Talk.

Last week was one of the hardest weeks of my life.  It was hard like dealing with everything that could throw a person into a depression is hard.  Seriously.  Before we begin I warn you now: this post includes disturbing images.

Dell Again...
We ordered and waited for my brand new Dell Inspiron 11 3000 series to arrive with breathless anticipation.

It was more me doing that waiting, but Wednesday afternoon we cracked open the box and have been cracking the nut since.  First, this sleek laptop could double as a clutch.  Just give me an hour with colored utility tape and glitter.  But for as cute as it is, my computer has become the epitome of "terrible twos."

My half PC laptop, half wanna-be tablet is a big learning curve.  The windows start page is reminiscent of the iPad start page except all of the apps you might be interested in integrating into a personalized start up can be found in a mess of apps underneath the near non-existent white arrow in circle.  After that "oh" moment, there is learning how to open, switch between and close applications.

Were it not for my husband's light touchscreen touch skills, my PC clutch would've ended up at the PC hospital.  Apparently the banging sounds my laptop was making as I was practicing drag and drop closes made him nervous in the we can't get the hundreds back if it breaks, way.
The most aggravating was the brand new Windows 8.1 update.  If The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have made the Royal Family relatable, the Windows 8.1 update throws a PC user right into the building of the tower of Babel, live and without a translator.  I sat looking at the blank page Blogger became in disbelief. I don't know why it happened in a way to be able to explain it, but I do know I am able to write again thanks to Google Chrome.  #downloadnumber...

If I'm a Bitch, Consider Yourself Bit
As our wait for my Dell Inspiron headache began, I became visual meat.

My husband and I started our Saturday morning (not this Saturday but the one before), bickering.  While that isn't different for our relationship, what occurred later in the day was.  We were walking back home with Chinese Food and enjoying our truce with light conversation.  Walking up the same side of the road we were walking down was a black guy, who was enjoying more than the day glancing at the backside of a young woman walking some feet in front of us.  My husband was mid-sentence as we continued onward.  And then...
"What the fuck are you looking at?"  I met the black guy's glare on my backside.  I had a feeling I would be "checked out" as the woman ahead of me, but as he looked at me this guy was moving his lips as if he were savoring a meal.  I was pissed.
My snap caught my husband off guard.  He asked me what was going on.  I told him.  He looked back to the black guy who was equally caught off guard.
Hubby's snap was to push me homeward.  In the meantime, the black guy regained his sense.
"Who the fuck are you talking to?"  His face contorted into a snarl.
"I'm talking to you, you fuck."  I was going to ask him again what he thought he had the right to look at but my husband grabbed my arm and urged me home.
"Bitch."  That was all the black guy could muster.  I thanked him with my middle finger.

By the time we arrived at our apartment I was furious.  How could that black guy violate me that way?  And while we are on the subject of that black guy, listen up.
Being an attractive woman comes with perks and pests.  In order to get through both, every woman must have confidence.  How a woman conjures her confidence can be explained in this way:  Any magician worth their mettle doesn't give up the secret of their tricks.  As a woman, my confidence is as unpredictable as a magic trick as I am constantly practicing my slight of hand.  However, as a woman, it is my job to protect my body and mind, and spirit appropriately, depending on the situation.  That Saturday afternoon when my backside became a juicy burger was the exact situation where cursing and yelling did their parts to protect me.  I am not an object.
That black guy wasn't the first black guy, or guy to get caught looking where he wasn't supposed to.  My husband for whatever his reason decided a response on his part would be worthless.  Was it worthless because that black guy was black?  Since my husband is white, some might assume yes but because my husband didn't even see the violation occur once he saw I was defending myself, his urge to get me home assuredly was for the benefit of not having to be placed into a confrontational situation because of me.

So, at home my husband and I argued.  His point: what if something worse had happened?  As so far as I was concerned the worst did.  I fought alone to defend my body against a man while my man stood by doing and saying nothing to reinforce my stance.  I expected my husband would see the light, but he decided to see red.  The decorative tissue box was his first victim.

Watching the tissue float like snow to the cold ground transported me back to the kitchen.  I was five.  My mother was at the stove cooking as I sat at our table coloring.  Our peace was interrupted by my father, who for whatever the reason was upset.  A fight was sparked between them.
I forced my concentration on my coloring book until I looked up.  It was a good thing I did too.  A dish my father intended for my mother was now flying in my direction.
There was a whoosh and then a smash.  I was out of there.

Back in winter, I decided then and there to not relive my parent's past.  I took off my wedding rings and placed them before my husband on the coffee table.  He was silent.
"I'm not going to live this way with you," I said to him evenly.
My husband claimed my wedding rings as his next victim, slapping them from the coffee table.  They landed like coins spilling from a purse.
He got up.  After he walked up to me, he pressed his forehead and chest against mine.  I had the distinct feeling he was squaring up to me.
I stuck up my hand.  It made just enough room to separate us.  "No," I said, "this isn't going to happen."
He slapped my hand away, but I held my ground.  He kicked me out of our apartment.
"No," I answered, "I'm not leaving."

Earlier that day after our bickering match died down into civil speaking and  my husband told me that in situations where I have chosen to leave mid-fight, he thought was childish.  As I held my ground yet again, it was my husband who decided to take the childish route.
In hindsight letting him leave would've been the right thing to do.  One thing I've found to be helpful about stepping away is the air we needed but couldn't get in each other's faces.  But, I was listening so well that I tried to stop him and got hit for it.

Yes, that's right.  My husband hit me.

It all started when I stood in the doorway of our bedroom pleading with him not to leave.  In one last attempt to keep him from going, he grabbed me and threw me.  I think I was meant to land on the floor, but I managed to stop myself landing on the bed instead.  After I caught my footing, I fought back.  He grabbed my neck and I pushed him to the bed.  In an instant, we were in a fight, a for real fight.  As I went to grab for him, he pushed me to the bed and elbowed my neck and chest before attempting to pin me down.  I grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and pushed him up off of me.  For a moment, we looked at each other.  I didn't want to fight him, I just didn't want for him to leave.  Things seemed to be calming down when I decided to slide my leg from under him to separate myself.  That move set him off giving him the strength to pin me down completely.  Both of my arms sat squashed underneath his knees.
Until now, I'd made all the wrong decisions.  I decided to defend myself when that black guy made a meal of my butt with his eyes.  I was furious with my husband for just standing by.  I decided to not relive my parent's past when I took off my wedding rings.  I tried to get my husband to stay when he made the childish decision to leave.  Now underneath the weight of him, I could decide to continue the fight, or, just decide to stop making decisions.  He won.

He got off of me and ran for the bathroom.  I stayed in our bedroom and made myself like a quiet mouse.

I was shocked.  Why could he be so brave to lash out at me instead of helping when I needed him to?  Why was it so wrong of me to defend myself against a pervert?  That black guy was a pervert.  Days later I saw him on the news when local police made round up arrests of sex offenders that failed to register themselves with the state I live in.

Of course, my husband was embarrassed and hurt by his actions.  His words however regarding the subject weren't so sincere.  He said he couldn't believe I'd made him so angry when no one had ever made him that angry before he met me.  He said he didn't want to think that I was the person who brought the worst out in him.  He said he felt isolated.  He has no friends.  And, I have a problem with him doing things with people who aren't me.
It seemed his lash-out brought out everything but what I really needed to hear.  I was more hurt than I had ever been.  The bruises on my arms and chest felt nothing like what my heart was feeling.  I couldn't get out of bed for days.  Yet, my husband and I kept talking to each other.  Everyday we talked.  And of the things we discussed the most important was this: I needed you to act on my behalf and you didn't.

As random as each of these events are to each other I couldn't help but think about how the learning curve. It seems the rules for tech and tact are constantly changing.  Certain things do need a bit of violence to move the message.  Of the four in this week's tale, that black guy got exactly what he deserved.

My laptop is new, it's fast and, it will take attention to get to know how it works best for me.  My relationship is nearly nine years old, five years in marriage next month.  It will take attention to get to know how it works best for us.  Touch screen, or, touch skin, attention will keep each on the light and loving end.