I wanted to write about things fall related today, or do an Ask Heather, but both of those take a lot of time and so I’ll put up some random thoughts on fighting today while I work on the other posts and we’ll just entertain ourselves today with more examples of how I’m crazy and why I’m surely going to be committed by age 40. Or jailed. One of the two.
Here are a few examples of how, since being married, I’ve changed my fighting tactics. It’s impressive.
When I losemyshit over something stupid, I typically have what appears to be a strong Tourette’s attack. I fly off the handle, swear a lot and never, ever think about what flies out of my mouth before it is too late. It’s usually over nothing too serious, though, so typically an apology and a promise to try harder to control myself and think before I speak and maybe try breathing and counting to five fixes the problem.
Lately, though, my fighting methods have been more colorful, which led me to get a little talking to.
For whatever reason, I was bullshit about something the other day and the Mr. wasn’t cooperating and I was frustrated and angry and impatient and so I fired off an email that ended with something like,
“Go to hell and if you keep this up I am going to shank you.” Which made me feel better, so I wasn’t all that worried about threatening to cut my husband.
“Shank me? What’s wrong with you?” He writes back and I can just hear him sighing through the computer.
“Yes, fucking shank you. Like in a prison fight. Straight through your Achilles.” As in the one spot everyone seems to get all lifeisover about if you ruin yours during a sports season or something. I’m not sure how much an achilles contributes to say, walking, or life in general, really, but the thought of busting one seems to get people all worked up so it seemed like the appropriate body part to threaten to destroy mid-fight.
“You capitalized Achilles to stress where you’d cut? You sound crazy. Don’t threaten to shank me or cut me (which is the less severe version of shank) and stop saying you’re going to choke me. It’s not funny.” (this was the part of the conversation that carried into the car, where I must have threatened again to shank him.
“Oh I know it’s not funny. It’s going to be painful.” And then I smirked and looked away. A little fear is good for everyone.
But that’s pretty standard.
Also standard is the way he acts when he doesn’t want to
1. Listen to me
2. Fight with me when I’m picking one
3. Answer me about stupid shit like dinner and dog sitters and I’m acting impatient demanding answers and he’s all, I’m so relaxed, stop getting worked up.
“What do you want for dinner?” Once I start thinking about dinner, I cannot be stopped.
“It’s 8am, Heather. Can’t I tell you later?”
“No. I want to know now so I can shop. What do you FEEL like?”
“I feel like coffee but I have no idea what I feel like for dinner. Why do you always ask on the way to work?”
“Because I need to know NOW.”
“I’m not hungry for dinner now.” He knows this is setting me off.
“But you will be later. SO WHAT DO YOU WANT?” I start feeling I’m going to freak out and start screaming on the way to work.
“Heather, I really don’t care. Pizza.”
“We’re not having pizza. Like a dinner. Like real food.” I am going to slam on the brakes and let him out of the car.
“Fine, whatever you want. I said pizza. I don’t care.” Then he sighs and stares out the window, knowing I’m about to go crazy while he sips his coffee in his oh so relaxed way that drives me wild.
“I am going to cut you.” Seems appropriate here.
Then he does it. He turns to me, rolls his eyes and does this.
I’m not talking about the nuts part. I’m talking about the looking me in the eye, the jerk and then the toss towards the face. Yeah. He does that, straight faced, blank, uninterested stare to counter my crazy and then he goes and turns back to the window.
“DID YOU JUST TOSS THAT IN MY FACE???” I am shrieking and there is clearly nothing on my face.
“Yes, I did. Deal with it.”
Shanking and spaffing. What a dream team.