A Is For ‘Arguments’

Everywhere I look, bloggers are alphabetizing their themes: A to Z of The Country I Live In; A to Z of Kittens; A to Z of Food; A to Ad Infinitum.  It’s not a bad idea, particularly if, like me, you don’t have any ideas. 

Therefore, in the spirit of if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, here is the first in an occasional, 26-part series (suggestions for Z welcomed with open arms and eternal gratitude; if none are forthcoming, this may be the first 25-letter alphabet since theta eta pi): The A to Z of The Laughing Housewife.  I propose to tell you random things about me and my life.  Pretty much what I’ve been doing for the last two and a half years, in fact. 

The Hub and I argue a lot.  When we first married, it was all we did (well, not all we did; we were just married).  I’m not afraid to admit that he irritates me like no other human being on earth.  The feeling is mutual. 

I once marvelled at a friend of mine who assured me she and her husband never argued.  She was a vicar, so I had to believe her, but that sent her way up the list to Number 2 most irritating human being on earth.  I am easily irritated.  We all are.

I’m pretty sure I write about our arguments regularly, so I closed my eyes and chose a year from my archives and here’s a sample:

10/7/10

I have had a strange day: the Hub and I did not squabble once. We squabble a lot; we think of it as our pressure valve: if we don’t let out a little steam there will be a huge explosion and the Hub will get scalded.

I would say it is learned behaviour but my in-laws were not at all quarrelsome. Dad Hub was the mildest-tempered man I ever knew; though I did once see him slightly annoyed. Mum Hub was fiery by nature but hated falling out because she loved everyone too much, and Dad Hub more than most. The Hub has her nature but not her restraint, and he is unfortunate enough to have married the biggest nark in the business. The Hub rubs me up the wrong way – except for today, when he gave me a back rub and I almost dozed off in his lap. Make back rubs, not war, will be my motto from now on. 

Perhaps it is learned behaviour on my part: I take after my Dad, who was narky by nature. My parents rowed a lot; it wasn’t unusual for them to not speak for a fortnight or more. When they did speak it was usually to row. I have never understood all those American movies and tv programmes where the adult child falls apart when their parents announce they are divorcing: when our parents said they were separating, we three children shouted ‘hurrah’ and did an impromptu jig around their personal baggage. 

They were happier apart and friends at the end; Mum helped look after Dad in his last weeks and was with him when he died. 

Image via Wikipedia

 

I remember one particular row that went on for months. Every Sunday we had a traditional roast dinner and my Dad – who loved his food and his roast dinners in particular, so he might have just been spoiling for a fight – complained that he was sick of roasts every Sunday and why couldn’t we have something else? Mum never said a word but took his plate away and scraped it into the bin, and cooked him bacon and egg there and then. Next Sunday we had a roast dinner, as usual…except for Dad, who was served bacon and egg, without a word from Mum. And the next; and the next; and the next Sunday after that…for six solid months, until Dad finally caved first and asked in his best little boy voice if he could please have a roast like the rest of us this Sunday? Without a word from Mum, he got one. 

Dad never complained about his meals again. 

 

31/1/10

I told you shopping was a bad idea: the Hub and I spent our afternoon in Stockport squabbling. We squabbled in his bank – why could we not draw out the money in the warm inside, where muggers were less likely to steal it from my shivering fingers? (Me) Why did I not top up my phone through the ATM while we were there? (Him)  What is this irrational mistrust I have of technology? (Him) (Pity he didn’t ask me that ten minutes ago, just after I lost the first and much funnier draft of this post) My bank – why did he have to wait so long in the queue for me while I went to three shops in an effort to find one with a working machine to top me up by a fiver when I could have done it at his bank? (Him) The post office – I suddenly realised that he had not wrapped Tory Boy’s book like I asked him to before we left the house and he claimed that he hadn’t known I wanted it so urgently because I had never said so and I countered with the adult response that it was about time he learned to read my mind then; raspberry.  By the time we reached the pound shop we were at glaring point and in the street outside, with our sotto voce argument now screechy-screechy, we decided to kiss and make up before we exchanged blows with the bargain toothpaste we were carrying. After twenty-eight years together, we are pretty good at conflict resolution; especially because 1) I know I’m right – like the old joke has it, a husband’s place is always in the wrong; and 2) I wasn’t sure my toothpaste would get in the first blow.