It’s taken me way too long to figure this out, but my bride can fight a battle, and win a war…Especially against such a fragile opponent like myself.
My bride attacks my weak points, maneuvers my own will against me, lays tactical plans for my defeat and strategizes my demise with such a subtle approach. Sun Tzu would be proud because in the twelve years of our wedded bliss, my bride has re-written the book The Art of War.
In love and war I have just one device. I scream. I throw. I show my anger, and look the fool. My bride’s approach, however, is a calculated scheme seemingly drawn from hundreds of years of altercation. Perhaps, there’s some Woman’s Combat Manual handed down from generation to generation given out the night before the wedding. Perhaps my bride started off as a Private First Class of Conflict and has since moved through the ranks to Sergeant Major of Marital Warfare.
My knowledge of my bride’s tactics are by witness alone, as she is too smart to disclose her actual strategy. I can tell you what I’ve seen with my own two teary eyes. I can tell you her course of attack through my own defeat. I can tell you the procedures she has used to render me a beaten man. I can tell you, at least the ones that I have figured out. So here are just a few, though I am sure there are more.
No, I’m not talking about sex. A rookie bride would withhold sex. An experienced, veteran bride like mine is too smart to use that old, tired technique. Besides, after twelve years of marriage how would I know the difference between a sex withhold and a good old-fashioned marital dry spell?
The Withhold that I’m talking about has to do with the laundry. When my bride is mad at me she stops doing my laundry. The beauty of this tactic is I don’t realize the punishment until one week or so when I start getting closer and closer to the bottom of my underwear drawer. That’s about the time that I start to wonder, “She must’ve found out! About what, I do not know? But I’m in some serious trouble here.”
Sometimes this goes on for months at a time. And my bride has even figured out how to prolong my suspicion. On occasion, she’ll wash only the clothes that I do not wear. She will leave for me a stack of laundry to put away, but it’s all the backup clothing. Meanwhile my work shirts, my running clothes and my lucky pair of underwear are nowhere to be found forcing me to wear my outstretched drawers or perhaps even my bride’s period panties.
The slow laundry withhold keeps up the illusion that she’s actual doing my laundry. This way she gets to continue to be mad at me. And let’s face it, she’s loves being mad at me. If she didn’t love it so much then why would she be it so often? I’m sure it’s not me.
This is a genius maneuver and I lose every time. I remember the first time my bride used The Flash against me. We were fighting a spirited battle that led us to the bedroom. As my bride threw a verbal assault at me she ripped off her shirt to change. She stood there naked from the waste up with her beautiful breasts mocking me. I stood there wondering if God knew when he made my hands just how perfectly that would fit my bride’s lovely lady lumps. Suddenly, I forgot what I was fighting about. Suddenly, I wanted to apologize. Suddenly, I wanted to buy her flowers and write her a poem. And just as suddenly, my wife put her girls away and left me standing there impotently like a child.
The Flash is a brilliant move that leaves me speechless every time. The Flash also reveals itself in other forms….like if my wife changes into a thong in the middle of a fight and then leaves the house. You know the thong that she only wears on special occasions, like a wedding or when she goes out without me. If panties could talk that thong would laugh at me, “Look now Buddy, cause you ain’t going to see me in quite some time!”
OK, so I once called my bride the one thing that you do not call your bride. I didn’t actual call her one, but I said she was acting like one. I thought this was a clear distinction that anyone could recognize as being different. My bride, however, believed the comparison itself was close enough to not talk to me for a week.
So what did she do? How did she plan her attack? One week of silence and then a subtle little sentence. “You know?” she said about our neighbors. “I asked Jill and she said that Jay would never call her that.” This, of course, was a lie, a bluff, a major mind fuck on her part, but I didn’t know. My bride didn’t actually air out our dirty laundry to the neighbors. But she did make me believe that she did. And I was the one who had to walk the neighborhood, show up at the little-league field, and pull up at school drop off knowing that potentially every woman out there knew that I used that word. Oh, The Shame. What a lowdown, dirty maneuver!
It’s been years since a woman actually killed a husband with arsenic, but as long as someone else is making my dinner The Threat will always be alive. As long as I sit down for dinner while my wife has a pan in her hand there’s always an opportunity for a conk on the head and one last meal.
I’m 99 percent sure that my bride will never actually take my life, but I’m 100 percent sure that I don’t like those odds. There’s a reason why the TV show Snapped is in its 12th Season. Snapped is a true crime chronicle about women who murder their men, and they don’t seem to be running out of material. And this is not the kind of TV show that I’ve always wanted to be on.
My bride often makes me fajitas for dinner, which usually gives me a temporary rash. Sometimes I turn red for a few seconds. Other nights my cheeks swell up for minutes. She says that I must be allergic to something in the mix, but she continues to make me fajitas. I just think she’s testing different doses on me.
It always gives me cause for concern when I come home from work to find a plate of food made up just for me. As I stare down at The Threat I think to myself, “Oh great! Fried Chicken breaded with crushed glass again,” or “Wow, mahi-mahi with an arsenic and ricin puree.” So I sit down, I pray, I take a mental inventory of what I may have done and then I eat it. I’ve lost the battles. I’ve lost the war. So what else do I have left? But one last supper.
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I am Kevin Harris, a father of four and husband to one very understanding woman. And yes, I know exactly what caused all those pregnancies! My home life makes me smile and I like to share that laughter with others. Hopefully, you can find a bit of your home life reflecting in my pathetic blog….. For more of my writing I suggest you visit my favorites page….http://mypatheticblog.tumblr.com/tagged/favorites