I hate Saturdays. The kids fight all morning over the Nintendo until I shove them out of the apartment. By the time I clean and grocery shop, I have five minutes to myself before my husband comes home from from work, grabs the remote and parks it on the couch.
So I’m pmsing, wanting to take a shower when the buzzer rings and I’m like, “Dave! Can you get the door?!” There is no sign of movement from the living room. The buzzer rings again, this time like it’s right in my ear. The sound of the tv is so loud it clashes with the buzzer. So I yell again, “Dave!” And he’s like, “What?!” “The door!” I yell.
The buzzer rings again, and I’m ready to smash whoever keeps pushing the button into little pieces! “Matt” my husband calls for our oldest son, like we’re all his fucking slaves. “The boys are down the street!” I yell. “Get off the damn couch and get the damn door!”
The buzzer rings a fourth time. My husband is still on the couch. He’s holding the remote, switching channels when I plow into the living room and yank the plug from the socket. “What the hell did you do that for?!” I don’t answer. I only know it’s either him, me or the tv. The boys need their mother and if I threw my husband out I’d have to throw the whole couch out with him. So I turn to open the window that looks down from our two-story apartment. My husband watches, thinking I’m getting fresh air.
Then I walk back over to the tv. The asshole finally sits up when the set is in my arms. “What the hell are you doing?!” he says, not believing I’ll really go through with it. My arms are shaking. My heart is pounding. I am filled with super human powers. “I swear if you” my husband tries to threaten. But I’m already carrying the set over to the window, way past giving a damn.
“You’re out of control! You’re crazy!” he cries. “Fuck you!” I say, shoving the tv off the ledge.
I feel enormous satisfaction hearing the shattering of glass and seeing the shocked and somewhat frightened look on my husband’s face.
Later though, I am alarmed by my violent behavior and my husband suggests I see a doctor. I do and he gives me a prescription to help with my mood swings. It’s strange. I don’t feel so out of control anymore, but I don’t necessarily feel better either. It’s like the real me jumped out the window with the tv. It’s like I could witness a train wreck and think, “Hmm. What should I make for dinner?” two minutes later. I mean, why is feeling nothing more acceptable than feeling the truth strongly?
Incidentally, when I opened the front door, a frightened girl scout was standing in the hallway with four boxes of chocolate peanut butter melts. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Is this a bad time?” “Oh no,” I tell her, smiling at my luck. “These are just what I needed.