My husband has an illness.
Oh, you’re sweet. Thank you for your kind words and your prayers.
He’s going to need a lot of help from the big man upstairs because I’M GOING TO KILL HIM.
This illness I speak of?
It’s nothing too serious and is not life threatening–unless I stab him with the grilling fork.
You see, he is listening challenged.
So he says HUH a lot. Like a lot, a lot. Like so much that I start imagining how I could properly dispose of his body.
I think I would bury it in the yard and pretend nothing happened–or that he even ever existed.
Monday morning would roll around and his assistant would call the house around 11. “Um, Shauna? Hey, is Tommy there?”
“Tommy? Tommy who? I have no idea who you’re talking about. Who is this and how’d you get my number?”
Silence.
And then, “Shauna, is this a joke? Tommy’s not here today and he’s missed two really important conference calls.”
“Ooooh. That Tommy. Yeah, he was getting on my nerves with his inability to hear and, or listen, so I stabbed him and buried him in the yard.”
Nervous laughter ensues.
Or something like that. I haven’t got all the details worked out yet.
Anyhoo, the man needs help. If for no other reason than to save his own life.
I am a reasonable person. I am well educated. I speak clearly and enunciate my words. I don’t speak too softly or too quickly. Everyone else on the Goddamn planet can hear and, or understand me.
It is beyond me why he cannot.
He seemed to hear me just fine when we were dating. I don’t recall him being involved in some accident that left him hearing impaired.
It’s almost as if it happened overnight. And it’s getting worse by the minute.
A usual conversation goes something like this.
“Wow, it’s raining again for the 4th day in a row. I’m beginning to think the sun is never coming out again.”
“What’s that?”
“I said it’s raining again. Four days in a row now. Sun, nowhere to be seen.”
“The sun is out? Awesome.”
“No. The sun is not out. The sun is opposite of out.”
“What was that you said about the sun?”
This is about the time I start going through the inventory in the knife drawer–trying to decide which one is the sharpest. Is it the butcher knife? Or how about the serrated bread knife. Ooh, I know, the Emeril Lagasse tomato knife is a badass. I bet that would do some major damage to a quadriceps muscle.
And then I answer, “Never mind.”
He’ll then be interested in what I have to say. It could have something to do with the fact that blood is coming out my eyeballs.
“Tell me what you said.”
I SAID IT’S BEEN RAINING FOR FOUR DAYS STRAIGHT WITHOUT SUNSHINE, MOTHER FUCKER!
“Seriously, Tommy, it’s not worth repeating. Honestly, I was talking about the weather. It was a lame conversation anyway. I mean, really, who talks about the weather besides old people and people who have nothing to say to each other?”
“What’s that?”
I DARE you to find the jury that would convict me.
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