A Walk in the Snark (4 page)

So no, I didn’t go.

He loved me that much.

So we would fight, I’d be in tears, he’d hit something, then we’d have incredible make-up sex, with tearful apologies from him that he would never do that again, and threats from me that I’d be gone if he did. When he was good, he was amazing.

And I
loved
the amazing.

And so it went. For several years.

The article about Yeardley discusses how to look for SIGNS OF ABUSE in our young daughters:

She doesn’t spend as much time with family and friends (check)

The relationship has wild ups and downs (check)

She is afraid to miss a phone call from her guy (check)

Her boyfriend constantly insults her (check)

When you are young and caught up in this cycle of “love,” it’s impossible to understand how someone like Yeardley would ever stay with a guy who would hurt her or play constantly with her emotions.

But I understand. I get it.

My guy would constantly make fun of my clothes, tell me a new haircut looked “lousy” (a word that I still hate to this day and one you will never hear me say or see me write), chide me about my friends, and tease me about my family.

My family was great. They took one look at him and told me to run, quickly, the other way. My dad decided to rhyme his name with something akin to vomit.

But I didn’t listen. I was in love.

I hung on. I believed he was good, that we were good. That I could make him good. That is, until I went over to his place after work one night and saw a mascara tube next to the bathroom sink that was definitely not my brand.

I can still feel my heart crashing to this day.

Still, after about six months, I took him back. The physical connection was undeniable. He asked me to move in with him.

No, I had enough brains not to.

It was never the same, though. My trust was broken along with my heart. He knew that I had dated other guys in that six-month period and couldn’t handle the thought of me with another man. The taunts about my looks continued as I graduated and got a new sales job that took me out of town, off to meet all kinds of new people. I think his ego just couldn’t handle it, and he snapped.

Out of the Book of Extraordinary Coincidences, he began secretly dating a colleague’s roommate. To this day I still can’t believe the synchronicity of these events.

My colleague’s roommate was also a sales rep from the Bay Area. We lived in Sacramento. The similarities were astounding: She was also Jewish (he was not—blond hair, tall, blue eyes, could fix stuff); she had large green eyes, sales job, college grad, though her hair was brown. Why he was attracted to her was not lost on me.

So, how did I find out? Oh, just one of those things. He said he was out with his friends for the weekend and then I spoke with my colleague with whom I had now become friends, she told me her roommate’s new boyfriend was down and his name was
D
.

Well. He had a unique name and I wasn’t born yesterday. I asked her for a description of said boyfriend, and when she confirmed, I said tell him his girlfriend Rachel says hi.

In our final confrontation, where he came over to beg and plead for my forgiveness, I looked hot—literally and figuratively. I recall finally getting my backbone and telling him one simple sentence, “You don’t deserve to be in my life.”

He had no response, other than to hang his head for a moment before he punched the wall and left.

I realized in that moment how easily that could have been me. All those years feeling loved and protected were my illusion, my part in the play.

I never felt scared for my life, but I did feel scared.

The baseball bats, the guns (he was a hunter), the knives, the fists—he said he’d never hit a woman and to his credit, I don’t think he ever did. But I didn’t want to stick around to find out.

I can’t ask him, though.

His violent nature took the better of him and he shot himself last year.

My point in sharing this is that it took me a
v
e
r
y
long time to realize that I was even in an abusive relationship. He was a good man with a good heart, and he loved me—that’s as far as my thought process went. He always had a lot of friends, he was charming, the life of the party, and would help anyone out of a sticky situation—my guess is because he often found himself in one.

But that just isn’t enough. Do they have the right to control you?

I’m so thankful for my experience, though. It helped me learn exactly what I want in a man and what I won’t accept. I also learned that I am not a submissive woman, willing to be controlled.

“
Do not tell me what to do
” is the motto I live by every day.

I’m forty-seven now and married eighteen years to a great guy who does not have a possessive, jealous bone in his body.

He does like to control the remote, though.

If you or someone you know is in a similar situation, share my story or Yeardley’s.

Maybe it won’t be too late.

***

Ok, onward to the funny!

DON’T MAKE ME GET OUT MY DICTIONARY

Apparently, not all women experience the same things I do. Not every man has to wait for his chick to put on makeup, or has kitchen-allergy issues. Huh.

After I started writing my Mancode series and getting into a kind of groove, seemingly perfect single (or divorced) men came out of the woodwork and felt free to criticize me for my apparent lack of humor (um, what?) when it came to men.

Hello, pot? This is the kettle. You’re black. (Which is, by the way, one of my all-time favorite lines from
Friends
.)

So I felt inspired to address them (kinda) in this way…

As you can imagine, my Mancode articles generated quite a bit of controversy.

Like?

Are men really the goofballs I’m making them out to be?

One fella questioned my character—am I a total doofus for surrounding myself with men who “don’t know their right from their left?” (Well, my little guy IS only five years old.)

One gentleman told me he was offended and then accused me of writing nothing but
misandry
. Frankly, I was offended he used a word I had to look up.

So, I had to reexamine myself and my Mancode articles and ask: Self, are you a man-basher?

Self answered: Gosh, not at all. Now pour me a martini.

I LOVE men. I love my husband (18 years and counting), my dad, my son, three brothers-in-law, my male friends, and my many, many male Twitter, Facebook, and blog friends.

But, come on, I’m a writer! Of course I’m going to find the funny in the silly stuff you guys do. Men simply do lots of incomprehensible things that we women just don’t understand, and vice versa.

Part of the whole fun is
why we women don’t get it—
for example, it’s very clear why you have twenty-five hard drives, right? Makes perfect sense. But to us? We will just never understand it. Just like you will never comprehend why we need to buy
another
pair of black shoes (Look, Prada!) or yet another nude lip gloss.

Mostly I write about my own experiences or those of the long-suffering women in my family who
just
want to hold the dang remote. I also work hard to point out the cool things my guy does, like all that mystical magical stuff he does in that room where, you know, food comes out of.

If you are offended, um, sorry? But then, you probably don’t want to read my blog (no, seriously, 'cause my next piece is, in all likelihood, gonna be about how men and women handle comic ribbing differently); or this book, which has real-life examples of my guy doing guy stuff and me scratching my head.

Imagine living in a world where a woman can admit she’s not perfect, that her man isn’t either and having the gall to laugh about it.

Tsk-tsk. What a world.

***

“
Hus: What's #chickcode for ‘do the dishes?’
Me: Um, ‘do the dishes.’ U were hoping for ‘let’s have sex?’
H: shrugs”

I’M FINE, DECONSTRUCTED

Going through an experience like that with my ex has in some ways been really good for my communication with my husband, JP. Of course, we’ve already had eighteen years of practice.

Plus, I’ve kind of lucked out with my honey: He doesn’t go out with the guys, doesn’t demand precious closet space (he speaks shoes), and doesn’t play golf.

He’s truly a family man.

Before you go hatin’ on me, I will tell you—come every fall, I’m a total football widow. JP has been known to schedule appointments around his beloved Raiders games.

Sigh. It’s a guy thing. I know.

At least I’ve got my closet to organize…

I’m fine, she says.

So you think,
Cool. I’m off the hook.

Sorry, dude, but if you’re a smart man, and here’s hoping you are, you’re on your way to go get flowers and her favorite bottle of wine instead of off to your golf game with the boys. 'Cause even though she
said
she
didn’t
mind (first red flag—see the negative in there?), she really did mind.

This, my friend, is known in Girlworld as
Chickspeak
.

Walk with me.

Chickspeak
has been the death of many a relationship, mostly because A) men don’t know that it even exists or B) how to recognize it once they know it’s there.

So I’m going to help you out. Why?

Well, I’m married to a man and we’ve had eighteen years of practice. Which isn’t to say we’ve perfected anything. No, no. I will say though that my guy clearly knows that my “I’m fine,” means the exact opposite and will usually keep asking me what’s wrong until I’m vomiting green and my head starts to spin.

So yeah, we’ve worked it out.

Observe.

When you ask your bride if it’s okay to change dinner plans with her parents so that you can watch the game at your best friend’s house with the guys, you already know that when you get the standard “It’s fine,” it’s sooo not.

Not only will you be lucky to get laid again during this millennium, you should consider yourself fortunate if she wakes you up during the next earthquake.

Why? Well, let’s see. Sure, she probably doesn’t understand your guy need for game and “brotime” (particularly on the same night as dinner with her parents), but hey, you did already make a commitment to her (never mind the fact that you’re already, ya know, married and stuff.)

What’s at the heart of what is bothering her is this:
How important is she to you?