Not My Mother's Dining Room

Real Living with Multiple Sclerosis, Nov/Dec 2004 by Ambler, Beth Rothstein

Tired of living a lie, the author "breaks up" with her traditional dining room.

I WAKE UP IN A MISERABLE, FOUL MOOD, drag myself out of bed, and grab my bathrobe. My normally light and fluffy robe now seems to weigh an enormous amount. My first instinct is to take a detour in my own home. I cannot bear to walk past those same pictures that have been hanging on those same walls one more day. I cannot recall exactly when I stopped noticing them.

My husband and I had my brother Richard and his smug artistic friend over for dinner the previous evening. When Mr. Smug walked through my dining room and gazed at my artwork, he looked at Richard, stuck his nose up in the air, and blurted out, "Oh, Nagel! How eighties!" That was accompanied by a giggle and then, "Isn't she just a New Jersey housewife."

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, which was hugely gracious of me, I decided that he must have believed I was not within earshot.

Realizing what I'm not

Now here comes the tricky part: I really have no idea who I am. Let me explain. Technically, Mr. Smug was right. I currently am a New Jersey housewife. But I used to have a career, and my job was everything to me. I had my whole life planned out; I was going to be the first female vice president in my company. Then, at the ripe old age of 33, BAM! Multiple sclerosis strikes!

So here I am, with a completely new game plan. Well, really, it's not much of a plan; it's just that the other one simply became obsolete. I'm home every day. I have a beautiful home (Martha Stewart would be proud). The problem is that I am not Martha. But, for a while, I thought I could be; her magazines made me think I could be. They were wrong. They just made me feel inadequate for many years.

This morning, instead of taking that detour, I take a hard look at my dining room. I go in there. I have not really been in there since I built the house years ago. I don't even clean it; I am blessed with a housekeeper (there has to be some benefit to having multiple sclerosis).

Unfortunately, Mr. Smug was on target regarding my artwork. I purchased these pictures in 1980 for my first apartment. I look in my china cabinet. The dishes have a thick layer of dust on them. I glance at the chandelier; the light bulbs are dim from the layer of the dust that covers them. Two thoughts go through my head: wow, this housekeeper really stinks; and this room has turned into some sort of shrine to "suburbia" for reasons I will never know.

I look in the closet. It contains perfectly matched linens, tablecloths, and runners, and even place cards for the perfectly set table. I have candles and flatware that have never been used. I own all sorts of liquors and sherrys, and the glasses to serve it in. I even have a decanter. I am ready to party!

Why do I own this stuff? Who do I think I am? I have never drunk sherry, "entertained," or hosted a single party. I own this stuff because I thought that that's what you were supposed to do when you purchased a home. The house came with a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, four bedrooms, and two-and-a-half baths. I then bought and pul the appropriate "stuff in each of the rooms, to make them look like they were used for what I knew they were supposed to be used for. Like the magazines told me to do.

Well, the jig is now up! At the age of 41, and with the prompting of a pompous jerk, I break up with my dining room. I come to terms with the fact that I do not bake yummy cookies, roast mouth-watering turkeys, or host fabulous parties. I am done with the façade, and I finally have a plan.

Celebrating who I am

I pull the pictures off the wall and walk them out to the garbage. I feel liberated. I smile when I walk back into the barren room that is morphing into my writing office. I realize then and there: I've known all along what it is I do. I write stories. In the shower, in the car, at the grocery store, at the dry cleaner's, while waiting in checkout lines-in every aspect of my "boring suburban New Jersey housewife life." I also realize that I love being a New Jersey housewife. I just needed someone to remind me.

I donate all of my dining room furniture to charity and purchase a beautiful new office set. All of this is done without my husband's knowledge. He comes home and does a double-take, his neck whipping around so fast it reminds me of Linda Blair s famous scene from "The Exorcist." The next week, after I finish decorating, I see a hint of fear in my husband s eyes when I ask him if he likes the new pictures.

"You do realize, Beth, that Marilyn Monroe is from the fifties?" he stutters.

Beth Rothstein Ambler resides in Jackson, NJ.