2007 - Sincerely Sire Newsletter
other day Roe stormed out of the house as she said this: “I’m sick and
tired of you thinking about nobody but yourself!”…which right away
made me think of nobody but myself.
particular argument—why did I say this particular
argument?—they all end up with
me apologizing. As a matter of fact, truth be told, all arguments with Roe
are futile and hopeless from the get-go—at least they are from my
bobbing and weaving ducking point of view. I will lose. I will apologize.
I will grovel. I know this, even as I am convincing myself that this is the argument that I will for sure, positively, finally, without a doubt, win—because on
this one, I am right!
last night when she asked me about my pot I knew I was in trouble, but
maybe—just maybe, this was the
one—the one I would win!
what’s up with your pot?” she said as she menacingly lifted her head
from the pillow in the bed next to me.
pot? What are you talking about?” —I knew what she was talking about.
have you stopped washing your pot?”
you mean my little black pot that I cook my oatmeal in every morning.”
that one,” she said.
I figured since I’ve been really busy lately, more busy than you, you
could wash my pot.”
not going to wash your pot.”
not? Do you want me to be late for work?”
won’t be late for work.”
know honey, I was thinking you should not only wash my pot, you should
make me my oatmeal too. I bet a lot of wives make oatmeal for their
I’m not going to make your
oatmeal and I’m not going to wash your pot.”
that really bother you when I leave my dirty pot in the sink?”
then, I’ll tell you what. I’ll wash my pot, but I’m not going to
make your coffee and bring it up to you in the morning anymore because I
won’t have time. I’ll be too busy washing my pot.”
I won’t wash your socks and your underwear.”
this was true; she did wash my socks and my underwear, and I wanted her to
continue doing so. And besides, from a purely business point of view,
washing my socks and underwear was more work than making her coffee and
washing my pot. I decided to come at her from a different angle.
know, if you really loved me, you’d wash my pot.”
and unmoved she replied one last time, “I’m not going to wash your
knew it was the last time because approximately two seconds after she
completed her declaration, she was sound asleep. Some people end arguments
by throwing something or stomping out of the room. Roe ends them by going
to sleep—almost instantly. It’s weird but very effective.
I’m laying there in bed thinking to myself, what does it mean that she won’t wash my pot? She should love me AND
wash my pot! I’m right on this one. I know
I’m right. I’m the man of the house and she should wash my pot.
the next morning the moment of truth arrives. I’m not sure if I’m
going to wash my pot yet, and I don’t want to needlessly put myself in
danger—in case I decide to wash my pot—so I make her coffee and bring
it up to her. She has an early morning appointment, so she gets up and
goes to the office. I get up and go to the gym. When I get home from my
workout I, as usual, get my oatmeal started on the stove and then go
upstairs, shower, shave and get dressed. By the time I come back down my
oatmeal is ready. I scrape it out of the little steel pot and into my bowl
and toss in some raisins and a splash of nonfat milk. I then, as always,
put my oatmeal-coated pot into the sink and fill it with water.
thinking about whether or not I will wash my pot.
easily convince myself that it is not my ego or arrogance that stops me
from washing my pot. It’s simply that at this point in my regular
morning routine I’m all dressed, shaved and ready for work in my work
clothes. I don’t like to wash my pot after I’m in my work clothes.
I wash my pot when I get home? Yes! Of course I will. It’s just that if
she comes home before me and sees my pot in the sink, it drives her crazy.
She can’t stand it. The woman’s home is her Barbie Doll house. Things
have to be PERFECT around here! I’m not kidding. But I’m sorry Roe,
I’m no KEN! I like a few dirty dishes in the sink, some newspapers on
the counter and a pair of old shoes under the coffee table. Makes me feel
honestly don’t know how we’ve lasted thirty-two years. It’s truly
amazing. As a matter of fact, a good friend/slash therapist of ours once
described our marriage as, and I quote, “a dovetailing of
pathologies.” That really bothered me for a long time, until I realized
one day, that, to one degree or another, that’s what all
marriages are, and, if it’s going to work forever,
which it’s supposed to, it’s 50% pure luck, and 100% hard work.
of course, marriage makes no sense. I mean you’re really expected to
live with a person, that one special person for thirty-two years? Fifty
years? For the rest of your life—till death do you part? You live with
that person with all their faults and insecurities and eccentricities and
hang-ups and pain and sorrow and grief? And you listen? You hold their
hand and you listen? You stay with that person and that person stays with
you—forever? Why? Why not just leave the pot in the sink?
I reminded myself, she has washed all
my dirty pots…and spoons and forks and my eggbeater too. The detergent
she uses is an old one. It’s been around forever, but it still brightens
up everything it touches. It’s like magic. Maybe you’ve heard of
it—it’s called LOVE. It’s hard to find, but just one drop can last a
I used some to wash my pot.
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