If It Was Easy, They'd Call the Whole Damn Thing a Honeymoon

by Jenna McCarthy

  JANET

  Eventually Joe and I bought a house together, and in retrospect I wonder if I was smoking crack in my sleep at the time because the 1,100-square foot cottage we traded our combined lives’ savings to mortgage had but one tiny bathroom. We talked of adding another one down the road, but we didn’t have the money to do it right away. (Hell, we could barely afford to put toilet paper in the one we had.) For a while we managed just fine, mostly because we were giddy new homeowners and the house was our baby and nobody says anything bad about the baby, even if it’s got three extra nipples and a horn growing out of its forehead. The baby is perfect, and the horn just makes it more “charming.” (We used the word charming a lot in those days; that and quaint. As in, “Isn’t it quaint the way only one person can stand in the kitchen at a time?” And “Look at these charming old-fashioned rope-and-pulley windows! Too bad they don’t open!”) But as I said, Joe and I both loved our perfect little house-baby with all of our combined might, at least until the fateful day when our digestive systems decided to operate in perfect harmony. Since my husband is far bigger and faster than me, naturally he beat me to the bowl.

  “Joe!” I shouted into the door that he had just slammed in my face. “I need to get in there!”

  “Well, obviously you can’t right now,” he said calmly, his voice muffled but still sounding suspiciously smug.

  “Joe! Come on! You know I can’t hold it! What am I supposed to do?” I was hopping up and down on crossed legs.

  “Sorry, honey, but there’s nothing I can do. The party’s already started. You could go outside?” He wisely said this last bit as a question.

  “I am not going to take a crap in my own backyard!” I yelped stupidly, as if I might consider taking a crap in someone else’s backyard.

  “Then I guess you’re just going to have to wait,” he replied.

  Sixteen years passed.

  “Jesus, Joe! Are you reading Atlas Shrugged in there?” I bellowed, banging on the door. “My insides are about to implode! I am serious, I think I might be dying!”

  I did manage to hold it together (so to speak), even though it appeared that my significant other was in no great hurry to come to my aid. After I finally got my turn, I began rifling through my office drawers, desperate to find a mechanical pencil and a pad of graph paper. There was no longer any doubt in my mind: We were going to have to add that second bathroom.

  “At Least You’re Not Married to Him”

  One morning (the morning poops are always eventful in our home—why

  is that?) while I was making breakfast for our ten-year-old son, my

  husband walked into the kitchen and announced, “You’re not going to

  believe this! I just pooped a perfect porpoise!” It’s important to note the

  look of absolute amazement on his face. As I stood there, mouth agape,

  he continued, “I’m not kidding! It even had the little fin on top and was

  arched and everything!” Needless to say, I was even more speechless

  when my son asked to see it. Because only a son would ask to see “it,”

  right? I can’t imagine a daughter asking to see “it.” Thankfully it had

  been flushed out to the ocean where it could swim happily ever after.

  SYLVIA

  Fortunately for my bladder and bowels, I got pregnant shortly after the urgency incident, so we started shopping for a bigger house. Joe had a laundry list of must-have criteria his dream dwelling would have. This list included but was in no way limited to a decent-sized yard, a large garage, an office for him, and space for a vegetable garden. As long as the home we bought was relatively cute and in a good neighborhood and had at least two bathrooms, I was on board.

  We wound up buying a nearly hundred-year-old farmhouse that had a majestic two-and-a-half bathrooms. Half, shmalf! This translated into three toilets and I felt like I’d won the lavatory lottery. Sure, every one of these rooms dramatically needed updating, and one of the toilets was actually perched precariously atop a slab of rickety plywood, and the plumbing was sketchy at best so you had to master the art of the multiple flush, and if you were foolish enough to turn on your blow dryer while anything else in the house was plugged in, you’d better know how to change a fuse. Still, I was delighted by the knowledge that I would never have to consider dropping trou in my own yard again.

  Even with three distinct and far-apart rooms in which to do our respective business, there were land mines to navigate. One of our new home’s bathrooms—unfortunately the one that would have to be deemed the “master bath” because of its adjacency to the “master bedroom,” although there was certainly nothing masterful about either of these rooms—had a second door that opened directly across from the main entrance to the house. You know, the front door. The front, glass door. Talk about a design flaw. More than once I found myself sitting there happily perusing the Pottery Barn catalog when the room would flicker with the telltale shadow play that meant someone was walking up the front path. In a panic I’d leap up, ankles bound by Lycra lace and hands crossed fig-leaf style across my lady parts, shuffle sideways toward the door, and give it a hearty slam. The UPS guy loved me. When it was Joe busting me in this indisposed position, he’d be furious. “How hard is it to remember to close a stupid door?” he’d want to know. And I admit, before I had given birth these instances were particularly traumatic. But it turns out that after you have crapped on a table in the presence of a dozen or so strangers, lots of formerly degrading activities don’t really bother you so much. Like the book says, everyone poops.

  Because of its aforementioned proximity to our bedroom, it was that ill-planned little cubicle of a room that Joe and I wound up fighting about the most. Mostly, the arguing was simply about who was in there first, as it really wasn’t big enough for both of us. There was a single sink, which meant if Joe was brushing or flossing or shaving or pondering his enviable brows, I was out of luck. But the worst part was the horrible prefabricated fiberglass shower/tub combo that had a shower head that had been installed at the perfect height—if you happened to be a family of gnomes.

  Sadly, the second shower upstairs was even worse. The shower nozzle was set at the same little-person height as the “master” shower, only the box itself was about as big as a coffin. If you dropped the soap you were screwed, because bending literally wasn’t an option. You also had to remember to close the room’s lone window before stepping inside the shower, as the slightest breeze would plaster the shower curtain to your body and you’d never be able to get it off again.

  So mornings became a race for the better of the two showers, and the shower of choice became like the TV. If you thought you were going to want it at any point in the next several hours, you’ d race to turn it on.

  “Oh, shit! I was just about to get in there,” the other person would say.

  “I’ll be quick,” the first would lie.

  “At Least You’re Not Married to Him”

  When our young son began to get mobile, my husband started baby- proofing the house. I came home from work one day and was about to die because I had to go to the bathroom really badly. To my dismay, the toilet was locked down with some big plastic contraption and I couldn’t figure out how to unlock it. Since no one was home I was left with the choice of not being able to figure it out or peeing in the sink. I decided that force might be the best thing to use and started pushing and pulling every little piece and part I could. Magically it opened just in the nick of time without me having to rip the lid off its hinges. For the next few days I fumbled with these things like you can’t believe, cursing every time and hearing my husband laughing at me and asking if he should get our son to come show me how to do it. Not funny.

  DEILIA

  The other thing about the not-so-masterful bath was the storage space. Essentially, there wasn’t any. The single cabinet under the sink was home to an eyesore of ancient, rusty plumbing, and there was no medicine cabinet—just a m
irror—so all of our crap had to fit into two wobbly drawers. Fortunately Joe didn’t (and still doesn’t) have a lot of personal necessities, just a brush, razor, shaving cream, deodorant, and toothbrush. That’s it, his entire grooming arsenal. I, on the other hand, had more creams, bottles, lotions, potions, serums, and sprays than an embalmer. Those poor drawers were packed to the gills with perfume and peroxide, sunblock and self-tanner, all of it stuffed in alongside a tangled nest of hair accessories and appliances—because God forbid I walk out into the world with the tresses He gave me.

  “You don’t use half of this crap!” Joe was fond of accusing.

  “I use all of it and more,” I insisted. “Have you seen the overflow in my office closet?”

  This continued to be a futile and frustrating argument, because I am married to a man who insists I am beautiful just as I am—which is plucked, dyed, faux-bronzed, and tattooed within an inch of my life. (I was unfortunately born with approximately eleven eyebrow hairs so I went ahead and had some nice brows permanently inked on, in addition to two small and tasteful decorative tattoos.) It’s not like I’m some Lady Gaga when it comes to makeup. I like neutral shades, stick mainly to tinted lip gloss, and wear mascara a handful of times a year at the most. But Joe doesn’t seem to understand that it takes time, effort, and a munitions store of beauty products to achieve the “natural” look he adores.

  “At Least You’re Not Married to Him”

  When my husband gets out of the shower, he insists on blow-drying

  his butt. Apparently he likes it very dry. I don’t mind this in theory, but

  it’s not exactly a turn-on to watch him do it. Plus, this isn’t why I forked

  over a fortune for an ionic dryer. The worst part is, I think our teenage

  son is now doing it, too. I’m afraid to ask.

  LORI

  For my fortieth birthday—and also because it would dramatically increase the value of the home we’d been painstakingly renovating for the previous eight years—Joe built me a glorious new master bathroom. It is spa-like and serene and ridiculously big, and we each have our very own sink and several drawers and cabinets to do with as we please. (His are practically empty so you’d think he might offer me some of this coveted real estate, but he doesn’t and I don’t complain. Much.) Then he transformed the old, hideous, cracked-linoleum blot on our home’s landscape—the former “master bath”—into a lavish walk-in closet. Just for me. It’s got plush chocolate-brown carpeting, a floor-to-ceiling shoe rack, wraparound shelves, and a smattering of valet hooks. There’s even a lock on the door, so I can hide in there and talk on the phone, and it sometimes takes the kids ten full minutes to find me. When I die, I want to be buried in there.

  “Dude, where’s your stuff?” his friends will ask Joe when he proudly shows off the result of his carpentry (and husbandry) skills.

  “Happy wife, happy life,” he says with a shrug.

  This is actually one of his favorite sayings, and—for obvious reasons—it’s one of mine, too. (Sure, it’s typically something grumbled under his breath as he’s doing something he would much rather not be doing, such as trying to figure out how he’s going to strap the chipping, rickety armoire—the one that we don’t need but I insist on buying anyway at the yard sale he doesn’t want to stop at in the first place—to the roof of the SUV without killing anyone. At that moment in time, does he want to be risking a herniated disk for a piece of superfluous, secondhand crap? Of course not! He’s simply choosing possible debilitating pain over the sort of emotional torture—and let’s face it, the withholding of sexual favors—that only a wife can inflict.)

  Fortunately, the infamous towel incident from our first date turned out to be a fluke. In the thirteen years we’ve shared this sacred space since that day, Joe hasn’t left a single scrunched towel in his wake. He still sometimes turns the light off when I’m in the middle of shaving my legs, but he doesn’t leave floss splatters on the mirror or whisker shrapnel in the sink. When he has the audacity to use the room for one of its primary intended purposes, not only has he mastered the art of the “courtesy flush,” he even installed a fan on a timer right next to the toilet. Occasionally he even lights a candle. He uses the shower squeegee I bought, and sometimes even complains when I leave a little speck of toothpaste on the neck of the tube. I have permanent teeth marks on my tongue from biting it when he nags me about my slovenly toothpaste ways—as if!—but all things considered, I think I can live with that.

  “At Least You’re Not Married to Him”

  My number one pet peeve occurs when I am indisposed. My husband

  suddenly needs to know where I am. He will come into the bathroom

  (no knocking), stand directly in front of me, literally within an eighteen-inch

  circumference, and say “What are you doing?” Honestly! You’re

  probably thinking he’s stupid or something, but he isn’t! He would

  otherwise be thought of as a wonderful, caring, intelligent, hard-working

  man, and I do adore him. But what on God’s green earth does he think

  I am doing?! This happens all the time. Does he think I have a secret

  life in there? There’s not even a window where I could escape if I wanted

  to. I don’t think I spend an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom,

  although it does have the potential to be a nice little respite with some

  privacy and some quiet time away from the kids. Oh well.

  DONNA

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Should We Just Skip

  the $200 Dinner

  and Duke It Out

  at Home?

  My wife and I have the secret to making a marriage last.

  Two times a week, we go to a nice restaurant,

  a little wine, good food.... She goes Tuesdays, I go Fridays.

  • HENNY YOUNGMAN •

  England’s Daily Mail recently reported the results of a truly depressing survey I’ll call “The Honeymoon Is So Totally Over.” The researchers polled five thousand couples—each of whom had been hitched at least a decade—about their daily connubial lives. Sadly, 83 percent of the respondents had stopped celebrating their anniversary together after three lousy years, while 60 percent said they hadn’t enjoyed a single romantic evening since the day they tied the knot. The number of couples who held hands even occasionally dropped from 83 percent in the first year of marriage to just 38 percent ten years later. (Luckily for me, I didn’t have to wait around for the slow and painful decline. “I’m not really much of a hand-holder,” Joe told me, the day before we exchanged vows, information I promptly shoved deep into the Would Have Been Good to Know Yesterday file.) With a sample size as large as this study’s, unfortunately one can expect the results to be fairly representative of the population at large.

  The often-recommended solution to marital apathy is the infamous Date Night, which ostensibly offers couples a regular chance to reconnect, unwind, and—at least the guy is hoping—have gnarly, passionate monkey sex.

  Here’s the thing. When you go to the great trouble of putting on mascara and shaving your legs and you’re shelling out a king’s ransom to some teenager to eat your food and keep your kids alive for a few hours and not burn the house down, you sort of hope it’s going to be worth all the effort and expense. Sadly, the fact that it rarely is doesn’t keep most of us married folks from getting our hopes up and going for it anyway, time and trying time again.

  It’s not anyone’s fault, really. Think about what’s involved in getting two very busy, very different people to one restaurant or movie theater or concert. First off, you have to pick a date and a time, and agree on where you’ll be going and what you’ll be doing. That in and of itself could take months. Most couples start with dinner, using some variation of this time-honored, romantic line of reasoning: We’d both have to eat anyway, and at least we won’t have to do any dishes afterward. Invariably the fact that you love Thai and he prefe
rs Italian will come up and you’ll have to determine whose turn it is to call heads in the coin toss.

  “Last time we went out we went to My Thai and I burned all of the skin off the roof of my mouth on that ridiculous pickled-tofu-curry thing you ordered,” he’ll insist.

  “No, we went to Mama Mia and you got marinara sauce on the cuff of your brand-new white shirt, remember?” you’ll counter. Since you’re the one who famously recalls birthdays and library book due dates and where the lint brush lives, he’d be a fool to argue with your innately superior memory.

  You’ll try to agree on a neutral third cuisine that has an affordable restaurant in your zip code, but the odds are there is no such thing. Because your preferred-order eatery lists are in direct opposition, it will take you seven years to get to the place where they intersect, at that joint that neither of you really likes nor hates, the model of mediocrity. You’ll consider wearing pants and skipping the whole shaving thing altogether.

  Will reservations be needed? If so, who will be responsible for making them? For once, you concur that it should be whoever didn’t do it last time. But neither of you can remember who that was because it was thirteen eons ago, so the stalemate continues.

  Screw dinner, you think; it’s too complicated. You’ll just go to a movie instead. Because that’s not fraught with contention, right? Action, adventure, comedy, drama, or horror? Diet or regular Coke? Aisle or center seats? Plain popcorn or a greasy bag of swimming-in-disgusting-has-more-fat-than-thirty-two-Whoppers-fake-butter nuggets?

  HIM: “I’ll see anything but a chick flick.”

  HER: “Define ‘chick flick.’ ”