I don’t always know where to draw the line, but I can usually tell when I’ve crossed it.
Back in the salad days of our couplehood, when the attraction was purely physical and Trixie and I were still getting to know one another, I lived alone in a small condo that had a washer/dryer combo in the kitchen.
Somehow, and this in itself is amazing, my dirty laundry still piled up to the point where I had to get creative, sartorially speaking, in order to answer a knock at the door. And, since “delivery” was my primary means of acquiring sustenance, that happened with some regularity.
Only after I had soiled beyond the sniff test, every piece of cloth large enough to drape across my frame, from fitted sheets to a BBQ apron that read, “Boy Meets Grill” would I gather them all up and make a weekend-long assault on my small-capacity combo unit.
It was during one such engagement that I invited my then girlfriend, Michie, over to “Netflix & Chill”, figuratively speaking. Netflix wasn’t a thing yet.
That weekend we had a deep and meaningful, get-to-know-you conversation in which the only words she uttered were, for the most part, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”.
I know what you are thinking – she phoned it in. She wasn’t really THERE. I carried the convo. Not true. Each time she said those words, offensive though they may be, she said them with a little more emotion – passion bordering on panic, really. And, each time she emphasized a different word in her question, giving the sentence a completely different meaning from the same one she let fly only 30 seconds before.
We really got to know each other on a level I didn’t know existed. And, bonded, I think, for all time.
It is funny, the associations we have that can trigger certain memories. I remember it like it was yesterday.
Scene: I carry the last armload from the dryer and dump it on the pile already on my bed, not really thinking through my plans should I happen to get her into the sack. Fortunately, sort of, that was not to be a concern this time. The dryer is still running of course, on what many would call the “last load” but, I have no intention of removing that stuff until I pick through it later in the week. I collapse into my recliner and say,
“Whew! You have no idea how good it feels to be done with laundry!”
Trixie, looking up from a crossword puzzle: What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Me: just that it is a chore for normal people. So, it feels good to be done with it.
Trixie: What the hell is THAT supposed to mean.
Me: You know, women enjoy busy work like laundry. Normal people don’t.
Trixie: What in THE HELL is that supposed to mean?!
Me: What? It’s a compliment. It’s like packing lunches and wrapping gifts. Women are just better at it than nor…uh…men.
Trixie, crossing her arms: And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?!
Me: Look, I think I’m being misunderstood here. All I meant is that men and women are, you know…different.
Trixie, nodding vigorously while pressing her tongue hard into the inside of her cheek creating a small bulge:
What the hell does that mean?
Me, back on my heels a little: It means, uh, that women are better at some things than men are. You know, like nesting. Throughout the animal kingdom, the males hunt and the females, you know, nest…
Trixie: What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?
Me: Well, sure there are exceptions, like sea horses and lions and stuff but for the most part, you know. And, I’m not calling you an animal, per se…
Trixie: What. The. Hell. Is. That. Supposed. To. Mean?
Me: Well, you know, Homo Sapiens are animals…and, you are a Homo S…
Trixie: WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?!
I don’t really remember how I got out of that one, but we are still together and that should mean something.
Missing my girl.