Don't Hold Me in Contempt

It may be clear to some of you at this point, given the tone and subject of my last few posts, that my marriage and the basis for this blog has slipped into comfortable predictability. Brandon and I have reached the two and a half year mark happy and optimistic. That being the case, I have had a hard time as of late scraping up topics to vent about. I find that lack of drama makes for boring writing. Fortunately for me and the minuscule circle of readers I have managed to accumulate newlywed perils reach me these days by way of my dearest mother.

My mom, always the tireless academic, has become a humble student of marriage. This is a woman who loves to do her research. She believes that the better one understands and has the ability to analyze a concept the better one is prepared to handle said concept. It's a good theory. I tend to be a more hands-on, trial-by-fire, close my eyes and pray real hard that everything works out kind of person; but to each his own. I could probably stand to take a page from Mom's approach- man, if I had a nickel for every time I've said that last gem...

Anyway! Being the diligent, studious type, my mother has read many a text on how to make her marriage the best it can possibly be. She frequently discusses with me topics that she comes across in her reading. Yesterday the topic happened to be about contempt in a marriage. I believe the exact phrasing was, "You must have contempt for contempt". Corny, over-simplified phrasing aside, it got me thinking about the word contempt. Contempt is a mighty strong word. Is this really something that we need to actively try to avoid? I always thought that contempt is cultivated as a result of intense hatred or egregious act on the part of another.

After my conversation with my mom I kept fixating on the word contempt, so I did a little research of my own. I couldn't help but be bothered by the idea that contempt could perhaps creep its slimy little self into my marriage relatively unnoticed. I worried about that notion the way someone might worry about cancer after reading an article in Newsweek. Could I become a victim of contempt and not even know it?

According to Dr. John Gottman, eminent marriage researcher and head of The Gottman Relationship Institute, contempt is the third most dangerous problem a marriage can encounter behind stonewalling and defensiveness. In addition, I came to find out, this nasty little bastard stems from criticism. And honestly, who of us can swear under oath that we've never ever ever fallen into that trap? Be honest! Criticism has almost become a synonym of marriage. As a wife it's a stigma I encounter everywhere; I'm his wife therefore I must demean him with every opportunity I get. Although I will admit that in the heat of battle I have been known to make the occasional "you always" or "you never" comment; but I still feel as though we're a very long way from actual contempt. Apparently once a couple has crossed the line between criticism and contempt it's a quick decline into outright dysfunction.

"Why such a Debbie Downer?" you may be wondering. I assure you, it's not intentional. It was simply the thought process of a writer. We can get fixated on a single word and then the next thing you know it becomes a full-on self indulgent rant about what meaning it has is the grand scheme of it all. Or maybe it helped someone reading this, who knows? Either way; there it is. So what's the moral of our little story today, kids? I guess it's: tread lightly because contempt is poison to any relationship and it often goes undetected until significant damage is done.

A Tribute to Charm City

After my last post about the breath-taking splendor that is the great state of Montana a funny thing happened. I discovered a new and refreshing appreciation for my own fair city of Baltimore. I spent the majority of my vacation to where the deer and the antelope play mentally packing up all my belongings and fleeing the East without so much as a nostalgic glance over my shoulder. "I'm so over Baltimore!" I kept repeating to anyone that would listen. "The weather sucks and the people are mean." I was clearly itching for some new scenery and who could resist the landscape that the good ol' West was waving under my nose?
So it was no surprise when I begrudgingly set one foot off the plane at 10:30pm in Charm City and was immediately engulfed in a thick suffocating blanket of humidity that I wanted to spin right around and get back on the plane to anywhere but here. Stepping out into the heavy night air after collecting our bags didn't alleviate my misery one tiny bit.

My brother, Jon, however, couldn't have been more ecstatic to be home. He had convinced me on the plane that we needed to immediately seek the welcoming arms of the Fells Point nightlife. My rationality for agreeing to this insane notion was that after spending the entire day on an airplane, suffering through teeth-rattling turbulence over Denver, and losing two hours somewhere over Omaha I really needed a cocktail. I also figured my brain was still on Mountain time.

After shaking off the stale air of the plane and strolling through the cobblestone streets of Fells Point on the way to our favorite bar I was beginning to feel refreshed. Because of the horrendous parking options available on a Saturday close to midnight Jon and I had a few blocks to walk from our car. It was incredible what happened in those few little city blocks. I don't really know if it was Jon's enthusiasm and love for his city rubbing off on me, the extreme contrast of spending that very morning driving though a Montana valley and mere hours later walking the cracked streets of urban civilization, or maybe a little of both. The fact was, I saw my hometown through new eyes.

Baltimore is a city with a pulse, a city with a personality. It's pleasant enough to appreciate it for the historical architecture in downtown Fells Point or the tourist traps of the Inner Harbor; but what makes Baltimore stand out is what you wouldn't immediately pick up on. The simple diversity of culture that you witness if you just looked up long enough to see it is amazing. I don't mean that in a P.C. "Appreciate-All-Colors-And-Religions-Because-We're-All-Special" kind of way. I mean just seeing people co-existing- smiling, laughing, talking, or shouting at each other because their drunk. While walking the span of two blocks in Fells Point you will pass at least 12 bars, each with their own unique hook and loyal gang of patrons. Probably four or five of those bars will be featuring some crappy cover band or marginally talented folk singer likely playing for the free alcohol and basking in the attention of inebriated groupies. The sidewalks are saturated with bar-hoppers who all seem to be overly enthusiastic about one thing or another. And the entire time Jon and I are experiencing all the familiarity of just another Saturday night in Baltimore all Jon can say is, "I'm so happy to be home."

We reached our destination dangerously close to last call. So we grabbed a couple of Natty Bohs (that's National Bohemians for you foreigners) and settled into a couple of vacant stools. A few of our bleary eyed friends were scattered throughout the bar and more than happy to welcome us home. As the obligatory Boston, Bon Jovi, and Journey bar playlist faded through the chatter of inane bar conversation I sipped on my beer and smiled. This is a pretty frickin' cool city actually. The weather really does suck and many of its citizens could use a pretty drastic attitude adjustment but one thing's for damn sure- this town's never boring.

So with all that being said, the West still maintains a strong pull on my quarter-lifed restless spirit but cruising the balmy cobblestone streets of Fells on a summer night makes me a lot more hesitant to leave.

A Welcomed Break From Reality

Last week I was generously blessed with the opportunity to fly out to Montana to visit my mom in her new life. Since her departure in January that came right on the heels of her late October breast cancer diagnosis and her December nuptials, our relationship existed solely by way of telephone. Due to her chemotherapy Mom has been unable to travel herself so it was up to us (myself, Brandon, and my brother Jon) to find a way to make it to her. The means to do so found us by way of a more than generous gift of three round trip tickets courtesy of my grandmother, as a wedding gift to my mom and her new husband. So, if you're reading this Gramma, thank you a thousand times over on behalf of all of us!

Visiting the great state of Montana was not something that appeared on my bucket list before this whole crazy situation unfolded over the last year. But I will say this: anyone who lives on the East Coast should immediately pencil that one down under sky diving and learning to surf. Thank me later. The natural beauty that occurs in that area of the country is something that we jaded citiots (that's "city idiots" for those having trouble) can't begin to wrap our minds around. Some of you may be thinking, "come on, we've got mountains on the coast". Nope. Not even close. Check this out:

The pictures can only give one a small idea of the breath-taking scenery that is literally everywhere you look out there. Simply driving to the next town for dinner we passed enormous rock formations that resembled the ornate cathedrals that are scattered through Rome. You can't get out of your car to fill your gas tank without a prime view of a snow-capped peak in the middle of June. And I'll tell you, the Big Sky State is quite the understatement- it's gargantuan.

The scenery was simply one pleasant aspect of the phenomenal state of Montana. What caught me off guard almost as much as the staggering size of the mountains was the behavior of the citizens. Being a product of the "keep-your-head-down-and-walk-quickly" streets of Baltimore I was slightly skeptical at first of the genuine congeniality of complete strangers. Just about everyone everywhere we went made eye contact, smiled, and offered an unobtrusive "hello". At first I'm thinking, "wow, is it that obvious that I'm not from around here? I must stick out like, well, a cowboy in Baltimore". However, it didn't take me long to realize that everyone is just that nice to everyone.

Even the teenagers that served us our lattes in a kitchy 50's style ice cream parlor/coffee shop in the quaint little town of Phillipsburg were genuinely amiable and charming. And if anyone has ever experienced teenagers in the East you can imagine our collective awe at the sight of a group of untainted, unentitled, sweet kids.

The highlight of the trip, however, was not the scenery, the people, or the unique places we visited throughout the week. The experience that made the entire trip one of the best of my life was spending some desperately needed time with my mom in her new life. I was able to sit at her breakfast bar drinking coffee and laughing about the ups and downs of being a newlywed. I was able to play with her puppy in the park across from her gorgeous new house. We shopped, ate, joked, and cried like the five months apart never happened. There were no "catching up" conversations, she knew everything that was happening 2,300 miles away, it was simply good quality time with my mom. I was able to experience the happiness that she has found in this small town in a quiet valley in Montana. And as hard as it was to board that plane back to my "reality" at the end of the week, I love knowing that she's no only OK, she's really truly happy. I miss my mom a lot, but she sure does live in a seriously cool place to visit!

The Cautionary Tale of Abby

I have a friend- well, she's actually more accurately described as a casual acquaintance. For purposes of online anonymity I'll call her Abby. Abby is a tragic case. As former co-workers during my time as a waitress I got to know Abby rather well considering we worked just about every shift together. We spent a few occasions outside of work together and I even had her over to my house for margaritas. Between me and my good friend Amanda, we believed we could rescue her from the ever-deepening bleak hole she was digging herself into. This endeavor has proved to be quite the uphill battle.

Let me tell you a little bit about Abby. Abby is stupid; there's just no way around it. She has the mind of a seventeen year old idiot trapped in the body of a twenty-two year old girl. With no inherent desire to better her situation in any way, Abby works as a part-time waitress and spends her free time moving into, then out of, then into her eighteen year old deadbeat boyfriend's filthy apartment. On top of participating in one of the most dysfunctional relationships I've seen since Whitney and Bobby (that's right, I made a Whitney and Bobby reference), Abby wanted to get pregnant. Every attempt at trying to explain patiently and logically to her that this was perhaps quite literally the dumbest idea anyone has ever had was only met with a blank stare or a dismissive shrug.

After Abby and her loser boyfriend's first attempt to co-habitate lasted only two weeks, Amanda and I started to see a shimmer of hope for Abby. We were proud of her for making the first step to becoming a functioning adult. She dumped her dumb-shit boyfriend, started showing an interest in working more, saving money, and participating in activities with people her own age. I'll pause here to mention that Abby had previously been unable to enjoy her status as a twenty-two year old because all her friends were fresh out of high school and couldn't set foot in a bar. Anyway, suffice it to say Abby started making progress- for about a month.

Re-enter the loser boyfriend. This prick decided that he couldn't just be a deadbeat and waste his life all by his lonesome. He had to drag poor lost little Abby back down into the ditch with him. After threatening suicide if she didn't come back, shocker or shockers, Abby returned. She abandoned every last one of her efforts and moved back into her self-inflicted hell. This is the part where Amanda and I start beating our heads against the wall when what we truly would like to do is beat Abby's head against the wall.

You may be wondering at this point why Amanda and I are taking such a vested interest in this misguided little girl's exploits. Why shouldn't we simply write her off and go on about our lives? The girl is clearly a lost cause; let her hang herself. Don't think we weren't tempted. The thing about Abby is there is something different about her. She's not like so many of the entitled little brats I come across all too often who I feel could use a nice hard punch in the face from reality to knock them down a few pegs. She's got this trusting innocence to her that really makes you believe she deserves better and she simply doesn't know it.

The latest update on Abby, which I received from Amanda yesterday and the reason why I am writing this post, seems to be the last straw. Amanda has invested much more time than I have in the Abby Project and even she seems to have reached her wits end and is, for all intents and purposes, ready to throw in the towel. Turns out Abby suspects her worthless skeeze of a boyfriend (have I made it clear how I feel about the guy?) of having an STD. Showing no symptoms herself, Abby was advised to go get herself tested. Side note: is this something that really needs to be told to a twenty-two year old? This bold declaration of the obvious was met with a response that I still have to repeat in my head to truly believe someone could think this was a point to be argued.

Abby first responded by saying that she couldn't afford to go to the doctor. I know, I know, dumb-ass, right? But, sit tight, it gets better. After Amanda tried to present Abby her options as they pertained to her financial hesitations Abby tried a second line of rationalization.

"Well, it could just be something else," Abby replied brushing off the subject entirely. This is one of those moments that it would have been totally appropriate to grab Abby by her shoulders and literally attempt to shake some common frickin' sense into her, but my guess is that it probably wouldn't have worked anyway. Amanda tried a few more times to get this girl to see that she was being a weapons-grade moron; but sadly it was to no avail.

So what should be done about sad, lost little Abby? Unfortunately this story is only the tip of the tragic iceberg. And just like the Titanic before her, if Abby had simply pulled her head out of the sand for even a moment she could have avoided crashing into that iceberg and sinking to the bottom of the dark relentless ocean.
But, who knows; maybe there's still hope for Abby. Or maybe the great philosopher Ron White had it right; you can't fix stupid.

Passing the Newlywed Torch to... Mom?

I don't really know why I haven't written a post about this particular subject until now. Maybe it's because over the last eight or nine months I have neglected my writing due to the fact that my life as I knew it was abruptly flipped upside down and dropped on its head. Usually I process a major life change by writing about it- it's my therapy. However, when a pipe bomb exploded in the middle of my content little existence I couldn't gather enough fragments of the shrapnel to form a coherent thought, let alone a written expression that resembled anything readable.


For those who have recently began reading this blog (thank you, by the way) you can find the details of this metaphorical explosion in my last post of 2009 entitled "Christmas Eve and Miles Away from the Ordinary". Suffice it to say, the dust has settled and the entire family is adjusting quite nicely to what I refer to as the "new normal". One colossal slice of this new existence is that I now have a stepfather...
I have to repeat that... a stepfather. I swear the word looks like it's written in a foreign language. I am all too quickly approaching my 26th birthday and as of December 27, 2009 I have a stepfather.


This is beyond weird for me. For starters, Mom and her new hubby live in Montana while I reside with little family left to speak of in Maryland. I don't know Step Dad very well. I spent a handful of occasions with him during two visits he made to our fine state before he swept Mom off to the land of cowboys and shooting your own dinner. I like the man just fine and I'm sure that the more time we spend together the more fond of him I will eventually become. But let's face it, although he makes her deliriously happy and that thrills me, he's the guy that married my mom and took her 2,700 miles away. So referring to him as my stepfather at this juncture still feels like I'm attempting to speak Russian.


Anyway, the truly surreal segment of this whole chain of recent events is the completely unnatural dynamic shift in my relationship with my mom. Because now I am the old married lady with a whopping two and a half years of marriage under my belt and she is the fledgling newlywed fumbling her way through her first year of marriage like Bambi learning how to walk for the first time. Yeah, she did do the whole first-year thing 27 years ago when she married my dad. However, their marriage was so steeped in passive aggression that they probably spent the whole year exhausting themselves trying not to go through the necessary tumbles and fumbles that eventually lead to a happy frolicking deer. So now I get to watch as my mother, the woman who raised me and taught me every last little thing I know about life and love and men, tackles the infamous first year of marriage.


I imagine this would be a lot more fun to witness if we weren't essentially on opposite ends of the country and she wasn't undergoing a long frustrating course of chemo which inhibits her from traveling. I'll tell you what though, I love hearing her rattle off the laundry list of the very same complaints that I used to bring to her when I myself resembled little Bambi. I swear to you, it's more satisfying than a bag of Double Stuf Oreos, a glass of cold milk, and a Sex and the City marathon to hear my own mother tell me that now she gets it. Now she completely understands why I would call her late one night crying about how I couldn't put up with Brandon's shit anymore and by the next morning I would be informing her about what a spectacular husband I had found myself. Now she totally gets how you can be so deeply in love with someone who quite often makes you want to grab the back of his head and slam his face into the coffee table.


I'm fairly certain that during my first year of marriage my mom and quite a few others were holding their breath to see if Brandon and I could actually survive. My mom perhaps more so than others because she was the one receiving the late night phone calls about what an idiot the man I married was. Of course, Brandon and I thought everyone was crazy because we knew our fights were just our way of breaking each other in. We knew we would make it, and that we would be stronger as a result. It took being a newlywed herself for my mother to realize that although my marriage may have had its messy moments, Brandon and I knew what we were doing (more or less). Let's just say she has a whole lot more faith in our relationship now that she's been down in the trenches herself.


This whole process has not only been outrageously amusing for me, it has also cemented my mother's and my relationship as friends. We're two women navigating the early years of marriage together. I offer my insights as someone who has been married a little longer and she still has wisdom to offer way beyond my scope of understanding because, well, she's my mom and she knows everything!


I still don't know about the whole Step Dad thing though- it's so weird.

What Ever Happened to "Happy for You"?

I was a waitress for seven years. It was a tragically bittersweet job that ushered me through many stages of my life. What started as a part-time job that I stumbled into by chance eventually evolved into a lifestyle, slowly transitioned into a means to an end, and eventually died a slow death and was ultimately put out of its excruciating misery- this time (here's hoping) for good.


During my tenure as an under-appreciated and under-paid servant to the masses I learned countless valuable life lessons. For starters, I could multi-task in the Olympics. I would win too because all the judges would get their self-righteous butts kissed with a sincerity that only a seasoned waitress knows how to fake. But above all things I learned doing this job I discovered that no matter the amount of utterly ridiculous behavior I've witnessed from guests in my restaurants, no matter how many times my jaw has dropped to the floor, the general public that I served never ever ceased to surprise me. Even on my last day as a waitress I guarantee there was something some random patron did that made my eyes widen and rendered me speechless at their complete audacity.


I say this to you, dear reader, because I have have found this particular life lesson carries over quite seamlessly to my married life as well. As you may have read in my previous post, family members have really breached about eight different kinds of personal boundaries when poking for information about Brandon's and my life plans. I don't know if these kinds of comments arise in the worlds of other married couples- maybe it's just us. Either way, I continue to find myself shocked and appalled by the comments people have deemed acceptable to say to my face. However, I have my seven year career as a hardened waitress to thank for my ability to take every last one of these comments with grace, dignity, and sometimes strategic wit.


I rarely accompany Brandon to events that involve his close-knit group of friends. Much of this has to do with the fact that since our move to farm country I have become somewhat of a  contented homebody. I also do not like to make a habit of encroaching on "Guy Time". Only one of Brandon's friends is married, two are products of recently failed marriages (but we'll discuss them later), two or three others have quasi-serious girlfriends, and the rest are steadfastly single. So where does this leave me? Quite often I am there purely for decoration, perched on a bar stool sipping a glass of Merlot, silently pretending to be listening intently to a conversation about fantasy football line-ups or Call of Duty strategies. No thanks.


This past weekend, however, I decided that I would make a cameo appearance. One of the guys was hosting his annual Memorial Day cookout. It was a comfortable mix of friends of Brandon that I could hold quality conversation with and total strangers. I have never been made to feel left out among Brandon's group, they are truly great guys and a lot of fun. But let's face it, they've all been close since childhood and I will forever be marked as "Brandon's wife". I'm somewhat of an alien life form to these guys. They're all perfectly pleasant and sweet to me, but I frequently get the sense that they can't quite figure out how to relate to me. There seems to be a hovering sense of hesitation around many of the conversations I have with some of Brandon's closest friends. It's almost like they still don't fully trust me or they are reluctant to absorb me completely into their circle because part of them still suspects I may not be a permanent fixture. While reading this you may chalk this analysis up to paranoid delusions, however, I urge you to withhold judgement until you find out how this was confirmed for me.


Brandon and I were standing among a group of miscellaneous friends and acquaintances sipping on bottles of beer and trying not to melt in the hot sun. One of Brandon's recently divorced friends that I mentioned earlier, I'll call him Scott, approached the group. I still can't quite remember how the subject arose but all of a sudden Brandon and I found our marriage in the social spotlight once again.
"Don't ever get married!" Scott exclaimed to Brandon, gesturing emphatically with his beer-holding hand. "Oh, wait," he continued sarcastically, "too late!"
We all had a half-hearted laugh and I was secretly hoping the line of conversation would drop dead right then and there. No such luck.
"It's cool," Scott looked to me. "You're great now, but around year two or three you will turn into a c***, you will cheat on him, and you will leave him."
OK, Scott. Thanks for the heads up.


Here's where that grace and dignity I also mentioned earlier had to come in. I laughed with only the slightest hint of discomfort and suppressed my urge to punch him because I realized several things in that moment. I recognized that Scott was clearly joking around with us, even though there was a glimmer of austerity behind his statement. I also was able to take the unbelievably abhorrent use of the c-word in stride because after four years of spending Saturday nights drinking with twenty-something single guys I have diminished my reaction to that word to a minimal cringe at its use. And lastly, I acknowledged the fact that what he described I would unavoidably do to Brandon is exactly what Scott's wife did to him. So after taking all this into consideration in about three seconds, I decided to laugh it off, smile at Scott, and attempt some witty banter.
"So I guess I should just give up now and get it over with, huh?" I shot back with a sly grin.


You could almost see the cloud of tension lift off the group. I didn't realize until that moment that it seemed as though everyone had been waiting for my reaction. I suspect that they all were expecting me to punch Scott. And, in retrospect, he probably would have deserved it. I mean, you can't just say that kind of thing! But that wouldn't have been very helpful to anyone.


So, thank you, seven outrageous years of waitressing, for teaching me that people are always going to surprise you with their inappropriate behavior. And, most importantly, for teaching me that when someone shocks me with their new heights of disrespect and insolence it's best to take it in stride, respond with grace and dignity, and then complain about it on your blog later.