My House Is Full Of Enemy Combatants
Does any other male feel this way?
Like, when you tell your wife you are cold and she says “Would a shirt help?”
I have to put up with this every day. I believe my house has been filled with enemy combatants-they’re not hostile, but they are a threat and should probably be detained to make the world safer.
I want to take a bath after a long ride in the car. (I’ll get to that shit later). So my wife hands me a flowery thing and says, “Here, try these on your feet.” She proffers what looks like a green flower, like the ones you would see on the “Laugh-In” set.
“What is that?” I ask innocently.
“I got these for your feet…for Christmas, remember?” I remember no such thing, but I take the foot scrubbie. It weighs as much as a toaster. Not knowing what else to do with it, I drop it into the filling tub.
My wife thinks to herself, “I could have married a turkey sandwich and been better off.” Then she tells me to get the bottle near the shower head. “Use this”, she says.
“Honey, this thing says shower gel.”
The turkey sandwich floats across my wife’s mind, probably thinking it is time to eat and leave this poor bastard in the bathroom. I only want a bath, and apparently, I have to re-learn how to take one.
After I am done rubbing the thunky-thing on myself for a while, I dry off and exit the bathroom. The seven year-old flies by me. “Who are you?” it questions, then disappears down the hall, not waiting for an answer. I think I deserve a chance to explain after 38 years, but the seven year-old does not have time for my pathos. If I tried to explain, he’d just say something like “You’re dumb!”, or “Hey, cow!” and then leave again.
I have to cut my losses after the trip I just took.
Some of you know this trip as “Christmas at Grandma’s”. My wife probably refers to it as Riding In Cars With God-Damned Idiots. The trip up is fine…I think. I’m a God-Damned Idiot, why would I remember any of it? All I know is I forgot my driver’s license for a three hour trip. The kids fell asleep, which would explain why I don’t have any remembrance of the trip. I almost fell asleep on the trip, and I was driving. So my wife gets to chauffeur the three God-Damned Idiots around. We get to Grandma’s. We eat, and eat, and open presents. All cool so far. I say, “OK! Who’s ready for home?” after two hours of food.
“Meeee!” says the seven-year old.
“I think I’ll stay with Grandma”, the eight-year old replies, who thinks so much about everything he couldn’t concentrate on his lasagna. I say sure, why not? The kids could use a break from each other, and that is one less God-Damned Idiot that my wife has to put up with.
So we go. Rain begins to pour in sheets half an hour out of the gate, and it is getting dark.
The seven year-old has many questions about this. “Why does it rain? What’s a cloud do? Does it keep a lot of rain? Why isn’t it thundering? What’s a meteor? Will one hit us?”
I attempt to answer each successive question, feeling like I am dodging bullets in a comedy movie, holding on to my unstrapped helmet and doing a high-step. I thought I was doing ok, but apparently not.
“Why doesn’t the meteor hit us?” he asks.
“Because it gets really hot before it hits the ground.” I reply confidently. Nope. I am a God-Damned Idiot, and it is time for both God-Damned Idiots to go to school.
She began rubbing her hands together. “See how your hands get warm? That’s friction. That’s what happens when millions of air particles rub on the meteor, it gets so hot it explodes.”
“Do the little pieces hit us?”
He’s satisfied with this. My wife says to the child, “Daddy hates it when Mommy gets something right.”
“Hold on a minute now! I never say anything when you get something wrong.”
“I’m still waiting for you to get something right“, she chuckles to the God-Damned Idiot-In-Charge.
We have to stop for a pee break. My son and I go in. He pees. I pee. He says, “Daddy, someday I’ll have a big pee-pee like you do.”
First nice thing anyone has said to me all day. “Heh-heh, yes you will!” I am so glad my wife is not hearing this conversation, for obvious reasons. I will be cut down like a sapling in a wood shortage otherwise.
We finally end this debacle. The dogs were frightened that we had left forever. You know how a dog is; if you leave for groceries it assumes you have died. We take them in. My bath begins. It ends. My child is playing a Wii game that is scientifically engineered to piss off an American parent. I fall into my pillow, not wanting to move anymore for the day.
The enemy is not hiding in a cave. They are living in your house, driving with you, teaching you to navigate your own bathroom, and asking existential questions that would make Immanuel Kant shit himself.