A Hard Week for the Marriage

It falls to me to stir the new jar of peanut butter. I’m resentful about it. Phil has always done that messy task. If he really loved me, I point out in the most injured tones, he would do it this time too, even though he’s having sardines and crackers for lunch and I’m the one who wanted peanut butter.

I don’t mind eating sardines. I just hate the smell. Having to stir the peanut butter and simultaneously smell sardines is a substantial imposition. I open the jar and stare at the oil pooled nearly to the top. The peanut butter spreads evenly beneath like the pebbled bed of a clear spring. We buy the crunchy kind. As soon as I insert the knife, oil will ooze over the lip of the jar. I’m waiting for the “if he really loved me” argument to take effect, but he’s finished fixing his sardines and gone to the breakfast nook to eat them and read his book, ignoring me entirely.

The problem-plagued fireplace installation ended at last, two months after it began, with a long day during which we doubted almost every move the installers made. This time, no leaks. It isn’t quite flush with the hearthstone, which it was before this re-do, but we were exhausted, wanted those guys out of our house, finally, forever.

I’ve been proud of my restraint, never said: “this damn fireplace was YOUR idea” or “I never wanted a fireplace.” I haven’t said those things, biting my tongue a dozen times as costs and problems piled up. Until now. Until here on this page. You, dear reader, are the first to hear me vent. I’ll tell Phil not to read this one. But it’s done and fixed at last, and Arctic cold came to town the next day, so the fire was cozy. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.

Then Phil took my car to meet his graphic design buddies. The Miata is HIS car, a fair-weather vehicle if ever there was one. MY car is the reliable Camry we depend on for grocery shopping and winter driving. On the way home, driving MY car, Phil skids on an icy hill and slams into the curb. I like saying “he slams into the curb,” whether he actually did so or not.

No one hurt, no other cars involved. Thank god, right? But the front wheel is damaged. We limp into the shop. I have to cancel appointments and errands two days before Christmas, because with the streets in this condition, the Miata spins like a top.

The guys at the shop tell us about all kinds of worse accidents because of the iced roads. I don’t care. I’m pissed. If Phil were hurt, I’d be at the hospital, distraught, totally focused on him and to hell with the car. But he wasn’t hurt and so I’m just pissed. That he’s pissed at himself too is irrelevant.

I’m signing the Toyota’s death warrant—I’m a worst-case scenario kind of girl—or whatever thousands that repair form turns out to mean, when Nick says, “you guys have been together a long time…” followed by a pregnant pause.

“Thirty-four years,” I reply. “Are you wondering if this means the end of the marriage?”

“No,” he says, unfazed. “What do you think about me getting a dog without telling my wife?”

“What?” I exclaim. “You can’t get a dog without telling your wife!”

“Get a puppy,” Bo says, from the other desk. “I know your wife: as soon as she sees the puppy, she’ll be in love with it.”

Nick and his wife have two dachshunds and they are couch potato dogs. He wants a dog he can go hiking with.

“But you can’t make that unilateral decision,” Phil objects. “It’ll drive a spike through the relationship. When the dog shits, she’ll say, that’s your dog, you clean it up, or worse, rub it in your face.”

Bo turns to me. “I like this guy.” I beam. That’s my husband, willing to take his scenario over the top every time.

How long have you been married?” Phil asks.

“Five years,” Nick says.

“You’re in the trial phase still. Seven years is the test. Make it through that and you’ll be solid. But not if you come home with a dog without asking her.”

The other mechanic enters the office. We acquaint him with the topic. “You know what’s better than a puppy?” He offers. “A baby.”

All hell breaks loose. Bo guffaws, Phil claps, I squeal.

“Yeah,” Bo jumps on it. “You guys have been talking baby anyway. You don’t want to have a puppy and a baby at the same time. Do you know how much work that is?”

The issue is left unresolved. Bo gives us a ride home. I look back at the Toyota sadly, wondering if I’ll ever drive it again. I DO feel better for having been appealed to as a marriage expert. You should get something for 34 years.

Now what was I pissed about? Peanut butter? I can’t wait to see our coffee group so I can tell them how Phil killed my car.