Another story, in which I will impress you with my abilities to handle conflict. (Thanks mom.)
Let me set the scene:
It was a stormy, stormy day. And, when I say "stormy", I mean "blizzardy" (if that's a word). And, if you've never lived through a MinneSOOOOOta blizzard, you can't possibly begin to imagine what kind of weather I'm talking about.
Unless you're from Canada.
Or the North Pole.
Then, maybe, you can imagine.
Okay...scene set. Stormy weather...don't forget it.
So stormy, in fact, that earlier in the day, as we were attempting to make it into town for life sustaining supplies, it was treacherous. We almost didn't make it. But we did...and now I have this story to tell you.
Lucky you, us surviving, huh?
Anyway, I was scheduled to work...my hubby's employee had planned his bachelor party for the very same night.
After our near death experience driving into town (okay, okay...so maybe that's a slight exaggeration), my husband and I discussed the safety of me driving the 45 minutes to work, and decided that it would be best if I didn't attempt it.
I called work, and let them know, that due to the weather conditions, I wouldn't be able to make it. I then envisioned an incredibly cozy night, stormed in with my family, sipping hot cider by the fireplace and singing Christmas carols.
Nevermind that Christmas was over.
A few hours pass, and I hear my husband talking on the phone to someone, doing something that sounds an awful lot like "making plans". I soon learn that he has, indeed, committed to going to the bachelor party.
I discourage him, I rationalize with him, I point out that he suggested I call in to work because of the weather and now he was GOING TO GO GET DRUNK IN IT?!?!
Off he went. Into the white and drifting snow...and home I sat, worrying. He told me he'd be home around 9:30.
Or maybe it was 11:30. Either way, he didn't make it home at that time.
I had long been sleeping, when something in my subconscious roused me from my deep slumber and suggested I take a look at the clock.
It was 4 o' freakin' clock in the morning, and guess where my husband was?!
You don't know?
Oh, yeah...I didn't either. I immediately pictured him dead in a ditch somewhere...and I began to worry.
I called his cell phone, and by this time, my attitude had changed from "Oh, no!! What if he's dead in a ditch somewhere?!" to "It is 4 O' FREAKIN' CLOCK in the morning and he's not home? He'd BETTER be dead in a ditch somewhere, 'cuz any other excuse isn't good enough."
He answered his cell phone, "I'm almost home."
Like the girl I am, I fought back tears (anger? joy? relief?) and went back to bed.
WITH MY BACK TO HIS SIDE OF THE BED.
When we woke up, he tried explaining that he was just having so much fun, that he just kept on riding the bus from bar to bar.
Remember how well I handled this conflict?
Yeah, that was nothin'.
I didn't speak to him for a week...a FULL week after the "Stormy Night Bachelor Party" incident.
Once I did start talking to him...and believe me, it must've been forced upon me (and, btw...when I say "not talking to", I mean "not talking to, not looking at, not acknowledging the presence of"...) for me to start talking to him...but, I learned that my husband, he who I was so angry at, stayed on the bus with a few other guys, while the rest of the party went into a strip joint.
And then I started laughing.
Laughing at how ridiculous I was acting, laughing that I was sooooooo angry at my husband and then learning that he remained on the bus with a bunch of guys he rarely gets to talk to rather than going into a trashy strip club to see half naked women dance on a stage, laughing because I need to learn how to communicate better.
So, I hugged him. He apologized, I apologized...life was good.
Don't you think I should be a marriage counselor or something? You know, seeing as I handle conflict and communicate so wonderfully?
I think I see a new career...*snort*
(And, yes...I realize I titled this "A Quick Story" and that by now, your butt has most certainly gone numb from sitting and reading this novel of a post. Oops.)