Husbands, as it turns out, are not so good at doing what they’re told.
Hence the conversation in our house two nights ago.
Easing into bed, I cuddled up to Mark. “So, you’re going to call the doctor tomorrow, right?”
“Uh-huh.” He was engrossed in some sports message boards.
“Because I told you to call him yesterday, and you didn’t.”
He rolled over and closed the laptop. “I forgot.” He started to look alarmingly comfortable on his pillow.
“Hey! Don’t fall asleep! I’m talking to you!”
He cracked one eye. “No you’re not. You’re nagging me. Big difference.”
“This is not nagging. This is intimacy,” I said, snuggling close to him. I caressed his face and his hand. “You wouldn’t want a wife who didn’t care whether you lost the use of your dominant hand because you were too stubborn to go back to the doctor about this huge cyst, would you?”
“There’s a fine line between intimacy and nagging,” Mark said.
“Oh, no. This is intimacy. This is me caring about you. This is me wanting our world not to implode because of a stupid ganglion cyst. Because if you don’t do anything about it, then you’re going to end up slowly losing the use of your right hand, and maybe even your right hand itself after it gets horribly infected, and then I’ll start nagging you, and you’ll stop answering my phone calls and my emails, and we’ll stop communicating. Then we’ll end up fighting, and finally divorced, and your parents will come up here and your mother will kill you, your father will kill me, and then my mother will go batshit crazy and kill the pair of them, and then our kids will be orphans with no grandparents because their only surviving one is in prison, so they’ll have to go live with my sister, who will then be trying to take care of at least three dogs, one cat, two kids, and hold down a full time job.”
“I think you’re taking it a bit far,” Mark said, eyes shut.
“Oh, no. Because things will go badly when you lose that hand. You’ll end up with a stump. And how will you work with a stump? You couldn’t type!”
“I’d get a hook.”
“Ok, how would you wipe your ass?”
His eyes opened and looked at me like I was the stupidest person on the planet. “I’d use my left hand.”
“You are not taking this seriously enough. What if the infection spread, for instance, to your beautiful posterior-” I caressed the right half of said posterior for emphasis. “You could end up losing it and then I’d have nothing to goose and grab and it would be just like a rump roast in the meat section. You might as well slice it off now and wrap it in plastic!”
“I’m sure we’d get a good price for it.”
Did I mention how husbands are like mules?
“Well, did it occur to you that I would miss out on some things because of your missing dominant hand?”
“Well … you wouldn’t be able to so skillfully caress that dry rub onto the meat, for one thing.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“That’s it. Where’s your phone?”
“On the dresser. Why?”
“I’m putting a reminder in your calendar.”
“It can’t be full.”
I opened iCal and saw that it was, in fact, impressively filled, but not full. “Look, you have nothing after 2:00 tomorrow.”
“Yes, I do. It’s just not on there.”
“Well, do you mind if I put a reminder in?”
I’m not normally a caps lock kind of girl, but for the 9 a.m. reminder, I went there. “CALL THE DOCTOR,” I typed. And set an alarm.
Hell, he’ll probably just have gotten on one of the two calls or meetings he has scheduled then and ignore it. I should add another one.
Mark appeared to be asleep, so I added a 10 a.m. item plus alarm: CALL THE DOCTOR, dammit!!!!!
Well, he could still ignore that one. He’s got all this other crap on here. Maybe the trick is to go for one not on the hour exactly.
11:15: Stumps are not handy. Call the Dr. or I WILL nag you.
I could see him getting to the end of the day and not having done it yet. Should add one more to be safe.
3:30: You should be off the phone now. Call Dr. Only you can prevent rump roast.
That ought to do it.
Except. What if he ignores all of these tomorrow because of some major emergency? I should probably add just one more for the next day …
Friday, 9: 20: If you still haven’t called the Dr., I may have to resort to nagging.
The next day Mark went to work none the wiser as to what his calendar contained. And a miracle happened. I emailed him about something completely unrelated, and got a reply at 12:30 that he had a doctor’s appointment next week. That means it only took three calendar reminders. Take note, wives of the world!
I emailed back, “Yay! I won’t have to resort to nagging!”
Mark’s response: “Does that imply you have not already resorted to nagging?”
The poor man has no idea.