https://youtu.be/PnqGr-TRMAA We’re gonna talk about men here, so if you are of the male persuasion, don’t get you socks in a knot. It’s all good- we love our men, but they drive us bat shit crazy. Indubitably…………….
I fell incredibly hard for the man of my dreams, whom I have been married to for almost 25 years. Yeah, count ’em. As a matter of fact, I put him on such a pedestal that I thought of leaving him the first time I saw him sit on the toilet. Seriously. He was all I ever wanted in a man….which was the male essence, the strength and humor I found in him. And his green eyes……I could swim in those eyes. But let me tell you brother, if there is a creature on this planet who can make my blood boil, it is this man I love.
For instance, we had a super duper, extra special nuclear argument just this very weekend. He has started a new career, and found a fabulous job. I am very proud of my man. He is working long hours and at the end of the day he would like me to present myself as Marilyn Monroe/Julia Child and the energizer bunny-in that order if you please. He wants me to be all wifey and shit, and sometimes, well, actually often, I come down with a cold or sinus infection that I have no control over. I was never sick for a day when I drank, but sobriety, Lyme disease and an undiagnosed immunodeficiency disorder have plagued me for the last ten years. So this is how the dog fight started.
It is Friday and someone is trying to break into my home. Pounding on the door, jiggling the lock, looking in the windows…..why it is my husband, Dwain! I thought he had a key…..I am in bathrobe and slippers because my brain is exploding with a sinus migraine……I open the door, he looks at me with fire in his eyes………
“What the hell is your problem?” I demand.
“Actually, I was having a good day until…………………” I have no idea what he said because I had hightailed my ass up to my woman cave and went to bed, leaving him to rant and rave about the injustice of me not being all sparkly and all when he walks through the door at 5 p.m. I did not speak to him again until the next day when I called him at work.
“Seriously!!!! What is your problem?” I was angry at this point and he knew it. He hadn’t kissed me goodbye, and for Dwain, that means that something has upset his sensitive side…………..and I was going to get to the bottom of it. Sherlock Holmes has nothing on me-I will beat you down to get the information I need, relentlessly picking until committing Hare Kari is your only option left.
“I am writing you a text,” he said. Before I could say word one he had hung up the phone.
Now I have passed the pissed off zone. I have PMS. I have a migraine. I have a husband who is about to be shot out of a cannon, because I am SO angry that I can’t think straight.
If he could have seen my face when I read said text, I don’t think he would have even entertained the thought of coming home: YOU HAVE BEEN SICK FOR A WEEK AND THAT’S NOT NORMAL. What the Venus Fly Trap? Am I unworthy of compassion? Am I asking too much, do I not work my behind off cleaning the house, feeding the cats and dog, cleaning out litterboxes, grocery shopping, gardening and painting the house? I was seething. Another day went by and we weren’t speaking. I usually succumb to my husband’s apologies….but there were none.
“Oh, (I thought out loud) you want a piece of me? You’re gonna get a piece of me.”
It was Sunday morning before we spoke again. I went to get baptized and figured he knew where the church was. I sat in the front row, in tears, looking up each and every time the church doors opened. Nope, no Dwain. You can well imagine how hurt I was, but I didn’t (he certainly didn’t) know just how pissed I was until I came home and read the card placed strategically on the steps to our home. I had sent him two texts, two emails and a facebook message explaining (for the 3,789th time) that I was abused as a child and his maltreatment of me when I am under the weather is a trigger. I sent him two articles: one about PTSD, and the other about childhood neglect.
“Wow, I don’t think we ever talked about how bad your childhood was……..”
Really? In what universe did I not tell my husband about my childhood? Do men listen, do they grasp any reality but their own at any given God forsaken moment? And then it happened. I slapped him. Hard. I felt awful, but why do we have to be screaming, whirling dervishes of angst before we can get your attention?
Riddle me that Batman.