How Not to Inflict Violence on Your Talkative Man

I stood in the kitchen, head buried in the fridge, searching for a drink.

Flat white wine? No. Too early. Tea? Not breakfast. Too much waiting.  Beer? Didn’t feel like belching for ten minutes.

Then I saw it: the green Pellegrino bottle calling my name. I’m obsessive about this stuff. Never Perrier, never club soda. It has to be Pellegrino, retro bottle and sky-blue “1899” label and all. I stock three bottles minimum—any less and wrath follows.

I checked the living room. Empty. Good. I opened the bottle, enjoyed the hiss, and started chugging like a teenager at their first kegger.

That’s when I heard him.
“What in the hell, Alexandra?”

He was two feet behind me, apparently fresh from ninja training. Startled, I screamed, spit Pellegrino all over the freezer door, and whirled around.

“Why are you sneaking up on me?” I bellowed. His cologne—normally a turn-on—only made me more aggravated.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said.

Of course he did.

And he didn’t stop.

The Endless Questions

Normally, he’s a decent conversationalist. Jokes, stories, witty banter. But not today. Today he turned into a one-man interrogation squad:

• Why do I put vanilla extract and cinnamon in the coffee?
  
• Why does the UPS guy know my name?
  
• Why does my sister call three times a day?
  
• Where’s his KC Chiefs shirt our daughter bought him?
  
• Does he have to answer my aunt’s Facebook game invite?
  
• What’s for dinner? (Tinned fish.)
  
• Why didn’t I buy steak?
  
• Why do I want to go boating this summer?

By the time he asked if I was baking that orange and Cognac cake I only make at Christmas, I nearly lost it. Sir… it’s July.

Girlfriends Are for Talking

Here’s the thing: I don’t need a man who chatters like a sorority sleepover. That’s what girlfriends are for. 

Girlfriends are the ones who listen to mascara complaints, trash-bag systems, and Target parking lot meltdowns.

Men should hunt, fix stuff, get distracted in their garages, and sit through two hours of Persuasion on a rainy Sunday (fine, they can nap). They should not unleash 50 random questions in a single work day.

The Breaking Point

Hours later, I barricaded myself in my office with its marshmallow candles and greige walls. Silence at last. Until…

The door creaked open.
He walked in with a beer. Sat down on the couch. 

At first, I ignored the odd behavior.  I was taught that if you don’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t have any power.  

Then I remembered the saying “What you resist, persists.”  He was persistent today.  

Finally, I took a deep breath to prevent myself from slapping the bottle out of his hand and screaming “Get out!” two inches from his face.  

I realized in some small part of my brain that the action wouldn’t contribute to a healthy relationship.  

Instead, I calmly asked through gritted teeth, “What in God’s name are you doing?”  

He smiled. “Watching you, because you’re so pretty.”

Reader, I nearly committed felony battery.

Instead, I typed a 200-word SOS text to my sister in law who lives five minutes away. Her response? “LMAO.”

Really?  I get an abbreviation back from a cry for help?  

I’m begging you to rescue me and you think this is funny?  Well!  See if I come and pick you up the next time you can’t find your car in the Target parking lot.

After thirty minutes of staring, he left. My sanity slowly returned.

The Final Straw (Almost)

Two hours later he reappeared. Close. Too close.
“Do you think we bring out the best in each other?” he asked, eyes soulful.

Was this Oprah? Was the segment called How to Survive 24 Hours Together?

I sighed. “Yes, I do.”
“I love you,” he said.

And just like that, my murder plot dissolved. He went to pick up pizza. I finally had peace.

I stood in the kitchen, alone again, chugging Pellegrino straight from the bottle.