The War Games of Love (Part I)
When this story from A Beautiful Hell was first written, no image accompanied it. But this particular photo was taken just the other evening. It should be noted, I did not attempt frying eggs in an iron skillet.
Just for the record.
First, gather all the clothing you own. All of it. Then put it in a canon. Now shoot it into your closet. *ka-boom* That is what our bedroom closet looks like, and I’m not exaggerating even a little bit.
Okay, that’s something She Does To Torture Me and herein begins the War Games of Love.
Now go get the biggest cooking pot you can find. Make sure it’s big enough to take out a charging bull elephant headed straight at you. Also, make sure you just used it to prepare some meal that would make a Brillo pad curl up and wither away at the sight of it. Now put it in the dishwasher WITH. NOTHING. ELSE. and turn on the dishwasher full blast with every conceivable feature the machine can muster.
Okay, that’s something I do to torture her show her my Undying Devotion To A Clean Kitchen.
Next, grab a cup of coffee. Make sure it’s hot. Actually, make sure it could pass for black boiling brimstone. Fill it to the rim. Add some sickly sweet creamer like Melted Snicker Bomb or Cream of Box of Krispy Kremes. Stir it with anything nearby. Like a pencil. Or a measuring spoon. Or my keys. Now, go sit down and read the paper. But make sure you sit down in a rocking chair. Rock back and forth like Ritalin doesn’t even show up on your radar. Rock like there’s some Aerosmith playing but only you can hear it. Now spill your coffee everywhere. Now act surprised that it happened. Again.
Okay, that is something She Does To Torture Me.
Okay, now go and promise to clean a) the living room b) the garage or c) anything else, it really doesn’t matter. Have every intention in the world to keep this promise. Turn into The Maid. Descend on the mess like some rabid housekeeper convinced that somewhere in the disaster area someone left a $1,000 dollar bill. Then, think of something a) shiny b) involving a bar with one of your buddies who always laughs at your jokes and who likes beer, too or c) anything else-, it really doesn’t matter. Now, suffer complete and total amnesia and swear to God in heaven you Never Actually Promised To Do Anything You Really Do Nag A Lot You Know That.
That is apparently definitely something I do to Get On Her Nerves.
Okay back to the kitchen. Decide you’re going to cook something. Anything. But decide that instead of being able to find what you need to prepare this meal you are a giant rat in a maze the size of the Library of Congress and there’s a cattle prod on your butt making you flail around the room getting everything all over the walls. Now use every single pot, pan, dish, tray, utensil, storm door, extension cord, twin-engine airplane, my circular saw to cook this dish. Make it look like a murder scene. Spill something. Spill something else. Burn yourself. Bring the dish to the table and look morose and all martyred at your sacrificial love and care. Then, act like you’re a fastidious little chef and act completely aghast at the suggestion that You Make The Kitchen Look Like A Murder Scene.
This is, again, something She Does To Torture Me.
Garage. Alright, go clean the garage as (allegedly) promised. But while you clean the garage, revert to some Neolithic maniacal bastard and decide that the fate of the free world rests solely on you and your ability to throw out anything that annoys you. Note that everything annoys you. When your spouse comes out to check your work “see how it’s going,” threaten her with You Can Have The Kids AND The House And There Isn’t A Jury In The World That Would Convict Me because she wants to turn the fate of the free world into a relationship. I HATE this and can’t be bothered with mortals because the fate of the free world rests solely on me and my ability to throw out anything that annoys me and right now everything annoys me.
This, for some reason, is something she claims I Do To Torture Her.
The cars. Let’s clean the cars, shall we? Do, let’s. [opens Todd’s car] [pick up paper] [clean smudge on window] [adjust air freshener] [done].
[Opens HER car door—ALL. THE. ANGELS. AND. SAINTS. ThereIsNoWayI’mTouchingThatScienceExperimentFor-getYou [closes door, backs away.]
This She Does To (say it with me) Torture Me.
More housekeeping. Notice how the entire Outside has somehow found itself inside the house? See that? See the dirt, the twigs, the feathers (the feathers?), the stones, the I Have No Idea What That Is? See all that? Let’s sweep it up, will just take a moment c’mon. Sweep the floor. Then sweep that floor. Oh hell, sweep them all. Then leave little piles of Outside all over the house like little altars to the floor gods. And leave them there. Do NOT get the dust pan and actually take the piles of Outside to the trash. Leave them there. I don’t know why. Just leave them there. I know all it takes is following through, getting the dust pan and—HEY LOOK! SOMETHING SHINY!
This drives her Stark Raving Mad.
Laundry (oh, you knew this was coming). Do the laundry. And by “do the laundry” I mean get all the dirty clothing from every part of the house and bring it to the laundry room. And by “every part of the house” you have to remember to look in places no single person without children would ever think to look. Like: the freezer in the garage outside (not making that up), or behind the headboard (also not making that up and it unfortunately is not part of some wild jungle love story), in the file cabinet, behind the toilet (I don’t even want to talk about this one). Now, bring it all down to the washing machine and put it all in together. Forget that old “All-TEMPA-CHEER” commercial about separating colors and just stuff everything inside it like your trying to burst through to some other dimension where it doesn’t matter all your socks and underwear are now pink.
THIS. MAKES. ME. CRAZY.
That one piece of furniture in the living room. She moves it one inch back. I move it one inch forward. We’ve done this for about five years straight. We never talk about it. We just do it. We know we’re doing it, but we never talk about it. This issue alone could earn some marriage therapist a permanent winter home in Tahiti. This drives each other up the wall, but it seems to work for us and we’re leaving it alone.
She uses my razor. MY. RAZOR. It drives me nuts, but I got her back by once being out of deodorant and used her Secret. ONCE. I smelled like a florist from three blocks away. That one backfired.
She can’t seem to figure out the very nimble and delicate process of hanging up my pants the right way. Sixteen years of marriage and still no opposable thumbs. It makes me want to run screaming into the street.
I have been known to (big shock coming here) say rather…well…inappropriate things at very in appropriate times. Personally, I think this is a gift. She quite does not. But it hasn’t stopped me. This is going to drive her to drink.
She sleeps with every pillow in the house. She sleeps with every pillow on the block. That pillow you’re missing? She has it and she sleeps with it. I could die in my sleep and she’d never notice. I hate those pillows.
This one pair of black pants, a few shirts, a jacket and this one pair of shoes. All items of clothing I own which she detests. Which is putting it mildly. I have them locked and put away because if I leave them unprotected for one minute she’ll light them on fire.
She burns up at night. I freeze to death. She can’t open jars. I open them all. She MIGHT fold laundry. I put it all away. I load the dishwasher. She’d sooner go into labor all over again than empty it. She has enough worry in her little head to build a VW engine before lunch time. She can’t not insert herself into just about everything. I will never admit I’m wrong. Ever. She can be so critical. I can get moody. I absolutely can’t sta—
Oh who am I kidding.
I love this, lol.
I am wiping the tears from my eyes at this one! It is just frightening the parallel life we live in. Are you sure you were not writing about my marriage? Especially the cars! (I have your car btw).
I had a feeling I wasn’t the only one out here on the dance floor :)