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Posts tagged ‘husband’

Not a case of won’t

Husband was supposed to be back in New Zealand on 1 July. Around about the time he should have been adjusting his seatbelt by pulling sharply on the toggle, he rang to say – not that the flight attendant was about to tackle him and confiscate his phone, or even to express his disappointment with the inflight entertainment – that he had to stay in Dubai another week.

For Andrew, a single, terse ‘sorry’ covers pretty much everything: spilt tea, forgetting your anniversary, accidentally selling your Calvin Klein watch on Trademe. There has been little in our shared history that warrants a triple- or even a double-sorry. But this time he was incredibly, superfluously, profusely apologetic. He must have felt really bad.

Either that, or I’m ferocious.

However, he sounded so awful and stressed on the phone that, when I tried to muster up some indignant self-righteous rage, all that came out was, “Just do what you have to and come home.” I think I might even have added ‘Sweetie’.

I swear, I’m getting mellow. It must be the effect of being so recently old. Ever since some fumble-fingered fucker (sorry about the profanity; I would have gone for fumble-fingered git but it lacked the alliterative impact) threw a full cup of coffee over me three minutes into the 20 hour plane trip from Dubai to New Zealand, I have achieved a sort of zen-like calm.

Although I do kick the dog more.

SO I’m collecting Husband from Picton Airport tomorrow and I just can’t wait. When I finish this post, I’m going to stand in the middle of the living room and declaim, over and over, “I can’t- I simply can’t wait. It’s not a case of ‘won’t’ or ‘don’t want to’ or ‘couldn’t be arsed’, I CAN’T because it is IMPOSSIBLE, this waiting. I JUST CAN’T WAIT.”

The dawn of time

This morning, I woke Husband with a flea in his ear. However, he’s lucky I didn’t wake him up by killing him.

For a number of weeks that now qualifies as months, Husband has been booking his flight to Dubai/London. Or to be more accurate, not booking. I eventually cracked and bought my own tickets six weeks ago, when I tired of nagging Husband to confirm dates.

Whenever I remind him to book flights, he says, “Oh yes, I’ll do that later,” in the most pleasant of manners that ensures I’ll sound like a harridan if I tell him he’s been saying that SINCE THE VERY DAWN OF TIME with NO MEASURABLE OUTCOME OR EFFECT WHATSOEVER apart from DRIVING ME INSANE.

Despite being quite accomplished at it, I hate being a nag. I can barely stand the way I sound – heaven only knows how Husband can. These days I pick my battles. Husband’s lamb chops will sit leaking blood all over the kitchen counter rather than being put in the fridge and/or freezer by someone unnamed, because although one of us may end up with their head stuck down a toilet bowl, I’m pretty confident it won’t be me.

I’ve tried a number of different approaches: pleading, bribery, threats, food deprivation. Nothing works. Nothing. Nothing! In fact, if I ask for something more than three times, it results in a visible digging-in-of-heels effect, which ensures I would have better luck pushing a donkey up a hill.

Maybe he thinks, ‘Oh, Wife’s on the case so that’s going to get done,’ without taking into account his variable input into the equation. Or perhaps it’s a cunning plan to make me do it myself – which often works. Or he could be testing my mental health – in which case I’d like to know when I graduate.

So this morning, when I asked whether he’d booked his flight yesterday, and he said no, and THEN asked why didn’t I remind him, I carefully inserted aforementioned flea in his aural canal

Only 240 minutes to go!

I’m picking up Husband at the airport this afternoon. Only 239 minutes to go! 

Only 238 minutes to go! 

Only 237 minutes to go! 

236 minutes!

Hmm.

Ok, it didn’t seem like that much, but it’s actually longer than I thought

Romantic snapshot

Earlier today as I drove us to Mt Wellington, Husband picked up my hand and kissed it.

“Do you think you’ll still be kissing my hand in twenty years time?” I asked dreamily.

Yes indeed, I subject the poor man to conversation like this.

“I don’t know,” said Husband. “I might lose my lips in a freak train accident.”

“You think that’s likely?”

“I’d have to get electronic lips.”

“And why wouldn’t you be kissing my hand with your electronic lips?”

“You mightn’t have a hand.”

“Freak train accident?”

“Don’t look so skeptical – it’s entirely probable you’d be on the train too.”

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