A Hairy Dilemma

Today, my generally even-keel husband of 22 years let loose with a hearty dose of frustration before heading off to work.  He had every right to feel what he felt.  And to verbalize what he felt.  In fact, as probably a good many communicative spouses wish of their less communicative partners, I've begged him to trust me and feel completely free to "let her rip" when the urge hits and the circumstances dictate.  It's not as if I haven't many times surrendered to the utter freedom to launch into an emotional barrage fresh off a night's sleep with thoughts as clear as the morning sunshine piercing the transom window in our dining room.  Trust me when I say my freedom of expression is rather more wordy and lung-powered than his.

His revelation was less than surprising.  Basically, though he likes our animals, specifically the dogs, a great deal, he can't stand all of the hair and dander they leave behind.  On the carpet -- which even a vacuum can't fully clean -- and in our automobiles and embedded within the fibers of our clothing.  Space by space, he feels as if every area and haven of his is being systematically stripped away.  Like he can't even enjoy his home and his things.  And that was that.  He'd said his piece.  And I absorbed it in silence.  For once.  He shut the door to his truck and backed at a moderate pace out of the driveway; I closed the door to our garage with Hank the Wonder Pup in tow and walked a moderate pace into our kitchen.

Though he may divulged himself of a weight from his shoulders, I had taken on a weight, and was decidedly stoop shouldered because of this.

My first thoughts were emotional.  I felt threatened: would I now have to get rid of my lovely white doggie to keep our marriage on an even keel?  HE agreed to my yearning to bring Hank into our home.  HE was the one who said we should take Panda, our 15 year-old Husky-mix, off of our friend's hands because she was beautiful.  And just WHO kept her beautiful and healthy?  How many times had he allowed Hank onto the couch or chair or even into our bedroom without any urging from me?  Why was it that I had to do the compromising?  How come I had to let yet another part of me go to keep the peace?  Hadn't I adjusted my thoughts concerning the boat, er, Yukon that I now steer around town, often with Hank as a willing passenger?  Those thoughts and probably a dozen or so more streamed through my consciousness . . . and then I slowed it all down, pushing those contentious voices down, dulling their noise to a rustling whisper.  So many scattered leaves on the floor of my mind.

I needed to problem solve.  Realistically.  Quickly.  It was clear to me that I wanted them both in my life.  HAD to have them both in my heart and home.  My humorous handsome husband and my handy-dandy Hanky Panky!  Both of them had managed to connect with the girl in me, either in real time or by sleight of memory's hand, and keep the woman I am from coming undone at the seams by virtue of their charm and patience with me.  Both of them had seen me at my best and my worst and kept coming back with love in their eyes.  Both of them also took turns annoying me with their habits and stubbornness.  Both of them shared popcorn and belly rubs and quiet nights with me.  Both of them are my present comfort and joy and solid place in the midst of the myriad changes which just keep on coming down the proverbial pike.  A-a-a-and both of them will still be around when my children completely up and leave the nest: An event for which I profess an intellectual understanding but a limited emotional acceptance, surprisingly enough to discover.

So, I did the only things I could do.  I vacuumed and dusted and swept the major common rooms of the house, noting as I hustled and bustled along that the broom required replacing and the Oreck Deluxe needed it's annual servicing.  Referring to the information I had stored in my iPhone last week after catching an infomercial on the tellie, I hopped online and ordered THREE Pet Rider protection liners for our cars.  They're also including a surprise FREE gift.  I wonder what it is?!  I also reminded myself that my husband had stated that he did, indeed, like our pets.  His actions around our furry menagerie prove that statement to be factual.  Further, he had actually let me know how he was feeling about a specific issue that was bugging him without any prompting (which in husband's Thesaurus might read as: bitching, browbeating, forcing-his-hand, griping, haranguing, harassing, muttering, nagging, prodding, questioning, suggesting, threatening, whimpering, whining, yelling).  How could I find fault with that when it was my very heart's desire that he do so on a regular basis?  It's rather hard to fix a thing if I don't even realize that it's broken.

It wasn't very long before my iPhone screen lit up with an incoming text from the man who drove through inclement weather on the heels of one of our infamous tornado warnings to meet me at an antique store in the little town of Woodbury to pick up a small bundle of canine cuteness.  This same man who spent a generous portion of this pup's first night in our home on the couch, comforting a scared white fur ball, while I remained behind to care for my mother post-surgery, this man wrote to apologize for his scant morning outburst about his adverse feelings about dog hair in undesirable places.  He didn't need to do that.  But he did.

Never have I been happier to have handled a vacuum in my entire domestic existence.