I wear a size nine shoe. This is not terribly small in the world of woman’s feet.
My husband also wears a size nine shoe (in men’s sizes, of course). This is not overly large in the realm of men’s feet.
All of which may explain T’s constant amusement when he folds our laundry and, in particular, our socks. He thinks I wear “little baby booties”.
I have to admit that even I don’t understand the physics behind this sock anomaly. I mean, there certainly isn’t this big of a difference between the size of our feet in real life. So what’s with the socks?
Isn’t it good that we have so many interesting things to ponder in life?
One of the things I love best about my husband is that he’d rather spend time with me than with anyone else. This is sincere and it holds true in any situation.
Example: At most military functions I’ve attended, I find that the guys will split from their wives and form an elbow-bending group where they can jostle each other around, laugh loudly and generally behave like the primates from which they descended. This leaves the wives to gravitate towards each other, forming groups almost out of self-defense where they can shake their heads and roll their eyes at their spouses’ antics.
Not my husband. He stays with me, and not because I would be a little lost satellite without him. At the last Yellow Ribbon event before his unit deployed, I asked him why he didn’t go hang out with the other soldiers.
“You can, you know,” I told him. I have the potential to be a clingy wife since I am so shy around people, so I try to self-monitor.
“Oh, believe me,” he said. “I’ll be seeing those guys more than enough very, very soon.”
Coincidentally enough, I love spending time with him as well. So, you see, 90% of the time, we’re perfect for each other.
Make that 85% of the time. The other 15% we’re busy arguing or being mad at each other over the household distribution of labor.
Actually, 5% of the time we’re arguing about it, 10% of the time I’m mad at him over it, and he doesn’t get mad, which is even more annoying.
Housework is, without contest, the area that causes the most friction in our relationship. Often I wonder whether I’m being overly critical or sensitive, though – as I’ve written before – I do believe my way is the best way.
As it turns out, I’m not the only one. Housework seems to be a commonly disputed topic, according to my latest “Tell Me” poll.
Here are the full results:
Tell Me: What do you argue about MOST with your spouse?
Housework 32% (7)
Money 23% (5)
Children/Pets 14% (3)
Other 14% (3)
Politics 9% (2)
Work 9% (2)
Religion 0% (0)
All three people who selected “Other” provided alternate answers. The first answer – and my favorite – was:
He points out that I’m not perfect and I disagree.
Snoring! I don’t…He does!
And one sickening individual made the comment:
We don’t argue.
Shameful. Who doesn’t argue? Clearly, this person is not Italian.
So there you have it. I feel better. Do you?
Thanks for voting! New poll will be coming soon. As soon as I think of one.
What did you think I was going to say, gutterheads?
I read good old-fashioned paperback books. T reads from his Kindle, usually. We each have a small light on our nightstand.
It generally takes about five minutes before I’m dropping off to sleep. I shut my light and pull the covers over my head. This is in part to block out T’s light and in part to keep the vampires from biting my neck.
Residual childhood issues. The ear must be covered.
T used to read on for a few more minutes, then shut his light. Lately, and despite multiple polite requests from me, he has taken to reading for a half-hour to an hour longer, or more. Invariably, after about twenty minutes, the still-blazing light wakes me up.
I am not pleasant when I get woken up.
Actually, I’m almost never pleaseant. But especially not when I get woken up.
The other night I was so angry that I couldn’t fall back to sleep for what seemed like ages and when I finally did, I tossed and turned and slept as if I had not just a pea, but an entire vegetable crop under my mattress. A rotting, bumpy, lumpy, smelly, slimy vegetable crop.
Because I’m such a rational person, I decided that I would approach this conflict in a mature manner.
No, I did not take his Kindle outside and run it over with my car. That would in no way be satisfying.
If I were going to do something like that, I would first smash the shit out of it with a ball peen hammer, then tie it to my rear bumper with fishing line so that it could bounce and drag along behind me on my way to work. And I would make darn sure I was driving in front of my husband.
But, no. Instead I left him a little note inside of his Kindle.
If you want to read this book,
At the clock you must look.
A full five minutes is the max
Before you have to put me back.
Any longer, you must leave
And take the light where you will read.
Your wife is tired, so please be nice,
And in five minutes SHUT THE LIGHTS!!!
I briefly contemplated making the last two lines:
If more than five you read in bed,
You effing wife will kill you dead.
But, I didn’t.
I’m nice that way.
Does your spouse read in bed? Do you read, too? Or does it drive you crazy?
Speaking of spouses driving you crazy, time is running out to vote in the latest “Tell Me” poll. So far all 11 of my readers have voted (thank you, peeps!), but if you know anyone else who might like to vote, please pass the word!