Yesterday, Bri and I both had the morning off. I was bunkered down on the bed, attempting to get a laundry list of phone calls done, banking figured out, and to-do lists written. Brian had committed his morning to the completion of chores around the house. As some of you may have already figured out, this was not the best of plans. For those of us who like the house not only cleaned a certain way, but in a certain order and with a certain timetable, staying out of the way and letting someone else tackle the chores in their own unique fashion can in some way be akin to the ancient art of water torture.
The morning began with the familiar rustling and snuffling in the kitchen that quickly warns you that Mr Darcy, our fat senior pug dog, has found his way into an open bag of trash. I called to Brian to stop him, and heard him sneak-run into the kitchen; this was followed by loud admonishments of, "Bad dog! Darcy! Bad, bad dog! Get outta the kitchen!" This went on for some time until Darcy must've skittered out of the way. I called to Brian and asked what the dog had gotten into, and Brian growled that he'd been after the thawed-out expired steak we'd thrown out the night before. I called back that if Brian didn't want that to happen again, he should probably put the bag up on a counter or take it out into the hall. I got no response.
About an hour later, the telltale rustling/snorting of a dog in a garbage bag began again. I looked up from my paper-strewn bed to call to Brian, but heard he was already on his way to deal with it. I heard him shout the usual admonishments at first, but then he paused; and when he resumed his shouting, his calls from turned from, "Bad dog!" to "Drop it! Drop it!" I sat, still as a statue, with my legs crossed and my hands folded in my lap, and listened to the sounds of Darcy's scratchy nails as he struggled across the kitchen tile, avoiding Brian's grasp and fleeing into the living room....then the kitchen again...then the art room...and back into the kitchen...all the while making sickening sounds as he tried to swallow the pilfered treat before Brian could catch him.
But catch him, Brian did, and the shouts of, "Drop it!" became more adamant. I could hear Darcy's disgusting gnashing of teeth, and Brian's shouts began to sound more like cries for help. Still, I sat in silence on the bed, hands folded, legs crossed, a perfect statue. Finally Brian hollered, "How do you get him to open his mouth?!" I called back, calmly, "Put your fingers in the sides of his mouth!" The struggle between man and beast continued for some time until I finally heard Brian wrestle the last of the meat from Darcy's maw.
While I, myself, have chased this stupid dog around the house like a wild pig on many occasions, on this particular instance I found it difficult to feel any sort of sympathy for Brian. Had I not, only an hour before, recommended he move the garbage so that this exact situation could be avoided? Of course he knew that, and I think the unspoken 'I told you so' hanging in the air somehow made him angrier. Needless to say, Brian and I had a long drawn-out fight over chores, brains, and obvious stupidity for the next hour or longer. He left for work before we'd really reached any truce, and we ran out of time in the evening to really reach any meaningful closure, though we both apologized and let it drop.
Later that same day when I left the house myself, I saw a friend while I was being served at Starbucks up the street. She had not yet seen me since the engagement, and of course, she wanted to give her congrats. I smiled as best I could, and every answer I gave to her questions about how happy/excited/overjoyed I am was short, almost growled out between my clenched teeth disguised as a smile. There is nothing quite like feeling obliged to say something nice about someone else when you're just
not feeling it. It reminds me of when my little brother and I would fight, and Mom would make him and I sit staring at each other until we made up.
What's amazing, though, is the real reason why I'm writing this entry: how the turn from love to hate can happen so quickly, and can turn just as quickly yet again.
Last night I was puttering around the apartment, cleaning or organizing something, getting ready to go with Brian to get groceries. I looked over at him sitting at his computer and wondered what he was up to; I went over to tell him it was time to go, and he asked me to proofread what he was writing. It was his entry for this blog. He always contributes to what I write up here, but I'd told him earlier that day that I'd like him to write some of his own. Here he was, writing one. I sat with him and read it, changed a couple spelling errors, and told him it was perfect--post it! He said okay, but reread his entry about five times more, changing the formatting, moving the picture, checking the preview, til it was perfect.
Watching him put so much attention into this blog, this enormously large project we are trying to do together, was amazing. I felt such a surge of adoration for this gentle man, this fella who can sit there perfecting the text alignment on his little paragraph, and asking me repeatedly if I truly liked the picture.
Love...hate...love...hate...maybe it's like the 'he loves me, he loves me not' game with the flower petals: all that really matters is which one you end with.
