When my husband, Frank, works from home, he sits at a round table in a corner of the bedroom. His computer monitor points right at the bathroom door, so whenever he’s on a video call and I have to pee, I’m supposed to hold it until he’s finished so that his coworkers won’t see me passing to and fro in the background.
Trouble is, Frank’s job seems to be like 90% video calls and I drink a lot of coffee.
He used to set up his at-home workstation at the dining table, not far from the location of my own desk. But with all that yammering going on over there, I could barely concentrate on whatever it is I do. So I eventually snapped and, to put it in Zoom parlance, assigned him to a breakout room (i.e., kicked him out).
I suspect he now blocks my access to the bathroom with that monitor trick as a way of exacting his revenge.
I had long assumed these sorts of petty battles were an essential component of sharing a life with someone. But then the other day I was reading a passage in Garth Greenwell’s novel Small Rain where the narrator recalls the “only time” he and his boyfriend ever shouted at one another, a scene that comes shortly after another where the narrator makes one remark “sharply” to the boyfriend, who responds by “silently” shedding “fat tears,” and I was like, Wait, what?
Do other couples never raise their voices or “sharply” threaten to throw bladder-endangering computer equipment from a great height?
I don’t want to give the impression that Frank and I squabble a lot, but our last attempt to make shakshuka nearly ended in divorce. He just tends to get very bossy in this blamey way that suggests a profound and possibly moral failing on my part for overcooking a poached egg or improperly seeding a pepper.
And that attitude makes me, in turn, get indignant and bratty and definitely not inclined to bawl my eyes out in silence like Garth Greenwell’s boyfriend, who sounds like a real wuss if you ask me.
Course, I’m a Leo. We’re known for our short tempers and inability to do anything in silence.
Frank, on the other hand, is a Taurus, a sign that supposedly clashes with Leo if you go by the stars. Maybe that explains a lot.
I read an article once that described this alleged lack of compatibility like this: Just as putting earth on a fire will extinguish the blaze, an earth sign (such as Taurus) can smother the spirit of a fire sign (such as Leo). What I appreciate about this reasoning is that it presents me as the injured party.
When I read the article, though, I was already several years into my entanglement with Frank, and by that time it was too late. What can I say? Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, I gotta love one man till I die, etc.
Besides, you can’t rely on astrology. My horoscope in the newspaper, for instance, frequently advises me to expect a day filled with financial success or the enjoyment of time spent in the company of others, and neither of those forecasts has proven accurate thus far.
So what do the stars know?
Indirect Objects 