Desperate Husbands (16 page)

Madonna, the American singer, has revealed she’s a different mother with her second child than with her first—less paranoid and more relaxed. She’s not the first parent to notice how attitudes shift with each additional child.

First child:
‘We’ve decided to play Beethoven sonatas to him while he’s in the womb and read him passages from the great poets.’

Second child:
‘Whenever there’s classical music on a TV ad I turn it up.’

Third child:
‘I’m sick of the little bugger kicking me. It’s not my fault
Big Brother
is over.’

First child:
‘He’s only two days old and he just gave me a smile. I think he’s advanced.’

Second child
: ‘When he burps it almost looks like a smile—so cute.’

Third child:
‘He’s the farting champion of the Western World. At least there’s now no doubt who the father is.’

First child:
‘We’ve repainted the room and I’ve hand-stencilled some animal pictures onto the ceiling.’

Second child:
‘There’s a room off the back that’s not too bad, and when he’s older we’ll move all the boxes.’

Third child:
‘Kick the dog out and there’s a perfectly good spot there by the back door.’

First child:
‘He’s got fourteen different hand-knitted cardigans and ten pairs of OshKosh pilchers.’

Second child:
‘Target had twenty per cent off, so we bought a job lot.’

Third child
: ‘If we soak the jumpsuits long enough, you’ll hardly notice the stains and silverfish holes.’

First child:
‘We’ve booked him into four different schools, started an investment scheme and put him on the waiting list for the Melbourne Club.’

Second child:
‘Nana’s opened an account at the Commonwealth Bank and whacked in the first five dollars.’

Third child:
‘I just wish someone could come up with a name. When he starts high school he’s going to hate being called Bub.’

First child:
‘I don’t think he knows what a lolly is. I don’t allow them in the house.’

Second child:
‘We’re trying to keep a limit on it, especially on weekdays.’

Third child:
‘Quick, your Dad’s in the shower. Let’s split the pack of Tim Tams and scoff the lot before he even knows they’re on offer.’

First child:
‘I don’t believe in discipline, or even saying anything critical, as it may crush his little spirit.’

Second child:
‘We’ve adopted a time-out system, especially after the problem with the cigarette lighter.’

Third child:
‘Come on, son, make my day. One more step and I use the capsicum spray.’

First child:
‘We only allow him to watch BBC nature programs.’

Second child:
‘We only allow him to watch nature programs and the odd episode of
Blue Heelers
.’

Third child:
‘Hurry up, Trent, and bring the beer and nachos, you’re missing the start of
The Sopranos
.’

First child:
‘Each evening, we’re going to read—as a family—for an hour.’

Second child:
‘Sit and read where I can see you while I cook the dinner.’

Third child:
‘You can tell those bloody teachers he reads the TV program
every bloody night
, so what’s their problem?’

First child:
‘Only when everybody is finished eating may you leave the table.’

Second child:
‘You can jump up now but put your plate in the sink.’

Third child:
‘Darren, stop wiping you hands on the couch. Use your T-shirt like your father.’

First child:
‘I’m going to teach my child the value of money.’

Second child:
‘I’ll give you some pocket money if you stop crying.’

Third child:
‘Fifty bucks and you don’t tell Dad it was me who backed into his Commodore.’

First child:
‘We try to limit it to nine or ten photographs each day, plus the odd bit of video filming.’

Second child:
‘Those disposable cameras are great for capturing the really significant birthday parties.’

Third child:
‘Of course we took photographs of you. Look at this photo of the dog—I’d swear that’s your foot in the background.’

Batboy starts the car, puts it into gear and then tries to move off. It’s our fifth driving lesson and things are not going well. The car does a couple of kangaroo hops and then shudders to a stop. He repeats the process another ten or twenty times. As his passenger, I’m developing the world’s slowest case of whiplash. He tries again. The key. The gear. The clutch. The shuddering stop. Our bodies are thrown forward into our seatbelts and then thumped back into our seats. Would it affect the boy’s confidence if I kitted myself out with a motorcycle helmet before our next driving lesson?

Slowly we stall our way along a little-used dirt road in the bush. Every time we shudder to a stop all the cows stop grazing and look up, their big moon eyes staring at us. ‘Jeez Louise,’ they seem to be saying, ‘what is that boy doing to that car?’ They give a baffled shake of their large heads and, with what looks like a sigh, return to their grazing. In all
their years chewing cud by this roadside, they’ve never seen anything like it.

Maybe it’s genetics. I took the best part of a year to learn to drive, taught by a series of kindly stepmothers. Luckily, my father ran through wives with such speed I could exhaust the patience of at least a couple.

Each stepmother would sit there in the passenger seat as I kangarooed down the driveway. Each time we’d stop, the relevant stepmother would turn and use her hands to describe what my feet should be doing. ‘This foot goes down as this one comes up,’ she would say, rotating her hands in opposite directions, like the wings of a dying seagull.

‘How can that be?’ I’d ask the stepmother. ‘Why can’t they make the car so that both pedals go in the same direction at the same time? It’s like trying to pat your head at the same time as you rub your tummy. It’s like they are
trying
to make it difficult.’

And so I’d start the engine and try to split my mind in two—the right brain focusing on the right foot, easing it down; the left brain focusing on the left, easing it up; before finally, in my confusion, pulling both feet off both pedals and shuddering to a halt in a blaze of bad language. I’d then exit the car, slam the door and start screaming at the vehicle, much in the manner of Basil Fawlty in
Fawlty Towers
.

In retrospect, it may not have been entirely my father’s fault that he went through
quite
so many wives.

Finally I learnt to start the thing, only to find that this led inevitably to a series of fresh horrors. Such as learning to reverse—a kind of driving in which one turns the steering wheel in whatever direction seems most unlikely. Or reverse parking—a technique designed to ensure constant work for
the panel beating industry.

Back on the bush track, Batboy finally triumphs over both the dodgy clutch and his dodgy genetics and gets the thing into first. We motor along for some metres and our mood lifts. It is then the road starts to wind upwards and I am forced to break the news about hill starts.

‘So,’ I say, repeating the speech of the stepmothers, ‘you’ve got your right foot going down, the left foot coming up, and then at the same time you reach out with your hand and let the handbrake off.’

Batboy stares at me aghast. ‘You’ve got to be joking. That’s three completely separate things at the same time. That’s just impossible.’

We give it a couple of goes but get nowhere. The car shudders backwards and forwards like a dying hippopotamus. Even the cows turn away their huge heads in a moment of embarrassment and contempt. We sit in the stalled car, both of us staring ahead into the gathering dusk.

It occurs to me that it would be less threatening if I went over the real road rules: not the ones taught in driving school but the road rules as practised by the appalling drivers you find in most Australian cities.

Rules like:

• The light turning yellow means accelerate.
  
• Once you turn your hazard lights on, you have the unfettered right to suddenly stop or park anywhere you like.
  
• Once you overtake someone on the freeway, you should slow down straight away so they understand how you felt being stuck behind them.
  
• If female, it’s fine to put on your make-up while driving, including foundation, blusher, eyeliner and lip gloss. During tricky manoeuvres, such as crossing the Sydney Harbour Bridge, you may, however, like to go easy on the cucumber slices over the eyes.
  
• If male, remember your manhood is at stake every time the lights go green.
  
• A car with battered-in front and sides always gets right of way. The driver of this vehicle has proved that he is not easily deterred.
  
• If you are under twenty-five years of age, feel free to accelerate backwards out of your own driveway without looking. The music belting out of your sound system is considered warning enough.
  
• The time to turn on your indicator is
  after
  you’ve made a lane change; that way everyone knows you meant to make the shift and are not just weaving around aimlessly.
  
• If you are over eighty-five years of age, feel free to leave your indicator on permanently. When you finally turn left, it’s reassuring to know that other road users have had a full three hours’ warning.
  
• It’s OK to use the breakdown lane on the expressway to avoid gridlocked traffic providing you are driving a late-model BMW. Other road users should realise that, with a car like that, you’re a very important person and are late for a meeting more important than anyone else’s.
  
• It’s OK to park in a bus zone as long as you leave your windows open so everyone knows you’re not going to be long.
  
• It’s OK to go through a light just after it’s turned red, although you are legally required to glance quickly and guiltily into the rear-view mirror just to make sure the police didn’t see you.
  
• The bigger your four-wheel drive, the more right you have to ignore everyone else on the road.
  
• And never use a mobile phone while driving if you are also drinking a cup of coffee and smoking. Finish the cigarette first, as the ash could fall into your coffee, which might distract you from your call.
  

I weigh up whether to tell him these real rules and decide against. He seems to have enough problems right now without facing up to the fact that his fellow road users are quite insane.

After a few minutes’ more silence, contemplating the hill ahead, Batboy mentions our friend Locky. He’s a rice farmer down in the Riverina: the whole farm is completely flat, to the extent that he never has to use the handbrake. Locky simply pulls the ute to a stop, opens the door and gets out.

‘Maybe I could get a job down there,’ says Batboy, suddenly jettisoning all his complex career plans in favour of working somewhere
flat
.

I ask him to imagine the conversations he’ll have in twenty years’ time. ‘So,’ friends will ask, ‘exactly why did you choose a career in the Australian rice industry? Was it through a desire to help the nation’s exports or a passion to feed the world’s hungry?’

‘No,’ he’ll be forced to admit. ‘The thing I really loved about the industry was the complete absence of hill starts.’

Here at Bloke, we either
solve problems or we deny
their existence. We
certainly never ‘sit with’
them; that’s for girls.

Everyone knows that men and women argue in different ways but can they be catalogued? Using a notebook, a tape recorder and a mirror, I’ve made a start cataloguing the male side of things. The list that follows is scarifyingly honest and personally embarrassing. Care should be taken that it doesn’t fall into enemy hands. For example: Jocasta’s.

1. There are no grey areas
   . Your relationship is either the best relationship in the whole world; or it’s a miserable farce. A wife should never attempt to suggest ‘there’s just one little thing that maybe we can improve’, because the man will spot exactly what she is up to. She is kicking the chocks from beneath the wheels of the whole cart, thus sending it hurtling downhill. Remember, it’s not what the wife is saying, it’s what she is implying: ‘What?
   You’d like me to fetch the salad? So you’re saying I’m lazy! That I do
   nothing
   ! Well, I’m happy to cook the whole meal. I’ll do it every night. On top of everything else. I’m surprised you’re obviously so unhappy with our life together. You sound like you want a trial separation. And that may not be such a bad idea. I mean, considering the way you’re talking.’
   
2. Circular breathing
   . In traditional Aboriginal society, the didgeridoo can only be played by men. That’s because it involves circular breathing, in which one never pauses to draw breath—drawing air in from the side of the mouth as it is simultaneously expelled through the front. No wonder it’s saved for the men: it’s perfect practice for the male arguing style. The aim is to produce a constant stream of hectoring sound, thus preventing your opponent from ever slipping in a single word. Why not buy your bloke a didgeridoo this Christmas? You’ll be amazed to find he can play it perfectly, first go. It’s almost as if he’s been practising for years.
   
3. Everything you say is about him
   . Your comment that ‘I feel tired’ is not just a general observation about the workplace, an ageing body and the end of the week. It’s a hostile surprise attack on him and the life you’ve set up together. Naturally, he will deal with it as such. Two hours later, lady, and you’re going to feel a lot more tired.
   
4. Problems must be either solved or denied
   . When you say ‘My boss refused my pay rise’, you may be
   asking for a bit of sympathy, a moment when the two of you ‘sit with’ your disappointment. Well, honey, you’ve come to the wrong department. Here at Bloke, we either solve problems or we deny their existence. We certainly never ‘sit with’ them; that’s for girls. Are you sure you asked for the pay rise in the right way? It may be your fault you didn’t get it. Have you considered doing it in writing? On the other hand, would you like me to just go and hit the bastard?
   
5. The importing of extraneous materials
   . Some people when arguing say ‘Stick to the point’. Trouble is you’ll never win an argument that way. How to counter, for example, her stern observation that ‘Last night, you drank most of a bottle of wine, plus three beers.’ You could deny it (difficult, as the bottles are still there, sitting by the couch); you could apologise and promise never to do it again (demeaning and, besides, she’s not
   that
   credulous); or you could move the argument to fresh turf. As in the example: ‘Well, at least
   my
   uncle was never arrested for fraud.’
   Remember also, if drinking is the issue, that drinks are always spoken about in the singular but consumed in the multiple. ‘Why don’t you come over for a
   drink.
   ’ ‘I thought I’d stay for a
   drink
   .’ ‘Well, maybe just one
   drink
   .’ Just as the word ‘sheep’ can cover anything from one animal to a whole flock, so, once the drinking starts, can the single ‘drink’ metamorphose into seventeen beers and three red wines. Yet, remarkably, at the end of the process, it becomes a single drink again.
   You’ve had ‘just
   one
   drink too many’. If only you’d left it at the seventeen beers and the
   two
   glasses of red wine, you’d have been fine. When have you heard a man admit the truth: ‘I planned to stay for five drinks, ended up having twelve and later realised this was nine too many’?
   
6. Never say sorry
   . I’ll rephrase that. Say sorry all the time, but with a range of inflections and modifiers that prove your ‘sorry’ is about as sincere as a closing-down sale at a Turkish rug shop. Classics include: ‘I’m sorry…if you took it that way’; ‘I’m willing to apologise…if it makes you feel better’; or, a personal favourite, ‘OK, sure, I admit it, you’re right and I’m the worst person in the world’ (said in a voice so laden with irony that your vocal chords have trouble moving).
   
7. Sigh.
   The idea is to let loose the sigh at precisely the right volume so it can be heard distinctly and yet is still covered by the principle of plausible deniability.
   ‘Sighhhhhh.’
   ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
   ‘What?’
   ‘That sigh?’
   ‘What sigh?’
   ‘You clearly sighed.’
   ‘I think you must be imagining things, my dearest.’
   
8. Sulk.
   The real trick with sulking is to make sure it’s noticed. There’s nothing worse than putting in two or three days’ hard sulking only to have your partner assume you are merely a little off-colour. Remember, one’s aim is to hang around the house like a dark
   cloud, an evil smell or, if you prefer, some sort of creeping fungal growth. If your partner seems oblivious to what you are up to, try humming appropriate tunes such as ‘D.I.V.O.R.C.E.’, or Smash Mouth’s ‘Pet Names’ in order to draw her attention to the major sulk that is under way. Thus forcing the exchange:
   ‘Hmmmmmm.’
   ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
   ‘What?’
   ‘That sulking sound.’
   ‘What sulking sound?’
   ‘You’re clearly sulking.’
   ‘I think you must be imagining things, my dearest.’
   
9. Play the martyr.
   If sulking’s not working for you why not try martyrdom? The trick is to paint your life as one of constant drone-like misery, thus making your partner feel guilty. Start with some menial tasks inside the house before moving outside in order to dig over the compost heap and then clean out a blocked sewage pipe or two. Try to cover most of your body in dirt and faecal matter before standing in full view of the window so she can see your dogged, saint-like behaviour. A halo of blowflies would help complete the intended tableau.
   
10. The Final Word.
    With the help of the methods above, men can usually survive most marital arguments, despite being less verbally skilled than women. They—
    we
    —should always, however, insist upon The Final Word, which involves standing back and shouting: ‘I’m sick of arguing with you, you always
    win, and not because you are in the right, but just because you argue better.’ (Exit, down hallway, stomping.)
    

Sad to say, but it looks like your bloke has won yet another argument.