Hey Humans!

Sorry I haven’t posted in a while, I was off in Arizona pitching my work to agents and editors. What a great conference! I had such a good time and saw my niece, too. And her husband and daughter. And dog. Arizona rocks! No pun intended. It’s such a beautiful state and so bloody cheap compared to California.

So here is a column I wrote a while back about the joys of marriage. I hope you enjoy!

Out of my forty-five years, I have been married or in a committed relationship for twenty-eight of them. This means that I have been annoyed for most of my adult life. While I wouldn’t change anything, it’s sure fun to bitch.

Number One: We Are All Total Quirky Freaks

I am obsessed with time. Frank is obsessed with doing things “right”. Frank is the kind of guy who walks into the dentist office as the hands of the clock land exactly on the time of his appointment. I am at the dentist office one half hour before I need to be there. I am everywhere one half an hour before I need to be there. I have a wholly unnatural fear of being late. Whenever we venture out together, whether it’s to a party, an appointment, anywhere, I am pacing, looking at the clock, sweating and swearing to myself. Is he ready yet? Why aren’t we leaving? We’re going to be late! Could he please hurry up? Asking Frank to hurry up activates the passive/aggressive module in his brain which makes him move even more slowly. I swear, he looks like a film stuck in slow motion. Which drives me INSANE. I am always convinced we are going to be late and if we’re late… well, you know. The entire world will end.

According to Frank, I open the mail wrong, I break down boxes wrong and I fix my tea wrong. Mail is opened with a letter opener. Period. It is not ripped open and teeth should never EVER be involved. One does not stomp on a box to break it down, one carefully dismantles the box, like reverse Origami. When making tea, after the tea has steeped for the appropriate length of time, the teaball is removed and THEN the milk and sugar is added. Here’s his direct quote: “See, you add the milk and sugar while the teaball is still in the cup. So when you remove the teaball, the tea leaves, milk and sugar create a perfect medium for bacterial growth.” And tea bacteria is a very dangerous thing indeed. I’m sure I’m creating the next Superfund site with all my negligent tea making. Biohazard Central. Someone call the Bacteria Police. Of course, according to Frank, I should have been cited by the Time Police a long time ago.

Number Two: There Is No Way To Listen To Your Spouse All The Time

Frank and I have cultivated the art of looking like we’re listening to the other when we are not. We both nod at the appropriate times and say “uh-huh” all the while we are busy thinking about other things. Frank’s brain is mostly concerned with banjo, robotics, electronics, computers and some of the most mind-dulling subjects on the planet (to me). My brain is either producing plots for novels or feasting upon the latest nugget of local gossip (infinitely more interesting than boring old science). I’ve even tried to listen to him sometimes, made a great effort in paying attention to him, but I’ve found that I’m physically incapable of listening to him talk about something that doesn’t interest me. Apparently, he has the same difficulty. Mostly, however, we actually believe the other is paying attention to us, until we get tested. “Where are you going?” he’ll ask. “I just told you. I’m going to town. You even said ‘oh, good, town,” I reply. “I did?” “Yes, you did.” “Oh. Well, I still wasn’t listening to you.” “Okay, so I’m going to town.” “You’re going to town, NOW?” “That’s what I just said.” “You didn’t say you were going now.” “Yes, I did.” “I didn’t hear you.” “I just told you.” “Oh. So…can you pick me up a sandwich?”

Number Three: Men Like Fire

Frank is obsessed with making fire. He has books, videos and more steel and flint devices than I ever knew existed. From when he was a Boy Scout to now, he has spent much of his life in this singular pursuit. But never with a lighter. Fire creation has to be done with some weird device that originated on some South Pacific Island that uses a special fungus for tinder. On our hearth, we have piles of various fungi, specifically drying for his fire-making. We have cat-tails hanging near the fireplace, drying, which also makes excellent tinder, he tells me. I’m like, “Buy a frickin’ lighter and get that crap outta my house.” However, I will say, Frank is Mr. Fire Safety Man. He has never lit anything on fire by accident other than his own hair (that’s another column).

Which is totally unlike my first husband, Mark. Mark was a pyromaniac. This one time, we borrowed my parent’s Weber kettle for a barbecue. We had no charcoal lighter fluid so unbeknownst to me, Mark decided to use gasoline. Yes, gasoline. One of the many things he didn’t take into account when making this decision was the vents at the bottom of the kettle. The gasoline went past the briquettes and pooled in the ash catch basin under the kettle. After the explosion, I rushed outside to see not a barbecue, but a giant fireball on metal legs. This wasn’t even our fireball on metal legs, this was my parents’ fireball on metal legs. Basically, Mark barbecued my parents’ barbecue. Mark had also forgotten to take into account where the barbecue was located: under some low-hanging branches, which, by the time I got outside, were smoking nicely. (Reason #457 for why Mark is now my EX husband.)

Number Four: Men Want What Their Wives Have

Food, the TV remote, seemingly everything. Whatever I’m eating, whether it be at home or in a restaurant, Frank wants a bite. Or all of it. In the morning, whatever I’m reading, Frank wants to read it. I pick out a magazine, start reading and there’s Frank, vulching, trying to get a peek at the article. When I won’t let him read over my shoulder, he sits across from me and attempts to read the back of the magazine. “Hey, can you hold that up? No, higher.” Pretty soon, I’m turned into a pretzel, trying to hold the article so we can both read it. (I’ve complained so much about this proclivity of Frank’s that he has now perfected the art of reading print upside down.)

Number Five: Men Cannot Multi-Task

Normally, when I watch TV, I’m playing a videogame on my handheld, reading a magazine, flipping through a catalog, making a list for the grocery store, jotting down a plot for a novel, planning our next vacation and munching on popcorn. Frank is watching TV. That’s it. He is also incapable of looking away if the set is on. “Honey?” I ask. No response. There is a Charmin commercial on. “Honey, this is a commercial, can I ask you something?” No response. “Frank!” “What? Why are you shouting?” he demands. “Because I want your attention.” “Oh.” “So, when are we going over the hill?” No response, his eyes are glued to the Cingular commercial. “Frank!” “What? Why are you shouting?” Repeat ad infinitum. Frank, however, remembers every plot to every movie we’ve ever seen. I could watch the same movie every six months and it’s new every time.

Number Six: Men Never Tire Of Seeing Their Wives Naked

And God bless them for that. At forty-five and kinda flabby, this truly is a gift.

Number Seven: Marriage Is All About Not Killing The Other Person

People are annoying. People you live with are even more annoying. Spouses are the most annoying thing next to children or your parents. So why do married people live longer than single people? I think it’s because married people make a special effort to outlive their partner—just so they can have the last word.

Number Eight: Women Are Better At Finding Things Than Men Are

“Honey, where’s the butter?” he asks. “Where’s it’s been for the past seventeen years,” I answer snidely. “Where’s that?” “In the butter compartment in the door.” Pause. “It’s not there now.” “Yeah, it is, I saw it there this morning.” “Well, it’s not here now.” “I’m busy,” I counter, even more irritated. “I need the butter, my toast is almost done,” he says in an urgent tone. “Goddamnit, you want me to come in there, don’t you?” “The butter is not in the compartment,” he replies. I throw down my notebook, stomp into the kitchen, fling open the fridge door. “Oh, it’s not there,” I reply, momentarily embarrassed. “See?” he says. Then I spot the butter, just six inches away from the compartment on a shelf. “Well, dude, look, it’s right there, like, six inches away.” “Oh, I looked there, but the butter was cleverly disguised as cheese.” This conversation happens every day in every corner of the globe. “Honey, where’s the yak butter?”

Okay, so husbands and wives are irritating. But without them, who would we blame for misplacing our socks?

© 2004, Janet Periat