All That and Then Some

ALICE - Love Is A Battlefield

VIC AND I ARE fighting. Not in the traditional manner where you'd expect a lot of shouting and the possibility of things being thrown. We don't do that kind of fighting in our house. I know there are couples who rumble like that on a regular basis because they like the drama of it. It energizes their relationship somehow; all the blistering anger burns through the boredom, and they claim to have a better marriage for it. But, possibly because neither Vic nor I like confrontation, we prefer to express marital disharmony through steely silence and the enthusiastic banging of kitchen drawers. Anyone outside of our marriage might not even be able to identify this as 'a fight' — but trust me, this one's a rager.

It started when Vic came home from work (late) to find Maeve shouting at Tim for hogging the TV (which makes a nice change from the washroom) and Angel shouting at Jeffry for accidentally knocking down the fort Maeve had built for her and me shouting at Buddy over Facetime, telling him NOT TO GO TO MONTREAL even as he was standing at the Porter ticket counter buying a ticket for that evening's redeye.

Vic stood in the living room, took in the chaotic scene that I was very much on top of, thank you very much, and had the incredible nerve to say, "I nearly broke my neck on the front steps. Hasn't anyone thought to put salt out?"

To which I tartly responded, "Salting sidewalks is a BLUE JOB. God knows everything else around here is a PINK JOB."

And before you gasp self-righteously and start to think that I really am as unfeminist as Sir Mix-a-Lot on a bad day, let me explain that the concept of Blue and Pink jobs in our house does not, in fact, split along traditional gender lines. None of that patriarchal nonsense happening here. Yes, we use Blue and Pink as codes for His and Hers, but they are simply markers for the two mutually-complimentary skills sets in our marriage.

Blue jobs include: Sanitation (garbage), taking the dog for the last pee of the day (I go to bed early), laundry (all aspects), dishes (but excluding, for reasons known only to himself, counter or table wiping), and snow/ice management.

Pink jobs include: everything else.

Or at least, I felt that way in my annoyance.

I stabbed the hang-up button on my phone, leaving Buddy to make the worst mistake of his life and stormed past my still-getting-up-to-speed-here husband, grabbed the bag of salt pellets from beside the door, flung it open and started throwing fistfuls of salt all over the porch and the stroller which was still, aggravatingly, uncollapsed.

"Argh!" I shouted, flinging one last mittful so aggressively that it flew all the way to the sidewalk, scattering around an Amazon delivery drivers' feet.

I turned back inside, slamming the door behind me and stood glaring at my husband, who had the good sense not to say anything for the moment.

He just dropped his work jacket onto the couch (which he knows I hate because the couch is white and his work jacket is dusty) and left the room without further comment.

Oh, that's how it's going to be, is it? I thought to myself. Two can play that game.

I followed him into the kitchen, as full of anger as if he'd just asked me 'what's for dinner?' even though he hadn't and started whipping cupboards open and throwing pots onto the stove.

Vic opened a beer and sat at the island, just watching me.

I slammed the tap on and filled a big pot with water. Then I brushed past him, bristling with fury, to reach the pantry, where I retrieved six packages of Mr. Noodle which we only keep in the house for the kids to snack on. I made belligerent eye contact with him, daring him to say something.