If It Was Easy, They'd Call the Whole Damn Thing a Honeymoon Page 3

  ME: “How was basketball tonight?”

  JOE: “Good.”

  ME: “How many guys showed up?”

  JOE: “Eleven.”

  ME: “Did they finish redoing the floors in the gym yet?”

  JOE: “Yup.”

  ME: “How were they?”

  JOE: “Nice.”

  ME: “Did you play well?”

  JOE: “I was okay.”

  ME: “How did your ankle feel?”

  JOE: “Fine.”

  ME: “Was Danny there?”

  JOE: “Yeah.”

  ME: “Anything new with him?”

  JOE: “Not really.”

  ME: [to self ] Well this is a whole effing heap of fun! [to Joe] “Who else was there?”

  JOE: “The usual.”

  ME: [silently] The defense rests, Your Honor. No further questions.

  Because I write about relationships a lot, I get a ton of press releases on the subject. The headline on a recent one, sent out to announce the results of a series of studies, boldly proclaimed, “Women write emotional e-mails while men prefer short, straightforward ones.” This is news? Did the “researchers” spend actual money to come to this shocking conclusion? Or did one of them merely extrapolate when she noticed that her own inbox was filled with spousal responses that contained nothing but the letter K (Think, “Want to go out for dinner tonight?” “K”), as if the sender might be suggesting he is far too busy and important to go to the laborious lengths of typing out the entire word Okay?

  Communication experts point out that conversationally, in addition to their desire to share excruciatingly minute details, women tend to key in on similarities (“My kid/mom/dog/ housekeeper/ass fat does that, too!”), while men pretty much take everything they hear as a challenge (“Your kid/mom/dog/ housekeeper/ass fat does that? Big deal—listen to what mine does!”). These same professionals insist that the way to motivate and persuade people of either sex is to talk about things they care about in ways that matter to them. Far as I can tell, that would mean the preceding conversation would have worked out swimmingly for Joe had I just put it this way:

  “Want to tell me all about basketball while I give you a blowjob?”

  Here’s the irony of this ubiquitous situation: Advice on bridging the titanic communication gap between men and women has become its own billion-dollar industry. The category pioneer, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, is no longer just a book, it’s an empire, complete with online magazine, dating service, wellness retreats, seminars, CDs, DVDs, personal coaching, franchise opportunities, even a supplement line—because perhaps the sexes would finally get along if men would just get a little more choline bitartrate in their diets while women simultaneously upped their intake of ginger root and boron.

  Call me cynical, but I’m thinking that if his-and-hers vitamins were the answer, we’d have read about it in Shape or seen an investigative Consumer Alert segment on Dateline. The gals at The View would be all over that, don’t you think? Your favorite bloggers would be blabbing about it, your hairdresser would already be hawking it right at her station, and Oprah would resurrect her beloved show for one glorious encore where she would interview happily supplementing couples and then bequeath cases of the stuff to her audiences, packaged generously in the trunks of their new Mercedes-Benz sport coupes, not that I’m bitter. Picture the news teasers: “Groundbreaking new supplement fosters satisfying communication between men and women!” Who among you wouldn’t tune in at six?

  Alas, we don’t need fancy vitamins, because I think I have the answer. I have actually figured out how women—the doers in most relationships—can turn the conversational tide without their partner’s consent or cooperation. I know, we all want the guys to step up and “own” their part in our collective relational dysfunction. But life is short, and really, isn’t the final result more important than how you get there? Because I believe it is, I present to you my radically simple, three-step process for successful marital communication:

  1. Shut the fuck up for five lousy minutes. Face the fact that your partner really, truly, deeply doesn’t care to hear a real-time report of your every thought or a detailed recap of your latest dream or phone call. “Had a funny dream” or “talked to your sister” will do just fine. If he wants to know any more, he’ll ask. (Don’t hold your breath.)

  2. Go out and get some girlfriends, or start spending more time with the ones you’ve got. Once you commit to Step 1, this will be both easy and imperative, as you will have seven billion thoughts, hopes, and random musings floating about in your head demanding to be shared. The beauty of Step 2 is that your girlfriends actually do want to analyze your mother’s motives for sending you that curt e-mail, and they will be equally and vocally disgusted when you tell them about the dirty look the cashier gave you when you tried to use a handful of expired coupons at Bed Bath & Beyond.

  3. Stop expecting your husband to be a chick. The mere fact that he does not have a vagina—probably one of the more compelling reasons you married him in the first place—means that he does not, will not, and cannot keep your conversational pace. And even if he does, will, and can, he probably doesn’t want to and will resent the hell out of you if you keep trying to maximize his verbal potential. Accept this about him, and he will worship you forever. (Silently, of course.)

  Albert Einstein, the original genius, is reported to have defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Which explains why trying to have a simple chat with your spouse can make you feel like a lunatic. (You: “Want to go to Doug and Karan’s for dinner on Friday?” Him: “Sure.” You: “Great, I’ll let Karan know.” Him: “Let Karan know what?”) In countless laboratory experiments, scientists have proven that rats that are rewarded for pressing a lever with a pellet of food will continue to press the lever. Why? Because their actions produce a positive response. It’s a simple reward system. But if pressing the lever ceases to result in the desired pellet drop, even a lowly, filthy, sewer-dwelling rat will eventually abort what has obviously become a futile mission.

  Women, not so much. “Honey, what’s wrong? Do you want to talk about it? Come on, just tell me. Please. You know you can talk to me, don’t you? Is it something at work? Did I do something? You know it’s not healthy to bottle up all of your feelings. There obviously is something wrong, so just tell me what it is. You really will feel better. Come on, I tell you everything . Honestly, you are the most emotionally constipated person I have ever met. I might as well be talking to a wall. I will stop bugging you as soon as you tell me what’s wrong!”

  Rats.

  We see our husbands slouched down on the couch, staring off into space, fingertips comfortably poised inside the waistband of their boxer-briefs, and we are powerless to resist.

  “Whatcha thinking about?” we ask, hoping the question sounds more indifferent than intrusive—and praying the answer is “Oh, just how wonderful you are” or some variation thereof.

  “Nothing,” he mumbles back, and we instantly become irate. What a liar! He has to be thinking about something! How can you think about nothing? It’s not humanly possible. If he’s truly pondering nothing, it has to be in some sort of context, right? Like, “There’s nothing good on TV anymore,” or “Nothing is better than a quickie after lunch,” or “There’s nothing in the refrigerator except some sour milk and a few squishy grapes.” I mean, who can think about nothing? Go ahead. Try to think about nothing, just to see if it can be done. I’m betting that in less than two seconds you’ll remember that you forgot to check to see if you turned off the light inside the car after you brought in the groceries, and it’s your stepmom’s birthday next week and you didn’t get her a card yet, and where the hell could that damned checkbook be, because now the phone bill is exactly six days overdue, and what if there really isn’t a God?

  We just can’t stop at nothing.

  As inexplicable as it seems to anyone with ovaries, guys the world over
insist they really can achieve an instant alpha-wave brain state whereby all their erstwhile thoughts become suspended like fake flies in a cube of plastic novelty ice. They can do this day or night, alone or in a crowd, practically on command. Like the ability to pee standing up or go topless without getting arrested, it’s simply a skill they have that most women don’t. (Look on the bright side: We get multiple orgasms and the privilege of sipping fruity umbrella drinks without being mocked. A pretty fair trade-off, if you ask me.)

  “At Least You’re Not Married to Him”

  When we go to a zoo or any public event where animals are involved, he puts his zoology degree to use (no, this isn’t sarcasm; he really does have a zoology degree), and he loudly “talks” to the animals. We wander away, hoping no one will know he’s with us.

  TRICIA

  There’s a saying: Women marry men hoping that they will change; men marry women hoping that they won’t. When my husband and I were in the thick of those delicious, giddy, lust-driven early months of our courtship, do you think I was constantly pleading with him to share his every innermost thought or badgering him to “talk about the relationship”? Hell, no. We were too busy having sex! Plus, I didn’t want to pressure him or seem needy or insecure. In fact, the first (dozen or so) fights I can recall having with him were those first (dozen or so) times I tried to convince him that we needed to . . . all together now . . . talk about the relationship.

  When one half of a couple has a burning itch that the other doesn’t have and therefore doesn’t have the vaguest idea how or where to scratch, eventually the itchy one will find someone else who can do their soothing. My sister Laurie is like human hydrocortisone cream to my chronically chafed soul. Despite the three thousand miles and three time zones separating us, somehow we manage to talk nearly every day. Of course we both go to great lengths to downplay the frequency and duration of our chats to our husbands, whom we have jointly dubbed the Phone Police. We’ll be enjoying our daily heart-to-heart when one of the “officers” will enter the room. “Phone Police,” we whisper before trying to slip the receiver soundlessly into the cradle. “Who were you talking to?” Joe always wants to know. “My sister,” I half mumble. “Didn’t you just talk to her yesterday?” he demands. “Yeah, so?” I ask belligerently. A man who successfully maintains most of his longdistance relationships through an annual phone call couldn’t possibly understand.

  I know that it is pointless to rely on my husband to satisfy my urge to analyze and dissect the mad and mystifying world, but every once in a while—like when my sister is asleep or off at a conference or her cell phone battery dies—I nevertheless give it a shot. And it never fails. Once I start to delve into the meat of a deliciously juicy story—one I’ve waited hours to share, so that the kids would be in bed and I’d have my husband’s undivided attention—I am swiftly and systematically cut off before I even get to the good part.

  ME: “Did you hear that Bob cheated on Shelly and he got the other gal pregnant?”

  JOE: “Bob’s an asshole.”

  ME: “I know! Isn’t he the worst? He’s despicable. He’s slime. I don’t even know what I’ll do the next time I see him. God, I hope I’m not nice to him. I’ll have to remember to try to be really nasty. If you see me starting to be nice, remind me, okay? Anyway, Shelly got this amazing lawyer—the guy’s supposed to be an absolute shark—and, wait a minute, don’t you want to know who Bob knocked up?”

  JOE: “Not really. Bob’s an asshole. Shelly needs to get an attorney.”

  ME: “Shelly has an attorney, I just told you that, and we don’t know the other woman anyway, but her kid plays soccer with Shelly’s son and she’s supposed to be this totally trampy bimbo with big fake boobs who hits on all the dads at—”

  JOE: “Who’s the attorney?”

  ME: “How should I know? I’m just trying to tell you—”

  JOE: “Do you know whose name the house is in?”

  ME: “No, but—”

  JOE: “What about any other assets?”

  ME: “I’m going to go call Laurie.”

  Interestingly, and despite all of this, it has never been proven that women talk more than men. In fact, the frequently cited “women speak twenty thousand words a day while men utter only seven thousand” statistic turned out to have been completely unfounded—practically pulled out of thin air—although it’s possible that is simply because no one’s bothered to undertake the tedious task of actually counting how many words are spoken by a randomly selected mixed-gender sample of the population. And even if they did, someone else would get all pissed off and throw up her near-mute aunt Martha or annoyingly loquacious brother Larry as proof to the contrary, because of course there is an exception to every rule. I actually tried to find some legitimate statistics, but most of the research is liberally sprinkled with phrases like “collated meta-analysis” and “gender similarity hypothesis” that make my eyes glaze over and my brain turn to oatmeal. And that’s fine, because I don’t need a double-blind, placebo-controlled study to tell me what I already know: My husband and I are very, very different. Whether it’s nature, nurture, programming, or perception matters not. It’s not that he “doesn’t talk” or “can’t communicate,” it’s just that he doesn’t want to talk about the same things that I do. He isn’t interested in dissecting, emotionally and in agonizing depth, the many and varied reasons our friends Sam and Cindy have decided not to have children. He couldn’t care less what the vet said about the cat’s chronic eye-goop problem. (Allergies. Who knew cats got allergies?) He just wants to know (a) what we—and by we he means me—are supposed to do about it, and (b) how much it’s going to cost. He will never, ever want to discuss a single title in the towering stack of books constantly threatening to topple my nightstand or debate the ethical implications of fictionalizing a memoir. (The only novel he’s ever read is Moby-Dick, and trust me, we long ago tapped out the reading-group discussion potential there.) Ask him what he thinks happens when you die, and his go-to answer is, “Who cares? You’re dead.” And get this: The guy honestly doesn’t give a rat’s ass which celebrities have overdosed, or recently checked into rehab, or are rumored to be covered in cellulite. I know! And he doesn’t even lord his moral superiority over me. It’s enough to drive a wife insane.

  Even though it’s proven over and over to be a futile move, because Joe and I both work from home I frequently toss out brief status updates such as, “I’m going to the grocery store after I get the girls.” To me, this is a simple information-providing statement, one intended to prevent him from worrying when I haven’t returned from school pickup in an hour. Nevertheless, as I am trying to wrangle the unwieldy, NASCAR-replica shopping cart our daughters insist we use while thwarting their persistent efforts to fill it with highfructose, trans fat–filled goodies and not knock over any canned-goods displays or stooped-over little old ladies, almost without fail my cell phone rings, forcing me to dig frantically through the ridiculous quagmire of junk that has somehow found its way into my purse.

  “Where are you guys?” Joe wants to know, sounding mildly alarmed.

  “At the grocery store! I told you we were going after pickup,” I say with all the patience I can muster.

  “Okay, have fun,” he chirps absentmindedly.

  Fun? Oh yeah, buddy, this is a flipping spa vacation right here. One I’m sure you’ ll want to hear all about when I get home . . . right after you ask me where we’ve been.

  “At Least You’re Not Married to Him”

  Imagine me at my desk and my husband, Brian, at home when the following argument ensues—verbatim—via instant messenger:

  BRIAN: Wait a minute. It’s next weekend? Why have you been saying weekend after next this whole week, then?

  DEILIA: Because I’m talking about the weekend after next. Not next weekend. You have “this” weekend, “next” weekend, and “the weekend after next.”

  BRIAN: The next weekend after this past Monday was THIS weekend, not next w
eekend.

  DEILIA: Yes.

  BRIAN: Soooooooo . . .

  DEILIA: This weekend is 3/13. NEXT weekend is 3/20 and the weekend after next (which is what I’ve been saying) is 3/27.

  BRIAN: When you said “weekend after next” on Monday it meant next weekend.

  DEILIA: Nope. On Monday it was this weekend. I would’ve said NEXT weekend.

  BRIAN: Unless there was a weekend in between Monday and Friday, the next weekend would be this weekend. Just speak in dates for that stuff, okay?

  DEILIA: You just said it yourself! Next weekend is THIS weekend. Why are you so upset???

  BRIAN: EXACTLY. On Monday you said weekend after next.