reclaiming wife

Meg’s Thoughts

(Note! We're playing around with an extra Friday feature for the first time today. It's tentatively called BackTalk and will be quick responses from me, and sometimes the staff, to current news articles or trend stories, or short form discussion of wedding planning. Then, next up, we'll have Ask Team Practical to close the week. Since we're just getting our feet wet and figuring out what works, no fancy logo or anything yet.  —Meg)

It's possible that I've never had a news article show up as often in my Twitter feed with a desperate plea for APW discussion than the recent New York Times article about joint finances called, "In Marriage, the Unseen Bottom Line." The comments were mostly in the vein of, "This article makes me livid, but hey! They quoted Caitlin Moran!"

As most of you know, I'm a long time (feminist) advocate of pooling your financial resources (see: marriage as mini-socialism). But this article, the couples that were pooling their financial resources scared the shit out of me. I suddenly understood people's reticence to pool resources. Because yes, if pooling family resources meant that I couldn't spend money without my partner's say-so, or that I ceded all personal responsibility for knowing the nature of our finances (this is dangerous stuff, women of the world, whether you pool your finances or not), you bet I'd think it was anti-feminist to pool finances. Here are some key quotes:

A completely unscientific snap poll of 44 girlfriends in Europe and the United States — all highly educated, in their 30s and in relationships, most with children and a job — showed that 41 pooled at least some money with their partners. Dissecting what constitutes joint spending makes for an intriguing study in gender equality: Milk and diapers rarely cause disputes. But what about postnatal yoga? Or haircuts, invariably more expensive for women than men?

I asked Paul, Rachel’s husband, why he felt that shoes (and, it turns out, makeup and clothes! What am I doing wrong?) should be paid for by the joint account. “There are so many explicit and implicit requirements on how a woman should look,” he said. You shouldn’t be punished financially for being female, he said. Caitlin Moran, author of the best-selling “How to Be a Woman,” called it a tax on being a woman.

When women have children and one parent, still usually the mother, sacrifices at least some earnings to maternity leave or part-time work or a less ambitious career, the notion of equality would seem to demand that both parents pool their (often different) incomes and decide on an identical spending allowance. But in my mini-survey, 30 of the 41 women with joint accounts preferred keeping their (often lower) salaries in a personal account and paying a pro-rated amount into the family pool in order to enjoy some unscrutinized spending. “I know that a lot of my spending is frivolous, and I couldn’t defend it if you shoved a spreadsheet in my face.” 

But if the women spend the money, the guys control it. Only one of the friends I interviewed is in charge of family finances ... What it is with us liberated women? We took care of our financial affairs when we were single. Why do we give up control when a man shows up? “It’s boring,” groaned one French friend — a banker, no less — echoing many others. “I’m rubbish at math,” said another. It’s just a division of labor, suggested a third. “He is finance minister, and I am minister of culture and entertainment.” Read the Whole Article

But with all of my reservations about the Jimmy Cho shopping on the sly, out-of-control-of-the-family-finances way that women were portrayed in the article, I felt that some of the questions that the piece was asking were key. Continue reading BackTalk: Women, Marriage, and Money—A Response to The New York Times

Let's review. Over Thanksgiving weekend, after taking nine flights in four months (including some long-haul international ones) my longtime dislike of flying turned into a full on, panic attack fueled phobia of flying. Fun times y'all. SUPER fun times for my husband when I couldn't get on our connecting flight in Phoenix, and we were going to Albuquerque. (Good came out of this even in the short term, by the way, least you think that good things do not grow from bad. We had a spur of the moment road trip over Thanksgiving. I took a round-the-whole-country book tour sponsored by Amtrak. I'd never give those things back in a million years.)

And then, also, I was finally "working on" or really, life was "working on me," helping me to tackle and start to solve my anxiety condition. (Onset: Quitting theatre and moving to San Francisco. Conclusion: Writing and publishing a book, having it do well. Take Away: Go figure.) But the one huge anxiety monster I had yet to wrestle was my enormous fear of flying. Damn it.

I joke a lot that I married David because, on some core level, he was always the person that could keep me driving forward. I am very good at seeing what I should probably do next (say: start a blog, write a book, take fear of flying training). And then I'm spectacularly bad at figuring out what the first step is and taking it. Why? Because once you take the first step, you're actually going to have to do something about it, so it's way easier to not figure it out. David has always been phenomenally good at wandering off, researching the first step for me, and then helping me do it. Always. He did this for me when we were platonic best friends, and he does it for me now after seven plus years together. Who set up the first blogger blog for APW? (David.) Who put in the first email to an agent we knew on the book? (David.) Who signed me up for a Fear of Flying course? (David.) Now, I don't say that to discount my own ambition and hard work in any way. Once the first step is taken, I then climb the mountain on my own (with cheering from the sidelines). But that first step. Help on the first step is worth its weight in gold. Look for that, always. Notice it. Value it.

So, after Thanksgiving's total melt down mid-air, David signed me up for a Fear of Flying Course, which, I frankly would have done just about anything to avoid. We enrolled in a course that involved eleven DVDs worth of training on everything from the psychology of fear, to how flying actually works, to visualization. And then I did a phone counseling session. And then I had to fly. Continue reading On Overcoming Fear of Flying

This Saturday, I stood alone in our empty apartment. The movers and my husband had gone downstairs, and it was just me, the sunlight, and the dust. I stood in the apartment that was where we'd moved in together the first time (after moving across the country with everything we owned, combined for the first time, in a Ryder truck), where we'd come home the afternoon after getting engaged, where we'd woken up the day after our wedding. It was the apartment where we'd struggled with soul-sucking employment, law school, with unemployment, and where I'd written my first book. Echoing through my head was Edna St. Vincent Millay's line, "... but the rain/ Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh/ Upon the glass and listen for reply."

The ghosts coming out of those walls were painful, in a sometimes-you-don't-realize-how-hard-it-was-till-it's-over way. I was transfixed. Frozen to the floor. Listening. Then my husband came back and grabbed my hand and told me it was time to go. I hugged him, and we looked around, touched the walls where we'd spent half a decade of our lives. And then slowly, painfully, we walked out the door. We have the apartment for another week, and we'd talked about going back to do a final sweep up, but after the latch clicked shut, I said, "I can't go back. I can't leave again."

It's amazing how hard it is to change, even when you know you need to. Even when you know what you're headed for is probably much better. Even when the whispering ghosts are full of anxiety, misdirected dreams, and sadness. Still, they ask you to stay, to stay forever, and it's so hard to go.

We left. We visited the beach first, and then drove across the city, across the bridge, and thirty minutes later were at our new house (house!). It was fifteen degrees warmer, and we had a garden, a basement, and a house big enough that we could no longer chat away while in different rooms.

Then everyone left me alone again, sitting cross-legged in the new empty house, and for the first time in awhile, I felt real hope springing up. Hope, of course, mixed with fear. What ghosts would haunt us here? Happy ones? It was impossible to know. But that night, with all the boxes out of the truck, I felt rather surprisingly at home... perhaps more at home than I'd ever felt in San Francisco. Continue reading Reclaiming Wife: Moving (Forward)

Today's my birthday. It's a quiet sort of birthday, a bit of an anticlimactic one after months of heady and exhausting action. And instead of going out to a bar with friends, or a fancy dinner like we might normally do, we're sneaking away for a few stolen hours of quiet in the mountains. It's been interesting to remind myself that this is good too. It's a different kind of good than getting drunk with fifteen of my dearest on juleps in New York City when I turned 24, or fancy dinner where we talked about the big year to come last year. But it's still damn good. Quietly good. Which is about where my life is right now.

It's strange, because the beginning of the year was so huge that I'm still getting used to trudging through the period of quiet after the (lovely) storm. When I got home from the book tour, of course I knew I needed to sleep for a week, and then catch up for, well, about a month. But then I had plans and projects! I figured I'd be back on my feet in five seconds, ready to knock out the next thing. (Have I mentioned that my work life tends to be lived at full tilt, in a super productive, never resting enough, mode?) Well, it turns out not so fast. First, life had other things in store. We were moving. I had business problems I had to solve. Nothing was going to happen right this second, APPARENTLY. The spring shaped up to be a very Slow And Steady Wins The Race around here, (which is not the kind of season that I'm naturally good at).

But then there was also my mind. It turns out it wasn't ready to dive into something big again right away. I would give it jobs to do, and it would just sit and stare and the screen, tapping its toe, thinking about nothing in particular.

I want to say that all this was easy for me, and I sorted it out right away, and I have a pat and wise solution for times when you are going through the same thing. But I've got nothing. (Literally nothing. I just had to pull myself back from staring out the window a second ago.) Continue reading Entrepreneurship: After The Big

When we were pondering talking about the idea of "Change of Plans" this week and how changing plans is somehow the very core of wedding planning (both its hell and its unexpected joy), I decided that I had to revisit my wedding dress search. For the handful of you who were around reading back when I was getting married, this is a three-years-later reflection on a story you know. But for the rest of you, I hope this encourages you through whatever your particular wedding trial is. And I do mean trial.

For me, finding a wedding dress was fraught right from the start. The wedding dress search somehow boiled down every single aspect of the wedding industry that I disliked into one compact package. Plus, I've had a very defined personal style since I was three, (when I flat-out refused to wear anything that wasn't a skirt out of the house. My poor feminist mother thought she'd failed, but she'd really just gotten a very tiny, very femme feminist). Add to the fact that, I shit you not, when I got my first piggy bank at five, I told my mom I did not want to save for college, I wanted to save for my wedding dress (again, cut to distressed feminist mother). So I cared about the wedding dress, from the get-go. Plus I hated every single modern wedding dress trend. And I really hate the feeling of being ripped off.

For those of you who didn't see it, just the other week, NPR's Planet Money team came out with a investigative research video (a must watch, there) that proves without a shadow of a doubt what I suspected with every fiber of my being during wedding dress shopping: the whole thing is a shake down. It's not that I wasn't ready to spend good money on a wedding dress (Hello! I'd saved a little yellow piggy bank full of quarters! This is not a joke!) it's that I wasn't willing to pay more than twice what a dress was worth, just because it was white and poofy.

And then, everything that could go wrong started to go wrong. A short sum up of things I never shared at the time: I found a short vintage-style dress that I loved (that, funny enough, was basically a slightly less cool copy of the actual vintage dress I would get married in) at a shopping trip with our best man's wife. I was all set! Then a month later, said wife left said best man, in step one of what would prove to be the world's most painful divorce. I couldn't think of the wedding dress without bursting into tears. This seemed like a bad sign. I had another dress shopping trip with amazing Kate (now APW editor) and a brand new close friend... who a few months before the wedding announced her new boyfriend didn't like us, so she was out of our lives. Amazing. It started to feel like my wedding dress search was cursed. In retrospect, perhaps the universe was delaying me, so I could learn something useful (which is a damn life lesson, if you ask me, and one I always find particularly unpleasant no matter how many times it happens).

Let's do a quick review of my wedding dress shopping:

Wedding Dress Shopping Round One:

Most of the dresses I saw looked like they were designed by a four-year-old girl. The little tiny designer clearly kept stamping her foot and saying "More ruffles! Longer train! Add some bows! Poofy-er! And I want a BIG tiara!"

And then they sent in a 13-year-old girl to bedazzle the dresses (and the veils, and the shoes). Continue reading Classic APW: My Wedding Dress

We're moving. Not, mind you, moving very far. We're moving 18 miles and across a body of water, but we are moving out of our very first apartment together.

It goes something like this. When I got home from my book tour in February, I was ready for a change. Specifically, I thought it would be a very good idea to pack up everything we owned and move back to Brooklyn immediately, because I missed it, and because I was 110% sure that I couldn't take another goddamn summer of not seeing the sun for three months running. David thought this was a slightly less good idea. He had a job he said (details), he didn't miss Brooklyn with quite the consuming passion that I did, and he'd really gotten used to the non-horrible winters and relative nearness of family in California. I pouted (obviously). He suggested we try Oakland, the Brooklyn of the West and see how a 20-mile move worked for us before we tried a 3,000-mile move.

Ok FINE, HUSBAND.

So, of course, we spent the last two months looking for apartments, every single weekend. First, let me just mention that the rental market in the Bay Area is currently completely out of control. The city is being swept with Facebook money and one-billion-dollar Instagram deals (and sadly has become virtually unrecognizable when compared to the city of my childhood... and noticeably different than the city we moved to five years ago). And East Bay is being swept by foreclosures and speculators, which in turn have whipped the rental market into a frenzy. So even though we were ostensibly moving to the part of the Bay Area where we could get more space (because I also needed a damn desk, no more working on the kitchen table for me), we looked at more than our fair share of cramped basement apartments and two bedrooms where the second bedroom was actually a corner of the living room (surprise!), that all cost way more than our current, spacious, lovely, one bedroom. (Also, argument: if you take my one bedroom, and put a wall up to divide the bedroom into two, I'm probably not going to want to pay you $500 more a month.) And then. Just about the time I decided I didn't care anymore, and I could work on a kitchen table forever, we found our house.

That's right. I said HOUSE. (And no, we're not buying.) Suddenly, we stumbled on a free standing, lovely little house, with a front and back garden, in exactly the neighborhood we wanted to be in... for the same price as all those depressing tiny basement apartments. And then by some miracle, we got it. So we're moving early next month, and we'll have a vegetable garden, sun, rosebushes, and be closer to restaurants and cafes (and downtown San Francisco) than we currently are.

I'll tell you how it goes, because right now, I have no idea.

But here is what I do have a grip on: the last five years. I move very rarely. This will be the third home I've lived in since graduating college 10 years ago, because when I move, I stay put. So moving is always a huge opportunity for psychic cleaning for me. I go through all the scraps of paper I've collected while living in a home. I glance at notes I've scribbled down (unsurprisingly I keep a lot of notebooks). And this year, I decided to take on The Picture Project. Since this is the first home I've lived in only owning a digital camera, I suddenly realized that we have five years of unprinted pictures. So, since we signed the lease on the new home, I've been gathering them up from hard drives, cell phones, and social messaging sites. I've been uploading them, and getting ready to print them and make scrapbooks.

And here is what I've realized, looking at countless pictures of our faces: the last five years have been difficult. Yes, the last year and a half has been damn good (if insane, stressful, and packed full). Yes, getting married and honeymooning was a high point. Yes, starting this blog was one of the big gifts of my life. But all in: it's been a tough five years. You can see it in my face, in almost every picture (except the more recent ones). I'm struggling, and in a very different way than my flat-broke-and-struggling-twenties. Continue reading On Not Having It All (At Once)