You might recall that M wanted me to dictate when “we” cut down one of the trees that threatens the house we both live in. He wanted me to “schedule” a time to do the work and when I replied with my work schedule he was offended.
Yesterday I made the comment that Thursday was the last sunny day predicted by the weatherdudes. He said that he would be taking out a tree. I said I would assist. He said, “I was really hoping that you would drive this project.” WTF?!? Why on earth would I suggest a time and place for what is sure to be a torturous day? He owns the chainsaw, he buys the fuel for it, he does the maintenance on it, he totally controls when and how it is used, so why would I have anything to do with scheduling the actual cutting down of the tree?*
Whatever. I showed up with my Game Face on and worked my ass off cleaning up the pile of limbs and moving the wood over to where it will be stored for next year. I kept my mouth shut, followed orders and stayed out of his way.
He made some snarky comments that I ignored. He actually gave me a “good job!” at the end, but by that time I was so tired and sore that I didn’t give a shit. I entertained myself the whole time with an internal dialogue – how would I explain my current relationship to a stranger? It was an interesting exercise.
So we’re back inside, it’s just getting dark, he asks me how I feel. I tell him that my back aches and I’m tired. He suggests that he could lay on top of me and make me feel better. Okie-dokie – verbal sparring it is! I put down my Kindle and said that him laying on top of me was sure to make HIM feel better, but it would do nothing for me. I started reading again, despite his continuation of the same subject.
The cat jumped up onto his lap. “This cat is crushing my balls!” I looked up but said nothing.
“I won’t be able to get it up for a week!” he declared. I looked up again.
“You don’t see a problem with that, do you?” he asked.
“No. Not really,” I replied. “The cat seems happy, so it’s a win-win.”
“I’m surprised you don’t say that more often – ‘I don’t see a problem with that…'” he said.
“Hmmm…Maybe I should make it my new tagline…” I replied.
He kept it up until bedtime, even while watching several episodes of Better Off Ted** but he got nowhere.
I went to bed, read for awhile and rolled over to go to sleep. He came in some time later (after checking his email and writing a note to someone) and made his usual overture – pinching my nipples and rubbing his hard-on against my back. Romantic! For him, this is foreplay and should be all I need to turn into a panting animal. Yeah. Not gonna happen. He tried again this morning. Nope. He is quite put out at not having his needs taken care of, but I don’t care. Let him whine. Let him go out of town for a few days so that I “miss him” and want him again.
Or here’s an idea – maybe it will occur to him to stop being such an asshat and treat me like a Real Person and not an extension of his dick.
Yeah. Not gonna happen.
* Redneck male children are taught to use a chainsaw as soon as they are old enough to zip their own jeans, but girl children are (at least around here) not taught this useful skill. Now that I am a fully-grown, angry woman, there are no manly men who will teach me how to use a chainsaw. What are they afraid of? Surely if it was easy to take out a man with a chainsaw and dispose of the pieces without getting caught more assholes would be disappearing and that might be a reason, but as it stands, I don’t understand the reluctance of men to teach women skills that would actually be useful. Are their power tools connected directly to their penises? If that’s the case, you would think they would want more women to have their hands on their tools…
** As part of his Better M campaign, he has been insisting on watching TV in the evening, probably because it allows more interaction with me than watching me read my Kindle and totally ignoring him. He hates TV, and has said so for years. The only reason there’s one in the house is because he insisted I buy one so my “sense of humor” would improve – he (mistakenly) thought my depression was because I was going through some sort of TV withdrawal. So, just because I can, I have been choosing shows to watch that I know he will hate – The Borgias, Better Off Ted, Downton Abbey, you know, stuff that has characters that are just like him who do stupid and/or immoral things that he is obliged to be horrified about to keep up the facade that he is now a better person. The odd bloody murder or rape tossed in guarantees that his teeth are grinding by the end of the episode. I know it’s petty, but he is constantly playing music that I hate at volumes that are so loud I can’t even bear to be in the same room. If I hear “Midnight in Harlem” or “Stand by Me” one more time I may just lose my mind, so it’s only fair, right?