BoomerGirl Diary

What does John Gray, the author of “Men are from Mars; Women are from Venus” know? They don’t have to cook potatoes on Venus or on Mars for that matter. So what was I supposed to do when my husband burnt the potatoes, the oven top, the new stainless steel pot, and then the patio chair where he dumped it? Was I supposed to stand by patiently, with a smile on my face and open meaningful dialogue right there and then?

Looking back on the incident, it looks and sounds like an excerpt from the Three Stooges. It turned into one of those BIGGIES. I don’t know about you in your relationships, but in ours, it is easy for me to get seemingly small things blown out of all proportion. For me, this incident was an issue about lack of listening and caring. For my husband, it was no big deal. We could just buy another pot.

We both work. Over the years, we have tried to work by fair negotiation of tasks. When one cooks badly (mostly me) the other washes up. Don does the shopping and I take care of tasks that need done around the house. He takes care of the cars and the bills and I organize holidays. And so it goes on. This division of labor is not hard and fast, but, for the most part, it works well for us. On the day of the potato fiasco, I had the meal prepared and the potatoes were nearly ready. I needed to go to the bank, so I asked Don to “keep an eye” on the potatoes, and left simple — yes, simple instructions about what to do with them.

Thirty minutes later, the smell of burning greeted me as I turned into our neighborhood. I thought a house had caught fire. I reached our drive and my nose and stomach did an about-turn; the stench of burning was overpowering. The house was freezing cold. The windows and doors were wide open. The oven top was a mess and bits of potato littered the kitchen floor. My limited patience and understanding flew out the gaping door and landed on the sight of the blackened pot cowering under the melted rungs of the patio chair. My highly intelligent husband had grabbed the shriveled pot off the burning stove, taken it out to the patio and placed it on the plastic chair where it melted through and surrendered on the cement. Words and phrases like “Stupid.” “How on earth could you?” to the universal blame ones “I can never trust you to do anything simple” swirled around the kitchen and outdid the smoke.

Isn’t it amazing how unfettered words can take on a life of their own? I KNEW I needed a time out. For a split second I considered taking a few deep breaths but the foul air was an invitation to puke. I knew that losing my temper and not “acting my age” was not the solution, but such knowledge deserted me and joined the burnt pot on the patio. Don also knew that arguing with a “worked up Irish woman” would make matters worse. The already hot, smoky atmosphere went beyond boiling point and then exploded. Whatever shred of maturity I thought I had evaporated. Between fumes, I told myself that I could not stay in a house with such a disgusting smell. I also told myself that I was fed up with a husband who just could not listen to me. Why couldn’t he listen to simple instructions and complete a simple task? Watching a pot of potatoes for 5 minutes was not rocket science. The more questions I asked, the angrier I became. Then I started the blame game by going into martyr mode.

“Just because I am a woman, why do I have to end up doing all the cooking?”

“If I didn’t cook, we would never eat at home.”

Do you ever find yourself going into one of these spirals? I don’t know about you, but when it happens to me, it is as if I lose all common sense. Now, I can hear the more evolved and mature among you ask:

“Are you having PMT or menopausal symptoms?”

“Are you telling me a story that took place when you where in your twenties?”

“Are you on serious medication?”

I have to confess the answer to all of these is “No.”

I look old enough to know better. Common sense is not always so common in my life.

I finally drove to the lake, stopped the car, put my head on the steering wheel and screeched — one of those howlers that frightened the birds, stirred the water, and seemed to shake the sky. Then I had one glorious cry. Those are times when Marriage seems to be the hardest relationship in the world. As I grow older, and my hormones discover new pathways to disrupt the normal flow of my life, I find that seemingly surface issues are related to something much deeper. I recognized that this was one of those incidents. How I would love to say that recognition brought a solution. It did not.

I drove back to the house and stormed into the kitchen. I would have defied John Grey at that point; in fact, he would probably have run for cover. I looked at the stove and then at my husband, who made an even bigger mistake by saying, “You over-reacted!” The blaming words burned again. This time I went to the bedroom, closed the door and outdid the potatoes with my fuming. For my husband, it was still only about a stupid pot. For me, it was about not being listened to, and feeling that I was being taken for granted. It was also about — about — about — control! Yuk! I wanted him to be like me, and to do everything like me. Don’t you just hate such moments of insight?

My husband found his common sense quicker than me. He knocked on the door. “Would you like a wee cup of tea?” It was the “wee” said in an Arkansas accent that did it. I had to smile. He walked in with the tea and placed it on the table. The thought of refusal formed words and almost reached my mouth, “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t listen.”

My husband has often reminded me that it is important to attack our problems, not each other. I KNEW all of this. I knew we had communication rules and had worked out simple steps we could follow. I knew I had messed up badly and behaved like a spoilt child. After a very long, sulky silence, I looked at the “wee” cup of tea and then at Don. I followed his lead. “I am sorry too.”

Eat your heart out, Ryan O'Neill and Ali MacGraw. Part of my love story involves saying “I’m sorry.”

What would we do without those little words? Once I had managed to say them, I felt I could talk with a bit more rationality. A few sips of the tea and the dialogue commenced. The mood shifted and we shared hugs — and dinner sans potatoes.