Wednesday, August 8, 2007

My Anus Doth Protest

XBrood Live: My Anus Doth Protest

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

I had a fabulous weekend. Forget about the fact that I tried to kill my husband with flailing and ineffectual whacks across his chest and arms when he pissed me off on Sunday. We had a fabulous weekend. What? We did. We saw over the hedge on Saturday and it was great. I loved that movie and laughed my buttocks off. We spent the evening indoors sniffing each others butts the rest of the time. Okay, so we sat in separate rooms playing video games. I bought a used copy of Hitman 2 and he’s still going nowhere in Morrowind. Oh he finished the main quest already, days ago in fact, but he’s still advancing his character. It’s a never-ending game and I fear I may never re-gain access to my husband while he continues. The next morning he took me out for breakfast at our favorite Mexican restaurant. I even took a picture of Rigid’s food so you can get a glimpse of what it’s like to be and Englishman eating Mexican. (See MaMoBlog) It’s a wonderful combination actually and quite strange to watch. Especially when your whiter than white Englishman can eat spicier food than you…a woman born of very Mexican parentage in America.

All this hoopla about the World Cup has me really excited. I blame Klunkk, Phorexia, Djanae and the countless other members who have inspired me to rally behind my favorite countries in support. We sat at the Mexican restaurant laughing, talking, eating and watching the game. I didn’t know who was playing. I believe it may have been Argentina. I was thrilled to know at least one team and I loved it. I began asking Rigid all sorts of questions, which he answered with ease and a certain an air of indifference. No matter I’ll usually just shrug it off and ignore it, still we had a really nice time. We decided to go home after that instead of anywhere else and I anticipated catching another football game if I was lucky. When we got home it was Mexico vs Iran, a most exciting combination of teams for me… because you know… I’m Mexican. Rigid and I sat close together while watching the game, Mexican food. Content is a good word for this. Very content, which is why the next series of events are so shocking and disturbing.

Rigid decided he’d check the bank account to see how much, or rather, how little money we had. I continued watching the game and screamed when Mexico scored. I must say that I was left rather deflated regarding the American announcers reactions. It’s was like… “Score…”, so very anticlimactic. I prefer the “Goooooooooooooooal, goal, goal, goal, goooooooooooooooal” that the Latin stations belt out. It makes it so much more fun…course, I’m not exactly the greatest bi-lingual here. In fact I downright suck ass at Spanish. Sad I know. This makes my decision to watch the American stations very easy for me despite their less than enthused announcers. Keep in mind though, I still have to concentrate because I don’t know what’s going on half the time. So after the goal I’m trying to hear the announcers and Rigid is trying to explain how Iran’s team left themselves wide open and then it happened. Rigid noticed something was wrong in the account. “We’re short Maharet.” But was met with the blank and concentrated stare of someone who acknowledges you, but doesn’t listen. “No were not Rigid.”, I answer back.

“Yes, Maharet, the bank is wrong I just added everything up and were short $13.00.”

“So your bitching about $13.00? Who gives a shit?”, still concentrating on the announcers and the game. I’m really loving my big screen TV at that moment too. My heart swells with pride as the footballers run across my screen from end to end.

“I give a shit, Maharet, the bank has fucked us again. I’ve been right about this before and they’re fucking us!!!”, shaking a hand at the computer. He poked at the screen as though this feeble action is going to make me understand how much the bank if fucking us.

Never taking my eyes off the glowing screen, “Rigid, you’re pissing me off. The bank isn’t wrong dear. You are. If your missing $13.00 check if there’s a charge for $13.00 on the screen. I guarantee you missed it.”

Staring at the screen with an unnatural look of incredulity he did his calculations again… This time with a handy calculator, “No… It’s wrong. We’re short and… Fuck, they charged the fee! They charged the $30.00 fee you said they weren’t going charge Maharet? What the fuck?”

As he continued to poke the computer screen I calmly replied, “RIGID, calm down honey. Stop being ridiculous they credited the account the same day.” Unfortunately he didn’t understand and couldn’t understand why the bank would credit the account first and then charge the fee afterwards. No matter how many times I tried to explain it he could not understand that I called for a credit on a fee that would be erroneously charged BEFORE it was actually charged and that they credited the account BEFORE I was charged because I CALLED BEFORE THE FEE WAS FUCKING CHARGED!!!!! Yeah, weird sentence, but you are being given a tiny glimpse into the insanity that ensued.

I explained it 20 different ways, HELL I would have explained it in Chinese if I thought it would have helped. I got up and looked and showed him that we were not charged previously. Showed him the credit, showed him the charge, showed him the credit, showed him the charge, showed him the credit, showed him the charge, I’m not in any way exaggerating, showed him the credit, showed him the charge, showed him the credit, showed him the charge, he never took his eyes of my finger as I showed him the credit, showed him the charge and I asked him if he understood me so when he said, “No Maharet! I DON’T UNDERSTAND!!! Why would they credit and THEN charge? That means were short money! They’re fucking us! The account is short!” I fucking LOST my MOTHER FUCKING mind… again. I started shaking and crying and really more than anything felt a fear that either I was losing my mind or my husband had lost his somewhere along the way dating back to the day he was put in a coma by a speeding driver at the tender age of 10, or maybe the day he was bashed over the head with an ashtray at 17, had his jaw broken by 15 trampling Rugby players at 19 or the several bottles that were broken to bits over his head on various occasions at the bars he’d worked.

“How, please tell me and help me understand… how can you not understand that? What’s the matter with you? Are you okay? You’re scaring me. Are you fucking with me, or something? What’s WRONG with you?”, I stood bent over him pleading with him, trying to understand what was blocking his mind. How could I help him at this point, what could I do? I was shaking through my tears though and couldn’t think anymore because a different type of fear entered my brain. ‘My husband is NOT normal. There’s something wrong with him.’, this thought snaked it’s way through my brain and coiled itself around my heart crushing the life out of it. My chest tightened and I could scarcely breath. I was at a complete loss so I tried to remember what my counselor told me, the woman I’d only been to see twice. “So, it sounds like you’re the problem solver in the relationship. Yeah, that’s a heavy responsibility. It must be very frustrating to you when he doesn’t seem to HEAR you.”, she said.

I moved him out of the way and told him to watch me. I quickly, shakily tallied the numbers up. I was off only by a few cents but basically came up with the same numbers as the computer. He still told me I was wrong, that he’s been proved right before that the bank has messed up, but I begged to differ. That has never actually happened and I don’t know how he came up with that. So I did it again and this time pulled him close to me so he could see me adding the numbers. As I sat there inputting the numbers on the calculator, tears streaming down my face, I made sure he saw each number versus the statement on the computer. Let him watch carefully as I added the total balance and subtracted that from our ending balance on the last statement. His reaction shocked me beyond words or emotion. “Oh, I’m sorry Hooha. You were right. I was wrong.”, and he proceeded to kiss me on the forehead. That tightness around my chest that had been slowly building up, the tears that had been coming down my face, that snake that coiled itself around my heart they all came rushing out of me at once and in one, quite fatal moment, I made a very bad choice. I let it take over me and when I felt that kiss on my forehead I rebelled against it with every fiber of my being. Suddenly I hated him and all the love I felt turned black. I pushed him off me…hard.

As I screamed he stumbled backwards and nearly lost his balance. I can’t remember what he said. He slammed something down on the coffee table, I threw my calculator at him while screaming incoherently. In response he grabbed a large candle in the living room and threw it at the door to our bedroom and of course to further exacerbate the situation I got up, screamed like a banshee and started flailing my arms around like a windmill with fists. He grabbed me, which is always a mistake, called me crazy, which is always a mistake, then let me go when I started screaming even more….which is always a mistake. I’m sure you get the idea that he could do no right at this point. This frustrated him so much that he made the decision to leave me once and for all. He let me go. Told me he couldn’t deal with me anymore, that I needed help and that he was leaving me. My heart sank because I knew he was right. ‘I’M not normal’, I thought.

I chased after him, yelling at him and he kept going to the bedroom and got down to business. What’s the first thing you pack when you’re finally determined leave you wife once and for all. Your socks of course. That’s the first thing I would think of. Yes, I’m being sarcastic. Socks, right… So he took every sock he had in his sock drawer and threw them onto the bed. He started to come around the bed again, but there was no room to get around me. I blocked his way still screaming and smacking him on the arms. The act of doing something like that is awful and unthinkable especially when done in anger, but I wasn’t actually doing anything to him. It was beyond ineffectual, as I had no strength left in my body. I never did. ‘He should leave you. Your fucking crazy.’, so I walked away after I told him to leave me, after I told him he was right. “Pack your bags and get the fuck out of my house. Your right, I’m fucking crazy.”, at which I stomped to the living room, threw myself on my custom made comfy couch and wailed out whatever tears were left. I knew the neighbors must be able to hear me, but I didn’t care. I wailed like I’d lost a lover. Wait, I had lost a lover and I mourned before he had even stepped one foot out of my house. I knew he’d leave me this time for certain and the pain and agony I felt was more than I could bear. I felt my heart ripping out of my chest and I cried, I sobbed, I choked with sorrow.

He came to me just then. Knelt by the couch and held me. He kissed my face through my hands and wiped my brow and told me how sorry he was and that he didn’t want to lose me. That he would do anything to keep us together. Anything. I shook my head in protest and the strangled words that came out of my mouth were barely recognizable, but I knew what I said, “No, your right. You should leave me. I don’t deserve to be with you. With anybody.” He didn’t understand a word I said yet he knew exactly what I was saying. I’ve said it on more than one occasion. So has he. I let him hold me though. I really needed it. A short while later we sat together on the couch composed, and feeling normal; we continued to watch the game. It had all happened so fast we’d hardly missed a thing. Eventually the game was over and Mexico won. I never even missed a single goal. We were happy again. Perfectly happy.

I can’t remember what we did to fill the time between then and Chinatown. Maybe we sat and talked. Maybe I apologized over and over again. Maybe…he did the same. We decided Chinatown, though, because it would be a welcome distraction and Chinese sounded like a great idea. I grabbed my camera on the way out and left that ugliness behind us; we looked forward to an afternoon filled with our favorite Chinese cuisines. I could already envision the sights and smells of Chinatown.

The first thing we did was head over to a tiny restaurant down one of the side roads. On that I know not many people would frequent due to it’s decrepit state. I warned Rigid that this wouldn’t be your usual fancy restaurant that we may in fact be lucky if it’s got more than a ‘C’ rating. He said his stomach could handle anything. We were in luck. It was a ‘B’. the restaurant was bustling with Hindi’s, Pakistanis, Los Angelinos and Asians of all sorts. You might even see a sprinkling of white folk here and there, but I guarantee Rigid was the only Englishman there. The scents assaulted our nostrils and our tummies started rumbling. I told him to watch the staff in the hopes that they would simply ignore us and when they did I knew I’d come to the right place. An old friend of mine told me this little secret. A restaurant that serves good food will always meet customers with a cold and unfriendly attitude. They don’t need to have great service because their food is exceptionally tasty.

We stood respectfully waiting and once I was satisfied that we had waited long enough went straight to the back of the room and told a waiter where I’d be sitting. He said thank you and gave me two dirty menus. Rigid and I took our time deciding on our dishes and this time it was my turn to tell him what the service would be like and how we would eat our dinners. (Last time we fought he took me to eat Indian food!) A waiter brought us piping hot Chinese tea. We took as long as we needed and when we were ready I closed my menu. Rigid followed suit. Not long after a waiter came to take down our orders. We were really looking forward to this. The diner wasn’t spectacular, and you could see it was run down; it was perfect. We probably waited 20-30 minutes before we saw the waiter again, but one by one the dishes were laid on the table. House Special Chow Fun (that’s a three ingredients rice noodle dish), Shrimp Fried Frice, BBQ Pork Ribs & Bean Sprout Duck. Okay, there were like 3 pieced of duck in the bean sprout dish, but it was so good. We scarfed down our food, slurped down our noodles and attacked our ribs with glee. Rigid had also ordered a nice Chinese beer. Life was grand. When we were finished we went for a walk around the street to enjoy the cornucopia of Chinese wares. Our bellies were so full of food we never thought we’d walk it off, but we did. I took plenty of pictures along the way though I had to battle against Rigid’s hand the entire time. I could scarcely take one picture after another because he wouldn’t let me go for more than two seconds at a time. In fact he was so far up my ass I thought he’d start humping me right then and there. No wait… he did. AND grabbed my ass all over Chinatown in front of all those old….Chinese people. It was silly, but we had such a really great time.

We went home spent and still full. Eventually I went to my room to play some more Hitman 2 while he played Morrowind in the living room. The night wore on and we decided to spend time together and watch the series premier of The 4400. By this time we were hungry again of course and decided to have the left over Chinese food we had left in the trunk of the car while traipsing around town. No, we took it out of the car when we got home, but we did forget to refrigerate it. We didn’t care; after all Chinese food is great cold right? ONLY if refrigerated because the next day we both woke up with a pretty good case of the shitters. Will I do it again? Hells yes!! The diarrhea was worth it though my anus doth protest.
Above Picture Translation: The Diarrhea is very dangerous. Give your child insulin orally.

Posted by Maharet at 12:59 PM

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