Lessons in communication (who knew men were not psychic)

We both drove in at the same time. It had been a long day at work and I was tired. Cash and Power both raced to greet us.  Our pups experienced a brief moment of confusion as they tried to decide which car to run to first. As usual, daddy won. After greeting daddy, Power, our Mastiff who is now almost as tall as I am and weighs just about as much, jumped into my stomach almost toppling me over. I cringed and hung onto the bonnet of my car. In pain.

“Lecia, are you OK?” asked my husband, genuinely concerned.

Wtf? What do you mean if I’m OK? Didn’t you just see a Mastiff that weighs almost as much as me jump into my stomach? Do you not see me cringing in pain or do you think I am just hanging onto the car bonnet for good olѐ support. Am I OK? Is this man for real?

Out loud, I replied, “Yes, I’m fine.”

I was not fine. I was furious.

We descended the stairs. As I put down my bags, I felt a sharp pain shoot across my stomach. I cringed.

“Lecia. Are. You. OK?” he asked, emphasizing each word as if I had a difficulty understanding English.

Does this man think I’m a retard? Do I look OK? Isn’t it obvious I’m in pain?!

“Yes,” I answered gritting my teeth.

We walked into the bedroom and I began to take off my clothes. The pain was becoming unbearable. I again cringed and sat on the bed.

He took his clothes off and climbed onto the bed, completely oblivious (or pretending to be), Samsung and iPhone in hand.

I groaned noticeably.

He barely glanced up. A palpable wave of anger surged through my body. Sensing that a storm was brewing, he quickly turned his attention back to his phones. By this time I was shooting daggers at him. Realizing that he was definitely in a war-zone, he got up and walked into the living room flipping on the television to the news.

Oh no, he didn’t!

I imagined myself transforming into Hulk, ripping the TV off the wall in one single swoop.  (Yes, I had only just watched Avengers the day before).

Instead, I stormed into the kitchen and began washing (read: clanking) the dishes as loudly as I could.

Then my silly conscience butted in.

Now, wait a minute. Why are you upset? Didn’t the man ask you about three times whether you were OK? Do you think he is psychic?

Yes, he needs to be a damn psychic! My ego answered. Plus it doesn’t take a bloody mind reader to see that you are in pain!  Hsssst!

My ego was in full-on attack mode.

Well, at least go explain to him that you are in pain and give him an opportunity to respond before you react irrationally, urged on my conscience.

I didn’t need much prodding.

All right, all right. I’ll go.

I slowly walked into the living room with my best puss-in-boots look and crawled onto the sofa beside him. He didn’t rebuff my advances, but he didn’t welcome me either. Instead, he adjusted his arms so he could continue playing with his phones. His slightly knitted brows were a sure tell-tale that he was annoyed.

See, my ego taunted, you run gone beg friend and now he’s ignoring you.

Suffering from a combination of pain and a bruised ego, I tried to stifle my sniffling.

“Lecia, what is wrong with you?" He sighed, pursed his lips and continued tapping at his phone.

“I’m in pain. My stomach hurts.” I was now in tears.

Seriously? He didn’t even have to say it out loud.

“I’m not making it up. I’m really in pain.” I could now feel his frustration.

“Why would I think you’re making it up?” his frown deepened into a scowl.

“Because you aren’t paying me any mind. You’re ignoring me,” I whimpered.

Seriously?!  Again, I could read his thoughts.

“But I asked you TWO times already if you were OK, and each time you said ‘Yes’,” he was now counting his words.

“But it was obvious I was NOT OK!” I griped. “If you were me and you got hurt, I wouldn’t need to ask if you were OK. I’d KNOW you were not OK. I’d hug you—”

“OK, OK, next time I’ll do just that,” he said in a voice so patronizing, I could tell that it was shaped by the clear conviction that his wife was batshit crazy.

He rubbed my head, kissed my forehead and pulled me closer into his arms.

“You want me to go heat up your dinner for you?” he asked as he shook his head, a rueful smile playing across his lips.

“No!” I was fully aware that by now he had perhaps decided to have me committed. “I’ll heat up dinner for us both.” I scampered off the couch grinning like the idiot I was.

I’ll say one thing for sure, PMS is real.

Please tell me I am not the only one that's coo coo crazy! Share and tag a friend or your hubby and leave a comment if you can relate 🙂