Mawwaige

(Title to be said in the Princess Bride wedding ceremony voice)

My last blog was a little bleak, wasn't it? I think that just by reading about the quarter life crisis I managed to put myself into one, because before that I was actually pretty content with my life. Or maybe it's the fact that I keep reading reviews of the Sex and the City movie, and everyone concludes that it's such a depressing ending because everyone gets old and married. It's all, like, realistic and stuff. Geez.

To top off my contented life, I got into a fight with my husband today. We don't fight a lot. Not to say that I don't try, because picking fights over meaningless things is really my forte in life. However, since my mild mannered partner in matrimony informed me a few weeks ago that he was the husbandly equivalent of a citizen of Pompeii constantly waiting for Mt. Visuvius to erupt, I've been trying to be, well, nicer. A little less explosive. This lasted about two weeks, which is good for me. And I still contend (not out loud at home, but here in the safe haven of my blog where I am always good, nice, and most importantly, right) that this fight was not my fault. I have spent the last two weekends on my hands and knees scrubbing grout, an activity that is just about as fun for me as doing long division. So when I looked up and found my charming mate sitting on the couch watching Smokey and the Bandit, I merely suggested that he could, you know, work.

Granted, he had been working and was taking a break. Whatever. I didn't say it meanly, I just offered him a couple of items on our To Do list that needed to be completed. Hurtful words were exchanged, and I ended up storming out of the house and driving around the back roads of Tucson for two hours, fantasizing about driving to San Diego for a week and seeing how long it would take him to worry about me. By the time I returned to the house I was calmer, but had a list of very well thought out reasons why I was in the right. In the midst of fine tuning this list I noticed he had taken out the garbage. And scrubbed the grout in the bathroom. And grouted the empty spots in the kitchen. We hugged and I said "I'm sorry I hurt your feelings". Then I waited graciously for his own apology. It never came. "It's okay" he says. I wait another couple of beats, just to be sure. I contemplated prompting him, asking him, or pinching his ear lobe until he begged for mercy. I calculated how much gas it would take me to get to San Diego.

But then I thought about all the stuff he had done while I was gone, and how if I had been him I would have sulked around and defiantly not done any work. I would have probably laid in the middle of the living room floor just to prove that I wasn't going to do any work. But Danny is Danny, and he picked up the scrub brush I had thrown in a rage and tackled the shower. I decided that was enough apology for me.