Living in Hell

Fire and Brimstone Original art by Christina

Fire and Brimstone
Original art by Christina


The devil came to our wedding, which I think was quite appropriate as we willingly agreed to be shackled and bound to one another.  Overall, marriage is quite agreeable, especially if you’re married to the one you love. Sad to say, for a lot of folks, that’s not the case.

Still, no matter how much two people love each other, living together — within or without the confines of wedlock — has its moments. Most are good, some are even better, and now and then there are those that suck.  Thankfully, in our home, those miserable moments are few and far between.

But, the devil is hanging around, remember? And right now, I feel as though I’m living in hell.

The frustration started yesterday morning — and now, the truly observant will notice that I didn’t come here to my little corner to play yesterday.  This will explain my absence.

It began in a simple, innocent little way. I came into my writing room, sat down to attend to a few writing-related tasks before I started playing around, and realized that I needed to re-charge my Kindle. I grabbed the cord…which is nearly worn-out. Over-use, I suppose. I’m addicted to my gadgets. Desktop computers. Laptop. Smart phone. Kindle. Nook. I’m plugged in and turned on most of the time.

And my dear, sweet, wonderful, smart husband was home yesterday morning. He is, in fact, home again today, and will, in fact, be home all week…not that I’m complaining. I love him. Really.

I took the worn-out power cord to him. Maybe he’d have a little electrical tape to wrap around it? Sure. No problem.

But then…things began…well, getting noisy. I heard him stomping around, and of course, the parrot was squawking. I got up to check and discovered my “honey bunny” — yes, that’s what I call him — wound-up, stressed-out, and about to blow one of his proverbial gaskets.

He couldn’t find the license tags for his car. You know, the little stickers you attach to your license plate. He’d bought them…when? Uh, more than a month ago. And he’d forgotten about them. Uh, more than a month ago. Which means he’s been driving around — 80 miles a day round trip to work and back — on expired tags. For, uh, more than a month.

He tore up the kitchen searching. And the bedroom. The file cabinets. I, of course, was required to also tear through my writing room on the chance that maybe his tags had somehow ended up in my office. Yeah, right. Nice try, but no cigar, and no car tags either.

He ranted and raved and cursed and swore. And all the while, the parrot squawked.

Now, what’s wrong with this picture? What’s wrong is that misplaced tags aren’t worth apoplectic fits. There’s a simple solution, honey bunny. The DMV opens at 8:30 AM. You go there. You say “I lost my tags”, and you get new ones.

Which is what he finally did. Within 20 minutes, he was in, out, home, and the tags were on the car.  Now, I ask you, was that worth an hour or more of ranting, raving, and parrot-squawking?

That hour wore me out. I shut the door of my office, covered up the parrot, and had a long soak in the tub with lots of “smelly stuff” — my much-loved essential oils. Even then, I was in no mood for writing. I was a bit like that frazzled power cord. Totally worn-out.

The good news is that not only did he get his tags, he did fix my power cord. The bad news is that parrot is still squawking.


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