Marital spats

You guys know I adore McIrish, my sainted husband. He’s the best. He adores me, tookyjfh. So now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s move onto the good stuff.

Fighting! Oh, yes, it happens! Usually over the same things, lo these 23 years. For example…

The You Didn’t Tell Me That. This is a common theme for fights in marriages, I believe. “I’m going out with the girls,” I might say.

“You didn’t tell me that,” he’ll answer.

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. I was sitting on the stool right there, and you were making eggs, and I said, ‘I’m going out with the girls,’ and you said—”

“No. You thought you told me, but you didn’t.”

We stare hotly at each other. This works both ways, just so you know. He’ll say, “I told you I have a union meeting,” and I’ll say, “No, you didn’t,” and we go back and forth, each convinced to our dying breath that we are right. (The staring hotly gets kind of fun, to be honest.)

UnknownThe Why Can’t You Do It My Way? Behold, the bed. It’s not that hard to make. A man who can build a house and fix a car and bandage a wound should be able to make a bed without it looking like a two-year-old tried to help Mommy. I think McIrish does this to spite me. I know I use soap on the cast iron frying pans to spite him. Listen. That “seasoning”? It’s grease. I wash the pan with detergent, then dry it, then rub a little olive oil on it. If we lived in medieval times, McIrish would cut off my hand for this offense. But ha! I still do it! I’m fifty years old! I know how to wash a pan!

Unknown-1The Call Your Mother. Clearly, it is McIrish who must call his mother, since I see mine almost every day. I say, “Call your mother. She loves you.” He says, “I will.” A week passes. I remind him to call his mother, as she is sweet and wonderful and he in fact loves her very much. “I will,” he snaps.

“When? Before her death?”

He glares at me hotly. I glare back. I remind him that I too have a son who had better call me at least once a week or I will lay all that blame at McIrish’s feet, since he didn’t call his mother enough. He picks up the phone and has a lovely chat with his mom.

The thing is, we’ve been married long enough that these fights are pretty much autopilot. I don’t expect McIrish to remember everything I’ve ever said (though he should), and he doesn’t expect me to buy into the seasoning argument. S’okay. Keeps things spicy.

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