The Squabbles of Nice People

Sir Renaissance and I occasionally fight, which is not an easy thing to do for such nice folks as us.

Now he’s thinking, “What is she talking about?  What is she going to write about?  We haven’t fought lately, and even if we did, I certainly wouldn’t want her to elaborate on it for the public eye!”

No, honey, don’t worry.  This is just a playful portrayal of our rare disputes, nothing that could be made into a sitcom or anything.

One of the things we can get into a tiff over is getting ready to leave.  For someplace.  Usually church.

The routine is that he takes a shower while I prepare breakfast and feed everybody.  Then I want to sit down and eat breakfast after everyone is finished, at which point he usually reminds me that we have to leave in 20 minutes. (dangerous glowering from me that he’s not quite attuned to).

Forty minutes later, our conversation in the car goes something like this …

Lady Jennie: “Honey, my expectation is that since I’ve made everyone else breakfast and gotten all the kids clothes out (otherwise, you never know what might happen), you will prepare the kids from head to toe, prepare the diaper bag, and seat everyone in the car so that all I have to do is dance out of the door, lock it and take my seat in the car.”

Sir: “Well, that’s pretty much how it happened today.”

Lady Jennie: “Um, well I had to ask you to prepare the diaper bag and I noticed that none of the kids had their shoes on yet ..”

… followed by a brief clarification as to what exactly it means to prepare the diaper bag and whether or not that includes pacifiers and snacks for after church.

Another tense point is that I’m extraordinarily messy in the kitchen (oh ho – looks like a tornado hit here) and my joking with the friends that they don’t need to stay and help clean as we’ve got a dishwasher (named Sir Renaissance) might grate on his nerves more acutely than I notice.

Sir, on the other hand, is terrible at putting his dirty clothes in the hamper each night,

“Honey, where are my boxers?”
”Oh, they morphed their own way into the hamper this afternoon.”

And my attempt at providing him with a standing butler for Christmas one year (big gifts are not necessarily more exciting) was all in vain as his jeans got thrown on top of them haphazardly, and his briefs got thrown on top of them like a jellyfish in mid-flight.

And when he actually did manage to put his dirty clothes in the hamper, I would inevitably find his dark socks and light underwear all tangled up together, which would then have to be untangled (by me) to be sorted for their prospective loads of laundry.  I asked him to pleaaase remove his dark socks and place them separately in the hamper from the underwear so I wouldn’t have to do that extra untangling.  So the next day I found his white underwear … with one dark sock tied neatly around each leg in a knot … after which event of nefarious humor he promptly forgot that I had ever asked him to do any such thing.

And since I have the floor, I’ll confess that I am annoyingly shallow about what gifts Sir gives me.  Is it something I like?  Did he put a lot of thought and money into it?  Although he can sometimes charm me out of a scandal, like when he forgot about my birthday and Monoprix was the only thing open, which served to dish up a scarf, a sudoku book, and a really sheepish card about what a heel he was for buying my gift at Monoprix.  So good he got forgiven right away.

But one of our fights was after I received a rose on Valentine’s Day and sulked for an hour before saying,

“I know I’m really shallow but you only got me one rose and it’s practically dead!”

and him saying, “I’m so glad you brought it up.  I’m sooooo sorry!!  I know you love red roses and that was the only one they had left.  I feel like such a jerk for giving it to you but I really wanted to get you a red rose since it’s your favorite.”

And I got a proper live red rose the very next day. (Although honey, I really love tulips and peonies too, and I would rather have a yellow rose that’s nice and alive than a red rose which is dead).  He needs it spelled out sometimes like that.

The only big fight we got in lasted a whole weekend right after we got married, where he said two surprisingly insensitive things, and when the third one flew out, I said, “Three strikes and you’re out!” and stomped into the other room.  I have no idea what the three things were.  And since we managed to live a year in the desert together in difficult conditions, after being married only six months, I’d say we’re on the right track to long-term peace.

So what would Sir reproach me with?  I don’t know – we’re both so mild mannered … oh, except the time I swore at the vendor near the Eiffel Tower, nine months pregnant, because I was sure he was ripping us off on the ice cream cones (as Sir Renaissance inched out of the radius of people that might actually know me).  Apart from being constantly messy and occasionally short-tempered, I can’t think of a thing.  But then again, I have the floor.

See honey?  I managed to recount a rather accurate, yet tame inside look into our marriage.  No airing of the dirty laundry or anything.

Oh wait –

* This post originally appeared in my former blog, Perfect Welcome, and may contain some modifications or discrepancies in the names or comments.

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