[Updated Sunday 11 February at 9:30am]
Dear readers. If you have checked this blog over the past 36 hours, you may perhaps have seen the following post. It was written when I returned home from ‘The Pub’ on Friday evening in a bit of a cranky mood. The source of that crankiness was Mr Moi.
There have been two versions of this post so far: The Very Abrasive Version. This had a couple of swear-words in it, and was written with a couple of tears (and beers for that matter). Then there was The Less Abrasive Version. This had no swear-words, no beers and just a couple of poignant tears.
The Very Abrasive Version was posted at midnight on Friday/Saturday, exactly 27 minutes after I arrived home from ‘The Pub’. The Less Abrasive Version was posted at 6:27am on Saturday morning, exactly 27 minutes after Mr Moi arrived home from ‘The Pub’.
Then, after we kissed and made up, I took this post down. Last night, when I was feeling uncreative due to a yukky head-cold, I asked Mr Moi what I should write my post about. He said, “Why don’t you write about what a naughty husband I am.”
I think he was joking, but I can’t be expected to discern sarcasm through my haze of fluey cold.
So here is the latest version: The Not Abrasive At All Version. At about one-third the size of The Very Abrasive Version, it’s rather watered down. But, I hope you enjoy anyway.
Tonight Mr Moi threatened to trade me in for a younger, prettier, more subservient, and probably skinnier Ukrainian wife-model.
Does this a bad husband make?
Here’s the scenario:
After a couple of beers, Mr Moi made some throwaway comment that I found rather offensive.
“Blah [I can’t remember what he said but it was something about moi],” he’d said to his friends. My hackles went up, and I responded rather loudly, “And every time he talks like that, I threaten him with divorce.”
So he then turned to his mates and made a comment about how easy it would be for him to pick up a Ukrainian significant other to replace this rather outdated and opinionated model (moi) in the event of said divorce.
“Har har har,” they all said. I was really unimpressed. I left him in the pub and came home alone.
“That’ll show him,” I thought and marched down the street. I went over the to nearest taxi, and asked how much it would be to take me home. He spotted a foreigner and said, “30”.
I said, “Ridiculous. I live here. I should be charged local prices. I want to pay 20.”
He didn’t understand so I opened my wallet to pull out a 20, and alas. The only note I had was 0. Nothing. Luckily, I did have some Metro tokens, so I caught the Metro home, stopped at McDonald’s on the way, where I was turned away as they had *just* closed (the diet fairy was looking down on me).
I then wrote an injured blog post, posted it in spite, and proceeded to sit in the living room and fret until Mr Moi came home.
He came home at 6am.
I’m not sure what caused this outburst of mine – obviously Mr Moi’s mean comment in part. But I’ve been getting far more defensive these days because I don’t have a job. I need to have some quips on hand so people know I’m a clever little duck, not a lazy layabout, watching DVDs all the live long day.
But is threatening divorce on a par with threatening to find a younger, prettier version of wife? I didn’t think so. I still think he was out of line, even if he was a bit tipsy and ‘making a joke’.
What do you think?
PS: Little kiddies. The moral of this story is ‘don’t drink too much beer’. Especially not the 15 per cent alcohol stuff in Ukraine.
PPS: Even if I did feel a little remorse, I gave Mr Moi the silent treatment for an entire day. And if he’s reading this post, he’d better go and buy me some flowers.