So then…I shout, “Fine!”
And then he shouts, “FINE!” — slams the door, gets in his car, and drives to work.
We’re in the middle of a big argument and he bails just to go to work? Where are his priorities?
He works at night, so it’s already dark out. I head to the kitchen.
I’m so mad at him, I can barely eat dinner. But it’s pasta and chocolate chip cookies, so I suffer through. In fact, I’m such a martyr, I suffer through several helpings.
I replay the argument in my head.
I was being logical, reasonable, rational – raising excellent points and substantiating them with clear, concise examples.
He was being a jerkfacemonkeybutt.
Normally we get along fine – we’ve been living together awhile now – we’re in our 30’s with good jobs, a decent house, and a pretty chill lifestyle – we’re laidback and laugh a lot.
But when he’s being a jerkfacemonkeybutt, I find him to be insufferable and quickly catalog every tiny thing about him that drives me insane.
As I walk through the house putting away the laundry, I notice things like:
This is the stupidest shirt ever. Why does he wear this shirt?
Seriously, can he not put his dishes IN the dishwasher instead of the sink?
I suppose the trash can was just too far away for this soda can.
Why is his golf club IN the house? That’s stupid. He’s stupid.
Ugh, look at his shoes. His shoes are annoying me.
I watch TV. I note how all the boyfriends on TV are so much better, nicer, funnier, smarter, and sweeter than my boyfriend.
I do a little paperwork, polish off the last cookies, and head down the hallway to the bedroom.
Just then I hear a loud THUMP CRASH!
My heart stops. I freeze.
It’s close to midnight. He’s not due back til 2:00 am. I’m not expecting any visitors.
What the hell was that?
Is someone out there?
I had whirled around when I heard the noise, so my legs and arms are all akimbo in the hallway – but I’m literally frozen solid like a fossilized dinosaur mid-run when the glacial apocalypse hits.
Fight or flight? Fight or flight? My heart is hammering.
I muster up my courage and dart toward the sound. The front door is WIDE OPEN.
WIDE OPEN TO THE BIG BLACK SCARY NIGHT.
I rush to slam it shut and lock it.
I lean against it, breathing hard, arms spread out against the door to keep the bad guys out.
Oh shit, what if they are already inside and I just locked them in here with me?
I run to the kitchen for a huge knife and the portable phone.
Do I search the house?
They might be hiding somewhere inside.
They’ll jump out and murder me.
Do I run to my car in the driveway?
There might be more of them outside.
They’ll jump out and murder me.
I pause in the kitchen holding the knife in front of me — leaning forward, concentrating fiercely to try to hear where they are.
Outside, I hear rustling – are they trying to get in the house – or is the wind whipping the tree branches and leaves around? Are coyotes out there?
Inside I hear creaking – are they walking around – or is this old house settling?
More rustling — more snapping, crackling – are those footsteps? Is someone banging on the window?
I’m seriously in a panic. I have no choice. I have to call 911.
“Hi um I’m really scared I think someone’s trying to get in my house or maybe they’re already IN my house and I’m all alone and it’s pitch black out there and I keep hearing them trying to get in the house! I don’t know any of my neighbors. I’m afraid to leave and afraid to stay. Can you please send someone just to check to make sure no one is here? I’m really scared. I’m all alone! Did I say that? Did I say I’m alone? I’m really freaked out!!”
The dispatcher takes my address, asks a few questions, and says she’ll send a squad car over to make sure nobody’s trying to break in.
I position myself halfway between the front door and the back door, so I can make a quick escape, depending on the direction I’m attacked. I brandish the butcher knife in one hand and the phone in the other, waiting for the police to arrive. I dare not move in any direction. I am frozen.
I wait and wait and wait.
I could be dead by now. Seriously dead. What the hell, police officers? It doesn’t take much time to murder someone – I could be long dead by the time you get here.
Out of desperation — I call jerkfacemonkeybutt. I wail into the phone about the people trying to murder me – and infuse my tale with an accusatory tone since clearly it’s HIS fault that I’m in this predicament. Not sure how exactly, but damn sure, nonetheless.
He tries to calm me down and says he’ll come right home from work.
About 20 minutes later, he comes in the front door.
I’m still standing in the same spot, eyes WIDE and WILD, knife hand thrust forward, phone hand near my ear.
He advances to give me a hug. My face recoils, my knife hand waves him off.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. He’s already forgotten all about our earlier argument. He’s like that.
He always says men are like microwaves – they get mad – then zap, it’s over. Women are like crockpots, simmering and stewing that anger all.day.long. He’s right – I’ve been simmering and stewing and sweating here in the same spot, my Safety Spot, literally terrified to go anywhere or do anything until the police come to verify no one’s breaking into my house!!
I don’t even deign to answer the question about what’s wrong.
He quickly searches the house and reports back that no one else is here.
He says it doesn’t look like anyone’s tampered with the doors or windows.
“The door was WIDE OPEN! WIDE.OPEN! Someone OPENED the door! And they’re out there still! They’ve been making noises and banging all night! ALL NIGHT! I want the COPS to check this whole place out!!! YOU don’t know what to look for! The COPS will find them!!”
Full-out high-pitched hysteria.
He knows well enough to quietly sit down and wait it out with me.
After a few tense moments, he asks, “When did you call the police?”
“Almost 45 minutes ago! And they’re still not here! I could be dead by now! DEAD!!”
“Huh. That’s a long time.” He grins. “You shoulda called Dominos Pizza. They’d be here in 30 minutes or less.”
I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL HIM RIGHT NOW.
I WILL BASH HIS SKULL IN WITH THIS PHONE AND STAB HIM IN THE GROIN WITH THIS KNIFE.
THIS IS NOT A LAUGHING MATTER.
I glare at him with such pure loathing, that stupid grin slides right off his stupid face.
The doorbell rings.
The cops are here!
They’ll search the premises – and check the perimeter – and find evidence that vicious criminals were trying to break into my house – and secure the area so no one can ever harm us!!
I rush from my Safety Spot to open the door. “You’re finally here!” I exclaim.
Two weary cops stand there. One says, “Yeah, sorry it took us so long to get here. The winds are so strong in the Valley tonight, we’ve been answering calls all over the place about doors blowing open. So what’s your situation here?”
I can FEEL my boyfriend behind me, laughing his ass off INTERNALLY. He’s not uttering a sound, but his shoulders are shaking that telltale sign of inner mirth.
And if these cops were not standing right in front of me, I swear I would stab him immediately and repeatedly. And I would not feel one tiny bit of remorse.
I’d just fling the bloody knife to the floor with a flourish – like a rock star drops his mic – then shout “Peace out” – and drive to the store for more cookies.
— Darcy Perdu
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(Have you ever scared yourself absolutely silly? Any funny cop stories to share? Can YOU catalog all the annoying things about your significant other right after an argument?)