Fat Wife
My friend, Alina, posted the video above, and following commentary to her tumblr account. The video is hilarious-- and her commentary is spot on.
"I hear a lot of chatter about how it’s so unreasonable that all these sitcoms star chubby, oaf-like men with incredibly hot wives. It’s usually slanted in the direction of “It places even more undue pressure on women to fit this standard, and it’s ridiculous.”
But something I don’t often hear, something nagging in the back of my mind whenever I happen to watch one of these sitcoms, is how unfair these things are to the real-life men. I think this video, snagged from the Sociological Images blog, illustrates this point perfectly."
Should you stay or should you go?
Dear Reader:
You asked whether or not you should stay in your marriage. You say you are looking for advice from me, but it sounds more like you're looking for courage and permission.
I can't give you either. I can only speak from experience, and my experience wasn't pretty. I've written about it before, but let me put it to you bluntly:
Divorce sucks ass. Especially if you have kids, know that it is horrible, even under the best circumstances.
That said, a bad marriage sucks ass. My question: Is your marriage fixable? Unlike some people, I believe that some marriages just aren't fixable. Some marriages can be broken beyond repair, even when its participants stay. That said, if your marriage is fixable: Do you want to fix it, or do you want to move on?
This whole figuring out of who is wrong or right always frustrates me. Why do we need a victim in divorce? Why do we need a bad guy and a good guy, a right one and a wrong one? Rarely in life is anything so clean cut. Even Hitler thought he was right.
So in lieu of that futile line of thinking, I put it to you this way:
If you want out, you have to be willing to accept full responsibility for the choice you make to leave. If you can do that, you will eventually heal and move beyond the grief you will feel at such a loss. Because you will feel grief, even if ending the marriage is your choice.
You also will have to accept that your kids may be extremely angry with you and may even hate you for a time. Can you be in that role? Can you be the bad guy in your kids' eyes?
Can you be separated/divorced and NOT blame your former spouse for his choices/downfalls as a person?
Can you successfully co-parent without anger, without bad-mouthing your former spouse in front of the kids or to people who may repeat your words to your kids?
Can you be kind to the father of your children once you no longer have to deal with him face-to-face daily? Can you pretend to be happy for your kids when they share how much they love their dad, or how wonderful his new girlfriend is?
Can you live without full custody?
Can you share the role of motherhood with another person, and do so gracefully?
Can you live with knowing he will do whatever he wants as a parent, and you will be largely powerless over the choices he makes as a parent in his home?
Can you two abdicate your roles as decision makers to a court system, and live with that choice until your children turn 18?
Can you make it financially without him?
Are you willing to move out of your current home?
Are you willing to be the bad guy?
In our mind's eye, when we divorce, we don't think of the ugly. We think of FREEDOM. We think of how wonderful it will be to have our own place and new bathroom towels and not have to deal with that man's scent any longer.
We don't think of how, even though we end our marriage, our responsibilities as a co-parent and former spouse still exist.
I have been divorced from my sons' father for over 12 years. I still have to deal with him, and he with me. I still occasionally have to deal with old baggage/old hurts/negativity as we navigate our sons' growth to adulthood. And not just my anger (which is long-since spent). Not my hurt (which has long-since ended). Occasionally I have to deal with HIS issues and anger and our sniping over things that occurred in a distant past. Our marriage ended long before the divorce, but we still have to deal with each other.
Marriages end. Parenting doesn't.
Whether you are able to continue dealing with your former spouse isn't a consideration. It's making sure you understand that you will HAVE to continue to deal with him. Ending the marriage isn't a clean escape. It's the beginning of a new definition of your relationship to each other.
No one can answer any of these questions for you or truly advise you one way or the other. The answers to these questions lie in your heart, alone.
And either choice-- to stay, or to go-- either is difficult. There is no easy answer.
Number two
Have I ever explained how I play catch with Uncle Rico?
You know, Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite. The once almost football hero that lives in a trailer on the edge of town, reliving his glory days over, and over, and over… Yeah. I play catch with him—metaphorically speaking, of course. In fact, most of my whole life has been about playing catch with him.
I knew, even as a child, that I was a supporting actor in the movie of my life. Every race I ran, I came in second. No joke. First the whole way, until those last 20 feet, when the true winner, inspired my crazy-fast pace, would kick it up a notch because he refused to lose to a girl.
As a child I dreamed of presenting awards at the Oscars. Not winning an Oscar, mind you-- but announcing the winners. Tearing the envelope, et al. Somebody has to, right?
Go back and watch those movies from the '80s. There is the hot chick that all the dudes desire-- and then there is the snarky, best friend wearing the hat, and her name almost always is "Tracy" (spelled wrong, even). I am that hat-wearing friend.
Of course you've probably forgotten about that character-- even though she's in every single movie. She's a one-off. She’s a bit annoying. She's kind of boyish. And she always ends up shrugging in the background and running off with some guy who is too geeky for the leading actress.
She is me. She is every moment of my whole life.
Why am I telling you this? Because you need to know.
You can't have lame '80s movies without the quirky girlfriend.
You can't have races without a second place finisher.
Somebody has to be that awesome.
And see, I while I am not at the top, I've accepted that I can't ever be at the top. My life is-- by the design of the gods--to be sitting on the sidelines with Uncle Rico. That’s what motherhood is, after all: sitting on the sidelines, helping your kids move through life, making sure their clothes are ironed and their teeth are brushed. Setting them up for success.
You can't ignore me either, Michael, your wife who appears rarely in the film while you stare at your lover's boiling rabbit in the pot. I'm the one who gives you the idea to go on the journey where you fall in love with the hero. I'm the one who makes the offhand comment over fries and a coke in the hospital cafeteria, which is the clue that unravels the deeper mystery.
Yes. I may be small and hat wearing and quirky, and my jokes may be mere echoes in the distance... But let's face it: You can't move the plot forward without me.
Awesome.
Survivor’s grief
“I just wish she’d hurry up and die,” my friend says, staring into her coffee cup. It’s a bold statement to which I find myself nodding sympathetically. I wasn’t in the least taken aback by her “death wish.” And though it made me desperately sad, through the course of our many conversations I have come to have deep empathy for her sorrow.
Here we were: A couple of gals escaping the heat and kids and the rigors of life in general, enjoying a cool Starbucky beverage. And, as often happens when women make such an escape, conversation quickly flows from congenial and into much needed venting territory FAST.
I’d seen this pain in my friend’s eyes many times and heard this lament on previous occasions. Her mother wasn’t ill, which is to say, she didn’t have cancer or heart disease. Nor was she elderly, suffering away in some convalescent hospital.
Rather, my friend’s mother is deeply sick, but suffers from a disease few have patience for or can comprehend: She’s an alcoholic. Her mother’s sickness has ravaged the life of my friend, the lives of her siblings and, quite truthfully, affects the lives all others with whom her mother makes contact.
To her credit, her mother is aware of her disease and has actively attended a 12-step program for several years. Yet, sobriety evades her daily.
I watch my friend describe the desperate pain she feels as her mother sinks further into the depths alcoholism. She tells me of the mother she loves more than almost anyone—the woman who shares her ribald sense of humor and her can-do attitude. She tells me of the woman who would take her shopping and share heart-to-heart conversations and make the best tuna noodle casserole on the planet. This is the mother that exists in flashes, the dream mother, the mother that appears occasionally to lift her spirits and garner her hope. This is the sober—or, mostly sober—mom. And when she makes her momentary appearances in my friend’s life, my friend has enough hope to keep her spirits afloat for weeks at a time.
Maybe she will stay sober. Maybe she will be a grandmother to her grandchildren. Maybe she will live to see 60.
Then comes the next visit. The “reality visit,” as my friend calls it, the one where my friend realizes that her mother’s sobriety was a small, momentary glimpse of dreams come true; a gift that her mother takes back again and again and again. My friend has come to despise these small gifts, because with them later comes the knowledge that all the words, all the assurances, all of my friend’s sticky, love-laden hope has never been more than that: my friend’s hope, tainted by empty promises.
It is at this point in our conversation that I am overtaken by tears. I know this lost feeling.
My mind traipses over a dream I’ve had many times, wherein I speak with my now-deceased father. In the dream, I’m ecstatic he’s with me, so unbelievably happy that I’m sobbing and hugging him and begging him to stay. I tell him all the things I long for him to know; I hold his hands and look into his eyes and try to soak in every second, every bit of him. He tells me he has come home for good, and my happiness is palpable. And then I wake up. And my elation crashes through the floor.
The lost feeling is called grief, and my dear friend grieves her living mother.
I attempt to dry my eyes as we look around the happy little coffee shop. I want to help her. I want to save her. I want to give her sage advice, and lift the feelings that weigh her down.
And so I do, in the way we women always do for one another. I hold her hand, and I listen.
Take it outside
“Can he come over later?” our 17-year-old daughter asks, hopeful that six o’clock is not too late for her boyfriend to swing by. He is a nice boy, a dedicated son to a single mom, a good older brother to two younger sisters; overall, a very positive influence in my daughter’s life.
“Sure,” I mutter as the younger girls (who have massive crushes on their sister’s boyfriend) squeal with glee. Giddy, the 17-year-old’s thumbs maniacally tap out the good news on her cell phone’s keypad. The deal is done. He’s on his way.
Like my parents before me, and their parents before them, I answer her next, age-old, query with, “Ask me if I like him later, after you graduate from college and get your first real job.” Translation: Until those goals are achieved, I’m not getting excited about anybody.
…But I do like the guy, even if this week’s ambition is to be a cage fighter. (Ugh, such a headache I get from the eye rolling over that one.) He’s nice. He’s very respectful.
Mostly. Case in Point:
An hour later Niceboy greets my daughter with a hug and a kiss. Then the two play with the younger kids for a bit, until they can escape the adoration of the younger two girls. They come and chat with my husband and I , occasionally gazing into each other’s eyes. They kiss again. They hold hands. She sits on his lap as they make conversation. They smooch again.
I want to vomit. They decide to “go to the park” before I snap past my dumbstruck nature.
I want to scream, “Hey, NICEBOY! Don’t kiss my daughter in front of me!” I want to demand that she leap off his lap, that they take their puppy love out of the line of sight of the impressionable youngsters. (aka, ME.)
Later I complain to my husband about this kissing business. This… this constant public display of affection nonsense. Whatever happened to just holding hands? My husband laughs and pretends to scold the teens. “That’s right! Don’t make everyone watch you kiss! Only your mother and I can kiss in front of everyone!”
I start to agree and then pause with a disgusted look on my face.
I am trying to think of a witty comeback, something that makes complete sense.
Nothing does. He has a point. We do hug and peck in front of the kids. We hold hands. We snuggle on the couch. We kiss—NOT MAKE OUT—but kiss. Lovingly. The kids sometimes heckle us with “Oh baruther”s and “Get a room”s and whatnot.
But we are the PARENTS in this family equation. We are the bill payers and the adults and we have earned the right to hug in front of our very own kids. These… these TEENAGERS have earned no such right. They are brazen, what with their kindness and niceness and puppy lovingness.
I feel old as the stink eye settles in upon my gaze whenever I look at the two of them. A line needs to be drawn. The rules need to be set forth.
… a message best delivered by my husband, I think, while I make “tsk”ing noises and “that’s right” affirmations as I stand directly behind him. Then, as if to prove my point, I’ll kiss him swiftly on the cheek.
In your FACE, teenagers!
About me….
Perpetually anxious/simultaneously exhausted mom of a blended family of 7 kids & 2 pets. Writer about same. Wife to one amazingly patient husband. Drinker of wine. Columns found via online syndication in 38+ newspapers across the U.S.
Radio segments found here or live weekly on Thursdays at 5:15 p.m. on KYNO 940 AM radio's "The Drive."
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