Marital Roller Coaster

So, marriage and relationships are all just a bunch of twists and turns on a roller coaster. And you know, I hate roller coasters. I mean, what’s the point? They make you dizzy, they spin you upside-down, they make you unsure of what’s coming next. They make you mess up your hair, feel out of control, and sometimes, they make you puke. How is that fun?

This weekend, we had some marital ups and downs, and I swear, the man in this house was experiencing what I can only term as Male-Syndrome-PMS. Seriously. And it must have been a male-full-moon cuz some of the other dads in the ‘hood were experiencing these PMS symptoms.

Saturday a.m. I awoke at my regularly scheduled time of, say, about 9 or 9:30. Is it MY fault that Mr. Manic has some obscure internal clock set to 6 a.m. on the weekends? Nooooo? Do I kick him out of bed saying, “Get your lazy ass up and make those kids some breakfast; I worked hard all week. It’s your turn to microwave the waffles!”? Nooooo. I don’t make these demands. He’s free to do what he wants on the weekends too. Nobody’s putting a gun to his head telling him to get up and play dad.

So, he’s up, doing whatever he does, and then I get up, all cheery and happy, glad the weather is so beautiful, glad that my family is together. I suggest a family walk. The doorbell rings. Six or ten neighbor kids grab my kids so they all go out to play. So much for a family walk. I suggest that maybe I’ll go for a walk on my own.

“What about that refrigerator? Have you given any thought to what you want to do about the fridge in the basement?” he asks.

Well, yes, I have thought about it, and I’ve nagged him for about two months to bring home the cart-thinga-ma-giggy he needs to pull the fridge up from the basement so we can put it into the garage. He’s finally brought it home, and he wants to do this project N O W.

“I sent you an email about it.”

“What email?”

“I sent you an email asking you to clean out that area in the garage to get it ready.”

Dude. An email? Do we not communicate with one another ever anymore? WTF is that all about? Of course, I didn’t say this.

Then, he hurts his finger, cuts it on some ball or something, and it is an owie and this makes him grumpy, and he’s fussing and putzing around and finally I say, “Are you in a bad mood or something?”

“I want to get that fridge set up! I sent you an email. The kids are fighting, you’re sleeping in (he didn’t really say this, I’m just adding for the effect!).”

“God! OK, let’s get the freaking fridge and do it! I just thought we could do it this afternoon. Don’t freak out. What do you have, like PMS or something!?”

So, we go down to the basement and he’s ranting and raving because I didn’t clean out the fridge (all it has in there are some Mike’s Hard Lemonades from like 2003, and a half bottle of Bailey’s, and a frozen pack of hamburger buns).

He starts pulling the shit out and griping and I’m bitching at him, and he says, “I hope I live long enough to experience the lap of luxury you all live in.”

WHAT EVER Dude.

I start crying, tell him this is just great. He’s ruining the day because he’s in a pissy mood and now he’s got me upset and I’m yelling at Diva to pick up all the G-Damn beads she has strewn all over the basement, so now he’s making ME be mean just because he was mean.

Then I pull out the EFF word. I’m going to use it here so you can understand the magnitude of it.

“Fuck this! You are ruining the whole day! Fuck you! I don’t even want to go to the party with you tonight, you bastard. Don’t make us all feel bad because you’re in a crappy mood!”

Then…from me…

“You fucker!”

I turn the corner, and there’s Diva, primly placing all the beads back into the box. “Hi honey. You’re doing a good job. Thank you,” I tell her.

Then he’s trying to get the fridge out the entryway, and we are convinced the previous owners had the basement finished AFTER the fridge was already down there and there’s no way the fridge is coming up.

Screw it.

“Let me know if you need help.” Then I go upstairs. “Fucker.” Under my breath.

Twenty minutes later, I go back down and he’s nowhere in sight. I start to freak a little thinking he’s got himself in such a tizzy he’s collapsed and had a heart attack, and he’s dead and the very last words I said to him was, “You fucker.” That would not bode well for the future as a widow.

“I’m sorry for your loss. What was the last thing he said to you?”

“Well, I can’t exactly remember, but I know I called him a fucker before he keeled over and died.”

Nice.

So, I finally figure he’s probably gone to the neighbor to get help with the fridge and when I go over to their backyard, there he is, helping the neighbor with their pool cover. And the neighbor’s wife is practically in tears cuz her husband was mad about something too! We are like whispering in the corner that we can’t stand them, and why are they so mean and what is it, a full-moon-male PMS day or what?

Then, he comes over and kisses me.

I turn my head and spit. Nah, just kidding, I don’t. I just say, “Quit being a fucker.”

OK, so this is turning out to be way longer than I anticipated, but in the end, he got the neighbor to help bring up the fridge while I went for a walk, because I wanted to be NOWHERE near that escapade when they tried to lug it upstairs.

Then, I decided not to be mad, and somehow we made up, cuz this is how we fight—we yell and scream (or I do, most of the time anyway), and then we go to our separate corners (well, I do, anyway) to lick our wounds, and then somehow, we regroup and we’re not mad anymore.

I did say, “My feelings were hurt with that comment about us living the lap of luxury.” (Notice how I expressed it with saying how I felt, not how HE made me feel? I think that’s a Dr. Phillism, right?)

And he did say, “I’m sorry.”

And then I said, “OK, I’m going to Jimmy John’s for a sandwich, want one?”

Later, Diva said out of the blue, “Mom, I heard you say the EFF word.”

“I know honey, and I’m very sorry. I was really angry and I shouldn’t have said it.”

“It made my heart beat fast,” she said.

“Did it scare you?” I asked.

“Yes, and then you said the EFF word and then ER too. That’s bad.”

“Yes, that was bad, and I’m sorry, and Mommy and Daddy are OK and we love each other and I shouldn’t have said those words, but let me tell you something missy, men can sometimes be fuckers and it’s up to us women to make sure they know when they are being fuckers, OK hon?”

Bwahhahahahah! Kidding.

So, the party was fun, at our neighbors who just pimped up their backyard with an outside bar that’s so awesome, you feel like you’re at a resort with the pool, and the flat screen and the ambiance. Someone joked that we’re going to have start needing a passport to get access to their backyard.

We got home around midnight, kids included, so everyone slept in this a.m., and then we had a little connection this a.m., and you know what, and I’m going to be talking S E X here, so if you don’t want to hear it, like if you’re Mr. Manic’s SISTER or MOM or MY MOM and don’t want to know about it, skip this part. With kids in the house, and I’ve discussed this before, sometimes I just cannot relax, but even just a little quickie can make the day start out so much nicer. Seriously. I am in the best mood. You then get to go through the day knowing there’s someone who loves and adores you no matter what your body looks like, no matter how bad your breath is, and that person would take you as you are, every day for your life, it doesn’t matter. And that’s what’s special about it now. Yeah, simultaneous Os can be explosive and all that, but not always necessary. Just the connection of knowing that person whom you’ve committed your life to continues to love you each and every day, no matter how much of a fucker he can be sometimes.

And that’s something to be really grateful for. I love my Mr. Manic.