So I’ve been on my second marriage now for almost two years. Unlike the first mistake, this one seems to be going strong, and I’m not at all worried about where things are going to take us next.
Except this one time he didn’t listen to me.
Now, I want to make something perfectly clear: I love my husband, and I really hate manbashing. It’s not nice. Sure, it seems like good fun, but if you don’t want horrible comments about being a wife thrown at you because of reasons, like sexism, you need to support that same stance for your husband. Sexism goes both ways. My husband is brilliant, BRILLIANT, and his brain functions at speeds I cannot comprehend, which is probably when he made this mistake.
I like to call it manbraining. Or Jeffbraining, really. He thinks about too many things at once and gets horribly distracted, usually leaving some task unfinished or worse, not listening properly.
Like the time I told him not to put my 501st costume bin in the non-climate controlled storage unit.
…And he did.
I haven’t been active with the 501st since I went back to school, which, for those that are awaiting my 2nd book, knows is quite a time sink. So I have some of my costume components in a plastic tub covered in 501st stickers and drawings so I know which one it is. Somehow, after the point when I told him, “Do not put my 501st bin in storage.” He put my 501st bin in storage.
I’ve been looking for it for weeks. He told me it was in the house, he swore, up and down that it was in the costume closet. Not there. That it was in the sewing room stacked up. Not there. That it was under my shoe rack in the bedroom closet. No, that’s bedding.
Oh. My. God. That’s the bedding that should be in storage.
So I ran over to the storage unit and extracted the bin, which felt abnormally heavy. It was located on a top shelf in the back of the unit, and required some extraneous acrobatics to access, but I was successful. I also knew what I was opening it to…
Sheets. What? He had folded extra bedding and put it on top of my Royal Guard and Mandalorian helmets. Why!? How could he miss them?! This was the bin that wasn’t supposed to be in storage!
I begin to peel off layers of sheets, to find that my Royal Guard helmet was still in it’s protective bag (phew!) With…what? MORE SHEETS?! HE STUFFED MY HELMET BACK WITH SHEETS. THE SHEETS HAD STUCK TO MY HELMET’S PAINT DURING THE CONSTANT FLUXES OF NEW ENGLAND SUMMER TO WINTER. THE PAINT JOB WAS DESTROYED.
This is when my happy pills kicked in. Like most brilliant minds, I’m depressed as fuck and need drugs. Whatever. I felt my brain fighting itself. It was going between, “BURN YOUR HUSBAND AT THE STAKE!” to, “Aww, pumpkin, it’s only paint. You can fix that and when you see Jeff-fa-fa next, you can cuddle him and call him an idiot all cute-like. *fairy dust.*”
So I tried to relax, and took the bin home. Which was hilarious considering we’ve gotten some good snow fall in the last few days. I get the sucker up the stairs, and start getting everything out to fully survey the damage. Yep, red guard has to be completely repainted. Sanded, primed, everything. Ugh.
…my Mandalorian helmet melted. The happy pills stopped working all together, and I turned into a ragefest. I felt the darkside consume me and I was ready to fly out to San Diego where my husband is currently stationed without me just for the gratification of punching him in the facehole. But alas, that would cost money that authors and graduate students don’t make. So I have to stay put. Staring at damaged helmets. Damaged nerdery. Damaged soul.
I think he owes me that TIE pilot kit I’ve wanted to do next.