Would someone please explain to me why men always say women try to change them after marriage, when the truth is it's just the opposite?
My beloved husband, the infamous Mr. Man, knew me pretty dang well before he said, "I do". To the best of my recollection, in fact it was he who asked me to marry him. Furthermore, on our wedding day I believed him to be completely sober and not under the influence of any prescription or illegal drug, and I don't think he'd swallowed too much of his morning Listerine.
And yet very often the man acts like he's never met me.
So I'm in the kitchen being all Donna Reed this afternoon what with the chopping, smashing and frying of things for a gigantic supper I was preparing him and the gaggle of boys in my house. Because the man is almost never home, he decided to share some quality time by sitting in the kitchen and watching me work.
When suddenly, out of nowhere a GIANT FLY buzzed by my head so fast, my hair blew backwards. You should know that I absolutely hate flies. In fact, hate is not a strong enough word. My feelings about flies can only truly be expressed with the liberal and excessive use of profanity. As I am a lady who tries never to use liberal profanity (as opposed to conservative profanity), I will instead use the profanity keys on my laptop.
I hate @$^&@#$^!!@*&^ FLIES! Any questions?
My hatred of these winged and most disgusting insects is not new. Anyone that really knows me is pretty clear on where I stand. During fly season, my drink glasses are perpetually covered with something so that one can't land on them and should a fly get by all the barriers I have in place between them and my food, I throw it out. I would sooner lick a monkey than eat something a fly has touched.
Call me an obsessive-compulsive monkey licker.
Anyway, this rogue fly in my kitchen is whizzing around at top speeds trying to distract me so that he can swoop in and throw up on my lettuce. I know it, he knows it and Mr. Man should know it. "HELP!" I scream at a horror movie decibel, while simultaneously and frantically covering my work space with yards of paper towels. "Do something!"
"It's just a fly," said Mr. Man. "Ignore it."
Ignore it? Is he kidding me with that? Have we met?
"If you don't kill this fly, I swear on all that is holy I will wait until you are asleep and I will write on your forehead with a Sharpie: ASK ME ABOUT MY GIRDLE. Now kill it!"
Begrudgingly Mr. Man walked into the garage to retrieve the fly swatter, all the while lecturing me on my fly phobia... the same fly phobia I've had since I was a child, and why I need to get over it. "Where is he?" he asked rolling his eyes.
"He's over here on the window sill planning his attack, but you can't kill him there. He'll fall in the sink."
"So he falls in the sink? So what?"
"SO WHAT? Mr. Man, you know the drill by now! If he lands in the sink I will have to spend thirty minutes disinfecting it, that's so what. Coax him into the living room by moving your arms around wildly, flipping your head back and forth and making horse sounds. Wait until he's hovering over an empty space on the floor and squash him."
What took place next can only be described as absolute chaos. Mr. Man began swinging the swatter around like he was conducting some imaginary Loony Tunes orchestra, I was hopping around screaming at him at the top of my lungs not to kill the fly in the kitchen and all the while the insect was buzzing around my head sticking his tongue out at me.
Somehow in the commotion, the man actually managed to kill the flying beast...IN MY KITCHEN SINK! When he saw what he'd done, he laid the fly swatter down on my KITCHEN CABINET and reached in to pick up the fly WITH HIS FINGERS!
I'm not sure what happened next because I blacked out holding my Clorox Wipes in one hand and my crucifix in the other.
How did my beautiful family supper turn out? I don't know. They could have eaten a meal of candy bars and marshmallow fluff for all I know. I spent my evening scrubbing, cleaning and installing a new kitchen sink.
Although he doesn't know it yet, Mr. Man has an appointment on Thursday to find out about the joys of replacing human fingers with bionic fingers. Ignore that, Mr. Man.
Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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