Well, another day coupled, another round of negotiations- it's like the freaking 12 step program, "one day at a time" sometimes. I mean, hijacking an airliner has got to be easier that living with someone- a real someone, not a favorite pillow (named Bessie Jane- long story) or a kitten, but a real living, breathing, messing up the house, eating the food, wrecking the bed and loving me kind of person. The shootout at OK Corral has got to be easier. And if the daily negotiations are not enough of a kick in the pants, couple's counseling is tomorrow- that in and of itself is about as much fun as a bathtub full of leeches. My couples counselor (did I say "my" how narcissistic and so unlike me) I meant "our" couples counselor is a fashionably-dressed and rather small, demure woman who, in my opinion, wears leathers and a riding crop every evening as soon as she finishes with all of us whiny couples. I KNOW that she doesn't sit there, all complacent and centered, and "share feelings" with her husband (or wife). No way- by the end of the day she is so tired of seeing dysfunctional dicks and janes, that she probably drives home at 90 miles an hour, enters the front door wearing a mask and a black t-shirt that on the back says "Analyze This" with an arrow pointing down to her tightly leathered buttocks; cracks a bullwhip and screams "Where's my be-auch?" That picture of our therapist somehow comforts me.
In all probability, she is probably not that interesting, but one can always dream, can't one? Sig (my significant other), has already said "Well, I'll go, but I don't think I'll get anything out of it."
Sig is right, of course. If Brett Farve was our therapist, well that might be a different story- but who wants to listen to yet another "communicative woman" when that is what put us in therapy in the first place.
And it's true. It is largely my fault that we are having some communication issues. I have not yet learned how to read the sign language Sig uses by waiving the remote to and fro, left and right. I want words still. Silly me. Words are for newlyweds and those just starting out on the road of life- not for people who have 487 channels of Direct TV to keep track of.
But, I got clever- 487 channels worth of opportunity was right there in front of me, and for weeks, I took that opportunity and made it mine! I watched every hostage, kidnap, gunfight western and bad guy movie that there was- and I learned how to play the game- now, when I need something, I don't ask, I tell. "I am the baddest (something, I forgot what he says) that ever was." "Go ahead, make my day" and "say hello to my little friend." Theres a new sheriff in our house- and it all went down like this:
Sig: Where's the Remote?
( I am in the living room. The midday sun plus three hours is high in the sky. There is a stillness in the air that screams "showdown". I am ready- I was born ready. I have been here waiting for this moment for at least 15 minutes. The "hostage" is safely hidden in our daughter's room. A place that Sig will never look. It is too pink for all but the strongest of heart. I look up, a steely look comes across my face. I move back and forth inching my feet apart for a wider stance.)
Me: Who wants to know?
(She thinks I am bluffing, I can tell. She flips her crocs off casually and meets my gaze-dead on. Boy she's good.)
Sig: Who do you think?
(I lock eyes with her. I will not back down, not this time. This time there will be but one victor.)
Me: I don't know- you tell me.
(She steps closer and I cannot tell if there is a menace in those steps, I bank on the fact that she is bluffing and square my chin.)
Sig: I want it.
(I see her flinch for just a minute. Her eyes shift to the clock. That's right, its almost time for Ellen and Sig needs a remote. You see, I know her weakness- she is a compulsive channel surfer. She can't help herself, she has to surf. Every commercial, every boring guest. She can't control it. I smile a knowing smile. It's all stacked in my deck. I can afford to enjoy the moment.)
Me: Well, I have wants too.
(She starts to crack like an egg on Easter Sunday. There is a tiny bead of sweat forming on her brow, her upper lip trembles slightly and she bites it to hold it steady.)
Sig: What do you want?
Me: What?
(I couldn't hear what she was saying because she was stlll biting her lip.)
Sig: What do you want! What do you want!! Just tell me so I can do it and have the remote!
(This was it, the defining moment, now I would have my Day In The Sun, my Light In August, my Grapes of Wrath! There was laundry, cooking, cleaning, childcare, carpooling and the demands were all mine! I could pick my poison, light my own candle, write my own ticket- Just then, we both heard a noise coming quickly toward us. Ambush? We turned quickly in unison- jumpy from the standoff. There, looking helpful and cherubic was my beautiful 8-year old daughter, outstretched remote in hand, offering it to- Sig of course, the one who always handled the remote.)
Daughter: I think you left this in my room. You shouldn't leave your things lying around, you know.
Sig turned and smiled the smile of the victorious while I looked toward the light, making peace with my fate. And fantasizing, once again, about our therapist coiffed hair and all.
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