A Walk in the Snark

by Rachel Thompson

  Could’ve, should’ve, and would’ve will be coming over for dinner soon. Time to get out the good crystal.

  Pour the wine of expectation, so careful not to spill. Large groups of family all together in small rooms have the effect of a meteor shower: stains of resignation that seep like red wine burned not only onto your carpet but also your heart that may not come out for years, no matter how hard you try.

  The fragile glass of a family gathering can break so easily under the clenched smiles and hot lights of rosy-cheeked intentions, overwhelming even the hardiest among us. We all knew each other intimately once, were so involved in each other’s lives; afraid to think about, let alone ask, if it was really only distance and time that changed.

  We skim the surface. We ask but we don’t delve. We search for words that ultimately get in the way.

  We take our usual spots, sitting in our fine, sturdy chairs. The gap between where you are and where you seem to be makes you squirm and long for the solitude of all you’ve achieved; even if all you do is hold it in your dreams.

  Impressions we try to change clutter our familiar table, no matter how hard we’ve scrubbed away at them year after year, casting a shadow over all that we say. We clear the table, wanting to wipe away the scars of dinners past, wondering—is it too much to ask for you to pass the hope that’s just out of reach?

  So we gather our things, buttoning our coats, grateful for the warmth after the chill; breathing a sigh of relief at the reprieve another year offers us, tripping on our way out the door on the jumble of unresolved differences, anxious to catch the last train home.

  ***

  “Every time #SpongeBob laughs, God’s cringing causes an angel to lose its wings.”

  ROCK. PAPER. SCISSORS.

  I feel it’s a good thing that I had written out what I wanted in a man, given my previous experiences, not only with D but with a few other guys as well. I pretty much have what I asked for. Well, except for the grumpy bits.

  I wrote this piece in honor of our eighteenth anniversary. None of our friends have been married this long. Divorced maybe, but…

  We’re far from perfect, but we’re pretty compatible for the most part. I’ll be honest; this past year has been a tough one economically for everyone, and we’re no exception.

  But we’ve rocked it pretty well.

  I tell him as long as he keeps me in coffee and vodka, (and of course, nude lip gloss), I’m good.

  Even after eighteen years, my husband and I still have some communication glitches.

  I know.

  For example, today.

  “You know, when you send me all of those (one) text messages in the car while I was driving (um, how do I know he’s driving?), I can’t read them. I can’t check what it is you want while I’m driving. It doesn’t help that you keep sending them over and over again (um, didn’t. Repeat, just one),” he says when he calls me to ask what ALL those messages are for.

  “Honey, that’s the grocery list you asked me to text you. And, while I realize we’ve been married a long time, we haven’t quite reached the osmosis stage yet. How was I supposed to know you were driving? Sweetie, if you recall, the iPhone keeps beeping at you until you tap it to see what the message is. Sorry if that bothered you though,” I reply, knowing that when he gets home he’ll have an answer about how he’s right, I’m wrong, and that somehow me doing exactly what he’d asked me to do is somehow still resulting in a problem that’s irritating the crap out of him right now and that it’s ALL MY FAULT.

  But I’m okay with that. This may shock many of you who have followed me, The Mancode Maven, for a while, but bear with me.

  If there’s anything I’ve learned on the eve of my eighteenth wedding anniversary, it’s that this too shall pass. My husband isn’t being a jerk—he’s just having a day.

  I’m not going to go toe-to-toe with him over the fact that he hasn’t figured out how to manage his text messages without losing his shit because A) it’s kinda funny, B) he did actually do the shopping with a minimum of freaked-out “they don’t make bread anymore, honey, I swear,” phone calls, and C) I’m sure one day soon I’ll be having a similar freak-out over the fact that I’ve run out of coffee.

  Also, we have a few ground rules:

  • He never edits me—literally or figuratively. He’s proud as a peacock about my writing, and yes, that includes The Mancode.

  • We never call each other derogatory names. Even though he may act like a jerk, I don’t call him one (to his face)—and isn’t that what my Bs (book, blog, and best friend), are for?

  • We don’t curse at each other. Which is really fucking hard to do. Or not do. I forget which. And it’s probably why I curse like a truck driver in all other areas of my life. But not at him.

  • We never, ever tell each other to shut up. Not even as a joke. It’s disrespectful and come on, I’m a writer. Do I ever shut up?

  Basically, I think we work because he yanks me off the ceiling most days which is why I refer to him as my V.O.R., aka my Voice of Reason. In return, I tell him when he’s obsessing over something to the point that he can’t see the family for the um, trees. Well, ya know.

  We have lots of great history together. Did I tell you that he proposed after three months and I said yes? And no, ya nosypants, I wasn’t pregnant. Ah, well, that’s a story for the book (oh yeah, you just read that… ).

  Wait a second. I don’t recall putting coffee away just a second ago. And it was on the list. “Honey—didn’t you READ my text message?!”

  Honestly…

  Rachel and JP celebrated their eighteenth wedding anniversary on 10/10/10. Interestingly, her older sister just celebrated her twenty-year anniversary with her husband C on 09/09/09. We could not make this up. One more neat fact: Rachel has two sisters. All three girls got married when they were twenty-eight. I know—now your head hurts. Go have a martini. Mazel tov.

  ***

  SECTION 3

  MEN VS. WOMEN: KIDS/PARENTING

  “11yo: What's an #oxymoron?

  Me: A mother having a quiet, uninterrupted meal.”

  MOMMY'S SCHOOL OF ROCK

  It’s a good thing my guy has finally gotten used to my music obsession. Well, kinda.

  Thank goodness for the iPad and iPhone is all I’m sayin’ (and top-of-the-line earbuds).

  One thing I’ve always felt strongly about, no matter who I was dating, was my music.

  I grew up listening to all types. My dad had one of the very first outer-space looking Bose stereo systems. If you’ve ever seen one, you know how cool that is.

  If you were with me, you had to know that music was a big part of my life and accept that. Even the bossy guys had to deal with my music addiction. If a guy didn’t know the difference between a soundtrack and a music score, I probably dumped him.

  My husband thinks rock ‘n’ roll is Bette Midler. I’m not quite sure how we’re still together, actually.

  The onus is clearly on me to start our kids’ rock education. I play piano, ’70s and ’80s rock had a huge influence on me, and I remember most of high school’s “big moments” via Rush, Heart, The Stones, and Foreigner albums.

  My girl knew the words to Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” before it was appropriate. She’s eleven. It still isn’t.

  My husband still doesn’t know what we’re talking about.

  It all started innocently enough.

  With just a simple question, really.

  “Mom, who’s Pat Benatar?” asked my eleven-year-old daughter a few weeks back as we were driving on the freeway.

  Oh. My. God.

  I almost pulled the car off the road in shock.

  How is this possible? How did my child, the fruit of my loins, with half of my rock ‘n’ roll DNA (I am from Sacramento, after all), not know who the goddess of ’80s rock is?

  I had clearly been derelict in my rock education duties.

  Something had to be done, and fast.

  At age fi
fteen, I was so obsessed with Benatar’s first hits, “I Need A Lover” and (hello!) “Heartbreaker,” that I had to buy a second copy of the album In the Heat of the Night (1979) due to The Scratching. (If you don’t remember when our only option was radio and vinyl, then you may not relate to this story all that well, but just roll with it.) ‘Course, my stereo was a piece of crap but hey, it worked well enough for me to abuse the heck out of it.

  Benatar was a rock goddess. Pipes like no one else on the scene at the time (she trained as an opera singer, for God’s sake), great shag hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, dark eye shadow with red lips, and always, always black clothing— usually a tiny leotard with killer heels or a leather jacket. She just oozed sex.

  This hot chick was the epitome of everything I was not. Well, at least not yet (okay, maybe not ever. Shut up.) Yet somehow I could relate to her songs of heartache, love gone wrong, tales of obsession and abused children. Actually, I will tell you how. I was in high school. I was a cheerleader. Benatar’s drama had nothing on me. Snap.

  I spent HOURS looking at, memorizing, and studying Benatar’s album covers and lyrics to: Crimes of Passion (“Hit Me with Your Best Shot,” “Treat Me Right”); Precious Time (“Fire and Ice,” “Promises in the Dark”); Get Nervous (“Shadows of the Night”); Live from Earth (“Love Is a Battlefield”)—admittedly my least favorite; Tropico (“We Belong”). All albums that had a huge influence in my life, throughout relationships good (ummmm???) and bad (Chris, Jim, Wayne, Mike, and D).

  Benatar was not just a rock star; she was MY rock star (well, not really. It’s not like I wanted to keep her and put her in my pocket or anything. I wasn’t a FANatical nut, you know. Jeez.) But she represented.

  So back to the daughter. Why did I feel it was important that my girl know who she is? Why did it matter so much to me? Was it because I wanted my girl to rock out to her like I had in my car with my sisters, a la Wayne’s World? Was that it?

  Hell if I know. All I know is that I had a strong desire, an actual hunger, to immediately begin both of my kids’ rock education. Like, yesterday.

  I eased them in slowly with a little Heart (love them), and some Queen. My daughter couldn’t get enough and has adopted “Barracuda” as her personal anthem, which amuses me to no end. The five-year-old took to Queen like a fish to water and within a few hours (of repeated plays) knew all of the words to “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

  Sure, I’ve gotten a few strange looks from other moms at the grocery store when they hear the little guy singing, “Mama. Just killed a man. Put a gun against his head, pulled the trigger now he’s dead,” but I’m cool with it. If they want to cover little Jimmy’s ears as we walk by, that’s their problem, not mine. (As Pat would say, “Don’t you mess around with me.”)

  Hey, listen ladies, I can say my little dude rocks and totally mean it. Can you? (Must grow his hair out now. A mohawk would make him more authentic, I think.)

  As for Benatar 101, class begins next week. I know my girl will love her as I did (and still do), if for no other reason than the totally bitchin’ clothes she wore. Man, her two daughters are so lucky. Maybe she could adopt us.

  Kidding. (No, really…does anyone know her?)

  ***

  “Some people say it’s offensive when women curse.

  Part of that whole being a lady antifeminist backlash bullshit #oops”

  THE TOY EMPORIUM OF WONDER AND TEMPTATION

  I love that my family keeps me focused and grounded. I mean, I know I can’t really get adopted by Pat Benatar. Damn it.

  My guy likes to do everything together. Always has. When we first met, he’d walk out to the mailbox just to be with me. I loved that he was so loving, but I was used to my independence, so I was like, dude, back off. I like my space.

  This post reflects the domino effect of what all this togetherness has wrought. It isn’t pretty.

  My husband likes for the whole family to go run errands with him.

  I would classify this as classic Mancode behavior.

  Let me explain.

  You can imagine my tween girl’s joy when her daddy announces that he, now we, are going to The Hardware Store, that male bastion of testosterone since time immemorial, all together as a familial group.

  Won’t that be fun?

  By the time he’s dragged her out from under the bed with cries of “Can someone adopt me, please!?” and we’re on our way, our little guy is usually jumping out of his skin with glee to see all of the cool gadgets that are only available in the most amazingly, awesomest amusement park of a store ever invented.

  Joy.

  This is about when my husband will give me THE LOOK.

  If you are a parent, or heck, if you’ve ever even been in a relationship, you know THE LOOK. It’s the silent “You better come in with me and save me,” look.

  This is where my husband and I differ, oh shall we say, philosophically, on the subject of running errands as um, say, a pack of hyenas.

  You see, if he went by himself, he could go get his nails, washers, and other Dude Whatnot of Power and be back in ten minutes. Now. I realize that a lot of father/son bonding goes on in the inner sanctum of the hardware store, away from the prying eyes of us females. I am not trying to deny my boys their tool man destiny.

  But little dude IS only five. He’s still in the temper tantrum phase; the “give me it; I don’t care what it is, I just want it so I can forget about it, but I still want it right now or I’ll scream” phase delivered in that ten-decibel pitch that we wish only dogs could hear.

  This still leaves plenty of time for future boy bonding at The Hardware Store.

  So back to THE LOOK. I ignore it. I’m just not going to go into the Toy Emporium of Wonder and Temptation to help out my husband this time. Nope. Call me a bitch if you want. If disagreeing with my husband means I’m being a bitch, so be it. I own it, baby.

  See, here’s the thing.

  I love that my guy wants us all to be together. I truly do. But how about for a meal, or the park? A walk on the beach? Buying a new hammer or making a key as a family might make it more fun for HIM (yeah, I don’t get it either). But for us? As my tween daughter says, it might be selfish on our part but dude, you’re a daddy. Man up and do the yucky stuff by yourself.

  Daughter rolls her eyes (a no-no), but only I notice since husband is dealing with screaming hyena boy who wants to join him in all the magical fun. I retreat suddenly and with deep interest into my iPhone, while my tween plays “How to Become the Drama Queen You’ve Always Dreamed Of,” on her Nintendo DS. Husband breathes a sigh loaded with the trepidation of the condemned man he is and gives in.

  “Fine,” he mumbles in defeat. “But no toys,” he tells our son with false bravado, which is soon drowned out as puppy boy scrambles over drama queen faster than a lobster in hot water. “Ouch!” she cries loudly in protest. “Shhhh,” I whisper soothingly, reminding her that we have quiet now, at last. For a few blessed minutes anyway.

  And we breathe.

  Divide and conquer really is the best way to go for the mundane stuff—errands get done quickly and without all the fuss. That is, when I can convince my husband to actually do what I suggest. (Note: A mother running errands alone is strictly prohibited. Mothers are not allowed time alone. It is written. The Mancode, Chapter 5, page 102.)

  The ideal errand situation is usually boy-boy, girl-girl—given our “perfect” (see Rachel laugh) boy-girl ratio. Plus, it gives us all a chance to do that bonding stuff you’ve probably heard so much about.

  Spending money really does bring you closer to your kids, ya know? Even if it is just the boring stuff.

  In that situation, this bitch actually loves to man up.

  ***

  THE BEST HUGS

  Even though I joke about the difficulties of having Puppy Boy and Wonder Man and their hardware adventures, I have no regrets about the course I took in my life.

  The sadness of losing an ex compares not at all to the loving men I ha
ve in my life now.

  Like my Lukas. Now age five. See that little dimple on his left cheek? I kiss that multiple times each day, even though he tells me he’s all sold out of kisses. He’s in love with iCarly but still wants to marry me. He says my green eyes are the prettiest he’s ever seen and my red hair makes me “hot.”

  He nuzzles my neck and begs me for snuggles. I would eat him if I could. His favorite word is metamorphosis.

  I don’t know who writes his material.

  My youngest child is five years old. My boy. Lukas.