And the Horse You Rode in On

My wife and I very seldom have a disagreement. Before you start rolling your eyes, don't worry; this isn't going to be a gush-fest about my wife. I do enough of that in real life to make Mr. Rogers cranky. I used to think that made us weird. Well, actually, it was a few years after we'd met that I began wondering if our never having had a fight made our association somehow unhealthy. But in the beginning I was glad to escape what had become the constant drama that was every relationship I'd ever had. Don't believe me? Come; let us peel back the scabby - yes I said it: scabby - surface and peer into the fetid cesspool where I've buried my failed relationships.

I know; stinks, doesn't it?

Here we go. Here's the decayed remnants of my 2 1/2 years with Becky. Phew, 20 years sure hasn't done much for the smell. Becky was the one who decided that having sex with my brother was no different than sleeping with me. I guess she decided there were enough common DNA points between my brother and me to make us basically interchangeable. But hey, at least she asked me first. When I refused to allow it, her reply was "I don't see why you're so bent out of shape about this. If I had a sister, I'd let you do her." Picture hearing that, then glance over to me. I sat there with my mouth open. [blink blink] [I rub my eyes to be sure I'm still awake]. The words banged around in my head like an out of control pinball [blink blink]. Yeah, it's easy to promise something you know there's no chance in hell you'll ever have to produce. Let's move on, shall we?

Ah, Tammy; my first wife. Notice how this one literally swallows the light? We were young; she was really hot; I was really horny. When she decided she wanted to be with Brian instead, her reasoning was that perhaps I was "too good to her." Hmph. So I guess if I beat the shit out of her, she'd stay? The punchline was when she called several months later to say she wanted me to give - yes, give - her all the furnishings my parents had purchased for us as a wedding present (it was all in storage; I had to move back in with mom and dad when she left) so she could furnish a new place for she and Brian. Seems she and Brian had to get their own place because his roommates kept walking in on them during sex. No wonder this memory feels so... I don't know, oily.

Oooo look at this. I haven't seen this one in a while. Sharilyn. Shari was a piece. When we met she did everything to display her interest in me but leap onto my desk and wrap her legs around my neck. She spent a lot of time telling everyone how I was "the one." She'd call me at all hours of the night to tell me that she needed me lying next to her blah blah blah a bunch of stuff no one cares about blah blah blah. The point is that only two days after the last time she was telling her mom and dad - in front of me, by the way - how perfect I was yadda yadda, she decided she was done with us so -click- she flicked the switch and just shut off any affection for me. When I had the nerve to get hurt, she had the audacity to call me "psycho." WTF?!

[deep breath] I think it's time we leave, don't you? Proceed to the showers down the hall and I'll see you on the other side.

Coming on the heals of all that, having a woman like BuddhaWife was refreshing. No drama. No having to guess what she's thinking or feeling. No more having to wonder when she'll decide it's time she moved on. The few times we have disagreed, it's very tame. We don't shout or throw things or call each other names; we don't regurgitate past offenses for use as weapons.

Over the years I've had others tell me this is unhealthy. Relationships, they say, require these occasional eruptions to clear the air and relieve the inevitable pressure that builds between two people who live in close proximity for long periods of time. Besides, they continue, make-up sex is amazing.

I say "bull." Well, actually I only think that; what I say is "yeah, you may be right. Of course if I buy that philosophy I guess I'll have to pick more fights with BuddhaWife even through I'm not angry with her." The fact is we've never been angry enough at each other to raise our voices. If the pressure doesn't build, there's nothing to cause the eruption. Perhaps it's because we find little ways to relieve the pressure before it builds into an explosion. And the sex is just fine, thank you.

I typically employ the SBC methodology of Stop, Breath, Count to ten.
BuddhaWife uses "whatever."

Let me explain what I mean. I hate going for a tool and it's not where it should be. I don't have three hammers because I have a fetish for steel and carbonized epoxy. I have three hammers because I have to buy new ones every so often when the old ones evaporate into another dimension of the space-time continuum.

Remembering seeing BW hanging a picture with it, I'll ask "Hon, where's my hammer?"

"It should be in your tool box."

"Yeah, but it's not. I was just there."

"Well, I may have put it in the drawer in the kitchen."

I'll look in every drawer in there and unless it's figured out how to disguise itself as a steak knife or spoonula, the hammer's not there.

"Huuuuunnnn, it's not heeeeerrrrrre!"

"Well then I don't know wheeeerrrre it is."

one-two-three-...

"Dammit woman, will you start putting my tools back in the box when you use them?!"

"Yeah. Whatever."

I'm also a nut for protecting our identity. I've been a victim of ID theft twice, so I'm the one who insists that if it has our name on it and we don't need to keep it, it goes through the shredder. I even bought one of those ridiculously expensive things that will grind credit cards, staples, or the occasional door-to-door salesman. Nevertheless, every so often I'll find a receipt just thrown in the trash.

four-five-six-seven-...

I'll retrieve the receipt from the trash and show it to her.

"Hon, I wish you'd please put these in the shred pile. You know how I feel about this."

"Alright, whatever" she'll reply.

I also do all the cooking. BuddhaWife does the cleanup. That's our deal. On Sundays I make a big breakfast for the family. However, sometimes there are too many dishes in the kitchen from Saturday's dinner to be able to make breakfast, which our kids remind us is an unacceptable delay.

After asking a couple times I'll finally say to BW "Hon, can you please do these tonight so I can make breakfast tomorrow?" Actually I may have said it like "Geez, you've got to do these tonight because everyone's tired of having breakfast at 2pm."

But halfway through my PowerPoint presentation she'll interrupt with "Alright. Whatever. I'll do them before I go to bed."

Or when I insist she lock the doors and windows before leaving the house, only to find something open when I arrive home before she does. "Whatever."

Or coming home to an empty house to find the 2500 watt halogen lights still on - the kind of lights 20/20 demonstrated can start a fire if left burning unattended. "Whatever."

Last week I bought a few bags of candy for Halloween. I admit I'm the one who caved into a sugar craving and opened the bags but she's the one who kept dipping into them.

One night I heard the familiar crinkle of plastic packaging.

"Wife."

"Husband."

"Will you please stop eating those?! They're for trick or treaters."

"Whatever; we'll get more. We're going to need more anyway because three bags won't be nearly enough."

"You know, I notice that for years now you say 'whatever' when responding to something I've said. Is that just part of your vernacular? Like the way people say 'ya know' forty times during a sentence?"

"No, it's just 'whatever.'"

"Well what does it mean?"

"Fuck you."