Blane and I got in a big fight last night over household duties. If he does a couple of batches of clothes he convinces himself he has done all the laundry AND all of the housework, too. (Meals cook themselves, bathrooms stay clean, dust dare not settle in this house, dishes find their way back into the cupboards and I do absolutely NO work. Lucky me.)
I usually just laugh it off even while we’re arguing. When I’m laughing, he’s safe. If I stop laughing, everyone should run for the hills.
I didn’t get the childhood nickname “gueppe” (wasp) for nothing.
When I get like that, Blane usually eyes the kitchen knife drawer. Not that I’ve ever pulled a knife on him, but it is so rare that I do actually get mad, he just has no idea of what I’m capable of. He knows I can fight, I was raised with four tough boys. I’ve also told him he better never lay a hand on me because that is when all rules are out the door and he could get cut.
What set me off last night was him saying he was going to make a list of chores for me to do. Him. Make a list. Of housework. For me. A list.
First sign of danger: Kitty goes quiet.
Second sign of danger: Kitty’s eyes narrow.
Third sign of danger: Kitty also eyes the knife drawer.
I was enraged. As any mother knows, this is damn near slave labor. That I do it, when I do it, how I want to do it makes it feel just “damn near.” I went Samuel L. Jackson on him:
Me: Say “List” again. I dare you. I DOUBLE dare you.
Him: What’s wrong with a list?
Me: Say “LIST” one more gotdamn time.
He punched the wall and ran off to his little cave.
This morning I put on my warrior shirt:
They cracked up when I showed up in that shirt at the dentist. I laughed too, I usually don’t leave the house with that on. Then I got stoned on laughing gas. Found magical solutions to all the world’s problems. Forgot them as soon as that stuff wore off.
List. What nerve.