My Friends Wife

I have this friend. This friend is definitely not me. It's this other guy who is my age and married with four children, but not me. I'll call him Gergitch. While having lunch together one day Gergitch asked me what bugs me about my wife. I quickly responded that nothing bugs me about my wife. She's an angel and I'm lucky to have her. He laughed, audibly, and said, "Come on. I've met Kathry..." and before he could finish her sweet name I smacked him so hard his sandwich flew out of his mouth. Mind you, it wasn't a close fisted smack. I would never discipline a good friend with a close fisted smack.

At that, Gergitch went on to explain that he has this one issue with his wife that has plagued his marriage since day one. "What is it?" I asked out loud to Gergitch, who is not me. "Laundry" he replied.

Side Note: During the second year of our marriage my wife and I went to Boston with a couple we had become close friends with. While cruising around in our rental car the female half of our friends thought it would be fun to play the game, "What do you guys fight about?" This is how it's played. Someone asks me and my wife what we fight about, and then for the next two days we fight about it while driving around Boston. Needless to say, it's great fun. (It should be noted that those friends have never invited us on another outing that lasted longer than dinner.) I remember the trip well and I remember that we fought for literally two days. But for the life of me I have no idea what we fought about (although I'm sure it was something serious like the growing economic divide between America's rich and poor, or the underlying historical causes of the turmoil in the Middle East, or her mom).

So when Gergitch told me that laundry was the bane of his marriage I literally LOL. I then LMAO. Finally, I lost control, and LMFAO. He told me that piles of laundry build up around the house and about once a fortnight when he can't take it anymore he explodes and it turns into a grudge match that leaves a heavy cloud over the whole house. He said he felt he bore the lions share of total responsibility and was a victim of an unfair division of labor. I explained that that last sentence was redundant and to stop wasting my time with meaningless repetition.

"Do you love her?" I asked.
"Yes," he assured me.
"Let's say, for arguments sake, that you knew in advance that she would never do laundry again. Knowing this ahead of time, would you still want to be married to her?"
"Of course," he assured me again.
"Then stop intentionally damaging your relationship to prove a point over such a trivial issue. You're shooting yourself in the foot to prove your gun is loaded. I'm with you. She should do the laundry willingly and quickly, but she's your wife, and your issue is laundry. Grow up you dumb bastard."

Then I slapped the sandwich out of his mouth again, for good measure.

As my words and the sting of a second smack sunk in I sat back and took a sip of my drink to keep myself from smiling as I secretly reveled in the simple poetry of my wise counsel. I also did Gergitch the courtesy of pointing out that he was wrought with frailty and that his wife was forced to step over his metaphorical piles on a regular basis, but was not the type to point them out. He considered this soberly, and that ended our lunch.

I caught up with Gergitch some days later and he confided that he had gone home after our conversation full of remorse and apologized to his wife for his critical attitude and vowed to mention her piles less and to help with them more. I smiled and congratulated him on his growth, and then we embraced in a very heterosexual way.

So, what do you guys fight about?

You've Been Lip Serviced

Most people don’t know this, but my wife is a master of persuasion and champion debater. And being a graduate of a state college public speaking class, I am well aware of the tools used against me when we are forced to go toe-to-toe in a verbal sparing match. They are the 3 Greek elements of persuasion, as set forth by Aristotle himself, and I’m sure you will all agree that he was one deep thinking SOB.

The three elements are as follows:
Ethos (Credibility or Ethics) means convincing by the character of the speaker, or persuading by appealing to one’s ethics.
Pathos (Emotional) means persuading by appealing to one’s emotions.
Logos (Logical) means persuading by the use of reasoning.

My wife, like all females, has never tried to use Logos. Before you ladies freak out and blow an ovary, let me say it is not my intention to offend. Females cannot be faulted for this. It’s just that they are born without the part of the brain that produces the logic hormone. We can no more expect them to use logic as we can expect them to pee accurately standing up. They’re just not built that way.

She is also unable to use the element of Pathos. This time however it is not due to a lack, but rather an over production of the element. When she attempts its use, words and noises fly out of her mouth in an uncontrolled barrage of inflammatory nonsense, which undulate in pitch, volume, and intensity. It's like watching one of the mutants, from the X-Men movies, as they first discover their powers and unwittingly cause large amounts of destruction.

As for Ethos, well, she uses it on a very limited basis.

So how can she possibly be a persuasive speaker, you are probably wondering. It is because she has discovered and capitalized on the forth Greek element;
Hyperbolos: persuading by the use of ridiculous exaggeration.

Allow me to illustrate with an excerpt from our most recent debate.

Situation: We are at the local Dell Taco to appease my wife’s “cravings.” This locale is equipped with a play area for kids, which my daughter disappears into the moment we arrive. Halfway through our meal…

Wife: Where’s Maggie?
Me: She’s playing.
Wife: Where? I can’t see her. Can you see her?
Me: She in one of those tubes. She’s fine.
Wife: Go find her.
Me: Go find her? Honey, there’s like 50 miles of tubing in there. It could take days. She’ll come out when she gets hungry.
Wife: There’s an outside exit in the play area. How can you be sure she didn’t open the door and run out into the street and is about to get splattered by a giant semi from Hell?
Me: What?
Wife: She’s probably in the back of a windowless van, gagged, bound, drugged, and helpless, with you sitting here stuffing your face, while her captors are forcing her to shoot up heroin and smoke crack and do acid.
Me: That’s a lot of drugs.
Wife: She could be getting high and watching pornography right now.
Me: Huh?
Wife: Maybe she’s in a shipping crate, on her way to war-torn Africa where she’ll be given a gun and forced to participate in the latest ethnic cleansing campaign and kill mindlessly while, simultaneously being forced into a life of child prostitution as the tribe passes her around like some kind of soulless plaything, and pushed to the brink of existence till she is nothing more than an empty shell, a vague memory of the cute, rosy-cheeked girl we once knew and one day, as she teeters on the edge of a monstrous African cliff, before she leaps to her own demise upon the jagged rocks below, she will utter one… last… word.
“DAAAADDYYYYY!!!”
Me: *gulp*
Wife: You’d never be able to forgive yourself. You’ll sit around in a constant state of morbid depression, getting old, fat, ugly, bald, stupid, and retarded. Unmovable. You’ll burst into uncontrollable, seizure-like, fits of weeping every time you think about the day you chose a burrito over your own daughter. Hmmph.

And with that last “hmmph,” I was defeated; once again bested by the Queen of Rhetoric. I promptly ran to the play place certain I was too late.

As it turns out, she was only playing on the slide. Not a windowless van in sight.

Separate Vacations

Recently my wife expressed the desire to take the kids alone to visit her family or on some other excursion without me. I think the conversation came up during, or immediately following, an argument while her words and actions were still totally dictated by emotion. “It will be more relaxing and fun for me” she said, “I won’t have to constantly be worrying if you are having a good time. I can sit around and talk to my mom all day about babies and glass wares and won’t have to endure your eye rolling. Plus it will be easier to take care of the kids with my family around.”
Well, soon after that conversation we were supposed to be in Northern Utah (five hours away) for the wedding of a family friend. I couldn’t go due to work and told her this was the perfect opportunity to test her theory of a better time without me. (No, we are not experiencing marital problems. No more problems than the average marriage between two headstrong people, that is.) The following are samples of phone conversations that took place between when she drove away to when she got back.

Day 1) She called 3 hrs after leaving.

Me: Hello.
Her: Why did we have children?
Me: It’s not going well?
Her: They’re screaming bloody murder and I got a speeding ticket.
Me: How fast were you going.
Her: I WASN’T SPEEDING! THE COP WAS A VINDICTIVE WANKER!

Day 2) Day of the wedding.

Me: Hello.
Her: You could have come if you really wanted to.
Me: How’s the wedding?
Her: Your kid has almost been run over four times now!
Me: So do the bride and groom look happy?
Her: How the crap should I know!? I want to tear the hair out of my head!
Me: I’m sorry they’re being difficult. How’s your family?
Her: What’s with the quiz? Did you call just to give me the third degree?
Me: Honey, you called me.
Her: You can't just let things go, can you?

Day 3) Hanging out with family and friends.

Me: Hello.
Her: I hope you’re happy. (hang up)

Day 4) More family and friends.

Me: Hi sweetie.
Her: You can take sweetie and shove it! I’m getting my tubes tied.
Me: Ok, I’ll make the arrangements.
Her: You would.

Day 5) On the way home, six hours after departure.

Me: Hi honey. Where are you?
Her: Where am I!? I’m only HALF WAY HOME!
Me: What’s taking so long?
Her: Your kids! They’ve got bladders like squirrels and stomachs like elephants! It’s a constant feeding, pooping, peeing, screaming, crying frenzy! I WANT TO RAM HOT REBAR INTO MY SKULL!
Me: I’m sorry. I’ll give you a long back rub when you get home.
(long pause)
Her: Get an adoption agency on the phone, and see if anyone is looking for a pair of siblings.

All in all I think she was quite satisfied with her time away and looks forward to doing it again.

The Delayed Sting of Cupid's Arrow

In this season of love I am compelled to contemplate the nature of romance – compelled by our society, commercialism, and my wife who insists all household upkeep will cease if I fail to contemplate it to the tune of flowers, candy, and gaudy jewelry. I say gaudy not because of my wife’s taste but because I call anything made of precious metal or jewels that you wear “gaudy.” I’m a simple man with a thin wallet.

This is my first multi-kid Valentine’s Day and as I look back I realize how much our relationship has changed since our first Valentine’s together. And not just because all trips outside the house take military-like preparation, but the very nature of our love changes. It is inevitable. Some would say the change is natural and if embraced will lead to a richer, deeper connection with your spouse. Others (me) say, bull crap. This is a rip-off.

Allow me to illustrate with one of many examples. No matter what the occasion, Valentine’s included, when I go to bed I can expect that within one to thirty minutes one or both of my children will be lying between my wife and I doing one or more of the following: crying, coughing, moaning, sucking, sneezing, tossing, turning, flailing, or Maggie’s personal favorite – lulling herself to sleep by kneading our neck skin between her fingers. (That one may sound weird but it’s true. It’s like we’re being strangled by an injured, but determined, Chucky doll.)

As I lay there sleepless with my daughter’s hands on my neck or feet on my face I think how ironic this is. The very product of our love is now lying between us working to dismantle that love. It is as if by some primal instinct they know what they’re doing. Subconsciously they’ve teamed up and are preventing us from bringing competition for resources into this world – a twisted “survival of the fittest” if you will. And they are winning. Lately, most nights, I’m forced by sheer exhaustion into the guest room in hopes of getting enough sleep to sustain me through the next workday, but just as I get comfortable morning comes and there’s Maggie on top of me whining “Food food” while putting her fingers to her mouth (learned from her sign language video) just in case my ears aren’t fully awake yet. I climb out of bed still half asleep and on the way to the kitchen she throws me a knowing smile, this time unaccompanied by a sign only because the video hasn’t yet taught her how to sign “Maggie: 660, Dad:0 – Only 25 more years to go and Mom’s eggs will be all dried up. Now make me some Cheerios sucka!”

I accept my defeat the same way every morning. In a blurry stupor I go the kitchen to make Maggie some breakfast while my wife lays in bed on her side to feed Cash like a farm animal who roots until he hits the mother-load. (I think that’s where that word comes from). I pour the cereal and watch Maggie grip and work her spoon with all the coordination of an epileptic in full seizure and as she flings more food than she eats I can’t help but think how these mornings are so un-reminiscent of past childless mornings when my wife and I would wake up late, she would rest her head on my arm, and we would talk about the night’s dreams and whatever else might drift into our minds. Then I stop myself lest I be accused of being married to the past, and softly say - Deeper and richer. Our love is growing deeper and richer.


This is my bed Valentine's night. This picture was not staged.
Now that's love!