My wife is an emotional terrorist. There’s no other way I can put it.
Yesterday after we did time in church, we came home and she cooked us a nice spaghetti lunch while I took care of the laundry. I helped her dice some tomatoes but she stoically refused to let me assist her any further in her culinary labors. Whenever she’s standing at the sink, I respect it as her domain and don’t venture too close lest I awaken the wrath of Yahweh.
Since she’s a perfectionist, she was underwhelmed by the spaghetti even though I found it sufficiently yummy. To each his or her own. (I’ve heard that in England they say “Each to his own.” Go figure skate, as Korean Olympic champion Kim Yuna might say–if she were an incorrigible punster.)
She’d also concocted a simple salad consisting of greens, tomatoes, and–as a last-minute addition–a tangerine, unless they were mandarin oranges or clementines. What do I look like to you, an orangologist? She decided to add some salad “sauce,” as she insists on calling it, no matter how many times I tell her the word she’s looking for is “dressing” (it’s my fault for not mumbling assertively enough); I told her the salad was fine without it, as the tangerine would impart enough juiciness to render dressing superfluous. She ended up agreeing with me after she put the dressing on, but it still tasted fine. Jina’s a bit of a perfectionist, so happiness tends to be elusive for her (as it is for most of us, I suppose), unless by happiness you’re thinking of hyperactive, obnoxiously in-your-face mania, which she has in spades.
Our plates now emptied, I offered to wash the dishes, but she wouldn’t let me do that either. What an angel! So I gave her a hug and told her I loved her. She said I was only being affectionate because my belly was full. I said nonsense. (Considering I’m overweight, it’s full even when I’m hungry. And who says the glass is half-empty?)
Then came the pivot. As I stood hanging up the minor mountain of wet laundry, Jina took a look at my pay slip and asked me how much I was getting per hour. She likes to be thorough about such things, whereas I’m a bit cavalier since I made the mistake of letting her control my finances a few years ago and my life has been going downhill ever since. She also wanted me to check my schedule to see how many hours I taught every day two months ago (my schedule changes regularly, so it’s impossible for me to remember such things in detail). I told her I’d thrown it out in an effort to keep the paperwork from piling up.
Shortly thereafter, as the volume in our voices rose, she asked me to talk to my recruiter about it. I said she could talk to him if she wanted, but if he fired me (for complaining) not to blame me. Then she went berserk. She stood up and started screaming at me, the whites around her irises visible. I chose not to react, since at times homicide is only a fatal blow to the face away; besides, even though I’m pushing fifty, I’m too young to die.
Not to sound like too much of a pussy, but when my wife loses her temper, she can be a physically threatening woman. If push came to shove, I could probably eliminate her, but I’ve learned to keep my own anger in check. Believe me, it hasn’t been easy.
In case you think I’m exaggerating, her shoulders are as broad as mine. You know what she did next? That’s right–she tore off the blouse she was wearing, sending buttons flying everywhere, then the T-shirt under that. She stood defiantly like the incredible Hulk in a bra.
There’s a bit more to the story, but I’ve got to go to work right now, so please check in tomorrow for the slightly less exciting conclusion (I don’t believe in false advertising).
Thank ye kindly.
P. S. The title refers to the typhoon in the Philippines that killed 10,000 people. Since God won’t help them, we humans will have to instead.