How to be an Infuriating Husband, Lesson 2

Be an Insensitive Workaholic

Before my first son, Robert, was born, I threw myself headlong from the rapture and joy of my soon to be fatherhood into my work. After all, I had a bouncing, cooing, crapping, peeling, gurgling, nipple ripping, bumped his head so he's screaming baby just nine months on the way. Everyone knows that children cost money. Far more money than everyone knows, especially me and every other first time father like me.

I worked for a family-owned construction company and had quite a reputation for good work, and being reliably fifteen to twenty minutes late every day. Many successful people told me that consistency is an important part of a good work ethic, although none of my would-be mentors was any more specific.

My father was a workaholic who was gone when I woke for school and wouldn't returned until I was fast asleep, or preoccupied hiding under the blankets from the sharks circling beneath my bed. I would have resented his absence had I known how to label the feeling at the time, but I could not, and so I did not. That’s enough about my father. Let's talk about my malfunctions which are oddly and strikingly similar to those of my dad. Perhaps, malfunctions are contagious or genetic.

Back to me in my thirties...

Repeating the same erroneous logic that had served my father for so many years, I left for work about 7:28 AM to make my 7:30 AM start fifteen minutes late. My unfailing tardiness was the consistency part that I improvised to fill in the “grey area” left by others. I'd even stop for doughnuts just to ensure that my supervisor had entered the annoyed stage, passed into the angry stage, and emerged at the he’s so damn glad he didn't have to go do the job stage before I walked in the shop door to be greeted by my supervisor’s smiling face.

Once at the shop, I was all business. I was committed to the company because, despite all my shortcomings, they treated me like family.  From the moment I punched the clock to the moment I walked across the parking lot to my car I was all about my job.  In that parking lot before reaching my car, I switched from construction crew leader to construction estimator, my other job. I ran sales calls until nine o'clock at night or later at least three times a week and some Saturdays too. That's the thing about being a workaholic that people few appreciate, it's fucking time consuming.

Some mornings I would wake in a sleep deprived daze and only through the power of muscle memory perform the tasks necessary in order to be late for work. On one particular morning, my muscle memory failed in one minor, minuscule task and I left the toilet seat in the upright and locked position. This insignificant detail went undetected as I left for another twelve to fifteen hour day. So small was this detail that my ninety-eight pound wife neglected to notice it a few hours later when she shuffled her way into the bright white tile bathroom.  Her eyes clenched tight against the nova-like light intensity, she lowered herself directly into the toilet bowl. Her tiny thighs pressed against her chest and her armpits resting nearly on the rim.

She was stuck. Really stuck!

Try though she may, she simply did not have the upper body strength to extract herself from the porcelain trap, which I had inadvertently laid. May I emphasize, inadvertently, since I am neither smart nor malicious enough to plan such a trap.

Life went on for me as usual, a long day hanging on somebody's home, crawling around in their crawl space, or traipsing around on their roof, whatever it was I was doing on this otherwise ordinary, unremarkable day of being a workaholic husband/father.

Meanwhile, back at my home...

My petite wife remained wrapped in two to three inches of porcelain. Exhausted from trying to leverage, squirm, lunge, wiggle, or pry her way to freedom, she turned her thoughts towards her husband, me and exactly how fucking screwed I was going to be upon arriving home.

In retrospect, I can only imagine what one’s mind might turn to as fitting retaliation for such an inconsiderate, monumental, intentional act of inhumane savagery against a spouse who merely failed to look where she was placing her tiny inverted heart-shaped ass. Having little else constructive to do, she spent the next ten to twelve hours contemplating these very things... at length... in detail... while I workaholic-ed.

Arriving home exhausted, filthy, hungry, and frazzled from the day; I stumbled to the door and placed the key in the lock. My wife suddenly shouting, "Mike! Mike! Please help me!"

A million things raced through my mind before I could turn the key and unlock the door; an intruder, a burglar, a rapist, a Jehovah Witness, a spider... any combination or permutation thereof!!?? What was my poor, innocent, defenseless wife at the mercy of?

Adrenaline surging through my body, I launched into our home my eyes darting in every direction for the threat... nothing. Proceeding down the hall, I saw a pair of size 5 feet hanging in the air like they were levitating by some unseen force.

Alien abduction in progress?!?! Rapture underway??!! WTF??!!

D.) None of the above

I should have circled D!

My itty-bitty wife lay trapped in the jaws of the porcelain poop gobbler. Therefore, I did what any other caring, loving husband would do... I laughed... hysterically... uncontrollably... until I collapsed. Like the Trade Towers, I collapsed at free-fall speed directly into my own footprint with zero resistance from my infrastructure in a horrendous boom! The difference being, aside from the tragic loss of life, emotional suffering, and property damage, the laughter, my incapacitating laughter.

I couldn't help it, I swear, scout's honor. The more she kicked her legs and shouted, "I'm going to kill you!" repeatedly, separated by various character-assassinating expletives, the more I laughed and the further I became from regaining my composure.  A few tens of minutes later, I managed to haul myself to all fours only to collapse once more. Finally, with great concentration of mind and body I stood... and immediately (soon to be, "remorsefully") went to get the camera.

You can figure the rest out for yourselves.

Now, being wiser, older, and equally immature, I should not have been so thoughtless. I should have stood beside my toilet bowl trapped spouse and flushed.

P.S. - If I managed to forget to say, which I certainly (and probably "intentionally") did, "I'm sorry".