He's going to call me passive aggressive. It's just a matter of time. My husband and I are at a conversational stalemate. He is one sentence away from calling me passive aggressive, which is "husband" for bitch. And I'm one sentence away from calling him an asshole, which is "wife" for asshole.
Neither of us says a word. It's too risky. When you've been married longer than 37 seconds, simply opening your mouth can potentially lead to extended sighs, exaggerated eye-rolls and the dreaded "insult you can't take back."
It's like Lucy and Ricky at the OK Corral and both of us are trying not to shoot -- at least not first.
We're outside on the patio watching the kids squirt water hoses at each other. It's an LA scorcher and my husband wants a drink.
"Did I see a Diet Coke in the fridge?" he asks.
I shrug. "I dunno."
Incredulous, he sighs. "Well, do we have one or don't we?"
Again, I tell him that I don't know. I suggest the best way to figure out the answer would probably be to look.
This solution does not make him happy. "Why can't you just tell me? Why do you have to be so...."
Wait for it, I think as I mentally call him a pre-emptive asshole.
"Why can't you just tell me?" he asks. "Why do you have to be so... passive aggressive?" he mutters as he storms inside in search of his soda.
We don't speak for the rest of the night. Which, when you're married, sometimes feels like a good thing.
The truth of the matter is the only reason I didn't tell my husband this very important piece of information concerning the last Diet Coke is because I actually didn't know if it was there or not. I recognize this is a very difficult pill for my husband to swallow, because when it comes to most things related to our life together and to our kids, I usually know the answer... sometimes even before there's a question.
I usually know when we're going to be out of milk and when our kid is three days away from a cold. I know which kind of dog will scare my son and which kind of noise will startle my daughter. I know where my husband left his keys and where my son left his shoe. I know when my daughter has to go to the bathroom and when my son already did. I know who likes chicken and who can't stand watermelon. I know where the treats are stashed (and apparently my kids do too.)
But occasionally, on days like today, I can't remember if there's soda in the house or a man on the moon.
That's because when God gave me ovaries, they didn't come with GPS.
Nor are my ovaries psychic.
So while it's safe to assume your Mom knows where you put your Star Wars book (right where you left it) and it's possible that your wife knows where your sunglasses are (on your head), it's also safe to assume that the best way to know the answer to any question is to find out yourself.
But maybe that's just me being passive aggressive...
Follow Meredith Gordon on Twitter: www.twitter.com/@therealbadsand