There are some weeks in marriage where it’s basically peaceful bliss. You get along great, their jokes are actually funny… you don’t argue incessantly over where/what to eat. Totally in sync. Then there are the weeks where you wonder if you kill them, it’d be justifiable homicide.
If you don’t understand that joke, this blog is probably not for you.
This is what went down this week that makes me think I’d totally get off with a warning.
The week started out fine. Until Monday. So, yeah, one day. One day was blissful marriage happiness. Monday, there were torrential downpours. The kind where you can hardly see two feet in front of you, and driving in it looks like you’re in the damn Millennium Falcon going warp speed, but when you’re an adult, and you need food, you can’t exactly stay home and listen to it pound down on your roof and think “well, I guess groceries can wait”.
Thomas was home, and it was school pick up time, so we grabbed the kids and made our way to the store while there was a lull in the storm. With four people, we could get in, and out, and home before it picked back up again. In a perfect world, anyway.
As we’re leaving, the sky fucking OPENS. UP. Lucky me, I thought to bring in my umbrella. My only umbrella. My seriously over-priced Disney World umbrella. Since Thomas is being all gentlemanly and running to the car to bring it to the curb so no one else gets drenched, I give it to him. I watch him run out into the rain with it, and the car pulls around a few minutes later. Out of the car is my chivalrous husband, who braved the rain to save my makeup, with my umbrella. Broken.
Mad would be an understatement, but the storm is getting worse, we’ve got whiny kids, and cold groceries. This is where I should tell you that we’re driving my SUV, yes- mine- it’s under my name, I paid for it, and it’s not great (Thomas has the better vehicle since he has to drive a stupidly long way to work every day). That being said, I’m not a HUGE fan of driving. Especially not in storms. I have crap eyesight and I don’t like wearing glasses or contacts, so if I don’t have to, I’m not going to drive.
I find myself sitting in the passenger seat of my SUV with my broken ass umbrella and a scowl the size of Australia. BUT, we’re only a few minutes from home, and I like home. Home calms me… when the kids aren’t screaming, but, yeah, I’m really looking forward to not being stuck in a car with the husband who just broke my Disney World umbrella.
For some reason unknown to me, the man decides to take back roads to get home. Wait, no, I remember. He doesn’t want to wait at a stoplight. Perfect, rational reasoning, am I right?
The farther we got back, the closer to our house, the less drainage there seemed to be. It was looking bad. I knew it had rained a lot, but this was insane. Yards looked more like lakes. We turned a corner to what looked like a not too deepish flood type situation on a road. We’re in an SUV, it didn’t look so bad…. until it did. It was when the water was above the tires that I realized this was a bad situation. And then I saw the car in front of us– a VW Golf, with water up to the windows.
That’s when the screaming started.
TURN BACK. TURN AROUND. THIS IS BAD. THIS IS GOING TO FLOOD THE ENGINE. JUST TURN AROUND.
It wasn’t too late, he totally could have backed up, no harm no foul. He maneuvers the car up onto the curb, and I’m thinking he’s about to rip a U-Turn in this bitch. Nope. He’s trying to get leverage over the water. It doesn’t work. The water on the curb is just as fucking high. I’m still screaming.
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? TURN AROUND!
He not only doesn’t listen to me, in MY car, he plows ahead, past the poor VW, with a wake of water around us like we’re a gatdamn boat.
SHOCKINGLY, we make it through to the other side. Immediately, the check engine light turns on. I’m convinced he’s successfully flooded my engine & destroyed my car to the point where it won’t start ever again. So now he has his fancy new car and my poor old ass vehicle is ruined. I’m livid. I don’t help bring in the groceries. Groceries can suck my ass. Everything can suck my ass. Except him.
Of course, he insists repeatedly the car is fine, blah de blah. I’m concerned I will have no way to take the kids to school in the morning. Even if the car isn’t damaged, driving through that shit in MY vehicle when I’m repeatedly yelling not to, when turning around is totally doable, was not okay.
I grumble my way through making a seriously delicious dinner. I guess hatred and anger really motivates me. The rage I radiated into the turkey burgers made them amazing. I’m feeling proud, AND I have one left over for lunch the next day. I’m an absolute genius. Maybe this day is perking up! Maybe this week won’t be so awful. Let the magic of the turkey burger will my car to start again!
Much to my surprise, and to my husband’s delight, the car starts in the morning. Check engine light is still on, but it seems fine… other than the hunk of plastic now hanging down from underneath of it that some lady in the school parking lot decided to flag me down and make a huge fucking deal about. Only to be followed by my husband seriously patting himself on the back because in his intensive Google searching (he has a Google doctorate, don’t ya know?) he found out that he really “did me a favor” because now my engine has been “steam cleaned”.
THE MAN IS PATTING HIMSELF ON THE BACK FOR NEARLY RUINING MY DAMN CAR.
I am only calmed by the fact that I have my delicious, magical, hate-filled turkey burger in the fridge waiting for me. FOOD SOOTHES ME, OKAY?
I usually hate food prep, like, a lot, but knowing what the result is going to taste like? I didn’t mind it much that day. I cut up tomato, I get the bun all buttery and garlic-y and toasty, I slice some onion and slice two kinds of cheese, and then I go back to the fridge to grab my glorious Holy Grail turkey burger.
It’s nowhere to be found.
I’m not the one who put the leftovers away, so maybe I’m missing it.
I do that shit where you leave the fridge only to go back to it and look again, hoping that by some magical miracle, what you’re looking for will appear.
Shit didn’t work.
Turkey burger is MIA.
It dawns on me… there’s only one place the beloved turkey burger could be.
In a blind fit of rage, I fire over a message to my betrothed. The man who is supposed to be my support. Care about me when I’m down and out, and after he nearly RUINED. MY. CAR. he couldn’t possibly, could he?
“DID YOU TAKE MY TURKEY BURGER?”
“THAT WAS LITERALLY THE ONLY THING I WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO ALL DAY”
Yeah, uh huh. You’re over there enjoying the burger I put ALL OF MY HATE INTO to make it extra delicious, and me? I had to have a soggy ass sandwich.
A SOGGY. ASS. SANDWICH. It was the saddest sandwich I’ve ever had. And unfortunately, this time, the hate did NOT make it taste better.
I’d get away with it. I’d TOTALLY GET AWAY WITH IT. After the engine steaming and the magic burger eating…. yep, they’d let me off with a warning.
BUT. I wouldn’t do that.
Let me explain my position on this– marriage, and venting about it (and I feel the same way about parenting)
I always have slight hesitation writing blogs like this, because some people have the tendency to get all butthurt about it– like how dare I disparage the sanctity of marriage and my poor husband! Like I’m SO LUCKY and it must be torture to be married to such a horrid bitch. As though it’s a chore to be married to someone who doesn’t post sappy Facebook updates about the man sitting right next to me, BUT THEY DON’T HAVE TO LIVE WITH THE MAN. I’m kidding. Kind of. Look, marriage isn’t real unless you can talk real talk. The good and the bad. And sometimes the weird. And the annoying. We’re humans. We live together. We annoy each other, and sometimes to the point where we want to smother one another in their sleep. Yes, me too! I am incredibly irritating. I have constant anxiety. I have stomach issues that plague everything we do, and chronic pain that stomps on plans. I’m EXTREMELY DRAMATIC (ya don’t say?)- but that’s the thing. We put up with each other. It works. You have to take the ups with the downs, the good with the bad. DIDN’T YOU LISTEN TO YOUR VOWS?
So, screw the butthurt. Sorry, not sorry.
This is marriage. REAL marriage.
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