Marriage: The Sub-Text

Disclaimer: The Wench is positive that Daniel Jones and Cathi Hanauer are a lovely couple. They are both accomplished writers and editors, and no doubt loving and involved parents. They are just cute as a button, to boot.

Nevertheless, The Wench thinks that the Hanauer-Jones unit really should have given that article they co-wrote for this month's Real Simple another look. A good, long, hard one. Because unintentionally, the article reads like a passive-agressive laundry list of buried resentments and long-held grievances. It absolutely seethes with subtext.

You doubt The Wench?

Take a look for yourself. The Wench gives you excerpts from the piece, with the accompanying subtext:

Hanauer: "So there we were: house, novel, kids. . . I envisioned you donning an apron and serving a delicious stew to us all, then writing the holiday cards to the kids' teachers and babysitters while I worked brilliantly in the next room. OK, I'm exaggerating. But still."

Still. Would it have killed you to get the kids to bed by yourself every once in awhile, motherfucker? You really are the Bastard on the Couch.

Hanauer: "I had always been concerned with fairness, and I felt, as so many women with jobs and small children do, that more of the burden fell on me, even though you were working hard, too -- rigging up our computers, unsticking the windows."

So you know how to stick a plug in a socket and open a window! Nice work, genius. Bet you really broke a sweat on that one.

Hanauer: "And I sometimes got angry, which made you feel defensive and nagged."

Suck it up, big guy. That's how I roll.

Hanauer: "At our low point, we tried marital therapy, but that mostly provided comic relief. I'd yap nonstop about myself and the kids while you stared at the floor hoping she wouldn't "call on" you. She'd say, "Well, Cathi, I think that's something you'll want to bring up in individual therapy". Which I wasn't in, because who had the money, the time?"

But now I do, don't I sweetheart? Lots more money, for lots and lots of therapy. And you're going with me, too. You're going to sit there and listen to me describe in minute detail your shortcomings and failings and what a general dickhead you are: and you're gonna like it, bitch.

Jones: ". . . which is how our conversations have been ever since, your words outnumbering mine five to one. Not that I've minded. My mother claims I didn't talk until I was three. My older brother spoke for me. It seems I traded him for you."

Please, God, put a muzzle on her, already. She's like a yapping, high-strung Pekingnese in need of sedation. Christ, I haven't got a word in edgewise for the past twenty years. Why the hell do you think I lost all my hair????

Jones: "Yet this independence has sometimes been a double-edged sword, at odds with the caretaking and shared responsibility of marriage. You erected walls of self-sufficiency -- 'I can do it myself!' - then felt abandoned when I didn't come to your rescue.

Well, do you need my fucking help or not? Are you the big, strong independent woman or the needy, spoiled princess? Or are you just batshit crazy? Pick a side.

Jones: "We began our engagement by arguing over our wedding vows, which you wanted to amend with 'Ill try' (to stand by me in sickness and health, etc.)."

I should have seen it coming right then and there. And by the way: it's Jones-Hanauer, thanks.

The Wench Resolves . . .

. . . to speak to her beloved husband more respectfully and humanely in the coming year.

The Wench did not intend to resolve this. The Wench only intended to lose the extra poundage of lard that clings to her thighs so tenaciously. But then The Wench spent the holiday season listening to various women snapping at their husbands, boyfriends and partners as if they were half-witted puppies, guilty of shitting all over the carpet.

The Wench lost count of the times she witnessed a female scolding her significant (male) other like an incompetent child: "I specifically asked you to do such-and-such . . . did you do it? Why isn't there . . .? Why haven't you . . .?"

It occurs to The Wench that, if the shoe were on the other foot, any male who spoke in the same manner to a female would be accused of bullying, brutishness, and abusiveness.

One cannot expect to be treated with dignity when one addresses one's beloved like a scullery maid. The Wench does not advocate simpering sweetness, nor suffering silence . . . merely civil exchange.