"Aren't You Gonna Ask Me How I Shot?"
I burst through the front door with all the spontaneous energy of one of the clay pigeons I had dusted hours earlier, and called out excitedly to my wife. I had some big news and I wanted to share it. Moments later our three year old son came streaking past me emitting an ear-piercing squeal and waving his underpants like a small flag. Toys littered the floors in the foyer and the living room. A children’s movie played to an empty room, its clinks, clanks, bangs, booms, and music providing the soundtrack that constantly underscores the days of my stay-at-home wife and our two children. I found my daughter playing on the floor of her nursery and watched her for a short while until she noticed me and smiled her bright, beautiful smile that lights up the whole world and melts away whatever problems I think I might be having. She let out a squeak and scurried toward me before stopping at my feet and looking up at me with her big blue eyes. I asked her where her mother was and she cocked her head and gave me a look intended to remind me that she is only nine months old and I really should come to terms with the fact that she cannot answer my questions just yet. I picked her up and walked down the hall to find my wife.
I heard her before I saw her. She was huffing and grumbling and I made out the unmistakable sounds of a woman who had just spent an entire day with a toddler and an infant. I walked through the door of our son’s room and found my wife sitting cross-legged on the floor putting away toys. “Please do not get down his blocks anymore. He never cleans them up and they just end up all over the place. They need to stay up on the shelf in his closet for a while, okay?” She looked back down and continued putting the blocks in their big plastic bag without waiting for me to acknowledge what she had said. That is how I knew the question was purely rhetorical and was intended to serve as a directive rather than an interrogative. I asked if she’d had a rough day and the look she shot me from underneath her eyebrows told me not to ask. It told me to also get the kids fed, bathed, settled down, and in their beds. Mama was clocking out.
I didn’t say a word. I simply turned around, left the room, and got to work. I did not let the fact that she did not ask how I had done at the sporting clays shoot bother me. She was up to her elbows in blocks and trains and dinosaurs, and seemed pretty busy. It must have just slipped her mind. So I went about the task of feeding our children and didn’t really give it a second thought. I couldn’t wait to tell her how well I’d done. I knew it would really cheer her up after a tough day.
Later, while the kids splashed and hollered in the bath, it dawned on me that I’d been home nearly three hours and my wife had yet to ask me about my day. I was beginning to get a little resentful. While she had spent her day at home in the air-conditioning with satellite TV and our angelic children, I had been out in 90-plus degree heat for four hours with little rubber plugs stuffed in my ears and stinging sweat running down into my eyes. I could not simply set down my shotgun when I needed a rest the way my wife puts down our daughter when her arms get tired from carrying her. I had to carry that thing everywhere I went all afternoon. And that shell bag hanging from my hip was really heavy until I got through the fifth or sixth station and lightened my load by roughly half. I tried not to think selfish thoughts, however, and focused on the fact that she was probably just too busy to initiate a lengthy conversation about the shoot. Yes, that’s it, I thought; she wants to wait until she is able to devote adequate time and attention to the matter. Relieved, I extracted the bath sponge from my daughter’s mouth and scrubbed away.
After the kids were asleep, my wife and I sat down to a late dinner. While my wife watched a popular cooking show, I began to gather my thoughts about how I’d relay the details of the clays shoot. But she never asked. In fact, she barely spoke at all other than to tell me what a long day she had had, how hyper and loud our son had been, and the number of blown out diapers she’d changed for our daughter. I was beginning to get really frustrated. I felt as though I was being taken totally for granted and that she had no interest in hearing about my shotgunning. I understand staying at home with young kids all day can be frustrating, and I will be the first to point out how hard my wife works. But I had shot really well, darn it; better than I’d shot in a long time. I had even hit a couple rabbits and one of those upside down clays where only the black underside of the dome is facing the shooter. I was starting to get suspicious that she had no interest whatsoever in how I had fared. As we were finishing dinner, my wife asked me what I was about to do next. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess maybe I’ll clean my shotgun and then call it a day. I fired a hundred-somethin’ shells through that thing and probably ought to give it a good cleaning.” I reveled at how deftly I had broached the subject and lauded myself over the seamless segue I had offered up for her. “Whatever,” she replied flatly before leaving the room.
I washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen in soured silence. Would it be too much to ask for her to show the slightest interest in my day? I flung the dish towel down onto the counter a little harder, hoping that would tip her off. It didn’t work; neither did the extra oomph with which I slammed the dishwasher shut.
A half-hour later I crawled into bed next to my wife, kissed her on the shoulder, and waited. After a few minutes, she let out a sigh and reiterated what a long day it had been. I acknowledged her but said no more. I wanted to give her the opportunity to unwind enough to address what she had no doubt been wanting to discuss all evening and ask me about the clays tournament, now that she had no distractions and nothing was competing for her attention. Ten silent minutes later, it was clear she had not picked up on my subtle hints and I was going to have to bring it up for her. “Aren’t you gonna ask me how I shot?”
“Huh? I’m sorry. How’d you do?” She infused her question with about as much enthusiasm and interest as a pimply-faced teenage cashier employs when inquiring whether you want paper or plastic. I decided to be excited anyway and ran with it. “Pretty good. For me at least,” I replied. “I finally broke 50; got 53 in fact. I had a couple of 8s and even a nine. The two I got on the third station and the couple threes I got killed me, though. I’m still not leading those falling away shots enough.” She shifted a little bit and cleared her throat before turning her head halfway toward me and offering disinterestedly, “That’s it? A 53? Honey, if that was a test you would have bombed it. Sounds like you need to do more than just clean your gun. Can I go to sleep now?”
I rolled onto my other side and turned my back to her, firmly entrenched in the belief that the divide between men and women had never been more vast, and even more firmly convinced that we may yet never cross it. After all, if my breaking the fifty percent threshold for the first time on the clays course isn’t enough to realign Mars and Venus, then I don’t know what will. In the pitch black stillness of the bedroom, feeling miles rather than inches away from my wife, I concluded that the only thing that would make me feel better would be a trip to the sporting goods store. Only a new pair of something camouflaged could cheer me up now. And she knows I deserve it.
(c) Roger Guilian 2007
I heard her before I saw her. She was huffing and grumbling and I made out the unmistakable sounds of a woman who had just spent an entire day with a toddler and an infant. I walked through the door of our son’s room and found my wife sitting cross-legged on the floor putting away toys. “Please do not get down his blocks anymore. He never cleans them up and they just end up all over the place. They need to stay up on the shelf in his closet for a while, okay?” She looked back down and continued putting the blocks in their big plastic bag without waiting for me to acknowledge what she had said. That is how I knew the question was purely rhetorical and was intended to serve as a directive rather than an interrogative. I asked if she’d had a rough day and the look she shot me from underneath her eyebrows told me not to ask. It told me to also get the kids fed, bathed, settled down, and in their beds. Mama was clocking out.
I didn’t say a word. I simply turned around, left the room, and got to work. I did not let the fact that she did not ask how I had done at the sporting clays shoot bother me. She was up to her elbows in blocks and trains and dinosaurs, and seemed pretty busy. It must have just slipped her mind. So I went about the task of feeding our children and didn’t really give it a second thought. I couldn’t wait to tell her how well I’d done. I knew it would really cheer her up after a tough day.
Later, while the kids splashed and hollered in the bath, it dawned on me that I’d been home nearly three hours and my wife had yet to ask me about my day. I was beginning to get a little resentful. While she had spent her day at home in the air-conditioning with satellite TV and our angelic children, I had been out in 90-plus degree heat for four hours with little rubber plugs stuffed in my ears and stinging sweat running down into my eyes. I could not simply set down my shotgun when I needed a rest the way my wife puts down our daughter when her arms get tired from carrying her. I had to carry that thing everywhere I went all afternoon. And that shell bag hanging from my hip was really heavy until I got through the fifth or sixth station and lightened my load by roughly half. I tried not to think selfish thoughts, however, and focused on the fact that she was probably just too busy to initiate a lengthy conversation about the shoot. Yes, that’s it, I thought; she wants to wait until she is able to devote adequate time and attention to the matter. Relieved, I extracted the bath sponge from my daughter’s mouth and scrubbed away.
After the kids were asleep, my wife and I sat down to a late dinner. While my wife watched a popular cooking show, I began to gather my thoughts about how I’d relay the details of the clays shoot. But she never asked. In fact, she barely spoke at all other than to tell me what a long day she had had, how hyper and loud our son had been, and the number of blown out diapers she’d changed for our daughter. I was beginning to get really frustrated. I felt as though I was being taken totally for granted and that she had no interest in hearing about my shotgunning. I understand staying at home with young kids all day can be frustrating, and I will be the first to point out how hard my wife works. But I had shot really well, darn it; better than I’d shot in a long time. I had even hit a couple rabbits and one of those upside down clays where only the black underside of the dome is facing the shooter. I was starting to get suspicious that she had no interest whatsoever in how I had fared. As we were finishing dinner, my wife asked me what I was about to do next. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess maybe I’ll clean my shotgun and then call it a day. I fired a hundred-somethin’ shells through that thing and probably ought to give it a good cleaning.” I reveled at how deftly I had broached the subject and lauded myself over the seamless segue I had offered up for her. “Whatever,” she replied flatly before leaving the room.
I washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen in soured silence. Would it be too much to ask for her to show the slightest interest in my day? I flung the dish towel down onto the counter a little harder, hoping that would tip her off. It didn’t work; neither did the extra oomph with which I slammed the dishwasher shut.
A half-hour later I crawled into bed next to my wife, kissed her on the shoulder, and waited. After a few minutes, she let out a sigh and reiterated what a long day it had been. I acknowledged her but said no more. I wanted to give her the opportunity to unwind enough to address what she had no doubt been wanting to discuss all evening and ask me about the clays tournament, now that she had no distractions and nothing was competing for her attention. Ten silent minutes later, it was clear she had not picked up on my subtle hints and I was going to have to bring it up for her. “Aren’t you gonna ask me how I shot?”
“Huh? I’m sorry. How’d you do?” She infused her question with about as much enthusiasm and interest as a pimply-faced teenage cashier employs when inquiring whether you want paper or plastic. I decided to be excited anyway and ran with it. “Pretty good. For me at least,” I replied. “I finally broke 50; got 53 in fact. I had a couple of 8s and even a nine. The two I got on the third station and the couple threes I got killed me, though. I’m still not leading those falling away shots enough.” She shifted a little bit and cleared her throat before turning her head halfway toward me and offering disinterestedly, “That’s it? A 53? Honey, if that was a test you would have bombed it. Sounds like you need to do more than just clean your gun. Can I go to sleep now?”
I rolled onto my other side and turned my back to her, firmly entrenched in the belief that the divide between men and women had never been more vast, and even more firmly convinced that we may yet never cross it. After all, if my breaking the fifty percent threshold for the first time on the clays course isn’t enough to realign Mars and Venus, then I don’t know what will. In the pitch black stillness of the bedroom, feeling miles rather than inches away from my wife, I concluded that the only thing that would make me feel better would be a trip to the sporting goods store. Only a new pair of something camouflaged could cheer me up now. And she knows I deserve it.
(c) Roger Guilian 2007
posted by Days Afield Host | 1:56 PM
