That's Us

Braden next to me

FROM: Brenda Mage

TO: Jane Dawson

SUBJECT: RE: s**t. JUST. GOT. REAL.

Braden’s not icing you. He’s responding to your intervention, Jane. Now that he’s read your journal and knows how bored you are, he’s making the appropriate adjustments. And the best part is that you didn’t even have to talk about it. It’s actually a beautiful design. I think you just discovered the holy f*****g grail of marital behavior modification techniques! Here’s what you do. Now that you know he’s reading your journal, you need to start planting really exaggerated stories in there so that you can milk this s**t for all it’s worth. Write specifically about whatever it is you want him to change, and make it as juicy as possible. And I’mgoing to do a study on the outcome so that I can go on Good Morning America and tell Robin Roberts how women across the country can save their marriages throughSubliminal Spousal Bibliotherapy. (We’ll call it SSB for short.) b***h, you’re going to get me tenure and an Audi R8 with this

thing!

Brenda Mage, PhD Associate Professor, Department of Psychology, Boston University

FROM: Jane Dawson

TO: Brenda Mage

SUBJECT: RE: s**t. JUST. GOT. REAL.

You.

Evil.

Fucking.

Genius.

I’m in. And I already have a list of target behaviors for progress monitoring:

1. The initiation of hot, steamy, passionate hair-pulling sex

2. The giving of compliments

3. The bestowment of a nickname

4. And the procurement of a motherfucking heart tattoo with my name on it

For data collection purposes, you can just set the baseline at zero in all four categories. Yes, zero as in, Braden has never done any of those things. The way I see it, we have nowhere to go but up. I’ll keep you abreast of my progress. (Pun intended!)

Also, you have to promise to tell George Stephanopoulos hi for me when you go on GMA. I’ve always liked him. I think it’s because he reminds me of Michael J. Fox. Maybe don’t tell him I said that. Or do?

Dear Journal,

After consulting with the devil on my shoulder, I’ve decided to embark on a morally bankrupt psychological experiment with the hopes of transforming Braden into someone warm and affectionate whose love for me is so immense that he needs a tattoo of my name and/or likeness just so that he can better broadcast his feelings for me to the world. So, pack your bags and bring a flashlight, because from now on, you’ll be hiding in a dark hole in the back of my hard drive under the title Baby Shower Diaper Cake Instructions. Don’t take it personally, Little Guy. It’s for your own good. I need a place to take notes on Braden's progress without him catching wind of what I’m up to, and no man will ever come snooping around a file called Baby Shower Diaper Cake Instructions, located inside a folder called…wait for it…Cute Stuff I Found on Pinterest. Oh, and don’t get jealous, but in your old spot, I’m going to start planting a glossily exaggerated Lifetime movie version of you under the filename Super Private Journal That Braden Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever where I will plant completely fabricated stories about my ex-boyfriends designed to inspire Braden to up his f*****g game. And no, that filename isn’t too obvious. Blatant reverse psychology is the only way to get s**t done when you’re dealing with a man or a toddler.

Don’t you read my journal again, Braden. Don’t you do it. Oh…you’d better not. It’ll work. Trust me. Aw, look at you, Journal. You’re starting to feel bad for Braden, aren’t you? That’s adorable, but your sympathy is completely wasted on him. The man does not have feelings. I’m not entirely convinced that he even has nerve endings. I promise, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. Braden is a soulless gangsta, and he’ll be just fine.

Dear Journal,

I can feel you judging me. You don’t have to say it. You have disapproval written all over you, like a Meat Is Murder sticker on a MacBook Air. Look at you, all smug in your ivory f*****g tower. You don’t know what it’s like out here in the trenches, trying to make a marriage work day in and day out. Fifty percent of these things fail, you

know. Perhaps, if I gave you a little more background, a little perspective, you’d see that I’m not a monster. I’m just a frustrated wife trying to maximize the potential of her very beautiful, very cold husband. Then, maybe you could cool it with the silent treatment. For starters, did you know that Braden has someone else’s initials carved into his arm? Yep, that’s right. When he was sixteen, some girl who banged him, like, twice decided to stop banging him, and he f*****g carved her initials into his arm. Now, when I was sixteen, I already had both n*****s and my c**t pierced, so I’m no stranger to self-mutilation, but still. When this bastard dies, after spending, like, a thousand years being my life partner, his body is going to go into the ground with someone else’s initials on it. I just want some representation on there, too, goddamn it. Preferably somewhere both visible and brazenly unprofessional. So, you see, Journal, it’s not just that I’m some self-centered only child who wants my husband to tattoo my name on his body. It’s that I want my name on his body bigger and bolder than her name. It’s a totally different thing. You’re already well acquainted with Braden’s low libido and comatose performance in the bedroom, based on my first few entries, so we’ll move on

to the third behavior I hope to target with this little experiment, which is getting Braden to compliment me. I realize that also sounds rather petty and shallow, but if you only knew, Journal. This motherfucker has never

complimented me without coercion... ever. I’m sure you’re wondering, how is that possible? Surely, that’s an exaggeration. Oh, it’s not. Braden is stubborn as s**t. Ever since the first time I pouted about his refusal to compliment me way back when we were dating, it has

turned into a power struggle of epic proportions. Every four to six months (and usually about three to five days before my period is due), I bring it to his attention, and every four to six months he just rolls his eyes at me as if I’m being some needy succubus. Take his annual company Christmas party for example. Every year, when

I emerge from the bathroom after spending two hours primping for this black-tie bullshit that he knows I get anxious about, do you know what he says when he looks up from the couch? You guessed it. Nothing. Do you know what his face says? Oh God, you’re going to expect me to compliment you now, aren’t you? Well, f**k that noise. I’m just gonna go back to watching this riveting bayou thrift store gold mine show now and pretend like you’re not there. s**t. Why are you still there? I’m not even looking at you. Oh no, don’t put your hands on your hips! f**k! Now, you’re pissed. If I club myself unconscious with this remote, can we just skip this conversation and go straight to the hospital? I don’t even care that we’ll miss the silent auction. Like I need another iPad. Am I right? About two and a half minutes into this ridiculous stalemate, the crickets are so loud that it’s like they’re trying to compliment me just to cut the tension.

Inevitably, I let out a huff and hiss through my teeth, “I’m going to go back into the bathroom, and we’re going to try this again. Only this time, when I come out here, you are going to say, ‘You look nice,’ and I’m not going to stab your d**k with my stiletto.” Listen, Journal, I am an actress/ business woman, not a mind reader. If Braden doesn’t tell me I’m pretty or that I’m a good mom or that I cook a mean bowl of cereal, how can I assume that he’s thinking it? I can’t. Ergo, I walk around every day under the assumption that my husband thinks I’m a homely asshole. So whenever one of the extras in the movie of my life happens to throw an errant compliment my way, I respond like a drowning drunken coed who’s just been

tossed a human floatation device. I cry and flail and smother that b***h. For instance, a few months ago, I was at the grocery store feeling extraordinarily unsexy as I used my misshapen post-childbirth body to shove my three-year-old son and infant daughter around in one of those obnoxious shopping carts with the plastic race car bolted to the front that’s as long as a city block and impossible to maneuver without clearing all the endcap

displays when yet another mauling occurred. In an attempt to avoid being seen by any real humans, I heaved the five-hundred-pound yellow-and-red monstrosity through the self-checkout lane, flinging nursing pads and n****e cream across the scanner and in the general direction of the plastic bag carousel as quickly as my water-retaining fingers could handle. Snatching my

receipt from the printer, I dug in my heels and heaved that behemoth toward the exit. In the midst of my attempt to escape unseen, a male employee, who was easily ten years younger than me, stopped me dead in my tracks by asking with all sincerity, “Did you get your discount?”

Both annoyed that my getaway had been foiled and confused by his remark, I furrowed my brow and glared at the poor little s**t, waiting for him to continue. Dropping his professional act, the kid beamed, “We’re giving fifty percent off to all the beautiful ladies today! Tears pricked my eyes. As if I hadn’t knocked over enough in that store

already, I leaped onto that twenty-year-old hard enough to send us both careening into a gigantic tower of water cooler jugs. Thank God they held fast or else Braden would have had to watch them pulling my lifeless body out of the blue plastic rubble on the evening news above a caption reading, This just in. Devoted mother of two and Kroger employee killed today in water cooler avalanche. Cause determined to be husband’s selfish withholding of compliments. People could have died, Journal, all because of Braden's refusal to say nice things to me. That brings me to my fourth and final marital goal getting Braden to give upon me an adorable, personalized nickname. My husband has never referred to me by any name other than my full, legal name. Hey! You know what? Braden did call me Crazy once. Does that count as a pet name? It was the middle of the night, and I’d accidentally woken him up while cursing and banging around in our master bathroom during a full-blown OCD

flare-up. Braden stumbled into the bathroom, squinting into what must have felt like a supernova of light, to find me standing one-legged on the counter, dangling

from a scalding hot metal wall sconce by my fingertips, while I swung a broom handle in the general direction of every shadow on the ceiling that vaguely resembled a cobweb. I should have been embarrassed by my late-night manic cleaning frenzy, but all I remember feeling was a fuzzy, girlish giddiness when Braden sleepily raised one corner of his perfect mouth into an amused little smirk and asked, “Whatcha doing, Crazy?”

It was the closest I ever came to getting a pet name out of Braden, but since he wasn’t fully conscious when he’d said it, I don’t think I’m actually allowed to accept it. It would be like nickname r**e or something. No, Crazy

isn’t going to work. I want a proper pet name something personalized. Something that refers to my most endearing qualities, like Freckles, or Pink Taco.

Besides, if somebody at Braden’s office saw him sporting a sacred heart tattoo on his forearm with the word Crazy inked inside, the last thought they would have is, Damn, that guy must really love his wife. She’s one lucky gal.

It would be more like, Man, I knew Braden was an asshole. He’s so quiet and good-looking. He had to be either a serial killer or an asshole. Glad I was right about the asshole thing. Now, I can stop carrying that can of Mace around in my pocket. That s**t makes me look like I have a perma-chub.