Bulls***, Disney. Bulls*** He didn’t have a dress pattern or a keen eye for cutting on the bias.
For those waiting with bated breath to see how Barbecuegate would be resolved, I am actually a tad late with an update. The very next morning my fiancé called his parents and let them know that the church hall idea was not giving us a warm fuzzy feeling. They genially agreed to revert to the original plan of an intimate dinner for immediate family and wedding party at the Tabard Inn. While I did not hear the conversation, he apparently presented our opinion as the decision of a united front, not just, “Um, Princess Pissypants is displeased.”
Now, I was all prepared to write a glowing ode to my fiancé for recognizing the importance of what one impassioned gent referred to in conversation about Barbecuegate the other night as “The R.U.—Relationship Unit! You must preserve the Relationship Unit!” However, events last night have me penciling in a slight asterisk next to his gold star sticker.
While pressing the pedal on our kitchen trash can late last night I rousted a mouse. In my house. Specifically, in my kitchen, one foot from my foot. After emitting a noise somewhere between a buzz saw and a 10-year-old girl learning that Zac Efron is going to attend her birthday party, I waited for the cavalry. And waited. The cavalry remained seated on the leather club chair in the living room watching basketball. When I began whining and stomping my foot (a little move I call “Defcon 2”) he and his Siberian husky sidekick ambled in, nearly simultaneously shrugging their shoulders and giving me their most disinterested “Whaddya want us to do about it?” looks. After half-heartedly poking through the utility closet where the thing appeared to have skittered, he informed me that we’d have the exterminator put down traps, and then he and the dog returned to the living room and began scoring their Day 1 brackets.
No words of comfort—to the contrary, there were some comments that one might have even interpreted as teasing and understating the gravity of the situation—no committed attempts at succor. I was left alone in the kitchen at the mercy of the invader. Scarlett, left to face Sherman’s invading troops alone in Atlanta.
Adding insult to injury, I informed my fiancé that when he came to bed, he should close the bedroom door behind him and shove a towel under the door. I awoke at 3 a.m. to find the door wide open! “J’accuse!” I squealed while slamming the door shut, drawing not so much as a one-second interruption in his deep-REM snoring.
So it is with mixed feelings that I tell you that I have seen the fawn-inducing power of a man who stands up for his ladybird. Yet I have also seen how quickly that ardor can cool in the face of mice and men.