The horrible games we play

Gabe has come up with a new game for the bedroom, something spicy and unexpected. Here’s what we do: we get ready for bed, dive under the covers and cuddle up together until we’re all warm and comfy, then Gabe reaches down to the floor on his side of the bed and brings up a cooking magazine. He reads me the recipes and I tell him what I think. The ones we both agree on get bookmarked to try later.
He’s also started tormenting me with trickery and traps. Recently, he plotted to do me in – as we do – with a tumble in the dark and not the sexy kind. While I was getting ready for bed, he got the house put up for the night – locked the doors, turned out the lights, all that stuff.
We got into bed and once my eyes adjusted, I saw a faint light coming from downstairs. Gabe was already asleep and snoring loudly. I suspect, now, that he was faking it; all part of his nefarious plan to cause me pain since he’s an evil jerkface. I got up with a dramatic sigh and headed downstairs in the dark. The problem came when only half of my body made it out the doorway. The other half hit the door, head-on, at full shambling speed. I yelled, I cussed, and I shouted at Gabe that I DO NOT WANT TO SEE OR TALK TO YOU RIGHT NOW! and then I wrangled the door all the way open, stumbled through, and slammed it behind me with angry gusto.
We all know what it’s like to get hurt in a sudden, violent fashion, such as slamming one’s finger in the door or gouging a shin against a coffee table corner. Many of us get irrationally angry, full of hatred and vitriol. We jump around, cursing, ready to punch the next kitten that crosses our paths. Part of my response was that – I was alarmingly angry at my unexpected trauma. The other part, though, was that I know the ONE thing that will make Gabe laugh no matter what is seeing people take a spill. He’s a sadist. Children slipping and falling on ice doubles him over. Seeing someone trip up the stairs in a dark theater, flinging popcorn everywhere nearly makes him pee his pants. People like him are the reason those something-smacks-guys-in-the-testicles videos did so well on “America’s Stupidest Home Videos,” or whatever it was called. And the last thing I felt I could deal with at that moment was Gabe laughing at me walking face-first into the door. I’d have punched his lights right out in my sudden anger so I did what was best: I yelled at him, stomped downstairs, turned off the back porch light that HE was supposed to have turned off before coming to bed (it was a trap!), then grabbed the frozen peas and stuck them to my face. When I made it back to bed, peas on head, Gabe was all solicitous as if he had noooo idea that he’d just given me a goose egg on my forehead with his damn trap. When I told him I’d run into the door, he started laughing. Like, falling out of the bed laughing. I told him that if I got a black eye from this, I was going to tell everyone he’d done it. That sobered him up quickly. “You can’t tell people that! That’s a serious accusation! I could get in trouble!” and I said, “That’s the whole point. To get you in trouble. Because you’re abusing me.” He denied his culpability saying that he had been in bed the entire time. I told him he was going to be in trouble anyhow because if I told people the truth, that I’d walked into a door, they’d just assume that was code for “my husband hit me” He said I had a point and that he hoped there were no marks. Then he turned on the light, slowly reached down to his side of the bed and brought up the cooking magazines while I laid there with a throbbing forehead covered in frozen peas.

*Serious end note: In case you’re tempted to call the police to report domestic abuse, please know that neither Gabe nor I harm each other in any way. Sure, he irritates the snot out of me and I often personally consider his annoying ways a form of mental abuse, but in reality, we have a healthy, non-abusive relationship. We have yet to do any intentional harm to the other (though I do often imagine stabbing him).

No spouses were mistreated in the making of this post. I didn’t even have a lump on my forehead the next day.


Filed under Adventures, In my backyard, My Dearly Beloveds

18 responses to “The horrible games we play

  1. abrielolive

    You are a horrible person and nobody really likes you.

  2. I too fantasize about stabbiness with the husband. I think it’s just part of a committed relationship.

  3. I’m one of those people that laugh when other people get hurt! My daughter (who is only 5) walked into a mirror on a car on our way into a restaurant and it took a good two minutes before I could breath again to make sure there wasn’t any blood. Does that make me a bad mom??? Probably but it was hilarious cause she just walked smack into it! (she was fine by the way)

    • I am not qualified to label parents as good or bad or in-between. I figure if the kids survive and go on to live lives that don’t involve serial killing, the parents were probably fine.
      If Gabe reads your story, he’s going to fall out of his chair in a fit of giggles. There’s a video of a news reporter walking and talking and he isn’t looking where he’s going and BAM runs right into a pole. Gabe plays it over and over and cries every single time.
      It’s probably a shame you didn’t get a video of your poor laughed-at child smacking herself in the head with a car mirror. Not only could you have watched that on days when you were angry at her, thus making you feel better, but you could have loaded it on YouTube and gotten billions of hits. Half of them would have been Gabe’s. Cuz he’s horrible.
      OH! And thanks for popping by! It’s fun to see you here!

  4. Spousal abuse is only funny when someone gets hurt.
    Wait, that’s not right… Let me start again.
    REAL spousal abuse is not funny at all. But the shit that you two have going on makes me giggle. You never fail to remind me why I fell in love with you. And Gabe should never forget that you are a dangerous creature.

  5. Stabbing is wrong. And messy… mostly messy. That’s why I abandon my spouse in random IKEAs around the country. It’s like that poem: “If you love something, tie it down to the KVETCH couch at IKEA. If it was meant to be, it will catch the 8:10 bus back to your house, and probably not press charges.”

    I should write this shit down.

    • …you…just did.

      BUT! KVETCH COUCH! 10X better than Agony Aunt! I NEED A KVETCH COUCH!
      NO! NO! There needs to be a show where jerks come in and sit on the Kvetch Couch and get great advice from people like…well, you because it was your idea. But I can find the jerks for you! I’ll be a producer or something.
      We’re about to be rich.

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