Marriage Is Not Overrated, But Some Opinions Are

Ugh. If I read one more idiotic post about how stupid the institution of marriage is, I'm going to write a mocking and derisive post in response...

Whoops, guess we crossed that threshold.

I'm not going to link to the offending blog, because it would be pointless as this sentiment is so commonly echoed you won't have to look far. Just Google marriage is overrated and I'm sure you'll find plenty of poorly formed theses. I can already anticipate those who will say that religion forces people to stay in abusive marriages (right, because religion is animate), but that discussion is for another blog entirely.

If you are being abused, please call 800-799-SAFE and find help. There are also links at the end of this post.

Otherwise, if you are just another surly twenty-something eager to whine about things of which you know nothing, read on. Here's the reality for anyone who is unfamiliar with marriage, yet feels comfortable decrying its oppressive state.

First of all, if you choose to be single, I don’t think you’ve made a shitty choice or overestimated how happy it makes you. Being single or being married can be considered neutral, really. Despite my personal belief that marriage is wonderful; objectively speaking, one state is not necessarily better or preferable. Therefore, it makes no sense that someone should judge my contentment in marriage as “overrated”.

I find that the biggest misconceptions about marriage lie in the ridiculous fantasies people have about it, and the obvious shortfalls reality provides. If you mistakenly believe your spouse will spend the rest of his or her life catering to your every whim, you are mistaken. Furthermore, marriage is not dating. Marriage is not meant to make you happy or keep you entertained. Marriage is about selflessness and self-control. The benefits of marriage are long-term, not short-term.

Marriage (as it’s intended) takes that constant fear of wondering, "Does he/she really love me?" out of the equation: it is a lifelong commitment to the herculean task of loving each other despite your flaws. You agree, usually in front of people who are supposed to hold you to it, to taking on your spouse’s joys, sorrows, mistakes, families, fears, hobbies, and dreams as your own. And yes, this inherently limits your freedom, but then again, so does being thoughtless and judgmental. However, if you live in a free society, you clearly have a choice in the matter.

Someone who complains that marriage is overrated is like someone who complains that oil painting is overrated when they haven’t taken the time to learn the discipline of painting. They purchase supplies, open the tubes, smear the paint around, and are unsatisfied with the results. Oil painting has not failed them as an art form, they have failed oil painting. Similarly, marriage as a union doesn’t fail people, they fail marriage.

Marriage is not for everyone. However, marriage is not overrated.

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Links for Help with Domestic Abuse: If you are being abused, your computer use may be monitored. Make sure you use a computer that is not in danger of being monitored by your abuser. Public libraries will often have internet service for free.

National Domestic Violence Hotline

Coaching Boys Into Men

Community Coalition Against Family Violence

Domestic Abuse for Men & Women

Will You Still Respect Me Tomorrow?

I’ve been asking this question a lot lately. No, it’s not because I’ve embarked on a string of one-night-stands, it’s a question I’ve been posing to my husband ad nauseum since I decided to quit my job and be a stay at home wife. Note: If anyone has been waiting to call me hypocrite, here is your golden opportunity. Before I decided to leave my job, I wrote a long piece on why I thought the plight of the stay-at-home-dad was total bullshit, and that Mr. Mom should learn to suck it up and love his time off.

Er. Um. Sheepish sorry.

However, I’m not doing a 180. I hold fast to my opinion that there is no logical reason anyone shouldn’t respect a stay at home whomever, and that anyone in that position can feel confident of their value.

What I am realizing is that there is a pretty big psychological garden to tend to when one spouse is in this role. Despite my desire to approach this life change with logic and reason, I have felt the fear of losing my husband’s respect.

I feel myself being warped into a world where I’m disrespected for being a woman, particularly a housewife. I find myself saying things like, “Well, I’ve worked all day too…” to stake my territory as equal contributor to the family despite drastically reduced income.

To be honest, I’ve been working like a dog since I quit my job. I see just how disorganized we are, how lonely our pooch is, how much food we waste, how many calls need returning, and dishes and laundry that need to be washed. While I was busy working and studying, we either let things slip or it was my husband who took on the extra load.

Because of this, I’ve been eager to show my gratitude for his support, urging him to let me know if he needed me to do anything. But yesterday, when he asked me to iron his shirts, it was like some psycho-anti-man switch went off in my head.

I assumed he thought I wasn’t doing anything. I assumed that within a few short days, he thought he’d acquired a maid. I’m also sure I’ve been over-confident as to what I can accomplish in an 8 hour day (much like when I worked full-time) and have over-sold my schedule. I’m sure I just don’t understand how it all works yet.

I did take my own advice though and talked to him about my feelings before they got out of hand. He said, “This is nothing new. You’ve had this fear since we met and you always realize I still love and respect you.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“Okay, what about when we dated and you wouldn’t let me buy you things because you thought we wouldn’t interact as equals? Or how when you moved in you thought I was refusing to clear out closet space for you because I didn’t want you there, but in reality you never told me you needed it?”

“Um.”

“You are over that, right? Don’t you see as far as I’m concerned, we’re 50/50?”

The answer is yes. I know he means what he says. And after 15 more minutes of bickering all I could say was, “I know you respect me. But I need you to be extra sensitive that I am afraid you won’t for right now.”

I hate that I need coddling about this. I want to be strong and firm in my choice to dump my job. I know it’s the best choice, I know that I was going to lose my mind if I stayed. I know that I’m so much happier that I’ve done it. I know my husband respects me and I’m even more valuable now that he has a wife who is happy, self-assured, and can respect herself enough to leave an unhealthy situation.

So, since my husband is not the culprit and I’m not a fan of blaming “society,” I’ll need to spend some time asking myself why I feel this way despite evidence to the contrary.

Same story, different tune.

What can I say, I love new melodies. Subscribe to Shouting to Quiet the Thunder, where the music is always playing…

Finding My New Path in Life

It’s been a long time since I've sat at my home computer to write, what feels like ages in blogging terms where communication moves so fast you feel like a slug if you respond in less than 24 hours. I’m back from a vacation in the countries of the former Yugoslavia, the lands of my ancestors, the cities my father lived and walked, the places he took my mother during their courtship.

This trip has been life changing and life affirming. It has been a salve, and a glue. It felt like a month, but was two short weeks. I climbed mountains spilling over with waterfalls, ventured into caves, toured the Adriatic coast of Croatia and glacial lakes of Slovenia, I traveled the serpentine roads of war-ravaged Bosnia, I spoke to the people in their language. I ate the food, drank the wine, danced the dances. The whole shebang.

I had the time of my life. I wrote a post recently about how change is not affecting me like it used to, but change is continuing to happen, almost against my will. It’s exciting, but for the first time I’m accepting change with a peace and calm previously unknown. I don’t know if it is because I’m older, married, making tough career decisions, or saw my father pass away. I don’t know if these life passages make change easier or what. I don’t know if it’s a natural progression. I only know I’ve never felt this way.

I feel like I’m stepping into a completeness I never imagined I would have. Not because it's not possible, but because it's reserved for people a bit more sane than I. More deserving. I don’t know if it’s because I’m embracing faith, I don’t know if it’s because I’m letting old wounds heal, I don’t know if it’s because I’m letting hackneyed arguments fade. I don’t know.

I don’t know why I feel this way. It feels incredible, yet mundane. Still. Of this world. Grounded in reality. Whole and contented. On the right path.

Is it because I’ve strayed from myself for so long, that this is what it feels like to be true to myself? Is this what all those writers I’d been drawn to my whole life also experienced and wanted to share, and I’d rail against them in disbelief? Is this what my parents had wanted for me? Is this what I’ve always wanted and now it’s here?

I’m reluctant to say yes. I’m scared that an affirmation will break the spell. You know, like when you are told to make a wish which will only come true if you promise not to breathe a word of it? I’m frightened that if I tell you that I’ve become happy that it will all fizzle and fade because I’ve courted fear and forboding for so long.

I don’t expect to be floating on a bliss-cloud forever. But even drudgery feels different. The bad experiences I have had lately don’t feel like they were tailor-made to crush and beat me down. They feel more like the natural bumps on the path of a well-worn life. This is the point. I’m back on the path. I’m moving forward. I’m not stopped and stuck on the side of the road, seeing life ahead and refusing to go with it. I got back on my horse.

Thinking of riding off into the sunset too? Subscribe to Shouting to Quiet the Thunder, cowboys and girls…

I Don't Care What I Think

I haven’t written for writing’s sake in a while. I feel so compelled to say something useful all the time now that I’m running ads and my posts are featured on Brazen Careerist. Too bad my most useful and benign article to date, “How to Survive a Bike Ride” brought on the most wrath. It left me confused, dejected, wondering…“How, oh how, can I make everyone happy?”

Oh yeesh, not really. But I had a moment when I realized I took my blog, the one thing I’ve committed to lately that had been unstructured, fun, a love song to the things I hate, and turned it into another pet project for perfection.

Why do I do this? Why the manipulation? Why do I parade myself around on a stage for my own approval? Even the mean comment guy is long gone. He probably can’t even remember my URL, God knows he didn’t favorite me. I can see him feverishly typing into Google: “Yelling into a Quiet Storm?” No no. “Crying in a Breezy Nook?”

He’ll never find me now.

I started this blog to give myself an outlet for the massive pain and regret I experienced over the last year. Writing has always given me sanity. Publishing it online gave me a reason to fight for it. My dad died, and I was running out of ways to say, “I’m sad.” And I started writing because I couldn’t bear talking anymore. I couldn’t have one more conversation about how depressed I was. I couldn’t make my husband sit still while I verbally vomited all over him. I couldn’t chat with my friends and lie about how I was doing OK. So I started writing. I started reading other blogs and writing mean comments on the happy posts about possibilities. I kept doing this until I decided I was kind of an asshole and perhaps life as I knew it wasn’t over.

I convinced my husband I would have a nervous breakdown if I didn’t quit my job. Oh, wait, scratch that – he convinced me. I refused for a long time. Then I realized he was right.

And now, I’m sitting here, semi-jobless ('cause I have approximately 5), happy, and hopeful. I'll write all about my miraculous transformation (and it's seed) some other time, because right now, I'm content enough to bask in it. I don't need to prove to anyone how, why, or when it came about. I'm thrilled I made an informed, adult decision with my well-being in mind.

I laugh because I never imagined I would be happy and hopeful about a me that is a slightly fatter and less prepared for retirement than I was a year ago. But I don’t care! I mean, I care in that I’ll try to cut down on the cookies, and I’ll make a plan for my life, but I’m not going to hate myself and settle into the depression where I’ve always felt the most comfortable. It’s just not for me anymore. At least for today and that’s all I’ve got.

A Married Girl’s Guide to Staying That Way

A few posts caught my attention over the last few days, all posing questions about marriage.

How do you know when you’ve found "the one"?

Why get married? Does it serve a purpose?

Would a Seven Year Contract make more sense than Lifelong commitment?

My own parents divorced when I was in college. In fact, I supported the decision. They were unhappy, so I figured, why not break it off? In retrospect, my views as an immature 19 year old were pretty much worthless. Today I would have a different opinion, but as we mature, we learn from our past to inform our futures.

Since I’m happily married and intend to stay that way, I thought I’d offer my views on what makes a marriage successful. I’m approaching my 9 month wedding anniversary, so many of you will feel tempted to smack me for broaching this subject, but I’ve witnessed successful marriages, and I’ve been lucky to have great examples to follow. Plus, I want to hear from you too, what do you think it takes to stay happily married? Here are my thoughts:

1. Don’t Demonize Each Other. When I first moved in with Mike after our engagement, I was comfortable complaining about the slightest inconvenience, until I realized how annoying I was to live with. A humbling experience is when you complain to your husband about his beard trimmings in the sink and then he points out your wicked habit of leaving empty paper bags all over the house. All. Over. The. House. I never knew I did that. If you were to walk in our house right now – I can guarantee you’d trip over a bag and there will be some beard hairs on the sink. But we’ve learned to accept a few of each other’s quirks and save the battles for things that really matter.

2. Make All Your Decisions As a Team. When Mike mentioned this bedrock of his parent’s marriage I was baffled. “You mean, the person closest at hand didn’t just decide?” As a child I would ask permission from whichever parent I thought would grant me a wish. That’s how I ended up enraging my mother with a waterbed purchase in high school, or how my dad was often blindsided by expenses for lessons or camps my mom might sign me up for. When you are both in on a decision, it will be better for the marriage and bring you closer, helping distill to what is critical. Mike might want to buy a new guitar or I might want to quit my job to become a yoga instructor, but together we are more likely include and understand the impact on the other person, not just pursue what will give us our jollies.

3. But You Say He’s Just a Friend. What do you do when the guy in your office wants to go running after work, or the woman at the coffee shop has an extra ticket to the basketball game? Do you say yes? This might sound painfully obvious to some, but I swear I see it all the time. “Oh, we’re just friends.” Here’s a whopping clue: your new playmate wants to sleep with you, steal your money, or both. You might be flattered that even when you’re “off the market” people can’t seem to keep their grubby mugs off of you, or you might be genuinely oblivious. Either way, it can lead to trouble, so just say no. If you need to befriend someone for networking purposes, find a nonchalant way to work your spouse into the conversation, or have him/her meet up with you at some point once business is taken care of. Nothing screams commitment like meeting it face to face.

4. Don’t EVER Say Mean Things About Your Spouse’s Family Members. Ever. Even if your wife tells you all the time she hates her parents, or your husband wants to strangle his brother (neither example autobiographical) don’t get comfortable spouting your own opinions about your spouse’s relations. Like them or not, these are the people who made your better half who they are today. If you have an issue with a family member, find a tactful way to raise your concerns. Never come outright and say, “Your dad is a total idiot.” It’s not okay. Think of a time someone has done that to you? I bet you didn’t like it. In fact, I almost got into a fist fight with a woman who called my mom a bitch. We had words. Very public words. Don’t go there.

5. Pretend You Met Today. Challenge yourself to discover new things about your significant other. What would you say to strike up conversation if they were a total stranger? Since I’m a newlywed, a lot of my old friends are still meeting Mike for the first time and they’ll grill him with questions I haven’t yet covered! For example, it’s exciting to hear his views on art history, or the time he went to a poetry slam in Chicago, things I know nothing about, so wouldn't have thought to ask. I try to ask questions beyond the, “Hey, how was work?” and get him to talk about ideas, feelings, or impressions.

These are the ideas I feel have made a difference in my marriage so far. The bottom line is a successful marriage takes work, acquiring skills, and paying attention to keep it that way, just like any other worthwhile venture.

I’d love to hear more great ideas, examples, or stories of successful relationships. Married people aren’t the only ones with something to offer either. Speak up:

What are other ideas you use with your significant other, partner or spouse?

If you are single, or divorced, what are some things you feel kept relationships from being successful?

Mama Bear and The Undefinable in Marriage

Tonight I earned the nickname Mama Bear.
Tonight I may have saved my husband's life, or at least a couple thousand in band equipment.

A friend who had witnessed the onslaught said, "You had a moment."

But before I launch into the story, let me take a quick moment to Thank God ('cause I do things like that, okay?)

1. Thank you no one got hurt.
2. Thank you for adrenaline.

It probably sounds like I ran into a burning building. I didn't.

But first, let me ask you this:

If one moment you were happily singing songs on a balmy summer night, in the courtyard of a bustling restaurant, and a moment later, rain starts streaming sideways, and when you turn around to tell your husband to stop playing, a giant table umbrella is launched by gales of wind with the steel pole directed towards his head, what would you do?

Witnesses told me I flew. One customer looked at me shocked, "You were fast!" My friend claims I started the whole thing. Apparently I went into some sort of psycho-heroic-trance. Maybe I'm giving myself too much credit. I didn't grasp the umbrella mid-air or anything. It got wedged on a table, but another had flown on top of restaurant roof, and objects were still being hurtled through space.

I wasn't really thinking, all I know is that I had an intense feeling of, "Holy shit, my husband." And even though his friend and a couple of restaurant staffers were helping him gather equipment, and even though he urged me to stay inside, my body simply wouldn't let me do it. All I could think was, "We're a team." It was instinct.

I know what I experienced is not rare. We've heard of mothers lifting cars to save their children, but it's rare to be in the situation oneself. I feel silly carrying on about it, but the truth of the matter is, there had been tornado warnings all day and it was plausible that one was heading in our direction. I suppose I thought in the flash of fury that I couldn't bear to spend my final moments watching my husband be eaten up by a tornado - I'd have to be with him.

What I'm saying is, I get it now. In those situations, you don't think - you just do. I also think that something that is fundamentally "you" informs your brain's subconscious decisions.

Make a leap with me. The part that was "me" that informed my decision to go back into gusting winds was my husband. There was every reason to stay inside. He was being helped, and I might have even been getting in the way. But that is love. That is marriage. That is the undefinable I think Adam Gilbert has been searching for in his last post. Why get married? Who the fuck knows, to be honest, but all I know is that when I saw that man, in the rain, wind, and flying objects, I had to be out there with him.

I'd wager that we'd all respond similarly, that in a time of crisis, what we value most becomes instantly, startlingly clear. It is simplified to its most primal form. This is evidenced by all the other people who ran back outside to gather things. They all valued something out in the rain more than comfort, dryness, and safety.

Maybe I'm reading into things. Maybe I'm still drunk and high on adrenaline.

Maybe it's time for bed. Goodnight.

Afraid of Change? Don’t Worry, You Won’t Feel a Thing

We fear the pain of change like a child who first visits the Doctor’s office. He imagines he will be impaled Count Dracula style by a huge needle, rather than the barely perceptible sting when the nurse surprises him with a pin-prick.

We fear change in its anticipated, not actual, effects. Penelope Trunk has written of the importance of making a choice, any choice, whether or not we can muscle out an imaginary outcome.

In that spirit, I have embarked on a thirty day campaign, twittering my acts of courage. I could use some ideas by the way. However, I’m noticing something interesting every time I perform a feat of courage. I don’t feel a thing.

No matter how drastic the act, no earth-shattering response follows, despite my hyped-up expectations. The last time I wrestled with a bout of change (and it was a while ago) I remember feeling a high.

In fact, I used to be a change junkie, flitting from one self improvement venture to the next. I used to be convinced the world was a better place with me in it, eating “I can change the world!” bullshit for breakfast. I feverishly read eastern and western religious and philosophical tomes, pop-psych favorites, attended seminars, top-notch schools, traveled and studied abroad, changed my hair, my clothes, my body, my relationships; mistaking such activities as substitutes for my own and everyone else’s, happiness.

Despite having access to all the opportunities to change in the world as an educated middle class white woman in America, I was miserable. Once I realized the changes I was making couldn’t satisfy me, I stopped. I stagnated. I melted into a pool of sameness and began to wallow in it.

Then last year, I got married and my father died, all within a 5 week time frame. You don’t need a PhD to know these events will change you, more accurately, break you.

Into a million pieces. Completely.
Put yourself back together. Again.
Learn how to truly change. Finally.

What I’ve learned:

You don’t need feelings for change. Your emotions are a highly inaccurate barometer for decision making and assessing the quality of your results.

You don’t need to have certainty or predictable outcomes. Even the best-laid plans must be malleable, to the point they may become unrecognizable.

You must be patient, and dare I say it, have faith. Making a change is the first, and easiest, step. Having the patience to withstand the time to fruition is a lifelong pursuit, and having faith that everything’s gonna be alright, well, that’s courage.

You can change too, start by doing something different, like subscribing to Shouting to Quiet the Thunder...

Rare Advice for Falling in Love

As a madly in love, happily married woman who recently (and I think successfully) hooked up two of her single friends, I have garnered priceless love data. I have researched my findings with other happily married or otherwise paired couples and I'm willing to share now that I've tested it on someone else.

1. Go for Quantity, Not Quality: If you are still single and looking for love, you need to go on as many dates as humanly possible. You need to ask your friends, co-workers, and yes, even your parents to hook you up. Try internet dating. As long as you meet in public, with whom it matters not. Like the efficient market theory, I believe in the efficient dating theory: that eventually by wading through all the crap you will find a priceless commodity, the one you don't trade up for because you've found a mate that will make your love equity skyrocket.

2. Hold Your Tongue: Like having sex on the first date, learn to say “No” to sharing the first thing that comes to mind in the frenzy of feelings that ensues when you first think you’ve found The One. Learn to walk the fine line between intimacy and annoyance. After a week or so, we tend to get comfortable, clingy, and our feelings get hurt if The One isn't following the puppetry of our expectations. That's when things start getting weird. Just don't say anything. I don't mean lie, or withhold important matters. Simply, don't be quick to judge or harshly opine with your new mate. You don't know anything about them, and be assured, though you find their beard trimming habits tragic, or their politics dismal, they will find your inability to leave the house without doubling back three times, or affinity for sci-fi equally horrendous.

3. No More Hairy Eyeball: You'll know you are in love when you are out and about, oblivious to glances from other potential suitors. I can say with assurance (sorry guys) that with every other boyfriend, I'd still be receptive to flirting with other guys. However, it all went away when I was dating my husband. It was like other men no longer existed in time and space. And on the off chance that my eyes met theirs, instead of getting all tingly inside, I'd laugh. A maudlin laugh as if seeing a sad clown, knowing that he could never capture my attention when I'd already got it so good.

4. Bridge Burning: Probably the most significant, and cathartic revelation in love is when you willingly, and happily, remove remnants from the wayward past you shared with various exes. I recommend gleefully cheering "Burn those bridges!" as you proceed. Deleting old phone numbers and ridiculous love emails is a delight, mementos you couldn’t bear to toss are now donated without mourning, and the only photos you keep are group shots or events you want to remember, not the singular poses of a beloved that used to arouse your affection. They now leave you unstirred.

Learn from me because I once was a bitter single woman. Painfully existing through the solitude of ice cream binges and Law & Order marathons alone. Ice cream and Law & Order are just so much better with a husband to share them.

Go get a room.

Or if you are not ready for commitment, try a small step, like subscribing to Shouting to Quiet the Thunder.

People Like to Yell at Penelope Trunk, I’d Like to Answer Her Questions

Yet again, Penelope Trunk’s blog incites riot-like response. Her recent post offers a maudlin vignette of a stay-at-home-dad. He's grateful his wife supports their household, yet seems dissatisfied with his life, and possibly had a mid-afternoon tryst to take the edge off changing diapers. Readers attacked both Penelope and the mystery man. This guy thinks it's all fake.

While the flurry of personal attacks were flecked with a bit of intelligent dialogue, my favorite comment came from “Sara” (emphasis added),

It’s hard to say for sure since the post is short and anecdotal, but what I gleaned from this story is that it sounds like the guy feels almost… justified (or at least doesn’t sound like he feels guilty) in his actions because of the role he’s in. If anything, it’s convinced me that personality is less affected by one’s daily role than I may have thought. I bet if this guy was a CEO and his wife was home with the kids, he’d be banging his secretary and still feel alright about it.

I don’t share Trunk’s views (based on her questions), though I understand the subject matter affects her deeply. Even if her interviewee is a phantom, it’s a topic worth ruminating over . Taking aim at a few of the questions raised, I found I had more of my own.

Trunk: Is being a stay-at-home dad any different than the life that Betty Friedan and Sylvia Plath worked so hard to get away from?

No, I don’t think it’s different. However, do we need to fight the homemaker’s lifestyle, whether a man or woman holds the title? What are we trying to get away from and who is stopping us? If we are looking for ways to be stay-at-home-parents and still be taken seriously in The World, (be it the business world, the indie rock scene, or a consortium of archeologists) let's address each particular challenge. I think it's a huge misconception and over-dramatization that being a homemaker is an oppressive institution like slavery that needs to be fought against. I believe it should be a personal choice that cannot be answered indiscriminately for women or men.

Trunk: Is the world really ready for stay-at-home dads? Will the world ever be ready?

There is no logical reason the world wouldn’t be ready. I’m curious what a stay-at-home-dad doesn’t have at his disposal that is so desperately needed? If it is validation from a high-powered wife; that is a legitimate need which can and should be addressed. If a couple who has chosen such an arrangement can't make it work simply because the husband is the primary caretaker, I think it points to a deep-seated divide in a marriage, not the child-rearing arrangement alone.

Furthermore, if a stay-at-home-dad feels he needs validation from the world at large, as it is not a common male role, he should file in the long line of publicly aired grievances, the least of which is staying home with small, innocent children. Plus, don’t we have enough to wrestle with on our doorsteps - wars, incurable diseases, and poverty - than to throw stay-at-home-dad’s plights in the kitty? I’d love to see a soldier in Iraq’s reaction to this man’s lifestyle. Some perspective is needed.

Trunk: Why is the world not talking about the downside of being a stay-at-home dad? Moms complain about this lifestyle all the time –when they are doing it — but men don’t.

Perhaps moms complain with more frequency, but women are emotionally hyper-wired, biologically speaking. Men are not, which is perhaps why we don’t hear from them on this topic. No amount of public awareness will change men’s bio-psychology.

Trunk: Do women respect their stay-at-home husbands? I wonder if women might have to work very, very hard to respect their husbands who stay at home. Perhaps gratitude comes easily, but respect takes a huge effort and a lot of mental tricks.

Again, I don't think there is a logical reason why women wouldn't, shouldn't, or couldn't respect stay-at-home-husbands. Perhaps the question should be re-phrased, "I wonder if women who married someone they don't respect in the first place have to work very, very hard..."

I’d respect my husband if he stayed at home because I respect my husband, period. If you need to perform elaborate mental trickery to respect your husband, you don’t. The delicate question which follows: Why have you married someone you don’t respect? If caring for your progeny caused you to revile him, you are shallow and stupid. Then I would agree with Penelope, you have to get to the hard work of learning to respect someone with whom you explicitly vowed to spend your life. Poor you. Poor him.

A Defense of Love Like Ours

This was inspired by my cousin, who wrote a post asking readers to tell her what they are grateful for.

I’ll give it a shot.

My husband.

He’s an honest, obvious choice.

Friday we were driving home from a date and I said, “Mike, I’m so glad we’re together.”

“Yeah, what would you do if you were still single?" He challenged, joking, "You’d have no one to yell at…and no one to yell back.”

Anyone who is unmatched knows the din of their own voice faintly echoed back when there is no one to receive it. Whether it’s an empty room, the wrong partner, or someone whose shouting drowns yours.

Mike and I have the perfect volley.

And while I could end this post and leave readers musing “aw, how sweet”, I’m compelled to palpate the subject further. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it fairly clinical.

I found the pleasure of Mike’s audience and companionship so satisfying, that I got to the point where I couldn’t fathom doing a thing without telling him about it or wishing he had been there. Unlike the familiar stupid ache of obsession, or vanity of not wanting to be alone (that which kept me close to other men) such idiocy was happily absent from our interactions. There was simple, pure, mutual adoration. Our relationship lined up in that which is logical, unavoidable.

Last week he said, "We're made for each other. It's an inevitability." This came after a morning of benign bickering, seated at a deli, sharing a plate of cheese, olives, and salami. A few tears were rolling down my face; I had just seen a man with a moustache like my father’s. Mike offered me his drink as a distraction.

"I don't like grape soda." I grumbled.

"Okay, what's your favorite flavor?"

"I don't have one."

"What's your favorite fruit?"

"Raspberry."

"That's what this is, they mislabeled it."

Weeks before our wedding, Mike offered me G.K. Chesterton’s essay, A Defence of Rash Vows, as an argument for our pending nuptials. Chesterton says, “The man who makes a vow makes an appointment with himself at some distant time or place. The danger of it is that himself should not keep the appointment.”

I thought how most women would have retreated from the seemingly unromantic sentiment. But the essay continues,

“A modern man refrains from swearing to count the leaves on every third tree in Holland Walk, not because it is silly to do so (he does many sillier things), but because he has a profound conviction that before he had got to the three hundred and seventy-ninth leaf on the first tree he would be excessively tired of the subject and want to go home to tea. In other words, we fear that by that time he will be, in the common but hideously significant phrase, another man.”

We faced the extraordinary as ordinary people, uncertain of our capacities to love, walking the edge of what might be considered insanity. But instead of hiding from our insecurities alone, we climbed into the same foxhole.

“And if we consider seriously and correctly the nature of vows, we shall, unless I am much mistaken, come to the conclusion that it is perfectly sane, and even sensible, to swear to chain mountains together, and that, if insanity is involved at all, it is a little insane not to do so.”

Mike supplied the logic of Chesteron’s position, the chaining together of two mountains, as perfectly rational. That he could touch the seriousness of marriage with irreverent yet profound musings from a fat old philosopher assured me I wasn’t dealing with “another man.” Though it felt a little like a grade school boyfriend vowing lifelong love after seeing his girl on the swing-set, it was his best and most honest expression.

And I accepted, more certain than ever.

“The man who made a vow, however wild, gave a healthy and natural expression to the greatness of a great moment. He vowed, for example, to chain two mountains together, perhaps a symbol of some great relief of love, or aspiration…The modern aesthetic man would, of course, easily see the emotional opportunity; he would vow to chain two mountains together. But, then, he would quite as cheerfully vow to chain the earth to the moon. And the withering consciousness that he did not mean what he said, that he was, in truth, saying nothing of any great import, would take from him exactly that sense of daring actuality which is the excitement of a vow.”

I’m grateful that doubt doesn’t long cloud our minds after a fight, that death’s fierceness cannot cause us to withdraw from each other, and that having won a logical, not whimsical, arguement for love rules our hearts and vows.

Burning Down the House

First I need to thank God for a few things:

1. Mike's friend Jose, from whom we purchased our home who no doubt installed the fire extinguisher that saved my life tonight.

2. Adrenaline. Seriously. Without some f-ing animal instinct to run, grab, tear, and push - my house might not be here right now.

3. My husband who spent two hours cleaning every square inch of our monoammonium phosphate covered kitchen with me while I groveled for forgiveness.

I was planning to make tuna marchand de vin as a surprise for Mike after his hard day's work. Unexpectedly, as a result of the evening's debacle I've decided I'm upset at the British accent. That's right. If it weren't for the British accent tinged recipe urging me quite enthusiastically to channel my inner Child (Julia, that is) - I don't think my kitchen would have become alighted.

"...quite high heat..."

Who says things like "...quite high heat...?" It should have read, "...medium high heat, especially if you have a mother of a skillet that magnifies heat beyond supernormal levels..." That would have been appropriate. But no, I got a recipe from what I can only assume belongs to an old British man who insists on calling tuna with wine sauce tuna marchand de vin and telling little stories about wine merchants in the recipe. I was so happy, pretending to be a chef, armed with the accurate pronunciation of Le Creuset - I grabbed the cast iron skillet duly named and proceeded to increase the heat to “quite high” levels. Here's how it turned out if anyone else would like to try it...

Milena’s Recipe for Disaster

…turn heat to 8, what the hell, it says 'quite high'…
…Add a little olive oil…
…oh my, some smoke….
…quite a bit of smoke…
…fire? Oh my God…maybe if I take it off the burner…

...ah! It's getting bigger...

...oh my God I'm going to burn the house down!...
Running around the kitchen, grabbing the fire extinguisher, going blind, clawing at the mechanism that kept it on the wall…
…pin, do I pull the fucking pin?…
Pointing and shooting, grey dust leaps into the air…BEHIND ME…
…fuck!...
Turning extinguisher around, spraying…fire out...calm. Calm. Then dialing…
Through tears...excessive blubbering...

“Mike? I almost burned the house down, oh my God, I’m so sorry, I suck so bad…I ruined dinner…I’m so sorry…I’m okay, but I’m so stupid, oh my God…”

So, I ran to the bathroom and cried, running my bleeding hand under cold water (a deep scratch from tearing apart the extinguisher cover) until Mike came home just moments later, gave me a hug and made sure I was okay.

We salvaged only the baked potatoes as they had been safe inside the oven, accompanied by a side of last night's cold pizza, as everything else in the kitchen was covered in a fine gray dust. We turned on music, I requested Beyonce, we alternated between telling jokes and bickering to pass the time. At least now our kitchen is spotless.

Kind of a Big Deal

Michael Thomas: Photo courtesy of The New York Times

My husband is sort of a big deal. And by big deal I mean sunday edition of the New York Times big deal. Like, he's wearing the suit we got married in how cute is he big deal in his big freakin' picture in the Times big deal surrounded by his designs and he works so hard but never gives himself enough credit big deal.

That - kind of big deal.

Check out the man I love.

The Little Things

Today was a good day because:

1. As I walked in my house tonight, my husband was in a growling match with our dog. He'd ferreted out where Kiynago was protecting a stash of rotten steak he'd absconded with after ransacking our garbage. Watching Mike hover over Kiynago in a 5 minute stare-down made my heart swell with pride that I have a man who will bother while a rugrat postures against him, and I think this in some weird way proves he'll be a good dad. Or least be able to find our kid's drug stash and yell at him until he repents. It was one of the funniest things I've ever seen and for only that moment I wished I was one of those people with a cell phone video camera.

2. My mother, who reads my blog and still loves me, sent me an e-card from "Tut's Adventurers Club" with a picture of handprints that read:
All your work and effort!!
Dear Mileni,
"Who you are shouts so loudly ....." that even Emerson would have a hard time completing his statement when it comes to you. Thank you for touching so many of our people with your beautiful voice.
Love,
Mama
PS. I have the little handprints that your Montessori teacher, Lor, made for each student. He was so right.

There is so much cute about that I don't even know where to begin. She was referring to my performance this weekend. My mom is my number one fan, but that doesn't mean she is not a critic too, I can count on her for honesty. I don't think she has ever missed a performance either, except when I was in Italy...

3. There are things that beep. Seriously, I take these items for granted. I was just thinking about how if my car light thingy didn't beep, I'd never turn them off, like I did in my old Toyota Corolla which was perpetually stalled.

No Ma’am, I’m Not Reading a Book

Damn it. Foiled again by Reading Deprivation. I only remember not to read blogs since I’m always in front of a computer. But I’ve been sneaking pages of “Fatherless Women” which I haven’t yet finished.

I am realizing some more things as I go through this horrendous assignment. I read because I need to verify the validity of my thoughts and feelings. Reading is a treasure hunt for approval because I don’t really trust myself. I don’t think I can make a decision on my own. I sometimes want to relegate my life decisions to my husband, which is so old-school, but I can see how a woman who gets married could fall into that role easily. She's lost her parents, she doesn't trust herself, and she's got a new man in her life. But I don't feel comfortable doing that. It's not fair to myself or my husband.

At least with my father, I didn’t have to feel like a dope asking him for advice. He was my father, the authority, and his role was comfortable to me. And with my father gone, I’m floundering. It’s not like he was a major confidant or anything, I didn’t call him once a week for heart to hearts…but I shouldn’t kid myself that the frequency of our conversations had any bearing on their breadth. My father (most likely) ruled my life.

Any psychologist probably would be giving me a congratulatory nod for that one…but if you had spoken to me a year ago and asked me how influenced I was by my parents, I would have given a pat answer about how independent I was, moving into my fiance’s home, “Helloooo, nothing says Grown Up like a mortgage!!!”

I thought I was out of my parent’s grip, but paying your own bills and signing lease agreements barely scrapes the surface of independence. You might as well have given me a bank full of Monopoly money. Since my father’s death and my marriage happened in one fell swoop, I’m seeing how gut-wrenchingly painful it is to be severed from mommy and daddy.

Daughters these days have a confusing role. They are expected to be nothing like their mothers, and everything like their fathers. This fairly new feature in human development shows that women are both encouraged and protected by their fathers. A father cannot treat his daughter like a son, he can be stern, but he still has the instinct to protect and shield. You can see how this dichotomy causes chaos in the female psyche. When I would tell my father I got an A, he replied with, “I expect nothing less.” This was certainly warm encouragement, but it was also edict.

As Clea Simon so eloquently poses,

“For despite our supposed adulthood, our supposed independence, many of us still find ourselves arranging our lives to fit our fathers’ plans…This is not how we react to our mothers…And its roots lie, again, in our early experiences with our mothers, and therefore we have a level of acceptance and understanding that demands less approval. With our fathers, we have nearly the same depth of connection, but we do not have the safety. How could we not, then, work for their acceptance? With fear as an incentive, how could we not rush to internalize the lessons our fathers taught?”

With fear as my incentive I’m finding myself in a place where I feel cemented to the ground, yet my limbs are wrangling to get free.

So, who's got the sledgehammer?

I'm Shouting, Can You Hear Me?

Rebecca Thorman, of Modite, says she feels like she is in a movie when it comes to her job. In fact, she wrote a post in response to my urging her for more info. She loves her job. And I'm truly happy for her.

But because I’m a cynic I immediately wonder what percentage of the time she feels like that, thinking, “Without that information there is no way for me to adequately measure my life against hers…” And this is where my glaring problem shines in all it’s, uh, brilliance.

I sometimes feel like I’m in a movie too. As it relates to my marriage, there are times when I’m in a sweeping love story, my heart full of adoration for a man who was lunatic enough to love me back. At times I feel I could die right then and there, fulfilled. However, as a friend of mine recently noted, "You are married to the love of your life and you're still not happy!" as we mused about discontent we were facing. I have problems even a wonderful husband can't fix. Most of the time I run at a frenetic pace, evaluating my life and job, measuring paychecks against dreams of fulfilling careers and parenthood, and grasping at threads in my relationships with family and friends.

Most of the time I am not a movie, but a mess. And this my grand thrust, that not only is life not about pleasing oneself, but it's simply not possible nor sustainable. It's about putting one foot in front of the other on whatever little path you care to eke out. Life isn’t about chasing a constant state of bliss, in one's job or love life. No matter how great your job or love life is.

And because I feel this way, I'm baffled and oddly enraged when I read Rebecca's blog. I cannot put my finger on where this rage comes from but, I found this quote by author William Gass on one of my new favorite blogs by Professor Gina Barreca which at least makes me feel like I'm not alone:

" ‘Getting even is one great reason for writing,’ said William Gass in a Paris Review interview. ‘I write because I hate. A lot. Hard. And if someone asks me the inevitable next dumb question, ‘Why do you write the way you do?’ I must answer that I wish to make my hatred acceptable because my hatred is much of me, if not the best part. Writing is a way of making the writer acceptable to the world — every cheap, dumb, nasty thought, every despicable desire, every noble sentiment, every expensive taste.‘ "

That’s my hatred I think Mr. Gass is talking about. I do not hate Rebecca, but I get jostled because she keeps prodding where I’m giving up. I hate that. She seems too hopeful, too liberal. Too much like the person I used to be. I’m mad at myself, so it’s no wonder I get mad at her too. I’m thinking, “I’ve become responsible and fallen in line…shouldn’t everyone else?” What I really want to say begins with, “Do you understand…” and ends with, “f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ckety f*ck!” But I’ll spare everyone the full diatribe.

I know she doesn’t write her posts with my specific situation in mind, she is catering to a broad audience, people with perhaps less psychological stress than myself. But don’t feel bad for me, that’s not what I’m trying to get at. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I keep going. I don’t give up, but I feel entitled to a bad attitude.

I have sought relief at every turn. My husband and his family suggest faith, a therapist I recently saw suggested a low-dose anti-depressant, my mother suggested meditation and my sister suggested kundalini yoga. I don’t think these things can help me. But you know what does? This blog. Writing, getting angry, putting a paragraph or ten on the internet for someone out there to read, ignore, hate, find salvation in, or whatever.

That’s why I think my name’s pseudo-Chinese translation immediately resonated with me: Shouting to Quiet the Thunder. It’s a neat little metaphor for my life. You will never out-shout thunder: it’s louder, it’s bigger, it could crush you. (Sonically speaking.) But like David and Goliath, just keep on trying. Keep fucking trying, you know?

There's No Crying In Grad School

So I think I got a B on my last exam. Boo f-ing hoo. My teacher is inconsistent and his exams are poorly written, but to be totally honest, I'm beat up and didn’t study as hard as usual. Sleep evades me, I'm frequently emotionally crippled by visions of my father's last days, my mother’s financial position is precarious and I spend my time imagining multi-million dollar businesses or CEOships I could eventually win to save her and the rest of my family from the wayward legacy of my father’s inadequacies as a provider. He was a wonderful, benevolent man who gave every ounce of himself, so it is easy to forgive him for going bankrupt and not quite crawling out of the wreckage.

But if anyone out there wonders why I ever turned from an opera singer to a financier, there’s your whopping clue. I don’t worship money, and while I freakishly enjoy accounting, I don’t have flair for business. I want to save my family. Of course I’m failing miserably and most would argue it’s not my job…but I’ve convinced myself that someone has to drive themselves crazy trying.

So the effects of foreign direct investment on international balance of payments were the last things on my mind and I botched my exam. I'm a bit on the demented side when it comes to my grades, as I feel they hold passage to a better life. Unlike naturally smart people, I have to work unusually hard to learn and retain information. I don't mean to say smart people don't work hard, but I have noticed a marked difference between how much my colleagues study versus myself. Happily, obsessive compulsive skills I've acquired in other areas of my life have greatly contributed to my academic excellence. But dear readers, I have paid dearly for my GPA, for my squeaky clean reputation.

When my classmates were out drinking and having sleepovers with frat boys, I was usually home on weekends studying. I deluded myself into thinking such tomfoolery was overrated, but the truth is I was/am so afraid of screwing up that I didn't dare take it easy on myself, have a beer, kiss a boy whose name I didn't know (okay, that did happen a few times...) But overall, I eschewed fun for mental flogging, and any time I veered off the golden path I was carving out for myself I’d double back with renewed vigor.

Until recently.

After I saw my test results I was mad for about 60 seconds, called my husband in an angry tirade, shed a few tears, then I heard the voice of my father. “Honey, it’s okay, you did the best you could, and next time you can just study more. No big deal. Don’t cry.”

I started laughing because that's exactly what he would have said, put on Pandora and in God’s grand irony, Rolling Stones’ Satisfaction {I can't get no...} started blaring. I, raccoon-eyed, wearing ill-fitting flannel pants and black t-shirt in desperate need of washing started dancing around, cleaning up, smiling to myself and thinking of my dad.

I suppose I have my answer. I need rest, renewal, and to say “fuck it” to shackles of unachievable perfection because I’ve put myself off long enough. I don’t mean to imply I don’t ever treat myself to things I want, but that’s just it, I’ve created a life based on financial survival and reward, piling up savings, paying off debt, and while I've been known to splurge on a Betsey Jo