Remembering Why I Married This Man

We've been having "little skirmishes" in this house for the past month or so.  Mainly they are about the cleaning up process -- and moving "his things" without asking permission.  Of course, if I asked permission, I assumed he would NOT graciously grant it -- so I move the "crap" and live with the consequences. 

Three weeks ago we had a really bad Sunday dinner  when I told Hubby he was blaming me for everything wrong that happened in the house.  And I claimed that NONE OF IT WAS MY FAULT.  We were dining out and at that point I refused to eat and he refused to talk.  We brought my dinner home in a doggie bag and the pups were delighted.  Then I checked on the item that "wasn't my fault" -- and darned if it didn't turn out that it was my fault.  But I never admitted it -- because that was just one item in the hundreds I claimed Hubby was blaming on me. 

We've limped along since then, Hubby giving me the dirty look but wisely keeping his yap shut.  Me mostly not talking, but why talk to a scowled up face?  When we did talk, it was over very elementary things -- like the weather.

Friday I got the lecture on how crowded the computer desk was becoming.  Hubby said I'd better figure out some place to put things other than on the desktop.  Instead of saying what I really wanted to ("You figure it out yourself, damn it, I'm off to go swimming), I said I'd work on the problem as I kept cleaning up in the room. I asked him to give me some time.  

Saturday I worked on the problem, cleared off two shelves across from the desk and moved out the "offending items."  

Today we went out to dinner at our favorite chicken restaurant - neither of us ever eats the fried chicken, though I do eat the chicken livers while Hubby always has pork chops.  Wanting a little validation, I asked Hubby if he was pleased with the new condition of the desk. 

"If you start filling it up, I'm going to empty out the desk and you won't have to worry about it again," was the response I got. 

"You are becoming impossible to get along with," was my reply. "We share that desk.  If you want to empty it out then go ahead and do it.  You can clean it up yourself.  I don't even had a tray top for my side of the desk -- and you fill the one we have with all your junk which I have to maneuver around every day."

"You really want me to take care of this?" Hubby threatened.  "I only have two drawers in that desk .. . " and at that point I put up three fingers -- which he saw.  His face became a thunder cloud.

Once upon a time I would have been cowed.  But my mother, who could pull these I'll-make-you-sorry stunts with regularity, is no longer around -- and I just don't have to take it.  "Absolutely, clean it all out and make sure we share it equally.  Hey, you have one half of the desk -- it's got four drawers.  I have the right half and it has three drawers because one is the big deep file drawer.  We share the middle drawer."" 

"I only have two drawers!" snarled Hubby.

Luckily our food came right then and for some reason, maybe because I've been on the "you are impossible to live with" kick, Hubby shut up.  We had a nice dinner together, equally sharing the mashed potatoes and gravy.  We talked inconsequential things, like politics, on which we both agree completely this time around. The desk remained a lingering problem.

Back home I went back into the computer room and scrubbed that desk -- a task I had promised to do because it was covered with soda rings and sticky hand prints.  And I looked into the four drawer vs three drawer situation -- and both of us had been wrong.  Hubby only had three drawers (not the two he claimed) because I had one of his drawers partially filled with stationary.  Tons and tons of stationary.  Clearly I had forgotten about it -- because who uses stationary any longer?

So after I washed down the desk and replaced the mouse pad and filled up the pencil and pen jars with all the pens, markers, and mechanical pencils we had stored in the desk, I removed all the stationary from his side drawer and re-purposed it into  my greeting card files (if you get Easter or retirement cards from us now and there is no sentiment inside, you will know why).

Hubby had taken himself out to exercise while I puttered.  On returning home, he found me reading the newspaper so he trundled into the desk and I could hear drawers opening and things being moved all around.  "Oh, lordy," I though.  "He's actually emptying out the desk, probably dumping everything on the floor, just to prove his point."

I waited a good two hours but I eventually wandered into the computer room to ask if he wanted the remains of his pork chop in a sandwich.  By then I had calmed myself down and decided whatever he had done to the desk I'd just ignore.

Proudly, he opened the drawer I had removed the stationary from -- and there was all the junk he had been keeping on the tray side of the desk.  All neatly filed.  His drawers had all been sorted and cleaned, which he opened and showed me, grinning like the Cheshire cat.  He had even taken the slide top off his side and rearranged it on mine -- so I now had the self all to myself.

Marriages are ying and yang propositions.  If you're lucky, you marry a smart man, one who can be prickly and domineering, but has the good sense to know when it's time to compromise and make his wife happy.  "You want a sandwich?" I asked.  "Yeah, and a kiss, too," was the reply.