Last night around three thirty there was a tremendous thunderstorm right over our heads. It went on forever and our house actually got struck by lightening and I had to reset the electronic clock on the stove this morning. Also, my poor German Johnson got knocked flat on the deck. Poor leggy little guy. I tied him up this morning with a coat hanger I untwisted and some string.
When Keith and I argue, it's almost always over the most trivial things. Take last night. We'd spent the day up in Indiana visiting his step mother who'd recently had a surgery (colon related, she is doing well) and didn't get back home until around four thirty in the afternoon.
When we got home, we found dog do in the man room and an awfully ripe odor coming from the garbage. After we had set the house to rights, we were happy to collapse in front of the TV. There was some desultory discussion about dinner. We decided to make chicken sandwiches.
Eventually I went down stairs. Here can be found the crux of the matter, for Keith was convinced that as I left I declared I was going to start dinner. I remember no such thing. I'm certain I asked him to tell me when he was ready for dinner.
Regardless, an hour later Keith came down the stairs, hungry and puzzled, to find me on the couch and no dinner. There was however, an empty bowl on the side table. When he found out it had been filled with blueberries and yogurt, well. That took our argument to a whole new level, due to the fact that Keith and blueberry parfait already had a poignant history together.
Once, long ago, I had made myself a bowl of bananas, yogurt and Honey Bunches of Oats for a snack before dinner. Keith wanted a taste and was immediately taken with it. He wanted some. Alas. I had used the last, sweet brown banana for that bowl. Keith was very manly about the loss but several weeks later when I made myself a bowl with the last of the strawberries, he got a little peeved.
So, last night when he realized I'd had yet another bowl of the delicious concoction and he had not even a sandwich made, well, choice words flew. I tried to make him see that it was a simple misunderstanding and more blueberries stood by if he wanted a bowl or a sandwich for that matter.
But no. Keith was convinced I was withholding delectable parfait on purpose and instead of reacting with a level head, I got all up in arms when accused.
It took the rest of the night before we'd put the argument behind us. After mutually going through the Burst of Unreasonable Anger stage, we then moved into the "I'm Ignoring You, So There!" stage.
That stage can take a long time to move through but it only makes making up that much more enjoyable. I couldn't help but notice anew how handsome my husband is, how dear and well known all his features, and the freckles all over his shoulders and arms that make him look just like the country boy that he is.
The last stage is the best- Making Fun of Ourselves. This happens after we've achieved enough distance to realize how ridiculous we've been. The argument then get slotted away into our growing collection of inside jokes.
