Let's Be Honest: I Exploited A Fight With Brock For A Taco

I've had a long day. I woke up at 6:15, worked for an hour at my morning job, drove Mojo to the groomer's, went to work at my regular job, rushed to pick Mojo up  from the groomer's at lunch, finished work, grabbed dinner at the grocery store, stopped by the post office...

So you might  understand  my frustration when, at 6pm, I tried calling my husband only to find out that--despite multiple reminders from yours truly--he had not yet set up the voicemail on his new phone.

Carrying three bulging grocery bags up the stairs, I see him at the back door.

"SET UP YOUR FREAKING VOICEMAIL."

"Where have you been?! I've been locked out for twenty minutes!"

"I tried calling you!"

"My phone died!"

"You said you were 'walking now' when you called!"

"I said I was 'locked out'!"

Ah ha. The swallowed "ah" sound. The dipthongs. A simple misunderstanding . . . BUT NO. I'M JAVERTING THIS ISH. I WILL NEVER YIEEEELD. THIS I SWEAR BY THE STAAAAARS.

"It's not my fault that YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO TALK . . . What are you doing? Why are you eating a cheese quesadilla?"

"I want a snack!"

"I just  went to to grocery store for dinner! You can't wait twenty minutes?!"

"I WANT A SNACK."

"FINE. MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN DINNER."

Every spousal fight needs a pièce de résistance, and mine is usually the E.L.E. (Expletive-Laced Exit). Weaker expletives (you know what they are) are used when I'm not really  mad, but fully committed to a fleeting sense of umbrage. Stronger expletives (you know what it is) are used when Brock has royally messed up. Which--let's be honest--is never, but sometimes you gotta shake things up, y'know?

This brings me to the second part of the E.L.E: The exit. As an immature and petty person, I enjoy the drama of putting on my coat, grabbing the keys, walking out the door, and--let's be honest--closing it a little more forcefully than normal. Oh yes, see how easy this is for me to do? I have it in me to leave you WHENEVER I WANT. And who knows? It might be FOR GOOD this time. So you'd better freaking set up your voicemail, because you never know when it might cost you THE BEST THING YOU EVER HAD. Oh, and by the way, I love you. I need you. I would die without you. BUT LOOK AT ME WALK OUT THIS DOOR! YOU'D BETTER WATCH IT, MISTER.

With but a single car between us, I'd effectively trapped Brock in our apartment . . . dinner-less. A coup de grâce  if there ever was one! Cold blood coursed through my veins! A surge of endorphins seized my central nervous system! Devil Kristi on my left shoulder danced a little jig.

There is, however, one unfortunate hiccup to the E.L.E., my friends.

What to do next?

No, really. You've just made this big dramatic exit with your proverbial (or sometimes not-so-proverbial) middle fingers in their air . . . where do you go now? Because--let's be honest--you can't just go back thirty seconds later and say what you want to, which is "HAHA JK I'M NOT REALLY MAD LET'S BE FRIENDS AND WATCH NETFLIX." No. You are mad!  He has to know it!  You have to show it!

This absence must last at least twenty minutes.

Solution? A grilled gourmet steak taco at Rubio's. AKA the best taco in history of ever. Steak, avocado, bacon, tomatillo salsa, toasted cheese, cilantro, onion, cotija, chipotle sauce, lime.  

Thirty minutes later, I returned home with two fish tacos and a half-eaten churro for Brock.

Because--let's be honest--I'm pretty much the best wife ever.