Just so we’re in the clear up front…because writing is all
about being honest, and people can sense a lie for miles when you write. The whole point of writing is a dirty,
disgusting, romp through the inner workings of the mind to find the ugly, naked
truth…so, here goes:
I married an asshole.
Two of them actually.
And, so did you.
Ok. Maybe not two.
If you aren’t married, you’ll end up with one, most likely. Or a really weird cat addiction, which is
better in my not-so-humble-opinion, or you might have been stupid enough to
have had more than two. Me, I prefer to
fold when I don’t have shit going into the river card. Yeah, fold and hit the dollar blackjack table…cheap
and a guaranteed score if you play third base right.
Yeah, yeah, a few of you out there are clutching your pearls
like I just called the pope Lucifer and spat on the Dalai Lama. It’s all fun and games as long as I’m
threatening to sell the girls to the gypsies.
For some reason, bitching about your spouse is like you walked passed
Jesus and called him a dick.
Trust me on this one, gals.
You’re single friends are going to tell you to leave his sorry ass. They have a point. You’re taken for granted, and he doesn’t know
SHIT you do until you don’t do it. BUT, they’re also telling you to say sayonara
to your credit and financial stability, and they don’t have a fucking clue what
marriage is like—trust me on this, they’re still in the honeymoon phase and
they haven’t even had one.
The newly engaged or the newlyweds, they’re always *and this
is in my nasally, best whine* “We NEVER fight!”
Really? Good for you. Hold on to your g-string, because shit is
about to get as real as the grandma panties you’re five years away from buying
for pregnancy.
You know what is better than saying, “We never fight!” or “He
would NEVER do that!”? Taking off your
shoes, then walking across legos ( the little ones) to grab a cinder block to
drop on your big toe. THAT is how smart
you sound to a marriage veteran.
I’m just trying to break it down real. Marriage is
hard. I’m not saying it doesn’t have its
benefits, but for REALZ, you might not have to go to the movies by yourself,
but you’re seriously gonna spend 35 minutes seeing who can “I don’t care” the
most until one of you gets pissed and says “FINE!” and picks the shittiest
movie ever to come out in three years, just to compromise…AND you’re both still
pissed because neither had the balls to start a “real” fight by picking the
movie they wanted to see anyway. BTW—you’ll
rent it after it wins umpteen awards.
See, marriage is kinda, well, totally, fucked up. You promise to put up with someone else’s
bullshit…FOREVER. For better and for
worse, and most of the time, it’s the goddamn worst. It really is.
That vow? TOTALLY, totally
fucked up. I’d be more supportive if
someone actually had to swear before God and 500 witnesses not to EVER, ever be
an asshole. Now, THERE is a vow worthy
of praise. That way, I could go to
Father Raul, say “He never EVEN TRIED not to be a dickhead. I washed pee off
the bathroom wall every, single, day, and he never once took my bitchy advice
to SIT DOWN If he can’t aim!”
And he would say, “You don’t EVEN know about her going ALL
Sicilian about the macaroni salad!”
Annulment granted. Marriage?
Never existed.
See, I’m even more bitter because, even knowing full well I
wasn’t getting shit, I’m upset I didn’t get a fucking thing for my tenth
anniversary. Not. Even. A. Card.
My boss says, “Jen, get used to it!” This from the guy who
shuts down meetings to answer his wife’s phone calls. I said I am, I just kinda figured ten was a big
deal…even though I KNEW. See, I’ve NEVER gotten an anniversary gift…EVER.
So, I bought me a dozen yellow roses, a bottle of
chardonnay, a bag of Totino’s pizza bites, and a legal consultation.
Anyway…Tammy Gammy called on my way to the Law Office...and
we found the Piper. It was all too much Frosh Women’s Studies.
There’s a tribe in Africa where the women have their very
own language. They ONLY use it to complain about their husbands. Seems strange here, yet our old ladies,
grandmas and aunts, often tell us, if we listen, in our own language, to be
aware. We don’t understand, and it’s not
even in a different tongue.
My grandmother told me, being the only woman I went to at
the time of my first divorce, that I was just trading one set of problems for
another.
What I’ve learned in the
18 years since I first made that promise to put up with all the shit, is that
the friendship we expect to find in marriage, is rarely there. And, most often, the one we seek, the one we truly
trust, is our sister. Maybe not our
blood sister, but that one fellow woman who understands us and gets us, and
keeps our secrets as close as we keep our babies.
Even our babies won’t get us…but we all need that one sister…loyal
and true…who REALLY understands. That
one friend who knows by the look on our face what we really, really need. That one bitch, speaking our own
language. And she’s laughing, saying “Remember?”
THAT is who gets you through the worse. THAT is who gets you through marriage. THAT is who you run to and cry to and scream to...and she just laughs and says, "Oh, Jesus, I know."
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