Daddy's Intervention

My wife and I arrived for our appointment with her chosen therapist about ten minutes early.  She picked up a magazine from the coffee table, and I went searching in vain for a copy of “Guns and Ammo” or “Saltwater Fishing Adventures.”  I settled for an old copy of “Newsweek” with part of the cover and most of the pages missing except for a feature story on Tom Cruise that was strewn with obscenities written in lipstick.  I wished I had been listening outside the door when the author of those colorful projections was inside airing her relationship challenges.    


I reviewed my mental list of reasons why gender role rules were essential to not only the solution to my pitiful situation but to the future of our children and their tolerance of mates who were raised by parents who still believed that we are all happiest when we live lives exactly as seen in millions of American homes every night on television—in the late Fifties and early Sixties.  


Ozzie never cooked.  Ward Cleaver was never forced against his will to seek help from a marriage counselor.  Jim and Margaret Anderson on “Father Knows Best” had served as role models for most of the residents of the White House for several decades, for crying out loud.  Well, except for when those damned Clintons bought their way into power.  But we all know the truth of that, and it has no place in the future of our America.  


I had no idea how the session would be conducted, but I had come prepared.  I had made a list of my feelings in case the therapist was brainwashed into the Carl Rogers’ school of non-directive counseling and unconditional positive regard.  I had tightly woven logical arguments prepared in case the E.G. Williamson’s “Tell ‘em the fuck what rational people do in situations like this” was her chosen therapeutic framework.  I even had a few dreams cooked up in case Madame Zelda, the psycho-therapist, went Freud on me.  


Most importantly, I had my iPod loaded with Hank Williams tunes---“Cold, Cold Heart,” “I Just Don’t Like this Kind of Livin’,” and “My Son Calls Another Man Daddy.”  


I don’t remember much about the first fifteen minutes.  My wife was fully explaining our “Situation.” Ho hum . . . I had heard all of it before.  When it was my turn to respond, I choked.  I mean I literally choked.  My breath mint had slipped down my throat   Most of our time was used up when I finally hacked up the little son of a bitch.  I managed to catch two phrases offered by the therapist:  “catastrophic life changes,” and “adopt a new set of skills.”  


I looked at my wife, and in her eyes I saw something that in our thirty years of marriage I had never seen before:  disappointment.  She was looking straight at me.