I love revenge—not the physical kind. Well, with my perimenopause, causing harm is my first reaction, then I remember adult culpability. I don’t want to go to prison. If I do go, I want to go with my best friend. Therefore, instant revenge was not an option. We would need to unleash the inner beast at the same time.
We have had endless inebriated conversations about the prospect of prison. Wake up, eat breakfast, work out, read a book, and then sleep. Family would only be able to visit if they were on the list, cultivated by us. We would only be able to see three family members at a time. With our big families, this would be a treat. I whisper to myself, “Not yet, my sweet love, control yourself.” The rage slowly dissipates, causing physical pain to fizzle down into inflicting inconvenience. Make them think they are losing their mind. Petty psychological warfare.
So, not quite an eye for an eye—more an eye for sand in your eyes. The person feels the grit in their eye; normal blinking becomes painful. To the outsider, they look crazy, and rubbing their eyes only makes it worse. The best part? No one really cares; they just leave you to get on with it. Once the sand grain has been extracted, normal life resumes. I feel restorative justice has been served. The person in question would have suffered mild discomfort. A distant memory.
I mainly carry out these acts of revenge on my husband when he has done something to annoy me. The annoyance is not big enough for confrontation or discussion. However, the annoyance has caused a reaction in my body that requires resolution.
The annoyances fall into three main buckets:
- Doing something he shouldn’t be doing.
- Not doing something he said he would do.
- Fuckery (like the ad hoc on your job description).
There are several levels of revenge. From making his tea with the dregs from the kettle to going into his wardrobe and pulling at his favourite clothes. I will then tug at the seams until I hear a satisfying rip. I also like popping the buttons off his shirts. I’m not savage—not all the buttons, just one. A button pops off, soaring through the air—declaring its freedom. The button lands after flying—where is it? A mystery! I don’t care, not my problem. Maybe if he hoovered once in a while, he would hear the cries of his buttons getting sucked up.
He is concerned the washing machine has a vendetta against him. However, giving a fuck means he will have to do his own washing. And he doesn’t give a fuck that much!
My highest-ticket-value act of revenge has to be when I kicked his work laptop down the stairs. I was furious with him. Then I saw it there at the top of the stairs, with the strap dangling menacingly down the stairs. I had asked him on several occasions not to leave the laptop bag so precariously placed. It’s a slips, trips, and falls hazard. If one of the kids got their foot tangled up and fell down the stairs, it would mean a whole fucking day in A&E for me! The aftercare would be my responsibility. Any follow-up with medical professionals would also fall under my area of responsibility. I don’t need that!
I find that any kind of medical follow-up always falls under the mum’s responsibility. It’s as if we are born with the ‘medical emergency plug-in’. If one of my kids is sick, my husband’s default position is to ignore them, Calpol them, and then ask me what ‘we’ should do.
One of my divorced friends told me that being divorced doesn’t mean an equal split of tasks. She still has to cover all the doctor/hospital/physio appointments in her week. Her ex-husband once took the children away for a week during summer. He returned two children—good job. But one came back with a fractured hand. He waited for her week to let her know she should probably get it checked at the hospital. He was busy. So, there is no greener grass anywhere!
I kicked the motherfucking laptop bag down the stairs. Watched it, then went downstairs, retrieved it, and put it exactly where I found it. By the next day, I had forgotten about my fit of rage. The laptop hadn’t. My husband went to turn his laptop on. The whole screen flashed up as normal, then the bottom half of the screen went dark. I think it is called screen bleeding. He showed me and asked what he should do. Ummmm… stop being a prick, then I wouldn’t have to perform mindless acts of revenge? I responded with, “Maybe resize all your work so it fits into just the top half of the screen.” Apparently, that was not a helpful suggestion.
Other acts of revenge include taking money from his wallet. Only a fiver or tenner. I then ensure I spend it on something completely frivolous. My frivolous may be different to yours. Mine is a coffee and maybe a croissant chaser. There may be a supermarket next door selling fresh croissants for half the price. But damn it! Today, I am buying it from the coffee shop! Rock and roll, right?
To me, that’s the idea of insanity. It’s like buying ice cream from an ice cream van. I could buy a four-pack of Magnums from Iceland for the same price. While I eat the croissant, I don’t even mind that half of it is flaking all over my top. I carelessly brush the crumbs to the ground. As I am eating it, I mutter to myself, “Oh, you’re so sorry for being a fucking twat? You want to make it up to me by buying me a treat? Why, thank you. You will live to see another day.”
The acts of revenge haven’t always gone as planned.
One winter, I saw a massive spider in the bathroom. I knew it would scare the bejesus out of my husband. So, I left it where I found it. Nothing happened that evening—maybe this was the long game.
One morning, as I was brushing my teeth, I put my bathrobe on. As I brushed my teeth, looking into the mirror, I saw two spider legs start crawling on my hand. I reacted like I’d just been tasered. I deep-throated myself with my electric toothbrush.
Maybe that’s the equivalent of karma fucking with me.
Did i learn? No.
I still park the car with its bum out to the road in the driveway. I also put things in the wrong recycling bucket on purpose. I guess its just who i am – a bit of a cunt!
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