Fights About Pizza and Beer

I had been listening to some guests at the Christmas party argue about Costa Rican politics for half an hour before I started to get antsy.

It was one of those arguments that, if you talked to the people having it the next day, at least one of them would say, “It wasn’t an argument. We were just having a spirited discussion.” But it was an argument, fueled by beer, eggnog, and pine-tree shaped sugar cookies.

I was immediately made uncomfortable at the beginning of this not-a-discussion because it was Costa Rican native talking to an American about the politics in Costa Rica which had made the Costa Rican consider coming to America. And, in the style that people from other countries expect of people from my country, the American began to make all kinds of assertions about Costa Rican politics, of which they actually knew very little. Country-splaining.

Dan, my future ex-husband, largely impervious to other people’s emotions, sat in on the argument without pause. He would occasionally offer his opinion as well, although I couldn’t have told you whose side he was on, as my discomfort with the whole situation had turned my attention inward. I took my phone out of my pocket to look at the time, relieved to see we had already been at the party for two hours.

Before entering the party, Dan and I had agreed we would stay for maybe for an hour–two tops–and then we would go to Land Grant, a local brewery which had just released their annual holiday stout, Beard Crumbs. I had been looking forward to visiting Land Grant all week.

“Okay, it is 7:15 now,” I had reminded Dan when we got out of the car. “So if we can leave here by 9:30, that would be great. Two hours is plenty of time to catch up with everyone.”

Dan did not acknowledge my attempt to synchronize our watches, as if I was talking to myself. Which, I would realize months later as our divorce process began, I was.

This conversation makes me sound extra type-A. Who wants to agree on a time to leave a party just when they arrive? Dan was never concerned with time, particularly mine. And he hated, HATED, to leave parties that were not over.

When we went out to do anything where our interests or goals diverged slightly, the car ride/train ride to our destination would begin the same way. Dan would state what he wanted to do. I would state what I wanted to do (if different from what he wanted to do), and I would suggest a compromise.

I had promised we didn’t have to stay long at Land Grant–I just wanted one drink. Land Grant was open until 11, and we had arrived at our friend’s holiday party a little after 7 in evening. We should have plenty of time to enjoy the party and to get to Land Grant for one pint before they closed.

After checking my phone in my politcal-argument-avoiding-discomfort, I tapped Dan on the shoulder. “Hey–it’s after nine already. You about ready to go?”

Dan looked at me as if I just suggested we tip over our friends’ Christmas tree and stomp on all its ornaments. “What? But we just started having fun!”

I sighed and retreated to my friend’s fridge to pull out another beer, suspecting we were not going to be leaving any time soon.

This was the usual second half to a lot of our evenings out: Dan would “forget” about the our initial agreement of how we would spend the evening and I would put up with it.

My parents fought all the time, in all sorts of venues, in all sorts of ways, about any number of things. But there were a few fights they had over and over again, throughout the years of my life during which they were both alive. I came to think of them as “Siegel standards” arguments, like a kind of musical genre. One of their chart-topping hits was a ditty I would title “Max’s Birth”.

We were living in Osaka, Japan when my baby brother was born. On the day my brother was to be born, my mother had already been in labor for a few hours. At some point during my mother’s labor, my father was chatting with the doctors, when the topic turned from his wife being in labor to the topic of what was for lunch. Someone suggested my father run to a place nearby and pick up some pizzas for everyone. My father asked the doctors if that was really a good idea–wasn’t Max going to be born any second? The doctors assured my father my mother would likely be in labor for several more hours. So, my father decided to go and pick up pizzas for himself and the delivery team. And when he arrived back 45 minutes later, Max had made his way into the world.

The two things I think about this story now are:

1. Despite the doctor’s assurances, if I was in my father’s position, I don’t think I would have left.
2. The pizza in Japan must have been very good if my father would agree to eat it.

And so my parents would be in the middle of a fight fifteen years later:

Mom: I feel abandoned because of [whatever].

Dad: I am not abandoning you!

Mom: You are abandoning me! Just like when I was giving birth to your son and you went out for pizza!

Dad: The doctors told me it was going to be HOURS before Max was born!

Mom: You’d been married to a nurse for years! You should have known half of what doctors say is complete bullshit!

On the night of this Christmas party, Dan and I had been making these negotiations with each other for almost ten years. And yet no matter how I tried, the situation always turned out the same. These nights always felt like hostage negotiations. It took me a decade to figure out I was the hostage.

As I predicted, we did not get to go to Land Grant that evening: we stayed at the party a few more hours, leaving right around the time the brewery was closing. A week later, Dan went back to New Jersey for Christmas and I stayed behind. I went to Land Grant with Basil on Christmas Eve. It was unseasonably warm that night, in the mid-fifties instead of the thirties, reminding me of what December was like in Tucson instead of Ohio. Basil, not a big drinker, had a few sips of Beard Crumbs and then said he would be happy to stay as long as I wanted for as many pints as I wanted. We sat on the porch at Land Grant and talked through a few more glasses for a few more hours.

When I retell this story, someone might think my advice is “find a partner who will do what you want to do”. But the core issue is really having a partner who values your time. Valuing someone’s time comes in many forms: not being late for dates and appointments, having a sense of urgency when your significant other is in a hurry, and making time for things your significant other wants to do. But there is also the time wasted when you re-enact the same argument, the same stupid fight, over and over again, with the same unsuccessful resolution. It is time you never get back.