Starting to have my doubts about this marriage thing. Thought it was going to take me to the next level, but so far all it’s been is moody obedience school. First Coleman breaking in during our Star Wars game, then more shit for going to the pub until threeA.M. Didn’t think it could get any worse. Was I wrong! Had a full day planned with Coleman, but Molly wanted to pick out bathroom towels. I’d already packed my gear and told her I’d be happy with whatever she picked out. Next thing I know, I’m fucked without a clue. All this negative body language and those slamming doors again. I run after her and say, ‘What’s the matter, honey?’ And she says, ‘Nothing.’ But doors keep slamming. That’s the thing about marriage — I haven’t deciphered it yet. But I’ve just figured out the first thing. “Nothing” really means “something.” If it actually is nothing, they’ll tell you all about it, just yap and yap and yap about the most meaningless tripe while you’re trying to watch a documentary on Czar Nicholas, and finally I say — real nice — “Baby, I’ve kind of been looking forward to this show all week….” So now all of a sudden Czar Nicholas is more important than she is. Like a stupid idiot, I had to say he was — you know, Russia, dynasty, big turning point in global history. I’d tried climbing out of that hole but anything I said was just pulling more dirt down on myself. I called a married friend of mine in West Palm Beach and asked him what the hell was going on, and he said, “Are you nuts?” Turns out I’m supposed to pick out towels with her. It’s part of the marriage bonding. I didn’t know this. So I go to the department store, and she’s happy again, and we’re walking the aisles and pretty soon I want to cut my fucking head off. If I’m going to buy a towel, I walk in, grab a towel and buy the goddam thing. Then I wash with it. End of story, fade to black. But I find out that in marriage, the towel selection becomes some kind of introspective chick flick with Holly Hunter that lasts three hours and never goes anywhere. Molly keeps holding up towels and asking if I like them, and I nod impatiently, glancing at my watch. “Perfect. Love ’em. Let’s go.” And she says, “You don’t like them. I can tell.” And she picks up some more. “Love ’em. Spectacular.” “You’re just saying that.” It goes on like this for twenty more towels until she finally decides on the very first ones she showed me. We go to the counter and — get this, the little hand towel in the set is nine dollars! I say, “Holy cow! In some countries you can get blown for nine dollars!” Apparently this isn’t what she wanted to hear. What am I, psychic? It’s an around-the-clock minefield. Like whenever there’s a bunch of blood on my clothes — automatic question time. Oh, and friends. That’s another thing. I’m not allowed to have any. They’re bad influences. And she really hates Coleman. Doesn’t want him coming around anymore. I say he’s my best friend. She says she works hard to keep a clean home and can’t have him throwing up all over the place. I say, “But that’s what he does.” And whenever he is here, she’s always calling me aside for secret conferences, like, “What’s he doing?” And I say, “Drugs.” Come to find out it wasn’t really a question at all; it’s a rhetorical question — another curve ball! But here’s the biggest caveat: Actually, I can have a few friends, but they have to be married to her friends. After the towel travesty, there was this dinner at the head librarian’s house where I was supposed to meet all my new, approved buddies, like a forced marriage in Nepal. Guys who wear plaid sweater vests. Jeffrey, Ronald, Ned. I tell myself, “Don’t prejudge.” The women are in the kitchen, and we’re out back by the barbecue with glasses of Lipton having loads of chuckles, and then we go in the garage looking at tools and golf clubs and I’m bored as hell until I realize, hey, we’ve got everything here to make pipe bombs. In short, everyone got way too emotional in the emergency room, and now I’m the bad influence. I tell my wife, look, I didn’t want to hang out with the noodle-dicks to begin with…. And that’s why I’m writing this on Coleman’s couch. Still looking for the sorcerer’s key that unlocks it all. Night-night.
