There are several things I do that annoy M to distraction (compared to the at least ten things he does that leave me grinding my teeth to gum level – inability to actually clean dishes when washing them being right up there). One thing is my refusal to walk into any pub merely to use the toilet. There is something unassuming about a bloke walking into a bar populated by mostly blokes and heading to the loo – a girl walking into a bar full of blokes generally (or in my case) is begging not to be noticed, but it seems that even if you’re a two-bagger who hasn’t washed for weeks, you won’t only get noticed but you’ll get comments along with it. Thus, I can be hopping cross legged down the street of, say, Maryborough, and unless I can see the appropriate bathroom door across a relatively uncrowded room from where I stand, tautly, on the outside footpath, I do not go. This drive M insane – he screams; ‘Just go! Just GO! No one’s going to care….’
Which isn’t quite true – I will care. And even as a puny child my mother used to remark on my excellent bladder control.
The other thing that sends him nuts, which happened today, is my extreme dislike of yelling a question at people out while I’m driving by. He tries to get me to do this, because I’m usually closest to the pavement, being in the passenger seat (why is it that guys always have to drive? Oh….the being in control of life, the universe and everything thing…it momentarily slipped my mind). Sometimes, if we need directions or something, it’s no problem, but other times *deep inward breath* it is just too much for me and my shrinking violet sensibilities. Like today. We’re on our way home, but are trying to hunt down the last garage sale of the day – M sees some people standing out the front of their house and their lawn is covered with kayaks, bits of cars, and other outdoorsy paraphernalia – it is completely obvious to me that all they have going on is a messy front garden, but M is insistent.
“Ask them! Ask them if the garage sale is still on!”
“It’s not a garage sale M, it’s their front garden.”
“Just ask….why can’t you just ask?” He is getting impatient.
My knuckles begin to whiten.
“Because it’s just like me leaning out of the car and telling them that they’re a pack of messy bastards…”
M sighs more than audibly, visibly calls on the gods of self-control and jumps from the van.
“Hey mate,” he carols, “is this the garage sale?”
I melt into a slump and try to fit underneath the dashboard. Sometimes I’d rather be wrong.