I woke up mad, really mad at my husband this morning. He was snoring on the couch last night when I was trying to watch, conveniently enough, "How to Get Away with Murder". I tried nicely for an hour (ok, it was probably more like five minutes but I told Tony it was an hour) to get him to go to bed.
However, when, after a good 60 (or five) minutes, his snoring-self was still on the couch, I gave him a little push and said something along the lines of, "If you have ever loved me even a little bit you will not possibly subject me to this kind of torture any longer," (so, I'm a tad dramatic). He usually just mumbles and shuffle-walks to bed, but I think the shoving and the Oktoberfest beers may have given him a little edge. So, as he was leaving he shoved the remote across the couch - in my general direction.
I was so happy that he was going to bed that I didn't say anything about the aggressive remote passing. However, over the course of the night it spiraled, as things tend to do with me, into "Remote Gate". Then, when he had the audacity to lounge in bed, allowing me to get up and fix Conley breakfast after he had nearly decapitated me with the the whirling remote of death I was in a full blown tizzy. I mean, he had nearly killed me just eight hours before and now he couldn't even get out of bed and fix our daughter a crustless peanut butter and jelly cut into triangles...even though he was the one who had started the whole crustless, triangle nonsense in the first place.
So, I pulled myself out of bed, clearly communicating my displeasure with a dramatic flip of the blanket and a series of sighs of varying lengths. After I fixed the sandwich and made some coffee, I proceeded to start, as Tony likes to call it, "the mean clean".
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The mean clean consists of me wiping the counters off like they spit in my face, sweeping the floors like they insulted my child and folding clothes like they are Ben Meechum and I am the Great Santini. These activities are accompanied by dramatic sighing, some passive aggressive comments, a good door slam or two and adamant tight-lipped denial that anything is wrong.
The denial lasts until Tony pokes at me long enough and I explode with something logical like, "What's the matter with me? You want to know what's the matter with me? Well, I'll tell you what is the matter with me! You nearly killed me with the remote last night, that's what! And, you don't even care. Had that hit me in the temple, I could have died. DIED. Then Conley would be motherless and malnourished because you can't be bothered to make our precious baby some breakfast!"
Needless to say, Tony's hysterical laughing made me huff off into the bedroom where I flung myself down on the bed in soap opera fashion and thought about how sorry he would've been had I actually died. He continued guffawing in the next room. I eventually yelled, "You're a real piece of work, Lewis!" He responded with, "I still love you, you nutcase!"
And, that was that. After I recovered from my near death experience, I relaxed with Mindy Kaling's book, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns). In it she talks about how her parents are “pals”; that they get on very well. She also said that as a single woman how terrifying it is to hear married people talk about how marriage is hard, draining, unfulfilling work. Good grief, I've been married forever and I feel her on that. She also said that she understands it is work, but shouldn't it be work that you enjoy.
I started laughing and realized that my marriage is work. But, it is most definitely work that I enjoy. It's like writing to me. Writing is work. Sometimes it is hard. Sometimes I don't think I've gotten it right...or that I'll never get it right. However, I love it so that even on the bad days I look forward to doing it.
And, that is how I feel about my marriage. Tony is my pal. We get on very well. And, sure sometimes our marriage is work. Sometimes we are pieces of work. Marriage is a job. However, it is a job I love. A job I'm proud of...even when it damn near kills me!