I feel like there’s a sportsing term for this: the post-game review (yeah, but not those words – isn’t there a specific sportsing term? Someone help me out) where, after the bout/game is over and everyone is showered and calm, we sit down and analyze what happened. Only I don’t know it, because if I attend a sporting event it’s because someone has blackmail material, and if I watch one it’s with friends and I’m there for the booze.
Hockey might be the exception, if the seats were more comfortable. I spent a fair amount of my formative years on the ice or waiting for it, so the cold doesn’t bother me. Plus, there’s a simplicity, an effortless brutality to the sport: there is a puck, there is a net, and those guys will break bones to put the two together or keep them apart.
But we’re not here to talk about hockey! Or sports! We’re still on the avocados. Because I wasn’t kidding when I said this was the most epic fight of my marriage,* and apparently I will never get away from it.
As I’ve mentioned before, he does read this blog. And he read the Avocado post.
HIM: It didn’t really read like our fight, though.
HIM: Well, you didn’t really write it out.
ME: Right…. because it was insane. It careened from topic to topic with no pattern or reason.
ME: Do you not remember? We started on the avocados, all “you’re stupid”, “no you’re stupid”; then we moved on to who does the shopping, the cooking, and in general who does things and who’s lazy; then it was money, which circled back to the shopping and who’s bad at it; then who’s the worse driver, because you drive like your father and I drive like my father; then whose parents are worse, and we both lose at that one; whose fault it was that I’d thrown the pot and whether it could be fixed, whether the dryer door could be fixed and who’d left it open…. it was epic and insane, and I can’t even begin to record all of that in just one post. **
ME: Don’t you remember?
HIM: No, I guess I don’t.
ME: (stunned silence)
HIM: Love you (gathers laptop and keys)
ME: Love you, have a good day.
ME: Okay, seriously? Did that pot hit his head?
It didn’t, don’t worry. It hit the dryer door. Which he’d left open. Which is why we had to pay to get it fixed.
All because of avocados.
* Except for Sucker Punch. But we don’t talk about Sucker Punch. If you ever meet us, please don’t mention that goddamned movie. Because we will kill each other, right there in front of you.
**Even if I could, do you really want to read it? No, you do not.