Last night the missus, who is a middle-school chorus and music teacher, conducted her kids in their Spring Concert. It was a delightful evening, because she’s a brilliant educator and musician (she got multi-part harmonies out of sixth graders, people), and the kids are adorable and love to sing. Amy’s also around to correct any Christina Aguilera tendencies they might have, so there were no constipated facial expressions, flailing arms and pointless runs up and down the scale. Believe me, this is an achievement in and of itself in this day and age.
I bring it up not just to brag about how dope my special lady friend is, but because during the concert the woman in front of me began, quite audibly, to talk shit about my wife. Apparently she wasn’t happy with the grade her daughter was given (it had to do with very clear-cut violations of the absence policy and nothing more), so she began tearing into my old lady for the benefit of another woman in the audience. It took me a while to catch on, but eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. It culminated as Amy took the stage to begin conducting. “Look at her,” this broad said. “She’s miserable. She’s nasty.”
“She’s my wife,” I interjected.
Normally, one would think, when confronted with the fact that the spouse of an individual about whom one was talking shit was right there in front of one, one would smile awkwardly, murmur an apology, and shut the fuck up. Oh, but ladies and gentlemen, this is Long Island. And on Long Island, along with the God-given right to crispy bleached teased-up hair and an inexplicable attachment to lacrosse, people have the right–no, the duty–to continue talking smack about a person’s wife even when that person is right there listening and asking you to please stop. That’s right. After I called her on this crap, this miserable harridan not only explained to me how awful my wife was, but then after I turned around having had enough of it, continued the harangue several minutes later. And even then, after I turned around again to inform her that I can still hear her and that though I’m sorry she has a problem with my wife I can assure her my wife loves all her students and that at any rate there’s probably a more appropriate venue for these complaints than in the goddamn auditorium during the goddamn Spring Concert (I didn’t say “goddamn,” though–I was superpolite, since I didn’t want to make my wife’s life any more difficult than it already must be if she’s had to deal with this hag),she continued to inform me just what a sack of shit my wife is, and that she (the crone) has the right to talk about whatever she wants wherever she wants.
Listen. It’s a free country (and I told her so–boy, did she love that!), and I’m sure this (miserable ugly lonely pathetic shlub of a) woman is perfectly nice once you get to know her, and I guarantee you that whatever went down with her daughter wasn’t anything personal. But folks, maybe it’s just me, but if you are talking about what a shitty person someone is, and that someone’s husband or wife turns around and informs you of his or her relationship to the person in question, turn around and shut your goddamned pie-hole.
Seriously, man. I’ve been in fights before, like in high school or on message boards or whatever, where I figured I was as pissed as I could get. But believe me, it was nothing close to how mad I got at this loudmouth. Maybe it’s some sort of primitive instinct to defend your mate, but it really felt like my blood was on fire. If she was a guy (jury’s still out), I’d probably have slugged her.
Interesting postscript to this story: When I first sat down, carrying a big bouquet of flowers for the missus and not knowing this woman from Adam, she joked and smiled and was like “Oh, how nice of you to bring me flowers!” I joked and smiled back. Then I overheard her talking to her friend (who I assure you was mortified when I later turned around to shut her friend up and wanted nothing more to do with the whole situation) about how her husband (who wasn’t there) hasn’t brought her flowers in literally years. So no matter how many points she thought she scored off me during our subsequent confrontation, I could rest secure in the knowledge that she’s trapped in a loveless hell of her own design. Oh, dip!