WE NEED TO TALK

    Few words in the English language penetrate and bring a sense of doom  to a man like the words, “we need to talk.”  Those words, spoken by wives around the world, have struck fear in even the most manly of men, causing them to recoil in fear and attempt to slink away before ‘the talk’ begins.  Immediately and quickly, upon hearing that dreadful phrase, I begin to replay in my mind, every single event that took place over the last week, or longer, trying in vain to figure out where I went drastically wrong.  Of course it’s no help if you do know what you’ve done wrong at that point, because then she’ll want to know why you didn’t address it yourself, without her having to point it out.
    Early in my marriage, obviously, I was extremely inexperienced in how to handle those four ominous words.  “Sure, what’s on your mind?” I’d say, with an ear to ear smile upon my face, which would soon be replaced by a very lowly frown.  Over the course of time, I have learned to NEVER utter that question, as there would never, ever be anything remotely resembling the ‘we’ in our discussion.  The talks always involve me nodding my head, occasionally, mumbling the words, “You’re right, and I’m sorry.”  Usually, when the ‘we need to talk’ phrase is launched in my direction like a Tomahawk Missile,  I have forgotten to do something, or remembered to do something, but didn’t do it right, or maybe I was simply aloof concerning something I should have taken notice of, but one thing is for sure, the missiles just keep on coming.
    Over the years, my wife, much like I have, has gained experience in when to spring the need to talk upon me.  Usually, she ambushes me when I’m under something and can’t escape.  The other day, I was attempting to unclog the kitchen sink drain, which required me to wiggle almost half my body under the cabinet. I felt a sense of impending doom sweep over my body, when she slid a chair across the floor and plopped down, letting out a long sigh.  Now that I‘m a professional sigh recognizer, I have come to know that particular worrisome exhale as the one that will somehow turn the clogged drain into the least of my worries.  Again, I  know that under no circumstances do I ever start the conversation.    That’s like asking the leader of a firing squad, “what‘s on your mind?”  There is always a glimmer of hope that the kids will provide a diversion, or the phone will ring, or perhaps an airplane will crash into the house.  Either way, I never, ever start the conversation. 
    “We need to talk,” Kristi said. 
    “Man, this thing is plugged all the way out of the house!  I’ve been fooling with this for hours!  I may have to call a plumber.  My knuckles are bleeding,” I groan, pretending not to notice her words, and hoping for a sympathy diversion due to my current predicament.  I’ve also noticed that she not only prefers me to be under something when the urge to talk arises, but she seems to like me to be flat on my back.  I guess it’s similar to a dog in the submissive position.
    “Did you not hear me?  I SAID, we need to talk.”  When she puts special emphasis on the words, ‘I said’, I know that it is then that I’m doomed.
    “Sorry.  What’s on your mind?” I continued, suddenly thankful for the plugged drain, and not having to make eye contact with her.
    “Did you even notice that I got my hair cut and colored?  Yesterday evening I came in, excited, and you didn’t even notice.  You never said a word, and things like that are important to me.  The occasional complement wouldn‘t kill you.”   She was right, I hadn’t noticed.  I don’t notice things like that.  She could have walked in with a purple Mohawk and I wouldn’t have noticed.  Maybe if she would stroll through in a sheer outfit from Fredrick’s of Hollywood  I’d notice, but a haircut?  Please.
    “I’m sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind, but that’s no excuse.  Your hair looks beautiful,” I replied, hoping to head off something even bigger.  Truly, I did have a lot on my mind.  I had been hoping that Payton Manning would get one more shot at winning another Super Bowl.                                                 Sometimes, wives are very cunning.  They’ll start with something trivial, like the haircut, and progress to what is really bothering them, softening us up before the final attack. 
    “I feel unappreciated.  I feel like you and the kids take me for granted.  I mean, when is the last time you didn’t have clean clothes in the closet when you needed them?  Do you know what Ryan just said?  He said that the work you do is harder than the work I do.  Can you believe that?”  she asked, bending down, trying to see if I was paying attention.  Honestly, I could believe that, but would never say it under any circumstances.  I wiggled a bit further under the cabinet, in hopes that I could squeeze my entire body in there somehow and hide.  Ryan and I had recently spent a very cold day in the mountains, cutting wood in the snow, and had somehow miraculously avoided getting frostbite on our fingers and toes.  It was then, that he made the observation that folding laundry was much easier that cutting wood.
    “Dad, it’s no wonder men usually don’t live as long as women.  Men work harder.  I mean, you can’t tell me folding laundry is as tough as this.”
    “Keep that thought to yourself,” I quipped, sure that he wouldn’t.  “Here’s your first lesson on women and marriage.  I don’t care how much you think you’ve done, or how hard you’ve worked, you haven‘t done diddly squat in their eyes.   I mean, you could pave Interstate 81 from Winchester to Bristol with a wheelbarrow and a shovel in 100 degree heat, by yourself, and you still haven’t even scratched the surface of the amount of work you’re wife will do before lunchtime.  Got it?  Just keep your mouth shut and live a good life and one day Heaven will be better, as far as I know, God‘s a man, so he‘ll understand our plight.”
    “OK,” he said, solemnly, while holding his frozen fingers in front of the truck’s heater vent.  “Maybe when I get married, I’ll let my wife cut the wood, and I’ll do the laundry.”
    That thought had crossed my mind many times over the years, but I had learned to never put most of my thought to words.  “No, No, No,” I said.  “Never, and I mean never say that.  You’ll certainly find out what doing without means,” I finished.  He would find out soon enough that his old man wasn’t kidding.
    I finally managed to dislodge the clog from the drain, and slowly emerged from underneath the cabinet.  Apparently, bacon grease solidifies when it comes in contact with cold surfaces, and husbands melt when they come in contact with angry wives.  “I’m sorry you feel like we don’t appreciate what you do.  I know we don’t always say it, but we do appreciate what you do.  I know you work very hard, harder than me, that’s for sure.  Why don’t we continue this discussion over a nice dinner out somewhere,” I said, pulling my tried and true dinner diversion on my frowning wife, and staring at the criss crossed, bleeding scratches on my hands.
    “Yeah, that sounds good, I could use a break from cooking dinner.” 
    Another time, I slid under my SUV to change the oil.   I had just unscrewed the oil plug, and the thick, black liquid began running into the bucket I had stationed below, with the first little bit drowning my hands and wristwatch.  Suddenly, and without warning, a pair of feet appeared in front of the car.  First, I heard the sigh, followed by a slight tapping of the fingers on the metal above my head.  I explained the sigh earlier, but the sigh, coupled with the finger tapping, meant that things were WAY bad.  “Do you have a minute?  We need to talk,” Kristi said, in a tone that made me want to live the rest of my life in a prone position underneath the car.
    “Gosh, it’s tight under here.  My hands are covered in oil, and there’s no way I’m going to reach that oil filter.  You know, if one of the tires were to suddenly blow, do you know I‘d be crushed to death?” I moaned, using my most sorrowful voice.
    My wife was now tapping the toe of her shoe on the concrete garage floor, almost in unison with the finger tapping.  Apparently the possibility of having a flattened husband meant nothing to her, based on her ignoring my comment.  That meant that my immediate attention was required, and would require my sliding out from under the car to meet face to face.  So, I slid out, while the oil drained, stood, and stared at her.
    “We’re doing something wrong!  Ryan and Sidney are out of control.  Do you know what she just said to me?  She said that just because I’m a teacher doesn’t mean that I know everything.  Would you have ever said that to your mother?  I know I wouldn’t have,”  she said, with the intensity growing in her voice with each new word.
    “Why did she say that?” I asked, knowing what was coming.  When our kids won an award, or were recognized for something good, it was most assuredly due to her hard word and dedication as a mother.  When they veered off the straight and narrow, or broke something, it was due to something they had surely learned by observing me.
    “I was trying to explain to her about how electricity in a house works, and she said that she’d rather you explain it to her.  Can you believe that?”  she exclaimed.  Actually, I could believe that.  The kids had seen  me repair, remodel, and rebuild almost every room in the house, and new wiring had always been part of my work.
    “The nerve of that child,” I said, with a most incredulous look on my face.  “I’m going to have a talk with her as soon as I finish the oil change.”
    The finger tapping continued and then the true bombshell was dropped, sort of like the principal attack after the shock and awe.   “She also cussed,” she continued, tilting her head in a downward position while wrinkling her brow.  Those particular facial expressions mean that she’s waiting on me to admit something.  In this case she was attempting to pry an admission of guilt concerning our cussing ten-year-old daughter.
    “What’d she say?”
    “Damn.”
    “Where did she possibly hear that?”  I asked.  I knew the possibilities were endless.  Television and all it’s trashy shows, other children at school, or perhaps in a magazine she’d read were some examples of where she could have heard or seen the word.  But in my wife’s mind, there was only one source of such heinous profanity.  Me.  She didn’t need to actually accuse me of indoctrinating our child into the dark world of bad words, but her face told the tale.
    “Look, I’m not especially worried about the fact that she said the word, damn.  It’s just that she said it so nonchalantly in conversation with me,” she said, while softening her face a little.
    “I’ll talk to her.”  With that, she turned, and walked back toward the house.  I was thankful to crawl back under the car and finish with the oil.  Later, when I had the opportunity to correct our daughter, I made it short and sweet.
    “Mom said you said damn.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Don’t say that anymore.”
    “OK.”  With that, the conversation was over.
    The dreaded ‘we need to talk’ barbs will continue to fly, but I, in my infinite wisdom, will continue to deflect and dodge, and just keep on crawling under things.  I will wait, like the condemned soul waiting for the leader of the firing squad to give the command to commence firing.  And, alas, I always admit my guilt, even when I haven’t the slightest clue as to what I’ve done.  There will be no doing without for me, but for my son, there will surely be a few lonely nights on a lumpy couch.  But, just as I have, he will learn, and master the art of admitting guilt for the sake of keeping he peace and to keep the home fires burning warmly.