Thursday, July 7, 2011

Natya Shashtra or Catharsis Melodious

In No Particular Order.

1. Bon Iver, Skinny Love

2. Kelli Scar, Break Up

3. Storms, Broken!/pages/Storms/117264968320873

4.The Long Winters, Clouds

5. Avett Brothers, The Ballad of Love and Hate

6. Coldplay, The Scientist

7. Dawes, Love Is All I Am

8. Florence And The Machine, Hurricane Drunk

9. The Cure, Pictures Of You

10. Marching Band, Gorgeous Behavior

11. Lauryn Hill, Ex- Factor

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Not a Liar

I will never again love a man as much as I loved my Ex husband.

My matter ached for Him.  All of my energy.  My existence was only for Him.

I can not ever again offer unconditional love to person not born of me. 

I want that to be true.  I never want to love a man in the sick way that I loved my Ex.  I don't want to revolve my life, my world, my mind around a man in the way I did with Him. 


I communicate well with my Boyfriend.  We are simpatico.  He is my best friend, respectful, incredibly patient, calming, even tempered, communicative, loving, affectionate, his touch feels wonderful, He is strong and smart and yes, He loves me long time.  He has never yelled at me or made me feel like an idiot- in public or in private. 

There is a freedom in knowing that
I don't need him in my life but
I want him in my life.
However, my lifetime of 'fuckedupedness' has numbed my senses and I rock back and forth between knowing that I am currently involved in a healthy love and wondering what hell the the shape of love actually is.

My particles know that this is the way it's supposed to feel.  Muscle memory signals otherwise.

Like an addict, I search for a fix of dysfunction. 

That's what it is isn't it? 
A dysfunctional fix.
I scramble around in the dark, picking and scraping at nothings.  I'm desperate for the volatile cocktail of rage and passion that accompanies dysfunctional, co dependant relationships.  There is a secret molecule in me that wants to continue to live/relive all of the insanity that I grew up understanding as a normal.   The masochist in me is clearly hungry for the pain, torment and drama. 

Give me anger, fury, passion.  I will easily mistake it for love. 
My boyfriend is clean.  Together we are clean.  I find this remarkable.  He will never agree to further damage me.  I find this remarkable.  I understand that he will leave me before I manipulate him into the role of Sadist. 

I have attempted. 
Habits are hard to break.

It's one of the things that keeps me attached to my Ex.  I know I can count on him to get me high.  It's a roller coaster ride.  A syringe of guilt that kills my progress.  An adrenaline rush that comes crashing down on my head and leaves me wasted on a bathroom floor.  Even now.  My boyfriend finds me huddled in a withered mass, fully clothed in corner of the tub.  He undresses me, turns on the warm water and cleans me up.
It is my habit
to break.

I don't know if I can recognize the shape of good love and I want to convince myself that Love version 2.0 will eventually fill the dent in my heart.  I want to believe that I deserve a clean, good love.

I deserve good.
I deserve love.   

-If I squint my eyes I can make out the silhouette.

My boyfriend knelt in front of me with a wooden block that had the shape of love, kindness and respect carved into it.  He took his words, his affection and his patience and showed me how all of the pieces fit together to form a happy relationship.  This is what I deserve.

He kept a Diaper Genie for all of the shit, shame and sadness that burdened me.  We walked the trapper keeper of waste down the stairs of the apartment and out onto the sidewalk. 
We're still out there on the sidewalk. 
I am having difficulty parting ways with the dirty diapers that have harassed me for the majority of my life.  Without it I don't know who I am.  I've grown accustomed to the filth.    
My legs are tired.  I'm squatting on the corner of the street, hugging my knees, fixated on this container.  I'm sick, I know.  I'm unsure how long I'm going to be out here.  Perhaps my boyfriend's patience will wear thin and I'll be left standing alone on the street with my shit.  That is what I would deserve.
July 6th---- *Curb Alert.

New Yorkers love free stuff.   


Friday, June 17, 2011


Thank you for reading.  Thank you for responding.  I'm sorry that so many of you have also endured similar pain but this is the essential nexus.  The human condition and connection.  I feel safe sharing my experience because it is also your experience.  I feel safe sharing because I have love and friendship that supports me and makes my shitty days bearable. 

Better is something I become everyday.  I do feel as though I have the opportunity to reconstruct myself in the manner that is my own truth. 

Read Jung, Man and His Symbols.  When a human being goes through extraordinary suffering some surface into a the 'true self.'  Every thing that was is broken down into nothing because nothing is the same.  Your subconscious emerges and shakes hands with your conscious.  You lose your mind.  You are forced to share a room with your all of the trauma that you have blocked for your entire lifetime.  It sits there staring at you until you can specifically name every pore on its face, every wrinkle and every vein on its leg. 

That varicose is My mother's car accident when I was 10

That pimple scar is from the bi-polar teacher that humiliated me in front of the entire class.

That dark circle under my eye is from the physical abuse.

That scar on my knee is from the time that my mother tried to set herself on fire.

That wrinkle on my chin is from preschool when the little blond girls forced me to dress up like a lion while they costumed as princess. 

Etc., etc.

You sit there and are forced to inspect.  You are repulsed that its you and your pain but slowly you come to terms with it all and you find a calmness.  Less anger.  You can acknowledge and identify how you feel while you're feeling it.  You stop worrying and fantasizing about the terrible things that can happen because they already did.  Your imagination opens up into this beautiful unreality where anything is possible.  An altered state of sorts. 

I spent the last 4 months day dreaming about wonderful things that could happen for me.   That's a new concept.  Initially I thought I was going cray because I didn't understand how my brain was operating. It kept me going.  I was depressed but still hopeful.  Truth is, my mind had to change paths or the results could be devastating.

I ain't no shrink but I think this is what's happening.

Point being, I feel ok.  Better everyday.  No worries...

I'm still hilariously funny and I still enjoy laughing at you, so that's good.  My name has the word 'Ha' in it for God's sake.   

Now if I can just figure out what to do with the rest of my life. 

Middle Management in the Restaurant business
TV Host
Blogger Extraordinaire!

If the results matched the outcome of last weeks interviews and auditions, it looks as though the fortune that I've spent on my degrees and conservatory have gone to waste and I am just another actor/artist casualty committing to the restaurant industry for the finality of my days.  uggh.  

Thanks again and keep the emails and comments coming.  Your experience is not for naught.  Use the beautiful and kind words that you have offered me to encourage and love yourselves.  I will continue to write as long as you continue to read.

I am the Lion. 
They knew it all along.   

Oyster's are not vegetarian.

Oyster's are not vegetarian.  If you eat oysters, you are not a vegetarian.  Fish sauce is not vegetarian.  If you eat fish sauce, you are not vegetarian. 

If you are a Celebrity Chef (who shall remain nameless) and you are cooking for vegetarians while shooting a 'Vegetarian' episode and you add Oyster Sauce to your 'Vegetarian' dish, shame on you. You should know better.  My mother (a staunch vegetarian) would be very disappointed that you have an entire arsenal of people on your team (at least 25) and none of them told you prior to show time that your non vegetarian ingredient was umm, how do I put this...NON VEGETARIAN.  But you're the expert, not them.  Ultimately your brand/name not theirs. 
However, you pay them to do the work so you don't have to.

Who in the world is responsible for the reputation of public figures? 
Could it be that once you attain a certain level or power and celebrity you become your Own Personal Jesus?  Staffer's can only do so much to protect and advise their boss and after all, as a staffer your job is on the line.  


If a "hot dog" is meatless, spineless and uses Face book to ruin his pregnant wife's life- what is he?
A: He is an Anthony Wiener. 

<ya like that?  You'll like this too>

Seriously Anthony.  Where was your staff and why didn't they stop you from putting oyster sauce on your Noodle and calling it vegetarian? 
Did you miss the mandatory orientation where they tell you not to act like a complete idiot and end your own career by having an affair via email?  Why haven't you realized that only you are responsible for you life?  Don't you watch Oprah!? Gaahwd.
And now you have convinced your pregnant wife to stand by your side through all of YOUR mess.  You have not only embarrassed her by sending those 'lewd photos' and emails but you've completely humiliated her and proven her to be stupid by manipulating her into believing that it's wise to 'Stand by Your Man.' 

Huma, honey, the Rodeo's over when the clown jumps into the pit.  It's time to look the bull in the face and save yourself.  Your hubby was saucing his non-veg noodle instead of attending the 'What not to do as politician if you would like to have a lengthy career seminar.' 

Thursday, June 16, 2011

The Annals of My Divorce

At 9:47am on Wednesday June 8th, 2011 I was a married woman.  At 9:52am on Wednesday June 8th, 2011 I became a single woman.  No longer committing adultery.  No longer living in sin.  No longer a wife. 

I sat in the court room alone waiting for my name to be called.  The sharply lit room with 70's white ceramic tile and pale green painted walls made me feel like I was in hospice. 
Three other women ran their 12 minute course before me and all were exonerated from their marriages. 

The judge asked the same questions over and over again but only one plagued me,
"Is there any reasonable prospect that you can reconcile your marriage?" 
Three times the question was asked and three times my stomach hit my throat like gravel hurled from a sling shot.  I was under oath.  Had I done everything I could have done to keep my marriage together?  Not being in love with your spouse is not reason enough to cut the strings that bind two people in life.  I know that.  Why am I suddenly unable to answer the question?


I desperately wanted to call a friend and ask- did I do enough?  Panic.  I can't even remember why I'm getting divorced.  It's been nearly a year since I asked for a divorce.  I tried so hard to not have hatred and anger towards my husband, to move on and leave it all behind that somehow I have begun to romanticize our relationship.

I saw my husband the weekend before my court appearance to say goodbye.  I needed to ask forgiveness for my actions on one day in October.

My Aunt had died suddenly and tragically on October 16th, 2010.  Although we were separated, my husband returned to our apartment to drive me to the viewing.  Over the phone He swore that He would give me support and be my friend and not press me to discuss our relationship.
He did not keep his promise.

He arrived at the apartment with a shaved head- an Indian tradition when mourning the loss of a loved one.  He lost 15 pounds in 2 weeks and looked like a cancer patient undergoing chemo. 
It made me ill to look at his face.  He tried to contain himself but it wasn't long before He was crying so hard that He was moaning.  I stood there and I watched.  He got on his knees and begged me to take him back.  He grabbed my legs and drooled and spit and cried on my belly and I peeled myself off of him.  I was crushing him and I knew it.  I was angry and I knew it. 
All I wanted was to grieve for my Aunt and forget that our marriage was failing.
The burden of sorrow and remorse that He was carrying around was too heavy for him to think of anything other than his need to make me his once again.

He changed his mind, He would try counseling. 
He would do anything to keep me.

I was ruthless.  For the first and only time in our relationship I would not comfort him.   
I deserved the right to grieve for my Aunt God dammit.

We returned from the viewing.  I made him sleep on his own couch and wouldn't allow him into his own bed.  He continued crying in the living room and I continued to lose my mind in the bedroom.  He whimpered like a puppy separated from its mother. 

I kicked him out of his own home at 2am.  He drove over bridges and under signs that displayed the number for the Suicide Prevention Hot line, 1-800-273-TALK.

 I was emotionally numb from months of verbal abuse and I couldn't save him. We both drowned.

What I did was unforgivable.  I was cruel.  I needed to get down on my knees and repent.  I needed to erase the memory of his dejected face.  His beautiful sad eyes the colour of the bottomless sea.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

 We used to have outrageous shouting battles and out of control fights- habits we inherited from our parents.   Habits are hard to break. 

I started therapy over 2 years ago.  I wanted a family.  I wanted babies.  I wanted to make human beings that were compassionate, fearless and functional.  I did not and do not want to unconsciously dump all of my "stuff" on a fresh creature.  I want my offspring to be healthy.  I knew that started with me.  I want to be a great mother.  I want to be model parents that don't scream and fight.  That is up to me. 

Off to therapy we go. 
The thing the world doesn't tell you about therapy is that as you change and become happier you become conscious of other people's "stuff."  If you're smart, you realize that you can't change the "stuff" of others and you learn tools to adjust yourself as needed within your relationships. 

I was adjusting.  I was not shouting.  I was becoming less angry.  I learned to communicate.  I asked confidently, politely and clearly for the whatever it was I needed whether it be sex, food, a hug, whatever.  A valiant effort was made to be assertive and not passive aggressive and! no more temper tantrums.  I'm not saying that I was the poster child for therapy but I was improving and it was noticeable. 

He however became even more angry and aggressive after his first year away at law school.  He had two speeds, self medicated and not.  I tried to love him. He lashed out at me, put me down and cornered me verbally. 
I did not fight back.
I wish I would have fought back.
He crushed me.  I let it happen.
I took the punishment everyday. 
I used my fucking tools. 
I would endure my unwarranted mistreatment, offer him what he needed in whatever way possible and try desperately to hold myself together until he left for work - at which point I would fall apart for the half hour that was allotted to me before I cleaned myself up and left for work.

I was getting better?  he was not. 

"All I need is an apology."  That's what I told myself everyday.  "He loves me.  He'll come to his senses.  You keep getting better, healthier and he'll see you as an example and he'll change because he'll see how good I am.  All I need is an apology and all is forgiven."

The apology came too late. 
I had self protected by detaching emotionally and didn't even know it. 

The weekend before my court appearance I saw George.  I asked for forgiveness for all of the bad that I have ever done to Him. 

I didn't receive forgiveness.  I accepted the blame he slung on me.  The guilt was enough to keep me married so he would get what he wanted.   

Wednesday June 8th, 2011.  I'm in the courtroom pew waiting for my name to be called.

"Sho-haw Code-ing?"

I walk to the table in front of the judge

"Please sit down."

I correct the Bailiffs pronunciation, "Yes, Soha Codd-ing."

"Sorry, Codd-ing."

The Judge speaks, "Mrs. Code-ing,"

"--It's Codd-ing Your Honor."

"Sorry, Codd-ing...Codd-ing is it?"

"Yes, quite alright Your Honor."

"We have a problem, I can not grant you your divorce because your husband did not notarize his signature."

I can't come back here again.  I don't want to sit in this crappy place all by myself and question my life anymore.  The judge takes a moment to look through a law book to see what, if anything can be done.  I want to run for the door and never return.

This is a sign.  I shouldn't be getting a divorce. 
I want to run.  I am going to run.

A voice comes into my head.  You don't know what to do, trust your gut. 

I take a deep breath and decide to look through my set of papers.
Trust your gut.

I find his notarized signature. 

Last chance.  I don't have to tell anyone that I found the papers.  I can walk out of here and go back to Him.  Not out of love but out of guilt and fear.

Deep breath.
Trust your gut.

The voice- it's my voice- 'You will never know if you did enough.  Finish what you've started and let Him go.'

"Your Honor!  I found the notarized copy!"

"Great.  Let's proceed with the hearing so you can get on with your life Mrs. Code-ing."

"Yes Your Honor.  Thank you."

Monday, February 7, 2011

Hop, jump, skip forward.

Not much remains the same.  Just a few short months ago I was a married Jersey dwelling actress with an impressive 3 star Danny Meyer/Chef Floyd Cardoz day job.  Today, I am riding the emotional tides of the divorce process, on hiatus from the audition circuit, unemployed and if it wasn't for the good graces of great friends i would be homeless. 

Archie dog and I are lucky to be sofa surfing in a lux apartment in Hell's Kitchen.  The name of any 'hood that refers to the area in which food is stored and meals are created is directly up our digestive alley.

I like food and I'm eating it often.  Mostly I'm attempting to devour my infinite volume of Six Flags type feelings but it turns out that's nearly impossible.  I learn through trial and error and I'm not a quick study.  The result is that I have split a pair of pants and am forced to unbutton my trousers while seated.  My bras don't fit and I hover around in yoga pants-the NYC version of good ol' fashion elastic waist-banded jersey knit sweats.   I pride myself on my foodie ways but just so I don't alienate the general public, I'm currently accepting all applicants.  Pringles, gummy worms, pecan-maple scones with fresh strawberries and milk, chocolate cake, pickles, 99 cent slices of pizza, Pinkberry, lasagna, chips & salsa.  I ate all of that on Sunday....before 6pm...for reals.  

This is not the ideal time to outgrow my wardrobe.  It occurred to me that I must discontinue my pattern of consumption solely for financial reasons.  I can't afford new clothes.  Pathetic but true.  

*Side note and some insight for my men- women love shoes for a variety of reasons but predominantly because after approximately age 10 our shoe size remains the same.  Our weight can continue to fluctuate  throughout our adult lives but we will always manage to slide gracefully into those gorgeous, non judgemental black strappies.*  

I'm not equipped for these sudden self imposed life changes and either is my dog.  He's been puking and peeing all over his new territory, his appetite is nil and he is considerably more lazy.  We're both bummed but he has the privilege of being coddled by three Archie lovers.  There's always a warm lap and a loving hand for the little devil even when he soils an expensive rug.  Lucky jerk. 

Until now I've never broken up with anyone.   My husband was my  first and only everything- ol' skool style.  We met at Kinko's in 1997.   I was 19 and had just moved to Delaware from New Jersey after being kicked out of fashion school and spending the summer backpacking through Europe.  He was a copy boy and I thought he was the bees knees.  Suddenly there was a dire need for at least two of everything that came on paper.  After about a week and a half of invented reasons for facsimile, I grew some courage and used a pick up line to ask him out on a date.  He used a better one in return and we became a couple shortly after. 

I never learned how to split up shared property (who gets the dog/ who gets the fish?) with a live in boyfriend.   Was never forced to discontinue communication with a lover until the pangs of sorrow have quieted or follow any of  those other numerous 21st century breakup rules.  Breaking up is hard to do and sorting and moving all of the items that we bought, we used and we fought over proves ridiculously painful.  Memories spill off of even the most mundane object to harass me and interrupt my progress.  Trying desperately not to speak to a person that you spoke to nearly every day for 13 years is on some days utter torture.  

In goodwill, I recently made the mistake of sending a photo of our/my dog to my future ex (let's call him my "fex").  He loves Archie and I wanted him to know that Archie remains a part of his life despite the fact that we are divorcing.  Presumably honorable, apparently a bad move.  Turns out that it's torment for both parties.  My fex was pained by my text and politely asked me not to communicate with him unless the content is related to our divorce.  A sucky lesson learned.  

I suppose that's a slice of the Pie of Crow.  Growing up, taking care of myself, experiencing versions of hurt and heartache that I had long been protected from and becoming the big girl (pun intended) that I have always wanted to be.  Yes, I wish I could save myself from this baptism through fire.  Double yes, I wish my intellect and wisdom were unmatched and I would consistently find my opinions and choices without challenge or opposition.  But alas, my name is Soha, not Tenzin Gyatso.  Though I'm fairly certain he would be slightly fond of my often repeated and current favorite phrase,
"I'm glad I'm wrong some of the time.  It means that I have learned something."

And yes, my laundry is clean.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Still haven't picked up the laundry

Moving day is not quite here
I've been packing all day, let's make it clear.
Exhausted and have no time to blog
I'm walking around in a fog...
may even be walking on my dog
Oh, good God.
Someone hit me with a log.

Installation numero dos coming soon.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Essentially, Eventually...from the beginning.

Many of you, my friends and family have probably heard rumors as to what has has occured in my life in the past one and a half years.  Most of you only began hearing my story this past October.  So here I am offering my song to whom ever will listen.  It costs nothing but I hope you find yourself somewhere in the lyrics.  I have come to realize in a very acute way that melodies vary but the notes have always existed and will always be the same, just arranged differently.  That being said, I also learned that the only thing that has seperated me from the toothless crack head on the street begging for change to get her fix is my wonderful, beautiful awe-inspiring system of support & a little bit of luck. 

From the beginning...

In 1971 my 30 year old Indian immigrant father arrived in this country with a small amount of borrowed cash and one suitcase in hand.  He was the second eldest son in a family of 5 raised by a widow who at a time in India where women not only did not work but barely received an education, my grandmother-extraordinaire took jobs, created jobs, raised her autistic daughter (the eldest) child and married away her 2 youngest girls.  My father came to this country becuase of his mother's political affiliations.  Although she was poor, her brothers were affluent politicians and lawyers in the station town where they lived.   My father, Kirti or Kirt as he later became known at work,  worked as a boiler room engineer in a hospital in Newark, NJ and shared a small Hoboken apartment with oh, I don't know 7 friends and cousins-all male.  Only one of them knew how to cook- obviously all that was needed, but they all knew how to laugh and have a good time.  7 bachelors, one new country, limitless possibilities. 

My father was the nafarious virgin in his group.  A poetic man with a love for gazals (Urdu poetry set to music) and a voice that should have made him famous.  He worked hard and supported himself as well as his mother and 3 sisters in India.  There was no time for women.  No extra space for thought of marriage but a man is a man is a man and finally at the ripe age of 32 (keep this number in mind, it will repeat itself a few times in my story) he had saved up enough money to get himself married.  So off to India he went.
He met my mother, Malti through family friends.  She was and still remains a beautiful woman, a show stopper.  She was third eldest in an ultra-religious, super conservative but not necessarily traditional family of 6.  She was often neglected within the household by the mere fact that she was a girl and in middle of the sibling sandwich.  What attention she didn't receive in the home she received on the streets of town.  She was the local bollywood starlet with sparkly brown eyes, dimples that got her into movies for free and long, thick black plaits that wig makers would kill for.  Malti would walk down the street and the villagers would follow her whispering "There's Malti" or, "Is that her, I can't see!  Quick! Put me on your shoulders Raju!"  ( I jest but it was something along that line). 

She was nine years younger than my father and though my maternal grandfather was self-made and wealthy, she came from the cast just below my father's.  Now my dad, he grew up uber poor.  2 sets of clothes poor.  One he wore while the other was washed and hung dry for the following day, that poor.  It all seemed to balance though.  He had an autistic sister (-1), she had a sister that ran off with her married professor (-1), he was poor but from a high cast (0), she was rich from a lower cast (0). In the end they were both attractive and educated.  So, they were married within 3 days of meeting each other.  Yikes, I can't even imagine. 

My pops quickly left India to return to his job in the States.  In those days you only had to wait about 6 months for a visa as the spouse of an Indian professional.  Not bad.  My mother arrived at JFK on some undisclosed day in the late spring/early summer of 1974.  Word had been sent to my father of the date that she would be arriving except...imagine this, who ever sent the information forgot that India is 12 hours ahead.  My neophite, immigrant, helpless, non English speaking mother stood at the airport for 4 hours believing that she had been abandoned by her husband.  Luckily she had the phone number for his 3rd cousin incase of an emergancy.  So the terrified, sari-clad 24 yr old some how managed to dial the phone number and was saved by the distant cousins who picked her up and brought her to their home until my very stupified and oblivious father came to get her.  A lifetime of miscommunication founded on that one day at the airport.  They were like 2 airplanes in the night without navigation devices and continue to be so until this very day.
There's a funny and probably true joke about a young Indian couple that has desperately been trying to conceive.  They were F.O.B.'s (fresh of the boat), spoke little English, conservative, shy and ebarassed but belieiving they had exhausted all other methods they finally went to see a specialist.  The doctor ran tests on both of them and asked for the couple to return the following week for the results.  The couple comes back to the doctor's office the next week fearing the worst but the doctor reveals that they are both very healthy young people and the results show that there are no biological complications.  The doctor turns to the husband and ask's "Are you ejaculating inside of your wife during intercourse?"   The couple looks dumbfounded.   The doctor realizes that there is a language/translation problem and begins to draw pictures of both the entire male and female anatomy. The couple goes crazy with embarrasment.  The husband flips the drawing over and starts yelping, "NO! NO! Don't show!"  Turns out the couple had never attempted to have sex because they never understood it existed.
Generally speaking my parents generation of Indian people just don't talk about sex.   Generally speaking my parents generation of Indian people also doesnt know how to communicate.    Sorry mom and dad, aunty's and uncle's dont be mad, we know you did the best you could.
I digress, how all of this trails back to my parents first weeks of marriage comes down to a cooking lesson, go figure.  Alot of Hindus don't eat Onions and garlic because they are said to have chemicals that drive aggresion and passion ( one gander at the Italians and I know that the later is true;).  Neither of my parents were raised eating these roots but neither knew that of the other.  My mother prepared their first meal as husband and wife with plenty of tasty garlic and yummy onion.  My mother served proudly and my father ate lovingly all the while both were choking back the 2 veggies that neither had ever acquired a taste for, not wanting to offend the other.
I'm about to gett into their sex life now because it plays an extremely important role in my life and obviously their early years as a couple.  It went something like this:
Malti and Kirti at a dinner party.  Someone makes fun of sensative Malti who never learned to stick up for herself.  Kirti, the jokester, not only doesn't defend Mom but joins in on the teasing.  Malti gives Kirti the cold shoulder for the rest of the evening and then some more before they hit the hay and then some more for the next few days.  Her feelings were hurt.  He didn't know how to make amends.  She witholds sex, that pisses him off.  The next time she gets dresssed up he doesn't compliment her. That pisses her off.  Rinse, repeat. 

Ofcourse the next step would be to make some babies.  And they did.  First my brother, Aashh and then I followed 2.5 years later.  My mother- not knowing any better had a C-Section with both of us, just because.  She has no recollection of labor.  Also not knowing better and becuase it was a status symbol - you could afford formula and didn't have to rely on your free and human baby juice- my momma decided not to breast feed her babies.  I try not to judge this.  Hell, they used to say it was cool to smoke when you were preggers.  Who knows, in a few years researchers may say that feeding paint chips to infants is also bueno.  Maybe not, but you're pickin' up what I'm puttin' down. 

We have made it all the way to 1978 and I promise that we are no way near the tip of the iceberg.  This is the some what boring prequal that's necessary to enjoy the true crazy that I will share.  It's about to get juicy.   
I have to do laundry.  Or I can use my dad's college trick and turn my undies inside out.  Yeah, gross and trust me when I say that it was just a thought. 
I will be back with fresh clothing to continue this epic saga.