I hate karma right now. Sure, in retrospect, maybe it wasn't a good idea to push Sam's buttons when it's her "time of the month," but hey, if I had known she was going to go on a homicidal rampage, I would never have said that I agreed with her. What was I supposed to do? When your wife asks you if her outfit is too small, aren't you supposed to answer truthfully? How was I supposed to know that she expected me to LIE? Women! You think you know them, and then all of a sudden they turn around and bite your head off!
If she wanted me to tell her she was beautiful, I would have, but she didn't have to be so damn subtle about it. How hard is it to say, "Dan, do you think I'm pretty?" or "John, do you still love me?" It's that simple. I don't get the whole "I must test my husband every waking hour of the day" mindset. Look, Sam; if we've been married for 13 years, I let you have the remote occasionally, and I restrain my urge to look at that hot 20-year-old blonde bombshell next door, I think I deserve some slack!
That doesn't mean I have to end up in the basement in some closet that I never even knew we had, while you go on a PMS-induced rampage. Honestly, I'm lucky that all I did to deserve this was get on your bad side. It could be worse. There could be choirgirls singing at my funeral. All my friends would be crying over my headstone;
Daniel James Fenton
1990 to 2026
Providing father, loving husband
Resilient enough to survive his wife's PMS-ing until recently
I hope that Sam doesn't find me until after she eats a few dozen Oreos. Her loading up on chocolate would prevent my untimely demise. Then again, she'd end up being very hyperactive, and I don't think spontaneity would be a good thing in this situation. I might end up dead anyway. Or worse. Sometimes she's too aggressive for me to feel safe sleeping next to her. Thank god that Sam loves me or I might have lost some vital organs the last time something like this happened.
I think I hear Joey and Johnny coming in the front door. If I'm lucky, they'll find me and get me out of here. If I'm not lucky…well…I don't want to talk about it any more. Wish me luck! I've almost finished scratching my will into the wall!
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I can feel my blood pounding through my veins as I peer into the hallway. Though I see nothing but closed doors, I can sense that he is not here. I still stop to scrutinize every nook and cranny of the room. "He" is my husband. And he is going to pay very dearly for this morning. The brute.
I am submissive to much of what happens in my house. I do the dishes and I provide for my family. I clean up after the kids, the dog, and him. I fight off the ghosts that float into our yard, and I do my best to rid Johnny of the talk he picks up from spending too much time with his grandfather. I don't even know what the phrase "ectoplasmic worming remover" means but he uses it as if he was talking about a toaster. There is nothing to prove that I am anything but a "typical mother."
I do not appreciate when a certain husband of mine calls me fat! I AM NOT FAT! I am anything but fat! My doctor tells me that I am only 2.5 pounds overweight—and that is not overweight by ANY standard. It is stupid to say that I am fat. I am not fat. I just have big hips. For god sakes, Daniel, I forced two children though them; YOU'D HAVE BIG HIPS TOO!
Ahem.
When I head back downstairs to search for "him," I stop to inspect a picture that hangs on the wall. It dates back our honeymoon. We were so young then, though we felt very mature at 23. As we hadn't had the money to rent a fancy hotel, we'd end up retrating back to our dorm room. It was also the place where our wedding reception was held, oddly enough. We had the picture taken with both our fathers. My dad, Jeremy, has an aura of wisdom around him in the picture. He and my father-in-law have their hands clapped on Dan's shoulders, almost as they're passing on their married wisdom to him. Maddie was hugging Dan (who didn't quite want to protest) and Jazz took the picture. Even after persuasion, my mother is in the background looking reluctantly happy. The memory makes me smile.
Quickly I brush the smile away. Focus, Sam. I'm supposed to be angry with him. My own HUSBAND implied that I was fat. He told me that my dress looked too tight. Any good husband would know that when their wife asks you if her dress is too tight, they say, "No, honey, it makes you look beautiful." It gives us a warm, fuzzy feeling. Moreover, when our trusted female friend tells us we're a little snug, we have an excuse to get mad at our dearly beloved.
Sometimes you need an excuse.
I sigh and head downstairs, snagging the box of Oreos on the way. Since I'm calmer now, I can probably manage to talk to him without ripping out his internal organs. I think I'm ready to say sorry. Maybe I should make all this up to him.
I can hear Joey flip on her stereo. I think I'll forget to yell at her to turn it down.
Danny boy…where are yooou? Someone wants to find yooou...
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Just another wee drabble I had floating around my computer.