Foiled Again

Recently, I sat W down for what I thought was a much-needed discussion about what would be an equitable division of labor around the house. (Shut up; I didn't use those exact words...)

Going into it, I acknowledged that I had a couple obstacles working against me:

1. The game was on. W is a baseball fan. An insane one. Don’t misunderstand me; I enjoy a good game as much as the next girl. I do live in #CardinalNation, after all. But when I say I like baseball, I mean I like it literally as much as the next girl. W is a baseball fan as only a man can be. I do not understand his single minded determination to bear personal witness to every, single minute of the MLB season, from spring training in April to the World Series in October. That's seven whole months of baseball. You'd think that the sheer number of opportunities to attend and/or watch games, combined with access to a DVR for recording, pausing, and rewinding of key moments, would lessen his anxiety over missing even a single second of action on the field. It does not.

2. I said, "can we talk?" Hell hath no fury like a man forced to have a conversation against his will. No matter that I was smiling when I asked. No matter that we hadn't had an argument in weeks and there were no current peas under our relational mattress, he alway thinks he's in trouble when I ask to talk, and he will fight to the death to avoid a conversation. Especially if there's a game on (see #1).

3. It was a day ending in 'Y.' (See #2).

Anyway, call me naive but I waded in, regardless of the stacked deck. I thought we could have a quick convo about this tiny issue, then he could go back to baseball.  We'd talk it over, pound out a short list of daily and weekly chores that needed to be done, and divide them up like civilized human beings. Equitably. (Shut UP.)

Instead, W interrupted to register his conscientious objection to the word chores. Distracted, I spent 10 minutes arguing with him over WTF other word would be better than chores to describe CHORES (!), until I gave up in disgust and went to fold the laundry. Never did get those chores lined out.

Well played, my rainbeau. Well played.