the calm after the storm

so after six hours, a veritable marathon, of ugly shouting, accusation, name calling and near fisticuffs...after little upset tummies disgorged themselves all about my studio, and 2 4-legged furbabies who have huge capacities for love but english as a second language calmed down...after the husband and stepson called it a battle and exhausted themselves and every adjective in the dictionary and went to their separate corners of the world - briefly, after AFTER all that, husband and i sat down to dinner...me, nerves jagged from the sounds and from restraining myself from going downstairs...him from the effort of the epic and for feeling as though his son was lost to him. The details aren't to be revealed here, but let me give a gentle piece of advice: if someone wants to give you access to $28K just like that, this was not the proper way to show thanks. use this as an example of what not to do. i feel that so strongly, that when the heat resumed an hour later, and i almost joined bulimia cat on all fours, whatever force, sensibility or thought process that held me upstairs to let these testosterone laden combatants "clear the air," well, the force was not with me no longer. (in a battle of hormones, estrogen wins every time). i began to watch myself from the sidelines like those I Died But Came Back shows...i imagined myself literally flying down the stairs - no foot/carpet contact...screeching to a halt in front of the new stainless fridge covered with some shmutz that no one has cleaned up after...growing at least 3 feet to absolute Sasquatch proportions...and i may have said something to the effect of "It's my turn to talk," in a Dirty Harry type of calm voice that new listeners may think an offer of cookies or help with laundry was to follow. it's not an affectation. it just happens. and my husband, dear man, who has lived with me these 10 years, god bless him, my husband has seen my rage only on special and rare occasions, but those occasions have lodged in his memory cells like life-survival instincts...like a Pavlovian response, i suppose, when he hears those words and that tone in combination, he understands at a cellular level that the feces is about to hit the air movement device and no one will be happy soon and the best thing to do is to stand quietly like a deer in headlights until the crap stops flying. i, on the other hand, understand that he is a man. and understand that no matter how heartfelt the words or how long I've kept some particular Mt. St. Helens of an issue under wraps, he will hear this: BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH don't you ever BLAH BLAH BLAH do you not understandhowcouldyoueverblahblahblah. but like Mt. St. Helens, when i get to that point, there's no stopping it. and so, patient reader, as i arrived on my chariot of doom into my kitchen, parking myself at the triangular center of them both and said, It's My Turn To Talk, my husband drew in a sharp breath and held it like it was his precious last and didn't want to waste it on an exhale. but his son, being young and inexperienced and arrogant, patiently advised me in a tone usually reserved for small children, or those from a lesser god, advised Me that they were having a private conversation. (i'll let you listen to the same crickets here that entertained the last calm moment in my humble kitchen just before Armageddon). upstairs, the dog began to howl like the wolf she is - howling for Coco & Pixie next door to help her escape the coming vortex or at least call Jim Cantore to witness. i am exhausted to admit, i lost it. i did. all over the place. i may have yelled I'm Just Getting Warmed Up with a subconscious nod to Al Pacino, at one point, as Regular Thoughts mingled with ephemera from movies, snippets of conversation overheard in line at the grocery store, the 7 words George Carlin said you can't say on TV although at least 6 have been sneaked through...all these words and thoughts came tumbling out like verbal vomit. my husband eye began to twitch. however, his son stood ready for his turn to speak with a smug, slight grin on his face, which had this been the 50's, would be now stored in the fridge in a jar with pickles. so, it's tiring even to write this, and i'm sure will bring back memories to some who had to advise a son or daughter in the gentlest possible way, that it was time to leave the nest...to go about the world freely and make their own shiny lives, and that hopefully it will, indeed, be better than the one that their parents lived, and that hopefully they will succeed at everything they put their hand to...and hopefully will remain successfully out in their new lives at least until you can repurpose their rooms.