How To Stay Out Of My Husband's Office--Marriage Tips From A Divorce Attorney

Rich and I talk about divorce all the time, not because we want a divorce (Hell no!) but because for more than twenty years he's worked as a divorce attorney.  My husband is an interesting study in contrasts—he’s a divorce attorney, a Mormon bishop, a child of divorce, and has been happily married for twenty-nine years.  His experiences, I think, make him uniquely qualified to talk about divorce, and so, for this installment of my blog, I’ve picked his brain about the D word:

Lisa:  Good morning.  How are you?

Rich:  Crazy in love, and you?

Lisa:  Same, but we digress..

Rich:  Not really.  In my opinion, in a healthy marriage, declarations of love should come as easily as breathing.  So, I’m just taking care of bidness, so to speak.

Lisa:  Take care of it later, I’ve got questions to ask you.

Rich:  And that is what I love about you.

Lisa:  What?

Rich:  Everything. 

Lisa:  Before our readers vomit, let’s get this interview started.  So, you’ve been working as a divorce attorney for twenty years.

Rich:  Twenty-Two.

Lisa:  Honestly, it’s a blur, but because you’ve been at it so long you’ve seen a lot of marriages end, and I’m wondering if there is one piece of advice you could give to anyone who is considering divorcing their spouse?

Rich:  Every case is different, one bit of advice isn’t really adequate.  For some it’s the only option, but for those who are not in that position, but still considering divorce, I would tell them this:  Divorce is hard.  If you’re considering divorcing because of finances or falling out of love, you need to understand you’ll most likely find those problems again in the next relationship.  So, to those couples, I would say, Don’t give up.

Lisa:  What is one thing you think a couple can do to strengthen their marriage?

Rich:  Spend time together, even if it’s just a half an hour walk.

Lisa:  Who is more likely to file for divorce, the husband or wife?

Rich:  I read that women file more often, but I can’t say that I’ve seen that in my practice.

Lisa:  Have you seen marriages end that you felt didn’t need to?

Rich:  Yes

Lisa:  And what made them continue with the divorce?

Rich:  Selfishness, more often than not.

Lisa:  Considering what you see in your practice, what advice would you give to someone who is at the beginning of a relationship?

Rich:  Don’t have sex.

Lisa:  Are you saying that because you’re just an old-fashioned guy?

Rich:  I’m saying it because 99.9 percent of the divorces I do are relationships where the couple rushed into having sex.

Lisa: If you could change one thing about the way divorces play out in the court system, what would it be?

Rich:  I’d like for there to be greater recognition by the courts that adultery is wrong.  The way it works now, a spouse has an affair and leaves, and the courts don’t say to the spouse who was betrayed, Hey, what happened to you was wrong.  I think it would be great for there to be a penalty in court for those who have affairs.  And I don’t mean that it would stop the divorce from happening, but it would be nice for the wronged party to hear in court that the behavior of their wayward spouse is wrong.

Lisa:  So, let’s say a couple is close to getting divorced, but they work at their marriage and avoid doing so.  What do you think are some of the benefits they will enjoy because they chose to stay together?

Rich:  There are plenty, especially for the children.  It’s nice for kids when parents can work out their differences, regain their footing, and the family can stay together.  And for the family there are so many social and financial benefits.  There is one house, not two.  One electric bill, not two.  One vacation, one Christmas, one table for the parents at weddings.  One trip to see grandma and grandpa.  The united front approach to life, if it can be achieved, really pays off in the end.  And there are studies that show that people who hung in there and stayed married, ten years later when interviewed again, were happy. 

Lisa:  And you’ve seen this?

Rich:  Actually, I recently overheard a nurse asking a patient how many times he had been married.  When the patient said two, she asked which wife he would marry again, and he said, the first.  To this, the nurse said, Yes, that is what everyone says when I ask them that question.  If it can be done, hanging in there pays off.

Lisa:  How should a married couple view divorce?

Rich:  They should see it as serious a question as whether to amputate a limb.  If you have cancer and there’s no choice, you choose to amputate to save your life.  And that’s how it should be with divorce—it’s a last resort.  My advice is to seek professional help.  If you liked each other enough to get married in the first place, there might still be a reason to stay married.

Lisa:  Do you think your parents needed to get a divorce?

Rich:  No

Lisa:  Any parting thoughts?

Rich:  Don’t threaten your spouse with divorce when you’re angry.  It sends the message that you’re only committed to the relationship as long as you get what you want.  Throwing down the D card isn’t part of a healthy marriage, so make a point as couple to not do that.

Lisa:  Thanks for the interview.

Rich:  Thanks for not making spaghetti again for dinner.

Lisa: That’s it for now.  Thanks for reading!

With Gun As Our God

It is more likely that the students that were killed at Douglas High School will be posthumously issued fines for running in the hallway as the bullets flew than it is that we as a country will put an end to the violence.   

We grieve, light candles, sing songs, make shrines out of flowers and photographs, and we bury the dead, but we don’t put an end to the violence. 

We cannot.

Because if after Columbine we allowed Sandy Hook and Douglas, as well as several other massacres, then there can be but one truth:

We are no better than the pagans who made human sacrifices to pacify their gods, and entertain the masses. 

And Gun is our god.

It’s not that we’re not nice people.  Honestly, nine times out of ten we’ll hold the door for you.  But you have to understand Gun is an angry, demanding god. 

There’s no way around it, every now and again there has to be a sacrifice. 

We know that to do it properly we should have built a stone altar, but there were Union problems with the stone masons, so we’ve put a modern spin on the ancient rite, and the sacrifices happen at our schools, or concerts, or movie theatres, which actually works well.

 Gun loves randomness and irony.

With a firearm as your deity, you accept that there will be another slaughter. 

Gun requires it.

It’s a stark reality, but I don’t think it hasn’t turned us into a bloodthirsty people.  We still love seeing who gets the final rose or the mirror-ball trophy. 

But, and I hate to admit this, it’s also true that our phone screens have become our Colosseum. 

We’re glued to the harried footage of children, who were worried about their next quiz, ducking for cover, and we scroll the names of the dead, reading with wide-eyed curiosity about who they were, and what they were set to accomplish. 

Our hearts tug as we consider the songs left unsung, the graduation tassels that will not be moved to the left, the empty chairs at Christmas dinner, and we light a few more candles, and even shout into microphones that the violence must end.

But we know, in time, there will be another slaughter.

What’s that? 

You want to know if this could be the last sacrifice to Gun that we as a country make?  That we do whatever it takes never let this happen again? 

You want to know if the list of the sacrificed could end with:

Scott Beigel,

Alyssa Alhadeff,

Martin Duque Anguiano,

Nicholas Dworet,

Aaron Feis,

Jamie Guttenberg,

Christopher Hixon,

Luke Hoyer,

Cara Loughran,

Gina Montalto,

Joaquin Oliver,

Alaina Petty,

Meadow Pollack,

Helena Ramsey,

Alex Schachter,

Carmen Schentrap,

Peter Wang

Not another name? 

Never another name?

I mean, it’s a beautiful sentiment, really it is, but…

We’re going to need a copy of that list.  Most of the dead were students, and we have it on good authority that they were seen running in the hallways.  And, you know, rules are rules.

And Gun is our god. 

Or maybe I’m wrong. 

Prove me wrong, America.

Owning A Piece Of Black History

Everett Griener had hoped to die in the house that he’d built at the top of the hill, to finish up the yard work, tighten a few loose boards in the fence, and then close his eyes and walk into the light.  But at ninety-one, and still in relatively robust health, Everett accepted that he, like the morning fog that clung to the orchards in winter, would slowly fade.  There was no way around it.  He would have to sell his house on the hill.

And so he began to pack.

The McKendricks, it could be said, had more children than sense, at least by anyone who had ever sat next to them on a transcontinental flight.  It could also be said that when they arrived in Florida, they did so with little more than a thin dime.  A dime, and lots of children.  And the longer they stayed in Florida, the larger their family grew.  Their house, however, did not.  If anything, it seemed to shrink, and, Mrs. McKendrick, it could definitely be said, was going bonkers.  “We need to find a bigger home,” she sighed.

And so they began to look.

Back when Dr. Martin Luther King was organizing marches, and a black man in the south could expect to feel the sting of the word boy on a daily basis, Livingston Roberts sat along the side of Highway 27 selling his latest paintings.  The world had told Livingston, or Castro, as his friends called him, that he would be a picker.  That was what all the black men he knew did.  Looking downward, they picked beans or strawberries or onions.  They picked all day long, and then got up the next day and picked again.  The world told Livingston, picking is all I have to offer a young black man with little education in the south.  Livingston looked at the beauty around him, picked up a paint brush, and said, "I don't think so."

And so he began to paint.

Not everyone who decides that they will make their money by painting instead of picking succeeds.  But Livingston knew from the time he was little that he could do it.  His parents had a painting in their home, and for years he studied it.  Then one day he announced that he was sure he could reproduce it.  And he did.  He hadn’t had any lessons or summer camps or the guidance from a local artist.  He just did it.  And the more he painted the better he got.

Maybe he was successful because he had always been a keen observer, the kind who could look up into the sky and study the clouds for hours.  Or maybe it was because it was in his nature to be hungry and generous—hungry for knowledge about how to paint better and always generous to share what he had learned.  But from the moment he took to selling his paintings along the side of the highway, people stopped and bought his work.  He painted on gypsum board because it was cheaper than canvas, and what he painted was what he knew the tourists wanted to take home with them—pictures of Florida.

It was hot and humid, the day Everett Griener pulled his Cadillac to the side of the road and walked with his wife toward Livingston and his paintings.  Livingston smiled at the small, blonde man and his equally small wife.  He always smiled when a customer came to see his work.  Everett explained that the deep red in his painting of the tree had caught their eye, and Livingston explained it cost 35.00.  Everett peeled off some bills from the wad in his pocket.  He always had money in his pocket.  The world, after all, had told him he could become anything he wanted if he worked hard enough.  Having purchased the picture, the Greiners went on their way, back to their home on the hill, where they deposited the picture of the tree with the splashes of red into a closet.

And there it stayed for 45 years.

When the McKendricks, a family who apparently didn’t know how to prevent a pregnancy, offered to buy the house that Everett had built on the hill, he walked them through it.  Fading slowly, as his body had every intention of doing, meant that he needed to pare down his belongings.  And so as they walked through the house, he asked the couple if there was anything that they’d like to have.  Mrs. McKendrick, who was always worried about taking advantage of people’s kindness, at first declined the offer, until, that was, he opened a closet and she saw a splash of red. 

“Could we have this?” she asked, without even pulling the painting out to get a proper look.

Everett Griener nodded.  “Of course.  Bought that on the highway from a black gentleman.  Never did hang it up.”

In forty-five years a lot can happen, and in the time since Livingston had sold the painting to Everett, lots had.  The Highwaymen painters, as Livingston and his friends were called, had gained the respect of the art community.  At first, their work was discarded and was easy to find at Goodwill.  But, with time, people took another look at the works they created, and then they thought about the times in which they were created—these men who were told to pick, and painted instead.  Their pluck, entrepreneurial spirit, and contribution to Florida history, not to mention black history, all added something special that the art world likes to call provenance.

And the prices went up.

All the McKendricks knew was that they liked the splashes of red, and so they hung the painting in the house Everett Griener built on the hill.  And there it has stayed for the past ten years.  A lot can happen in ten years, and in the ten years since the McKendricks were given the painting a lot did.  They learned that the painting was a picture of a Poinciana tree, and that it was created by a man who sold his paintings on the side of the highway, a man who had been told to pick, but painted instead.  They learned that Livingston Roberts died in 2004, and that there is a statue of him in Fort Pierce, the town where he grew up.  And they learned there was more to the painting than the pretty red color.  They admired his brushwork, and his ability to create a brooding sky.  They also learned that people wanted to buy their painting, this slice of Florida history.  "No," said Mrs. McKendrick.  "Not even if we were down to our last dime. We’re keeping the painting.”

And so they have.

To learn more about The Highwaymen of Florida visit floridahighwaymenspaintings.com

Turning Sons Into Monsters

I read last night that a young man in our community was arrested on child porn charges.  It was a small article, I’m sure many missed it.  But when I read it and saw his photo, his eyes sunken, and his skin sallow, a weight fell to the pit of my stomach.  I knew that young man; I had met him when he was a boy.  His parents taught gymnastics and I had been intrigued by their circus background, their close brush with Olympic fame, and their Russian accents.  Their son was just around ten then, and used to run fearlessly toward the mini tramp, allowing his body to soar and then just at the right moment, tuck, flip, and flip again, before landing and walking away, as if nothing remarkable had just happened.  He seemed to me a wunderkind, and I told his mother as much.  His mother, in her prime, had flitted and flipped across the balance beam.  She had had a special knack for making walking a fine line look effortless.  When I met her, dark circles had begun to form beneath her eyes, and no wonder.  It’s exhausting work, teaching children to stay atop a skinny beam.  But as difficult as it is to teach balancing on beam, it is even harder to teach children to maintain a moral balance in a world so rife with pitfalls.

No child is born with the kernel of pedophilia in their soul.  Head to the nursery of a maternity wing and look at the sleeping babes.  Of the twenty or thirty that might be there, not one is destined for a child porn addiction.  Not one.  Child porn, like so many other negative things, is an acquired taste.  The trouble is, in our society, certain things are forgivable—drug addiction, prostitution, tax evasion.  For such offenses, a person can serve their time, pay their fine, and eventually reenter society.  But we do not tolerate child porn addicts.  They are labeled monsters and cast out.   It doesn’t matter if they could once sprint toward a mini tramp and fly and flip in the air.  It doesn’t matter that they were once a soft-faced young boy with a shy smile.  All that matters are what they chose to do, chose to look at.

The rest is cast aside.

Child porn is one of the slipperiest of the serpents attacking children today.  We’d rather not consider that in the click of a button child porn can present itself to our kids, but it can.  This is a terrible reality.  It feels not unlike having to come to terms with living in a house where, if you’re not careful, the floor can give way and reveal the depths of hell, allowing fiendish flames to shoot forth and lick at the ankles of the children inside.  We’d like to think that sort of foundational problem couldn’t exist in our home, but if no child is born with a propensity for child porn, if it truly is an acquired taste, then our home is just as vulnerable as the next, and it is our duty to talk to our children about this danger that is lurking, lying in wait to destroy their lives.

But when do you talk to your child about child porn?  I think the answer is sooner as opposed to later.  The young man who was arrested was fourteen when he saw child porn for the first time.  Part of me wishes that while the he still clung to his mother’s skirt, his mother would have said:

My darling boy, come sit here on my lap, there’s something I need to tell you.  No, we’re not going to the Zoo.  Yes, I know you love the lions.  Sh, sh, listen to me, sweetheart.  You see, I need to let you know that there are pictures that can pop up on the computer, naked pictures of children, and they’re called child porn.  Ew, yes, you’re right.  It is yucky.  But you have to understand, look right at mommy, right at me.  You see, sometimes people look because they’re curious.  But you have to promise me to never do that, never look.  Why? I’ll tell you why.  If you do, it will be as if your feet turn to cloven hooves, and horns protrude from your heads, for, rest assured, you will have more than one.

Do you understand me?  You can never look at child porn.  Not once!  No, I don’t think I’m reaching you.  Your eyes, my love, they will multiply, your teeth will turn to fangs, and your breath will hang like a foul cloud about you.  You will become a monster.  Do you hear me, my sweet boy!  You will become a monster, and you will have to go where all monsters go, and that is in a cage.  It is terrible to be a monster in a cage.  Just the other day, an actor of some acclaim walked into a river and didn’t come out, because he had become a monster and was about to be put in a cage.

And once you’re in a cage, you will not see me or your father, not for a long time.  And when others ask me about you, we will say little, because it is difficult to admit you have a monster for a son.  Do you hear me boy!  Like Narcissus of old, if you look, you will not be able to stop looking.  I’m sorry to shake you by the shoulders, but you have to hear me!  You have to!  I love you too much!  Do not look!  Not ever!  I know, I know I hug you too tight, but it’s hard, so hard letting go, letting you find your way in this world with its snares set in place to destroy you.  But I will have to let you go, and you will be held accountable for the choices you make, whether terrible or good.  There now, dry your eyes.  You see, how lovely it is, you only have two.  Go and play, my love, and remember what I’ve said.  I won’t have my beautiful boy turning into a monster.

Claiming My Blue Italian Lake

It would be an exaggeration to say that when my children were babies, I would sleep with the nibs of a stethoscope plugged in my ears, and wake at odd hours throughout the night to check for a heartbeat.  It would be an exaggeration, but not by much.  I brought a certain joie de vivre to having babies that some might call undiluted panic.  They were so little and helpless, and were depending on me--the girl who once subscribed to Modern Equestrian magazine, not because she rode a horse but because the guy selling subscriptions was cute!  It didn't seem likely that I was qualified to care for a tiny human.

Having seven children over the course of two decades, you could say my confidence increased, and I got the hang of caring for little ones.  But worrying remained one of my hobbies, so I didn’t like to venture too far from them.  I wanted to venture far, longed to venture far, but I had pulses to check, and how was I supposed to do that from an all-inclusive in Barbados?

I would tell myself that motherhood requires sacrifice, and remember the words of the poet Ann Campbell about her children:

You are the trip I did not take

You are the pearls I could not buy

You are my blue Italian lake, you

Are my piece of foreign sky

And then I would punch in the face the person closest to me.  Okay, not really, but I’d huff, and looking heavenward cry, "I want my blue Italian lake!  Give me my lake!" About this time, a silky strand of honesty would twist its way into my mind.  You, more than your children, have kept you from claiming your lake.  Your subtle fear of flying, your unwillingness to buckle down and plan a trip.  Yes, you've wanted to keep an eye on your kids, but enough with hand wringing.  Go.

And so, we're going.  

It’s been twenty-nine years since I walked the cobblestone paths of Italy.  During that time, I've changed a lot of diapers.  How many, I’m not sure, but it was a finite number.  The piles of poop have come to an end, and that is a bitter sweet thought.  Bitter, because I won't have another baby, and there is nothing finer than the milky breath of a newborn, and sweet because I am, at last, ready to grab my piece of foreign sky.

Yes, my Italian is so rusty it might give me Tetanus, and my blue Italian lake just might be brimming with New Yorkers arguing about where's the best place to buy a cannoli, but I don’t care.  I'm getting my lake.  

Death. Be Not Proud.

I am not a cock-eyed optimist, which is probably why I think that life is like standing on a slow-moving conveyor belt that is inching us ever closer to death.  I realize this isn’t a happy image, but for the most part I think the comparison holds true.  Most days, it feels like the belt is hardly moving, and we go about the business of checking things off our to-do lists, without giving the inevitability of death the slightest thought.

Then suddenly, we look back and see how far we’ve come, and wonder how it’s possible.  It doesn’t feel like we should be old enough to see, with the aid of binoculars, the grim reaper sharpening his scythe in the distance.  Something cold lands in the pit of our stomach, as realization dawns that the belt that seemed endless doesn’t go on forever.

Alarmed, we may try to run back down the conveyor belt (i.e., get a face lift, Botox, or a younger spouse) but there’s no running back, no putting the belt in reverse.  Slowly, steadily, the belt ratchets on, taking us ever closer to the end.

When we come to the end of that long, snail-paced belt, we’re supposed to be worn out, our bodies wrung dry from all the living, all the adventures.  We’re supposed to be to that point where death is a sweet release.  But it doesn’t always work that way, and this is where my comparison fails.  

Sometimes it’s as if a careless hair-netted factory worker presses the wrong button, and the belt lurches forward, taking the person atop to the end far too soon. 

It’s must be a mistake.  Someone should be fired!  But, filing a complaint is useless.  There is nothing that can be done.  The end has come.

Learning that my dear friend’s husband has just died feels like a mistake.  He’s supposed to still be here.  Just in his fifties, he had loads of time left, and so much to live for—a great job, wonderful children, an adoring wife.  It was easy to see how much he loved his wife.  In fact, if every husband treated their wife as he did, my husband (aka 1-800-GET-RICH) would be selling vacation packages.

I realize Facebook is like a Victoria Secret runway show—an idealized version of reality.  But it was easy to see my friend’s posts were not posed.  She and her husband weren’t presenting a happier version of their relationship.  These two were just happy.  Happy and in love.

During their marriage, they faced challenges, but they didn’t allow their love for each other to fray.  They stayed deeply in love, despite obstacles.

Smooth sailing is, of course, the marital weather we hope for, but there is bound to be rough water.  Financial struggles, differing religious beliefs, health crises, two-hour piano recitals…There is sure to be a bump or two, and these can, if we let them, cause the ties that bind us to fray.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.  We don’t have to spend our time together tense and at odds.  And we don’t need to throw in the towel.

Imagine a scene in your future, one of your children and you and your husband gathered together at Christmas.  You’re older now, so there are even grandchildren.  In the room there is a feeling of contentment and happiness because all are present. 

Boom!  This is the goal, and it’s one worth striving for, but so many marriages forfeit future joy because of storms they face.  I’m not talking about infidelity or abuse.  Those are reasons where leaving is a viable option.  I’m talking about the nitty gritty that can blow a solid marriage off course.

Here are four things that should be carefully watched to allow for optimal marital navigation through rough patches.

1.      Avoid criticizing your spouse.  It’s never cool to bond with your friends by complaining about the love of your life.  Don’t do it.

2.       Be Nice.  The love of your life has a tender heart (we all do.)  Think of the white-gloved museum curators, how careful they are with the expensive works of art they handle.  Are you that careful with your spouse’s feelings?  Or are you bumping into stuff, and knocking it over?

3.       Don’t be proud.  Be willing to say you’re sorry. When was the time you said, I’m sorry, to your spouse?  Not I’m sorry, but you really annoyed me when you blah, blah, blah.  Just, I’m sorry.  The best way to want to hold hands again is by not being so proud you can’t say sorry.  And this is what I loved about my friend’s marriage.  You could tell they spent A LOT more time holding hands rather than holding grudges.  Hold hands, not grudges.  It’s such good advice, it sounds like a bumper sticker.

4.       Have plenty of sex with your spouse.    None of this letting the love grow cold business.  Be that feisty old couple that breaks the bed after six weeks apart.  History buffs out there may realize I’m referring to President Truman and his wife, Bess.  Way to go, Harry!  When you take sex out of marriage it’s no bueno.  So, don’t be lazy, throw the negligee on, get the Bee Gees going, and, make some magic.

My friend’s time with her husband is up.  It wasn’t enough.  That happy Christmas scene I described earlier, that will not be her family’s.  He will be missing, and I’m sure she feels cheated.  But one thing is certain, they as a couple didn’t waste the time they were given. I’m told her grief is so great she can’t stop shaking. 

Even when it doesn’t feel like the conveyor belt isn’t moving, it is.  So, go give a kiss to the people you love, and make it a great day.

Trailer Trash

What is the right age to allow a child to see an image of a guy about to kiss a guy on the mouth?  According to Hollywood it’s the age of any kid sitting in a theater, popcorn in hand, waiting to see the PG rated P.T. Barnum musical biopic, The Greatest Showman.  There is no guy-on-guy kiss in The Greatest Showman.  The trailer for Love, Simon, which runs prior to the film, is the problem, assuming you’re a parent not interested in exposing your little kid to a coming-out story.

Love, Simon looks to be a tender, funny, well-crafted story, but it’s a story about a gay young man coming to terms with his sexuality.  This is not the stuff of picture books, or at least the kind that kids clamor for.  At seven, a kid’s sexual urge is zero, and, in my opinion, only dirt bags introduce sex, and sex-related topics, to seven-year olds.

Childhood should be consumed with earning a star at school for good behavior, building forts, playing Mario Kart, making booger walls, dancing like a maniac at weddings, running down hills, and playing ball. 

Their minds should be free to focus on the simple.

And to those who say sexual orientation is a simple subject, I say, you gotta be smoking crank.  That is about as adult a subject as it gets.  So, when I take my kid to see a movie that at its sexiest wouldn’t make a nun blush, I should think, I’ve done my parental due diligence, but you’ve always got to remember that Hollywood is not concerned about kids (just ask Corey Feldman.)

Their one concern is selling tickets, and if that means pitching a PG-13 movie to a PG audience they’re going to do it.  As parents, we are the gatekeepers for our kids.  We decide what goes in our kids’ bodies (immunize or not) and we decide what goes in their minds, which is why the Love, Simon trailer annoyed me so much.  It felt like a cheap shot.  I paid to see a wholesome movie about the birth of the circus, and they threw an image of a guy about to kiss another guy.  Having said this, go see The Greatest Showman!  It was amazing.  Just know, if you arrive in time for the trailers, what your little kids are going to see.  Just giving you a heads up.