The Marriage Whisperer--Celebrating 20 Years of Irreconcilable Differences--Part 4

Have you noticed that there are a slew of professional "Whisperers"--those gurus who supposedly can train your hellion children or marley-dog? Recently I came across a guy who is called THE MARRIAGE WHISPERER. Here are a few of his PROFOUND findings.

#1--The divorce rate has been 50% for the past 60 years, because people think conflict means you are with the wrong person. In reality, conflict is growth waiting to happen.

#2--You can't work on an issue unless it is triggered. If your spouse triggers an unresolved issue that causes conflict, you are with the right person.

#3--Real love vs. Romantic love
The feeling of romantic love is one of joy, pleasure, relaxation, excitement and euphoria. Couples eventually will lose that feeling and encounter conflict; if they can work through that, they can get to a point of real love. Real love feels like romantic love, but romantic love is fragile and driven by expectations, whereas real love is durable and lasts through frustrations.

In case you are wondering, it took this guy 28 years and two marriages to come up with this wisdom. With my newly enlightened view of marriage, I can now tell you with positive conviction, that I am married to the right man.

How can I be so confident? In my household, there is an over-abundance of growth just waiting to happen. I just didn't know it was disguised as conflict. My husband is a professional triggerer. If you've been reading the blog, you know my triggers and he triggers them daily. For example, our disagreements about whether our 13 yr-old son should be allowed to keep his phone after caught "SEXTING" isn't about different parenting priorities, but potential GROWTH. I'm a bit unclear if this growth is supposed to look like a blooming flower garden or blue mold on an unidentifiable food item left in the fridge or a stage 4 cancerous tumor?

The point about real vs fake love has me a bit worried. I mean really--who wants to give up pleasure, joy, relaxation, euphoria in the name of GROWTH? Especially if it's the poisonous kind. Give me blissed-out, euphoria over a tumor any day of the week.

Since I'm currently jobless, I decided that I have all the qualifications to be a marriage whisperer. I encounter growth opportunities daily and can talk at length about triggers--both literal and metaphorical. However, instead of blablablaing about real vs fake love, I would whisper very quietly DON'T DO IT. I think people would pay me a lot of money for that sage advice. Think how much they would save by avoiding costly therapy sessions to resolve their growth opportunities.

when i googled imaged growth--this is what came up. definitely not the blooming flower kind.

Celebrating 20 Years of Irreconcilable Differences Part 3

During times of duress, those irreconcilable differences tend to magnify, ESPECIALLY during election years. I think the Bush years were the worst. I call this the B period in our marriage a.k.a. whatwasithinkingmarryingarepublican? It seemed to last FOREVER!

During one campaign, things got especially heated in our household. I remember watching a debate on t.v. sitting on the opposite side of the couch from my husband. He made the LAST STRAW comment. "Honey, you are soo smart, how can you be so dumb about this?" That was it. Not only could I not be in the same room as him, but we needed BOUNDARIES. New rules. No watching anything remotely political together. No talking about politics. And most importantly, I divided up the house into zones--mine and his. I drew the line down the middle (think Harold and the Purple Crayon). Under no circumstance, could he cross over into my area. It wasn't quite as bad as Israel and Palestine, but close. It was more like Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas in War of the Roses.

Moving is another stressful time where our irreconcilable differences come out. Most recently we were purging to prepare for our upcoming move. I should point out that purge is not in my husband's vocabulary. I think he's a hoarder and he thinks I'm a hoarder. Maybe this is the THIRD thing we have in common!! His hoarding involves holey clothing and dead sports equipment. Mine involves collecting organic dead things.

My husband has been known to pick things out of the garbage. (Usually after I've sneakily thrown something of his away --like the holey t-shirt with yellowed sweat pit stains that he wore to his first keg party--complete with vomit splatter patterns.) I don't pick from the garbage, but I have picked up various treasures from the side of the road or while woods walking. For example, I found an INTACT DEER SKELETON last weekend at the Cranesville Swamp. (see my profile blog pic--me holding the deer vertebrae) I showed immense restraint by only bringing home the skull and vertebra. It was only a little bit smelly and buggy.

Part of our irreconcilable differences stems from the fact that I am an ARTIST and he is not. Not only does he NOT LIKE art, but he thinks artists are weird. This will be the topic for another blog post. However I needed to set up the context for this next part to make sense. I make art. I exhibit said art in museums and galleries worldwide. Despite my mild acclaim, he still does not value my art or my art-making supplies.

Setting: garage
"Honey, why do you need two sets of golf clubs when you only play 1x/year? You should throw away the rusted set." "That was a set made especially for me. It was a really good deal." "You have ten pairs of snow skis. Do you really need all of them? I don't think there are any ski slopes in Texas. Why are you saving all of those dead deflated soccer balls?"

"Sweetness, there is no way that we are taking this mummified fox with us. Or the 100 gallon box of syringes or the bag of locust shells." " Where did you find the fox and locusts? I've been looking EVERYWHERE for them. I thought you threw them away. I NEED those for my art work."

In case you are wondering if I'm a IV drug user, the syringes are used for casting. I spent 6 months casting vienna sausages out of rubber. Given that I'm a compromise kind of gal, I conceded to throw away the syringes. I also threw away my snow/leaf machine, which was part of my master's thesis. NO WAY WAS I GOING TO BUDGE ON THE FOX OR THE LOCUSTS.

This led to another argument about my dead dog Chase, who is buried in our backyard. I enlisted my 18 year-old daughter to help me dig her up. I wanted to bring some of her with me to Texas. "Dad--did you hear that Mom asked me to dig up Chase, so that she could bring her skull to Texas?" "THAT IS JUST WRONG! YOU CAN'T DESECRATE THE DOG'S GRAVE! IF YOU DIG IT UP, ANIMALS WILL COME AND SCAVAGE THE BODY! WHAT WILL THE NEIGHBORS THINK?" "Honey, don't you think it would be worse if the new owners found the dog's bones while landscaping? She's been dead for three years. She will be all bones by now. Also people take cremated loved ones with them all the time. Why shouldn't I have part of her to memorialize?" "ABSOLUTELY NOT. YOU ARE OUT OF CONTROL." "Sally Mann dug up her dead greyhound's remains and photographed them. She made a lot of money on those photographs." "THAT IS SICK."

I'm currently planning an elaborate momento mori for my new Plano, Texas mantlepiece. It will include my greyhound's skull gold-leafed and bejeweled, surrounded by thousands of beaded locusts swarming around resined rose petals. Woodburned into the mantle will be this inscription: To my beloved husband, in celebration of our twenty years of irreconcilable differences.

Celebrating 20 Years of Irreconcilable Differences--Part 2

Shocking as it may sound, I haven't ALWAYS celebrated our irreconcilable differences (I.D. for short). In fact, there have been a few times where I almost jumped on the bandwagon with the 1,135,000 other Americans who annually get the big D due to I.D. However, I'm not known for my conformity and I resisted the temptation.

What may you ask would tempt me to stray from my non-conformist behavior? I will call it the big G period a.k.a. pre-middle life crisis period. For those who do not know the story, my husband went out and bought a GLOCK 9MM and hid it under the bed. You may be wondering how I discovered his new toy. I grew suspicious after he was uncharacteristically nice to me one night. "Oh you are so sexy and beautiful. I love you so much." WHAT HAVE YOU DONE????

The gun was supposedly purchased to "PROTECT" the family from ax-murdering, child-molesting intruders. Up to now, he always kept a baseball bat by the bed. Suffering from the ALMOST-40-TOXIC-SHOCK-SYNDROME, he no longer felt confident in his brain-bashing abilities. Nevermind that we could have just activated the built-in security system.

I told him that he and his Glock could go live HAPPILY-EVER-AFTER somewhere else. The big G almost caused the big D.

Most recently we entered into a new phase of our marriage, which I've labeled the P period a.k.a. the acute-mid-life-crisis period. Recently promoted, my husband had to relinquish his company car and purchase a vehicle. He comes home one day and says "I think I'm going to buy this car."

"Honey, why would you want to buy a car that screams NARCISSISTIC A-HOLE, IN A MID-LIFE CRISIS, WITH A SMALL WEEWEE? (I've edited my language for a PG rating)

"Honey, why would you want to buy a car that I can't drive? Why would you buy a car that only fits two people? What about the kids?"

"Honey, remember you company's mission statement is all about servant leadership. What kind of servant leader drives a car like that? Shouldn't you be setting an example for your employees?"

The rebuttal: You make some excellent points that I agree with. BUT it's a good deal and it will be fun.

He tried to convince me that he was actually doing the good samaritan thing by buying the car from a friend who was moving to Africa. "He needs the money and I need a car."

If you are a FB friend, you may have seen the postings guessing what kind of car now sits in my garage. The first guess was a corvette, which everyone agreed (including my husband) was a smaller wee-wee car than his current purchase. (On a side note, his boss drives a corvette. I'm not sure whether this strengthened or weakened my servant leader argument. Draw your own conclusions).

As difficult as it is, I'm resisting the big D once again. When asked if I loved riding in it, I told him that people are looking at me. Not with envy, but with disdain. Look at that women in the Porsche Boxer. She is married to a narcissistic a-hole, in a mid-life crisis with a small wee-wee. Think of how many starving children in Africa they could feed just with the cost of the gas.

What saved me from the big D was the realization that this car may be an essential component for my new art project--a 2 year performance piece as a stepford wife in Plano, Texas. I'm currently in negotiations with Lifetime TV. They think it will blow Housewives of New Jersey right out of the water.

Celebrating 20 Years of Irreconcilable Differences Part 1

Since I haven't posted for 7 months, this is going to be a series of posts. Not that I haven't had PLENTY to post about, but that thing called WORK kept getting in the way.

While visiting Deep Creek Lake, MD last weekend, I went to a church service in a movie theater. (That really should be its own post.) I don't remember exactly what the sermon was about, but one thing that the pastor said really stayed with me. "My wife and I just celebrated 20 years of irreconcilable differences."

My husband and I just had our twenty-year anniversary. Those of you who know us, know that we are polar opposites. On good days, I think our differences COMPLIMENT each other. (I can't bring myself to say "complete each other" without gagging) On the rest of the 364 days a year, I can count the number of things we like to do on 1/2 of a hand, minus the thumb--we both like to eat and drink (although he is a beer drinking carnivore and I'm more of a wine drinking herbivore)

When people ask me what my secret is to a long lasting marriage, I tell them the truth--LOW EXPECTATIONS. If you have low expectations, you won't be disappointed when your 20th anniversary is not celebrated on a beach in Maui, but in a motel room in Plano, Texas after a frustrating day of househunting. (I liked the uber-cool contemporary artist home surrounded by woods and a creek. He liked the clear-cut, cookie-cutter stepford-wife development with NO TREES). BTW Hawaii was supposed to be my 10th anniversary present and I'm still waiting. However I'm waiting with LOW expectations.

I was recently in the doctor's office filling out 500 pages of medical forms in preparation for my 5 minute office visit. One of the questions asked me how I manage my pain. I wrote "I drink wine." What do you do when the pain becomes unbearable? "I drink A LOT of wine." Now I figured the doctor was way too busy to actually READ my medical history, but I figured one of the nurses would get a chuckle. To my surprise, the doctor came in laughing and told me that I sounded like his wife. Not sure this was a compliment.

In addition to LOW EXPECTATIONS, my other marriage secret is wine. Most doctors would agree that it might not be the healthiest pain management technique, but it does the trick 99% of the time.


In thinking about the pastor's comment, maybe as a culture we view marriage from the wrong perspective. Instead of trying to reconcile our differences, or divorcing over our irreconcilable differences, why don't we CELEBRATE them?

The next few posts will share some of the ways, we have been celebrating....

photo by my former student, now professional photographer Joe Molieri www.josephmolieri.com

Near Death in New Hampshire

                                                                                                                        (left image-- summit view from 3000 feet, right image--cairn a.k.a. grave marker)

I just returned from a lovely trip to New Hampshire. As most of you know, I love to hike. As some of you know, I'm usually up for an adventure and don't always perform adequate risk assessments until it is too late.

On Wednesday night, I was sipping wine in the kitchen, when a guy named Ed stopped by. He said that every year he hikes to the top of Mt. Monandock   

to memorialize his friend's death. I cannot recall if he actually invited me or if I invited myself. However, next thing I know I've signed up to go on a Friday morning sunrise hike. I'm sure in my wine-induced overconfidence, I neglected to listen to important details such as PEOPLE DIE UP THERE EVERY YEAR. 

I do recall him saying that we will not be hiking on the State Park side, but on the "locals trail". He also said that he knows every inch of the mountain and can run up to the top in 36 minutes. It is only 2 miles to the summit, so I figured that it's no big deal. If he can do it in 36 minutes, it will take me at least an hour. I tell Ed that I'm in shape--I play squash and practice yoga. He seemed enthusiastic and told me that I would do just fine. I vaguely remember him saying that it is a REAL MOUNTAIN. I must have mentally blocked out the story where he had to carry someone down the mountain. This was someone who didn't properly respect the mountain and had fallen, breaking their leg. 

Thanksgiving Day and I'm not feeling as excited about my upcoming hike. I can't imagine what I was thinking when I agreed to wake-up voluntarily at 3:30am, leaving at 4am to hike in the dark. I do not have hiking boots, only sneakers with worn treads. 

Ed calls that night to say the weather forecast is foggy and rainy. Most of his other friends have already bailed. I promise him that I'm a trooper and I won't bail. Due to weather conditions, he delays the trip from 4am to 9am. 

Friday morning 8am, Ed calls again to say conditions are bad. Sleet has covered all surfaces in ice. This is my opportunity to bail. I get on the phone, prepared to cancel. We discuss my lack of adequate footwear. He says sneakers are not a great idea. He asks if I can borrow boots. I say yes. I open my mouth and instead of canceling, I agree to go. 

I slide down the walkway on the way to the car. Ed and I are picking up his friend Adam. On the way, he tells me that the trail will be icy. He says that he can lend me his spikes to grip through the ice. This is when I begin to have doubts. SPIKES FOR THE ICE? He also reiterates that it is a vertical climb (how did I miss this point???) to the summit. We will be climbing 2000 feet to an altitude of 3165 feet. At the top, he says it will be very windy and cold. Winds up to 50mph. 

It's too late to cancel. We arrive at the trailhead. Of course there aren't any other cars. We are climbing the Marlboro trail. I find this very funny, since there is no way a smoker could hike this trail. Ed says that the first part isn't too hard. It warms you up for later. 

After 15 minutes, I'm breathing really hard, sweating through all four layers. I am thinking that there is NO WAY I'm going to make it. Ed has some sort of superhuman powers, because he jumps from rock to rock and doesn't appear to slip AT ALL! 

To their credit, both Adam and Ed tell me where to step and not to step, offering assistance as needed. To MY credit, I do not complain once. I fall and get right back up. I don't want to ruin their friend's memorial. 

I do not see any visible trail, just lots of ice-covered roots and rocks. We start out in forest and climb into a barren-looking landscape. Prehistoric, sub-arctic--lots of boulders and no visible signs of life. I see lots of rock piles. Ed calls them cairns, saying that hikers leave them as markers. I'm guessing they mark all the dead bodies. HERE LIES ANOTHER DUMB HIKER WHO DIDN'T RESPECT THE MOUNTAIN. 

Half-way point, the view is stunning. Ed gives me the spikes. I perfect the art of holdingonfordearlife. It takes over 2 hours to reach the summit. The temperature drops by 20 degrees. My sweat-drenched clothing is forming icicles. I do not make it all the way to the top. I quit at 3000 feet. Ed and Adam race to the top. 

I text my daughter. HARDEST HIKE EVER. I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I WILL GET DOWN THE MOUNTAIN. I briefly wonder how much it would cost to get heliported off the mountain. Needless to say, it is much harder going down than up. My legs feel like jello and aren't working properly. I keep tripping. Only 1 hr down. I can do this. 

I've had to pee for the past 1.5 hours. Didn't want to do it at the summit and have it freeze midstream. Towards the bottom, I see a big boulder to hide behind. My legs are so locked up, that I can't squat down. This simple act takes me at least 15 minutes to perform. Darn those men who can pee standing up. 

I make it to the bottom. Ed and Adam graciously tell me that I didn't hold them back and that I did great. The next day I can't walk. Later when I look up this trail on the internet, its difficulty rank is 4 out of 3!!!

Ed asks me to hike again next summer. Sure I say. I'm looking forward to it. :)

Reveille This! 13 billion light years & Blue Cheese Alfredo Sauce

You've heard the saying Women are from Mars and Men are from Venus. Or is it the other way around? In my household, we are not just from other planets, we exist on other galaxies. 

Speaking of which, did you know that last month scientists discovered a new galaxy? It has the sexy name UDFy-38135539, and is located 13 billion light years away. I'm thinking that a long distance relationship might be in order. If my husband can find a job on UDFy-3815539, we will only get on each other's nerves every 13 billion years. I think I read that Coke is opening up a bottling plant there. See last week's Businessweek article "Coke's Last Frontier". I'm sure Coke could use a VP to head up their operations and new development. 

Lest you think I'm joking, I will share this morning's irritation. It started with my husband's alarm. He has programmed the military bugle reveille to sound off every morning at 6 am. I have patiently told him that it is the most ANNOYING alarm noise in the entire world. I have pleaded (not so patiently) for him to change the sound. He always responds with the SAME answer. It's SUPPOSED to be annoying. That way, you'll wake up. On this particular morning, he hits snooze 3 times. This happens to be the ONE morning all week that I can sleep in until 7am. After hearing three rounds of reveille over a 30 minute period, I can no longer sleep. In fact, I'm in a vile mood. Reveille is at the top of my chart for most REVILED song. 

The next irritation occurs a few minutes later, while I'm cooking breakfast for the kids. My husband decides to criticize my pancake making ability. Actually the pancakes were already made, I was just microwaving them. However according to my husband, my microwave abilities are lacking. He stops the microwave in mid-heat mode, pulls out the plate, and inspects it suspiciously. What is that glistening substance on the pancake? It's the syrup, duh. You are microwaving it too long and it will burn the roof of our son's mouth. 

At this point, I'm ready to shove the pancake down his throat, just to shut him up. Instead, I tell him that I've microwaved lots of pancakes and I know what I'm doing. Then I tell him that if he doesn't like it, HE can wake up an hour earlier to make the kids breakfast and lunch. I don't appreciate cooking tips from someone whose culinary prowess includes making alfredo sauce with Marie's blue cheese dressing. 

I am further irritated by the fact that in the span of an hour, I've managed to cook breakfast, make lunches, feed the dog, give the cat a pill, fill out two recruit forms for our daughter and finalize my proposal for world peace, while he takes a shower and shaves. 

He FINALLY leaves for work and I sit at the computer checking email. 5 minutes later he calls me to ask me what happened to the car. I'm confused. What happened to the car? You've trashed the car. I'm further confused. As far I know, the car seems fine to me. Now for those of you who know us, most of you would agree that I am the one who tends to exaggerate, especially for the benefit of a good story. 

Since he is not prone to exaggeration, I'm perplexed. I know that my memory has been in gradual decline lately, but I think I would remember if I trashed the car. The whole LEFT side is TRASHED! He accuses me of ramming the car into the side of the garage. Again, I think I would know if I hit the garage while backing out. I go outside to inspect the car. I see a scratch on the car. So yes, I must have scraped the car against the garage while exiting. It is a scrape. I call him back to tell him that it is a scrape. SCRAPE??? That scrape will cost $800 to fix. I ask him if he thinks that I purposely crashed into the garage, just to dent the car and piss him off. He tells me that I need to be MORE CAREFUL. (irritation #501)

REVEILLE THIS. If I was a vindictive person, I would delete all songs from his IPod, except Reveille and then set it on eternal repeat, so he could listen on his 13 billion light year trip. 

Neurological Impairment and Dumpster Diving

I suffer from Visual Perceptual Spatial Disorder (VPSD for short). In plain English, this means that I grossly under or overestimate the size of things, especially as it relates to those things fitting in other things. (my husband loves this about me.)

Apparently this is a documented disability caused by neurological impairment--probably induced from too many hits on the head as a child. 

Today, I experienced two bouts of this impairment, leading to an adventurous, albeit stressful day. I had promised to gift my boss' son with our skateboard ramp. Only used once or twice then discarded, the ramp has been a popular outdoor welfare hotel for many varieties of arachnids and their millions of babies. 

I awoke at 7am to drown the arachnids with the power washer. This may seem a bit harsh, but I didn't want the little buggers to take up new residence in my car. Despite the intense jet spray, their screen doors (web filaments) did not break. 

Fwd to operation transport. My boss who lives in the city expressed concern about the size of the ramp. I assured her that it was no more than 5 feet and suitable for city skating. (VPSD incident #1) When I actually tried to put the ramp in my car, I realized that it was more like 10 feet. The bolts were rusted and it wasn't coming apart. Not to mention the arachnids who had survived the morning Tsunami, now bolted in every nook and cranny of my car. 

After folding down the back seat AND front seat, the ramp fit with 1/4 inch of spare space. I drove to work for a meeting. I told my boss that I would drop the ramp at her house after the meeting. She seemed a bit skeptical, but I was insistent. I brought the stupid thing all that way, risking massive heart failure due to spider bites. I was NOT taking it home again. 

Fwd--meeting over. I go to the car and realize NO KEYS. NO KEYS!!!!!!!! I am parked on the streets of Philly. My meter is due to expire in 5 minutes.  Patrol trolls lurk at the corner, waiting to dole out tickets equivalent to the cost of a monthly car payment. I have NO money. No money for the meter, no money for the train ride home to recover extra keys, no money for food, no money for a drink which would have calmed me down a bit. 

I panic, hyperventilate and panic some more. Like a catatonic psych patient, I trace, retrace and retrace 4 more times, my exact path from car to office, office to car, hoping my keys have fallen out of my pocket. I peer in my car window to see if the keys are locked inside. I climb onto the hood of my car and press my face against the windshield for a better look. NO KEYS. 

As usual my husband does not answer the cellphone or text, despite the fact that I say it is a DIRE emergency. I get down on my knees and pray...for real. And here's the thing. I get an immediate answer in the form of a little voice that says CHECK THE DUMPSTER. I had thrown out my lunch bag on the way to the meeting. Herein lies VPSD #2. 

People dumpster dive all the time. Ok, maybe not the people you hang out with. But still. It didn't seem like it would be all that difficult. Keep in mind, that I'm on an IVY LEAGUE campus and there are LOTS of people walking on Walnut Street. I'm trying to scale my way up the metal dumpster, and can't seem to get a foot hold. The dumpster is taller than me and I look like an uncoordinated spaz as I slip and fall into the bottom. 

Thankfully there was a lot of construction debris--meaning that there were minimal rotting food particles and not too many rats. MIRACLE OF MIRACLES. I find my lunch bag and after digging for a few more moments, I FIND MY KEYS!!! Hoisting myself out of the dumpster proved just as embarrassing as falling in. 

I find my boss' house without further ado. As I'm unloading the skateboard ramp, it breaks. I mean an ENTIRE section breaks off. I'm a bit ticked, but I dutifully drag it onto her brick patio. There's an angry pricker tree that attacks me. Scratched, bleeding and smelling of garbage, I finally leave. 

Late for my silkscreen printing class, I park in Old City and pay the meter. 2 hours later, I come out to recharge the meter. I see a TICKET. I chase down the elderly troll who has ticketed me. HEY! I still have 7 minutes left on my meter. He smirks saying that he ticketed me for parking in a loading zone. WHEN DID IT BECOME A LOADING ZONE? I HAVE PARKED HERE BEFORE. THERE AREN'T ANY DRIVEWAYS OR EVEN BUSINESSES THAT REQUIRE LOADING.  The troll races down the street. I never saw a senior citizen move that fast. Not even in Zumba class. 

When I relate my  predicament to my silkscreen teacher, she immediately knows the troll, who is famous in the neighborhood for ticketing when there is still time left on the meter. He must work on commission or he's a vindictive jerk.  He EVEN called the tow truck on a pregnant woman with a toddler who mistakenly parked on the wrong side of the street. I also find out that the city routinely changes the signs regarding loading zones, specifically to confuse drivers and generate more income for the city. 

I have veered a bit off topic. VSPD to elderly trolls to divine intercession. Life lesson? Don't drive into the city, AVOID trolls at all costs, dumpster dive only if you are in plastic clothes and don't kill arachnids--they will regroup their armies and attack with a vengeance. Most importantly--prayer works!!! 

Just for the record, the photo isn't me. I sincerely hope my butt didn't look this big as I plummeted to the bottom. I did appreciate her posing (notice the leg lift) and perfectly manicured red nails.