Phew, I’m writing late in the day today. It’s been a crazy week. Yesterday’s post received a lot of awesome comments. So, today I found myself scrolling through the “color note” app on my Android phone. That’s where I keep a lot of my future blog posts ideas and concept thoughts. It’s an easy little, electronic, yellow, legal pad of an application. You open it up, hit “add” and start typing. This afternoon I found myself scrolling through it and I stumbled upon something else entirely.
Wifesy and I don’t fight much, but when we do, we fight both passionately and intensely. I suppose we do nearly everything with that type of enthusiasm. As I was scrolling through the pad application, I came across this beginning of a sentence:
“I can’t believe u r…”
Basically, it goes like this. Wifesy and I live in a loft space together along with our french bulldog. That means no doors. There’s a staircase up to our bedroom and a railing that overlooks the main living area, but no doors. This is important for what I’m going to say next. The loft thing is fun to live in, but a pain in the arse when you have guests over. We had a wonderful friend staying with us. I’ll call her Lorraine. Lorraine was staying on the couch down below our bedroom. We had all gone out to dinner, but on the way home Wifesy and I proceeded to get into a HUGE fight. It started in the car. I’m still new to Los Angeles and don’t know where in the feck I’m going at the best of times, which tends to frustrate Wifesy to no end. I kept missing the freeway entrance so Wifesy told me to pull over and she’d drive. I did, but I was annoyed about it. I then proceeded to lay down in the back seat and contemplate why -sometimes- even the people you love the most you’d like to hit repeatedly with a soft object until you exhaust yourself.
Wifesy saw me laying down in the backseat and asked if I were wearing my seat belt. I wasn’t. In my defense, I was in the backseat. Where I’m from, in NY, the law growing up was that you didn’t have to wear your seat belt in the backseat if you were over 15 years of age. I’m way over 15.
We get home. Wifesy and I are pissed. Poor Lorraine is on the couch barely breathing in order to not disturb the fragile nature of the quarrel-fog we’ve conjured up. Wifesy and I go upstairs, but there’s no door. So, we can’t have a fight. This annoyed me to no end because we almost never go to bed angry. We talk things out. Yet, there was no way to talk it out because Lorraine could hear every word. So, I flipped open my “color notes” application and began to type. This is what was said, verbatim:
Sweet Mother: I can’t believe u r fighting w me like this w ur friend here. It’s really rude. Ok, if ur not gonna talk w me now and work it out then u just go out w her tomorrow and i’ll stay here, which will be even more ridiculous and embarrassing.
Wifesy: I asked you nicely in the car to put on your seat belt. I’m not asking because of some fucking power trip. (SM real time note: Wifesy does not use the SM ‘feckin’ when she’s angry…) I’m asking because you are my life and if anything happened to you I would die. And seat belts fucking save lives. And you were a selfish asshole not to put the fucking thong on! (SM real time note: I mean, “THONG” instead of ‘thing’??!! Could there be a better typo in a fight btwn two lesbos?) I don’t want to talk.
Sweet Mother: Tough. When ur married, u have to talk. Especially if we don’t want to be weird in front of Lorraine in the morning. I hear u that u felt u were saying it to protect me. However, from my point of view u were talking to me so shittly and disrespectfully from the moment I got lost in the detour. So from my pov it didn’t sound nice or loving when u demanded that I put my seat belt on. It felt orderish and mean. I don’t respond well to that. And then when we came back in the house, u still wouldn’t let it go.
Wifesy: I asked you, pleaded with you nicely at first. I only got agrivated (SM real time note: I’m leaving the misspelling for authenticity’s sake…) and more demanding after you wouldn’t put it on but at first I asked you. You know they save lives. Quit being a fucking child. You’re 40, wear the fucking thing. I don’t want you to get hurt or die. Why the fuck do I have to even ask. It’s ridiculous.
Sweet Mother: Even now, u can’t even be nice or makeup. That is ridiculous. Unfortunately, that’s also far more childish. Fine, we will play it your way. For the record, just like I said I would in my marriage vows – I tried. (SM real time note: And the award for most dramatic goes to…SM.)
Okay, back to real-time Sweet Mother. I don’t like to display every moment of our private lives here on this blog or on the internet. However, when I re-read this, it was just too funny to pass up. I mean we had a fight over a seat belt. A silly fight about me not dying. In the morning, we were over it. But, what re-visiting this has taught me is – if you fight good, you live well.
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