would like to clarify that Brian’s anger was totally inappropriate; it was loud and it was a bully. But it was just that—anger. Not violence, physical or mental harm, or threats. Brian’s anger was so self-directed I am surprised he survived it. But since I was in the vicinity and was terrified of things going wrong, people being upset, and anyone ever feeling anything but happy, his anger terrified me. It should have terrified him, but he was used to it by now as a rather effective outlet for his pain. It sure did give me a lot of excuses to start drinking more.
His fault. All his fault. Drink up.
TOP TEN WAYS TO AVOID AN EARLY MARRIAGE ON THE ROCKS
1. Invest the time and commitment in counseling. Take as much time as you would arguing and simmering and divide it by at least five. That should equal about the amount of time you will spend in a counselor’s office talking. And even if the counselor is lousy, it’s at least one hour out of the week or month you will spend not shouting.
2. Understand that marriage is about the hardest thing you will ever do and you have to do it with another person. It’s a group project. If you hated those in school, you might have some trouble here. Go back to the start of this list.
3. Give your counselor at least three visits before you decide that it’s not working and not worth the money, time, long car trip in silence afterward, and so forth. Then go for three more visits. If it still isn’t the right fit, then you can switch to another counselor. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt marriage alone.
4. Waiting for your spouse to change because it’s all his or her fault is like hoping the lines will be shorter the next time you get your driver’s license. Just work on yourself.
5. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not all your spouse’s fault. Work on yourself.
6. Also this: work on yourself.
7. Keep working. Get rid of the crockpot of resentment. Fill it up instead with the soup of self-love. Cheesy, but true.
8. Don’t add mind-altering substances or alcohol to resentment and anger. It only makes the gnat that is buzzing around your ears the size of a stealth bomber. When you find yourself getting out the heavy artillery because your husband bought whole instead of 2 percent milk, you might want to lay off the sauce.
9. Try not to worry about the deposit. Some problems, like neurotic cats with angry bladders, are unavoidable. Also, do not try to train a cat. Do not try to train a spouse. Which leads me to:
10. Work on yourself.
We Go to Paris and Fight the Whole Time We Go to Paris and Fight the Whole Time
I am standing outside of Notre Dame Cathedral. The air is cool and a light gray mist graces my cheeks. The gothic church’s stone and stained glass soars above me in Parisian extravagance, and all I can think is that I need to find a bathroom. And, if my husband ever comes out of that cathedral, I am going to kill him. Right here, I think, in front of all these cool Parisians.
I am pregnant. And I don’t really want to be pregnant. I am scared and stuck and, of course, my husband and I took a romantic vacation to Paris.
Paris does not have any bathrooms. There is one in our hotel room, but trust me, there are no other bathrooms in the entire city. I should know. My husband ambles about and takes pictures, looking at plaques below statues (Who does that?) and commenting on things like history and culture, while I nervously eye some sophisticated Parisian bushes that might offer some cover for my next potty break.
I was three months pregnant. We were in Paris, and I really wished I were home on our very American couch.
Here’s how a Parisian vacation with your husband of three years should look: making out by the Seine, enjoying some crepes, and then taking twelve million obligatory pictures by the Eiffel Tower.
Here’s how our Parisian vacation played out: freezing rain, grim determination, and a lot of crepes. I ate more crepes than a French teenager after football practice. There was a small kiosk right by the hotel that made them about the size of a car tire and slathered them with Nutella. Crepes upon crepes.
And, I drank absolutely no wine. No cognac, either. We didn’t seek out the dark Parisian bars with sullen bartenders and a lot of gleaming bottles. No wine tastings. No wine cellars. There was no wine on my Paris vacation. This was just wrong and terrible. A tourist should be allowed to drink herself through her European vacation. It’s the American Way! Europeans drink wine over here at lunchtime, and it’s okay, d’accord? (Translation: “d’accord” means Paris is to drinking as the Kardashians are to eyelash extensions.)
I have had the pleasure of visiting Paris a few times. By “a few” I mean three, and one of those visits just involved the Paris airport, but still—it counts. My first real trip to Paris was on my own, and it was simply magical. In the great words of Mariah Carey, “I had a vision” of Paris, and it was all that Paris gave to me. My first morning in that glorious city, I walked out of my hotel room and looked to the right, and there, framed perfectly by the narrow road and white hotels, was the Eiffel Tower. It brought me to tears. I quickly hid behind large sunglasses and a disinterested slouch; I was going to blend in here, and sniffling and pointing at the Eiffel Tower was no way to get on my Parisian cool.
My first night in Paris I went hunting for what I envisioned the apex of Parisian experiences: cognac and no filter cigarettes—so strong the packaging doesn’t even offer a warning, just a hotline for the nearest cardiologist.
I found a bar, composed myself into what I hoped looked like a tired model just going in for a nightcap before heading home to her Parisian apartment, Parisian cat, and tousled Parisian bed. I slouch-walked in, sidled up to a stool, managed to order “un cognac, s’il vous plait” with so much disaffection the bartender might have thought I was slipping into a coma at any moment. And I drank up.
It was awesome.
I have never forgotten that cognac, that stool, the bartender’s dirty towel, or the loud couple to my right talking in their nasal snarl. It was like being on a movie set, and it was all I had ever wanted. Me, my cognac, and Paris. We were in love. The cognac and me were pretty much inseparable for the rest of the trip.
The fact that I programmed wine and cognac on repeat during the trip is understandable. I was terrified. I wanted so badly not to be pegged as a tourist. But I knew I was in a city where I barely knew the language, and I was terrible at reading maps, so at some point my cover would be blown. I walked around feeling like I was being watched and judged by the Cool Parisian Task Force, agonizing over my accent, my scarves, and my lipstick. I received the best compliment of my life when I ventured into a patisserie and managed to order an entire box of macaroons—cookies that are the color of Easter eggs—without breaking my cover. It wasn’t until I accepted my change that I blew it and thanked her in English. She widened her eyes in surprise, and I realized I had fooled her! Maybe, I fit here!
Paris
