I spent one and a half night on the couch over the weekend, voluntarily. [note to self: next couch must also be longer than me, distressed leather, spring box with sturdy mattress.]
When I ran down the stairs with the laptop, the power cable caught something, toppled it, spilling something onto me. When I cleaned up myself and returned to the crime scene, my wife was already cleaning up, along with her perpetual postnatal nagging since the first child was born. My sin was not one, but the usual three, toppling it, fled, and put myself first instead of the carpet.
Anyway, I wasn't in a rush to clean up the carpet, even if it were the right thing to do first. Whatever I do scientifically possible, she will do it all over again. She isn't a believer of science, or logic for that matter. What goes into the carpet must be all taken out at once - her unsaid motto. She doesn't care about the law of physics, that it's impossible, or organic chemistry, that mortal things will most likely turn into dust and ashes, and return to the earth via the vacuum sucker.
I claimed the 5th, remained silence so as not to further incriminate myself. But when all the missiles were flying around, I couldn't resist not to retaliate a little. I might be able to win some such as the battle of the fire extinguisher in the last post.
I asked if she has seen anybody else put things on the intermediate (or mid-way?) landing at the stairs. I bet nobody does the way she does. It isn't just a thing, but a pair, easily toppled tall things, which can also cause a spill. Well, if I were a banker or a dot-com billionaire, I might put a grand piano on the intermediate landing. But our house isn't that big. I told her basically she's compromising the only fire exit from upstairs, and that if the things got toppled and hurt a guest, we can lost all our assets.
She accused me of not owing up to my mistake, and started a unilateral verbal thermal nuclear war.
I rather have Mrs Jones, who seems to be too indifferent to do such things. Even if she does, if I were Mr Jones, I would have secretly signaled my assistant to call me out for a crisis meeting. Of course it would be an emergency therapy session instead. I can do that but have to wait for the next working day, or her next shopping day. Otherwise I will risk torturing interrogations on returning from therapy.
I have fond memories of a few therapists each representing different types. There is the punch bag type, which is better than going for a round of golf, or a game of pool. Of course sex is never just about sex. It's about the release of excess energy when the stick hits the target harder than necessary. It's about blanking the brain to flush out the bad experiences. Then there's the candle light type to neutralize the negative vibes. If I'm not in the mood for sex, at least I'll go for the pampering type for a massage. Though the possibility of a happy ending is handy in case I change my mind at the end.
As I couldn't go out, I settled for the peace and quiet of the couch, if just for the night. In the morning the wife played her usual triumph card. But I released my secret weapon. So it was a draw. I wished I could have another night on the couch, thinking which therapist I would call the next morning. The wife recalled the player to the bedroom late at night, denying him the pleasure of peace and quiet all to himself. Thinking of his therapists all day long, he was too horny to wait and dared to use the wife as the punch bag instead, and succeeded. The undesirable effect was a female orgasm.
[note to self: the next house must not have an intermediate landing unless big enough for a grand piano]