My Favorite Fight

One day, long ago, in the first years of Jon’s and my marriage, my friend Jaymi accidentally dropped her ring on our couch.

It fell out of sight immediately. We took off the cushions, but somehow the ring was somehow even deeper in the crevices of the couch. We then shoved our arms clear down into the guts of the couch and fished around blindly.

Eventually Jaymi hit upon the ring and pulled it out… along with a handful of dust bunnies and random stuff that had piled up over the years. It was a secondhand couch for Jon and me, so you can imagine how exciting the collection was.

Jon looked over as Jaymi pulled out her hand, and all the crap along with it, and he just about died. He was so embarrassed that we would have dust in the couch, and a random sock, and a toy. He ran to get the vacuum to clean it out immediately, as his mother, Patty, taught him. She is very particular when it comes to anything to do with cleaning. She reads cleaning magazines, files papers daily, organizes her spices. You get my point. Jon was raised this way.

I would have to say I am more random. I juggle cleaning and kids daily. I am always cleaning up and straightening things, but if I must choose between filing paperwork and going hiking, or anything else for that matter, I will choose the non-cleaning thing.

Back all those years ago, Jon and I were working through the normal things newlyweds do in the first, let’s say, seven years of marriage. I think it takes a while to set personal boundaries in marriage and figure out how to navigate what we can’t change about each other.

As Jon sucked all the dirt off the couch, I laughed at him for being so freaked out about some mess. I was a little annoyed, too, that I failed so miserably as a housekeeper/homemaker in his eyes.

Jon eventually left for work. Later that night, he came home with a combo meal from McDonald’s, which in my opinion is the nastiest place to eat. I could smell the Big Macs from across the house, the smell that makes me sick.

He sat down in front of the T.V. while he ate. I walked in and he was basically falling asleep in his food because he was so tired. He was dropping that pink nasty-smelly sauce and I couldn’t help but tease him for the mess he was making after the morning’s cleaning freak out.

I said, teasingly, “Oh no! You’re getting sauce on our table. NOW what are the neighbors going to think?”

He didn’t like my taunting very much, I guess. How could I tell? Because he took his 24-ounce glass of water and threw it at me!

I was so shocked I started laughing and said,” NOW what are our friends going to say see water marks dripping down the wall by the front door?”

I don’t think he liked this much either because he proceeded to throw his Big Mac at me. I dodged and it hit the wall.

I had two choices at this point. I could let it drop and go to bed. Or I could continue down the path we were on.

I picked up the greasy, smelly, condiment-less, tasteless hamburger and threw it as hard and fast as I could. It flung apart in the air like a bad airplane and hit the piano and splattered up the wall. Now, Jon isn’t fast most of the time, but today, he was fast. He unwrapped his other Big Mac as he stood. I am naturally fast, but nothing makes me move like Jon when he moves fast. (I once saw him jump an eight-foot wooden fence in a single bound when our hunting dog was about to eat our kids new Easter rabbit. The man can turn it on.)

I turned and ran the only way I could in our small house, up the stairs. I skipped two steps at a time, glanced back and saw Jon skipping three! I bolted into my room, slammed the door and ran into our bathroom. Jon didn’t even check to make sure that the bedroom door unlocked. He just plowed through it and popped the whole door off the frame, and smashed the frame out of the wall! He ran into the bathroom. I stared at him, daring him with my eyes to throw that last hamburger at me.

The dare worked. He threw it. I said, “I didn’t even lock the bedroom door.” He just grunted and walked away.

Suddenly we heard a “ding dong” — the doorbell. People have the worst timing, I thought. I couldn’t believe my ears when Jon answered the door. It was Patty and Grandma Ginny.

From the top of the stairs, I peeked around a corner to see Patty and Grandma Ginny step in and look around. I am positive they smelled the nasty pink sauce because Patty’s nose curled. Or maybe she saw the water drips on the wall and the lettuce on the piano. Or maybe she saw Jon’s look on his face. The look of foreboding.

I walked down the stairs and planted myself in front of them all. “Jon,” I said, “you threw the Big Mac. I AM NOT cleaning this up, and I am not coming back until it is.” And I marched out of the house.

Patty and Grandma started cleaning up the mess. A few hours later, Jon and I made up. Years and many fights and many laughs later, when we were moving out of that house, I found a crusty piece of Big Mac lettuce still stuck behind the piano on the wall.

Marriage does gets easier as time goes on. You get used to each other’s crap, and you figure out how to handle what’s not going to change. We solved the couch problem by hiring a housekeeper that helps me a few times a week. Her name is Maria. I love her like a sister.


The moral to this story is:


Don’t eat Big Macs. They are nasty.

Don’t boss each other around. Don’t tease too much. It doesn’t get you anywhere.

Every marriage could use a Maria.

Run fast if you take on Jon.

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