CONFLICT IS SO COOL

Philip and I got in a fight last night. No tears or yelling this time, and the curse words were kept to a minimum, so it really wasn't some huge emotional deal. Basically, we were discussing the idea of "your space"/"my space"/"our space" and our differing views on the subject. This evolved into a conversation about roles in the household, and we eventually landed in a dialogue about my people-pleasing tendencies and Philip's controlling tendencies, which sometimes isn't the greatest combo and is often a place our arguments go.

Conflict in marriage is a funny thing. It'll sneak up on us, seemingly from nowhere, but I'm beginning to identify some patterns. For example, being hungry doesn't help. Stress carried home from work is not a friend. General feelings of grumpiness tend to spread, and tiredness works against us. Often it's unvoiced or misunderstood expectations that foil us, and our vastly different upbringings are often a contributing factor. Always present in our conflicts is insecurity.

We certainly fight less than we did while we were dating and in the first months of marriage. We know much more now about each other's needs, desires, and expectations. We know which buttons not to push. And now that we're married, the element of, "Is this it? Are we going to break up?" is removed, which lowers the stakes a LOT.

I sometimes wonder, "How often is it normal to fight?" I read in a book about marriage that once a week is a healthy amount, but that seems high to me. I hate fighting and would like to engage in a fight about zero times a week. But I do realize that conflict can be helpful, that it brings out the important feelings we sometimes bury or forget about, that it makes us better communicators and helps us to learn more about one another. It just sucks!

Since we've been married, we've only had one all-out screamfest. That was hell, and I never want to go there again. That seems too far. But sometimes emotion just takes over I guess, and then you have to go through the steps to heal from all the hurtful things said. The healing process is important too - the extra care of each other, the true remorse that reminds us how broken and in need of God we are, the learning how to really forgive.

I do think conflict in marriage - and conflict in general - isn't talked about nearly enough. Are we the only couple who fight? Who sometimes stand across the room from each other glaring, thinking mean things and saying slightly less mean things? I mean, as far as I know, even some of my closest friends never go at it with their spouses. I guess it's embarrassing to admit, makes us look less perfect and reveals that we don't have it all together. Are we afraid to talk about it because we think we're alone and people will feel sorry for us, rather than be able to relate and find comfort in the fact that other people go through rough patches too?

At any rate, don't be concerned about the argument Philip and I had last night. While I don't think we really resolved anything once and for all (we rarely do), we made up in our own little way. It goes like this: First, we wearily concede that we’ve said all there is to say for now. After a brief period of stiff politeness when communication is necessary, we give each other sad looks, which is the code for, "OK, I'm not mad anymore, but I'm not quite ready to apologize." Then one or the other of us will make a joke, which breaks up some of the tension hanging between us. This opens the door to renewed physical contact - the hug - which will give way to the actual apology.

So what do you think? Does all this sound totally crazy and foreign?

AMERICANS ON PARADE

No matter where you're from, when you go to a new place, people want to ask you questions. There is one requirement: you must be from someplace unique or famous or really far away. If you're from Atlanta, nobody wants to know about your day-to-day in Wichita. But if you live in Orlando or New York, people have questions for you. Don't be discouraged, people of Wichita. You live in America which is one of the most famous countries on earth, so when you go to another country, you'll be questioned too. In fact, start beefing up your knowledge about Mickey Mouse, giant hamburgers and George W. These are apparently your favorite subjects.

When you're traveling and there are a group of natives nearby that realize that you're from a (unique/famous/distant) foreign place, one of them will inevitably become bold enough to approach you. Sometimes they have genuine curiosity and other times they just want to show that they aren't afraid of you. But regardless of the motive, their line of questioning will always point you right towards the stereotypes that they hold.

Tonight, the group of three other Americans that I'm traveling with went to a pub here in England to get a beer and some food. The place was fairly empty and the bartender was really nice. As we were eating our dinner and discussing the day, an older man that was sitting with a group of younger guys staggered over to us. There were only two groups in the pub, so picking out the Americans wasn't difficult. He had stories of coming to America and being horribly mistreated by giant hillbillies that relentlessly asked him if it was "tea time". Up next was what seems to be a popular topic for the British when talking to Americans ... Iraq. I say that with a sigh because very little productive conversation about such a complex topic is going to happen when you've put away a couple of pints or in his case, six. But because logic doesn't usually prevail at pubs or bars or nightclubs, the conversation marched on. As the man began to ask what we thought about Iraq and the overall situation in the middle east, he asked a rhetorical question that sent steam out of my coworker's (and former paratrooper) ears.

"Americans don't really care much when a solder dies over there do they? It doesn't seem to concern you much."

He proceeded to tell us that the English become very vocal and have public outrage when one of their solders dies. I saw on BBC last night that a British solder died two days ago in Afghanistan. I guess this guy was bringing his public outrage to the pub.

If you know me at all, you know that I'm not a very good flag-waving patriot. I've been a huge critic (detractor?) of The W. for a long time and feel awkward when saying the pledge of allegiance. Regardless of all of that, I'm still human. I don't like it when people die. It makes me sad when a solder dies and it made sad when Saddam Hussein died. I hate that darkness is in this world. The man that approached us was clearly not in his right mind after multiple doses of truth serum, but he's not the first Brit to approach me on this topic.

The next time that I meet someone from a (unique/famous/distant) foreign place, I want to be more aware of my own stereotypes, prejudices and assumptions. Oh yeah, and if you're my friend, don't let me talk to anyone after six beers.

EVERYONE'S FAVORITE PERSON

There's a good chance that you have positive memories of your grandma. Maybe she always had cookies when you came over or maybe she gave you a few extra dollars from time to time. Perhaps her very presence was calming and inviting. While traveling on a train in England today, I sat across from one of these special people.

This grandma was traveling with what appeared to be her 30-something son, 20-something daughter and the 20-something daughter's two pre-school age children. But this grandma wasn't just another grandma on a family trip. As I got on the train, I saw that she and her children were punishing Carling tall-boys (English beer). This is 12pm on a Monday. Also, I thought it was odd that she was carrying a grocery bag filled with other miscellaneous beers. Whatever. You're allowed to drink on trains over here, so no biggy, right? Sporting a thigh length sweater dress, knee high boots and a belly that would make most truckers jealous, I kept thinking, "when did Posh Spice get so old?". When grandma would talk (belligerently slur) at her grandkids, they would just look at her like confused puppies. Grandma would get frustrated and try to hit unsuccessfully swat them. Next, she would lean over to me saying, "I'll spend Beckham's effin money... you bet... effin...".

Needless to say, she made the train ride really long. There really is no deep moral to this post. Several British people have talked to me about how many rednecks there are in America. Apparently they exist in England too.

DRESSED FOR HALLOWEEN

Here it is, Halloween already. I've always really enjoyed the holiday - what's not to like about dressing up and getting free candy?

We were encouraged to wear a costume to work today; we're having a party (complete with booze - on campus - I feel like I work for David Brent at the Wernham Hogg paper company in Slough) today in about an hour. My boss asked me a few days ago if I was going to dress up; she thought I might be religiously against Halloween.

I am not religiously against Halloween. I'm not a huge fan of dressing up like a ghost or witch or anything overtly evil (although I did go to a party once as Britney Spears in her Catholic schoolgirl outfit, which was pretty skanky of me), but I don't see anything wrong with costumes and candy and goofy decorations like fake spider webs and people getting together to have a good time and build memories. Plus it's all part of the whole fall experience.

Since I didn't have much time to put together a costume, I came as a person from a cold-medicine ad. I'm in my PJs with tussled hair and a blanket around my shoulders, and I used makeup to darken the circles under my eyes and make my nose red. Not terribly creative, but comfortable at least. And I only had to spend about 10 minutes getting ready for work this morning.

I've done better other years. In high school I went once as Cruella Deville, with a leopard-print coat and my hair painted black on one side and white on the other. I've gone as the tooth fairy, Rapunzel, and an '80s valley girl, and a couple years ago, Philip and I appeared at a party I threw as Napoleon Dynamite and Deb.

The Deb costume was pretty good, but apart from Napoleon, not terribly obvious. Unlike Philip (in his "Vote for Pedro" T-shirt and curly wig) whose costume was unmistakable solo, mine needed a little explanation. I did get some amusing guesses as to my identity. Clad in tennis shoes with slouch socks, a side ponytail, and a rad fannypack, guests at the party wondered if I was a tourist, or even funnier, if I was dressed as the host of a Christian party. Best of all, my mother-in-law didn't think I had worn a costume.

Around here, people have been pretty creative. I've seen a '50s drive-up waitress on roller skates, a mullet-clad redneck, an enthusiastic Steve Irwin, and a Man in Black - complete with guitar - among others. We'll see what other unique costumes people are sporting here in a few.