I know it can’t be good. Four years of marriage doesn’t grant you free affection. The age of whispering sweet nothings to your spouse firmly expires at year two.
Four years however does grant you knowledge – it grants you habit – it grants you the street smarts you need to navigate a commitment.
It grants you the gift that when you’re partner says “Honey” it can only mean one thing.
And today – it means there’s something wrong.
I remember the last time he said “Honey.” It was when he had the genius idea of flushing a whole sliced watermelon down the toilet.
I believe he called it “cleaning.”
It was when the toilet inevitably clogged – that I called it a fuck up.
But was he done?
How did he want to unclog the toilet you ask?
Yup – the mouth wash.
For some reason he thought a whole bottle of teeth whitening Listerine would disintegrate the whole 3 pounds of freshly sliced heavenly goodness that is watermelon.
Did it work?
Of course it didn’t work.
So I braced myself for what this morning’s “Honey” could mean. I wondered what youtube video I would have look at today for DIY plumbing.
“First, promise you won’t get mad.”
I can feel myself starting to get mad.
“Honey, the light fixture in the kitchen is leaking. So I unscrewed the lightbulb – you know, the see where the leak was coming from and more water came out.”
Why do men believe that basic science doesn’t apply to them – does the Oedipus Complex leave only to bring on a subconscious desire to kill themselves?
I will remain calm.
You see, I have to – because if I don’t, he won’t tell me everything. So, I maintain my nonchalant tone.
“Oh, and our home insurance expired two weeks ago.”
You see, my beautiful husband is the eternal optimist.
And I am his polar opposite.
He thinks “haha how funny is it that our house falls apart only two weeks after our insurance protects us.”
And I’m thinking – “oh my God. The fates are conspiring against us – this is a bad omen – let’s go sacrifice my husband’s computer for good Karma.”
I need to grieve the loss of my beautiful kitchen – and I do so by blaming him.
“It’s because you sit in the bath for hours!” I shriek.
We scramble to call a plumber – begging them to come as soon as possible – claiming that it is a life or death situation.
So they come, as fast as they can.
The man tears through my kitchen ceiling – then through the bedroom – leaving gaping holes in every room he enters.
His prognosis is finally complete.
He asks the simple question –
“Did any of you take a shower this morning?”
“Honey?” My husband glares at me – as I shamefully nod.
It turns out this one was all on me. His soaking in the bath for hours was inconsequential.
I can feel his smug grin and his “I told you it wasn’t me” stare.
“Damn YOU stupid shower!” I yell and shake my fist threateningly at the inanimate cubicle of cleanliness in our bathroom. I want to kick the bathtub as hard as I can – but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
And just like that – he won.
Sweet Dreams World.