On September 2, 1995 I married Mr. Right…I just didn’t know his first name was Always.  This is so true, that when my oldest sister was living with us she bought me a magnet that actually says “When I married Mr. Right, I didn’t know his first name was always.”

My husband is one of those people who, for all intents and purposes, is perfect.  Those of us in the know, know better.  He has many faults…many, many.  I am not perfect.  Everyone knows this.  I often point it out to people myself.  However; I have never gotten used to people asking me “How did someone like you get someone like him?”  Do people not realize that everyone (even the apparently perfect) have two faces, the one they show to the world and the one they show to their spouse.  Example: the neighbor down the street thinks that my husband hung the moon and all the stars.  Every time we go anywhere with her he holds her door for her.  He pulls out her chair for her.  He listens politely and responds appropriately.  When we go out alone.  I open my door (now, this didn’t happen when we dated), I pull out my own chair, and pretty much anything that comes out of my mouth that isn’t about golf or football is ignored.

He would have me believe I am losing my mind.  I will tell him about something, a coming event, a bill that is due, or something regarding family, and then when that occurrence actually occurs and I say “Well, I told you.”  It’s all, “No you didn’t.  I know you didn’t.  If you had told me I would have remembered.”  I can even come up with irrefutable evidence and he will shoot me down.  “Remember, we were at Red Lobster and you were having the crab alfredo and I was having the popcorn shrimp.  You were wearing that red striped shirt, and I was wearing my blue Christmas sweater with Santa flying across the front and the city scene on the back and I told you that we needed to pick up the meat trays by the 27th and I had an appointment so you would need to do it.” He just gives this look like I have two heads and says “no”.  This can continue for hours.  Of course, according to the wife handbook, I have to complain that he just doesn’t listen to me.  Of course, according to the husband handbook, he denies this.  Recently we were in the car and I was talking to him about a friend of the family who had lost his great-grandmother and it just happened to be on the anniversary date of his sister’s death.  I had gone into detail of everything that had happened and had just finished saying “his sister died in a car wreck.”  Less than 15 seconds after the last word had left my mouth he says to me, “what did his sister die of?”  I’m sorry I can’t type the look I gave him.  You will just have to imagine.  At this point I felt I had confirmation that he doesn’t listen, and I pointed this out to him.  “I was listening.”  That’s all I got.  I was listening.  Sometimes I want to punch him in his precious face.

This is really one of the only things we argue about, his inability to admit that he is wrong (or less than perfect…because he really doesn’t admit to flaws).  Again, while my sister was living with us,  I was fixing hot dogs or chili dogs for dinner.  I had leftover chili from the night before and I had heated it up and I had also fixed the hot dogs and so either could be made upon request.  Now, I only had 4 hot dogs.  There was one for each my sister and me and two for my husband.  The next part is where we get cloudy.  I said do you want a hot dog or a chili dog and I will swear to you until my dying breath that he said “chili dog” so I fixed him two.  My sister and I both just wanted hot dogs.  When I had prepared our plates…that’s right kids, I fixed his plate for him…he came in and looked at the plate and said “I didn’t want a chili dog.”  “What?”  “I didn’t want a chili dog.”  “You said you wanted a chili dog.  I said do you want a hot dog or a chili dog and you said I want a chili dog.”  “No, I said I don’t want a chili dog.” Why would anyone do that?  Why would anyone even say the word chili, if they didn’t want it?  If you don’t want a chili dog you don’t say I don’t want a chili dog you say I want a hot dog.  And as I less than quietly explain this to him he says, “you just didn’t hear me correctly.”  There was a cold that entered the room.  A real chill, the kind that is often accredited to ghosts or paranormal activity and I think it was Satan because I seriously wanted to kill him at that point.  I looked at him and this time very quietly I said “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I seriously hate you right now.”  He looked at me and said, “it’s hard not to take that just as it’s meant and you shouldn’t  hate me because you can’t hear.  Just trade me, you have the chili dogs and I’ll have the hot dog.”  “Well for one I didn’t want a chili dog so I didn’t ask for one, and two I only have one and you wanted two.”  Nothing.  Now my sister had left the room.  She later said that she was cracking up and didn’t want us to see her laughing about the fact that we were about to come to blows over a chili dog.  She also was concerned because this was the first argument she had witnessed and she thought it was pretty ridiculous to divorce over pork products.  I look at him, I never let my eyes leave his face as I reach with my bare hands and grab his chili dog and put one on my plate and replace it with my hot dog.  Still staring I grab the other chili dog, wipe the bun with a paper towel and put it back on his plate.  I rinse the wiener under running water and put that back on his bun.  “Thanks” is all he said.  To this day we don’t discuss the chili dog incident, and I haven’t made them since.

Is it so hard to admit that you’re wrong?  Do things fall off if you say I’m sorry?  He’ll readily tell me he’s sorry if I say I have a headache, because he knows that doesn’t really reflect on him.  If I tell him that he is giving me a headache he just looks at me like I’m really over exagerating (but sometimes I swear his voice does cause my head to ping a little) and he just ignores me.  I have been wrong on numerous occasions and I have always cowboyed up and said so.  So what gives?  Secretly I believe he likes to get me riled up.  He likes seeing me turn red and shout and  close my tiny little hands into fists and go toe to toe with him, but he’d better watch out for my tiny little feet.  I only come up to his chest and I can kick really high.