365 Nights Read online

  Ouch.

  While Brad wasn’t ready to throw out the baby with the bathwater, there was an undercurrent of tension, but I was too darned busy to notice it. It would be an interesting experiment if, in relationships, we could get recognized for a job well done.

  Because when you’re used to the highly structured world of work and reward, a lack of immediate payoff is a challenging transition. There are no promotions, no 360-degree reviews from your peers, no nice lunches or celebrations when you close the big deal or win the big account. And no one popping by your office to say, “You were on fire in that meeting! Great work!” I’m not even going to talk about motherhood as the most thankless job of all, as Hallmark and my grandmother have covered that sentiment quite well over the years, thanks.

  But if we took some lessons from the business world and applied them to marriage, I think we’d all agree we’re undervaluing our most important asset. And when it comes to intimacy, we’re probably underutilizing a critical benefit. So along with specific job descriptions, Brad and I could be on a bonus structure based on performance. In the career world people get raises, promotions, luncheons, and cheesy plaques and/or desk ornaments. If we had a bonus structure attached to our spousal job descriptions, now that would be quite a game changer, wouldn’t it? I mean, if someone told Brad that he would get paid $100,000 ( just to name a number) to be the best husband and spouse for a year, according to a job description determined by moi, I’ll bet he (and every other red-blooded husband out there) would jump on it like white on rice. I would, too—Hawaii, anyone?

  Putting a lot of stuff, including intimacy, out on the kitchen table for discussion and negotiation should be an evolving process in a relationship—one that is moving through family issues, changing jobs, and increasing responsibilities. Working at an office that teaches you all about office politics is a good primer for trying out some of these principles at home. Reward, praise, but don’t forget to try to fix things that are broken. And when all else fails, try a PowerPoint presentation.

  My good friend Teresa is negotiating through issues of power and control in her marriage. Apparently her current mode of communication wasn’t working as John told her one night, “I’m just so tired of living in Nagland.” To which she nearly retorted, “Yeah, I know that place, it’s across the river from ‘You Suck-ville.’ ” But instead, she decided to try out some other tactics—not asking for help, not expecting help, and eventually not getting help. But that’s a whole other chapter, isn’t it? What really got me was how Teresa overcame the communications impasse—via PowerPoint. She developed a PowerPoint presentation entitled “How Teresa and John Can Get on the Same Page.” “I drove over to his office one day and presented it to him,” she said. How’d it go? “Well, I got through the presentation and then we started talking, so that’s a good thing.”

  Whether I’ve been at home avoiding the dishwasher, or at the office all day putting some fade in a PowerPoint presentation, I can’t wait to go out with my girlfriends. Every working woman, whatever her life’s situation—married, unmarried, mother or not—deserves a night out. That’s why my Book Club of nearly fifteen years is sacred territory. Unlike other groups of the same name, we actually do read and discuss the book of the month. We also drink wine, dish, and hang out together. We’ve been through marriages, divorces, babies, jobs, and other assorted life changes with each other. A lot of women have this outlet, whether it’s a bunco group, a dinner club, or a craft guild (I have to admit I don’t know anyone who belongs to a crafting organization, however). But the net result is the same: a safe place to communicate about issues that drive us nuts when we’re at home.

  After about a hundred days into my special year with Brad, I decided to let my hair down and fill my girlfriends, some of whom I’ve known since college, in on things. Besides, my experiment was kind of new and exciting. Boy, did that go over like a lead balloon.

  “What were you thinking?”

  “You’re not really going to do it the whole year, are you?”

  “Whatever you do, do not tell my husband.”

  “What will you do on special occasions?”

  “Do you even like it? Having sex every day I mean?”

  “Geez, I wonder if I could do it . . . for a week maybe.”

  “Girl, were you drunk?”

  And that is just a little pu pu platter of responses.

  But overall, I was pleasantly surprised by some—if not all—of my support. In fact, one night as I excused myself from “Girls’ Martini Night” at a neighborhood bar, I got a few winks, nods, and even a “You go, girl!” After the initial shock wore off, there didn’t seem to be much judgment. If there was, I wasn’t aware of it. After getting over the amazement of my birthday tale and the requisite jokes, the girls recognized I was putting forth an earnest effort, and to that end, my friends were offering toasts of support. In a world where we’re bombarded with petty jealousies and mean-spirited gossip, where women get pitted against each other on so many things, it was a nice feeling. It could have been that my gal pals were just grateful it was me and not them, and kept their snarky comments to themselves. But in reality, I think it was because I was taking a shot at an admirable goal and they were secretly rooting for me. I don’t think any of them aspired to be me, mind you, but I do think we all, in our nutty, overscheduled lives, aspire to have a better, closer connection with our spouse. And they thought I might be on to something.

  And after only a few months, I knew I was on to something. I was grateful for my small cadre of supporters. Perhaps it doesn’t matter if you work or stay at home, send your kids to private or public school, or belong to the country club or the YMCA, intimacy is a common experience—and apparently, a frequent dilemma—for all of us. Sometimes the things that are the most intensely personal are the things that happen to us all—or at least a lot of us. Like negotiating sex with your spouse. Intimacy is the great equalizer . . . whether we’re rich or poor, black or white, educated or not, city dweller or farm girl, intimacy is the glue that binds a relationship together.

  In contrast, Brad told no one. Not even his best friend. I was surprised.

  “You told me that most husbands in America would be thrilled with this gift, so why aren’t you telling anyone?”

  “Well,” he said, “first of all, it’s our business. And second, it’s not like it’s a normal part of the conversation for me.”

  Oh, riiiggght. I forgot. Women talk about the intricacies of their lives all the time—husbands, kids, sex, neighbors. And men talk about . . . heck, I must not know the first thing about what guys talk about because I thought they talked about sex!

  NOVEMBER

  Blessed Be the Ties That Strangle . . . I Mean Bind

  “Hey, hon, you-know-who called,” Brad said as I walked in the door with a cooler to brine our fourteen-pound turkey for Thanksgiving.

  I heaved the cooler up on the counter. “Oh, yeah? What did you say? Did you do my dirty work for me and tell her that I couldn’t volunteer on her committee?” I asked.

  “No, I told her you were out for the day—singlehandedly building a Habitat House with only hand tools—and blindfolded.”

  “Nice! Did she get the hint?”

  “Of course not, she wants you to call her right away. Before you do, let’s practice together. Look at me. Just say no. Say it with me— NOOOOOOOO.” He did this while squeezing my cheeks to form an O shape. I tried, but my lips simply wouldn’t form the words.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Brad said. “You never had trouble telling me no.”

  Well, he had that one right.

  Why is it that I, and many women I know, can’t say no to the PTA, church, children’s theater, neighborhood association, or soccer club, but we can say no to our husbands day in and day out? My girlfriend says she wakes up each morning and has to decide who she’s going to be today—PTA Mom, Carpooler, Designer and Small Business Owner, Laundress/Maid, Cook, and so on. “I never wake up and d
ecide, ‘Today is the day I’m going to be a Wife.’ ” In the era of Wives Who Do It All, many of us are not doing “It” at all. Instead, we’re overextending ourselves with work, school, church, synagogue, garden club, and so on.

  But here’s the truth, at least for me: Everyone knows when you’re not volunteering at school, driving your kids to choir, or getting a covered dish to the neighborhood picnic. You’re either doing it or you’re not. But no one knows if you’re not having sex with your spouse (except for your spouse, of course). You can be the most admired person on the block for spreading good deeds and goodwill from one end of town to the other, but few husbands are going to ask for volunteer help to get their wives back in the mood and back in the bedroom. Can you imagine the e-mail? “Hey, everyone, we’re looking for one or two folks who can spare a few hours for a great cause—Phil needs some help or suggestions on how to get Jennifer in the intimacy groove. If you have experience falling off the intimacy horse and can help, e-mail me today! Thanks and have a great day.”

  For a long time I put things that were important, but never the most important, ahead of my relationship with my husband. Serving as chair of the board of the weekday school. Teaching Sunday school. Planning neighborhood socials. Drafting the newsletter for the elementary school. Juggling client demands. Staffing conference calls from home while fixing dinner and folding laundry. Calling my mother . . . my best friend . . . my sister-in-law . . . my old babysitter to check in. Hitting the “refresh” button on my e-mail about, oh, 258 a times day. Baking cookies for . . . (well, nothing really, I just like to bake cookies). Certainly these things are not unimportant—in fact, I consider cookie baking to be very important! But so is Brad. While I would have told any telemarketer who called to poll me about my marriage that on a scale from 1 to 5, with 5 being very important , my marriage was, indeed, a 5, I wasn’t living that affirmation out day to day.

  I realized that the bustle of my daily life was fraught with missed opportunities to connect with my spouse, and when I layered on the added chaos of the holidays, getting up close and personal was even more of a challenge. So in this season of Thanksgiving I realized that I needed to slow down and reorder some things. While I was thankful for school, church, my neighborhood, and so on, what I needed to be most thankful for was all that resided inside the four walls where I lived—my children, my husband, and the gift of intimacy, which has been a gift to us both, really.

  I decided to try my best to say yes to all that this holiday represents and to actually enjoy this time of Thanksgiving— leisurely time spent with family . . . and with Brad. I would relax, kick back, and focus on those quality activities that used to bring me so much pleasure. Yes, the national pastimes of the Thanksgiving season—watching television, grossly overeating, and napping.

  I recently met a woman who doesn’t have a television and I wondered how on earth she would be spending her Thanksgiving. No Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade? No football? No Sound of Music? She is not some weird freak lady (at least I don’t think she is, but we did just meet). She’s nice, attractive, and married with children. I mean, she seems normal. She joked about how much she doesn’t know since she doesn’t watch television and I thought, “Dang straight, how do you get through the day?” But then I reconsidered all the absolutely ridiculous, bottom-of-the-barrel television drivel that won’t taint her brain and take up her leisure time, which does taint and take up mine.

  A few years ago, I was addicted to two kinds of television. The first was bad television, and I mean really, really bad television that had absolutely no redeeming social value. The kind of television programming that when it was over made me feel slightly queasy. You know how your mother used to tell you, “If you get that funny feeling inside when you’re doing something, it probably means you shouldn’t”? Well, that’s how I felt when I watched that kind of television. I knew I shouldn’t be watching it. I didn’t even laugh or learn anything, save for how depraved television is these days. This is not art or high-concept television—it’s low-brow television programming that neither my children nor your children should ever, ever see. Mostly they were reality shows about washed-up celebrities, washed-up relationships, weight and self-image issues, surviving in the Everglades with only a paper clip, raising dysfunctional families, or people simply acting like fools because a camera was pointed at them. In fact, half the time I was sitting there watching it thinking to myself, “I can’t believe that this trash is on regular cable! I mean, really!”

  I loathed myself when it was over because I could not ever get that time back. It was lost forever into that diminishing black hole called Charla’s Brain. What kind of great artwork could I have created during that time? Could I have taken up a musical instrument, or finally read War and Peace, or learned more about climate change, or invested wisely in the stock market? Really, I understand why Jane Austen was able to write all those great books—no TV! But I rationalized that I needed my downtime, those moments when I could take off my Supermom cape and hunker down into some mindless television. And after some seriously tedious numbing, I realized that I needed to go to sleep, but my head was spinning and I was overdosed on what not to wear, how not to walk down the runway, or how not to get picked for a date. Sadly, it did not occur to me that I was trading an opportunity to hunker down with Brad.

  Then this sensory overload came to a head and I had to stop the madness! I was not getting to the important things: reading books and magazines, doing my homework for my Bible study, sifting through my favorite cookbooks, scanning the paper. I realized I really had to exercise some discipline and curb my television time—it was taking up valuable time, if not a wee bit of energy flipping around to all those channels. And it wasn’t like I was bonding with Brad over some weepy Hallmark movie or discussing Tim Russert’s guests. I had gotten lazy and complacent with my evenings and it needed to end. And so I went on a bad television strike. While I did cross the picket line once or twice (hey, a girl’s gotta have a little American Idol, right?), I was feeling less disgusted with myself, and found that I was more sociable. The only drawback I worried about was that this might compromise my ability to dish pop culture with friends. But then I discovered a little secret: You don’t have to watch television to know what’s happening on television. Guys, by the way, have known this for years—hence the advent of Sports Illustrated and ESPN The Magazine. You can read who just got voted off an island/out of the house/out of the kitchen/etc. on the Internet. You can pick up People magazine to read about the latest plot of the hot network shows.

  My girlfriends didn’t believe me when I announced I had gone on a televisions strike as I could still chitchat about it with authority. “Don’t hand me that line about not watching television! ” they would exclaim. Peruse any tabloid magazine in the grocery store line, friends, and you, too, can be an expert on bad television without actually watching bad television. I kid you not. I realize that I have transferred my problem instead of really solving it, but it works for me. Now, I’m spending time with Brad, reading more, and sleeping better than I ever have before.

  The second kind of television is happily enthralling programming that I do advocate—and still watch—cooking shows. They are a tiny little sweet spot in my day. Cooking shows are the antithesis of junky television. I adore them, I relish them (ha), I bask in them. Cooking shows make me glad, sometimes very nearly giddy. And they occasionally make me laugh. Cooking shows are like Leave It to Beaver : Everyone is happy and cheery (granted, some are ingratiatingly happy and cheery) as they prepare gorgeous food in well-lit, beautifully decorated kitchens. Everything they need is at their fingertips—they are never without (again the opposite of reality shows where everyone seems to be in want of something—money, love, peace, fame, a new living room, or beauty). Somebody has bought all the food, probably without two grumpy and hungry children in tow, pre-prepped the herbs and vegetables, and within minutes they are creating sustenance with grace and ease.

  These
cooks and chefs are showcasing their talents instead of revealing their deepest darkest flaws and secrets (and we’re all better off, don’t you think). The impressive knife skills when chopping an onion, the quick flick of the wrist when handling a crepe, or the ability to pinch the perfect piecrust. I DVR my cooking shows and watch them often—my kids watch them with me and they know by name the hosts of my favorites. It’s one of the few things on TV that we can watch together and everybody is happy. Because on cooking shows, everybody wins. And unlike bad television, cooking shows are inspirational—I, too, will be serenely happy once I can roast a side of lamb on an open pit for twenty of my closest friends. I feel like I am a better person having watched them . . . well, at least a little.

  But in November I get less time with my cooking shows, because the Sports Mafia has shanghaied my television, my house, and my marriage. Not to mention, I’m cooking like a fool anyway. To my dismay, the DVR (and I love you, DVR, but please, I need more from you!) can tape only two shows at the same time, or else Brad would be taping golf, NFL, and baseball. The real problem here is there aren’t sports seasons anymore. Nearly all professional sports run year-round. Baseball is not just in the summer, and the NHL is not just in the winter. Heck, the World Series is in November! And ice hockey is in June? Golf is year-round and the NBA? Don’t get me started on that freak show. So Brad’s living vicariously through his sports teams, and I’m busy aspiring to be the next Ina Garten, and we meet in the middle, at our kitchen table.