life on the funny farm

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Spittin' Mad

That's right I got spittin' mad over the weekend.

Mad at the love of my life. The man I've been together with through thick and thin (OK, more thick than thin) for nearly 28 years.

Seems every now and again we don't see eye to eye on stuff, and between the two of us, we've got a lot of stuff. When he refused to see my point of view with the crystal clarity I required, I had to choose between:

a) sitting down to a mature discussion over our opposing viewpoints
b) throwin' down in fisticuffs
c) breaking out in a farsical musical number, ala Glee

Since none of the above options really spoke to me, I chose instead to storm out of the house, work gloves in hand, and go directly to the barn without passing Go or collecting 200 dollars.

After mucking out and feeding/watering, I moved headlong into demolition mode.

If you'll recall, I shall soon be in receipt of about a dozen chicks, and I've gotta get that henhouse in order. I've got a place in mind ready for renovation, and a standing agreement with my neighbor Henry to build it for me, but you know those lazy, shiftless Amish. Can't count on 'em for nothin'.

So I started it myself. Tore out about 200 sq ft of old cobwebby chicken wire, removed boards, relocated untold numbers of gutter pipes, vinyl siding sheets, lumber and plenty of what-not up into the rafters of the barn. Transferred piles of old bricks into the workshop, scraped layers of muck and goo and old feed bags from the floors.

I was out there for days with nothing but a bottle of water (later turned toilet).

OK, OK, so it was really only a few hours. And so what if James came out to help me, doing the bulk of the sawing and hammering and ripping and other physical-type manly stuff? It felt like days and that's what really matters.

When we quit for the afternoon we had accomplished a heck of a lot. Or as us country folk say, a bushel and a peck. Way more than I would have if he had not joined my act of lunacy already in progres.

What's more, my head was a tad cooler when I finally re-entered the house. I took a shower, burned my clothes, and changed into some cozy jams, ready for a quiet evening of watching 3 million dollar commercials, interspersed with brief segments of football.

But now, looking back, I can see the error of my ways. All that anger, all that frenzied chaos in the barn.

Next time I feel mad at the hubs, I will pause. I will breathe.

I will take a couple minutes to draft an orderly to-do list and gather the neccessary tools, that I may magnify my productivity by 50% instead of the paltry 20% I achieved over the weekend.

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