About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Carrie Bradshaw's voice makes self introspection feel icky
So you like pictures of hairballs but not of a frog and a bear canoodling in secret. Interesting.
I didn’t arrange them like that; when I went to put Junior down for bed last night I caught them red-handed. Then I called Chuck in to have a peek and he laughed—probably for the first time in awhile.
The mood in the house has been downright shitsville, and I have myself to thank. I thought I had gotten to the point with my husband where I understand the concept of space. Normally when something is bothering him—like an impending pink slip—and he holes up in his Man Room until the wee hours of the morning saving the world (excuse me, playing video games) I don’t linger in the doorway. I let him do his thing.
But lately, as I’m lingering in the doorway, my mouth is spewing out this:
I can’t understand why he avoids me.
The thing is, I know that the more you push, the more someone retreats. But I can’t help it. I’m like a chainsaw going after a melancholy bunny rabbit with a broken leg. If I could just catch it, we could get this over with.
This morning it finally came to a head. Chuck yelled, “Is this what Junior’s wearing today?” The TV was on and I was blow-drying my hair so it sounded like “Wha wha wha wwwa waaaaaa wawawaaa?” (that’s a Peanuts rip-off, I’m aware). I calmly stopped what I was doing and shouted back about four gazillion decibels louder “I CAN’T HEAR YOU WHEN YOU SCREAM AT ME!”
Why didn’t I just say, “I HOPE YOU SHRIVEL UP AND WASTE AWAY YOU VILE CRETIN”?
Sigh. That’s what happens when your husband interrupts an internal conversation you’re having with him while taming your frizz; a conversation that goes something like this: “Please, for the love of God smile and let’s move on with our lives!”
I apologized, but on the way out Chuck spit on my car, then backed into it.
No, really, he called me at work to apologize for being in such a funk. I was immediately contrite for how I have been trying to cheerlead him into sunnier pastures instead of letting him wallow in his muck. (Really, I’ve been downright annoying.)
After we hung up, I got to wondering (ew, how very Carrie Bradshaw): Why is it so much easier to apologize after someone else has done it first? Why do we needle our partners when we know they need the opposite?
And why, oh why, didn’t the frog and bear just tell me they had a tawdry thing going?