A Tragic Slip ‘O The Tongue

As most of you readers have likely determined, I am not the sharpest knife in the countertop wood block.  Let’s agree up front here that I have (in the words of my cousin Joan) a FILTER problem.  What this means is that, under certain circumstances, things that occur in my small brain come out of my mouth without any review by a scholarly panel or by the Political Correctness gland.

This post is probably and/or will be one of the most widely laughed at, hugely ridiculed, and for certain – something that will very likely be carved into my headstone after I kick it and start pushing daisies.

Here are the juicy details of the one and only thing that my stellar and wonderful spouse throws back at me regularly (Men: you know what I’m speaking of – the ill-considered phrase, lame-assed, badly-worded answer, etc. … yeah, that shit).  Anyway, the scene is Fort Knox, time – summer.  Hot, sticky air encased us along with all the too-close-together-eyes-chopstick-family-tree-people (not that there’s anything wrong with that).  I had been mowing grass on what was probably close to three-quarters of an acre of nothing but huge expanse of grass.  My lovely bride was out ostensibly having her split ends cut off and the rest of her luxurious mane tamed into something only she would understand by looking in a mirror.  In other words, undetectable to the Male Eye.

After traipsing back and forth for probably close on to ten miles or so pushing our pollution-belching lawnmower, I elect (all on my own) to have a glass or two of water (instead of the mainlined beer).  Pushing a mower one-armed is work.  The other arm holds the key beverage.  As I was chugging water in our kitchen, my Lovely Bride returned, trimphant, from her hair appointment….

At this critical juncture, let me state for the record that I had become very used to Di returning from hair appointments looking exactly like she had (hair-wise) before she backed out of the driveway.  Maybe more body – poofiness.  Sometimes some highlights.  This day, however, was a seismic shift of my reality.  Why?  Because: as she pulled away in all her sparkly beauty, she had hair literally flowing down to the small of her back, right to that sweet spot where some women, including Di, get cute dimples set above her butt cheeks (a blog of the “awesome” theme by itself… word!!!).

Upon reentry to The Home, Di had hair that bounced perkily below her … ears.  And. No. Further.  Now, as a man being a fan of luxurious, delicious, bacon-scented hair (okay, only sometimes), I was left for a millisecond – speechless.  The subsequent tenths of a second stretched – seemingly – into minutes.  My One was clearly expecting feedback.  She desperately needed loving reassurance that this change in the Laws of Physics was, on the whole, ok in the house. Or so I have come to understand now.

Ideally, what I should have said was something that tasted, smelled, and sounded like this:

“Oh my God, Di.  I am totally and completely enraptured by your creative and original approach to trying a new hairstyle, and I think that if nothing for the next century changes other than your amazing-ass hair, I will truly die a fulfilled and happy man.” 

Wait for it……………………………………………………………

Well, so what came out of my pie-hole was this: 

“Baby, you got a fat lady haircut.”

Emotional nuclear war ensued on both sides of the two sets of lips involved.  I swear to God that out of the corners of my eyes I spied neighbors loading supplies and possesions in cars and lay rubber in the evacuation.  While I did not sleep on the sofa that night, I will admit our bedroom was somewhat chilly until morning.  Probably an intermittent fault in the A/C wiring in our Army quarters.  Yeah, asshat, right.  Dream on, Stupid Man.  We do actually laugh about it now, for real.  I explained that when I saw her, an image (related to the hair and HAIR ALONE) of Wilson Phillips popped into my empty head. War score: I lost.  The road to hell is paves with good intentions… and the brainpans of dumbass husbands who have absolutely zero filtering ability.

So this has now become the ONE phrase of ten years of marriage that I am regularly beat senseless over the head with… and I have to admit for good reason and to good effect.  Di admitted, right inside the moment, that she ‘got it’ that I had NOT said she was a Fat Woman.  She is a wise woman.

What I cannot understand though is why there is the undercurrent of latent ‘pissed’ status on this egregious breach of protocol.  Still.  Now.  I apologized profusely.  She ‘got it’ that I was NOT hinting at her ass size.  Reader Task: use The Google to search for this string: “cognitive dissonance.”

Yes, of course.  No, you’re completely logical and right.  On my behalf, if you are in a cemetery sometime and see a headstone with these words: “Beloved Husband…. ‘You Got a Fat Lady Haircut’ ” … well, you now know the reason.

You’ll excuse me now, I have to go bathe my wife’s feet with my unworthy tongue.

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6 Responses to “A Tragic Slip ‘O The Tongue”

  1. […] good news is I’ve not really gotten in serious trouble for want of one. Except maybe for the Fat Lady Haircut remark. I also believe this is good news because lots of people around me have let me know how […]

  2. savorthefolly Says:

    My husband likes me to keep my hair long, so the rule in our house is that I’m not allowed to cut my hair any shorter than shoulder length. In return my husband listens to my preferences on his haircut.

    • Interesting. I prefer long hair myself but would never attempt to impose a preference (let alone a rule) on Di’s locks.

      • savorthefolly Says:

        because she would rip your head off and vomit into your body cavity? or because your such an ardent feminist that you feel that it is a womans right to choose, without input opinion or preference, how she sheers her locks?

      • savorthefolly Says:

        well…honestly I think it’s kind of sweet that we try to cut our hair to please each other….within the range of what we’re each comfortable with.

        just sayin….

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