Hurdle

I kissed Shane goodbye as he made way to the bar to meet his boys for a couple of afternoon brews. I gently reminded him that we had a dinner date with two expensive free range pork chops so don't be late. Two chick flicks later and that disappointing ball of spike sunk it's sharp dagger deep in the pit of my stomach. "Is it shrug off worthy?" I thought to myself, "Was I making a rash out of an itch?" Funny, I didn't feel crazy.

I loathe being the female that places the disgruntled call, I'm not a spoiler. What is he like ten years old? He should know better. It wasn't my place to call him to remind him of our dinner date. As there's one thing that I have learned and that is there's no sense in communicating with the drunk. None. Zip. Nada. I have a better chance of communicating with my dead relatives. Besides, he won't remember the discussion tomorrow and my time is too important to waste on an incoherent baboon. I'll save my shrieking for tomorrow morning when his hang over is drilling a hole in his head. Despite the fact that my night was tarnished, it didn't give me a reason to ruin others. Regardless, if I calculate correctly, four hours of drinking doesn't sound like a good concoction for a beautiful meal. If I know my husband, he'll be stumbling through that door and slurring like his tongue was on a mechanical bull ride.

Shellie's Proverb: Only pet a dog when it's tail is wagging.
I took advantage of the silence and attempted to catch another chick flick on cable. I cozied up with a warm bowl of soup and called it a night. At this point, I was more disappointed than furious, but furious nonetheless. As predicted, he dawdled in like the rooster that ruled the roost, "Whuhre's deechnner?" He smiled and slowly plopped on the chair, his head tilted back eyes closed and mouth gaped wide as the Great Plains. Shoveling a spoonful of hot sauce in his mouth seemed like a good idea. There he was my darling husband sloshed to the gills. I turned the video camera on and began my first film Shane Does Beer. I chuckled, as I tried to decipher his prattle. "Whut ur eew doing?" His head bobbled, "Yewr so meagn." His eyes rolled and than closed shut. "I'm not mean honey, I just wanted you to see how hilarious you are when your drunk." I bantered. "Um nawt dreeunk." He rebutted repeatedly until he blathered himself to silence. I grabbed Chloe and headed upstairs. Soon he would shuffle his way upstairs and accuse me of being cold and mean, because I didn't feel like cuddling and inhaling his breath that resembled a bar. Regardless, I ignored his absurd drunken bollix and prayed for sleep.

It's times like this that I wish I could drink. It's times like this that I prefer to be drunk. It's times like this that I wish I could shriek my frustration from the top of my heels. It's times like this that I learn positive restraint and patience. These experiences can be hurtful and vexing at times, but I know that it's not out of spite, stupidity perhaps, but not spite. It's not consuming alcohol that's difficult, it's having to adapt to an intoxicated husband that becomes intricate. As the world turns, there are other humans that are worse off such as these American foster children that are shafted by the Brangelinas of the world who opt to adopt children in far away countries.

Lesson: A wise Grasshopper must learn to tolerate the pain of walking barefoot.