Same Song and Dance.
‘Oh yeah?? And what do you ever do for me you miserable cow?’
My rage alert monitor just tripped over in to red.
There are bells and sirens and whistles piercing the air.
Doodle runs for cover and takes the 70 thousand ants that recently moved in, with him.
Addison is at nursery so there is no stopping us now.
We can finally let rip and tear strips out of one another.
If I were to give in to my rage right now, I would gain such a large amount of satisfaction from punching him hard over and over again in the chest, perhaps delivering a swift kick to the groinal area, maybe pulling his hair and biting him before slapping him and then stepping over him, in killer heels, (obviously I would change out of my slippers first) with nothing more than a hair toss and a haughty laugh.
But I don’t give in to the rage, there would be no going back, and even though it illuminates me, I remain, although barely, in control.
‘Miserable bitch?’ I spit out at him.
How could he?
In my mind I am circled in smoke, red lights flash behind me, I am a warrior, Zena if you will, but with better thighs and the potential moves of Jackie Chan.
He declines to answer as if he knows it would be the final knife in the coffin.
He turns towards the door, ignoring me and I picture myself spinning like an elegant and long legged Charlie’s angel and high kicking him in the back of the head, so he head butts the fridge.
That would teach him a lesson.
But, alas, I don’t.
Instead I stand there staring at his back, motionless, in my grotty pajama bottoms and my stained top, my hair tied back with yesterdays pants, my stomach heavy and bloated from a much regretted meat diet, and a bowl of Weetabix moments away from going in the microwave, shaking in my hands
I wish in moments like this I was less grotty mother, it was less me and him, and more…. Like things used to be.
I wish I was still a mystery to him, you know?
I wish everything was still new, and he had never witnessed me crapping out an elephant poop on a birthing table pre Addison, OR heard me screaming blue murder the first time I had to have a poo post bum stitching, post Addison, OR ‘enjoyed’ me in the later stages of psychosis talking to someone who wasn’t there, tears and snot covering my cheekbones.
Cheekbones that he used to trace with his finger, oh so tenderly, right before I took an overdose and he had to save my life, while I puked in his lap.
I wish he still fancied me, that I was still interesting to him, that although we had a shared history, that we could erase some of it and enjoy some discovery.
He thinks I am a miserable bitch.
I think he is an ungrateful control freak who uses all of the above against me.
And you know what?
Sometimes we are both right.
‘LOVE, LOVE, LOVE… love, love love… There is nothing you can do that can’t be done, nothing you can sing that can’t be sung…. All you need is love, all you need is love…’
The radio sitting next to the butter stained toaster is providing the saddest of background soundtracks to what could potentially be the demise of our relationship.
I love him.
Maybe I should just let it go…
But hang on!
I bought him pork yesterday!
I am a ninja!
He is lucky to have me!
I am so right right now, and this has nothing to do with me being miserable or crapping on a birthing table and has everything to do with him being ungrateful!!
I slam down the Weetabix and chase him in to the hallway where he is picking up his work coat, getting ready to leave for the day.
All couples have fights, all couples go through rocky patches but do all couples momentarily lose control the way we do and lay in to one another?
He’s standing by the door about to leave, and in this moment, I hate him.
I actually hate him.
Is this my illness or is this standard?
That my emotions can flip so easily from love to hate, from hate to love?
I don’t even know how this all started, but I will be damned if I am letting him have the last word.
I am too far gone.
‘I do plenty for you!’ I scream at him, yanking up my jammy bottoms and shaking with barely suppressed rage. ‘I bought you pork from the supermarket yesterday!’
He looks at me like he doesn’t understand.
He steps forward, shoving his arms in to his coat.
‘You bought me PORK?’
‘Yes I bloody did! I bought you pork and POTATOES! I do plenty for you! I spent ages choosing that bloody pork! It was meant to be romantic! But you are just so UNGRATEFUL AND SELFISH AND HORRIBLE that you didn’t even think to say thank you!’
‘FOR BUYING ME PORK?’ he is shouting but his eyebrows are knotted in angry confusion. ‘You didn’t cook it for me you know! YOU JUST BOUGHT IT!’
‘YES I did! And I spent ages choosing it! It was meant to be romantic!’
He takes a deep breath. ‘Romantic PORK?’ he screams, losing emphasis and trying not to smile.
Ah, now when he puts it like that…
I take a deep breath.
I am confused.
What was the point I was trying to make?
‘If I had cooked it,’ I continue, finding my point ‘you and I both know you would have undoubtedly been struck down by food poisoning and besides I respect pigs too much to cook them, you know this about me! I was trying to do something nice, I thought is would have been nice to have a romantic night in! But oh no you just go ahead and eat it and then…’
He is just staring at me.
‘How was I supposed to know that it was romantic pork?’ he is sniggering.
He just bloody was.
I am not being unreasonable here.
Romance isn’t all flowers and nights in Paris when you have a child is it?
He saw me dribbling charcoal, I have seen him with the noro-virus, there are no secrets anymore, no mystery… how could it be any other way?
I just want it to be a little bit the other way though,… oomphy, every now and again.. you know?
‘You proposed to me while I was cleaning up dog poo Irish One! IT WAS ROMANTIC PORK! DON’T MOCK THE PORK!’
He heaves a big sigh, smiles at me a little to test the water, I don’t smile back, even though I want to, I don’t know why I don’t, and eventually he leaves for work, the door closing firmly behind him.
And then it hits me.
Did we just argue about pork?
Did he really propose to me while I was cleaning up dog poo?
Is this really my life?
I don’t know whether to cry because this is what it has come to, or laugh because I love someone enough to argue with him about Pork, and often happily imagine roundhousing him in the back of the head.
‘I love you.’ I text him immediately, because, as much as I sometimes absolutely hate and am bored shitless by my life, the monotony of it all, sometimes when I think about it properly, if I look at it from an abstract, I do love it. Right?
I love him.
‘I love you too’ the reply is almost instantaneous, ‘I am sorry about the PORK.’
I do not reply.
This is getting ridiculous,
He is sorry about the pork.
Maybe pork wasn’t the answer.
My phone beeps again.
‘Shall we have a Chinese tonight? Wink wink nudge nudge?’
I can’t help but laugh.
I do love a good argument.
Should it be like this?
Can you get the oomph back?