This afternoon I had to put a wine glass in the dishwasher. Granted, this is not the most taxing job I have ever had to do. I’m aware that there are women across Africa compelled to walk great distances carrying water on their heads in order to ensure their families do not perish of dehydration and in light of this fact, my complaint may seem comparatively bourgeois. However, there is a reason why placing this wine glass in the top rack of my dishwasher has me so peeved. There is a reason why I seethe at the injustice of that relatively small act.
The reason is this. That glass was my husband’s wine glass. That glass was the one he drank his Merlot out of at last night’s dinner. That was the glass I reminded him to put away last night before I went to bed – after doing most of the other dinner dishes. That was the glass I commented on this morning, before I went to work, wondering why he could get it to the kitchen counter, but found the extra foot to the dishwasher such a vast, insurmountable distance to cross. I was quickly told he would “get to it”. I should have known then. “I’ll get to it” is the kiss of death as far as Hubby is concerned. It is a blatant assurance that he will never, ever do the job in question.
At the beginning of relationships we ignore our mate’s small flaws, their idiosyncrasies. These attributes may even be part of their charm. However, over time these minor aspects of their personality can begin to mildly irritate. They can in fact lead to long-held grudges and at times quite vocal arguments. Eventually we may find ourselves frothing at the mouth over a Riedel crusted with red wine sediment.
I’ve often contemplated what it is that ultimately tears a marriage asunder. I wonder how often it is the little things that takes a loving couple and turns them into bitter and spiteful archenemies, willing to break any and all moral codes in order to gain their revenge. How often is it the dirty socks and undies abandoned on the bedroom floor, the wet towel dumped on the floor, the snooty tissues left on the bedside table, the breakfast dishes forsaken in the dining room? How often is it the incidentals that finally cause a partnership to dissolve into a vindictive slinging match? How often does one too many dirty wine glasses being left on the kitchen countertop lead to lawyers being called in and a breakout of the age-old battle of “this is mine, that is yours”?
So I advocate not letting those little things build up. Don’t stifle the resentment. Express it. Tell him he has the housekeeping skills of a blind Viking slumlord. Don’t pick up those dirty socks and undies silently. Call him a pig and throw the offending y-fronts at his head. Get all Medea on his arse for failing to pick up his own wet towel. You’re not being a bad wife – you’re saving your marriage from potential disaster.
I’m not sure however that Hubby would agree with my advice. There is at least one thing Hubby and I can agree on. Every now and again we all deserve a good wine… Or whine…
