We’re two weeks into our home water disaster – with God knows how many more to go – and my coping skills are starting to blink out.
First of all, I swear I’m going to strangle the dehumidifier still roaring in our kitchen, and if the mitigation guys show up here tomorrow and tell me the subfloor still isn’t dry and they try to cut it out like they suggested they might have to do yesterday, and if the mysterious, post-disaster electrical problems don’t get sorted out quickly, well, you simply do not want to know. Trust me.
In the meantime, my sweet husband brought me a dozen roses for Valentine’s Day, and I hope I expressed some level of appreciation before I said, “Why in the hell did you bring me these flowers? How am I supposed to fill the vase? Upstairs in the bathtub? Where are my vases, anyway? And where am I supposed to put the vase full of flowers because where in the hell are my kitchen counters? What about my kitchen table? And btw, there’s an artist whose work really resonates with me and I think you might enjoy her work, as well. I believe in her. In fact, I’ve had my eye on several of her original paintings, but the one with which I recently fell head over heels in love costs $850. Obviously, that’s not in our budget right now since this home restoration thing is going to be a big financial drain we didn’t plan. Plus, yes, I know, the Springsteen clause. So anyway, I went ahead and purchased the much less expensive fine art reproduction. It makes me very happy and it totally cancels out you giving me the finger just now when I was pushing the envelope with my bitchiness. Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.”
A little while later, my parents came over to bring us lunch and my Dad asked if we have any balsamic vinaigrette for his salad, just in case he doesn’t like the carry out kind. Husband’s face contorted, his eyes widened, his expression spoke volumes, “Oh dear God, NO! Run for your lives!” He knows me so well, doesn’t he? It’s so beautiful. I turned to my Dad and said, “We are not entertaining today. You know that, right?” My Mom turned to my Dad and said, “See, I told you her fuse was going to be short, we better just keep our mouths shut”, AND THEN, without missing a beat, she launched into way too many detailed questions – as only a mother can – about our search for a contractor to put our house back together. To which I responded – inside the privacy of my own mind – I think – “Actually, Mom, you don’t need to shut your mouths all the way, you just need to shut them a little”.
Husband bit his lip, hung his head, and shook it solemnly – the big, fat, Greek gesture of shame, basically – at which time I realized I may have said that mess out loud. So I asked, “Did I just say that out loud?!”
All three of them affirmatively nodded their heads and said some variation of “Yes, yes you did. You said it. You said it out loud.” The four of us nervously looked at one another and I begged my Mom not to take any of my bullshit into her heart, and to try to have a little bit of a thicker skin around me right now. Then we all laughed.
So. The weasel apology postcards. They’re a good move, right?