I hope this is the last part of this “series” that I have to write for awhile.
So I’m sitting at home yesterday, doing some cleaning, and I find our George Foreman grill. This thing has grilled zucchini twice, but usually Chris uses it for hamburgers. On this day, however, I look at it and think “OH MY GOD TURKEY BURGERS” (reference my last post for the conversation that follows this revelation).
Well, after that conversation, about an hour before he’s due to leave work, Chris calls me: “Honey, my back hurts, I can’t walk, I’m not going to stop for groceries after work.” Deep in my heart, somewhere, I’m sure there was sympathy for his plight; mostly, however, I just felt utter frustration that he was not going to get me some buns and therefore I would not have turkeyburgers. But if his back is suddenly and mysteriously hurting a day after going to the gym then fine, I don’t want him to strain himself more.
So at 5:00pm, he’s leaving work. Mashed potatoes are part of my revised dinner plan, so I start some water boiling. 5:35 rolls around and I toss the meatballs on the stovetop — this is the earliest he can conceivably get home, but that usually doesn’t happen on weekdays. 5:55, he’s still not home and dinner is finished — traffic must be really bad, or he must have stayed late at work. Maybe he did go to the grocery store after all? I wish he had a cell phone… 6:15 — I’m still alone, dinner is getting cold, the baby is kicking and my stomach is growling. I check local traffic websites to make sure the highway he takes is clear, call his work to make sure he didn’t stay really late for some reason, then grab a plate of food to try and calm myself down. 6:35 AND HE IS STILL NOT HOME WHERE THE FUCK IS MY HUSBAND THAT I LOVE SO MUCH AND IS THE FATHER OF THE CHILD THAT IS TAP DANCING ON MY BLADDER?! I am now imagining the worst and wondering why the police haven’t called me yet to tell me my husband is on his way to the hospital after a terrible car accident. 6:45, he comes through the door — bags of groceries in one hand, a new printer/scanner in the other.
I take a deep breath, and say as politely as I possibly can, “If you are not coming straight home after work, please let me know.”
“DON’T FUCKING START WITH ME,” he snaps, drops the shit on the floor, and storms off to get changed.
I sit there, stunned. He is over an hour late getting home from work and I started something with him?! Who the fuck does he think he is? This is not usually a fight I would get into, but something about this pisses me off so deeply that I’m sure even the baby is angry. Then I get even angrier when he comes limping out of the bedroom (obviously his back really is hurting him) and asks, “You didn’t put away the groceries?”
“No,” I answer, thinking: CLEARLY I DID NOT PUT AWAY THE GROCERIES AS THE BAGS ARE STILL SITTING ON THE FLOOR AND I AM PRETTY SURE THEY DO NOT PUT THEMSELVES AWAY YOU ASSHOLE. (I should clarify here that I always put away the groceries; if he does it, they end up in stupid places, and it’s our agreement that if I put them all away, he will carry them all inside. I think it’s a good deal, personally.)
But I will pick the right fight to get into, not just any fight, and I’ll do it at the right time. He sits down at his computer. I watch TV for a few more minutes just to make the point that I am moving at my own pace before putting away the groceries, then ask if he wants dinner — he doesn’t — and sit down at my computer, beside him. Then I try to breach the subject nicely: “Honey, I was really worried about you. I wish that you would have come straight home after you told me you would.”
He refuses to look at me. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I love you, so I do. Get used to it. You’re over an hour late, so I was really bothered. I just want you to get home safely.”
“You know, I don’t need this after spending half an hour walking around the store looking for that fucking printer.”
“Well, that’s not my fault.”
He sighs heavily, as if this is the most ridiculous conversation he’s ever been part of. I try again: “If I were driving that far home after working a 12 hour day, and I were over an hour late, wouldn’t you be worried?”
“I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself.”
Did I say something to imply that I question your competence as a human being? “I don’t doubt it, and thank you for going out, but please just let me know first next time.”
And that’s it, that’s the entire conversation. He doesn’t agree, he doesn’t disagree, he doesn’t apologize; he just goes silent. I don’t push him, although I want to, but I know my point has gotten across and he is quiet because he knows I’m right. I figure that’s enough of a victory in and of itself, particularly with the fact that he is in pain.
But honestly? I’m still pissed at him. I mean, that was just fucking inconsiderate.
PS: Our new printer does not come with a USB cable to hook it up to the computer with. WHAT THE FUCK, CANON. Hopefully Chris will pick one up tomorrow and then I can scan my ultrasound picture! I bet the person at Canon who packaged this was a man…