A Walk in the Snark

by Rachel Thompson

  Well. He had a unique name and I wasn’t born yesterday. I asked her for a description of said boyfriend, and when she confirmed, I said tell him his girlfriend Rachel says hi.

  In our final confrontation, where he came over to beg and plead for my forgiveness, I looked hot—literally and figuratively. I recall finally getting my backbone and telling him one simple sentence, “You don’t deserve to be in my life.”

  He had no response, other than to hang his head for a moment before he punched the wall and left.

  I realized in that moment how easily that could have been me. All those years feeling loved and protected were my illusion, my part in the play.

  I never felt scared for my life, but I did feel scared.

  The baseball bats, the guns (he was a hunter), the knives, the fists—he said he’d never hit a woman and to his credit, I don’t think he ever did. But I didn’t want to stick around to find out.

  I can’t ask him, though.

  His violent nature took the better of him and he shot himself last year.

  My point in sharing this is that it took me a v e r y long time to realize that I was even in an abusive relationship. He was a good man with a good heart, and he loved me—that’s as far as my thought process went. He always had a lot of friends, he was charming, the life of the party, and would help anyone out of a sticky situation—my guess is because he often found himself in one.

  But that just isn’t enough. Do they have the right to control you?

  I’m so thankful for my experience, though. It helped me learn exactly what I want in a man and what I won’t accept. I also learned that I am not a submissive woman, willing to be controlled.

  “Do not tell me what to do” is the motto I live by every day.

  I’m forty-seven now and married eighteen years to a great guy who does not have a possessive, jealous bone in his body.

  He does like to control the remote, though.

  If you or someone you know is in a similar situation, share my story or Yeardley’s.

  Maybe it won’t be too late.

  ***

  Ok, onward to the funny!

  DON’T MAKE ME GET OUT MY DICTIONARY

  Apparently, not all women experience the same things I do. Not every man has to wait for his chick to put on makeup, or has kitchen-allergy issues. Huh.

  After I started writing my Mancode series and getting into a kind of groove, seemingly perfect single (or divorced) men came out of the woodwork and felt free to criticize me for my apparent lack of humor (um, what?) when it came to men.

  Hello, pot? This is the kettle. You’re black. (Which is, by the way, one of my all-time favorite lines from Friends.)

  So I felt inspired to address them (kinda) in this way…

  As you can imagine, my Mancode articles generated quite a bit of controversy.

  Like?

  Are men really the goofballs I’m making them out to be?

  One fella questioned my character—am I a total doofus for surrounding myself with men who “don’t know their right from their left?” (Well, my little guy IS only five years old.)

  One gentleman told me he was offended and then accused me of writing nothing but misandry. Frankly, I was offended he used a word I had to look up.

  So, I had to reexamine myself and my Mancode articles and ask: Self, are you a man-basher?

  Self answered: Gosh, not at all. Now pour me a martini.

  I LOVE men. I love my husband (18 years and counting), my dad, my son, three brothers-in-law, my male friends, and my many, many male Twitter, Facebook, and blog friends.

  But, come on, I’m a writer! Of course I’m going to find the funny in the silly stuff you guys do. Men simply do lots of incomprehensible things that we women just don’t understand, and vice versa.

  Part of the whole fun is why we women don’t get it—for example, it’s very clear why you have twenty-five hard drives, right? Makes perfect sense. But to us? We will just never understand it. Just like you will never comprehend why we need to buy another pair of black shoes (Look, Prada!) or yet another nude lip gloss.

  Mostly I write about my own experiences or those of the long-suffering women in my family who just want to hold the dang remote. I also work hard to point out the cool things my guy does, like all that mystical magical stuff he does in that room where, you know, food comes out of.

  If you are offended, um, sorry? But then, you probably don’t want to read my blog (no, seriously, 'cause my next piece is, in all likelihood, gonna be about how men and women handle comic ribbing differently); or this book, which has real-life examples of my guy doing guy stuff and me scratching my head.

  Imagine living in a world where a woman can admit she’s not perfect, that her man isn’t either and having the gall to laugh about it.

  Tsk-tsk. What a world.

  ***

  “Hus: What's #chickcode for ‘do the dishes?’

  Me: Um, ‘do the dishes.’ U were hoping for ‘let’s have sex?’

  H: shrugs”

  I’M FINE, DECONSTRUCTED

  Going through an experience like that with my ex has in some ways been really good for my communication with my husband, JP. Of course, we’ve already had eighteen years of practice.

  Plus, I’ve kind of lucked out with my honey: He doesn’t go out with the guys, doesn’t demand precious closet space (he speaks shoes), and doesn’t play golf.

  He’s truly a family man.

  Before you go hatin’ on me, I will tell you—come every fall, I’m a total football widow. JP has been known to schedule appointments around his beloved Raiders games.

  Sigh. It’s a guy thing. I know.

  At least I’ve got my closet to organize…

  I’m fine, she says.

  So you think, Cool. I’m off the hook.

  Sorry, dude, but if you’re a smart man, and here’s hoping you are, you’re on your way to go get flowers and her favorite bottle of wine instead of off to your golf game with the boys. 'Cause even though she said she didn’t mind (first red flag—see the negative in there?), she really did mind.

  This, my friend, is known in Girlworld as Chickspeak.

  Walk with me.

  Chickspeak has been the death of many a relationship, mostly because A) men don’t know that it even exists or B) how to recognize it once they know it’s there.

  So I’m going to help you out. Why?

  Well, I’m married to a man and we’ve had eighteen years of practice. Which isn’t to say we’ve perfected anything. No, no. I will say though that my guy clearly knows that my “I’m fine,” means the exact opposite and will usually keep asking me what’s wrong until I’m vomiting green and my head starts to spin.

  So yeah, we’ve worked it out.

  Observe.

  When you ask your bride if it’s okay to change dinner plans with her parents so that you can watch the game at your best friend’s house with the guys, you already know that when you get the standard “It’s fine,” it’s sooo not.

  Not only will you be lucky to get laid again during this millennium, you should consider yourself fortunate if she wakes you up during the next earthquake.

  Why? Well, let’s see. Sure, she probably doesn’t understand your guy need for game and “brotime” (particularly on the same night as dinner with her parents), but hey, you did already make a commitment to her (never mind the fact that you’re already, ya know, married and stuff.)

  What’s at the heart of what is bothering her is this: How important is she to you?

  Or, in Brocode speak: are you putting bros before ‘hos? (Don’t. Get. Me. Started.)

  Sometimes you just have to man up and do the yucky stuff, dude. There will be other games (not to mention the DVR) and honestly, is it her fault that you were such a doofus that you forgot about the big game and committed to your wife in the first place? Where is that iPhone when you need it?

  Seriously. She’s not your mother.

  Grow the hell up, babes (you
might want to check those vows again, too).

  It’s these little things that can get bigger and bigger and bigger that will eventually cause huge rifts in your relationship.

  Another example, if I may.

  Say you volunteer to pick up Mexican food for your girl ’cause she’s been working hard all day. Sweet, right?

  Until you forget the taco sauce.

  And what kind of a guy gets takeout Mexican food, brings it all the way home, and forgets the taco sauce?

  Well, the kind who wants to go right back, of course.

  We gals are quite thrilled that you bring us food. Really. We are. But we’re not dudes. We don’t wolf it down just to fill our stomachs, you know?

  “It’s fine,” she tells you.

  Sooo not.

  We like to actually taste our food. We savor it. We like our taco sauce.

  Lucky for you, we have vaginas, because of course, we have taco sauce in our Forgetful Man Secret Stash Drawer for just this occasion (along with soy sauce, chopsticks, straws, napkins, Coffeemate and Sugar in the Raw (don’t even get me started on the Tragic Coffee Run Mishap of 2009, best covered in an entirely different post).

  You laugh, but at the time it can frustrate the heck out of a chick that’s in the mood for something kinda spicy. Because it points to a larger issue—that you don’t take the time to check that all her favorite little accoutrements are there. It’s about thoughtfulness on a whole other level.

  (And we like the cute little tiny packets. We ARE girls, after all.)

  See guys, what looks like taco sauce is truly a matter of trust. (You can take a minute here if you need to.)

  So, we’ve covered commitment and trust in today’s lesson of I’m Fine, Deconstructed, and now we’ve come to the end of this little stroll of enlightenment, fellas. As I tentatively hand you this secret decoder ring, my heart filled with hope and promise, I leave you with this warning—we chicks are a darn tricky bunch. We tend to speak in riddles and, as evidenced by these past two pieces, what we say is clearly not what we mean.

  Sure, life would be simpler if the opposite were true.

  It would also be easier if you guys could actually function in the presence of cleavage, but sadly, that’s not the case.

  This piece has been sanctioned by The UN Committee of the Ambassador’s Office for the Improvement of Male-Female Relationships, which doesn’t exist and I totally made up, but which OMG, should.

  ***

  “Me to my 5yr old: What starts w a C that Mommy drinks a big cup of every AM? Him: Vodka. Me: #soclosedude”

  CHICK TIME, DECONSTRUCTED

  Even without an official UN Committee, my husband and I have worked out a little translating of our own. Like:…(Me: How much will that computer cost, honey? Him: As much as your new black suede Pradas. Me: Got it.) Grocery lists help, though even those truly do require a UN translator at times, which honestly, couldn’t we all use one of those at one time or another?

  However, when it comes to reading clocks in our home, well, this one is all on me.

  Thank God for cell phones, computers, and the cable box, ‘cause honestly, my poor family would have absolutely no idea what time it is in the real world.

  Hey, living on Chick Time gets us places in a timely manner. So shut up.

  “Honey,” I ask my love, “what time is it?”

  My husband responds with The Look. Ya know, the ‘couldn’t if I wanted to’ look we gals know oh so well.

  It’s my own fault, though. You see, all of the clocks in our home are set to Chick Time.

  Even if he wanted to give me the time, which he does, he really, really does, he can’t.

  Because, you see, I set my clocks to what my husband calls “Rachel time.” In Rachel world, this means that every clock is ten minutes early. (Well, some are five minutes. It depends on where they are in the house.) Seriously, if you’re a girl, you already know this. Boys, I suppose I’ll have to explain it to you below. Though honestly, if you’re a gay man, we aren’t even having this conversation.

  In the real world, this means that I am never late. (I’m not the only chick who does this, you know. Every woman I know does this. Even Monica on Friends did it. If you don’t remember it, you should watch her explain it to Richard along with her other neurotic quirks which, by the way, make total sense to me—particularly when it comes to a “tape emergency.” Words to live by, baby.)

  Guys need to understand that women don’t live by regular, old, boring time. Oh no, that would be too easy. And, of course, normal. We realize it’s messed up, but to be honest, we don’t care. Men need to accept this and realize it comes with the boobs.

  It’s a well-known fact that women innately understand this concept of time disruption from a very early age. It is also true that men have no clue about it. And never will.

  Chicks run on the “every clock has to be different” rule. Am I right, girls? Therefore, our clocks—bedroom, bathroom, cell phone, kitchen, and cars—are ALL set to different times. Not only has this accomplished confusing the hell out of my husband for our entire relationship, but it has ensured that I’m never, ever late.

  Well, if we are, it’s totally his fault.

  All I know is that if I’m going to get somewhere with my makeup done and my Pradas on, without being late, it’s going to be on Rachel time.

  Snap.

  You would THINK, given how much less time it takes dudes to get ready (shower, shave, dress, done), the husband would be ready to go by the time I’m all done with the fouffing.

  Silly you.

  Yet, it always goes something like this as we’re walking out the door: there’s the iPhone charger he can’t find but knows is right there (um, nope). Then there’s the fancy wallet (though of course he’s a guy, so he doesn’t call it that—but it is) that was just right here (um, nope again). Then there’s the jacket that you (meaning me) were supposed to pick up from the cleaners (nope, sorry again—all him) that only goes with the slacks (why do we call them pants and they call them slacks, anyway?) he’s wearing so now he has to go change, darn it. And of course, another pit stop. Oh, and what’s the score, honey? (Like I know.)

  Let’s not even discuss the keys.

  I’ve learned, after eighteen years of marriage, not to get aggravated. I simply take a nap, work on my book, or go write another Mancode piece.

  Clearly, I’ve got the time.

  ***

  “I’ve always struggled w/ math. If it doesn’t add up to new #Prada shoes,

  I just can't get my mind around the concept.”

  CHICK LISTS

  I’ve passed this time thing on to my girl—she totally takes after me. Her Hello Kitty watch… five minutes fast (good girl). She’s also a fashionista, loves makeup, and pretty much every day we make a list. Of what? Who cares? We just have one.

  It so happens we come from a long line of list makers. So I didn’t think it at all strange when I made a list for the ideal man.

  What? It wasn’t a LONG crazy lady list shot with hearts and arrows or anything, for goodness’ sake. I simply wrote it and sent it off to Santa, like any normal Jewish girl.

  As if.

  Chicks make lists.

  For example, they say that how a man kisses a lover is indicative of his performance in bed.

  Check.

  I also feel that your man’s willingness to run errands for you shows how giving he’ll be in er, sexual matters.

  Check, check.

  Before I met my husband, I had a list. Yeah, I’m one of those chicks. I’d had my share of failed relationships and bad dates. I knew what I wanted in a man and what I most certainly did NOT.

  Some girlfriends and I went out for my birthday (January 2, if you’d like to send presents) and so I shared with them my LIST. This was back in 1992.

  What list? Why my Santa List for the Ideal Man, of course. I wanted a man who was naughty and nice. (And it was the holidays and we were drinking. What the hell.)

&
nbsp; (I should note here that not only was it my twenty-eighth birthday but I was also moving across the country the next day on my own for a job promotion). I was free as a bird and figured what the heck? My ideal guy was out there somewhere.

  On my list was the following:

  • Ten to fifteen years older (Why? More mature. I was done with boys.)