Tag Archives: conversations

Conversations with my Wife. Stop Talking

I’m not sure who coined the phrase, “Silence is golden” but I’m fairly sure he was married and his wife was Italian.

In marriage, we get so wrapped up in making sure we’re communicating we forget there are times when nothing needs to be said.  It is entirely possible to say too much (usually while in the midst of an argument).  You have to recognize that communicating with one another can be just as powerful, intimate, loving, and sarcastic without words.

My wife is a talker.  Because of her profession (hair stylist), talking is how she builds trust with her clients and forges relationships that has built her a rather large book of loyal clients.

I’m of the belief; forcing conversation for the sake of conversation is what you do on your first date between the salad course and your entrée.  Words can get in the way, especially if you happen to air on the side of idiocy more often than not (something I am quite prone to do).  So I don’t try to initiate conversations when there is none to be had.  I would much rather sit on my sofa with my wife, her feet up on my lap, enjoying the intimacy created by our innocent contact rather than force something that isn’t there.

This can sometimes be a bone of contention.

Last Thursday night. 9:20pm

“The kids are finally in bed and asleep.”  Any parent who has uttered those words all sound the same.  We sound like we just spent the last 17 hours battling a fire-breathing dragon with nothing but boxing gloves and a pack of gum.

“Thank god.  I’m ready to just relax for a little bit. I had a long day.”  Since the moment we met, my wife has been like a Navajo code talker.  The words and phrases she uses are carefully added or excluded for me to try and figure out their intended meaning.  All without actually coming out and asking her what she is talking about.  So when I throw in ‘I had a long day’, I’m hoping she is able to pick up what I’m trying to say, ‘I had a long day and all I want to do is veg out in front of the TV’.

“Don’t you want to talk to me?” She picked up nothing.

“What? Um…sure.” More code from me. Code for ‘no’.

“Well if you don’t want to talk fine, go watch your precious television.” Sure, that she picks up on.

“No, let’s talk.” My wish is to sound convincing enough that she believes me.

“Well tell me about your day.” Careful what you wish you for my friends.

“I already did. Remember when I got home?  We just talked about it.” I was asking her to recall a conversation from 60 minutes ago, not what was on the radio in 2002 when we drove to the mall on a Tuesday.

“Well did anything exciting hap…”  I’m not sure of everything she asked me because the line of questioning morphed in to something akin to a cross examining prosecutor on a 3 day bender of speed and Red Bulls.

“Didn’t we just talk about all of this?”  I know when my wife’s questions turn in to a rapid fire staccato; she doesn’t really have anything to talk about and is merely forcing the issue.

“I’m just trying to talk to you. God! We never talk anymore.” May wife is prone to exaggeration.

“Never huh?  I’m surprised you still know my name?” Hello sarcasm. Glad to see you.

“Be a jerk. You know what I mean.” Yes, I do know what she means. Because she was off from work, in order to meet her quota for meaningful conversation, she has chosen me to field the questions she never got to ask anyone today.  I think honesty is the best policy in this instance so I’m going to tell her what I think.

“Actually, I don’t. What do you mean?” It took my mind half a second to realize honesty, in this case, might be overrated. And I didn’t want to sleep on the sofa tonight.

“I mean by the time the kids go to bed, you’re tired or I’m tired or you’re watching TV or tweeting or playing that Candy game, or whatever else it is you do on your phone.” And with that the proverbial bell rung and it was on.

We talk all the time!  Even when I’m not in the mood to talk we talk. Like right now.”  Two things. 1. I may in fact be sleeping on the sofa tonight and 2. I would like to enter that last statement in the ‘One day we’re going to laugh about that’ category.

“Fine! Sorry you don’t feel like talking to your wife! What was I thinking?” We had reached whatever color comes after white on the DEFCON scale in a matter of minutes.

“You know, one day we’re going to laugh about that last statement.”  I am now in damage control.

“No. No, I don’t think so.” I gave thought to grabbing my pillow and a blanket for the sofa but decided to stick this out.

“Ok, what I’m trying to say is, if there is something to talk about then I’m game, otherwise, I don’t want to field rapid fire questions about stuff we just talked about for the sake of being able to talk. Why can’t we just spend time together, quietly?”

“Because when we do that, we’re both on our phones or watching something and not paying attention to one another. You not wanting to talk makes me feel like you don’t want to be close to me.”

“We’ve been married far too long for you or I to feel like we need to converse in order to feel close.  I feel close to you when we’re on the sofa together, or standing in the kitchen, packing the kids’ lunches, or knowing you’re in the next room.  It’s you not your words that I want to be with. That I feel close to.”

“I was just trying to talk to you because we don’t get a chance to talk much with everything we have goingonwiththekidsandIhavetoworkandyouarestayinglateatworkandwehav…”  Contrition in my wife starts when she stops breathing between sentences.

“Stop talking for a second.” I say nothing. I just give her the eyes.  The ‘I’m sorry’ eyes quickly followed by the ‘I love you’ eyes and sprinkled in are the ‘don’t make me sleep on the sofa’ eyes.

“I’m not mad at you. I didn’t really have anything to say anyway. I just want to make sure we’re connected and together and close.”

“Then I have a crazy idea…let’s stop talking.”

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Conversations with my Wife. Folding the Laundry

Marriage, as it does, has a way of settling couples in to routine. I get out of bed the same way every morning (begrudgingly and with a pain in my lower back); my wife gets ready the same way every morning.  We clean the house at specific times; bills get paid the same way.  And the laundry gets done every Friday afternoon.

My wife separates it on Thursday, we get the kids to school Friday morning, and by 11am, the spin cycle is on.  When I get home from work and get a chance to decompress from the day, I fold the wash.

I’ve reached a point in my life where the thought of excitement, adventure, spur of the moment trips just makes me tired.  Being able to sit down (which is key) when everyone else goes to bed, to do something as mindless as fold our laundry, and watch a little television, is just fine with me.

I actually enjoy the whole process.  It’s almost cathartic for me.  And even though we accumulate more laundry in a week than a Von Trapp family reunion weekend, I don’t mind and I don’t want help.

Unfortunately, there are times when my wife wants to help.

A Friday night.  Around 10:30pm.

“Here, let me help you.”  Sometimes I think my wife feels badly considering the amount of laundry we have can be described with words like “mounds” and “tonnage”.

“I’m ok.  Let me do it. I don’t mind.”  Frankly, I have seen my wife fold laundry.

“We can get it done quicker together.  See?”  She holds up a folded pair of jeans like a 7’ marlin she just reeled in.

“Hon, you folded those so badly, somewhere there is a Gap employee who just got a stomach cramp.”  I’m nothing if not vivid with my descriptions.

“What are you talking about?  This is fine!”  You would think after 13 years of marriage I would know what would set my wife off.  You would think.

“That is not folded.”  My voice hits a tone that you would expect me to have one hand on my hip and be using the word “girlfriend”.

“What are you talking about?”  It has been said, one needs to step out of the forest in order to see the trees.  Time to bring my wife out.

“Alicia, if you showed those jeans to a stranger, they would think whoever folded them didn’t have any fingers.”  Now that she’s out of the forest I’m going to drive this point home.

“You’re a jerk. They’re just going in a drawer for godsakes.”

“Those jeans would be fine if our dresser drawers were 30 gallon Tupperware containers.”  If I don’t point it out how will she ever learn?

“What is that supposed to mean?”  Her emphasis was on ‘that’.  She accompanied it with a look that could have shattered Plexiglas.

“Look how big you made those jeans.  You have to fold so everything tightly, so it fits in the drawers.  If you don’t we have entirely too much clothing. It will never all fit.”  The defense rests your honor.

“Well, I was just trying to help unlike you who didn’t chime in when I was washing the clothing.”  The prosecution calls my wife to the stand your honor.

“First, I was at work and second, the last time I checked, you haven’t had to beat our clothing against rocks.  I figured you could handle it.”  I like to teeter on pushing the limits of my wife’s patience.

“Funny, I didn’t see you putting dirty socks and underwear in the machine smart ass.  There isn’t enough Germ-X on the plan-”

“Ok, I think we’re getting off on to a tangent here.  Fine, doing the wash is…difficult.  But I’m ok to fold it.  I don’t want your help.”  I know how I wanted that last statement to sound.  I also know how my wife thought that last statement sounded.

“Ok, before I’m sleeping on the sofa, let me explain that last statement.  It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer but I really don’t mind folding the wash.  I understand we have 4 loads of wash that could pass as effigies to Indian burial mounds. I’m ok with it.It’s relaxing for meThink of it this way, now you can do something you wantJust let medothisandIloveyou.”  Aaaand… breathe.

“Is this…it is, it’s my sweatshirt!”  I was confused because the sweatshirt I put in to the wash was big enough for me to wear.  The sweatshirt I was holding up could have been used as Spandex for an American Girl Doll.

“Now I know why you wanted to fold the wash.  To hide all the stuff you shrunk!”  I pointed an accusatory finger in her direction.

“Oh my god, I didn’t do it on purpose.”  That’s what a guilty person would say.

“But since it shrunk, fold it and put it in my pile.”  So much for establishing an alibi.

“You did that on purpose.  You wanted this sweatshirt!  This was my favorite one.” Had I tried, I couldn’t have sounded more like an 8 year old at this particular moment.

“I did NOT do it on purpose and besides, you have 30 sweatshirts in your closet.  Find a new one.”  Not one hint of remorse in her voice.  Cold blooded that one.

“Keep your paws out of the wash.  I’m going to need to see what else you shrunk of mine.”

“There isn’t anything else…I think. No, nothing else…maybe. Umm, there might be?”  Let’s hope my not so confident wife never finds herself in a situation where she needs to pick the right wire to clip to disarm a bomb.

“Well if the kids start using some of my clothing for their dolls, at least I’ll have someone to blame.”

“I really am sorry.  I will help if you want me to.”  Contrition.  An emotion husbands see from their wives about as often as anyone has you see a Giant Squid fighting a white sperm whale as Haley’s Comet passes overhead.

“I’m sure you didn’t shrink it on purpose.  Thank you for the offer but I’m good. Really.”  A smart husband never waves off an apology offered to him by his wife.  He accepts and then tells his buddies at work for the next 6 months about the time his wife apologized to him.

“I do fold pretty badly don’t I?”  The first step towards recovery is admitting you have a problem.

“That is an understatement for which I have no analogy to compare it to at the moment but if you give me a minute, I’m sure I can think of one.”

“Try to keep in mind I just apologized for shrinking your shirt.  It would be wise not to erase that moment with a stupid comment.”  She really does look out for me. I love that woman.

“Good point.  I think I’ll just finish folding the laundry.”

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Conversations With My Wife. Birthdays

I have long since stopped with putting the sort of emphasis on my birthday as I did when I was younger.  The attention it draws as I’m waiting to blow out the candles on my cake is something I would rather skip.  Not because I’m afraid of getting older (quite the opposite, every year is one year closer to me retiring) but I am much happier spending the day with my wife and kids, blowing out candles on a small cake my kids helped to make, and opening whatever homemade gifts and cards they made me.  Quietly.

I get much more joy celebrating other people’s birthdays.  It gives me an incredible thrill to watch my kids blow out the candles on their cake and tear in to their gifts like wild raccoons digging through a garbage can.  I love waking my wife up on her birthday to breakfast in bed, one of Hallmark’s finest cards, and treating her to an ‘Alicia’ day (which would include keeping the kids under lock and key).

While my wife doesn’t need a stack of presents or an 8 tiered cake to celebrate her birthday, she does enjoy the celebration of her birth.  In fact, she enjoys it a lot.  Sometimes, she has gotten a little carried away with when the celebration should begin.  Every year it seems like her birthday gets to be more and more like Christmas as the recognition of the day starts further and further from the actual day (Christmas starts somewhere around Halloween now right?).  While the early calls for her birthday are all in good fun, my wife is not shy about pointing out her impending birthday, sometimes weeks in advance.

Thursday, November 1st. Sometime after the kids went to bed.

“You know it’s my birthday soon.” I wasn’t sure if my wife was making a statement or asking me a question?

“By soon do you mean 3 weeks?” I am hoping our children didn’t ask their mother for help when they were doing time in Math class.

“That’s soon!”  There are moments during conversations in a marriage when one spouse can end an impending argument by simply agreeing with the other spouse.

“I guess compared to Christmas in 2016 it’s soon.” I ignored that moment.

“That’s just mean.  I think we should be celebrating my birthday as a month instead of a day.” This is the kind of declaration that could kick start a revolution in a third world country.

“A month? Since when does your birthday last as long as Lent? I was planning on a few hours the Sunday before your actual birth day.” If you haven’t noticed, I’m a big fan of throwing gasoline on fire.

“You don’t have to be a jerk about it. I was just kidding. God, just forget it.” Time to get the fire extinguishers out.

“I was kidding sweetheart.  Come on, what do you want to do for your birthday?”

“Nothing.” Next to ‘I don’t care’ and ‘Do I look fat in this dress’; ‘nothing’ may be the most booby trapped answer in the history of marriage.

“When you say nothing, do you mean nothing or do you mean ‘nothing I’m going to tell you, you had just better figure it out from the clues I’ve dropped about what I want since April’?”  I’ve reached a stage in my marriage where I feel comfortable asking these sorts of questions without having to duck a flying frying pan.

“I don’t want anything or have to do anything!  I mean there are some things I would like but I don’t need anything.”  I noticed she made sure to be the emphasis on ‘like’ and ‘need’.

“So what would you like?” I’m a man of action; I figure its best to get to the point.

“Nothing.”  She wants to see if I’ll call her bluff.

“Ok. Nothing it is.” I called her bluff and I raised her.

“How about a card and dinner? You think you could swing that Romeo?”  It’s been said; the truth shall set you free.

“Now that I can do Juliet.” It would take some logistical work with the kids but I could pull it off.

“Since you’re asking, I want to add one more thing and I want to add it for this weekend.” I am tempted to let her know I hold a veto power on any amendments to this list but I’m intrigued at what it could be.

“This weekend? Now you’re talking. Are we sending the kids to sleepover somewhere so we can…ya know…”  To really drive this home, I’m rubbing my hands together and rapidly raising my eyebrows up and down.

“No you idiot. I was thinking you would let me sleep in on Sunday?”  Veto! Veto!

“Really? Didn’t you just say you didn’t want anything for your birthday?” I’m back pedaling. Shamelessly.

“Nice. You know how hard I work during the week? The leastyoucoulddoisletmesleepinsinceIamtheonewhowakesupwithHannahatsixam…” When the speed of my wife’s words increases to the point of seeming like a 3 minute diatribe is one word, I know I could be in trouble.

“Ok. You sleep in this Sunday but I’m considering this one of your presents.” This might be a better present than the homemade coupon for one free hug I gave thought to giving to her.

“I changed my mind. I want 3 more presents.  You can give them to me every Sunday this month.” One of the things I love most about my wife is she is a total smartass.

“I changed my mind too. I’m going back to getting you nothing.”

My wife didn’t say anything; she merely gave me a look that Superman uses right before he unleashes his heat vision.

“Can I change my mind again?”  Some jokes are funnier in your head than when they are actually spoken.

“You had better.”

“What I was going to say, what I wanted you to know; because there is no one I love with the passion I love you with and because of who you are, the sacrifices you make, your love, your emotion, for what you give to me, the kids, and our entire family, it makes no difference whether or not it is your birthday, I celebrate your life every day.  Because every day we’re together, you make my life so much better.  Oh, and you can sleep in this Sunday. Happy Birthday Sweetheart.”