Red Letter Day (How did I fail to mention it earlier)
That I'd cleared some Crap and Stuff from my living room this afternoon what I really meant to say was...
The Fat Bastard spotted his candle which I'd extracted from bedroom (bedroom, for fuck's sake!!) the moment he walked in the door. He then spotted that I'd put up his tent in his absence all on my own, without any help from him or prompting. I explained why I'd been concerned about the candle and he denied that there'd ever been a lit candle, but that he'd only used the metal shell of the tea-light as a holder for an incense cone. Right.
Anyway he then returned to buggering around with his he-man, mucho macho form of camping stove which basically amounts to a little tin (ie baked bean tin or soft drink can) inside a big tin (eg, industrial scale baked bin tin) that has had air holes punched in it. I think he calls it a buddy burner or something similar. After I stopped him from using my best scissors to do the punching he used a screwdriver. Sensible chap!
In the discussion that followed the phrases 'displacement activity' and (big mistake this next one) 'passive-aggressive behaviour' passed my lips. He slouched back into the house with a face like thunder having had to put aside his toys, and muttering darkly that his behaviour wasn't something that needed 'psycho-analysing'.
Well first of all, as I explained to his retreating back, it either needs psycho-analysing or it needs some more direct form of explanation. He turned around, looked me straight in the eye and admitted that he'd done nothing about his room because of laziness.
We've been married since October 1994 and I'd say that I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he's previously been as honest as that.
Except that I don't think he's being honest, at all. I think I hit a raw nerve with the passive aggressive line. I think he's heard it before. I think that he heard it a long, long time ago either as a teenager or in his early twenties when his mother had him sit down with someone in order to work towards understanding why at the very last minute (within days of sitting the first of his A Levels) he got himself expelled from his very good school or why later he dropped out of university.
For good measure he turned around and pointed out that I could have taken the boxes I'd prepared down to the shop but this conveniently fails to take account of his previous offer to take them down. His renewed offer to take them down one box per night overlooks the reality that if he'd only done that from the start all the boxes would be out of the house by now (and I'd be on his back about the fucking supermarket trolley park he's building in our garden).
The other thing he was ignoring was the reality that had I had the temerity to dispose of even one book that he wanted to read or re-read or just keep (because it's stuff, and stuff makes him feel good) then I'd have been and Even Bigger Bitch Than Usual.
Goaded by my jibes about displacement activity and passive-aggressive behaviour he went upstairs, brought down a couple of boxes, picked out just three books he wanted to read or re-read and then took them down to the shop.
Good boy!
The Fat Bastard spotted his candle which I'd extracted from bedroom (bedroom, for fuck's sake!!) the moment he walked in the door. He then spotted that I'd put up his tent in his absence all on my own, without any help from him or prompting. I explained why I'd been concerned about the candle and he denied that there'd ever been a lit candle, but that he'd only used the metal shell of the tea-light as a holder for an incense cone. Right.
Anyway he then returned to buggering around with his he-man, mucho macho form of camping stove which basically amounts to a little tin (ie baked bean tin or soft drink can) inside a big tin (eg, industrial scale baked bin tin) that has had air holes punched in it. I think he calls it a buddy burner or something similar. After I stopped him from using my best scissors to do the punching he used a screwdriver. Sensible chap!
In the discussion that followed the phrases 'displacement activity' and (big mistake this next one) 'passive-aggressive behaviour' passed my lips. He slouched back into the house with a face like thunder having had to put aside his toys, and muttering darkly that his behaviour wasn't something that needed 'psycho-analysing'.
Well first of all, as I explained to his retreating back, it either needs psycho-analysing or it needs some more direct form of explanation. He turned around, looked me straight in the eye and admitted that he'd done nothing about his room because of laziness.
We've been married since October 1994 and I'd say that I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he's previously been as honest as that.
Except that I don't think he's being honest, at all. I think I hit a raw nerve with the passive aggressive line. I think he's heard it before. I think that he heard it a long, long time ago either as a teenager or in his early twenties when his mother had him sit down with someone in order to work towards understanding why at the very last minute (within days of sitting the first of his A Levels) he got himself expelled from his very good school or why later he dropped out of university.
For good measure he turned around and pointed out that I could have taken the boxes I'd prepared down to the shop but this conveniently fails to take account of his previous offer to take them down. His renewed offer to take them down one box per night overlooks the reality that if he'd only done that from the start all the boxes would be out of the house by now (and I'd be on his back about the fucking supermarket trolley park he's building in our garden).
The other thing he was ignoring was the reality that had I had the temerity to dispose of even one book that he wanted to read or re-read or just keep (because it's stuff, and stuff makes him feel good) then I'd have been and Even Bigger Bitch Than Usual.
Goaded by my jibes about displacement activity and passive-aggressive behaviour he went upstairs, brought down a couple of boxes, picked out just three books he wanted to read or re-read and then took them down to the shop.
Good boy!
posted by Enyo @ 11:09 pm
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