endured this kind of banter at one time or another. Being busted on by the ones we love just goes with the territory. When your relationship is strong and healthy and sits on a solid foundation, these types of exchanges won’t create disharmony or bigger issues. They’re rooted in love—deep love and appreciation for who we really are, flaws and all. You see, we all have our flaws. It’s what makes us human and, yes, vulnerable. There’s great strength in allowing that vulnerability to show from time to time. It’s an unwritten rite of passage as a parent that your kids will make fun of you no matter how cool you think you are, how hip you try to be and how hard you work to hang on to the good ol’ days when they couldn’t (or wouldn’t dare) tell you what they really think.

On the other hand, we want our children to go out into the world able to speak their minds—have a voice, share their opinions—even if we don’t like what they have to say about our driving, how we dress, the music we listen to . . . They’re expressing themselves in ways that will make them stronger, happier and better-adjusted young adults as they enter the real world. So like it or not, you’re the litmus test that allows them to find their voice and discover their boundaries. Yeah, we know it’s not always fun to be the guinea pig—but hey, someday they’ll be in your shoes, as parents with kids who make fun of them, and you’ll have the chance to just sit back, smile and think, “Ahhh . . . payback . . . it’s a lovely thing!” Or as Al’s mother and just about every other parent on the planet used to say, “Someday yours are going to do to you what you’ve done to me.”