Marital justice

As some know, I’ve had some bumps in the road lately, some very saddening.  And yet, even at such times, something funny can happen, and if one can’t still laugh, one simply rejects whatever the cosmos is doing to try to cheer one up. Not wise.

Tonight Deb and I were watching the Survivor reunion episode, where Colton had every chance to prove that he was something other than a twit, but wasn’t strong enough to do so.  Too bad.  At one commercial, rather than mute the TV and try to avoid seeing silent car advertising, I got up to hit the restroom.  Now, Deb at times thinks it’s great fun to block me from whatever I want to get done at a commercial.  I guess it’s just her way of being playful, but it isn’t always my favorite joke.  So, tonight, she hurried into her slippers hoping to get in my way, but even with bad knees I was too swift and agile for her.  Around the corner I darted.

She does not habitually admit defeat at that point.  As we all know, to urinate, men typically stand before a toilet and lift the lid (which we had put down previously, as we are admonished without cease, by guess whom).  I did in the typical fashion.  Deb sandwiched herself between me and the commode, confident I would not, well, just go anyway.  (I’ve been tempted a time or two.) I gave her the “really?” look.  No effect.

With an air of exaggerated defiance and satisfaction, she prepared to assume the traditional female posture of urination on a commode–in such a hurry that she didn’t stop to consider that the seat was up.  I saw this immediately but said not a word, of course.  Down she sat–on the icy porcelain, the thing no female wants to sit on, for several easily grasped reasons.  Her eyes went wide and she bounded up as I started laughing.  No normal laugh, but a belly laugh, the kind that doubles one over.

She used a profane term for me that means the rectal opening, and also called me a ‘meany’ as she fled.  There I stood, bent over laughing, trying to figure out how it was that I was the ‘meany’ and other choice terms, when it had been her giving me trouble in the first place.

“On the blog!” I called out after her.

“No way!” she exclaimed.

“You gotta own it, dear,” I rejoined.

Sure enough, after the show when I headed downstairs with my hasty notes, she tried to block that also.  However, I threatened to just go to her computer and post it, and she yielded with dire threats.

They didn’t work.  And I had a very difficult time typing this, because every time I think about it, I start laughing my head off.


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