Thursday, September 26, 2013

So, I married an asshole or



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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