It starts benign with a simple “Honey.”
I cringe – every time.
The once sweet term of endearment rapidly transforms into a high pitched nag. “HONEEEEEEEEY.”
“Yes my love,” I answer patiently knowing full well where this is going.
“Where are my keys?”
“On the counter, Honeeeeeey,” I retort.
“And my phone?”
I don’t bother replying because I know full well that his phone is nestled, spooning his keys.
“Next to the keys!” I shout back.
“Where is my wallet?”
On good days I find myself replying “ONIIIIIII” which is Japanese for demon. Equally fitting.
He doesn’t even wait for my response before he goes at it again.
“Where are your socks?”
Is he serious?
Allow me to preface this with a little back story. He leaves his keys, phone and wallet in the same exact place – every single day – without fail.
The sick series of “Honey’s” begins again. I hide upstairs in my closet – hugging the things that give me the most comfort at a time like this – my shoes. I can hear his voice get louder. I cringe as I wait for the expected door to fling open. The handle turns and he steps in. “I was calling you, you didn’t answer. Are you hiding?” He starts to chuckle as he reaches for my pair of hot pink socks and leaves.
Where on Earth did grown men learn that not knowing where your keys, phone, wallet and apparently my socks, is sexy?
It’s not sexy.
Being efficient at inefficiency does not in any way shape or form make me want to take you on the kitchen counter.
When did mothers stop sending their kids into the wild at the age of fifteen to fend for their lives?
Why did we stop?
Oh right – because I would never send my son into the wild at any age.
Men have become too domesticated.
Its never just his stuff. Its the diapers, The wet wipes, Little A’s clothes and shoes. This is our routine, every morning of every day.
Just wait – it gets better.
We’re in the car and he starts speaking in accents.
And he thinks its the funniest thing in the world.
It’s not funny.
Is it just me?
Come on ladies, there are only so many times you can hear the same God damn accents before you physically want to stab your spouse 87 times – not like I haven’t fantasized about it or anything…
Indian, British, Spanish and Arab. He lingers on what particular word and continues to repeat it over and over again.
“Stop. Just stop.” I sigh shaking my head.
I will not punch my husband in public. I will not punch my husband in public. I will..
I punch him in the arm.
And it feels so good.
I know it shouldn’t – but it really really does.
He looks at me in awe. I glare back – menacingly – threateningly.
We burst into laughter.
And then he’s at it again, “Que?”
Times like these I like to throw him a curve ball. I toss him a compliment and it completely throws him off his game. More importantly, it is effective and it always gets him to stop what he’s doing.
There. I won.
Home is where I am the pillar of the family – I am the engine. This is my kingdom where I am in control.
The gaming world is his world. He is brilliant at strategy and at execution. This is his domain. This is not mine.
Later we go home and play League of Legends together – an online game. And my co-dependent second child turns into one of those super angry soccer mom coaches.
Admittedly, I don’t do well under pressure and been known to freeze like a deer in headlights. Not my best trait – but certainly beats others like spouse beater…*ahem*.
“What are you doing Shareen? GO GO GO GO GO!!!!”
Naturally – I freeze.
“NOOO! Kill him!! Go GO GO GO!! Now come back. NOW GOO!! Wait, no go back. Ok NOW!”
I drop the mouse, shut my eyes tight, and put my hands in the air like I’m being mugged. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
My character dies and he lets out a slow sigh – identical to the many I let out during our morning ritual. I get ready to put my computer away and hide in my closet once again. This time he joins me.
Now that’s sexy.
Funny how the tables turn.
There is balance everywhere.
Sweet Dreams World.