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Fairytales for a Practical Princess - 2008-11-30
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10:14 p.m. - 2004-05-12
We are now into hour 33 of “Who can be a bigger dick-weasel?” Not one word. I have not spoken to Mike since our blow-out at lunch yesterday. Not even that ‘talking through the kid’ thing. I don’t intend to talk, even if he speaks to me. Which he did. Once. It was a yes or no question. I settled for a non-committal grimace as an answer. I’ve certainly gotten enough of those tossed my way. Rich Little would be proud of me, I am doing an excellent Mike impersonation. If it all weren’t so goddamn sad it would be kind of funny. Hey man, he didn’t want to talk? He didn’t want to hear my ‘shit’? Well, it’s his lucky day. I am not speaking to him until he breaks. I have had enough of his shit and I mean to serve him the same humiliating and infuriating dog’s dinner he’s been cramming down my throat for more than 20 years. Don’t ask me where all the courage came from, because I don’t know. I’ve been thinking on it though and have a couple theories. I am morally clean. This is good. Not a single ambiguity in sight. The man is wrong. Stupendously wrong. There’s no guilt card he can play. There’s no contention he can make either. Just giving him what he demanded: quiet. As much quiet as he wants. For the first time in my life I can keep my big yap closed. And the longer I keep it closed the easier it gets. He might have really shot himself in the foot, I’m enjoying the quiet. The other big catalyst is he picked the wrong day to be a bullying git. I have a snootful of self-esteem right now. Only a completely self-involved ignoramus would take on a woman who was wearing her skinny jeans. I mean it. Homey don’t do that shit. Nuh uh. Naw, suh, he done a foolish foolish thing when he tried to push me down. If I can stop being Oscar Madison, quit biting my nails, and lose something like 50 pounds in 6 months, I’m sure as hell not going to cave over a mean face and the silent treatment. From a 43 year old, no less. Right now my husband is as attractive as a 4 year old pitching a fit in the candy aisle of Shoprite. This part I am enjoying. See, he doesn’t know that I’m not falling for it. He doesn’t have a clue how petty and small he is in my eyes right now. Mike is quite sure he’s the victim and is smugly waiting for me to give in as I always do. He’s all wrapped up in his little Poor Mikey thing and he blind to the fact he has played that victim card once too many times. Because you know what? I am a VERY GOOD WIFE. I do not nag. I do not overspend. I do not ever serve a meal he’s not crazy about. He gets laid or blown every day. I am coping with a serious dent in my mobility with as much grace as I can manage. He never hears me complain nor do I dun him with household chores when I’m having a rough time. He keeps exactly the hours he wants to keep and we all follow his schedule. I am starting the steepest descent into menopause and since that spin-out a few months ago the Hobbit House has been free of tirades and tears. My tongue is lumpy from biting it so often. And if he thinks he’s going to force me into being just some housemaid he gets to screw, he’s got another think coming. He’s got to pony up. He’s supposed to be my life’s partner and best friend. Well, friends don’t pull this crap. Friends don’t bully and manipulate. Friends don’t demand constant grins and perfectly calm water. Friends don’t say, “Your feelings aren’t as important as my place at the top of the heap and to get what I want I’ll hammer on your guilt button until you bleed-out internally.” Too bad for him the guilt button is out of order. Permanently. ‘Poor Mikey’ can take a flying fuck at a donut. It took me a long time to learn how to be right. To be brave about getting what I need and not apologizing for being human. I’m not going back into the pit. Not even if I have to be silent for the next 30 years. With resolve, ~LA
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