My husband, the notorious Al, does not read my blog, so I feel free to complain about him here. He has FB spies, but they don’t read my blog, either. By the way, thank you for reading. Sharon. and John:) Possibly Micki. This morning when I woke up, it was pitch dark, and I was alone in my bed.
Since Al had gone in to work very early, I wasn’t too concerned until I tried to check the time on my clock and saw that the electricity was out. We had high winds through the night, so I got a candle and a match and went in search of a clock that ran on batteries. 6:30 am. I can handle that. Also, I have Starbucks’ canned double shot for work days so I was set for caffeine. My Kindle has a built in light. Sun would be up, soon. The world was darkly rosy.
My first priority this morning was to write, and I did that in candlelight at my battered old desk, feeling a little like someone from an earlier era. Light began to peek weakly from the dark clouds, and those clouds shot my idea to watch the sun rise. Al and I put in several calls back and forth with the no power situation. He had plans to go to the gym after working 12 hours, but said if the power was still out, he’d adjust his schedule.
Back up to yesterday. I left work knowing I had a full week to immerse myself in writing, even if the old desk and the new chair did not get along. On the way home, I stopped for groceries and found one of those Sauder desks you have to assemble yourself. It was exactly what I had been looking for since I bought the new chair that does not fit under the desk. So anyway. Al came home and didn’t want to hear about the desk. He didn’t want to hear about the problem in the laundry room or how the mirror in the closet did not allow me to see my feet.
Women understand this, how your shoes look with your outfit is of major importance. He’d hung the mirror too high for me, but it was just right for him, which meant it was just right period. Last night, it felt like he was pushing me away with both hands saying leave me the fuck alone. He muttered about having to go to bed early, needing time to himself, and so forth. Here’s what I’m thinking: what about ME?
Is it not important that I get one minute of his time to ask about a house thing, or to just talk about how our days went? Sure it would be a bonus if he put together my new desk. It would take him ten minutes. Maybe twenty. He’s very handy when he wants to be. He can fix anything. Between his cut biceps and his mechanical smarts, you would think I’d be thrilled with this guy. And I would be if he had to beat somebody up for me or at least lifted stuff around the house. Or do things that I can’t, which is almost everything except for cook, clean, shop, write, and teach. That’s pretty much my repertoire, although I do make a mean martini.
So last night, due to this mood of holding me at a distance, I didn’t dare ask for such a favor as him actually building my new desk. I was lucky he didn’t take his dinner (a nutritious, yummy, healthy meal that I shopped for and cooked, thank you) down in the basement.
So today I had to deal with no power and no clue how to turn on the generator. I was fine with that. And we were chatting back and forth, that was good. Communication is always good. I was feeling pretty good after four hours of writing and the power suddenly coming back on earlier than expected. I thought I might take a shot at putting my new little desk, very basic, very simple, together myself because I had already asked Al to skip the gym and come home to do it for me before our friends come over at 7 for a test run of our fire pit patio table and he said no.
I let it go. I am so used to him blocking me, saying no to me, not doing anything around the new house to help me because he is either working or watching sports. But I was okay. I am a strong, independent woman and this marriage would not have lasted 28 years if I was anything else. Al doesn’t do princesses. I don’t need to be pampered, I just wish he was around more. I worry about him working so much. I resent that damn gym almost as much as if lifting was his mistress.
I’m wanting to slow down and enjoy life more. He’s still in the fast lane. I took the desk pieces out of the box. The heavy box that yesterday I had put into my shopping cart, transferred to the trunk of my car, and brought into the house. All by myself! It was heavy! Does he care? No. I got a bit concerned as the pieces piled up and I saw that there were something like 68 screws. I duly got a hammer, a Phillips, and a flat screwdriver out of my toolbox. Yes, I have my own toolbox. My dad made it for me after my divorce. If my dad was here, he’d build my desk!
I sat to read through the directions on how to put this baby together. Feeling a bit trepidatory but also still willing to believe. After page three I gave up. I called Al to tell him that the desk was on the floor in pieces and I did not feel capable of making it whole and would he please come home at four o’clock and do it for me.
He said no. Of course he did. Because he is Al and his mistress, that bitch the gym, comes first. Of course being eternally optimistic (and thus so often disappointed) I still hope he’ll feel guilty for not giving me any quality time in ages and come home and get this project done. I have plans! I have a book to write! And I need my new desk. Also possibly a husband-for-hire.