On Marriage and Movies

My husband and I have a unique relationship. I’m sure most couples think that, and can probably also relate to my early problem: I was shy, and thus reserved. It was an odd mix of showing a ‘highlight reel’ and of dulling myself: to not be too smart, to not try and be funny. Men don’t like those things, I’d gleaned, and so I mitigated the inevitable wreckage of my personality.

Over the past decade, it’s resulted in very very funny exchanges, now that he can’t do anything about it.

He’s a movie buff, where I am not. I enjoy movies, but not like he does, nor have I seen the same breadth of content. One night, he was describing Braveheart to me, and driving me up the wall. I hate this, when I’ve already agreed and yet he continues to tell me everything about the plot simply because he’s over-excited. It’s a marital cross to bear (for both of us).

If you haven’t seen it, which you probably have, the initial inciting incident of William Wallace’s motivation for the entire movie is an English tradition with a Scottish marriage (in that period, a highly contentious and antagonistic time between the two countries) called Prima Nocta.

My husband asked if I knew what it meant. I could only infer that he wouldn’t have, so I needed to be informed.

So, I said, “… first night? And it’s obviously something awful, because he goes to war over it, so… they probably violate the bride on her wedding night, because they have the right to do that, under English law at the time?”

He stared at me, blank, until finally, I said, “Prima… nocta? First… night…?”

“DO YOU SPEAK LATIN?”

Nope. No, I do not.

He shook his head and said, “Three hundred years ago, they’d have burned you as a witch.”

This is probably true.

~~~

I tend to fib about whether I’ve watched movies, because it’s just easier. My husband asked if I’ve seen Apollo 13, and to be honest, and I genuinely didn’t believe I had. He made a face, sputtered something, and I said, “Your general incredulity is why I usually lie about this.”

“My what? That’s not a real word. What does that even mean?”

I was laughing too hard to answer, because of all my weird linguistic acrobatics, I don’t consider ‘incredulity’ a particularly rare word. Finally, I said, “Disbelief. It means disbelief.”

“Why not say that?! We have a word for that! Say that!”

~~~

Everyone said the way the teens spoke on Dawson's Creek was unrealistic. I have a similarly dexterous vocabulary and beg to differ. (Also, now you know how old I am.)

I’ll give you an example. It’s better suited to social media, but here we are.

Once, during a larger conversation about parenting teenagers and how to broach some of the more uncomfortable topics, I used the term ‘nocturnal emissions,’ preferring linguistic distance over other available options.

My husband had never heard the term. He stared at me, blankly, and blinked four times (maybe five) (maybe six).

Finally, he said I must have made the term ‘nocturnal emissions’ up. I had to call a third party to prove it was, in fact, a real term, and that I’m not just some masturbatory poet.

In hindsight, I wish I’d just owned it. ‘Masturbatory poet.’ I could wear it like a gaudy bachelorette party sash, draped around my neck. I’d keep it in my handbag when we go out and about, and it could make consistent appearances after X glasses of wine.

Unrelated: ladies, if you need tips on how to get men to buy you drinks in bars, stick around.

~~~

The first time I saw Top Gun was after I was married. I know, I know. But my husband was so excited to be along for my first viewing, we’ll just slant it like I held off deliberately.

He saw it in his ‘first year of kindergarten’ (this is an actual quote). He liked the call sign Wolf Man but didn’t like the character, and liked Maverick but couldn’t spell it. There were two ‘Andrew Ds’ in his second kindergarten class, and on the first day, his teacher said, “Okay, who’s Andrew D, and who’s Wolf Man?” He finally settled on calling himself Ice Man. I’ve heard the story several times.

Now, watching Top Gun: Maverick tonight: “What would your call sign be?”

No hesitation. No surrender. “Nightwitch.”

“…dammit, that’s good.” (If you know my husband, you know he didn’t say ‘dammit.’) “You had that bullet in the chamber, didn’t you? When did you think of that? Just now?”

And I said no, I’d thought about it, but he hadn’t asked until now. I’m not one to voluntarily talk during a movie. I want Rooster’s Ford Bronco, bad, but I’m not gonna talk about it.

He’s been imagining the helmet I’d wear as ‘Nightwitch’ for the last fifteen minutes. He’s mentioned it three times.

~~~

It’s good to keep your spouse on their toes. Marital comfort begets marital apathy.

Watching a movie one night, I chewed a mouthful of popcorn and said, “That petechial hemorrhaging is really realistic.”

My husband stared (at me, not the TV).

“I mean, given that this was made 25 years ago, the way they made it look is impressive.”

(I could be completely wrong about this; I know nothing about movie special effects and it’s entirely possible that the first Final Destination’s death scenes are garden-variety mundane, and I’m just easy to impress.)

“The what?” my husband asked, stuck on the first part.

“Petechial hemorrhaging. See the burst blood vessels in his eyes? Hallmark strangulation detail.”

Then, rummaging through the fridge for something to drink, I asked if his life insurance policy was up to date.

(Jk. I manage his life insurance. And mine.)

~~~

My use of the word ‘enucleate’ also threw him for a loop, and if you know what that means, you might be a little afraid of me now, too.

~~~

My husband and I enjoy watching TV. I argue for TV while he argues for movies, and we try to split the difference.

He insists — and I can’t disagree — that I’m a blend of Amber, from Righteous Gemstones (Amber is far better than her husband with a firearm, and during an argument, takes careful aim while he sprints for cover and shoots him in the ass with a load of buckshot) and Angela, from The Office.

Particularly the episode where they’re expecting their annual reviews: "I actually look forward to performance reviews… I really enjoy being judged. I believe I hold up very well to even severe scrutiny.”

And the infamous Dinner Party episode, in which she and Andy arrive at Michael and Jan’s townhome with a hostess gift of flowers. Before he hands them over, Andy tugs one single flower from the bouquet. “For my flower,” he says, handing it to Angela while they stand in Michael and Jan’s doorway. She takes it, without smiling, and says, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

~~~

I try to never reference my stepdaughter here in detail, because it’s not fair to use her as an object in this sort of thing. I largely feel the same about my parents and extended family, and most (though not all) of my friends. Not my husband, though. He knew what he was getting, even if he didn’t know what form it might take.

That being said, this story involves both my husband and my stepdaughter. I won’t say how old she was, which definitely saves face for her and not for me — suffice it to say, I thought it was well past time she learned the truth about Santa.

My husband disagreed. He’ll admit it. He didn’t want to ruin the magic, an angle to which I did sympathize. Not empathize, mind you, but sympathize. He couldn’t bear being the reason that holiday light went out of the eyes of his one and only precious angel (okay, I tried; I really did).

She hit an aging milestone that I was certain was going to lead to bullying, should she continue believing in Santa. At dinner one night, just after Thanksgiving, she made some perfectly innocent comment about Santa. I cut my eyes to my husband, obviously displeased when he rolled with it, but unwilling to ruin the magic myself. Over and over, I’d deferred. Such is the difficult crux of step-parenting.

You do remember me saying we were an Elf on the Shelf family, yes? After dinner, my stepdaughter sought me out to ask if I’d seen the elf yet.

Here is an actual transcript of my string of text messages to my best friend 30 minutes later, recounting this story (and yes, it's all me. She didn't get a word in edge-wise). I apologize for the language but for the sake of authenticity:

i’ve been the voice of reason. she's going to be a laughingstock. girls are cruel

he swore he'd tell her this summer, before christmas season

he didn't

and finally, now that its past thanksgiving (when the elf would come out to play), he knew how i felt

we got home from dinner, and i was upstairs sorting laundry. and she came up, and asked "have you seen shelfie?" (her elf.)

and i sat down the laundry.

and turned.

and said

"let's talk."

like i was legit ready to blow this bubble up. i'm the stepmother, and i was still ready to crush the dream of santa, bc this shit has gotten ridiculous

so i said "do you really think shelfie is going to come to a girl who is in Xth grade?"

and she cracked up laughing and said "daddy said you'd tell me"

so HE FUCKING KNEW i was going to pop the fantasy

HE KNEW

In the car, he’d finally prompted her about Santa. She claimed she already knew — I give this 50/50 odds that she was hiding embarrassment that she did not, versus absolutely knowing but keeping it going to get Santa presents on top of parent presents. Either way, he sent her upstairs knowing I couldn’t possibly hold out for another second. I would not lie one more time.

It was one of those moments where I had to reflect, later, “okay, my husband really does know me.”

~~~

Then, there are mornings like this one, where my husband went to the store before I got up, and when I came downstairs, I saw a giant fountain coke on the counter. Everyone knows fountain coke is the best of all coke (*snort*) and nothing tastes better first thing in the morning. Waffle House knows this intimately.

So, I thought, “aww, amazing, I’m so happy about this, he knows me so well, he loves me.”

Then, I took a gigantic, multi-swallowing gulp of it to find that it was iced coffee, so in actuality, he hates me.