Me and the Hubby on vacation in Marina

I’ve been with my current husband for 23 years. People ask me all the time how we stay married and happy. The happy part seems to bewilder people the most. Below find my best advice. Next month, I’ll focus on advising the husbands.

Tip One: Realize that your man is not perfect. In any way, shape or form. They want everything their way all the time—along with wanting all the food and beer. They touch up the garage in the wrong color paint. They destroy your bathroom. They forget your birthday. They lose their jobs. They scream for stupid reasons. They demand you do things that you don’t want to do. They watch TV programs you hate. They fart, grab themselves and expect you to have sex with them, all in the same moment. Get over it.

Tip Two: Do not judge his actions based upon your own. If a woman walks by a huge pile of laundry, it means she’s seen it and is choosing not to fold it. If a man walks by a huge pile of laundry, it’s because he doesn’t recognize it as a pile of laundry. It’s merely part of his environment. Like a wall. This is why he steps over piles of shoes, walks around the full grocery bags on the floor and ignores the dishes in the sink. He honestly does not see the mess. This is why I now fold the clothes on Frank’s desk.

Tip Three: Men are not mind readers. You must tell a man what you expect out of him. Using a billboard, a sky-writing airplane and flash cards. Men don’t “instinctively” know what to do around the house. They can’t tell by your huffing and sighing that you wanted them to unload the dishwasher. They may not even know you own a dishwasher. Most men live in their heads. Both of them. At once. It is your job to tell them what you want. Writing your expectations down is best. In big bold letters. On the centerfold from Playboy magazine.

Tip Four: Men are not listening to you if the TV is on. Men are incapable of carrying on a conversation and watching TV at the same time. They will nod and smile and pretend to understand you to get rid of you, but they’ve not heard a word you’ve said. Unless you’ve said the word “sex.” Now when Frank watches TV, I start all conversations like this: “SEX! Frank could you put away the dishes? SEX! And take out the garbage?”

Tip Five: Men aren’t being mean if they don’t listen to you. They’re just being idiots. They don’t mean anything by it. They have no idea they’re not listening to you. They are crunching batting averages, conjuring their perfect fantasy football team, engineering a new way to take out the garbage that doesn’t involve actually touching it, or trying to get you to have sex. Or they’re thinking about food. They are completely disassociated from their surroundings. This is why I now take off my clothes if I want Frank’s attention. Which works, even if his focus isn’t necessarily on what I’m saying.

Tip Six: Men cannot multi-task. Frank says, “We’re more focused.” Ahem. Genetically, women have had to develop the talent of multi-tasking. Every woman I know can recite the contents of their fridge by heart and the date when the milk expires. They know when the kids have to be at soccer practice, band practice and the Chinese language lab. They know all their kids’ birthdays and kids’ friends’ birthdays. When Mom walks in the door after work at night, she supervises homework, cooks dinner, plans the upcoming family vacation, writes a shopping list and responds to fourteen emails, all at once.

When Dad comes home, he absently puts his briefcase directly in the path of the front door, drops his coat on the sofa, stumbles into the kitchen, kisses his wife—which isn’t easy because she won’t stay in one spot—then he heads to the fridge for a much-needed beer. He notices the TV is on. Cute weatherwoman. Nice rack. Going to be cooler tomorrow. But the sportscaster is all wrong about his team. Suddenly, out of nowhere, his wife screams, “Are you going to help me or stand there like an idiot with your mouth hanging open?” Astonished, he can’t figure out how she got mad so quick when all he did was walk in the door.

This is the point where the woman should point to the billboard in the backyard that says “Help With Dinner When You Get Home If You Ever Want To Have Sex With Me Again.”

Tip Seven: Just because he forgets your birthday or Valentine’s Day, doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. It means he’s either forgetful or a Hallmark Rebel. Frank doesn’t like having his love shoved in a box of societal expectations and restrictions. In his mind, loving me and buying me stuff have nothing to do with each other. Which sucks. Beating him with the You Don’t Really Love Me Guilt Stick used to net me some cool gifts. But just because I understand he loves me, doesn’t mean I let him off the gift hook. I notify him two weeks before my birthday so he can’t pull the I’ve-been-so-busy-my-computer-died-the-cat-ate-my-date-book automatic response.

Tip Eight: Marriage isn’t fair to either party. He’s the lump that gets in your way and wants sex right after you get off the phone with your mother. You’re the crazy bitch who screams at him for no reason and won’t sleep with him after talking on the phone to whoever that was, he wasn’t listening. Accept this reality. While Hubby needs to come through with his share of financial and emotional support of the family, he is not there to fulfill your every desire. He’s there because you love him. And because he’s a pretty nice guy.

©2010, Janet Periat

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

My husband is not a romantic. Every holiday where he is supposed to buy me something causes him great stress. Take Valentine’s Day. Which happens to be today. He woke up this morning upset that it was Valentine’s Day. He wants the whole holiday to disappear. He informed me that he hadn’t got me anything and he hoped I was okay with it. I wasn’t, but… what could I do?

Since we’ve been married now for 16 years (our anniversary is tomorrow), I know he loves me. He shows me this everyday when we wake up. As soon as he sees that I’m awake and we meet gazes, he lights up and beams a thousand-watt smile at me. He is the only one in the world who has ever looked at me this way. Not the dozen or so suitors before him, nor my ex ever looked at me this way. Frank, no doubt, loves me dearly.

However, the man absolutely HATES buying me things. Loathes, despises and abhors buying me things. He hates Valentine’s Day, Christmas, my birthday and our anniversary. In the weeks preceding any of the aforementioned holidays, any reference to the holiday makes his body grow rigid. His handsome features harden; his shoulders droop; a blackish cloud forms over his head. He heaves a sigh, then faces me, hands folded in lap. “Please outline your exact expectations for this holiday,” he requests, looking like he’s ordering his last meal before his execution.

Since I am used to all this loathing— but still want presents despite his decidedly glum approach—I normally tell him exactly what I expect. I have no idea why he can’t figure this out. We’ve been together for TWENTY BLOODY YEARS. Yet, with each holiday, he treats it like it’s a whole new form of torture I’ve devised for him.

When I tell him what I want (which are usually surprises or I might as well go buy myself something, a card and sign it for him) his face falls, he sighs and he jots down some notes like he’s filling out a tax form. He nods, miserable, throws the note aside and dives into a search on the Internet on one of his favorite topics to cleanse himself of the unpleasantness. Then I don’t know what he does. But on the morning of the occasion, I find nicely wrapped gifts waiting for me. Or nothing and a wad of excuses about how he had no time to shop, the stores were too busy, the dog ate his wallet, etc, etc. and another wad of promises that he will get me something. The present shows up eventually. He’s never let me down without “permission”. But he still treats the whole thing as if he’s getting a root canal without anesthesia.

What is wrong with him? How bloody hard is it to go to a freakin’ store—since we are mere blocks from ALL of them—and pick me up something?  Every holiday he asks what I want as if he’s just met me. I tell him the same thing every year. Look at my office. Hard rock, skulls, a freakin’ dirt clod in the shape of a heart, dude. Anything. Ever heard of FLOWERS?

I have to give him credit, he used to bring me flowers weekly. I was very touched by this until he told me why he bought them. Because there was a guy who had a little stand at the exit to the parking lot where he worked. He got them because the man practically threw them in the car as he was driving by. What the hell was he doing, telling his wife that the only reason he bought the flowers was because he drove right by the stand? How can he be this dense?

But my Frank is an honorable man. He never exaggerates the truth. He doesn’t believe in platitudes. He doesn’t believe in little white lies to make me feel good. He always tells me the unvarnished truth. While it works great for communication on large issues, it SUCKS for romance. What would cause any man to tell his wife that the only reason he bought her flowers was because he couldn’t avoid the seller?

I am astounded by this aspect of my husband. Sure, I get it. I understand he doesn’t want to be railroaded by some large corporation and blackmailed into buying me some stupid Valentine crap. He is a corporate rebel like I am. Which is why we get along so well. But Frank seems to go way out of his way to avoid being romantic. He seems to think our relationship is above and beyond all these petty displays of affection. What counts is that he loves me, nurtures me, supports me and listens to my rambling monologues about the pros and cons of dying my hair colors not found in nature. And I agree, I think the media hypes Valentine’s Day and makes it a Guilt Fest for Guys. A National Day of Emotional Blackmail. Buy me those freakin’ diamonds, buddy, or you don’t get any.

Okay, granted, Frank is in almost all ways, a great husband. He brings me icepacks for my injuries when I fall off my scooter, he formatted my books and put them online, he does the laundry. These are all huge pluses. But come on. Who else is gonna get me a freakin’ Valentine? No one, that’s who. Now that I have a husband who considers himself above these tacky holidays, I don’t get Valentines or chocolates or flowers unless I put a gun to his head, tell him what store to buy them, the exact size box, everything.

This year, I really wanted a box of Godiva chocolates for Valentine’s Day. I’ve never had a box of Godiva chocolates. I’ve bought them for my mother, but no one has ever bought me any. So I asked Frank for one. You’d think I asked for a freakin’ gold-plated Humvee. His brow furrowed, he frowned. “How much are THOSE?” he asked acidly. Then he went on a tirade about what a ripoff Godiva was and how over-priced their chocolates were. How pretentious. He glumly agreed and threw the catalog I handed him onto a chair and turned back to his computer, muttering about how stupid Valentine’s Day was. Lucky for him, he got sick for the two weeks preceding Valentine’s Day. Two days ago, I let him off the hook. He looked like he won the lottery. He practically danced all the way to his office. And he was still sick.

I still can’t believe how blind he is to this stupid need of mine. I. Write. Romance. Novels. Yet this tells him NOTHING? People who write romance novels are hopeless romantics. All the heroes in my books buy their girlfriends and wives lavish gifts without being asked or railroaded into it. They actually enjoy it. They like making their women happy. They do it for the sheer pleasure of seeing their lovers happy. They don’t need a gun put to their head. They anticipate the holidays; they don’t even ask what she wants. They observe her and can tell what she’d like. They bring her flowers spontaneously. Jewelry. Cars. And this is all within six months of the relationship. All my heroes are romantic fools.

Unfortunately, these men only reside in my imagination. I honestly don’t think they really exist outside of romance novels. I think the idea of a romantic male is a myth. And, I do really get this. I know if I put real men into my books, my novels would never freakin’ sell and no woman would want to read them. Heavy sigh.

So here I am, on a Valentine’s Day with no card, no flowers, no candy, no nothing. Tomorrow is my anniversary. Yet another day without any recognition. We will be going out to lunch, that will be nice, but unfortunately, I will have to do without a gift—you aren’t going to believe this. Frank just walked in and handed me a chocolate rose.

Now I can’t even complain about him. See? He bought me that just to torture me. Just to negate this whole column. This is what’s wrong with marriage. Right when you have them pegged, right when you’re sure you have them proven wrong and unjust, they turn around and surprise you. Jerks.

Now I feel like a total ungrateful selfish bitch. Probably because in the scheme of things, complaining about Frank not buying me stupid crap IS ungrateful and selfish.

This is the seamy underside of marriage. It messes with your mind. You get all caught up in these stupid made-up holidays and someone tells you that your mate is supposed to shower you with meaningless gifts and that will prove his love to you. I blame society! I blame the advertisers! I am not selfish, I have been brainwashed!

All right. I’m going to go eat my chocolate and hope I don’t choke on it. Stupid Valentine’s Day. Now I really hate it. And tomorrow is our anniversary. My present to Frank will be NO MORE SILLY EXPECTATIONS.

‘Course a small token of appreciation for sixteen years of marriage wouldn’t be a bad thing…

©2008, Janet Periat