The Q-Tip Showdown

Let's have Honest Time for just a few moments: It really is no secret Rigatoni and I debate everything from household tasks to departure times to social plan details to who the hell restocked the toilet paper last. Entertaining? Usually. Exhausting? Absolutely. But what kind of Type A, facts-based personality would I be if I didn't bring minute life details to surface regularly? I would be a psychological poser pretending I didn't care and we just can't have that.

Rigatoni and I have a Q-tip holder in our bathroom with which we fill instead of having the box just sitting out - the bathroom is Borrowers-sized and having the elongated, rectangle box would put our space over-the-edge. Trust me, this is true. The last time the Q-tip holder was empty, I refilled it and the time before, Rigatoni did. Naturally, this means his turn was up when the container dwindled to nothing last Friday. Being the 50/50, fairness-obsessed individual I am (especially when interacting with people that have penises - more about this later, perhaps) I decided to not immediately refill it in good faith it would eventually be done by him since it was HIS TURN and all. In Rigatoni time, "eventually" typically translates to 2-3 weeks. I'm not kidding and no, I have no idea how I deal with this either.

It took all of me to stay strong this entire week and to not race to the cabinet, grab the Q-tip box and refill the container just to alleviate my brain from the torment. Every time I stepped out of the shower, I could feel myself longing for the container to be refilled. Each time I considered breaking down and refilling it because psychologically it really was just becoming too much a burden, I gathered strength from within and held out another 24 hours. Not only did I impress myself by not giving in to this ignored task, but I didn't even make a condescending remark. Until last night. Unheard of! As I stepped out of the shower knowing I would have to face the empty Q-tip container again, I considered a different approach to this situation might be not only beneficial, but entertaining.

Typically, the kind of situation where "I know he knows I know he knows" is occurring, I would have jumped right to the overreaction and just got it out of the way before the weekend arrived. Rigatoni isn't stupid. But fortunately, neither am I. Certain parties might agree I have the higher level of intelligence. Certain parties might agree Rigatoni has the higher level of intelligence. Certain parties are really thankful they don't live with Rigatoni and I because we do debate this sort of nonsense regularly. Instead of foaming-at-the-mouth raging in his face, I simply asked Rigatoni, "How long are you going to keep using Q-tips out of the box in the cabinet?"

Laughter erupted from Rigatoni. This is what usually happens when I draw attention to his faux-crafty ways. His most genuine laugh is this sort of high-pitched, wide-eyed deal that is so completely unexpected when you look at him physically that I cannot help but laugh. It really is the most odd-sounding noise. I'm laughing now just thinking about the absurdity of it. Amongst two laughing assholes was the point where he deemed our particular situation "The Q-Tip Showdown". He is nothing short of a word-smith and sometimes I just crumble from the ridiculousness of his word choices. How the hell does he come of with this stuff? So ridiculous. Yet so funny. But soooooo ridiculous. Damnit - I hate letting him see I think he's funny. Then he thinks he's in the clear.

Usually this is portion of the story where I intimately describe all the insults I threw his way, but that didn't happen. We didn't argue about it. We just laughed. Then he "promised" he would fill the container today. I'm not sure this is going to happen and yes, I'm thinking about running home and refilling it immediately. But I'm not going to. I will stay strong.




 

Shut The Hell Up

Per Wikipedia: "Shut up" is a direct command with a meaning similar to "be quiet"', but which is commonly perceived as an angrier and more forceful demand to stop making noise or otherwise communicating. The phrase is probably a shortened form of "shut your mouth up", and its use is generally considered impolite.

I don't know how your household runs, but swearing at our place is more common than...well, let's just say it is part of my natural wordage. Sometimes I swear because I'm pissed, or I swear if I'm physically hurt. Other times, I swear as part of humor and more often than not, I simply swear to swear. (Note: I was once made aware that swearing is classless and unncessary - I promptly *fucking* disagreed with that particular person.)

For reasons I'm unaware of at this point in time, the phrase "shut up" has made it's way into our conversations with a vengeance and while said phrase isn't technically considered swearing, it has a nasty undertone and from what Wiki tells me, is generally considered impolite. Some of the derivations I've heard over the years include "zip it up", "put a sock in it", "zip it", "know your role and shut your hole", "hush", "hush up", "watch yo mouth", "you shut your mouth", "shut yo mouf", and most recently, "lock it up". I can blame that last one on our friend PMC for bringing it to our attention.

More importantly, I believe Rigatoni is on to the fact that while "shut up" and all of the glorious derivations are perfectly acceptable in most situations, "ShhhHHH!", is the one that makes my body burn with rageaholic wrath. When I hear this amped-up, crescendo version of "shut up" exit his mouth, I absolutely lose my mind. The first thought in my head is usually, how quickly can I throw all of Rigatoni's shit down the stairwell? Or how long does it take to file for a divorce? Or next time I need toilet paper and we are fresh out, I'm totally using his favorite Penn State sweatshirt. If it's irrational, it goes through my head.

Speaking of irrational, I need Jennifer Hudson to shut the hell up. Right this second, Jenn: I need you to stop singing, and exit my television screen immediately. What's worse than watching you sing for WW cash? Watching you sing TO YOURSELF for WW cash. I would probably be a size 6 too if thousands of dollars were being dangled in front of my hungry face. Please and thank you.

 

Vodka, Sweat, and Tears

A few years ago, I implemmented a pre-cohabitation training program known as Operation Rigatoni. This training program consisted of various household routines such as paying bills in a timely manner, washing dishes after they are used, taking the trash out every weekend, closing cabinet doors that had been opened, placing dirty laundry in a laundry basket, grocery-ing on a weekly basis, and wiping up liquid that had been spilled the same day as said spill. If you ever met the Rigatoni, you would immediately realize that training the Rigatoni to do anything would take massive amounts of vodka, sweat, and tears.

Operation Rigatoni started off pretty successfully with him being eager to help out and make our lives more organized in general. The "honeymoon" portion of our pre-cohabitation days quickly transformed into a downward freefall and I have been battling with the Rigatoni through these cycles of ups and downs ever since. Woah woah woah, you might say: Why are you being such a rageaholic bitch about meaningless household tasks? Why don't you worry about solving world hunger or volunteering at a homeless shelter? Because, goddamnit, that shit isn't nearly as important as the stuff I'm talking about here. I need dirty dishes to be in the dishwasher. I need clean clothes to be hung in the closet. I need mail to stay on the glass table by the front door in the area I have specified it to stay. I need both of the television remotes to remain on the coffee table. I need the second bedroom to not look like the fucking laundry basket barfed Banana Republic button downs and Penn State sweatshirts on every flat surface. I need the trash to be taken out every single weekend whether the bag is full or not. And for god's sake, I need the new toilet paper roll to be placed ON THE TOILET PAPER ROLL HOLDER.

Let's go over some of the excuses Rigatoni has thrown my way over the years: I was tired. I forgot. I didn't know how you wanted me to do it. I wasn't sure if that needed to be done this week. I fell asleep. I didn't have time. I got a call from my mom. I saw that it was late and didn't want to wake you up. It was raining. It was cold. I needed work clothes and only had time to do laundry. I thought I did everything. My stomach was bothering me. I had to pay some bills online. Time out. Let me understand this: You had to "pay some bills online" so you thought you would save a bunch of time by putting mail in the bedroom, on the coffee table, in the kitchen, in the second bedroom, and on the couch? Um, what?? Thank baby Jesus he isn't an attorney, because his defense is typically weak like a vodka sprite from a campus bar.

This morning I'm ready to walk out the door when I see something truly appalling: the couch is being used as a coat rack. I can feel the rage building. My plams start to get tingly and my heart starts to race. OMFG, not this again. My brain screams, Son of a bitch! Goddamnit! What the fuck! Rigatoni sucks! I paced toward the bedroom, flipped on the hallway light, and threatened Rigatoni with bodily harm if this abomination continued. It must have been too much for him to place his coats in the closet that is 4 feet from the couch.