How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane (21 page)

^†
Names and details have been changed to protect the innocent, the douchebaggy, and that one guy who still lives in the blue house at 78 Atlantic Avenue.

*
So, I guess that would make it the other other foot.

*
That was a time when my taste in men and dogs were at par: I liked them all big, furry, playful, and not too smart.

*
You may replace
dog
with
friends, family
, or
high-paid psychotherapist
—it's all pretty much the same thing.

*
The husband's probably got his own set of lessons to share with the kid, though if/when he does, I'll probably skip it due to the fact that he worked at Club Med when he was in his early twenties, and that's a TMI minefield that I'd rather avoid, thanksverymuch.

^†
I won't say exactly how many, just enough that if anyone asks, the kid can say that once upon a time her mom had game.

thirteen

THE MARRIAGE QUOTIENT

O
ne of the most startling moments of parenthood occurred when I realized that, with the arrival of this new human, I would be forever connected to the child's father/the husband and that the days of fantasizing divorce over his inability to screw the tops back onto refrigerated condiment jars were over. Apparently, I was going to have to start taking this “marriage” thing a lot more seriously
.

I find it curious that when I tell people that I've been married for ten years, they always want to know, “Howja meet?”

The first thing to know is that it was never in my plans; I'd always found the idea of marriage unnerving.
Just hearing the word
fiancée
makes me want to yell, “Quit acting fancy! You're not turning French—you're just getting married!”

Growing up, most little girls I knew dreamed of walking down the aisle with Prince Charming. Me, I wanted to be a bullfighter (if I'm being honest, it was more for the flashy outfits than anything else) and dreamed of being a daring, adventurous single woman, like that spunky Mary Tyler Moore.

As a teenager I fantasized about traveling the world in my red sequined cape and jodhpurs (being it was the '80s, I probably wouldn't have stood out much), always alone, but taking on many lovers—though never using the word
lovers
, as it invokes images of bad European movies, the kind that feature far too many hairy men in Speedos.

And through my twenties and early thirties, I stayed on course, thanks to excessive confidence, more courage than common sense, and an unintentionally ludicrous series of choices in men, some of whom included the military cadet, whose idea of romance was to hack the top off a champagne bottle with a sword; the manic-depressive actor who had a bad habit of staring at his own hands; and the one-night stand who left gum in my pubic hair.

Still, it was all in the name of temporary fun, and none of it threatened permanent damage to my long-term plans, or to my hair.

Until one day a friend insisted I meet this guy who worked with her husband. She was sure we would fall madly and deeply for each other, and she wanted the
matchmaking credit. We all went out for drinks at an underwhelming, overpriced steak house where the guy and I both recognized immediately that we were not a love—or even a like—match. Then at some point during the course of the evening, another friend of the husband showed up.

The new guy had a gold hoop earring and a sniper's sense of humor, and we shared an immediate and easy rapport. As I left the restaurant that night I gave him my number (in spite of the earring) and demanded that he call me. When he didn't, I was astonished. Didn't he know that I was in a brief but deliberate window of sleeping around?

Finally, after an infuriatingly long wait (four days), he called. Our first date was dinner. Our second a movie. Our third was a trip to Vegas, for the wedding of the couple who'd introduced us.

And it was in Vegas, in a dank suite at Caesars Palace, after a little wine and a little making out, that I had a vision—even though I'm usually the type to make fun of people who have those sorts of things—of him and me, and a baby. (Our own baby, that is. I am not generally prone to kidnapping fantasies.)

And just like that, I went from being a woman who would never be called wife, to being half of a couple, to vowing in front of friends and family to love and honor, forever and ever, break the glass,
l'chaim
, amen.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Or is it? (No, I say rhetorically, it is not.)

Because marriage is like a movie where the two leads find themselves handcuffed to each other with no key and facing impossible odds to overcome. The only difference is that one version lasts two hours, while the other is much, much longer, unless you're very unlucky, slip during the bouquet toss, and fall face-first into a pointy ice sculpture.

What got them there, the “Howdja meet?” question—that's just the First Act setup. How a married couple navigates the world when they realize they're about to spend their lives joined together, like Charles Grodin and Robert DeNiro in
Midnight Run
or Elizabeth Berkley and her stripper pole in
Showgirls,
that's the real story.

Some couples toss around words like
compatibility, sacrifice, romance,
or
pharmaceuticals
when explaining how they do it. Being more analytical in my thinking, I've devised a mathematical concept to express how a marriage works. I call it “The Marriage Quotient.”

It is based on a scale of “workability,” where “100” might be achieving lengthy mutual orgasms while gazing into each other's eyes, “50” is the moment you're about to walk into your first couple's therapy appointment, and “5” is giving a statement to the police about why you put dehydrated cat feces in your spouse's oatmeal (I'd call that a “0,” except if you're cooking for your spouse, then that should count for something).

Because the science behind the concept can be difficult to understand by anyone not living inside my skull, I shall now present a series of scenarios from my own marriage, along with their corresponding marriage quotients:

EXHIBIT A

I have just returned home after a dental appointment, only to find that the lower-left quadrant of my face is not only numb, it is completely and totally paralyzed. Initially, I find the sensation to be fun, in a novel kind of way. After spending thirty minutes staring at myself in the bathroom mirror and pretending to be Daniel Day-Lewis pretending to be a character, I head over to my computer, where I make the mistake of Googling this phenomenon, thereby learning that it's an uncommon reaction to some forms of dental anesthesia; in most cases, the paralysis is temporary, but in a few it is permanent and irreversible. As I am a card-carrying member of the Jumping to Conclusions Society, I immediately transition from being mildly entertained to experiencing a full-blown panic attack, at which point I phone my husband at work. Upon hearing me sob that I might lose the use of the left half of my mouth, he is quiet for a moment and then calmly suggests, “So, I guess this means you'll be giving blow jobs on the side.”

Now then: if a major earthquake or tsunami were to occur right now, you might throw this book down, leave the place that you're sitting (screaming most likely), only to arrive at your next destination with a particular opinion of my husband, i.e., that he is uncaring and perverse, and that his statement would be grounds for divorce.

But you would be
wrong,
because you'd have missed the following point: that this is one of the bravest and most loving things my husband could have said. Because he knows that the best thing he can do when he hears panic in my voice is to give me comfort. If he were married to another person (i.e., someone normal), that might mean saying something like, “It's okay, honey. I'm sure this is just a temporary situation, but if it isn't, I will still love you, even if 25 percent of your face never moves again.” But for me, the most direct route to comfort is for him to say the most wickedly inappropriate thing he can think of, even—and especially—if it is at my expense.

Marriage Quotient: 85

(Getting the hang of it? Good. Let's continue.)

EXHIBIT B

We are on the freeway in heavy traffic. He is driving. I am in the passenger seat, staring out the window, sending beams of anger and loathing directly at the right side of his face via my left shoulder. We are in the middle of a fight. I can't recall the subject, probably something important like my inability to put my shoes in the closet when I come home. I am so angry that I deduce the only logical course of action is to throw myself out of the car. I estimate that we are going fifteen miles an hour; at that speed I could easily open the door, jump out, tuck, and roll. At worst I'll suffer a sprain, maybe a concussion, both of which seem in the moment to be preferable to sitting in this car with HIM. Then traffic
picks up, and my tuck-and-roll plan is foiled. I am still angry when we pull up to the pizza place.