Same Words, Different Conversations: the Language of Marriage
Picture the scenario: Man slumps home to his young family after work, barely speaking, shoulders tight, forehead creased.
The actual conversation:
She says: “Are you okay?”
He says: “I’m fine.”
She says: “You look tired.”
He says: “I have a headache.”
She says: “Ouch. Is there anything I can do?”
He says: “No.”
Within this brief interchange is a world of unspoken communication, a whole theatre of marital misunderstanding. Permit me to elucidate.
After 23 years of practice, and the help of a gifted marriage counselor – who can finally put in that pool thanks to us – my husband and I are experts at decoding the murky messages underlying such communications. We may not always choose to use our powers for good, but it’s there for us anyway.
For those of you who may still be struggling with the, for want of a better explanation, language barrier, I’d like to offer up my expertise, free of charge.
Here’s how that brief conversation above plays out, in his experience:
Man comes home to young family after work, slumped, quiet, tense.
She says: “What’s the matter with you? And don’t blame me. I’ve done everything I can do to make your life easier, at incredible personal sacrifice. And you just walked in the door, for god’s sake!”
He thinks: I’m a man. I’m fine. At least, I would be, if you’d get off my back, for one single second. And I just walked in the door, for god’s sake.
He says: “I’m fine, honey, just a little tired. You look very pretty. Can I help with dinner?”
She says: “Don’t ‘pretty’ me. That’ll get you exactly nowhere. You think you’re tired? You don’t know the meaning of the word, buddy. You should try spending a day running after your hell spawn. I hope you’re not hungry because I didn’t have time to get groceries.”
He thinks: Well you clearly didn’t spend your day cleaning. But I should cut her some slack. It’s my fault her life sucks, after all, I got her pregnant. Ah the good old days, when we used to have sex.
He says: “Sorry I’m such a bear, darling. I have a teeny little headache, that’s all. I’ll try not to inconvenience you with my pain.”
She says: “”YOU have a headache? Well, I’VE got a migraine. Why, right now, I believe my head might explode, splat, all over the kitchen. Probably because it’s my time of the month, hormones you know. It’s hell being a woman, you have no idea. Can you watch the kids for a few hours? I need to lie down. I’m cramping. And I blame you.”
He says: “Of course, sweetness, I only wish I could spend more time with our precious angels.” Dang, I’m a good husband. Too bad it won’t get me some.
Here’s how she experiences the same conversation:
She thinks: Uh-oh. Rough day, by the looks of it. I was hoping for some help with the kids, but I guess not.
She says: “Are you okay?
He answers: “I’m fine. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody.”
She thinks: That hurts, but cut him some slack. Maybe it’s not me. Someone needs to be the bigger person here, and that’s clearly not a Y-chromosome kind of job. But I’ll tell you what, there’s no sex tonight.
She says: “You look tired. Can I rub your feet? I’m hear to listen, if you’d like to talk. Or just be together, quietly. Whatever you need, sweetheart.” Except sex.
He answers: “I have a headache.”
She thinks: Well of course! That explains everything! I’ve had enough headaches in my life to understand just what you need when you’re feeling rough. And you’re a man, so you naturally have a lower pain threshold. I can take care of this.
She says: “Oh poor you! Can I give you a neck massage? Get you an ice pack? Some Advil? Here, sit down, put your feet up.”
She thinks: Dang, I’m a good wife. But you’re still not getting sex.
Babies in Our Backyard, Part 1
- At July 21, 2011
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 0
I know, how lucky are we to have this kind of wildlife just outside our doors, right? The dogs think it’s quite an enormous responsibility, keeping all these interlopers out of their territory, and most of the time, it’s okay. (Having survived a coyote attack a few years ago, Myshkin frantically informs us – from the safety of the yard – whenever one of these bad guys is around.)
Deer, rabbits, bear, bobcat, eagles, owls, we’ve got lots of interesting wildlife, but the deer are by far our most frequent visitors.
When the dogs see the deer, the predator switch flicks on and they lose their small minds. But their prey just looks up as if to say, “Seriously. You’re going to chase US?” Then they take one leap and disappear, leaving the dogs hopelessly snarled in blackberry brambles.
But when there are new-born fawns, it’s a different story.
A few weeks ago, we noticed one doe hanging around behind our house. Apparently Mama-Deer had a new fawn tucked away up there, because every time the dogs went up the mountain, instead of running away, Mama-Deer charged at them. Well, I should say “him.” Addie and Gemma like to bark, but let’s face it. Neither of them are exactly … athletically inclined. So Myshkin’s the only one who can even get near the deer.
Well. The look on his face was priceless. You could tell he was thinking: “Hold ‘er Newt. Who changed the rules to this game? I’m the chase-er, not the chase-ee.”
But he’s no dummy. He saw the crazed-mother look and I don’t know, maybe he recognized it. At any rate, he turned right around and left her alone.
And then, a few days later, we were rewarded when Baby popped out to greet us.
Yesterday, I saw Baby again, under very different circumstances. Stay tuned, I’ll tell you all about it shortly.
Alive with Possibility
- At July 07, 2011
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 0
I stood at my kitchen window this morning, waiting for my coffee, and was treated to an airshow. Swallows swooped between my rescued spruce tree and that darn cottonwood that will not be killed, sparrows fed on aurinia now gone to seed, hummingbirds dipped in and out of my hanging baskets, chattering and squabbling. Occasionally one perched on the supports against which clematis vines send their delicate tendrils. The scent of roses, planted and tended by my own hands, hung lightly in the morning air.
Butterflies drifted in and out of a patch of pink yarrow. Now and then, a robin flew in to break up a gathering, and deep within my heavily-laden currant bush, a pair of roufus-sided towhees scratched and pecked. As my coffee and toast got cold, I watched a group of little red-headed finches perch along my espaliered apple tree, six or seven amongst the four horizontal branches, each budding with a different variety of apple.
My yard might not be magazine-worthy; there’s whole patches that I haven’t dealt with properly yet. I plant things, only to realize that they would look better or be happier in a different spot. I build a terrace, only to decide a month later that it’s not quite deep enough, or needs more rock. Wild bunnies make lunch dates in my flowerbeds, and the deer sample pretty much everything, but I figure they were here first, the least I can do is be gracious.
So I move plants, redo hardscaping, dig, replace, adjust. Slowly but surely, I’m making headway against the invasive thorny weeds, but it’s a never-ending task, and I use Polysporin as hand lotion every night. I suspect the apocalypse will end with fleas, cockroaches, thistle and blackberry standing triumphant.
For me, gardening is – like so much of life – an ongoing project. Ideas sprout in me like scarlet runner beans, and I’m never happier than when I’m working on some new possibility, be it a book, a painting, a recipe or a new twist on an old relationship. But bringing ideas to maturity takes patience, thought, observation, more patience, and the willingness to try out something, even if it turns out to be wrong.
Or even if – especially if – someone tells me it was a bad idea.
More creative minds than mine insist that there are no bad ideas. I cling to this. Some ideas are better than others; some ideas are simply jumping-off points. But none are bad. The fifth try might be perfect, but you can’t get to five without going through four. Writers refer to this as the “shitty first draft” concept, which makes sense. Manure is fertilizer, after all.
So I shore up my shaky courage in times of creative drought and seek out warm shelter and support. I’ve found that gardens usually come back, when the season is right; life, it seems, is forgiving to those who keep trying.
So I’ve got flowers, animals, birds, insects, and even food. I’ve got stories, friendship, love, beauty, purpose. It’s summer, finally. My little bit of Earth is thriving …and nurturing my soul along with it.