EMILY:SOOOOO, I guess we’ve been MIA and people have noticed.  What’s up with your blog?  Write on your blog!  Bloggity blog blog.  SO here we are.  We’re sorry, you guys.  So sorry, that the entire time we weren’t writing we stopped having sex to punish ourselves.  And we will continue to not have sex until we feel we have fully redeemed ourselves.  It could be days, weeks, months-whatever it takes.  We’re willing to do it.

So the reason we’ve been out of commission is that Brian and I have been busy working on a couple of exciting new shows.  I won’t plug them here.  Charna might be upset that Jet and (whoever she thinks Brian is) are doing some fun stuff at another theater.  But, needless to say, they have taken up a ton of our time. It’s been a crazy couple of months.  We Wilsons don’t do well with stress.  There has been a ton of tears, a lot of yelling, some irrational laundromat moments.  But the biggest stress has been that constant nagging voice in the back of my head that keeps saying-when are you gonna shit or get off the pot?

I have been working full-time while doing shows anywhere from one to four times a week for seven years now.  I am exhausted.  In fact, I need a new word for exhausted.  Brian has been doing the same thing.  And this started WAY before six years ago.  It started in high school when Brian was Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady, when I forced my mom to drive me three hours to audition for Annie, at seven years old.  The biggest thing is, at the end of the day-I can’t say I know exactly why I’m doing this.  Partly because I don’t know how to do anything else.  My whole life, the day to day grind has never been enough.  I always had to spend my afternoons singing or doing gay choreography, my nights doing dick jokes or ruining an opening.  It’s not something I can even control.  It controls me.  And yet, I don’t have the balls to give everything up and just commit to it. I guess it’s because I can’t quite answer what I want from it, what I am hoping for.  I worry that if I am working to make this comedy thing my job, will I hate it once I HAVE TO do it, just like I hate my regular job?  Am I happier keeping it as a part of my life I choose?  And is it like a really hot guy at school?  Do I just want it because I think I can’t have it and once I do have it, will I find out it has Dorito breath and a small penis?  It’s just so hard to determine.  I know one thing, I am tired.  I am so fucking tired I can’t breathe. 

But I am having fun.  Everything I presently do, comedy wise, is my choice. The words I say, the company I keep, all of it.  And it’s awesome and fulfilling.  I am doing what I want, not what I have to do.  And I am happy.  I am present.  I am not constantly so consumed with “what’s next” and “where will this get me” that I can enjoy where I am.  That’s what my full time job affords me. But, the other side of me nags-what am I missing?  Is there a level of satisfaction I could reach if I just had the guts to let go?

God, I gotta poop.

 BRIAN: Well, Emily I think you really are shitting on that pot.   So go right ahead and wipe. We are finally at that point in our relationship where I won’t mind. 

First off, I think improv is the ends and not the means, I dont think it should be viewed as some sort of stepping stone.  Improv is an art form, it is sacred, it is its own wonderful thing and we do it because it truly makes us happy. 

Comedy as a career?  Well you dont have to look very far in this community to find people that will stop at nothing to make a living writing and performing.  The biggest thing to remember is that there is no set path or formula for success and that you should never focus so much on tomorrow that you can not enjoy the present.  A lot of non improviser friends don’t understand why or how we have the energy to spend hours and hours every week performing, rehearsing, writing etc. When I try to explain to them that this is something that makes us happy they always kind of give me a confused look as if to say, “that’s not a good enough reason.”  This country is fucked up, most people can not see the value in doing something unless it earns you money.  Which is why people feel the pressure to “make it,” the skills you learn improvising will make you better qualified to land that ”dream job” be it perfoming or writing but in the end a job, is a job, is a job.  Things like TV shows are funded by revenues from advertising meaning they only exist to try and sell you bags of chips and fast food.  How the fuck is that noble, its hollow, its empty, it is not art, it is business, its your job.  We are defined by our jobs in America. People judge their self worth on the jobs they hold and the pay check they bring home.  I started working when I was twelve years old, I will work a job but if your job is all that defines you then your probably a big boring asshole.  It is my experience that big boring assholes and improv don’t mix very well.

EMILY:  I like a man with an opinion.  And a small, exciting asshole.  I love you, B.    

EMILY:  Marriage is great but it can get boring. You wake up everyday next to the same person, you eat the same food, watch the same shows, shit, shower and shave the same way until you die.  That’s marriage.  I think that’s why people have celebrity lists of people they could have sex with if the chance ever came up.  It’s a light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak.  It gives you something to wake up for like, “Gee, maybe I’ll get to fuck Jude Law today.”  So, I make my list.  Jude Law is on there.  I saw a little sniff of that happy trail in Closer and that was enough.  I had Jake Gylenhall on there but after Brokeback, he was off.  It wasn’t because he played gay, it was because he was Heath’s bitch-all weepy and sentimental.  If I’m going to sleep with a gay guy, I want him to be cold and distant.  I like a challenge.  Just ask all the gay guys I tried to make out with in college.  Johnny Depp is number one on the list.  If I even see him on TV I get all teary and screamy and junior high.  I have a variety of funny guys.  I do like Vince Vaughn, even though he’s a little beefcake for me.  But I wouldn’t mind a roll in the hay with Paul Dinello or Stephen Colbert.  But then I think, what if this actually happened?  What if I was walking down the street and for whatever reason (they were drunk or just desperate) they wanted to have sex with me?  Would I even have the balls?  First of all, if it happened spontaneously chances are I wouldn’t even be “prepared.”  And I’m not even talking about birth control.  I mean, I would probably have hairy legs or be wearing really huge granny panties with giant skid marks.  Or I would have on one of my padded bras and be an enormous dissapointment.  Even if I was prepared I would act so fucking awkward they wouldn’t know what to do.  It’s hard to get hard when the person you’re about to screw is so nervous she’s farting and laughing too much.  Also, how would the whole thing even work?  I mean, it would have to be pitch black.  I would never let Johnny Depp see me naked.  So that eliminates any sexy trailer action or the bathroom at Butter.  We would have to do it in a coal mining shaft and I don’t know how I’m going to bump into him in one of those.  The logistics are a nightmare.  So these stupid celebrity lists are pointless because if it came down to it, I don’t even think I could go through with it. 

BRIAN: Well, if Johnny Deep wanted to ball my wife I would be off in the corner respectively playing with MY coal shaft…I loved Jumpstreet that much.  Outside of Johnny DEEP, cheating is cheating, it does not matter if it’s the garbage man or Bow Wow.  When you take away the celebrity it is still just a human penis penetrating a married woman’s vagina.  Even if the show Extra wants me to believe otherwise. 

But just for fun if I had the chance to make love to a celebrity…  

I would probably be a little intimidated, seeing as how they have probably had much fabulous celebrity sex in the past.  They are not going to put up with my crying. How would I explain to Gail (Oprah Winfrey’s BFF who is on the verge of cracking my top 5 and breaking my heart every time I see her on television) that this is just an emotional release that I have heard is normal.   It is not like I cry every time but what if that beautiful night with Gail did trigger the water works?  I mean, I truly admire this woman and as odd as it sounds I find her to be really sexy. I know me and I know that I would really get caught up in this moment and I would probably start thinking about what our life would be like together and how she would be able to understand me like she understands Oprah.  I am starting to well up right now just thinking about it.      

From Gail’s perspective, I have to believe that she thinks this would be slumming and I doubt she would even want to tell Oprah about it.  To avoid looking like a total fool, I would probably try and overcompensate and pretend to be something I am not in an attempt to give her the sexual experience I believe she actually wants.  I would look to Teddy Pendergrass to set the mood. I would talk about expensive things and make her toes curl with a firm coco butter massage.   From there I would try and make love to her as if i was Blair Underwood or Billy D. Williams.  You know nice and smooth at first with a build up to short stacatto and then full on strokin.’ But my self doubt would make me crumble under the pressure and I would probably dissolve into a blubbering mess, my chub now soft and sad between my legs while Gail looks away disgusted and bored. 

BRIAN: Emily and I hardly ever take public transportation together.  I have some issues with anxiety and riding on the El/Bus can be very uncomfortable for me.  While riding, it becomes difficult for me to talk. I am only able to respond with very soft, deep, almost lip synced: yes, no and I dont know.            

Recently we were forced to meet some people in the Loop for breakfast and had little choice but to take the EL.  We boarded the train and took the two seater behind the door that puts your back to the wall.  This is by far the worst seat for my condition, you are forced to sit directly facing two other passengers and you are on display for all of the seats towards the rear of the car.            

Emily had on a very plain black tank top and was carrying a back pack.   When she took her seat she placed the back pack in her lap and slouched in a way that made her boobs lurch towards her shoulders.  It was by no means a titty show but it did kind of give a certain crazy black haired teen towards the rear of the car some inkling as to what they must look like naked. This guy’s black eyes were just locked in and obviously staring at my wife’s delicate breasts. I shot him a look but due to his tunnel vision it took him a while to notice before he saw me and quickly looked away. 

This situation was forcing me to confort my issues and in a deep, low almost lip synced voice I told Emily to sit up.    Because I had spent the morning complaining about having to attend this breakfast she just looked at me and rolled her eyes as if to say, “shut the fuck up and leave me alone, you needling prick.”   After our breakthrough exchange I quickly checked back only to find him gazing at some hot tot action again.  This time when he realized that I was looking at him he had the nerve to slowly look away stopping to lock eyes with me before looking out the window.   I was enraged and kept staring at him but he just kept looking out of the window. 

I began to formulate theories in my head as to what this guy was all about.   I came to the conclusion that he was probably a little slow, a real socially awkward dangerous mother fucker who has relatives that are uneasy about leaving their children alone with him.  He looks just like his classmates, he has all those intense teen hormones running through him and he would love to be able to relate better with the girls his age but can not seem to stop making them feel uneasy.  

When we transferred lines he also got out and I motioned for Emily to follow me.   I started walking towards the other end of the platform and to my surprise she just stood there not five feet away from the guy who was now transfixed on another unsuspecting ass.  She was totally unaware that any of this had happened and still had that “I’ll do anything but listen to what you have to say” look on her face.  She finally relented and walked down to me and we got into it right on the platform (a real breakthrough in the fight against my CTA anxiety) about how we need to trust each other more in public.

EMILY:  Okay, Brian does have severe anxiety over CTA travel, but he also has anxiety over driving short distances, parking a car, changing radio stations, overhead lights, buying name brand cookies-you name it.  Almost every minor everyday occurance could put him in a state of tension.  I am by no means a relaxed, rational person myself.  But at least my fears are average-rape, murder, world wide destruction, the usual suspects. So, knowing that just about anything could make Brian tense up,  I don’t think it’s odd that I would shrug off his low volume mutterings on the train.  First of all, I couldn’t fucking hear him.  Jesus Christ, speak up.  It’s the EL, dammit.  Secondly, I knew Brian was already in a “mood” that morning (his sour disposition springs forth the minute I ask him to do something) and how was I supposed to know that his nit picking was serious and not just run of the mill bad mood shit?  Thirdly, I could dress up like goddamn Miss America and he wouldn’t look up from his video game, so OF COURSE when he tells me to sit up I think it’s more about picking on me than my appearance.  So, I ask you-HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW??  There was no way.  Besides I don’t really view my tiny little “dirty pillows” as a major draw.  They go largely un-noticed on a day to day basis so how was I supposed to know they were giving a pre-pubescent psycho a chub.  The point is, I was clueless and there was nothing I could have done to make the situation better.  When Brian is having one of his “spells”, it could take an hour and a half to figure out what minor offense is upsetting him.  There is no way to communicate with him when he is in this state of mind.  It’s best to just ignore him and enrage the beast further.  It’s more fun that way.

EMILY: Role playing is a wonderful option for couples who have hit a slump in the intimate arena of their relationship.  Sometimes a sexy little French maid or a pool boy can bring back the heat of the honeymoon.  It works wonders for many couples.  But Brian and I are a couple of idiots and there is nothing sexy about the characters who make appearances in the Wilson bedroom.

And now a brief introduction to them.
BRIAN: First, there is Paul Bunyan. In folk lore, Paul appeared to be this kind gentle giant when, in reality, he comes to your boudoir to talk exclusively about his huge cock.  He often wakes Emily up with this sweet little ditty.

It’s the biggest penis you ever did see.

It’s a Paul Bunyan penis.

Be my Babe, and I’ll ride you home tonight…

Sometimes Paul varies the lyrics about his enormous balls that are as big as trees and his suspension wire pubic hair.  But it never gets Paul his desired result.  He has never actually ridden anything after singing that song.    

Then there’s Gary (played by Emily).

Gary shows up from time to time while I am in the shower.  Gary claims that he works at the Shower Boutique, a unique spa where, for no money down, you can be bathed by a red-headed over-the-top gay man who can “soap up an undercarriage like nobody’s business.” Gary will also loofah back acne and buttcheeks and say vile things while he does it.  Gary is not sexy.  Gary is creepy and weird and very, very, very gay.  I usually protest at first, I let him know that I will be able to wash myself, but in the end his beautiful man teats and my fear of coming off like a total homophobe make it hard to say no.  

EMILY: And last, but certainly not least, there’s Gretchen (played by Brian). Gretchen is from Germany. She often shows up at slumber parties without her panties on and expects me to just be cool with her massive black exposed German bush.  She forces me to say, with much exasperation-”Gretchen, come on, put your panties on.” But Gretchen refuses and giggles and then inevitably falls backwards so that her little German fruit basket is revealed, like a big, silly surprise.  She claims that she has an enlarged clit and labia thanks to a botched surgery she had as a child living in Munich. She has actually begged me to not tell any of the other “girls at school” that it looks like a penis stuffed between a dude’s legs.  It’s disgusting, but no matter how many times it happens, I never stop inviting Gretchen to my slumber parties because I know how hard it can be to make new friends.

It’s safe to say that these characters make frequent visits to the Wilson love lair but have never once, successfully ignited a spark.  They have initiated some laughter and nausea, though. 

EMILY/BRIAN: Finding a good couple to hang out with is almost as hard as finding “the one.”  Swingers must have it really tough because not only do they have to enjoy talking to these people, but they have to want to get naked with them too.  Fortunately, we can barely find the energy to do it with each other, let alone a couple of friends.  But it is still difficult finding a couple that understands you and your spouse, and accepts you with all of your faults and shortcomings.  When you’re younger and making new friends, you only have to worry about yourself.  Will they like me?  Will they think I’m cool?  But when you get married you get saddled with this “other half” and now you have to worry about them too.  Will the husband think my husband is weird?  Will the wife be offended by my husband’s jokes about her deaf cousin?  And Brian too has to worry about how his wife’s foul mouth and loud, grating personality will be percieved.  The anxiety can be overwhelming.  How long until we can show them who we really are?  Should we just come right out with it? Or let it slowly leak out like air out of a beach ball?  And once they know, will they approve?  Or will they stop calling and only speak to us when we bump into them at the Jewel, giving us an awkward “Hey you guys,” and a half hearted invitation to have dinner again, “someday”? 

Finding couple friends became so upsetting that we decided to lay down some qualities that we’re looking for.  Instead of looking for love in all the wrong places, we decided to only seek out those who could truly love us for who we are.

Quality One:  PC doesn’t really work for us.  We wish it did, but it doesn’t.  We’re just not that interested in being polite.  We like inappropriate jokes and not recycling, we like talking about the dog’s penis and lighting our farts on fire in front of company.  Some couples might find that rude or ignorant.  And that’s okay.  I’m sure there are some awesome do-gooders out there who would love to spend a Saturday talking about world peace and trees or whatever the fuck, but we’re looking for those who find our flatuance ”refreshing.”

Quality Two: They have to be just as shitty as we are.  There is nothing worse than launching into a full disclosure about your shortcomings as a couple, fully expecting them to agree whole heartedly but instead they look at you blankly like they have no idea what you’re talking about.  “Oh, Bob and I never fight.”*  Well, good for you, assholes.  Maybe there are a couple of robots out there who would love to share some ‘Ritas and tacos with you while you blow smoke up each other’s asses about your perfect lives.  We’re not like that.  We keep it real.  And we like couples who keep it real.  Couples who cuss each other out over light bulbs, couples that go ten rounds over TiVo settings, couples who are irrational and ridiculous and aren’t afraid to say so. 

*And this also goes for couples who claim to do it all the time.  There is nothing grosser than married people bragging about fucking.  It’s like hearing about your parents.  Very unsexy.

Quality Three: Everyone has to like everyone.  It has to click on every level.  The wife has to like Brian, the husband has to like Emily and vice versa.  Either one of us has the potential to turn off someone in the other couple.  And then that person can turn the other one against us and next thing you know, we’re sharing a story about our dumps, and while the husband used to lap that shit up, he’s now turning down the corners of his mouth while his wife grabs her purse.  It’s a shame when that happens.  The same is true of us.  Before we give ourselves to a new couple, we have to be sure we trust them both with the dark side of our coupledom-the stupid fights, the embarassing secrets, the petty bullshit that makes up married life.  We also have to have shared interests.  We should have some similar values and beliefs, and generally dislike the same people (it makes talking shit so much more enjoyable).  And finally, we have to share a belief that we are the only couples on earth who “get it” and every other happy, well adjusted couple are just crazy. 

BRIAN: When I was eight years old I spent a lot of time in the back yard pretending to be a giant.  My mission was to protect the people that lived and worked in the grass jungles below me from nature’s helicopters. My eyes were fixed on the trees above that would dump thousands of these copters on my parents rented lawn. I knew that if the pods were to hit the ground they would destroy the villagers way of life because the pod people had learned how to weaponize lava and the villagers were pretty obsessed with stuff like bartering.  I was so outnumbered I enlisted the help of an old badmitton racket to help even the playing field.  A direct hit from my racket would deliver a devastating blow that would essentially vaporize the desending enemy.  In my back yard I was a hero.  

Outside of my backyard though, I was the victim.  Terrorized on a daily basis by two nine year olds named Kurt and Tony.  They were brutal, Kurt would hold my arms behind my back while Tony would wail on my stomach.  While they were beating me they would always say, “You got your period yet?”  or, “You’re such an optimist.”  They never varied the insults or the way they beat me.  I never judged them for their predictability.  I just wanted it to end.  I grew to hate my “optimism” and I prayed that the arrival of my period would stop the attacks. 

In an effort to try and determine a timetable for my misery, I decided to ask my mom when she thought I might be getting my period.  I was so shocked and humilated to find out that only girls were lucky enough to get a period that I completely forgot to ask what an optimist was.  I broke down and told my mother about the vicious beatings and the next thing I know she’s knocking on the front door of Tony’s house. 

Needless to say, I didn’t come out of this situation a hero.  A big, fat, period-having pussy, maybe.  But not a hero.  Not the hero I was in my own backyard, fighting treepods and saving millions of tiny, invisible people.  All I ever wanted out of life was to always feel the way I did in that yard-invincible.  And now I am, at least to the Kurt and Tony’s of the world.  They can no longer hurt me.  I never did get that period but I’m still an optimist.  I think.  What’s an optimist again?

Emily: Occasionally I have to travel for work. I used to make much longer trips (two/three weeks at a time) but now it’s usually just two or three days. Those long trips took a toll on me because I hate to be away from Brian. He is my 190 lb security blanket. I find I have a hard time sleeping without him breathing (and farting) beside me. I think of at least half a dozen things I wish I could say to him every hour. I’ll sit up in my king size bed in my five star hotel, my room service getting cold next to me, and wish he were there to make me laugh but sometimes it’s too late or I can’t reach him. Once, when I was in New Zealand, and our time zones were almost a full day apart, I found myself watching a show I had to tell him about, so I called him at 5AM, Chicago time, only to have him not answer. I started to panic. I called at 5:30, then 5:45 then every two minutes thereafter. All I could envision was him being mugged in an alley or dead from a bike accident. Turns out he was just at Carol’s, drinking his face off and savoring my absence. And that’s where it gets hard-I’m on one end thinking only of him and racking up a $500 phone bill (New Zealand long distance doesn’t fuck around) and he’s out partying like I never existed. So I asked Brian, what really happens when I’m not around? Do you miss me at all?

BRIAN- Day One-I’m so excited she’s gone. I have visions of being single and ready to mingle. With her gone, I can stay out as late as I want. I can march right over to the corner bodega and just buy a Cheri or High Society; come home and lay them both right out on the coffee table and no one would be the wiser. (In reality, those magazines are pretty expensive and all I do is just look into the models eyes and wonder what went wrong. It is so sad.)
DAY TWO: I miss Emily so much. I’m not sleeping very well and I haven’t eaten anything but cereal for the last 24 hours. The bowls and spoons just sit in the sink. Moochie is all broken up, he spends a lot of time just lying around and while it appears that he is just sleeping I know in my heart that depression is the real reason.
DAY THREE: I have this reoccurring fear that she will be followed back to her room after being in the hotel cocktail lounge. I always tell her to try and stay away from the lounge when she is traveling. But does she remember me saying that? Or will the long hours draw her to the bar, against my excellent advice? Advice, which could save her from being preyed upon by one of America’s roving serial killers that just happens into her lobby lounge. A lounge I was so concerned with that I took the time to look up the actual name on the internet (the Barlowe Lounge, by the way).
Was she actually at Barlowe’s or did she have the good sense to just enjoy a cocktail in the privacy of her own room? These thoughts are maddening and won’t allow me to fall asleep. There is a void that keeps me awake, the person I love is not next to me. Thankfully a depressed Moochie has found his way into our bed. And I feel lucky enough to take up a dog bride for the night and will now be able to get some shut eye. Moochie is under the sheets and his head is on my missing wife’s pillow. My eyes finally begin to shut as Moochie inches his warm body closer to mine. I am sleeping naked (as I always do) and I start to feel like I may be committing bestiality just being near him. But I convince myself that he does not understand our silly taboos and that to him my penis is nothing more than skin. When I awake in the morning I am pleased to find that my dog bride is still there next to me and that my real one is a day closer to coming home.

BRIAN/EMILY:  Every once in a while, couples need to take time out to get back to love.  It’s not always easy to fully appreciate each other when you’re at home, consumed with your day to day bs.  So, you take a long weekend to ”re-connect” as they say.  We don’t do it often but when we do, we have a few hard and fast rules that make our getaways extra special.

BRIAN: RULE ONE: DON’T FIGHT.  On these trips I try and compromise as much as possible because I dont want to get into a fight. We are spending our hard earned money to get away and I would feel like we are wasting it if we are not enjoying ourselves every possible second.  We can fight at home where its free.  I try not to let the little things that Emily does get to me.  For instance, I can not stand to be around her when she eats corn on the cob.  She eats it like a hillbilly and its maddening.  I take one bite and then I put the cob down, whereas she will take four or five little bites while holding the cob firmly and moving her whole head to the left or right.  This past weekend we were in Michigan and we decided to grill some corn.  At first I tried to ignore it but she was just attacking that fucking cob, taking up to six or seven bites, typewriter style. The sound of it all just made me start singing the chorus of, “Get Down On It” by Kool and the Gang.  Then she told me I eat cereal like a “fucking animal” and we laughed it off because we were on a weekend vacation. 

EMILY: RULE TWO: SEX IS OPTIONAL.  Brian and I often try to get a place that has what Brian calls a “fuck tub.”  That’s a hot tub or double jacuzzi or something with water where couples are expected to do it aquatic style.  We always think this will happen but then it turns out we’re too uncomfortable and baths are really better for reading People magazine by yourself.  And we feel so guilty because all of these sexy ammenities are really nothing more than reminders that we really aren’t that sexy.  But, goddamn it, a fire in the fireplace is so much nicer when you’re just sitting there talking and enjoying it instead of doing it doggie style while your knees get rug burns and you secretly fear the B&B owner is watching you on a webcam.  Sometimes it can be really sexy to just laugh with each other again.  And if it happens it happens, and if it doesn’t-who cares.  Do a couple of water jets in your ass really makes things that much hotter?

EMILY: RULE THREE: A WEEKEND AWAY IS A WEEKEND AWAY.  Don’t try to make friends with the owners of the cottage, don’t get to know the other couples in the resort.  This forced friendliness kills the buzz of love.  Brian and I are introverts at heart, and cold, judgemental introverts at that.  We are much more comfortable peeking at others from behind drawn blinds, than actually trying to connect with them.  On our honeymoon, an obese, jovial couple joined us in the hot tub and invited us on some booze cruise called the KooKooKanoe.  They were in love and just wanted to share it with the world.  It should have warmed out hearts.  Instead, it made us avoid the hot-tub for the rest of the trip.  We don’t like people, especially new people, trying to penetrate our world.  When they do, we smile politely then run to our room to hide and do bits about their “kindness” and “openess.”  We have no desire to let others in.  And as soon as we arrive on the scene we want everyone to know just how closed off we are.  We don’t draw the curtains to commence a fuck fest.  We close the curtains because it’s easier to make fun of others when they can’t see you doing it.

BRIAN: There was actually a family this past weekend that rented a cottage across from us that kept trying  to  put themselves in a position to strike up a conversation.  They had a dog chasing tennis balls in the grassy common area, we had  a dog chasing tennis balls, they were grilling, we were grilling.  I could tell the man with the dog was about try and get my attention with a, “where abouts in Chicago are ya from,” wave.  I could feel it.  But I just maintained a cool distance, ignored his friendly advances and pretty much acted like he didn’t exist.  He got the message.  He actually caught another young couple with Illinois plates that was foolish enough to walk their dog just a little too close. Emily and I watched, from a safe distance, the friendly stranger piss all over a good hour of what could have been prime mid-afternoon Michigan country fuck time.

EMILY: I play a lot of different roles in my marriage.  Sometimes, after weeks of barely seeing each other, I feel like the room-mate.  Sometimes, when Brian farts in bed and then shoves my head under the covers and suffocates me with it, I feel like the kid sister.  But most of the time I feel like a mom.  Namely, his mom.  If I don’t cook, he doesn’t eat-so I make dinner almost every night so the little baby will grow up big and strong.  I do all the shopping and bill paying and for what I won’t do, I have to nag him to get it done.  It sucks.  But the worst is when I have to tell Brian it’s time to go.  Brian savors time with other people.  While I look forward to alone time with him, he thinks we spend enough time together, like when were sleeping and stuff.  So give Brian a drink and boyfriend to talk to and he’s in heaven.  Sometimes, when we’re at I.O. or a friend’s house and its been a long night and I want to go, Brian gives me this look.  It reminds me of a look I used to give when my mom would pull up and I knew the party was over.  It was like, oh shit, here’s Johnny Buzz Kill, just in time to ruin my night.  And its not bad enough that Brian is pissed but usually whoever he is hanging out with is pissed that Brian has to go home.  I can see everyone’s face change when I grab my purse and tap Brian on the back.  That tap takes us from loving couple to teenage son and his hovering, overbearing mother breathing down his neck.  Brian stiffens up and sometimes will pretend he doesn’t even feel me there.  Sometimes he’ll give me the eye which is like-back off, old woman.  Not in front of my friends.  I can go from soul mate to ball and chain by just putting on my coat.  And it’s embarassing.  I’m not trying to ruin his life, I’m just tired.  Sometimes his friends will look at me and start to whine.  Come on, Mrs. Wilson, just another half hour.  And then they look at him like he’s got it tough.  Well, that’s bullshit.  You know what’s tough?  Waking up to your husband after he’s shit the bed after drinking all night with his “friends”.  That’s tough.  And it’s not my fault some people don’t know when to call it a night.  Brian will linger as long as you let him.  He was that kid at the slumber who never slept.  And when he’s hanging out with someone just like him, a night can last forever.  Sometimes you gotta put your foot down and tell him-come on, sweetie, say goodnight to your friends.

BRIAN: First, I’ll take that whole, “my wife is my mother” comment with a grain of salt. I know I hold the trump card, I am absolutely the reason my wife is able to enjoy the companionship and love of her “son” Moochie, our dog. How do you compare cooking all of the food that enters my body with that? It is like apples and oranges, I’m going to forget all about her, “meal of the year” within the month that is made, but she won’t ever forget Moochie. I feed him, I exercise him, we both love him but I am the only one who has the patience to walk him until he shits and that is why I’m his true master. I am pretty sure Charna once told me, a dog without a true master is a beast.

Second, I think Emily just does not know how to party. This issue has certainly been one of our biggest hurdles over the years. Back in the day she was the girl whose stomach was “sick” and had to leave early. If you have ever been one of the people left in the room after that “girl” leaves, then you already know that the exact moment that door clicks shut all the best “par-memz” (party memories) are made. People who know how to party can sense that those who don’t are finally gone and they can actually start to have a good time. The real party can actually come out of hiding without fear of catching that horrible stomach virus. I have had to develop certain tactics over the years to avoid leaving parties I wanted to stay at. Having to get that next beer at just the right time, telling her “I was just about to go smoke weed,” (weed helps you shit the bed real proper like) or starting a three-way conversation with her and the most talkative person at the party. However these are mere parlor tricks compared to her grand illusion-rape guilt. In our early years together Emily would say, “I hope I get home ok…” today its, “You stay and have a good time.  I’ll just take a cab.” How smooth is that? Do you realize, if I say yes to that then I am saying yes to rape, nobody says yes to rape. If something were to happen to her because I wanted to drink more beer I don’t think I could live with myself. So I leave early because I know that dealing with the stress and guilt would be a much larger hurdle for us to overcome.

EMILY:  You are so full of shit.   BRIAN: NO actually you are.