By now, they simply cannot believe anyone has agreed to stay married to me for this long. My mom loves to characterize living with me as a hostage situation. A few years ago, when she was purging her house of all evidence of my youth, she returned a ransom note I sent to them from summer camp when I was the same age our son is now. It reads: Send me candy & comics or I won’t write you again, love, Anne.
If Jeff has been a gift sent from heaven for my parents, I’ve been the Trojan horse of daughters-in-law. As most actresses will admit, we want you to “like us—really, really like us!” Even though I have been cured to some extent of “Actressy,” I can still come down with an acute case when under pressure, and that’s what happened when we headed east the first time I was to meet Jeff’s dad. I rallied to give a stellar performance for my new role as future daughter-in-law to Bob Kahn, the man who had sent us a note both congratulating us on our engagement and reminding us that half of marriages don’t last (all in the same sentence).
Bob graciously gave me a driving tour of Albany, but it wasn’t to point out the historic sites of New York’s capital city; instead he drove us past the homes of people Jeff had grown up with and gave me the rundown on their parents’ divorces. Bob did them all. Bob divides the world into two categories, people whose divorces he’s done and people whose divorces he hopes to do in the future. Maybe it was because Bob saw me as a future client, but we got off to a great start.
Jeff’s boyhood home, my father-in-law’s lair, is something out of the space-time continuum. With its gold-veined mirrored walls, chrome fixtures, and love beads in the doorway leading to the basement, the interior has remained exactly the same since Jeff and his sister were toddlers, as Bob mainly resides at the home of his longtime girlfriend, whose divorce he did. Jeff had regaled me with descriptions of his parents’ home, and it lived up to the advance word.
Walking in the house requires navigating through piles of books, legal papers, stacks of case documents—it’s like strolling around inside a filing cabinet. Bob had a cat, named Cat, who was consigned to only one room in the house, the kitchen. She seemed resigned to her role as lone full-time inhabitant of Bob’s home and contentedly lazed on top of one of the taller stacks. I imagine that when she expired, some five years ago, she simply crawled into one of Bob’s expandable cardboard folders and filed herself under Case Closed.
That night Bob magnanimously offered to let us sleep in his private sanctuary. On his water bed. I had no idea anyone still owned those things. It was the technological equivalent of sleeping on a pager. The next morning Bob made an entrance into the chamber, clad only in his Jockey underwear and an undershirt. He slapped his chest and declared, “Maybe you’re marrying the wrong Kahn.” Jeff says he doesn’t remember this happening, but he can’t be sure, as he believes he might have suffered some sort of “humiliation embolism” at that very moment.
If visiting Bob’s house was a trip backward through time, visiting Ilene’s home was an expedition to another planet. I had managed to make a great first impression in Los Angeles, but her home was alien territory for me. As Jeff has explained, Ilene once had her own gift shop and boutique that specialized in Mylar balloons, knickknacks, and novelties. Some of these items migrated from the store to her home, along with coffee mugs that remind you of things you might have forgotten, like “A smile is just a frown upside down.” Every surface is a vehicle for a message: “Be the best you you can be.” “Find your inner princess.” “I Love.” It’s all very upbeat, which is something many people find comforting. I’m just not an upbeat person. Manic, sure. Upbeat, not so much. It was also intimidatingly clean. Ilene is an admitted germaphobe who has her laundry going day and night, and you could perform open-heart surgery on her “I’d rather be golfing” welcome mat. I might have had a frozen expression on my face throughout our stay, but any discomfort on my part was completely overshadowed by the Sturm und Drang of Jeff Kahn’s hometown visit.
From the moment we drove by the WELCOME TO ALBANY, CAPITAL OF NEW YORK sign, Jeff transformed into a petulant teenage Alexis de Tocqueville, treating us to long-winded tirades about the preponderance of big-box stores and the oppressiveness of the cookie-cutter bedroom communities that surround Albany proper with their artificial lakes and confounding nomenclature. “Turning Leaf Manor—is that a housing development or a rehab community or both?” Because he’s a major food snob and a picky eater, getting him to agree to a meal at one of the local eateries—Ruby Tuesday, T.G.I. Friday’s, or across the street at Applebee’s, which is down the block from the area Olive Garden—was tantamount to inquiring if he’d prefer to be drawn and quartered or tarred and feathered. Then he lost his sunglasses. The Sunglasses Incident lives in infamy in the Kahn family lore. Bob’s teasing Jeff was perhaps a little excessive, but it was Jeff who was being a total pain in the ass. I found myself in agreement with Jeff’s parents that he was simply unbearable to be around. By the end of the trip we were all mad at Jeff, and I left thinking, “Well, that went pretty well.”
Jeff’s right, though, I was a hard act for me to follow. Sometimes, when I’m drinking a cup of tea in our “I’m a ten-year-old trapped in a thirty-year-old body” mug, courtesy of Ilene’s store, I feel guilty that I’ve cheated Ilene out of the daughter-in-law experience she deserves. I don’t play golf; I don’t get manicures; and romantic comedies with Matthew McConaughey (especially ones where he takes his shirt off, which is all of them) make me want to run through the streets and stab people in their eyes. I’m sure Ilene is still stumped as to what kind of person doesn’t find a lithograph of two anonymous cherubic children holding hands while running on a beach with balloons adorable. Sadly, for Ilene, I’m just the kind of cynical person Jeff would go for, so since that first meeting I’ve never managed to deliver on the initial promise of more meaningful encounters. As for Bob, I haven’t been able to schedule enough time or summon the intense energy that I lavished upon him at our first summit. I had set the bar too high.
Our annual pilgrimages to Albany did provide me with some of the most wounding ammunition I can deploy when trying to escalate a fight with my spouse. Just uttering the phrase “You’re exactly like your dad” cuts right to the quick. On the other hand, saying “You’re nothing like your dad” produces the same devastating effect. I use one when Jeff loses his temper and the other when comparing him to how successful his dad has been in his chosen profession. It works like a charm every time! But it was practically a conjugal vow to view our parents through each other’s eyes, so five years ago I started letting Jeff and Ezra take the trip upstate without me. Instead, I see them at a restaurant of my husband’s choosing, in neutral territory, like Manhattan. Not being present to witness Jeff’s crabbiness on these family visits spares me from taking a polarizing position. I’m making this sacrifice for the good of my marriage, damn it!*
Getting to choose the kind of relationship you want with your in-laws is a luxury that would have been unthinkable for my parents, whose early life together, not unlike Bob and Ilene’s, was conducted near their in-laws. My parents shared meals, child care, and business interests with both sets. We’ve had friends who’ve had their in-laws move in with them for either health or financial reasons, or both. Jeff and I haven’t faced that kind of challenge yet. Not that my in-laws would ever want to live with us. I think Ilene would prefer that we cast her onto a slab of sea ice in the Arctic Ocean before subjecting herself to my ridiculously poor housekeeping habits. Jeff has promised that should my parents ever need to live with us, we’d find a way to accommodate them. That he would even offer makes me love him more than ever, and I’d be sure to call home often from ports around the world because I’m more likely to sign up with the merchant marines than live with my folks again.
As employment opportunities shift to different parts of the country, many more people will likely find themselves in the same position as Jeff and me, living apart from their parents and thus spared that daily or even monthly in-law squabbling
. Is this good or bad? Have we fetishized traditional cultures where multigenerations live in close contact? A 2008 Harvard study showed that Japanese women who live with their in-laws are more than three times more likely to have heart attacks than those who don’t.* That study didn’t factor in the financial benefits of having in-house babysitting or the kind of familial bond your kids get to enjoy when they grow up near their grandparents, but with the age of marriages and childbearing creeping upward, who knows what the future will look like? It’s notable that when Big and Carrie got married on the big screen, neither set of in-laws was in attendance.†
What kind of future does this portend for Jeff and me? Just the other night, Ezra held my hand and asked me to stay with him for a few minutes before he fell asleep. I lay down next to him. I was silently congratulating myself for raising a kid who wants my company when he whispered softly, “Mom, I want to spend as much time with you now, before I start to hate you.” Parenthood is so humbling. I’m just someone’s future mother-in-law whose visits will be carefully measured out or made fun of. If I’m lucky.
GURKAHN RELATIONSHIP QUIZ
Not sure how your relationship is stacking up compared to ours? Add your scores together and you’ll see whether you should be saving up for retirement together or packing your bags right now. Good luck!
How good are you at influencing your partner?
I’m Alan Dershowitz!
Only when there are copious amounts of alcohol.
Almost as good as I am at predicting earthquakes.
I’d have better luck getting Rush Limbaugh to admit he’s been wrong about anything he’s ever said.
Are you competitive with each other?
We’re cocaptain cheerleaders on our Team Marriage—Go us!
It’s hard to say, but I think I’m winning.
Yankees versus the Red Sox, but worse and without the multimillion-dollar merchandising revenue.
Have you heard about that little feud between God and Satan? Yeah, it’s like that.
When things don’t go your way, do you sulk or withdraw?
Never. I’m a happy, well-adjusted person raised by happy, well-adjusted, and loving parents.
There are times when I sulk and my spouse withdraws and when my spouse pouts, I withdraw, but never at the same time or for more than a month or two.
I sulk and withdraw only when I’m awake.
Like a kid whose parents have confiscated all of his video games and given them away to less-fortunate children.
Do you have fun?
Always—being with my spouse is like renting our very own fun house in the middle of the funnest street in Funtown, USA!
It’s possible if enough antidepressants are mixed with several other, less-legal drugs.
If you call Guantánamo Bay fun, then yes, we have fun.
What’s this strange word fun? Nope, never heard of it.
How much anger and irritability do you feel?
Our relationship is like a Buddhist temple on the Buddha’s birthday.
We get pissed at each other, but we’re not Baldwin and Basinger.
Let’s just say it’s a very good thing we believe in gun control. A very, very good thing.
I’m Mount Vesuvius and he/she is Mount St. Helens, and it’s go time, baby!
Do you feel included in each other’s lives?
There is never a moment when we are not together in body, mind, and spirit. We’re not two beings; we are one joined in holy matrimony.
Kind of, but I feel that the cover charge is way too steep, and the drinks at Club Spouse Inclusion are really watered down.
I remember once being asked about something while we were planning the wedding. That was the last time—ever.
I have a better chance of being invited to take over North Korea.
RESULTS:
7–9: You’re in amazing, glorious, perfectly blissful union and we fucking hate you—a lot. Stop gloating.
10–18: OK, you have some problems and it’s probably going to get worse, so get some therapy quick and buy a really good vibrator.
19–26: It’s bad; very bad; very, very bad—we can’t help you. Sorry.
27–28: You have entered Jeff and Annabelle territory, from which there is no escape. Call your lawyer immediately.
69 percent of disagreements that arise in a marriage are never resolved. —How to Survive Your Marriage, 2004
how do you split this marital asset?
Dr. Richard Batista of Long Island, New York, donated his kidney while married to wife Downell. In their 2009 divorce petition, he is asking either to have the kidney returned or to receive a million dollars in compensation.
my chemical romance
Love produces chemical reactions in the brain, but what if you aren’t in love anymore? How can you produce the same results?
Serotonin (falling in love): sunlight, SSRIs, warm milk, chocolate
Oxytocin (trust and bonding): have baby and bond with it, eat more chocolate
Endorphins (security of long-term love): go for a run or a swim, chocolate again
Phenylethylamine (adrenaline rush of affair): climb Mount Kilimanjaro, meditation, caffeine, just give up and buy the chocolate already
70 percent of couples argue about money at least once a week.
—Smart Money magazine
O brave new world that has such people in it! Could Shakespeare have envisioned this tempest?
A British couple, Amy and David Pollard, split up after she caught him cheating in Second Life. The two spent many hours of their marriage in the online world as their vastly more attractive avatar characters Dave Barmy and Laura Skye. They married in 2005 in both worlds. In 2008, with the help of an online detective, Amy caught David’s avatar having sex with a pixel prostitute. Pollard is now engaged to the woman whose avatar he was caught cheating with.
* Jacob lives in Europe and is an award-winning director and a dad now. He owns numerous articles of clothing at this point.
* I just thought of this excuse, and I’ve kinda convinced myself of its logic.
* Oddly enough, living with in-laws seems to have no negative health benefits for men. Go figure.
† Jeff just thinks that Robert DeNiro and Diane Keaton were unavailable.
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• • • •
I’m OK, You’re the Problem
“In the early years, you fight because you don’t understand each other. In the later years, you fight because you do.”
—JOAN DIDION
Socrates is quoted as saying, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Records of that time suggest he also fought with his wife on a regular basis. Big surprise.
She Says
Every few months for the first maybe nine years of our marriage, I’d get fed up with how much we argue and try to persuade Jeff to attend couples therapy sessions with me by citing the role of a referee in sports. “Players need someone from the outside to judge,” I’ve offered. But Jeff has countered with “Unless there’s a guy in a striped shirt with a whistle who can follow our marriage around and call us on our shit when and where it happens, I’m not interested.”
However, I’ve managed to wear him down and we’ve seen a few counselors. We’d meet up at one of these offices and, inevitably, one of us would be running late and we’d argue about being late, and then proceed to tear each other to pieces. I assumed that the point of going to couples therapy was for me to convey my perspective to the therapist, who would naturally agree with my point of view, that once Jeff was reprimanded by an objective third party, he would have to follow my directives to the letter. I have heard that is a misinterpretation of the goal of therapy, although I suspect I am not at all alone in my reasoning. There is a saying often bandied about: would you rather be happy or would you rather be right? Right, of course! Being right is what makes me happy. Emotions come and go, but the certainty that you’re right never fails to comfort you as you stalk off angrily to your separate co
rners and obsess over the details of your disagreements.
He Says
I don’t dislike therapy. How else could I have found out that everything I’ve ever done wrong was really my parents’ fault? Couples therapy, on the other hand, is the worst. It’s like a fifty-minute argument in some stranger’s living room.
So, why did I allow myself to be dragged into these couples therapists’ offices? Easy. After each session I felt shitty, but Annabelle felt great, and if that’s not good enough, she felt guilty that I felt so bad. The combination of her feeling both good and guilty made it much easier to get into her pants. Yes, I might be superficial and have a one-track mind, but at least I’m consistent.
You Say Tomato, I Say Shut Up Page 18