Let me tell you what, working for your husband can be a total pain in the keister. (Yeah, I just used the word keister). Last night at 11:30p.m., I sat down to update this blog and Tariq came in and said, “Are you creating those social networking accounts for the site?”
“No, I’m updating my [...]
Let me tell you what, working for your husband can be a total pain in the keister. (Yeah, I just used the word keister). Last night at 11:30p.m., I sat down to update this blog and Tariq came in and said, “Are you creating those social networking accounts for the site?”
“No, I’m updating my blog.”
“Oh.” Insert long, awkward guilt inducing silence here. “I guess you’ll do that tomorrow, then?”
“Yesss,” I hissed. Deep breath, stay calm, do not kill your husband. Teach your daughter, who is standing there (yes, at 11:30p.m.) how to maturely diffuse a situation that could rapidly escalate into an all out brawl.
I looked at my computer screen, then turned to him and snapped in a pretty ferocious tone “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!”
Who came up with the calming deep breath technique, anyway? It’s totally useless. I mean, why would doing something like breathing, which I do involuntarily anyway, keep me from getting mad? I proceeded with the following argument.
When was the last time your boss called you at home while you were anesthetizing yourself in front of the television to ask you if you had completed this week’s work? Could I please just sit here and work on something that does not revolve around you and your goals in life? I felt tremendously victimized, and the best thing to do in a situation like this is to stand up for yourself and really assert your right to do the things that you want to do for yourself without regard for someone else’s guilt inducing agenda.
So, you know what I did? I gave him a dirty look, looked back at my laptop, and logged out of blogger and started creating social networking sites for our business. (Insert anticlimactic music here). Consciously, I am a Malcolm X, don’t take no crap from nobody. Habitually and reflexively, I am a dead on Joan of Arc. Viva La Martyrdom. I really showed him.
In the end we worked it out. By “worked it out” I mean that I badgered him with guilt trips until midnight, he said at least fifty-five variations of the phrase, “I’m sorry,” promised never to do it again, and proclaimed me as being “Her Exalted Faiqa-ness, queen of Justice, Being Right All the Time, and General Superiority.”
Working for your husband has its perks, after all.
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