#118: Slam Head Into Wall. Repeat.

I've got some furniture I'm selling.  That's not the point of this story, it's just a critical detail so you can understand what is to follow.  In the process of selling this furniture I'm talking to a lot of strangers.  The conversation I am about to relate is with one such stranger, whose name has been changed out of respect for his privacy.

Such sources of drama.

"Hi, Dudebro?  This is Jessica with the king bed."
"Oh, hi!"
"So, I have some unfortunate news.  The box springs were stolen out of the back of my van last night, so I'm calling to--"
"That's illegal!"
"Yes, I know, I'm--"
"Someone went into your car and took your property, that's breaking and entering!"
"Yes, I know.  What I'm calling about it--"
"Have you talked to your husband about it?"

beat

beat

beat

Now, for anyone who knows me even the slightest bit, you will understand that this question pushed the rage button in multiple directions.  For one thing, there's the assumption that I have a husband.  For another, there's the assumption that, if I did have a husband, I would be going to him in order to deal with this.  For a third, there's the fact that once upon a time I did have a husband and, frankly, that's a slightly touchy subject for me.

So I really don't know what to say in cases like these. 

or just a light maiming?

Do I say "Well, I would talk to my husband about it, but it turns out he was a figment of society's collective imagination and the woman he really was is arguably more feminine than I am, so, really, I'm the butchest one around and I'll have to make do?"  Because, let me tell you, the temptation to unload that one and just really confuse the fuck out of them is SO STRONG.

Or do I say, with a catch in my voice, "My husband is no longer with us." and then start sobbing?  Because, I'll let you in on a little secret y'all, some days remembering my husband does actually make me cry.  I mean, mostly I'd be doing it to lay the world's largest guilt trip on this asshole making assumptions, but there would definitely be an aspect of authenticity about it.  And if I have to get the little stab wound of being reminded that I no longer have a partner to help me deal with the difficult shit, then I don't see why I shouldn't spread some of that misery around.

Or do I say, with every ounce of radical Feminist condescension I can muster, "That is an outrageous thing for you to ask.  March your feet to the base of Mount Shame and begin your climb, oh wretched man, and return not here until the wounds of self-flagellation can be clearly seen upon your hide-bound flesh."

SHAME!

Of do I say none of these things, because I do not want to deal with this man right now, I just want to deal with my furniture?

If you've selected that final option, you have, in fact, sussed out my chosen path.

With one little question I was suddenly ass deep in frustrated anger, but hell, I had other shit to do that day, so I simply ground out;

"I don't have a husband."

At the time it truly seemed like the better part of valor, but I had cause to regret my forbearance.

"Oh!  I'm sorry."

It flashed through my mind to wonder if he was apologizing for his question, or if he was saying he was sorry I wasn't married.  Like, honestly, it could have been either.  But I was goal oriented here, so I pressed on.

"Yes, but what I'm calling you about is--"
"  I just meant you've had a B&E.  What you should do it call the cops and report it and--"
"YES."  There was a deep breath in here while I tried to find a way to say what I needed to say without being utterly rude.  "I am completely capable of handling that myself.  The reason I called--"
"You can handle a B&E yourself?"
"yes."
"Oh.  Okay.  It's just my family is in law enforcement."
"Well, what I'm calling you about is to find out if you still want the mattress."
"Oh.  Yes."
"Fine.  Then come pick it up."

And after all that, folks?

He didn't come get the mattress.

motherfucker