The Guinea Pig Diaries: My Life as an Experiment

by A. J. Jacobs

  Is that what the woman wants? Or is it some compromise? It’s not clear.

  I know from my biblical year that Jews consider it a husband’s obligation to satisfy his wife. The Talmud has star-tlingly specific instructions on frequency. Namely:

  A man of independent wealth is “obligated” to have sex with his wife every day

  A donkey driver once a week

  A camel driver once a month

  A sailor once every six months

  A scholar once a week, on the Sabbath

  It’s not clear whether the sages consulted women when drawing up this list.

  I may not be an official scholar, but the once-a-week schedule sounds good. Especially for an unofficial scholar with three very loud children.

  “How often is ideal for you?” I ask.

  “Once a week sounds good, too.” She pauses. “Please don’t put that in the book.”

  “You’ll read it and see how it looks on the page.”

  Incidentally, I recently read that Madonna had a “marriage contract” that ordered Guy Ritchie to devote time to the couple’s “sexual expressiveness.” He was also given words to say during an argument, including “I understand that my actions have upset you; please work with me to resolve this.” Madonna allegedly taped the contract to the fridge, and if Guy broke the rules, she’d chide him, “Contract, contract!”

  Like Madonna and Alix Kates Shulman, I’m not opposed to writing down some mutual guidelines for a partnership. But maybe including “sexual expressiveness” in there isn’t the path to marital bliss.

  EVERYBODY LOVES JULIE

  We’re late for a dinner date with her friends. I’m scouring the closet for my wool hat.

  “Step it up,” says Julie.

  “Great idea!” I say, all chipper.

  “We’re late.”

  “Thanks for the motivation!”

  That’s my new strategy—exaggerated enthusiasm.

  “I actually don’t like this new ’great!’ and ’super!’ thing.”

  “Great! I’ll have to work on that.”

  Calvin Trillin, in his wonderful tribute to his late wife, Alice, said that every writer portrays his or her family somewhere on the spectrum between sitcom and Lifetime movie. Julie’s and mine is firmly in the sitcom genre. She’s the sensible one, the straight man to my wacky schemes. She makes the realistic decisions, and I do what she says.

  Our real marriage is like the one portrayed in my books, and yet it isn’t. I overrepresent the conflict, for one thing. It’s not that the conflict doesn’t exist. The fights happen. But I don’t write about the hours of peaceful, contented coexistence.

  But here’s the weird thing—I think the reality is starting to catch up with the writing. We’re starting to act more and more like our characters from my books. We do the bantering with more frequency. She rolls her eyes more often at my antics.

  I think this happens in every relationship, not just writers’. Each partner gets a label—the messy one, the neurotic one, the forgetful one—and then they start to live up to that label. That’s what I’ve noticed in my experiments: almost everything in life is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Probably even believing in self-fulfilling prophecies is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  I call up Coontz to ask her about the classic sitcom setup where the woman is the foil for the man. Who’s in charge? We all know it’s not Raymond. It’s Raymond’s wife.

  “I think it’s a face-saving way to deal with the fact the men are actually dominant. I enjoy a show like Everybody Loves Raymond, but I don’t see it as empowering to women. The women get their way, but in the little things. They give in on the big things. They can’t decide where to live, but they get to decide what furniture to buy.”

  Just for the record, Julie decided where to live (I wanted a warmer climate) and also what furniture to buy.

  THE CLICHÉ TRUTH-O-METER

  While we’re on the topic of Mars-Venus stereotypes, Julie and I go through a list to see how we stack up.

  Cliché: Men leave the toilet seat up.

  Not true. I put the seat down, and not just out of chivalry. Out of hygiene. As a mild OCD sufferer, I’ve always shut the toilet cover before flushing, for fear of unseen mist. Then, just a few weeks ago, I read a review of a book called The Big Necessity, a cultural history of the bathroom. That took things to a new level. It said—and here’s a spoiler alert: very unpleasant information coming up—that “aiming a stream of urine at a toilet bowl sends a fine spray around the room . . . which leaves a chemical deposit on anything surrounding the urinal. It can also change the color of wallpaper.” Oh man. The book said that there’s a vogue among German men to sit down when they pee. So as a mini-experiment, I’ve been trying the German style for the last week or so. My wallpaper color looks stable, and, as Larry David once pointed out, you get a little time to read. Okay, moving on.

  Cliché: Men hate chick flicks.

  Actually, Julie and I both love chick flicks, up to a point (that point being Must Love Dogs). I just like watching happy couples interact—such a rarity in real life. In fact, I’d be satisfied to watch the first act of a romantic comedy (couple falls in love) and the third act (couples makes up) and skip that stressful second act where they have all those unpleasant conflicts and misunderstandings.

  Cliché: Women are wildly sentimental, men are emotionally repressed.

  Sort of true. I repress my anger, especially since Project Rationality. But so does Julie. We both believe venting just makes us angrier. Don’t go to sleep angry? Are you kidding? That’s the best thing we ever figured out to do. It’s like hitting a reset button. Julie wakes up fresh, I wake up calm, and we can talk about the argument. Or not talk about it. That works, too.

  As for the good emotions, Julie is certainly better at expressing joy than I am. But I’m working on it. And neither of us is as good as our kids. Jasper, for one, is the only nonironic user of the phrase “Yippee!”

  Cliché: Men like to stay at home and women like to go out.

  Absolutely. Julie’s a connector, a three-dimensional Facebook. I’m a hard-core homebody. I envy the 1970s Hugh Hefner, not because of his daily sexual intercourse with buxom women, but because he got to stay in his house wearing pajamas all the time.

  POWER CORRUPTS

  Abigail Adams wrote to her husband, John, begging him to make America’s laws friendly to women: “All men would be tyrants if they could.”

  I think she’s right. I’m wondering if all women would be tyrants as well, given the chance. We’re twenty days in, and the power is going to Julie’s head.

  Her requests are coming faster and more abruptly.

  “Change the batteries in the kids’ toys.”

  “Clean out coffee machine.”

  She has started snapping at me. Literally snapping. I try to ask her something while she is watching Top Chef, and she answers me with three snaps and a wave of the hand, sign language for “Get out of the room now.”

  She’s e-mailing me daily to-do lists. One item on today’s list is “Put four Diet Cokes and four beers (any kind) in the refrigerator.”

  I write back: “Thanks for allowing me to choose the brand of beer! You obviously have a lot of faith in my judgment!”

  “You’re welcome!”

  You remember the Stanford Prison Experiment? Where a bunch of college students were chosen to pretend to be “guards” and a bunch were to play “inmates” for two weeks? And how alarmingly quickly the “guards” started to abuse their power and demean the “inmates”? And how the experiment spun so out of control, they had to shut it down after six days?

  I think I’ve got a mini-prison experiment going on here.

  “Can you turn up the volume?”

  We’re watching The Bachelor, her choice.

  “You have the remote,” I say.

  “I know. But I want you to walk to the TV and turn up the volume.”

  I’m not supposed to argue with her. I pause,
but don’t get up.

  “Come on. This is the best month of my life. Let me make the most of it.”

  I heave myself off my chair.

  HOW TO TALK TO YOUR SPOUSE

  The best marriage advice book I’ve read is a paperback called How to Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk.

  As you might deduce from the title, it wasn’t meant as a marriage advice book. But the techniques in this book are so brilliant, I use them in every human interaction I can, no matter the age of the conversant. It’s a strategy that was working well until today.

  The book was written by a pair of former New York City teachers, and their thesis is that we talk to kids all wrong. You can’t argue with kids, and you shouldn’t dismiss their complaints. The magic formula includes: listen, repeat what they say, label their emotions. The kids will figure out the solution themselves.

  I started using it on Jasper, who would throw a tantrum about his brothers monopolizing the pieces to Mouse Trap. I listened, repeated what he said, and watched the screaming and tears magically subside.

  It worked so well, I decided, why limit it to kids? My first time trying it on a grown-up was one morning at the deli. I was standing behind a guy who was trying unsuccessfully to make a call on his cell.

  “Oh come on! I can’t get a signal here? Dammit. This is New York.”

  He looked at me.

  “No signal?” I say. “Here in New York?” (Repeat what they say.)

  “It’s not like we’re in goddamn Wisconsin.”

  “Mmmm.” (Listen. Make soothing noises.)

  “We’re not on a farm. It’s New York, for God’s sake,” he said.

  “That’s frustrating,” I say. (Label their emotions.)

  He calmed down.

  Any time I see an adult tantrum brewing, I go right to my guidelines. Like tonight, when I gave our nanny our Netflix DVD of Man on Wire for the night.

  “You lent it to Michelle without asking me?”

  “I lent it to Michelle.” (Repeating.) “I’m sorry.”

  “I was going to watch it tonight.”

  “You were going to watch it? Tonight?”

  “I’d planned this out for a couple of days.”

  “Mmm.”

  “This is the second time you’ve done this.”

  “I can see how that would be really annoying.”

  She paused.

  “Do not talk to me like you talk to the boys.”

  Damn. She figured it out? Was I too obvious?

  “Don’t talk to you like I talk to the boys?” I asked.

  “The tone. It’s the tone you use with Jasper.”

  “That must be frustrating.”

  “Stop it!”

  THE NEW BALL AND CHAIN

  My friend suggested that since I’m letting Julie whip me in the metaphorical sense, I should let her whip me in the literal sense. I consider it. I even look at a website where you can hire a whipping tutor in leather thigh boots and a Teutonic hat. But I don’t do it. I think it’d be uncomfortable for everyone concerned.

  But at the bottom of the website, I do find an interesting link. It’s for a product I’d never heard of till now: a chastity belt for men. It’s marketed at women who want to keep their man under lock and key.

  Hmm. Julie just might enjoy that.

  I click on it (which will no doubt result in some interesting spam in the future). The “Chastity Belt for Men CB-3000” comes in three varieties—clear plastic, imitation wood grain, or the new army camouflage version, for those who prefer their penises to blend into the surrounding foliage. It’s got rings and pins and a small brass lock. It’s got a compartment for your johnson. It looks like a dirty version of Tinker Toys.

  And it will save your marriage. Or so claim the effusive testimonials on the website.

  A German man writes, “My feelings for my wife become more intense. I have to spoil and caress her even more.”

  A Florida guy says, “It is so ironic that your product comes from Nevada—it is because of my antics in your state that I now find myself encased wearing a male chastity device. Now my wife lets me go to Vegas with a smile and the security of knowing that she is my key holder. This product is much more effective than the marriage counseling; a must for any open-minded couple who is dealing with issues of infidelity and rebuilding trust.”

  Julie isn’t particularly concerned with me cheating. I know this because she seems to be immune from the emotion of jealousy. God knows I try to make her jealous. I invited four exgirlfriends to our wedding, and Julie didn’t bat an eye. I’ll tell her “Hey, look at this woman who asked to be my Facebook friend!” And I’ll show her a college co-ed who has photos of herself sticking out her studded tongue. “Good for you!” Julie will say.

  She’s just enviably, wonderfully secure. She has better things to do with her time than be jealous of a hypothetical, never-gonna-happen fling. If I ever took action, well... I think she’d put on her Teutonic hat and thigh boots.

  And yet, the CB-3000 seems perfect for Project Ideal Husband. Julie’s already got control of my schedule, my mind, my speech. Now she can control my private parts.

  The CB-3000 arrives from Vegas a few days later in a small brown package. Julie’s out to dinner with friends, so I decide this would be a good time to try it on. Give Julie a pleasant surprise when she returns.

  This is more difficult than it sounds. I study the instructions for three minutes, then spend twenty minutes stretching and shoving myself into various rings and tubes. It’s like assembling a complex model airplane, though this model airplane can pinch your sensitive regions and make you scream. Which happens three times.

  I click the brass lock closed and tuck the key into the back pocket of my jeans.

  I sit at my computer, adjusting and readjusting till Julie finally walks through the door. This is an unedited transcript of our conversation.

  “What time did Jasper go to sleep?” she asks.

  “Six-thirty. He was very tired.” I pause. “I got you a present.”

  I hand her the small silver key.

  “The key to your heart?” she asks.

  “Better,” I say.

  I drop my pants.

  She looks down at the Rube Goldberg contraption on my groin.

  “That looks painful,” she says. “So are you serious? He went down at six-thirty? Before the twins went to sleep?”

  It doesn’t faze her at all. It is like I just showed her a new napkin holder.

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “I’ve come to expect this stuff.”

  Huh. This could be trouble. Have I lost the ability to shock Julie? The bar is getting pretty high if a restraining device for the genitals doesn’t rattle her.

  Julie does warm to the concept. Later that night, she dangles the key out the window, then pretends to drop it.

  “Oops! Guess we’ll have to call the locksmith.”

  Lying in bed, I tell her “I can’t sleep. It’s pinching.”

  “I’ll let you free now—but only if you promise to put it on tomorrow.”

  “So you like the CB-3000?”

  “I like the power. So sue me.”

  And I have to admit, the power suits her well.

  CODA

  This is Julie here. As part of being the obedient husband, A.J. asked if I would like to write the ending to get my point of view out there. Um, hell yeah! It’s about time I got to get in my two cents.

  This has been A.J.’s best experiment in, well, ever. I would like to take this moment to thank the readers who came up with it (although I’m still angling for “The Year of Giving My Wife Foot Massages” as a follow-up). For the sake of America’s women, I hope this experiment starts a movement and other couples try it. Although if it does, I imagine A.J. will be hanged in effigy by the married men of America. Sorry, sweetie.

  It really was one of the best months of our marriage, although I’m still annoyed that A.J. maneuvered to pick
February to do this (and a nonleap year to boot!). Had he picked March, I could have gotten three more days of idol worship.

  A.J.’s plan was that I’d eventually get bored of being in total charge and I’d be begging for his old self to come back. Guess what? That didn’t happen. Maybe it would happen someday, but it would take a long, long, long time. I mean, husbands were in charge for thousands of years, right? I could last that long. Do I need him to agree with me on every little opinion about, for instance, movies or food? No. I like a spirited discussion. But do I enjoy having a yes-man when it comes to plans, wardrobe, and the household? Oh yes.

  I do think that A.J. now appreciates me more. When I made the list of all the things I do, it was a revelation for him. For years, he seemed able to overlook the fact that if I weren’t around, no bills would get paid, no sinks would get unclogged, no Pirate’s Booty would get stocked.

  I honestly believe he thought he was doing almost as much of the household management—that it was like 55/45 when in reality it was 80/20. I told him, it’s going to be hard to get back to his old 80/20 ways now that the imbalance is so clear.

  The experiment officially ended a couple of weeks ago when I made him find all the missing pieces to the kids’ board games, which was a massive operation involving bookshelf-moving and rug-lifting. But even after deadline, he’s continued to be a diligent househusband. Yesterday he filled the liquid soap dispensers. A big gold star.

  I’m assuming there is some backsliding to come. I’m hoping for a final ratio of 60/40. A girl can dream, no?

  I do believe that the experiment was good for our marriage. It made A.J.—and me—realize that it’s not always about the big gesture. Marriage is an accumulation of the little gestures. The little gestures are the ones that count.

  A.J. is right in that we got into a bad pattern of being sarcastic with each other. During this experiment, he was forced to say nice things. So then I said nice things. It was a vicious cycle of niceness!

  I think we’ve kept some of that for now. I’d like to think that we’ve cut our sass by 35 percent on a good day. A.J. is always babbling on about how behavior shapes thoughts. It’s his big mantra. In this case, I think it worked.