I know what I’m doing because I used to counsel my clients against it back when I still provided therapy to human beings. As it turns out, bouts of passive-aggressive revenge cleaning aren’t as prominent when it comes to methods your average paranormal critter might use to punish their significant other.
In my experience, they have much more colorful methods of dealing with conflict, including but not limited to ripping out the other’s heart and eating it with a side of fava beans and a nice chianti.
But as I’m still solidly in the human camp, I’ve resorted to scouring the granite countertops with the force of words I’d rather not say and slamming cupboards instead of doors.
Like the self-actualized, grown-ass female that I am.
“What?” The man body-blocking the espresso machine whipped the question over his shoulder before turning to face me. For a moment, I forgot exactly why I had been fantasizing about hurling my mug at the back of his head. Hot coffee and all.
That’s the thing about my husband. He’s at his most attractive when he’s pissed off. His dark eyes go all molten. His jaw hardens. He looks like he might kill someone and that’s probably because he does so on a daily basis. It kind of goes along with the territory of being a Vegas hit man.
For those tempted to make a value judgment here about my choice in mate, I’d like to submit two items for your consideration. One: when, like me, you provide therapy to creatures that consider human beings to be a food group, having a husband who is known for busting a cap in deserving asses significantly reduces your chances of becoming an immortal’s post-session snack. Two: my husband only accepts contracts on people he feels the world would be better off without…like murderers and telemarketers.
I’m kidding about the telemarketers.
Pausing for a satisfaction survey mid-hit is beyond tedious.
But back to the allure of my pissed off husband. In those times when every muscle and sinew goes taut and the predatory animal in him hunts to the surface, I remember what it was like when I was still afraid of him, and that’s about when my ovaries do a little jig.
Fortunately, my ovaries weren’t in the driver’s seat this morning because our ten-month old daughter needed to be dropped off at daycare and I was already fifteen minutes late.
Again.
“Nothing,” I said. It’s always the wrong answer, but the overwhelming need to make him draw the problem out of me transformed this into the most satisfying word in the English language.
“Is this about the car seat?” The demitasse looked small in his hand, his trigger finger scarcely fitting through the ceramic handle.
“You could have at least asked me.” I had moved on from my assault on the counter and turned my energy to the sprawling mess at the high chair’s base. The baby within, dark-haired like her father and hazel-eyed like me, was well into her meal-time ritual of redecorating the floor.
“I can’t have the car seat in the back of the car when I’m going after a target, okay? You have any idea how hard it is to be taken seriously in this business when my associates are always finding animal crackers between the seats?”
“I suppose that means I should bear the sole responsibility for driving Addie to daycare?”
“I’m not saying that. It’s just, on days when I have an early hit—”
“Forget it.” I dumped the handful of food scraps into the sink and swooped in to pluck my daughter from her highchair. I was rewarded with a displeased squawk and a liberal application of strained apricots across the front of my blouse. Tears stung my eyes as I remembered that I’d forgotten to pick up my dry cleaning the day before. Nothing to change into. “Shit!” I hissed. “I don’t have time for this.”
“I thought we weren’t swearing in front of the baby.” A wry twist tugged down one corner of Liam’s mouth as he recited my own edict back to me with more delight than I found seemly.
“We’re not. Here, take her for a second.” I passed the warm, sticky bundle of my baby girl off to the man who’d helped make her. Leaning over the sink, I grabbed a damp rag and did the best I could to remove the orange smudge. From my swirling, black funk, I became painfully and acutely aware of the happy coos only Liam seemed able to extract from the baby I had only shared my body with for nine long, bloated months.
And from thence opened the doorway to the laundry list of de-affirmations my head had been home to as of late.
Shitty wife. Shitty mom. Shitty therapist.
It seemed I was always failing someone.
Ever conscious of the clock, I didn’t allow myself the luxury of spilled tears—no time to reapply mascara. Wordlessly, I held my arms out to my daughter, who proceeded to cling to her father’s lapels with all the vigor of a cracked-out spider monkey.
“Time to go, Addie.” Liam dropped a kiss on her dark, downy head. “Daddy will see you later.” A perfunctory peck on my lips and he was out the door.
Then began the shrieking.
It continued as I looped the diaper bag over one shoulder and the laptop bag over the other. Redoubled as I maneuvered down the stairs and into the garage.
My last thought as I bundled my baby daughter into her car seat was that the paranormal insane asylum I was headed to as my first order of business for the day might actually be an improvement.