I'm No Hater

As the faithful readers among you will recall, I posted earlier this week about the big fight Biggy and I had last Sunday regarding my new bed spread, blood, and mulch. For the rest of you, let me get you up to speed.

Well, the war of the sexes rages on, with its air raids of insults and embargos on affection, but always caused by the same thing--at least in my experience: the inability of men to actually HEAR what a woman is saying. I think that when women get angry, men suffer spontaneous temporary hearing loss. Their ears stop functioning altogether, so we become like a silent movie. And no matter what's going on or how calm we might be, we look dangerous or deranged.

A woman could be slicing onions in the kitchen, matter-of-factly explaining to her husband why she's not happy about his taking two-hour lunches at Hooter's every day, and all he'll see is a red-eyed woman holding a big knife. Or, on the other hand, she could be stepping out of the tub after a huge crying jag under the shower massage, because he called her by his ex-wife's name when he reached the top of the mountain last night, and this will appear as a slow-mo nude scene with pornosonic playing in his head. The woman is obviously lonely, but the UPS man is ringing the doorbell...

And so it goes.

Yesterday morning, as Biggy and I were getting ready to leave for work, Stella puked on the new bedspread. Biggy, being the one to actually witness it, pointed it out with slight trepidation. "Poor Stella," I said, grabbing a wash cloth and wiping it up as she puked yet again, closer to my pillow. I picked her up, asked her if she was ok, apologized for feeding her the celery out of the pot roast Thursday night, and dragged the spread out to the washing machine, still kissing her and cooing to her.

When I came back into the room, Biggy seemed to be in shock. He looked like he'd caught me in bed with the tooth fairy, like everything he'd ever believed was in question.

If only he'd listened last weekend.