My 12 Days: Days 2-3, truth and respect

When it comes to the stories I want to tell two things matter, truth and respect.
The truth is the condition for which the story comes to be.  It comes form that place well understood and constantly evolving in all of us.  For me, the truth comprises everything it takes and was to be who I am now.  No one will ever understand my truth in the way I do.  However, for those that try to understand and find a piece of themselves instead, respect is born.
Here is my truth.
In my life I've witnessed and experienced conditions that have helped me to develop and evolve the way I conduct myself with people.  As a child I was bullied by my peers and my parents.  I was never cool enough to be around and when being cool meant acting irresponsibly, I was never going to be good enough to meet my parents expectations.  In order to survive I learned to maneuver circumstances like roads to a professional driver.  With every impasse I took away a lesson in fairness--I learned to treat others in ways they thought was okay to treat me.
Today I practice this lesson with a surgeon's efficacy:
This afternoon while eating at Wendy's with my husband and my mother I noticed dirt smudges near my husband's right eye.  Alerted, I took a napkin to his face telling him what I saw and wiping it away.  When I finished, my husband asked me to find the dirt smudge I found and when the napkin came up empty, he acted like an asshole.
"Oh look, no fucking dirt on the napkin what a surprise."  My husband turned his face away and finished his burger.
I felt like a crazy person staring at an empty napkin knowing full well I saw and wiped away what looked like grit from my husband's face.  I looked over at my mother sitting across from us who was amused.  I seethed.
By the time we all finished eating, my husband reached for me, caressing my arm with his index finger.  I turned to face him.
"Hello," he said to me with a grin.
"Are you kidding?" I asked him flatly.  "You acted like a dick to me and all you have to say is hello?"
"What?" My husband asked.
"There was dirt on your face and you caught an attitude after we couldn't find it on the napkin," I said to him.  I said a lot of other stuff to him too accompanied by off color comments.  But I promised that the next time, booger, boil, or acid burning through his skin into his skull, I wasn't touching him.
My mother sat feeling sorry for my husband.  I could see it in her eyes.  But instead of finding the part of herself that would be equally annoyed had it been my father the exchange took place with, she admonished me.  What I said was bad and, how I said it was worse.  Nevermind her being amused by my husband's dickhead response.
The early evening carried on quietly as we finished running our errands.  As I picked up the last of our food shop from the trunk of my mother's car, she spoke.
"I want to say this and let it go so that it doesn't hang in the air," she began.  "I hope  you don't talk to your husband like that in front of me again."  She looked at me from the top rim of her glasses, "you acted like an asshole."
My mouth opened before hers shut.  "He acted like an asshole," I retorted.  "Perhaps you should've taken notice of that."
I walked off with my shopping headed to my apartment justified, and more annoyed than when this all started.  How could it be so easy to overlook the respect for my position?  Surely I'd have rather not speak to my husband in front of my mother but fair is fair.  My husband chose to conduct himself in a manner unfit a man who should've been thankful his wife cared how he looked with something on his face very close to his eye.
He and I are now separated by a room as I write this hearing him chuckle at the TV.