Fiddley Gomme - Marriage

Mommies, Dearest

Pete — Sat, 03 Nov 2007 01:28:50 -0400

Donna reminded me the other day that, while I spend a good deal of time bitching about my current problems, I rarely talk about what she feels is a more likely candidate as the root of my problems... my parents. I've mentioned my mother from time-to-time before. Her neglect, her awkward boundary issues and even how she got knocked-up back in the summer of love. So this time, let's give my dad a turn.

My father is what some would call a compulsive groom. A serial marrier. He just can't manage to stay single no matter how hard he tries. He falls into marriages, despite his obvious lack of matrimonial ability, with surprising ease. My brothers and I have run out of ways to address all of our mothers.

First, of course, is Mom. Our biological mother. That one is pretty obvious.

Then there was Elizabeth. We just called her Elizabeth. Because, well... we were still new at the step-mom thing and didn't know how important it would be to distinguish her from the parade of moms that would follow her. Besides, we were all grown and married ourselves by the time Dad married her so it's not like we had to live with her or anything. And since we were introduced to her by way of a phone call telling us they had just celebrated their nuptials on the eighteenth green of the Pebble Beach golf course, we figured there wasn't too much expectation that we would get all huggy-kissy with her.

Somewhere along the way Elizabeth and Dad grew apart... or whatever. And some time later, Iris came along. Iris was German and, as Dad reminded me almost every time I spoke with him, bisexual. They met on the internet and married after she had considerable trouble entering the United States via Canada. I had another new mom. She was, in age, between me and my older brother. It pleased me to no end to eventually think to call her Grandma Iris. We even got the kids to do it too.

One Christmas she brought some holiday treats for the cast of a show I was in. They were made from communion wafers. No shit. My castmates still delight in reminding me that my new mom fed them the flesh of the Savior. "Jesus Christ, these cookies are delicious!"

Surprisingly, that whole deal didn't work out.

Now Dad is with Genie. Genie is now my new new mom and Grandma Iris has become my old new mom. Genie is lovely and a (finally) age-appropriate companion for my father. She has at least two daughters that I've met and, who knows, there might be even more.

So to recap... there's Mom, Elizabeth, my old new mom Grandma Iris, and my new new mom Genie.

I'm just jealous of my older brother. After all, he's the only one who has ever been to any of my dad's weddings. Even if it was while he was in the womb.

UPDATE: I read this post live in February 2008

Mommies, Dearest from Jon Deal on Vimeo.

Can't Win For Losing

Pete — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 01:31:35 -0400

Donna has had a pretty rough week, in a grumpier-that-the-people-around-her-care-to-talk-about kind of way. For some reason or another she seems to have been not quite herself. She's been barking at the kids and refusing any kind of attempts to help her cheer up.

Then today, after Twitter dumped a whole bunch of messages from her tweets, I got this desperate text message...

Why am I getting so upset so easily!!!! My replies are all there but not my recents for days and days.

Clearly things were getting out of hand. The twenty-seven or so random, rambling messages about twenty-three totally disconnected things told me they weren't going to get any better. Her fragile mood was falling completely apart.

I made several phone calls trying to cheer her up and get to the bottom of the problem but to no avail. She'd have no part of it. She was dead-set on being in a pissy mood. But my big concern was what I knew would happen next. She was about to get really needy.

Right after I told her I felt like she could use a night out away from the kids, the end began like this...

Oh, right
maybe I'll stay out till 3:00
and start smoking
and make out with a stranger
What would you say if I said I wanted to make out with a stranger?

She doesn't want to make out with a stranger. She want's me to tell her that I don't want that. I am not so stupid that I don't know that. But I didn't think it was fair that she would ask me a loaded question that would, no matter how I answered, end up in a fight. Especially when all I'd been trying to do is encourage her to do whatever she needed to do to break out of her funk.

I was being the good husband and I was about to get hamstringed for it.

I just need to know you love me.

I do love you. That's exactly why if making out with a stranger would make you happy that I would want you to do it. Especially if she was really hot and you would let me watch.

Who Are You And What Have You Done With My Wife?

Pete — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 17:45:17 -0400

Last week, after I got back from New York, I was flooded with a rush of emotions. Some of which had everything to do with my trip and my personal regret about not having followed my dream to be the cliche struggling actor, scraping by in the city. Others had been festering for a while and just came along for the ride once the gates were opened. Still others were nothing new and are the same old things that always get thrown into the mix.

It's no secret that Donna and have more than our share of painful history together. It's also not news to any regular reader of this site that, while each of us has done a lot of work and come a long, long way, it's very likely that there will never be a time when we are free from the burden and hurt of those common experiences. There are some issues that no amount of therapy will help us overcome.

The long and the short of it is that while Donna is a terrific person for whom I have a great deal of love I most often feel like we each spend a lot of time disappointing each other. And while that's certainly not unique to our marriage, the combination of those incompatibilities and our rocky history might make it hard for either of us to get close enough to each other for either of us to ever be as happy as we might be apart. Does that make sense?

Towards the end of last week, as the culmination of these factors made me an intolerable ass to be around, I let on that I was having these thoughts and feelings. And while Donna admits to sometimes feeling the same things, she was understandably devastated and hurt to hear it out loud. The result of that discussion was what I can only describe as a renewed effort on her part to be more expressive.

Since last week she has become open to the idea that living and working in New York might be something of an adventure. And while a move to the big city isn't extremely likely possibility, she is clearly acting outside of her normal bubble.

Donna's also making an effort to participate more in my reality. She spent most of Friday evening backstage cavorting with the cast. She even brought beer. Which she stood in line in a public grocery store to buy. You may also have noticed her increased participation on here as well as on Twitter. I think she's had a sense that this internet world is a big scary place full of Democrats, academics, hippies and other inherently evil people.

Let's all prove her wrong, OK? I mean, yes, you're all a bunch of liberal, free-thinking hippies but you're all super nice, right?

There's also been some other surprisingly unsettling changes in her behavior. She has decided to become much more sexually expressive. All weekend between pestering me for physical attention, she made some minor changes to her underwear routine and converted the shag rugs to hardwood floors. Oh and suddenly and without warning I'll find her doing things to herself and me that would make Spencer Kimball blush.

I say this is all unsettling because it is a complete change in direction. I have been put off-center by it to the point that I don't know quite how to react. Of course I like what's happening and I want to be positive and supportive. On the other hand, I don't completely trust her sincerity and I am taken off-guard by it.

She told me this morning that she's really making an effort to find out who and what she wants to be. I, for one, can certainly understand how difficult and exciting that can be.

Here's wishing her luck on her journey.

Insomnia Is Not Her Problem

Pete — Fri, 31 Aug 2007 17:35:30 -0400

It's been a primary frustration of mine for quite some time that Donna seems to be, sometimes deliberately, unaware of key moments and opportunities for intimacy and closeness. I'm not talking about sex here either. Well, not specifically.

A Split Decision

Pete — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 18:34:38 -0400

Donna and I have a very bipolar relationship. Duh. We swing from manic to depressive states, sometimes very suddenly, in a shockingly regular cycle.

Obviously, the past few days we were in the valley of the wave. For a few brief moments yesterday, perhaps buoyed by the excitement of watching number 756, we each let down our guard. Not much, but enough to thaw the ice just enough that we were able to have a brief but civil exchange about this most recent obstacle.

"I just need you to know that no matter what else has happened, I have the right to participate fully in raising our children. I need you to understand that the way things were handled hurt me. I would accept an apology if you had a sincere one to offer."

"I really regret not involving you. I'll work on that in the future."

Then, poof, like magic, we crested the wave. All was well.

I had honestly convinced myself that I would accept an apology and shrug off the grudge I had been stubbornly carrying. Donna, obviously burdened by the weight of the situation was clearly glad to be out from under it.

Or maybe we were both just horny enough that we just had to get over it and snuggle... and stuff.

A Brief About Boxers

Pete — Tue, 26 Jun 2007 18:14:41 -0400

There's no doubt in my mind that the anxiety Donna feels about me is justified. I've given her plenty of reasons to mistrust me and put her guard up. Having her mistrust and anger aimed squarely at my nuts has certainly done enough to build a few barriers on my side of the equation too.

That's all well and good when it comes to blame-placing and finger-pointing but doesn't do us much good in the world of everyday, you know, actually getting along and trusting each other. Sometimes all the years of jabbing with one hand and blocking with the other make it just plain hard for us to even muster a civil amount of decorum, let alone intimacy. It's a strange dynamic given the fact that we are both widely regarded as personable, easy-going, charismatic people.

So what's the solution? How do we both take the gloves off and stop playing defense with our fragile, damaged emotions? Playing nice gets us by on any given day, but it's just that... playing. The best coping we've come up with so far is just to ignore the hurt for a few days or weeks at a time while we grit our teeth and smile. But that only works for a little while. Eventually, it stacks up and one of us does something to let the other know that we're hurting. Something, anything at all to say, "hey, this still isn't resolved and no amount of pretending will make me as happy as I want to be."

For this round, we seem to have gotten it out of our system but what happens when the bell rings and the next round starts?

The Long, Lost Weekend

Pete — Mon, 25 Jun 2007 19:08:32 -0400

I hope most of you deduced that Friday was our wedding anniversary.

A week or so ago, I asked Donna if she wanted me to try to score some free tickets to a show at the theater where I used to perform. The same theater I'll be performing in again very soon. Little did you know that I'm a former C-list local celebrity. On the charts I fell somewhere between drive-time traffic reporter and back-of-the-phone-book attorney. I'm a powerful and important man. People know me.

"Sure. Get four and we'll double-date with the Bradfords."

So that's what I did. I wielded my far-reaching influence (meaning I called the box office manager and begged) and had now made the theater plans leaving the dinner plans on her plate. The night was set. A good time was to be had by all.

Or so I thought.

The evening started with flowers from me and Donna's famous chocolate-covered strawberries from her. And after a brief mix-up with the dinner plans, which basically came down to someone or another thinking Rumbi Grill was something other than a strip-mall fast-food joint, we ended up at a much nicer place with much more expensive and buttery food. No big deal, we had plenty of time before the performance and I like a good date adventure as much as the next guy.

After dinner, as we killed a little time at a nearby book store, I could see that Donna was starting to show a few of her subtle outward signs of anxiety. She walked with her arms crossed. She clenched her jaw. She hardly spoke. She became difficult to engage in conversation.

I asked her about it but she shrugged it off. I asked again. Same answer. I knew something was bothering her but I wasn't going to bug her about it if she wasn't willing to spill the beans. I drove us to the theater and cranked up the new CD I had picked up at the book store.

The show was fantastic. Highlighted by a couple of inside jokes thrown in by friends in the cast simply for my benefit. I was getting pretty amped-up about the idea of being back on stage having the kind of fun they were all clearly having. Besides, it was a really fun show. A felt the night was going pretty well.

Until I brought Donna backstage to cavort with the cast. She was clearly not happy. And by not happy I mean, she was really ready to leave. She huddled by the stage door, well away from the conversation. Being there was really bothering her.

For me, that theater represents some very good times. Sure, there was a lot of personal crap I'd rather not re-live but really, it's such a high for me that I couldn't wipe the grin off my face just from being there.

But not Donna. She didn't say a word and as soon as we left she was visibly relieved. But not completely. On the drive home, I asked her if she was feeling alright.

She wasn't. Taking her there on a special night was a mistake and I was stupid for making it. Any hope I had of being intimate was clearly long gone. A situation that I have yet to figure out how to handle. I clammed up. She clammed up.

The next morning, Donna was up early for a trip to Lagoon Amusement Park with our older girls. When she awoke, I stirred and she made an attempt at getting physical which I couldn't muster the mood for. The evening before had left me feeling soured on intimacy until the problem had been talked through. I know... I'm not the woman here, I shouldn't be acting like it but that's how I felt. I had the rest of day with the youngest, Beth and though we enjoyed our day together, the gloom of the previous night hung over me like one of those Acme Brand One Ton Anvils the entire time. By the time Donna returned we had traded a few text messages and icy-cold phone calls but there was no resolution to the situation.

Sunday always brings its own challenges to the Dunn household. I enjoy my Sundays these days but there's still a tiny bit of built-in tension lingering. Add this to the mood already plaguing us and I was perfectly set-up for a pretty shitty day. The thirty-minute plumbing fix that turned into nine hours without water, five trips to Lowe's, two to separate Home Depots, one new hole in the basement drywall and $85 in pipe, solder and sillcocks pushed me right over the edge.

I couldn't handle it any more and switched back and forth between all-out moping and self-righteous indignance, Donna made it clear that this was no way to get my feelings heard but by this point, I didn't care. I just wanted to be mad and drink beer. So that's what I did until I fell asleep.

I am SO bad at all this. Maybe a few more hours at hardware stores and working on the pipes will make me feel better. As if.

Things I've Learned In Fourteen Years Of Marriage

Pete — Fri, 22 Jun 2007 10:30:00 -0400

I am not beautiful enough to do anything I want.
She is.
The more I beg, the less I get.
Shouting rarely works.
When she's on a diet, I'm on a diet.
Girls fart too.
It's better if I don't tell her how much I spent on her birthday.
Grabbing her boobs in public is fun but usually will get me smacked.
Same thing with her ass.
She has absolutely no secrets. She is exactly who she seems to be.
It's OK to let her drive. Just don't let her back up.
Some things just aren't worth fighting about.
Other things are.
This marriage shit is super hard.
I am one lucky son of a bitch.

Ahoy, Matey.

Pete — Wed, 23 May 2007 17:39:41 -0400

As much as Donna is able to hold a grudge, she knows exactly how to show me when she's over it.

Last night, she came to bed in her Kasey Kahne t-shirt and Hanes Her Ways. I knew she meant serious business. Without hesitation, we got right down to it. She actually even kissed me while we made love, so I know she meant it.

Then today, right as I got back to my desk from lunch, I heard the theme song from The Office from my back pocket. It was Donna calling.

"Hey. What's up?"

"Nothing. I just read your blog post. Very well done. I'm just calling to see if you wanted to come home and fuck me."

"I... err... YES... but I just had my lunch break."

"Too bad, the kids aren't home from school yet. I'm here aaaaall alone."

"-gulp-"

"I made you a little chubby just now, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"Well, when you get home, we can help you with that."

I think we may have weathered the storm. I guess all of our rough seas experience has really helped us to navigate these rough patches a lot better than we might have in the past.

Getting Drunk And Stuff

Pete — Mon, 16 Apr 2007 15:40:51 -0400

"I was talking with a couple of my friends the other day about you making beer."

"Oh yeah?"

"They asked if you 'get drunk and stuff'. I couldn't help but laugh. You hardly drink at all and when you do, it's not even a big deal. Just one or two beers now and then."

"Right. So can I ask? Why the change of heart? You were so opposed to it before."

"I just decided one day that I was sick of controlling what you did and what you thought. I'm so much happier letting you live your own life."

"That's great. I was sick of it too. Now... take off your top."