Did I Miss Anything While I Was Away?

I know I should apologize for my long absence, but since I am a big jerk, I won’t. I do appreciate all the kind things said while I was away. It’s nice to be missed. It almost makes me feel bad for not apologizing. Almost. I’ll go have a beer later to get over it.

Things between Mrs. Lefty and I have been good lately. There has, of course, been the sort of marital strife common to all marriages: getting on each others’ nerves, little arguments, throwing hammers and other hardware within reach, endless police visits to the house, probation, etc. Since we spoke last, my marriage has never been healthier. And I truly mean that. (Mrs. Lefty is currently unemployed again, though, so we’re back on that treadmill.)

Our kids, however, are another matter entirely. In fact, I’ll be writing about that on my BRAND NEW blog that Mrs. Lefty will know exists. That’s right. Long Relief has been an anonymous blog, but the new one will be far less so. Mrs. Lefty may even post some rants--I mean, “thoughtful commentary”--of her own.

If you have been a visitor to this site in the past, I will post on your blog with the new identity, and you can come check out the new blog. Please, though, do not ever (unless you want me to become chum in my next life) let on that Lefty is in any way connected to the new blog. I probably won’t make any new posts here after today, but I will keep it up as a disturbing reminder to myself of what can happen if I have too much time on my hands and don’t drink enough beer.

See you around.

Part Two: Pass the Antacid, Please

All right, then, where was I?

Oh yes, I was venting about Mrs. Lefty feeling as if I don’t support her enough, particularly when it comes to other people mistreating her.

The reason I am going on about this now is that the past week at the Lefty place has been one of extreme stress. About this time last week, Mrs. Lefty and I had our biggest fight to date about the issue. On back-to-back days, there were two related incidents, in which Mrs. Lefty wanted me to back her up. If you read yesterday’s post, you’ll recall that by “back her up” she meant for me to yell and scream and generally get in somebody’s face. That type of behavior is never productive and will never get a person what they want. But it may be the only way Mrs. Lefty will feel supported by me.

So, at the conclusion of the most recent episode, she modeled the type of behavior she wants from me by swearing at me and getting in my face. Then, she stormed out of the room. A little later she called me and said, “I’ve had enough of this. I’m seriously thinking of a separation.” I didn’t believe she would take that route, and still don’t. She has said similar things before in the heat of her anger.

I told her, “I don’t want that, and I don’t think it would be helpful for either of us.”

This time, though, her anger lasted much longer than usual. She slept on the couch for four days. She completely ignored me except for things about which she absolutely needed to talk to me. Even then, her words were bitter and brusque. She was one cold woman.

And even though I did not fear for the end of our marriage, there was so much tension in the house that my stomach felt like a punching bag. It was a hellish 4 or 5 days. Then, we had our first counseling session since the incident, and, as expected, that took some of the edge off her anger and my tension.

Mrs. Lefty is unable to see that it is unusual that, in her mind, just about every significant person in her life has seriously betrayed and abused her. Now, in fairness, she has been through an enormous amount of trauma--physical and emotional--at the hands of people in her life. She has received serious wounds, inside and outside, because people have done some terrible things to her. And precisely because of that, the world to her is a dangerous place, and she expects every single person on this planet to betray her.

For a person like myself, who has lived a relatively normal--even sheltered--life, I do not expect betrayal. I cannot say that even one single person in my life has abused or betrayed me in a significant way. For Mrs. Lefty, everybody does. That is why I believe it may not be possible for me ever to support her enough. She may always be expecting me to fail her, because, in her mind, everyone else always has.

I am sure hoping, though, that we don’t have to live this way for the next 50 years. It can be quite hellish. I am hoping that somehow the counseling and other things we’re doing to build our marriage will gradually help Mrs. Lefty to get to a more healthy place.

And I know that I have my own issues. As I’ve written before, I tend to avoid conflict. I can be a perfectionist and nitpick at others when they fail to do something perfectly. I procrastinate. I don’t drink nearly enough beer. I have my own issues, and I am working on those.

I have to believe we’ll get there. To Mrs. Lefty’s credit, she is willing to work on things, even though she’s scared to death of confronting some of the things in her past. She’s willing to make the effort, and so am I. As long as that is true, then I have to believe our work will pay off.

Besides, I love her, and she loves me. That makes all the difference in the world.

I'm Not a Bra, You Know

I have a serious post today. That goes against my better judgment, but I want to vent, and you, loyal readers, are the ventees.

In many ways, Mrs. Lefty and I have great marriage. We do, however, have problems. I’ve mentioned money. That has been a source of great stress in the past. Lately, though, we haven’t argued much about finances. She now has her completely separate accounts, and I have mine.

Instead, another issue has risen to the fore. Since the early days of our marriage, Mrs. Lefty has believed I do not support her emotionally as I should. In my defense, I should point out that I am a man, and men never support their wives as the women think is necessary. Men are simply distant, unfeeling brutes who drink beer.

For Mrs. Lefty, though, it runs deeper than that. It began with my parents. She believes they do not like her, they do not think her a worthy mate for their son. It is clearly true that my parents were surprised to learn I was getting married again and they thought our whirlwind courtship was unwise. In fact, they had not really even gotten over the fact that I was divorced. Then, in one single phone call less than a year after my divorce they learned that 1) I had met somebody new, 2) I was dating somebody new, 3) I had flown thousands of miles to spend a week with that new somebody, and 4) I was getting married to that new somebody in, oh, about two months.

I can understand my parents’ shell shock. Mrs. Lefty’s mother was also dismayed. The morning of our wedding, I saw her mother for about the third time ever, and she said to me, “I woke up this morning hoping it was all a bad dream, and this day would never come.” Welcome son-in-law!

But I don’t blame her mother for feeling that way. She would be, with very little warning, watching her daughter and grandchildren move across the country with a man my new mother-in-law barely knew. And, as it turns out, I have great in-laws. I love them to death, and they have been very kind to my son and me. So despite the early awkwardness, the relationship with my in-laws has been good.

Mrs. Lefty, however, feels frequently snubbed and otherwise mistreated by my parents. I have spoken to them about her discomfort. At another time, all four of us sat down together to discuss it. Unfortunately, Mrs. Lefty still feels mistreated and wants me to stand up for her.

There are a couple of problems with this. First, neither my parents nor I understand what they are doing to upset her. Second, Mrs. Lefty cannot quite describe what they are doing, either. She feels disrespected, but can’t describe the behavior. Third, by “stand up for her” she means “go verbally medieval on their asses.”

Hmmm...I see that I have run out of room for today, but haven’t yet begun to describe things. I guess I’ll continue with part two tomorrow.

P.S. As I was finishing up this post, Mrs. Lefty called to tell me she agreed to work for someone on my birthday, which is normally her day off. Oh yes, we also had an apointment with the counselor for that day.

Hiding Behind the Keyboard

Earlier this week, Tink linked to a blog entry about the time her boyfriend, the irrepressible Hoop, first learned about her blog, Pickled Beef. If I understand the story correctly, Tink began writing her blog, but decided not to tell Hoop about it. I'm sure she had a good reason. Perhaps Hoop's brother was killed by a rabid blog or something.

I mention this because Mrs. Lefty doesn't know about this blog. It isn't, as you can see, because there is anything objectionable about the content. Sure, she might box my ears for sharing less flattering bits about her even though I write anonymously. I've even changed her name to protect her. Her name isn't really "Mrs. Lefty."

I don't tell her, though, because she'd be upset. Mrs. Lefty has had some really terrible things happen to her--terrible, awful things that I wouldn't wish on an enemy. As a result, her perception of the world is often skewed. She sees threats everywhere. When she is particularly anxious, she imagines threats that aren't there.

The amazing thing about Mrs. Lefty is that despite her fears, despite the trauma of her past, she is a genuinely loving, caring, generous woman. She is always the first to offer help or a shoulder to cry on. She hasn't let her past stomp on her spirit.

Yet, this blog would be a threat to her. It is a part of my life that would feel separate from her, and she would feel that she is being set up to be hurt. She would wonder about the people who read this and imagine the ways they could hurt her. And after a while, that fear of potentially being hurt would be indistinguishable from the real thing. She would actually believe that she was being wounded.

That's why Mrs. Lefty does not know about this blog. There is nothing here that she couldn't read. Yet the very fact of its existence would cause her to panic.

And that's why I feel a certain measure of guilt. Am I being selfish and inconsiderate? Or am I simply doing something that is as harmless as keeping a diary (with feedback)?

I don't feel as if I am doing anything wrong, but I feel that Mrs. Lefty would be hurt by it. How can that be?

Women Are from Nordstrom, Men Are from Sears

Unlike her nearly perfect husband, Mrs. Lefty does not worry about making mistakes. This is generally a good thing. She is free to try new things--such as watching an episode of 30 Rock, even though she’s never seen the show before--without taking weeks and months to consider the possible pitfalls of such a bold new step. (For example, what if I don’t like it and thus waste a half hour of my life? Or, what if the commercials are sucky?)

Her lack of fear in these matters also means that most of my clothes don’t fit well. It takes me a looooong time to buy clothes. From the time the idea first pops into my head ("Gee, Old Greeny Pants sure are getting old. And the button has been missing for months. Perhaps I should get a new pair."), to the time that particular article of clothing finally disintegrates (See here.), forcing me to buy that item of clothing, a period of 3, 4, or even 5 years may elapse.

Mrs. Lefty has a different sort of brain. She’ll be out shopping, perhaps for toilet paper or a ruled notebook or a new set of silver, and she’ll spy a pair of pants out of the corner of her eye. Before the thought has even finished forming itself in her mind--"Lefty needs a new pair of pants"--she will have pulled them off the rack, put them into the cart, and finished purchasing not only the pants but about $500 of additional merchandise as well. Therefore, my wife has bought most of the clothes I own.

The good news is that I will have new pants that I desperately need. The not-so-good news is that those pants will not fit properly. Usually, they are way too big. Monstrously large.

You remember how when you were younger, and you found a pair of grandma’s underpants, you’d take them to school and stretch them out so the entire 3rd grade could fit inside? That’s how large my wife thinks I am.

A good example is the last time my wife bought a white dress shirt. The collar was so oversized that I had to connect three neckties together to get around it. The arms were so long that when I wore my suit jacket, it appeared as if the shirt was a hand-me-down from my older brother Yao Ming.

This is why, when it was time for me to get a new dress shirt last week, I went on the offensive. I did the only thing I know that would ensure a good fit--I tried the damn thing on.

When I brought my prize home, Mrs. Lefty said, “That’s too small.”

“Hah!” I thought to myself. “That’s what you think.”

Let me say, in my defense, that I knew the shirt was 100% cotton, and I knew it would shrink. That’s why I bought it a little larger than usual.

Mrs. Lefty made me wash the shirt, and because I am a completely obedient man, I did. The next morning, I put on the shirt and...too small. That’ll teach me ever to buy new clothes again.

Don’t you hate it when she’s right?

Did Hope Just Rear Its Ugly Head?

Mrs. Lefty started a new job yesterday.

It has been more than 3 months since she quit her old job, and we have been running on fumes. I’m not sure how we made it, but we did. (Okay, yes, I do know how we survived, and that big stack of overdue bills will back me up on that one.) And while having another paycheck coming in will bring some relief, it won’t solve Mrs. Lefty’s serious money problems, nor will it solve my codependent behavior with respect to her massive spending.

Thank God for therapy. And beer.

On a brighter note, I did ask Mrs. Lefty to go with me to a Debtors Anonymous meeting. I think she was pleasantly surprised at the diversity of people and their non-judgmental attitudes. She felt many of the stories there echoed her own feelings and fears, and we will be returning next week.

I’m also pleased at the way I handled Mrs. Lefty’s jobless period. Not once did I get angry or frustrated or suicidal or homicidal or bitter or resentful over the fact that while I went to work every day and stressed out over money she stayed home and took long naps, watched her soap operas, read dozens of books and talked on the phone. Not once.

Did I also say that I’m a pathological liar?

Mother's Day 2007

So I’d been seeing a lot of those funny Mother’s Day jokes about giving Mom a day of rest and relaxation, feet up watching television, catered to, etc...just like being Dad for a day. Wow, that’s a funny one.

This year, I decided Mrs. Lefty should really be Dad for a Day! Yesterday, Mrs. Lefty mowed the lawn, changed the oil in the cars, cleaned the garage, painted the back fence, hauled a bunch of junk to the dump and went to the office for 8 hours. But when she came home, she got to drink beer.

Yeah, I know I'm going to hell. But I've been there already, and it's not that bad.

The Gray Days of May

The saga of my hair continues. After my last haircut disaster, I chose a different barber. He was a chatty, conventional fellow, so I figured it would be a good match.

We discussed my particular haircut needs, and when the question of length came up, I tried to describe what I wanted. He was a little unsure of what I meant, so he said, “I’ll cut it to a medium length, and if you want more, I can cut more.” Apparently, what he meant by “medium length” was “so short everybody can see the lice crawling around on your scalp.”

Mrs. Lefty, who always thinks my hair gets cut too short anyway, was furious. “You’re never going to him again,” she said.

Then, as we were riding in the car this week, my wife snorted at me with glee, “You’ve got gray!” Ack! It is true. I have never before noticed gray on my head, but there they were, accentuated by my new haircut, two wiry, gray hairs.

I guess this is it. My life is rapidly coming to an end. You can all begin to prepare your remarks for my memorial service. I’m sure your tributes would bring tears to my eyes if I were still alive.

Also, coming up this week...

• The long awaited paperclip-buttonless pants diagram.
• My trip to the emergency room just before I went out of town on business.

Giving My Wife a Good Ribbing

My wife is back in town, her mother is doing better, and I have clean underwear again. All is well in the world. Except...

My wife was sitting on the floor in front of the couch doing her cross-stitch while we watched the baseball game. (Thank heavens for a woman who loves baseball!) She turned to push herself up and made a terrible shrieking noise--obvious pain.

It was still so bad the next day that she went to the doctor for help. They took x-rays and, wouldn’t you know it, she had dislocated a rib. By getting up off the floor. Who knew you could dislocate a rib? That’s like dislocating your head. Or your butt. A rib?

First, she goes to the hospital for high blood pressure. Then her mother has a stroke. Now a dislocated rib. What’s next?

Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that question.

Day Three and Still a Slob

So I’ve had three nights without a spouse, and the kids have been relatively mild. I have taken a mini vacation at home, doing nothing except eating, drinking beer, watching TV and goofing off. And you know what? I’m bored out of my skull.

Last night as I went to bed, my mind was racing. All the things that I’ve been neglecting, stuff at work, all of it darted to the front of my mind and ambushed my consciousness. So, for the next few days at least, I’m putting the brakes on my slobbish, bachelor life and will be cleaning, doing yard work and getting the laundry caught up.

And, since tomorrow is payday, I’ll be paying bills. There will be no fight this time since there is no one with whom to fight!

The World Is My Laundry Hamper

I have actual bad news (rather than the usual idiocy you get from me): my wife's mother had a serious medical emergency. Fortunately, after a successful surgery, the doctors are saying there is a good chance for full recovery. My wife, though, left this morning to be with her mother in the hometown of one of the Final Four participants. She will be gone two weeks. Both girls will fly out next week during their Spring Break.

On the less serious side, that means that I will be a bachelor for a couple of weeks, which means lots of beer, sports on television, going to play basketball with the guys, and other activities not sanctioned by the Spousal Governing Board. I will miss my wife, of course, but I can go from zero to Al Bundy in 6.4 seconds flat.

I Think She Wants an Excuse to Kill Me

This morning, my wife was getting herself ready for a job interview (yea!). She asked me the only question with a higher Chaos Rating than "What do you think of this outfit?" on the Freudenberger Scale for Questions to Get Your Husband in Big Trouble.

She said, "How old do you think I look?"

I am sure she could see the confusion and fear in my eyes. My head began to spin. I clutched the bathroom counter for support.

I know very well, of course, that the number I gave in answer the very first time--because there are no second chances with a question like that--needed to be significantly less than her current age, but not too small, or my wife would think that I were merely humoring her. I also knew that I had less than 10 seconds to answer, or my wife would accuse me of fabricating an answer. (In the same way, when the wife says "Why do you love me?" then the husband had better rattle off a dozen excellent reasons within eight seconds or face full spousal wrath.)

So I said, tentatively, "30?" I looked at her for the signs of an eruption. Sweat beaded on my forehead and dripped into my coffee.

Waiting...

"So I look a lot younger than I am." There was no trace of irony, and she seemed genuinely pleased. I had dodged a bullet!

Then she asked, "What do you think of this outfit?"

Don't Tell Me YOU Haven't Ever Done Anything Impulsive

Person Who Is Not Me, looking at me as if I am totally nuts: “How many days did you spend in one another’s presence before you got married?”

Person Who IS Me, trying to avoid eye contact: “About ten days.”

PWINM: “And you, of all people, should know better.”

Me: “Yes, I know.”

PWINM: “What was the rush?”

That’s a damn good question, and I can’t give a perfectly satisfactory answer.

You see, my wife and I met online. We used to play cards together. After about nine months, we finally met face-to-face. I spent a week with her. About a week after I came back home from that trip, we decided to get married. To repeat: we met for the first time in January and got married in March. Our 6th anniversary is about a week away.

I think the best answer to the question about the rush to get married is this (and there’s no need to tell me that’s not a good enough answer!): it was getting expensive to carry on a relationship when we were thousands of miles apart.

It is true that things have been more difficult for us because we rushed, but I love my wife, and I’m glad I’m married to her. And we’re working on things. We have made a lot of progress in six years, and we’re still climbing.

At Least It Isn't a Mullet

So I got my hair cut yesterday.

When I go to the sterile chain hair salon where all the ladies look like they are on Death Row, I get my hair cut so short it looks as if the Marines are about ready to take me in. Then I can put off getting my hair cut for an ungodly amount of time until I look like the lost member of the Grateful Dead. I do this for two reasons: I am cheap, and I am lazy.

My wife always warns me ahead of time, “Don’t let them cut it too short.” I say “yes, dear” and then go out and tell Prison Lady to chop it all off.

I arrived home and asked my wife how it looked. “It’s long in the front and short in the back.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I essentially ignored this comment because 1) I don’t really care what my hair looks like and 2) my wife is always exaggerating about things like that. But this morning, after my shower, I was combing my hair, and guess what? My hair is Alice Cooper in the front and Drill Sergeant in the back. I look like one of those half man, half woman carnival freaks, except I’m split front-to-back.

Is this my worst haircut ever? Probably not, but it’s close. (I quite literally had the bowl cut from Mom several times when I was a kid.) There was one time when the lady cut one of my sideburns short and not the other. That wasn’t good. I had to cut the long sideburn myself at home, had to keep evening it out until I had only a Mohawk left.

Have you ever had any bad haircuts?