goosfraba

Confession time:  I am not perfect.  Yes, yes, I know it comes as a shock, but just ask any of my friends, or better yet, the S.O.  I’m flawed.  I have my moments… moments in which I truly believe the only cure for my behavior involves a straight jacket and a padded cell.  What keeps me going is that those moments are, thankfully, few and far between, and in hindsight, some of them are quite amusing.

Last night was one of those times.  For reasons the Internet doesn’t really need to know about, it’s been one of “those weeks.”  Suffice it to say, sometimes things pile up.  The holiday season is good for that, after all!

So, by Sunday evening I am in a state.  Frustrated, tired, stressed, etc.  The S.O. and I decide that it’s time for bed.  But when we get up to bed, we have (*cue dramatic music*) an Argument.  What the argument was about, I can’t say, not for privacy reasons but because I honestly can’t remember what it was we were arguing about in the first place.  For the sake of filling space, let’s call it cat food.  We had an argument about cat food, which left me fuming and, of course, not talking to him.

Now, I can’t sleep when I’m angry, but the S.O. has the ability to just forget everything, shut off, and go to sleep no matter the circumstances.  It’s pretty amazing, really, that he can do this… and boy, nothing pisses me off more when he does!  So when I sense that the S.O. has fallen asleep, I’m even more aggravated, and I want to put some space between us.

I’ll go downstairs!  Harrumph!  Because my sleeping on the uncomfortable couch with the ultra-thin afghan will totally show him I mean business!

I drag my pillow and afghan downstairs, get myself all set up on the couch, but – guess what – I’m still pissed.  And when I hear the S.O. start to snore… I get really pissed.  I mean, how DARE he ask me to compromise my principles on cat food, and how DARE he sleep when I’m so angry?  The nerve!  So I do one of those things that probably qualifies me for the padded cell, at least for the limited destruction factor…

I throw a glass candle holder at the wall.

The candle holder actually wasn’t my first victim of the evening.  At first, I threw the TV remote, but it only bounced to the ground.  No muss, no fuss, no fun!  I also threw a blanket, but you can imagine how unsatisfying that was.  Here you are, raging mad and ready to crack skulls, and the blanket flies in the air for all of a foot and a half, landing at your feet with a pathetic *whoosh*.

That’s right, fear me.  Just call me the Blanket-Flinger.

No, I wanted something with a bit more punch, and unfortunately the little glass candle holder was in my line of vision.  As I was rearing back to throw it, I had a momentary fear that it would bounce, too, or worse… that I’d miss the wall.  I have a really pathetic throwing arm and no sense of aim.  But thankfully, the candle holder did, indeed, hit its intended target, and made this wonderfully satisfying crunching sound as it shattered into pieces all over the floor.

Huzzah!  Take that, anger demons!  The power of broken glass compels you!

Or… not so much.  Because even though the candle holder sounded pretty good going down (it was loud enough to wake the S.O.) I still felt pretty rotten.  On top of being frustrated, angry, stressed, and tired, I’d also destroyed something I kinda liked, and now I was left with a mess to clean up.  Good going there, champ.

So I slam my way into the kitchen to get the broom, tossing aside half-unpacked boxes of Christmas decorations like they were so much fluff… the kitchen looks like a small-scale rendition of Godzilla, if Godzilla were a woman on her period.  Rarrr!  Rarrrrrrrrrrr!  Destruction!  Rarrrrr!

At this point I also decide I need to take down the Christmas lights.  You know, the Christmas lights I spent all day untangling, testing, adjusting, re-adjusting, repairing, replacing, putting up, etc.  I spent all. flipping. day. on this project.  But the lights all have to come down now, because I am She-zilla, and hell hath no fury, etc.  So, I rip all the lights off the windows, and I’m slowly losing the battle to get them off the staircase banister (boy, I really wired those suckers on there!) when the S.O. comes down the stairs.

He looks confused, to put it mildly.  And no wonder!  Because at that point, I realize what I must look like.  I am butt naked (yes, you read that correctly), yanking with all my might on a string of Christmas lights that’s solidly attached to the banister, and I’m pretty sure said banister is threatening to give way.  I can only imagine that the look in my eyes is that of a crazy person, and I wouldn’t be far from the truth.

But that’s not the best part.  Not by far.

At that moment, the S.O., who has been watching me quietly all the time I’m struggling with the stupid lights, speaks up.

He says, in the most sincere, confused voice I’ve ever heard, and I quote:

“Are you mad at me?”

I’m pretty sure my brain short-circuited, because I stopped mid-tug, turned around, and went back to the couch, where I sat down, and stared blankly at the wall.  The S.O. heads back upstairs, and I decide it’s time to do a quick mental recap of the evening so far.

Busted glass?  Check.  Boxes overturned?  Check.  Doors slammed?  Check.  Christmas lights flung all over the place?  Check.

So… he can’t be serious.  He didn’t just ask me that, did he?  I mean… all this breaking stuff and slamming things around… didn’t I make it clear?

And, wait a minute… what was I angry about again?

At this point, I come to the realization that being angry is exhausting work, and I’m tired.  What I really want is a hug, and a kiss, and to be told everything will be OK in the morning.

No really.  That’s all.  This, “Well, Duh!” Moment brought to you by the letters ‘F’ and ‘U’.

Feeling properly humbled and about twenty kinds of stupid, I slowly climb the stairs.  I get into bed.  And the S.O. is more than happy to hug me and kiss me and tell me everything will be OK, because that’s the kind of guy he is.

You know.  Good at humoring the crazy person.  That kind.

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