Shortly after we were first married, and it was over laundry. We separated my undershorts and T-shirts from the mix, and I stuffed them into my underwear drawer without folding or sorting them further. The Lovely and Talented Mrs. Shodan was horrified.
“They’ll get all wrinkled!”
“So what? It’s underwear.”
“But it’ll be all messed up in the drawer!”
“So what? It’s underwear. No one will see it but me and you.”
“But it’s all wrinkly!”
“Stop being so anal-retentive!”
Things went down hill from there.
Much later, she agreed to do the laundry if I did the vacuuming. We have done it that way for twenty-two years.
Of course, I am the person whose concept of “matching socks” extended no further than “both black - close enough”. Now my daughter checks my clothes before she lets me leave the house.
While watching a Kylie Minogue concert on TV, I commented that I though it was crap. From out of the blue and with much passion she said…
" well, you obviously have no idea about what art and culture really is."
I thought that was a bit of a harsh call considering it was bloody Kylie Minogue. I got offended, and instead of telling me that she didn’t mean it or that her call was a bit harsh, she simply said again that it was true and that I was too sensitive, just deal with the fact that I have no culture.
She has a degree in arts and I have one in science, so she felt it was justified.
Uh…that would be just yesterday. Despite having the flu, I struggled through dinner on New Years Eve with little to no voice, then sat through two movies while popping cough drops like they were candy because it was all that our friends had in the house. Then sat through two movies while struggling to stay awake.
The next morning on New Years Day, I told my wife that I wanted to skip brunch with her new friends and just sleep in. I was promptly informed that “Oh sure, you’re well enough to go out on New Years Eve but now you’re too sick to meet these new people”. I reminded her that I struggled through last night so I wouldn’t ruin her New Years plans… Somehow the fact that it was with mutual friends as opposed to just HER friends made this an issue.
This came so far out of left field, I was nearly shocked out of bed. I told her I would be happy to give her new group of friends the flu if she’d really like, and that I already felt bad enough our other friends probably had it from the night before…thank you very much…and that I would start showering.
Chile con carne is, basically, chili peppers to which meat has been added. The two things are cooked together. The beans should be cooked separately until they are just a touch al dente and then be added to the aforementioned peppers and meat. The meat, incidentally, should be a good grade of beef and NOT ground meat. As the the Cincinnati stuff, whatever it might be, it is NOT chili. Real chili does NOT live on top of spaghetti. The little oyster crackers aren’t bad, though.
I dreamt that Hubby was having an affair with some little blond Dharma-girl and when I was upset, he just laughed at me and moved her into the spare bedroom.
I woke up and hit him with a pillow. “Wahdid I do?”, says he, acting all innocent. “Like YOU don’t know why I’m upset. You can’t do that to me!!” “Do what?” “Move little miss slut-puppy into the spare room!” “Who?” “Your mistress… um… wait a second…” “WHAT??? What are you talking about?” “Uh, I dreamed that you were having an affair… Sorry about that.” “No fair! You can’t get mad at me for something YOU dreamed!”
Standing rule… No fair starting fights over imaginary women.
Yep. BTDT. Got EXTRAORDINARILY mad at hubby for some bimbo he was shtupping in our bed. Allow me to elaborate. In one of my dreams. So, I knew it was silly to be upset when I woke up. But I was. I was pissed. And looking for a fight. And started one. He finally got the coherent story out of me, with a very bewildered look on his face, and said “But…but…but…baby… it was A DREAM. And, not even MY dream.”
All I could come back with was “I KNOW THAT, DAMMIT!! BUT I’M ALREADY MAD, SO WE NEEDED TO FIGHT ABOUT IT!” sigh
I don’t have an SO, but my parents did once get into a big row over how to correctly fill an ice tray.
Oh, and an ex got, like, tooootally super pissed at me when I pointed out that the University of Nebraska, on average, graduates more Academic All-Americans than the University of Texas.
Me: What do you want to eat?
Her: I don’t care.
Me: How about place A?
Her: No.
Me: How about place B?
Her: No.
Me: How about place C?
Her: No.
Me: Well what do you want to eat?
Her: I don’t care.
We had to establish a rule about that in our house, Hampshire. If you negate the first suggestion, you must provide an alternate suggestion. If not, the first suggestion wins. It really has saved a lot of aggravation.
As a newly-wed at Burger King…
Cyn: Look, they have lemon pie! I want some! Money, please!
NowEx: How much is it?
Cyn: 99cents. (Takes dollar and dime and returns with boxo’pie)
Cyn: It tastes like yellow rubber.
NowEx: You wanted it, now eat it.
Cyn: No, I don’t like it. You want it?
NowEx: No, you’re going to eat it. I paid a dollar for that.
Cyn: Nope. I’m going to toss it.
NowEx: Don’t. We’re going to sit here until you eat that pie. (We sit maybe 15 minutes)
Cyn: The only way I’m going to eat this pie is if you pry my jaws open and force it down my throat and I’ll claw you bloody first.
(He appears to consider this, so I get up and fling it in the trash.)
NowEx: You are such a brat.
Cyn: F@ck you.
NowEx: I can’t believe you.
Mr. TeaElle: I saw a sweater that I think you might like. I was going to buy you one, but they didn’t have your size. But it was nice. It was mauve blue.
Me: Um, honey, mauve blue?
Mr. TeaElle: Yeah, it was really nice, it was cotton but it felt like cashmere… (Mr. TeaElle now sees the perplexed look on my face.) Whaaaaaaaaaaat?
Me: Honey, “mauve” is that shade of dusky pink like the valance in the guest bedroom.
Mr. TeaElle: I thought that was “dusty rose.”
Me: It’s mauve.
Mr. TeaElle: No it’s not. Mauve is a blue. It’s the blue like your mother’s sofa.
Me: Honey, that’s called “heather blue.”
Mr. TeaElle: But heather isn’t blue. That doesn’t make any sense.
Me: Um, so, you saw a sweater for me the color of my mother’s sofa?
Mr. TeaElle: Yes. But listen, that’s mauve. I’m telling you.
Me: I don’t want to argue about this, it doesn’t matter.
Mr. TeaElle: Yes it does matter! Words have meanings!
Me: :rolleyes:
For the rest of the afternoon, Mr. TeaElle kept pointing out things that he swore were mauve. (They were all, of course, heather blue.) The argument didn’t end until we went to Home Depot and I pulled out five different paint samples that were some value of mauve, and another half dozen that were heather blue.
In his sleep (ex) SO flailed about and punched me in the nose so hard it woke me up. I woke him up, crying. I was devastated that he had punched me in the nose. He was perplexed that he had punched me in the nose. He apologised profusely, I wept. He pointed out that he had been sleeping. I wept. After some time, while I berated him, he abandoned the rational I-was-asleep-and-do-not-harbour-unconscious-urges-to-beat-you-up argument, and said: “Well never mind. It’s still cute.”
Glad to see that last bit, because I was going to wonder what exactly those hulking things were that we saw when camping outside of St. Louis when I was a kid. That nickname ain’t for nothing.
My ex and I once argued about whether a song we’d been listening to on the ride home consisted of one bar of 3/4 time and one 5/4, or two bars of 3/4 and one bar of 2/4.
And this took place in bed. Instead of nookie, we argued for forty-five minutes and went to sleep.
I was pregnant (very pregnant-about 34 weeks) and psychotic with hormones. It was around the time of the Anthrax scare - Fall 2001. Hubby brings in the mail and spreads it all over my pillow for me to peruse. I accuse hubby of trying to give me Anthrax. Hubby says that’s stupid and ridiculous. Pregnancy Hormones surge and evil is unleashed.
It was SO unfunny at the time, but when I look back on it, it was hilarious.
