Recent events have turned me into a not altogether pleasant person. I am worried sick about Monkey; there is a story forthcoming about The House That Will Not Sell that sort of makes me want to punch myself in the face because, honestly, there should be a limit to the number of times a person can whine about such things, but mostly I want to punch my realtor in the face (hint: he is “just as frustrated” as I am about the current situation, he likes to assure me); work is a little stressful right now (ha! ha! just a little!); and next week I have to go have an MRI because I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT. So.
This results in things like sitting on the couch with Otto in the evenings, being not nearly so interested in the Red Sox as I ought to be because I’m busy working on my laptop, and whining a lot.
This morning Otto and I went out to breakfast in an attempt to have a little bit of Quality Time, and I tried to set aside my general hatred for the world and be a good wife. I concentrated on the healing power of good coffee (I had a mexican mocha… mmmmm) and we were having a fun, lighthearted conversation and then eventually more serious conversation and finally the kind of discussion about What’s Going On where I try very hard not to cry, because we’re in public, but I am just worried and tired and sometimes I would like to take a vacation from being a grown-up, please.
Otto was his typical understanding self, and as our discussion wound down to a logical stopping point I thought to myself how lucky I am to have this rock of a man who understands me, who is the steady calm to my frantic emotions, who will buy me a nice coffee and sit across from me and listen to me go over the same things we’ve already been over again and again, looking for a solution.
There was a lull and I smiled at him, full of gratitude.
He leaned in closer.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” he said. For a second I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t. This was something serious, and in a brief panic I tried to figure out what I might’ve done. Used up his shaving cream? Forgotten to buy raisin bran? Turned all of his socks pink in the laundry? He is so good to me, and I’ve done… something. Something bad.
“O… kay…” I stammered, trying to hold it together.
“You’ve been complaining for months that we don’t have any wedding pictures printed. Yesterday I went and picked up prints, and I took one of the four of us and framed it and put it right on the top of the entertainment center, RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE. You walked past it four or five times, and sat in front of it for hours last night, and YOU HAVEN’T NOTICED.”
I pondered this.
He threw his hands in the air. “YES!”
“Oh. I. Thank you! I’ve… been a little distracted….”
And it’s true, I have, but to miss an 8″ x 10″ framed print from our wedding sitting at eye-level in the living room? That takes TALENT.
I started laughing, and whatever indignation Otto had been drawing upon dissipated a bit as he joined me, and I’m sure he will torment me about this into my old age—AS WELL HE SHOULD—but I demanded that we go home immediately so that I could look at the picture, and so we did.
It’s an excellent picture. Major husband points for Otto.
I’ll try to pay a little more attention, next time. Although smacking me on the forehead is always an option, too.