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The divorce rate in the United States has been reported in the 40-50% range for as long as I’ve been paying attention. That range is too low.
Marriage
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I subscribed my wife, Sheri, to a paid Spotify account for her birthday several years ago. To help you gauge how incredibly cheap I really am, I think a Spotify account is like $10 a month. Or maybe $15. Or maybe it was $10 back then, and now it’s $15. Anyway, the point is, $10 a month took thoughtful consideration for me. “That’s $120 a year, don’t you know. Why can’t you use the free version? Do you really need to be able to create playlists? Can’t you just sit by your boombox and press the cassette record button when the radio plays your favorite songs like the seasoned Gen-Xer you are?” Generosity just oozes from my thoughtful consideration.
This gift for Sheri allows for three logins using the same username and password. I immediately signed my phone into her account, and within a week, I found another of my devices I could use to occupy the third loggin. Happy birthday, Sheri. I’ll be commandeering 2/3rds of your cheap-ass gift.
Believe it or not, that’s not the end of the Spotify story.
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“Did your mother ever have any kids that lived?” I’ve always loved that insult from the classic 1986 movie, Stand By Me. Not only did Vern recover from Teddy’s jab, but along with Chris and Gordie, the pre-teen buds continued on their 20 mile trek to see a dead body. It is hard to argue that with smart phones in every kids’ pocket, we have taken both a giant leap forward and a devastating step back.
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Three drinks for two people. That sure looked familiar. He carried them triangle style – two beers in plastic cups secured in the semicircles of both of his thumbs and index fingers, with her plastic wine cup precariously squeezed between his two middle fingers. His priorities were made clear by which drink was least secure in the very likely event that he stumbled. But he didn’t stumble. At least not yet.
They heard the upbeat music from the beverage tent, and drifted over looking for the party and his people. But this was a brass band playing at a summer outdoor festival for a food-truck lunch crowd, and so early in the day, he was one-of-a-kind. A kind I recognize. He was me from a decade ago.
Audio version now available.
Most of the active or sober alcoholics who listen to our Untoxicated Podcast or read our Sober and Unashamed blog are referred to our stuff by their partners. In most cases, the partner has tried to implement some of what she has learned from our experiences into her own growth and recovery. This means that the majority of the alcoholics who are introduced to our stories are already feeling the pain of emotional detachment and a lack of compassion from their partners when they first find us.
Most of the referred alcoholics greet our words with the same question: “Who the fuck is this guy?” Sheri is not met with this level of venomous aggression. Maybe it is sexism, or maybe her fearlessness and confidence are obvious even to new listeners. Regardless, I think the portion of our audience that we enflame is wise to direct their aggression toward me as Sheri takes having no more fucks to give to a whole different level.
While watching a movie about college basketball in the 1960s, I noticed most of the men in the crowd were wearing suits and ties. In 2025 can you even imagine dressing up to attend a sporting event? I hate the confined feeling of a suit jacket, and I’ve never understood the purpose of a piece of colorful silk dangling from my neck. If it was there for me to clean the spaghetti sauce from my mouth, at least there would be a plausible purpose. I’m certainly not proposing a return to wearing church clothes to basketball games. I like to say, “Once you find hoodie-town, you’ll never wear a button down.” (I’ve actually never said that, but maybe I’ll start now.) The point is that when the camera scanned the crowd at that cinematic basketball game, I was certain that every man in those stands held the door for someone else entering the arena. I’m equally certain that hands were shaken firmly, people stood graciously to let the people seated in the middle of the rows pass, and pleases and thank yous were abundant.
It is hard to argue but that we’ve devolved.
I opened the door and saw Javier, the sixteen-year-old son of one of our tenants, standing on my doorstep. His was not a face I expected to see, but I was fond of his family, and he looked distressed. I asked him if he wanted to come in and talk. He was breathing hard as he perched on the sofa. Javi told me, his face reddening, that his dad had started hitting his little sisters. “I could put up with it when it was just me. But them? No. I can’t stand it.” He knew I was a lawyer (though unbeknownst to this desperate kid, I hadn’t practiced in years, and never in family law). He’d come to me to understand his options for getting his dad out of the house. He even brought evidence in the form of cellphone videos of his dad’s violence he had bravely recorded inside the apartment. What would happen if he called CPS, he wondered.
A couple of hours later, I reluctantly sent Javi home, breathed a big sigh, and opened my laptop to do some research. This was my first (and hopefully last) time being the trusted adult a kid came to with a big problem, and I was determined not to let him, his mom and his sisters down.
After alcohol killed my husband, I looked through years of text messages from him, looking for clues. There was no mystery, and I’m not sure what I was trying to solve. Somehow, knowing the truth wasn’t enough. I compiled his messages to me – often repeated over and over again – in search of answers.
These are his words:
“I know that I am not what you want anymore. I know you are unhappy in our marriage. I know you are pulling away and preparing to leave me. I have never been enough for you. I know you are looking for someone new to replace me, if you have not already found him. You and the kids don’t want me around anyway. I’m best served to just stay quiet. It all seems so fragile sometimes. You guys were fine until me. Being quiet doesn’t work. Should I move further away?
“I will just work. That’s all I am good for.
When Harry Met Sally is an iconic movie with a star-studded cast, and is arguably the best flick from the classic era of late 20th century rom-coms. But it is not best known for the romance, or even the comedy.
It is best known for the orgasm scene.
Please ask about my cats. Elvis and Carson are my loyal little companions, but even more importantly, they are my family. They are my comfort, my unconditional loves and my best friends. Ask about them and enjoy my smile as I tell you all about their perfect little furry faces.
Please don’t ask about Louie. I’ve distanced myself, and I don’t know the everyday details of how he’s doing. You asking about him reminds me of the distance, the detachment and the walls I’ve had to build to protect myself. You don’t know all of this, and I know that no malice exists behind your innocent question.