Loose cannons and Sunday roasts

My parents have, what I would consider, connections with people who live in Offensive Town. A place that shares its borders with  Ignorant Ville and Judgemental Hill – where the glass houses have views of the high horses put out for agistment.

There was once a “friend” who made comments about my sexuality when I didn’t bring any boys to dinner. He would also question my political beliefs as a young woman at university who was enjoying sharing feminist ideals with her new colleagues, by eloquently stating that “you can’t be a feminist because you wear a bra”.  How underwear relates to one’s ability to think, I’m yet to learn.

In this man’s presence I drank and smoked more. It was my only line of defence. No point in arguing with someone who is patently stupid. Plus, my mother would take umbrage with my calling him a “fuckwit”, at someone else’s dinner table.

His wife, when I met LSH – the first man to be tortured by being a guest at one of these gatherings said, “I am pleased you’re happy.”  I smiled, although thinking that I hadn’t realised I was unhappy before. I’m being harsh, but that type of un-thought out platitude makes my trite-ometer go haywire.

Until recently, I’ve been safe, somehow protected from the silliness of my parent’s friends. Now married and having been working full-time for what seems like an eternity, I had my lifestyle choices being challenged over a Sunday roast.  I’ve mentioned before I’m not a great wife in the traditional sense of the word. I don’t actually like the terminology for married folk particularly that of ‘wife’. They are too labelling and smell of pigeon holes. LSH and I think of ourselves as a high performing team, working synchronistically to achieve goals. This, for so many people of my parent’s generation seems impossible to fathom.

“Do you make lunch for LSH?” One woman asked.
“No”. Was my deadpan reply.
“Who does the ironing in your house?” The same one woman asked again.
“I do it, in the main, but when I’m out or too tired and it needs to be done, LSH does it.”  I said, wondering why I am giving away all this boring, mundane detail about our household chores.
“Do you cook for him?”
“Uhm, sometimes,” I replied.
“Do you clean?”
“Yes, we share tasks.”
“When you have a child who will look after it?”
Things are starting to get out of hand and I, in turn, start to behave like a five year old.
“Oh, LSH will,” I say, my tone thickening, “He’s better with remembering to feed things than I am. I can barely remember to feed the dog.” This is not entirely true, I just take longer to get ready for work than LSH does, so he’s already on the front foot with dog things.
“Oh Michelle.” Super offensive nosey woman says. “Tsk, tsk tsk. Poor LSH.”

LSH who doesn’t do confrontation, said nothing. His silence  made this woman feel like she’d uncovered some great relationship secret LSH had been hiding from me. She gave LSH a knowing, pitying look of knitted eyebrows, sad down-turned lips and puppy dog eyes. I’m insulted for both me and for LSH. Apparently while I am a crappy, selfish wife, LSH is an idiot who can’t cook or clean for himself.

I can’t believe I have to endure these types of conversations. Anything I say as retort is going to be inflammatory, hence I say nothing and bury my face in a big glass of wine.

“Are you getting drunk?” asks super offensive woman.
“Yes.” I reply.
“Don’t you have to go to work tomorrow?” she asks.
“Yes. And that’s precisely the point of this entire conversation.” I say, while my inner voice does fist pumps.