What do you fight about?

Today, in Casa de Fowler y Anderson, we're bickering over the Scrubbing Bubbles Shower Cleaner.  Specifically, when it is okay to use it.

I take the first shower each morning.  Jimi follows anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour later.  A while back, Jimi said, "Don't run the shower cleaner when you've finished your shower because then I come behind you and the water from my shower washes all the cleaning stuff off and plus I have to breathe that stuff in."

Maybe I forgot.  Not really, but maybe.

Here's the thing:  his plan works real well if he remembers to shut the shower curtain and push the little button.

I believe we've discussed Jimi and the shower curtain before?  No?  You just weren't paying attention.

Jimi doesn't close the shower curtain.  Jimi doesn't dispose of the plug of hair that ends up in the drain after every shower, either.  These two facts in unison make it nearly impossible to get the shower cleaner thing run each morning.  I know, because when I come home from work the shower curtain is still open and unless he hosed down the entire bathroom with scrubbing bubbles, there's no way he ran that shower cleaner...

so today, after my shower, I cleaned the drain, closed the curtain, and hit the button.  Clean shower, here I come!

Ten minutes later, I was in the basement "ironing" (throwing today's clothes in the dryer so the wrinkles will be mostly knocked out), and I heard the bathroom door shut.  But it was a forceful shut.  One that says, "If I wasn't such a grownup, I totally would've just slammed this door."

Up the stairs, peck on the door - "Baby?"  "What."  "You okay?"

Pregnant Pause.

"Now I can't take a shower!"  *sigh*

Okay.  I should've not run the shower cleaner.  But what's better - a minor chemical burn on your naked bits or a nagging girlfriend who won't shut the fuck up about shutting the shower curtain and running the cleaner thing?  I really believe I made the decision that represented the lesser of two evils.

Thoughts formed over Mexican food

What kind of woman actively pursues a married man?  A married man with a child?

What sort of character must you possess to text things like "I'll leave the door unlocked, in case you're able to get away"?

What kind of woman ignores a wife's plea of "I need you to go away, like you promised you would"?



What kind of man actively pursues a woman who is not his wife?  What sort of father hurts the mother of his child in that way?  What is he teaching his daughter about how men should treat their wives?

How deeply flawed must one be to repeatedly lie and cheat?

What kind of man ignores his wife's plea of "If you love me, if you love us, please stop this"?



What kind of woman actively allows herself to be disrespected and demeaned?  What example does she set for her child?

How badly has she been hurt that she accepts that an unfaithful spouse is simply her lot in life, the way of things, nothing that can be helped?

What sort of woman is able to live in a world of instability and insecurity and fear that's been created by the man to whom she's devoted her life?



What kind of friend can listen to a tale such as this and not want to punch the lying cheating bastard in his face?  How could you not want to pull the triflin' bitch's hair from her ugly head?

How much trouble can you really get into for egging someone's car?

What sort of friend could ignore a scorned wife's plea of "Let's just go for a drive - please?"?

Love, and things like it.

Do most people have fights with their partners that involve yelling, name-calling, screaming, throwing things, breaking things, scratching, choking, hitting, punching, biting?

Is that how most of you handle disagreements in your home?  Is that how you deal with someone not giving up the remote control or refusing to stop drinking or not emptying the dishwasher or lying about a secret fling on the side or spending too much money or not having enough money?

I was in a relationship like that once.  It's soul-crushing.  I blame my willingness to tolerate such horror on my young age and ignorance.  The ignorance plea doesn't fly, though - I was raised in a home with two parents who love and adore each other, and I can count on one hand the number of times I've heard them raise their voices to one another.  Physical abuse?  Forgetaboutit.  My father would rather cut off his own arms, and my mother has far too much class to resort to raising her hands.

But it's everywhere.  It's all around us and we don't even see it.  People are hurt every day by the people they love most in the world.  The one who is supposed to love them unconditionally cuts them down with hateful words and mean glares and cruel actions.  That's not love.

Love is a building up of one another.  Love is support and safety and security.  Love is a mutual give and take that comes from two people being kind, keeping confidences, helping, giving.  Love is rolling your eyes and swallowing the smartass remark when the sink is full of dishes and the dishwasher hasn't been run.  Love is negotiating control of the remote in exchange for use of the laptop.  Love is being so angry you want to scream and yell and throw things and push and hit and say hateful words...but you swallow all of that because you love that person more than anything else in the world and you've promised you'll never do anything to hurt them and so you stomp down the hall and slam a door and when you cool off you say "Okay, let's talk about this".  Love is respect; basic human respect.  Love is never saying anything in anger to your partner that you wouldn't say to your boss or your employee or your best friend.  Love is rising above emotions and remembering the greater, sacred emotion that connects your heart to theirs.

Love is so much more.

I need to rant for a minute.

If I don't like what you're wearing, I simply won't comment on it.  If I like what you're wearing, I'll say something like, "Oh, nice shoes" or "Oh, nice hat", but I would never, EVER look at you, decide I don't like your sweater, and then say "What happened to the sleeves on your sweater?  It looks funny".  You know what?  That's fucking rude.

And you know what else is rude?  Telling someone they're a bully when you know damn good and well they're just trying to get the fucking job done. 

And you know what else?  It's fucking rude to tell someone their relationship is bullshit, because they're not married.  It's fucking rude to tell someone that in 5 years they'll be a distant memory in the mind of the person they love right now, today.  It's fucking rude, and I'm amazed that anyone would say something so hurtful. 

And you know what else is fucked up?  Trying to act all high and mighty and just and good and Christian and shit, trying to be the final word on what is right and what is wrong, then in the next breath telling people about all your girlfriends your wife doesn't know about.  Or about the baby you fathered that you paid child support on for 14 years but never bothered to mention to your wife.  You're going to give ME relationship advice, tell ME what makes a relationship real and what doesn't, tell ME how to be right with the Lord, and that's where YOU are coming from?  Nah.  Fuck that, man.  That's fucked up.

The one about the fight.

We're supposed to go to a few Halloween parties this weekend.  Costume parties, to be more specific.  Which means we have to get some costumes together.  No big deal, right? 

Yeah, right.

I've been saying for two months that I want to be Max, from Where the Wild Things Are.  But I want to be a pink Max.  With pink crown, with sparkles and glitter and sequins.  And a green and pink and purple tail. Jimi said if I dressed up as Max, he'd be one of the Wild Things; the main Wild Thing from the movie, Carol. 

We had long since decided we weren't going to any costume parties and so we've done nothing to get these costumes together.  Then, over the weekend, while we were camping, Karen starts in about these costume parties.  And she wouldn't take no for an answer.  So we let her brow beat us until we agreed to dress up and go with her and Gary.

So Monday night, we went to Hancock Fabrics and spent an insane amount of money on fabric and thread and zippers and scissors and foam and hot glue sticks and patterns.  I bought 5 yards of this awesome pink fleece to make footie-esque pajamas (but they don't need the feet, because I was going to wear my red Chucks with my costume - Max wears black ones in the movie).  Jimi found some great fur-like fabric to make his top and a patterned fabric that will be perfect as his pants.  We still need feather boas to make his mane and my tail, but we were off to a good start.  We came home with our purchases, planning to start in on the cutting and pinning and sewing Tuesday night.  Karen was going to come to help. 

But then I got home from work last night.  (Tuesday)  I put some things away and cleared off the dining room table so we'd have a good workspace.  I pulled out the pattern for my costume...

...and realized I have no fucking clue how to sew.  The pattern?  May as well have been written in Aramaic.  Now, in a perfect world, I WAS capable of cutting out the pieces of the pattern and then sitting back and waiting for my help to arrive.  But there was a problem; when we bought the pattern, Jimi pointed out that it only goes to a size Large.  I really need an extra large, if I'm being honest with myself, and if I want to be able to move and willingly walk out of the house wearing the garment.  At the store, Jimi had explained this was no problem - we could simply cut the pattern a bit larger and everything would be fine.  When I looked at the pattern, and tried to figure out how to cut it larger, my head threatened to explode - I just didn't get it, I didn't understand it, I didn't see how it could possibly happen.

So I did what I always do; I decided to take the easy way out.  I marched my happy butt back to the TV room, hopped online, and within minutes, I'd found a Max costume that is not pink, but is more true to the costume in the movie and was only slightly more pricey than the fabric and such I'd purchased.  Minus the time and labor, the ready-made costume was going to save me a bundle over the do-it-yourself one.  WIN!

Not so much.

Jimi got home a few minutes later, earlier than he'd planned because he'd skipped the OT he had planned to work.  He'd skipped the OT so he could be home to help me and Karen getting the costumes started.  And when I told him we'd have more time to work on his now that I'd decided to order a premade one, he kinda lost his shit. 

Okay, before I go any further, I want to be clear on why I'm writing this, because I debated with myself about whether or not it's appropriate to blog about fights that Jimi and I have.  I'm writing this because this blog is where i write about what's on my mind.  I write because i want a record of where I've been and what I've done.  I write because it helps me process and organize my thoughts.  I don't write because I want anyone to think my boyfriend is an asshole (he's not), or because I want people to take my side (I don't need backup), or because I want to bitch about the man I've chosen to spend my life with (I don't).  This story?  It's just a story about a day in my life.  Nothing more, nothing less.

Continuing on...

So Jimi lost his shit when I told him I didn't want to make a costume anymore.  He explained that I'm always changing things at the last minute and that it makes him crazy.  I tried to say "No, this is BETTER!  The plan is still the same, we just have more time for your costume now!", but we weren't at a place where reasoning was possible.  We turned to the pattern, and my confusion when I looked at it, and my sense of being overwhelmed with the idea of all the work that was going to be required to make the outfit.  We were both tense and worked up, and he says I was shrill and yelling and he finally lost his temper and he yelled at me. 

If you don't know us, i don't know how I can convey how out of character this whole scenario is for us.  We don't fight.  We rarely argue.  We certainly don't yell.  And what comes next?  Yeah, we don't do that either.

Now it was my turn to lose my shit. 

"Fuck you, Jimi!  I'm trying to explain to you and you're going to yell at me?  You can fuck right off."

And I got up from the table, stomped my angry ass back to the TV room, and slammed the door.  (I had to make my point about how mad I was.  And sometimes, making loud noise makes me feel better.) 

I heard a bang from the kitchen, but ignored it while I tried to cool off.  After a few minutes, I came out of the TV room and walked back down the hall, ready to talk calmly.  I got to the kitchen in time to see him pulling out of the driveway and driving off.

Great.

************************

Of course, he came home later that night and we kissed and made up and everything is fine now.  We had a long talk about what we were REALLY mad about (because it's never about what starts the fight - there's always something underlying).  I've got to make some changes and start being more considerate. 

Even though we made up, I went to bed sad last night.  More than just about anything else in the world, I hate fighting with my best friend.  I woke up still feeling a little blue this morning.  And I don't think I'll feel completely right again until we get home tonight and I get a big hug and a big kiss and we spend some time laughing together. 

Knowing this one was my fault doesn't help.  Knowing that I've been feeling for the last few weeks like maybe I wasn't the most considerate girlfriend in the world, and that there was more I could be doing to help keep my man happy - that doesn't help either.  Knowing that he's been fighting an internal battle to keep quiet about his frustrations in order to keep the peace, that just makes me feel like an asshole. 

I need to try harder. 

Meanwhile, I still don't have a costume and I'm not sure how I'm going to rectify that just yet.  I guess I'll be hitting the stores after work tonight.  Or I can order the one I found online and keep my fingers crossed that it makes it here by Saturday. 

Oh well.  It'll all work out. 

Sunday Morning

At 9:30 this morning, I was on my front porch, checking on the little plant I'd moved from it's root-growing cup of water into a hanging basket full of dirt.  A gold Humvee sped past my yard, and took a sharp left onto Southland Terrace - the tires skidded in the turn, causing me to look up from my little seedling just in time to see the Hummer nearly crash into a large passenger van that was coming the opposite direction.  The guy in the Hummer got out - skinny, dressed all in white, he stormed over to the driver's side of the van.  The guy in the van exchanged some words with the skinny kid in white, then got out of his vehicle and clocked the Humvee driver right in the face.  A scuffle ensued, and I went into the house to find my phone and call the police.

This isn't that sort of neighborhood, you know?

Of course, I couldn't find my phone.  Jimi couldn't find his phone.  So I kept going outside to see how the fight was coming along.  Yep, still fighting.  A neighbor walking his husky pup tried to intervene, but I guess the fighters didn't want to stop, so the neighbor continued on his morning stroll.  A white car passing the scene stopped to watch the action unfold.

Eventually, the guys got tired of hitting each other and looked almost as if they were ready to shake hands and move along, then heated words were exchanged yet again (in Spanish) and lots of angry gesturing ensued.  The humvee driver got in his vehicle, but refused to move his behemoth truck.  The van driver pounded on the driver's side window of the hummer for a few seconds before running back to his van and starting it up, then passing the hummer by driving through the neighbors yard.  As soon as the van was off the road, the hummer took off, so the van turned sharply and pursued.

Fun, right?

And then i called my Momma to tell her I probably won't go swimming with her today, and she told me that my brother spent the night in jail Friday night for public intoxication, possession of marijuana, and (possibly) possession of a controlled substance.  This, after he got a ticket 2 weeks ago for PI and Possession while sitting in a buddy's car in front of my parents house.  (The same buddy he went to jail with Friday night.)

I thought we were past this.  I thought he was cleaning himself up.  I believed him when he said, "If I work these two jobs, I won't have time to get into trouble."

Happy Sunday!