Here I am alone with my keyboard. Peace…sweet peace at last! The husband is at work, the boy has gone to school, the dogs refuse to leave the warmth of my room, and all is quiet again. ((Ahh…)) This, of course, is a lead-up to how the weekend’s events unfolded. Gives ya a little clue, don’t it?
In Saturday’s post I elaborated on my morning, doctor’s appointment and the nice, little chat I had with the physician’s assistant. I covered the details of my visit, but little else. After my appointment, and after picking up my prescription from the local pharmacy was when I came home and decided to post the day’s blog. My husband left—as he routinely does on Saturdays—I wasn’t feeling very well, just wanted to get started on my meds, get something on my blog for the day, and lay down; which was what I did. I was almost relieved when my son asked if he could go in town to spend the night with friends, and I quickly responded yes. To be honest, it meant I’d have absolutely no one to step around, complain they were hungry and ask what I was making for dinner, and no one to bug me about how messy the house was becoming because I’d had no energy to clean it. I really just wanted to sink into the couch and begin the recovery process so I would start feeling better. I also naively thought the husband and I might get a chance later to chat about, you know…the little discussion I had with the P.A. Remember I said, ‘naively’ thought.
Apparently, it’s not enough that my inability to have friends and a social life are rubbed in my face nightly when my husband and son are busy chatting or texting on the phone with their friends, or when they both run nearly every weekend while I’m forced to stay in this house, do laundry, prepare grocery lists, and take care of the dogs for them. No, as if I’m not reminded enough just how truly laughable my situation is, and how foolish I am for putting up with the things I do, there always has to be that little ‘extra’ added for good measure to further infuriate and/or humiliate me. I mean, ALWAYS!
If you’ve been following along you’ll remember that last Saturday my husband’s buddy came out for an overnighter (which my husband led me to believe would be fun for all of us; we could kick back, drink some beers, chat…yeah, okay!), but which I knew would be them running off to fish, and my being stuck at home. I was right, of course; didn’t expect to have to baby-sit the friend’s dogs though. Whatever. Well, guess what happened this weekend?
I don’t mind my husband’s best friend. He’s a nice enough guy, very quiet, always courteous to me, and other than the fact he drinks a lot (I believe to escape from internal/external problems he feels he has no control over), I have no problem with his coming around. That being said let me introduce you to my husband’s other close friend. This friend too, shall remain nameless, but we’ll refer to him as Jerk-in-a-box, because shortly after he popped out of the cab of his loud, diesel truck in our driveway Saturday evening, that’s exactly what he became. He’s short and stocky, with dark features, and slightly resembles an unkempt, hillbilly. A loud and obnoxious, ex-convict, who has the social skills of a grizzly in the house, who has substituted his past addiction with drugs for massive amounts of alcohol now, and who can’t keep a woman for the obvious reasons listed, and also because he’s such a charmer (Totally puts men on a pedestal, and reduces women to the weaker, needy, less intelligent of sexes). Yeah, he’s a keeper!
I didn’t really expect my husband to join me in the house when he arrived home late, Saturday afternoon. He seldom does. I knew he would come in for a moment to let me know he’s here and then head straight to the un-heated garage to ‘piddle’ (the word he uses for what I consider ‘wasting’ time) until it got too chilly to do so. I figured any time we might have together to chat would have to be later on in the evening. Knowing this I got a fire going, and settled back on the couch to watch tv and bide time. I also wasn’t too concerned a bit later when he came in the house and told me that Jerk-in-a-box had called and told him he was coming out for the night. I raised my eyebrows a little from the news, but my husband quickly assured me he’d been drinking all day, was loaded, reminded me how he was always saying he was coming out, and never did. Of course, I asked him if he dissuaded him just the same, and he told me he had so I shrugged it off.
Jerk-in-a-box showed up after dusk. He pulled up in our driveway in his loud, diesel truck, and I watched as he climbed out and staggered towards the open garage with a bag of ice in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in another. Always trying to play the consummate hostess and perfect, trophy wife, I pushed our barking Pitbull aside, padded out in sweats and slippers, to be courteous, say hello, and ask my husband if they needed anything. As I neared the garage, Jerk-in-a-box rushed me, gave me a big hug, and thanked me for being there weeks earlier when they were moving the other buddy out of his residence, and proclaimed loudly that I’d possibly saved him from being shot by said buddy’s old lady. Another long story from a previous post I’m not getting into. I told him it was no problem, made it clear that now that he had driven drunk an hour and a half to get here he would not be allowed to leave later and was staying the night, asked my husband what they needed, and carried the ice inside to the freezer so I could fill some glasses for them. I wasn’t happy—don’t get me wrong—but thought I would be courteous just the same, get in and out of there, and then just leave them for the remainder of the evening to their own devices. I thought…
There are certain times when it’s really unwise to say the wrong thing to a woman: When she’s on her period, when she’s sick, or when she’s already fed-up. I’m aware that he had no knowledge that he’d already had two strikes against him if he said anything wrong, but doubt it would’ve mattered. He is just ‘that way’. My husband knew though. The moment I arrived back in the garage, handed them the glasses filled with ice, and Jerk-in-the-box spoke, my husband grabbed my shoulders and pulled me into a hug. Why? He knew what was going to happen and how I was going to unleash on this poor, pathetic soul if he didn’t. It was his was of trying to quiet me. What did Jerk-in-a-box say that had me so peeved? He decided to bring up the one topic that I’ve been fuming over! How’s that for perfect timing? Perfect Jerk!
I walked out there with those glasses, handed each one, leaned in to my husband to give him a kiss, and was preparing to leave when I heard him slur from the background “You better be good to him. He’s a good man.”
“What?” I asked puzzled, and turning around. “What’d you say?” My husband quickly put a hand on my shoulder, and began directing me in his arms. Oh yeah…he knew where this conversation was going!
Jerk-in-a-box staggered a little and began again. “Oh, I know you’re a good woman. I’m not saying that. But he’s a really good man. Look at all this…” He said waving his arm around, no doubt elaborating on the house and property, “…look how much he’s given you, and how hard he works to take care of you. I’m just saying you need to be good to him after how good he’s been to you.”
I felt myself begin to squirm in my husband’s arms like a two year old. I could see him looking down at me, almost pleading with his eyes for me to keep my peace, and I was trying. By the time he’d finished with his rant I’d already begun whispering to my husband and telling him that this was the second time now I’d had to hear this crap from his buddy, he had no freakin clue how much I’ve contributed to this relationship, how crappy my life out here had been, and how bad I’ve suffered to make this marriage work, and if my husband didn’t stop this Mr. Perfect-Spouse routine and tell him the hard facts, I would. And what I was going to say wasn’t going to reflect him in a very good light. With that I bid them goodnight, turned on my heels, and came back inside the house.
I laid in bed till after one in the morning, listening to this Neanderthal get louder and louder with each drink poured. Good grief, my husband’s ears had to be near bleeding! I thought of going to sleep, but couldn’t for worrying about the two of them coming in later, trying to stoke the fire while drunk, or smoking cigarettes, and the risk of the house catching on fire while I lay upstairs asleep, unaware. So I lay there waiting, watching lousy, late night tv from my bed, till finally I heard the diesel start up, pull away, and my husband come inside. I ventured down the stairs and asked him how much they had to drink, which he answered with a fifth of Jim Beam between the two of them. I then proceeded to jump his butt about letting his buddy drive that drunk an hour and a half home, which was answered with his defending himself, and stating emphatically that he tried to keep him here, but Jerk-in-a-box literally began threatening a fight if he wouldn’t let him leave, so my husband just threw up his hands and walked away. I can’t blame him. I’ve dealt with drunks, and there’s little reasoning with them. I know. I was one.
I’m almost glad this happened. It brought up an opportunity to talk about a few things. First, that no one really has control over another, and how unfair it was for my husband to blame my friends for letting me drive home drunk the night I got my DUI, and then try and dissuade me from being friends with them at all, when the same thing has occurred between my husband and his so-called friends. Also, that Jerk-in-a-box is no longer welcome at our home, this overnighter crap with his friends coming out here and treating our garage like a bar is over, and the next time I even get wind that someone is spouting off about our life and marriage, I’m going to start calling all his friends and giving them the inside scoop to what’s really going on, and I won’t be painting him in a favorable light. I think he finally ‘got’ it. I hope so. I meant it!
The weekend is behind me now. The meds are starting to work, and I’m already feeling better. I have to take them for eight more days, and the P.A. feels sure by then I should be fine. Our anniversary is in ten days exactly and I should be more than recovered enough from this crap to go out and live it up a little (Oh, I guess I didn’t mention that my husband promised to do anything I wanted for our anniversary just to appease me for having to put up with Jerk-in-a-box). You know I’m gonna hold him to that promise. What shall we do…?