I frequently get emails (and I mean Me-frequent, not Internet Superhero-frequent) from readers who tell me they like the way I portray marriage and relationships, because if there is one thing I can promise you itís that I will not glamorize marriage, as evidenced by pretty much every shrewish post I have ever written concerning fights, in-laws, holidays, more fights, shoes (and the removal of), more fights, kids, no kids, again with the in-laws, work, housing, and probably more fights.
I love those emails. I love the notion that somewhere out there is a chick about to lose her shit, trying to decide if she should pack a bag or pour a drink, and she might read my site and think, Damn at least Iím not that crazy.
The worst part of an argument or a depression is feeling completely isolated and alone and like you are the only one thinking or feeling a certain way and no one understands and it must be written across your forehead that you are the WORST WIFE IN THE WORLD AND DESERVE ACNE AND BACKPAIN AND SHINGLES for all the mean things you have said and done. The very act of realizing that other people have screamed and stomped and potentially thrown things like remote controls and shoes and sunglasses is like diving into a cool pool on a hot day, such is the overall relief and weightlessness of that realization.
Kent and I had a good summer. I experienced a brief identity crisis this spring in which I decided that for my 30th birthday it should be Spring Break all the time and that responsibility was like, so totally dumb. But despite my need to go Out because I did not want to miss any fun that might be happening Out, Kent and I still had a good summer, separately and as a family. So my Worst Wife in the World stories waned a bit. A bit, because clearly I am still totally whacked in the head. But, the tantrums took a holiday for most of the summer. And I realized last weekend where they have been vacationing.
One little blue paperback book and a week without bread later, and the tantrums returned and I am again the Worst Wife in the World. Kent and I decided to try the South Beach Diet last week, wanting to lose a few pounds and cleanse our bodies of their apparently vicious dependency on simple sugars, and we figured that Hey, we can do anything for two weeks and probably we will look so hot by the end of [Evil] Phase I that everyone will totally want to make out with us. At least thatís what I thought.
It turns out that when I do not have bread, I go Velociraptor crazy.
I was fine Monday through Wednesday. By Thursday I really wanted a glass of wine. By Friday I would have paid $45 for a scone. By Saturday my body was cleansed of sugar and my blood sugar plummeted to an emotionally scary place and I stood in our apartment and screeched and yelled until about 3:00 pm, at which point the following argument finally reached its zenith:
Me: RAWR RAWR RAWR WHY DID YOU BUY SO MUCH LETTUCE WHO NEEDS TWO HEADS OF LETTUCE YOU DONíT EVEN KNOW HOW TO MAKE A SALAD IT DOESNíT TAKE TWO HEADS OF LETTUCE
Him: Uh, itís lettuceÖ
Me: WASTING FOOD IS BAD BAD BAD THE LETTUCE AND THE SOUTH BEACH WAS YOUR IDEA AND I WANT A PASTRY AND YOU SHOPPED ALL WRONG YOUíRE WRONG YOU DID IT WRONG THATíS WHY I AM IN CHARGE OF GROCERIES
Him: Uh, okayÖ
Me: YOU BOUGHT ALL THESE EGGS AND I HATE EGGS WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO BREAK UP WITH ME WITH ALL THE EGGS I THINK OMELETTES ARE BARFY AND GROSS
Him: Iím going to take the dog for a walkÖ
Me: DONíT LEAVE YOU BOUGHT THE LETTUCE AND THE EGGS AND IíM SO MAD AND I HATE THOSE JEANS YOUíRE WEARING THEY SAG IN THE ASS DONíT LEAVE WHEN I AM YELLING
Him: Youíre scaring the dog and you sound like a five year old
Me: A FIVE YEAR OLD WOULDNíT WANT AN OMELETTE EITHER I HATE EGGS I WANT A BAGEL
Him: Okay, whatever, Iím making myself some eggs
Me: Stomps into kitchen, grabs entire carton of eggs and throws them away
Him: WHAT THE FUCK?
Me: THATíS WHAT I THINK ABOUT YOUR FUCKING EGGS I AM HUNGRY BUT I CANíT HAVE BREAD AND I HATE EGGS AND BACON AND YOU WERE THE ONE WHO BOUGHT THAT BOOK I HATE IT I HATE SOUTH BEACH I HATE EGGS
Him: Contemplates divorce
Me: DID YOU MAKE ME START SOUTH BEACH BECAUSE YOU THINK IíM FAT?
Him: Youíre fucking crazy if you think I could make you do anything.
Me: Unintelligible shrieking
Him: I donít care about South Beach, you need to eat something, Iíll be back in 10 minutes.
Kent returned with a sesame seed bagel with egg whites and cheese, my personal weekend favorite way to stuff 600 calories in my gut as quickly as possible. I ate the whole damn thing and it tasted awesome. ThenÖ
Me: THAT WAS ILLEGAL I AM GETTING FAT CAN YOU HEAR MY BELLY GURGLING ON THE SIMPLE CARBS?
Him: Canít I watch the Yankee game?
Me: EVERYTHING IS WRONG EVERYTHING EVERYTHING BLAH BLAH BLAH WAH WAH WAH RAWR RAWR RAWR EVERYTHING DID YOU HEAR ME EVERYTHING
I donít remember how the conversation (and I use that word loosely) took the next turn, but soon we were hereÖ
Me: YOU SHOULD BE NICE TO ME
Him: Shouldnít you be nice to me?
Me: BE NICE!!!!!!!! TO ME!!!!!!!!! ME!!!!!!!!!!!
Him: What about me? Why is this about you? Why do I have to be nice but you can shriek and yell?
Me: BECAUSE IíM THE GIRL
Him: Thatís not a reason.
Me: Kicks the coffee table over in anger, breaks the coffee table, scares the living shit out of the dog and clearly makes point. Clearly
I blame the South Beach Diet.
Carbs are a powerful thing.
We actually recovered fine from the fight. Once my blood sugar level stabilized and I got out of the apartment, sanity returned and I apologized and we had a really, really great day. We totally cheated on the diet though. I had to; we canít afford any more new furniture and we were all out of eggs.