KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON

During World War 11 people looked at the above words until their shoulders straightened up again. It's not a bad thing to remember. Under any circumstances. For instance. The other evening I became....engaged....in an argument. I became SO engaged that I forgot what I was arguing about, but I kept on with my side of things becauseI couldn't find any distraction meaningful or fun or significant enough to drag myself out of the argument. HOW engaged was I? Well, I jumped up and down, THAT'S pretty engaged. I broke a CD in half with my own two hands. THAT'S pretty engaged. I said (shouted) things like, "This isn't just STUPID, this is EPICALLY stupid!" Epically stupid? And I didn't even know what the subject matter was? I said things like, "Grrrrr, you are JUST like a goldfish! In one ear and out the other!"

Goldfish? Ears? Wha?

And then, quite suddenly, the argument died down on both sides, and I felt a deliciously cozy feeling. As if whatever gristle and stone I had been eating had just turned into a fabulous homemade flan with custard sauce. And I thought to myself, "Gee, that was kind of FUN. It actually felt pretty GOOD to argue and now it feels really good to NOT be arguing." Then, this morning I was reading a book about the Male Brain and the book said that couples who argue together stay together longer than couples who DON'T argue. And I can understand that. I really can.

I think I probably contain many ideas and beliefs which other American therapists just don't seem to hold that dear. I'm probably wrong on most of them. Unless I'm probably right. Because, between you and me, my "Happy Couples" rating is as good as any other therapist's I know. Go figure.
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My parents didn't argue. I think my father was terrified of my mother. She had a wicked tongue and (sorry, all you Indians out there) was part Indian, which, she liked to say, made her more prone to rage than many other people might be. I'll say. She was a real doozy. She used to like to say, "I'm not a f-----ing American Indian, I'm a f-----ing CANADIAN Indian! Most people would think that a Canadian Indian would be better bred, at least mellower than an American Indian, but my mother swore they weren't. Much of the time she behaved as if she were born with a silver Tomahawk in her mouth. I once watched her - and this was during one of those years that she lost her hair and turned brown and was very near death from an as yet undiagnosed case of Addison's Disease - I once watched her throw a jar of fish soup at the local Lutheran Pastor's wife and her aim was dead on. DEAD on. My mouth opened in wonderment, which is probably the only time my mouth has opened like that. My mouth has been open many, many times, but never from sheer wonderment. Except for that day. Because the jar BROKE on Pastor Randoy's wife's back and all these little Scandinavian fish drenched in cream poured over the poor woman's suit jacket. The back of her knit suit jacket. At which point my father walked into the bedroom (the Pastor's wife had come to BRING my mother the jar of that awful fish soup) and immediately began to charm and give solace to the Pastor's wife. straight.
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My Uncle Charlie and Aunt Rose, though, they won the trophy for fighting. It wasn't arguiing, which is mostly comprised of words. It was RAGE. One day, as we were driving to their house, my mama said to me, "Do you know that your Aunt Rose ocne tried to SCOOPO out one of Charlie's eyes with a sharp spoon?" A 'sharp spoon"? Indeed, I hadn't known that. I couldn't get it out of my mind. For the first time ever, I was glad that, although we were actually going to visit Uncle Charlie and Aunt Rose, I wouldn't be allowed inside the house. I had to stay outside with the twenty or so chihuahua dogs, each of which I hated. If I want to pet a dog with no hair, I'll pet a hairless duck. ....but now I have to go.....Maggie has come spend a few hours and nothing is more important, my dear dears, than a friend.