Thank God He is a Terrible Listener
***
One of my favorite things about my husband is that he really does listen to people (specifically me, because why the fuck would I care if he listens to you?). He is one of the few people I know that is worth arguing with, he actually LISTENS to the other side (and not just so he can yell back at them) and tries to understand their point of view. And sometimes he changes sides, not because he is weak or cannot make up his own mind, but because he can actually admit that he is WRONG.
This is the most rare trait ever. Especially in a man. But I come a German family and none of us are so great at this. He has no problem at all admitting that he was wrong and I really love this about him. I can't do it myself at all but I really admire it in other people (insert sad joke about how maybe if I were wrong more often . . blah blah blah here).
So my husband listens to me. Yay J!
Except for certain occasions. Like when I am PMSing. Or talking about my hair. Or obsessing about why I really really hate Jennifer Love Hewitt in a way that seems odd given that she isn't even fucking famous anymore the little twat.
And when I am tired.
He really doesn't listen to me at all when I am tired. This ALWAYS irritates me at the time. Always.
And inevitably wake up in the morning incredibly grateful that he was not paying attention because I was a worn-out hysterical fool who manages to hold it all together outside but ends up weeping on her bathroom floor at night.
I came home last night very very late. I work almost thirteen hours yesterday. While I was waiting for the bus a little punk-ass walked by smoking a joint. I don't know if I have mentioned it but the smell of pot makes me throw up. Projectile vomit, actually. AND usually get a headache. So last night, after working many many hours and after only four hours of sleep (because of our softball game Tuesday which we lost and will try to forget ever happened) I threw up on the street. In front of many people.
Then I had to get on a bus. Which smelled. And was full of not commuters but smelly weird people who were only going to Everett to buy drugs or pick up teen mothers at the mall or something.
And then drive myself home.
And walk in the door and burst into tears.
I am pretty sure I acted like a lunatic. I am pretty sure I mentioned my hate for the world. The wanting to die. The word fuck was probably chanted over and over. I believe I expressed a desire to sell all our possessions and become hippies. I think I tried to get him to shave my head.
Then I ate crackers with butter and took a Tylenol PM (or FOUR don't judge me) and slept until five this morning.
Very relieved to not be bald. Or living in a VW van.
And happy that my husband knows when not to listen to me.
