couples

“Josephine caught my eye and gave me a signal we’d used for years to indicate that one of us had to leave. The signal was mouthing the words “I have to leave” and pointing at the door.”
~Lemony Snicket

I saw this quote the other day and it got me to thinking…I’m freakin’ Josephine.

When stuck at a painfully boring event, like the college graduation of the son of your husband’s boss, any party that starts with the word THEME, most New Year’s Eves, or any occasion where there is no alcohol served, how do you signal that you’ve had enough?

What charades do you employ to make your escape without seeming like a complete and total ass?

Do you discuss it with your companion ahead of time?
Do you have hand gestures?
Safe Words?

Back in the day a certain boyfriend and I employed the simple gun-to-the-head technique which consisted of basically putting the point of your index finger to your temple and pulling the imaginary trigger. If the food was particularly ghastly, which was often the case since we were all under thirty (think melted Velveeta cheese), we added a dramatic flair with eye rolls to heaven.
If we just couldn’t stand to breathe the smoke filled air for even one more minute, the trigger pull was accompanied by sound effects.

I would pass him at the makeshift bar set up in the bathtub (or at the keg), point the finger at my head.
Boom!
He’d get the message and within five minutes we were on our way to In-N-Out.

Over the years, my sister and I have taken this to another level.

We’ve become Bad Party Mercenaries.

When we catch each other’s eye at some bullshit obligatory event that we both tried to get out of—but couldn’t—we reach into our purses for the imaginary grenade we brought with us—pull the pin out with our teeth (you know, like you do), and throw it toward the biggest blowhard in the room, saving those around him from one more minute of torture.

I suppose it’s a humanitarian act. We should both get a medal.

When shit gets real and it looks like the madness will never end, we also have an imaginary bazooka which we’ve been known to pull out of thin air, put up on our shoulder, pull the two hand grips down and  back and BLOW THE PLACE DOWN.

BOOM! (Our cheeks blow up like a blowfish because bigger weapons need better sound effects).

Then we burst out laughing with snorts and guffaws and make a run for the cheese dip.

Every event has an implied “It’s safe to leave and not look like an idiot” marker.

You’re not supposed to leave a bridal shower until she’s opened all the presents and is sporting the “gift bow hat.” (Insert dramatic eye roll here.)

It is considered bad taste to leave a graduation until they hand out the diplomas.
The thing is they leave that task until the very end and it can take many, many hours in the hot sun waiting for your friend’s kid, R. Ziskin to walk up to the stage and shake hands.

Truth be told, I’ve thrown many a grenade before he ever throws his cap in the air.

At weddings, you’re supposed to wait until after they cut the cake.
I have been known to risk ridicule and leave prior to the cake cut because the band sucked, the bride and groom were drunk and the cake was white on white. (What? Why?)

These days I mostly sneak out (with snacks in my pockets), after saying my goodbyes to the hosts. (My husband makes me).

So, tell me. Do you guys adhere to all of the party etiquettes? Are you the last to leave…or the first?
What’s your silent signal?

I won’t be mad if you want to steal our bazooka idea. (It’s an acquired skill. We’re thinking of doing a YouTube tutorial).

Carry on,
xox

I’ve been in a sort of pickle these past few days. Not quite a dilemma—I suppose you could call it a quandary.

Yeah, that’s it—I’ve been in a quandary as to how to handle all this hubbub around the two essays I wrote for The Huffington Post regarding my divorce—and the quandary is this: There are two sides to every story.

He said—she said.

Suddenly my side, which after over thirty years decided to show up in my rear view mirror and then be published not once, but in two different essays, with an interview today on Huffington Post Live, is starting to make me a tad uncomfortable.

With all the distance, and water under the bridge; the fact that both my ex and me have gone on to find love again and lead perfectly lovely lives; and the fact that we are…friendly—has helped me approach the telling of the story of our divorce and the subsequent years afterward with a light touch.
With humor and gratitude, unicorns and love letters.

Now here’s the rub. I’m not so sure he sees things that way.

I haven’t actually had a conversation with him about our divorce in over twenty years, and I have no intention of re-opening that subject with him now, that is not an easy topic for us and last we spoke I can guarantee you—there were no unicorns or love letters mentioned.

You see, back in 1984 I left the marriage and he was not happy about it.
He swears he never saw it coming which always makes me shake my head in disbelief (I’m doing it right now), so I’m sure his story would read more like this: Blindsided great guy (he really was) gets the heave-ho from totally ditzy, hopelessly romantic and seriously deluded first wife.

True or not, that is probably his take on a difficult and painful situation from his past—and the problem is —no one will ever hear about it.

Since my side(s) of the story have gotten more traction, I’ve been dialing down the social media blitz that comes with having your articles reach outside of your comfortable circle of friends and family. Strangers are reading it and weighing in and THAT feels weird somehow.

I know my ex peruses my personal Facebook page so I’ve left both articles off of it, hoping for the best.

That’s the thing. One person talking about their experience as half of a partnership, a union, a collaboration—or a relationship—is missing a very important element—the other side of the story.

Liz Gilbert wrote about her difficult and emotionally wrenching divorce in Eat,Pray,Love,and the world sympathized—which eventually compelled her ex-husband to write a book about HIS experience inside of the same situation.

The Oscar-nominated screenwriter of When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle, wrote Heartburn in 1983. The book was inspired by the events of her break-up with her second husband, the Watergate journalist Carl Bernstein, whom she discovered was having an affair with British politician Margaret Jay while Ephron was pregnant with their son Max. While it may seem as if he wouldn’t have had a leg to stand on in the court of public opinion, Bernstein did threaten legal action for how he was portrayed.

All I know you guys, is that I‘m not so sure I’d like to read about what any of my ex’s thought about our relationship on Facebook or in The Huffington Post.

Even if they were kind about it, (which I made sure to be), I’m certain I’d disagree with all, most, some of what they had to say.

It’s too late. The genie is out of the bottle.
I have a blog where I talk about all aspects of my life—from my perspective—no holds barred—hoping to share the common thread that runs between all of us, and I can’t start being worried about what someone will think about it now.

I get to have “my view of the facts” as a friend said to me today, but remember—true or not—completely accurate or not—everything you ever read is just one person’s View of the Facts.

I often forget that, falling under the assumption that it’s the whole story.

What do you guys think?

Carry on,
xox

The other night, as we were getting ready for bed, my husband informed me that he was going to start his own blog.

“I’m going to call it The Mute Observer” he said, barely able to keep a straight face.
This made me laugh so hard I may have pee’d a little—and I just had to share it with you guys! (I even found a graphic online.)

He is an extremely private person. A man of few words. He holds things close to the chest, but that in no way means he isn’t noticing or feeling his way through his environment.

I can safely say that he feels things in a much deeper way than I do.

I’m guessing that he’s very much like a lot of you.

The fact that I tell our stories or mention him at all on these pages is a constant source of feigned exasperation characterized by a lot of head shaking and arm waving.

He has a hard time wrapping his brain around the fact that I share my/our life in such public way. You know what they say: Opposites Attract.

Sometimes, early in the morning I can hear him in his office laughing and I smile, knowing in that moment he’s getting a kick out of one of my many mis-adventures.

Other times he just stands silently in the doorway of the den, staring at me until I notice him there.
“Today’s made me cry” he’ll say with tears in his eyes. That’s it. Then he just walks away.
I love him for that.

He may not understand my need to use my voice—it’s not his thing—although at times I think he admires it. Thankfully,(for his own safety and the longevity of our marriage) he has NEVER tried to silence it.

He is my Mute Observer.

I don’t think for one minute he’s oblivious. That would be a huge mistake.

How many of you are Mute Observers, silently taking it all in? (oh wait—how funny! I’m asking anyway even thought I know you won’t write in the comments. Jeez, what part of mute do I NOT understand?)

Quietly Carry on,
xox

When you get married, you say the words For better or for worse, and you mean them.

I know I did. At least as much as you can grasp the true meaning of for worse –– as it seems so remote in that moment, just a phrase inside of a vow -– especially after a flute of champagne -–  or four.

I took it to mean someone who is legally obligated by the State of California to share with me the good times as well as the bad. I felt reassured by that.

But what if you discover that when a for worse happens, like a death, the two of you process and handle the situation COMPLETELY differently.
How could you have known that?
And now what?

Especially when the deceased was loved equally by the both of you, how do you cope?

When something bad happens you want me on your team.
You see, I have what I call Delayed Reaction Syndrome. I immediately go into a hyper focused state – cool, calm and collected. I’m the one that makes the calls, orders the food, hands out the Kleenex, writes the eulogy, and is clear-headed enough to make all the uncomfortable decisions. I’m the furthest thing from emotional.
I’m …robotically rational. That is, until it what I call Phase Two kicks in.

My husband on the other hand wears his emotions on his sleeve. Actually they cover the entire outside of his body -– most especially his face.

He is incapable of holding back tears or masking sadness, and his reaction to death is appropriate and immediate.
There is no ambiguity. He’s profoundly sad and you know it.
In that respect we are a perfectly balanced match.

He grieves in the moment, while I get shit done.

There are cultures in the Mid East and Africa where they wail when someone dies, loudly and with great emotion, their bodies and faces contorted by grief. They even have professional wailers, I guess to help the family (and us Delayed Reaction types) along their emotional path.

I envy that. I really do. It appears to be an amazing release.

Two to three hours later is when Phase Two starts.

That’s about the time the tidal wave of sadness and grief comes ashore, washing me out to sea. Now I’m the one who needs comfort, I become numb, my mind unable to focus, and I want to talk and hug…a lot.

But by that time my husband is finished with his outward displays of emotion. He’s all cried out. He has now retreated deep inside, into his cave, and had moved a huge boulder over the entrance.

There’s no reaching him now.

I need to be held and reassured. That is uncharacteristically physically uncomfortable for him.
I need to cry…with someone. My tears are too much for him to handle. He’s reached sadness saturation. He is not available to me in any way, shape or form.

Moving through grief is a very solitary process, and it looks different for everyone.
I get it, I do.
But I don’t like it.

Come to find out we are just as incompatible in Phase Three.

His looks like this: Stay busy. Busy is good. Plan as many meetings and work related things as you can. Book yourself solid for twelve hours straight – then come home and pass out. Try to forget. Want all signs of the deceased erased from the house (I couldn’t do it) and no talking or tears please, too raw.

Mine looks like this: Stay in pj’s on the couch. Cancel meetings, walk neighborhood aimlessly while crying, with Kleenex stuffed up both nostrils, and don’t eat. Isolate and wish for company all at the same time. Bore strangers with your stories. Wish alcohol made you feel better or even helped you to sleep for that matter. Wash all the blankets and beds and then suffer huge regret, searching for her smell. Curl up with favorite stuffed animal for waaaaayyy too long. Forget to wash hair for three days.

Like I said, grief is an extremely solitary emotion that no amount of hugs, or kind words can help. Only time.

And just when you need it the least, it drives a wedge between two people who deal with death differently.

Even two people who love each other to bits just can’t manage to show up to soothe the other person. It was the first time I couldn’t help him. And it just goes to show that even when someone is legally bound to be there for you, sometimes they just can’t…and that came as a complete surprise –– and a crushing disappointment.

Phase Four:

You’ve got to find your solace inside yourself and that’s excruciatingly hard.

Even though he was required by law, when he promised, “I do” –– to be there for worse –– for me –– he had to find his own way first, and while he did that, I searched for my own.

Then we met, after a week, somewhere in the middle –– with open wounds and tears and stories of our journey, and in the process of finding our way back; we’ve grown and changed.

We’re different, and I think in the end we’ll be the better for it.

Carry on,
Xox

Chemistry
chem·is·try
ˈkeməstrē/
noun
1. the branch of science that deals with the identification of the substances of which matter is composed; blah, blah, blah, more scientific jargon.

2. the complex (understatement) emotional or psychological interaction between two people.
“their affair was triggered by intense sexual chemistry” (THAT’S the one I’m takin’ about.)

synonyms: affinity (not) attraction ( attraction is to chemistry, what propane is to rocket fuel) rapport (weak) spark ( ha! that’s putting it mildly)

“there was a chemistry between them” (…and they didn’t sleep for a week)

So, after the post about my lapse of good judgement due to some “intense sexual chemistry”,

http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2014/09/his-wife-saved-me-from-becoming-the-other-woman-a-cautionary-tale/

I decided to give this elusive beast more thought; seeing that it can ruin our lives and such.

So what is chemistry anyway?
If I knew the answer to that, well, I would be bottling it and living on my private island with all the subjects of my “research.”

There are studies that chalk it up to smell, to pheromones. According to the dictionary, Pheromones are chemicals, hormones, capable of acting outside the body of the secreting individual to impact the behavior of the receiving individual.

In other words, little invisible sexual secret agents, that overrule all common sense, decorum and self-respect. They blindside us, leaving us slaves to our lady parts.
Men, I suppose you can blame your struggles with self-control on chemistry and pheromones – but what’s your excuse the rest of the time? – just sayin’.

Tweet: People that say they don’t “believe” in chemistry, have never experienced it.
Right?
I just felt the slow, collective, nod of thousands of heads.

I mean, it can strike you when you least expect it.
It’s a form of sexual terrorism, with the MOST wicked sense of humor.

Chemistry has no conscience, that I know for sure.
It seems it’s the strongest with the most inappropriate people; at the most inopportune times.

Haven’t you ever locked eyes across a crowded party with…the cater waiter?
Come on! I know it’s not just me!
What about the guy in the Home Depot outdoor department? Or the beautiful man in Starbucks?

A friend of mine locked eyes with a stunning, young woman, on an airplane, seated in first class.
He was walking down the aisle to his cheapest of the cheap seats, in the waaaaay back of bitch/coach.
He knew she felt the chemistry too when she walked all the way to the back of the plane to use the restroom, forgoing all the comforts of the first class potty, just to flirt with him.

They exchanged magazines, book titles, recipes and phone numbers, gossiping and giggling like two teenage girls, and annoying everyone around him, late into the night.
The pheromones were so strong, she had to be warned sternly, several times, to go back to her first class seat during turbulence.
Sadly, she was met at the gate by a much older husband and three little kids – and my friend is gay.
Hey, I’ve already told you, chemistry knows no boundaries.

My philosophy is this:
Feel the chemistry. Marvel at it. Admire it even. Then walk away.
Except if you’re single, some chemistry is a must have in any relationship, because, take it from me – if it’s not there, the first time you get a whiff of it; you’ll bolt.

My heart still flips over when my husband enters a room. Not every time – but most of the time.

Listen, mark my words; that wild, mad, leave your wife, make bad decisions, rip your clothes off in public, kind of chemistry does NOT make for good RELATIONSHIPS.

Relationships require some intellect, intimacy and love.

Chemistry is not to be mistaken for love. Ever.

Pheromone fueled chemistry rules the region south – of – the – border; if you catch my drift.
It’s the stuff of books and movies and it NEVER works out in the end. Trust me.

Knowing the difference can save you a lifetime of hurt.

Sympathetic kiss,
Xox

Have you got a juicy chemistry story for me?