Some Frank Discussion…

As I ate my dinner, I couldn’t help but go over the day’s events in my mind.

 

I did warn Frank about my mood during That Time of the month.   Repeatedly.   That’s the main reason he wasn’t eating with me tonight.  I just couldn’t take it anymore and had snapped.

 

You’d think that after twenty five years of marriage, he’d have figured out that I wasn’t the most pleasant person to be with when Aunt Flo was here for her monthly visit.  When the blood comes, that’s when my claws come out and my fangs erupt.  I’m really not a nice person at that time.  Of course, a lot of women are like that.  I’ve been part of women’s groups who have discussed the subject, ad nauseum.  I’ve heard of many marriages ending because men Just Didn’t Get It. 

 

Frank was no exception.   Captain Stupid just had to stand on my last nerve.  It’s what he was best at, really.  The man could win awards as an honorary blond.  Sometimes, I even found myself wondering why I fell in love with him in the first place.  I came to the conclusion that it was because he was so good in bed and he was the only guy I’d gone out with who my parents had really liked.  And before you say anything, the only reason I haven’t gotten a divorce is that even though I’m non-practicing, I was raised a Roman Catholic and can’t get over the idea that divorce is a sin.

 

Bitching about my cooking is a sure way to get my dander up at the best of times…but when I’m on the rag, you’re taking your life into your own hands.  Frank should have known that when macaroni and cheese is the one item on the menu, I’m probably not thinking very clearly and that a wide berth should be kept.

 

How many of you have been with a guy who can’t seem to get that you want to be left alone at certain times?  Who hasn’t figured out that there are times that silence is indeed golden, and that shutting the hell up is the better part of valor?  Lots, I’m sure.

 

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found that my periods have been getting more and more uncomfortable.  The ache goes down to my bones and over the past few years, I can barely stand straight when I’m menstruating, and with each month, it gets worse.  Ibuprofen doesn’t work at all, despite what my gynecologist has suggested, but then, I suppose I should be brighter than to listen to a man telling me about what will work for a woman’s body.  Silly me.  Silly him.

 

So, anyway, I’m standing…well, crouching, really, at the stove, waiting for the noodles to finish boiling and then Frank comes into the kitchen, big as life and nosy as hell. As soon as he sees what’s on the menu, he starts complaining about it. 

 

It’s like he can’t help himself.

 

“Look, Frank, if you want something different, you can always take me out or order in,” I tell him in what I think is a reasonable tone.  I don’t even know why I made the suggestion, as his response is always predictable. 

 

His response is that he doesn’t think we should spend money frivolously and that I should be able to make a big meal with what’s around the house.

 

 Just like everyone else, the recession has hit us hard and money’s tight.   I think the last time we ate out was over six months ago.  Instead, my cupboard sports half a case of macaroni and cheese, some tins of tuna, peanut butter, popcorn and whatnot.  There’s some freezer-burned hamburger in the back of the freezer, but it really doesn’t appeal to me.  I can’t remember when we bought it, and that makes it even less appetizing.  Frank insists that since it’s frozen, it doesn’t have an expiration date. 

 

I think he’s insane.

 

You know, I don’t remember the last time we went to see a movie.  Frank is under the mistaken impression that ordering DVDs to come in the mail is the same thing as seeing it in a movie theater.  I really have no desire to see him slouched in his recliner in his tank shirt, slurping down a beer and shoveling microwave popcorn into his mouth.

 

Also, at some unknown time, Frank came under the mistaken impression that I’m some sort of short order cook, and that I should cook whatever the hell he thinks I should.  I let out a sharp bark of laughter.

 

“Frank, you bleed like a stuck pig for several days in a row and tell me you’re going to be on your best game!  You’re lucky I can stand this well.”

 

I was treated to a long discourse on the many times he’d hurt himself over the years, but bravely carried on with whatever the hell he was doing, showing not a sign that he was in fact bleeding to death.  Funny, but his idea of bleeding to death is my idea of a scratch.  Are all men so pathetically dramatic?  I was beginning to think so.

 

I growled at Frank to get out of the kitchen and leave me alone, but he persisted.  He just wouldn’t leave well enough alone.  He really seemed determined to get my hackles up and wasn’t going to stop dogging me until he’d finally got me to truly lose my temper.

 

“Frank, I mean it.  Get.  Out.  Now.  I’ll bring you your dinner when it’s done cooking!”

 

He responded that he wanted me to make something else, that he wasn’t going to eat the macaroni and cheese.  He sounded remarkably like my little sister’s son, Bobby, whining that he wasn’t getting what he wanted.

 

Keep in mind that my little sister’s boy is four years old, and that Frank was a man of fifty five.

 

It was only a matter of time before I tore him a new one.  It’s funny, but for some reason, when it finally happened, he’d seemed surprised.

 

It felt good.

 

I slurped down the last chunk of meat and carefully licked the blood from my paws with relish.

 

Well, this was sure a hell of a lot better than macaroni and cheese!