Telling on Brett

Since Brett is blissfully unaware of the online world, (I told him MySpace was a feminine hygiene product) I’m dedicating this post to my husband’s very bad day.

We all react differently to stress and difficult situations.

Me? I cry or write witty little commentaries that allow me to vent to the entire world. I try to laugh at life.

Brett, on the other hand, reacts a mite differently.

For instance, when someone cuts me off in traffic, I might get mad, mutter a few choice words, and then wonder how I’m going to parlay it into a blog post.

Brett, on the other hand, will mutter about it for DAYS. He’ll obsess over what the “chick” in the red car was ACTUALLY thinking when she PURPOSELY CUT HIM OFF.

He’ll spout conspiracy theories and try to convince me that the One World Government placed a secret chip in her car that targeted him for death.

(Life is rarely as exciting as it is in Brett’s conspiracy theories. And, frankly, they’re entertaining. Which is why I don’t stop them when I really, really should.)

Succinctly? Brett is not a “sunny side of life” guy.

In fact, with him, the glass is not only half-empty but the sinister politicians in DC probably want him to pay taxes on what little water there is left in the glass.

And that water is, of course, poisoned.

(Yeah, yeah, I know. Not succinct at all. I just like the word succinct.)

Today, I came home after a stress-filled day at work.

The tension was so palpable in the office, someone actually said, “Don’t touch me or look at me.” to someone else. Yeah, NOT all about the love today.

When I got home, I crawled into bed and promptly fell asleep (a luxury of the childless, I know!). When Brett got home, I rolled over. “I had a bad day at work,” I said using my best pouty-lip face.

“Me, too,” he assured me.

Brett ALWAYS has a bad day at work. In the 12 years I’ve known him, he has yet to have a good day. The streak was broken on May 4, 2003, when the day was actually “okay,” but usually it’s “bad” or even worse “don’t ask.”

Truth is, it probably isn’t all that bad. But Brett thinks of life as “if I’m not comfortable and watching TV, I’m being persecuted,” and views “work” accordingly.

“Poor baby,” I said sympathetically. “Anything in particular?”

(Thinking of course, “When are we going to talk about ME?”)

“Yeah, I split my pants today at work.”

“What?!” (I hadn’t been expecting THAT.)

“Yeah, I bent over to get something, and I heard a loud noise. When I stood up, I saw they’d ripped.”

(Note: For those of you who don’t know Brett, his body shape is like a pear balanced on pretzel sticks. Unlike mine, which is a pear balanced on mini-pickles)

“I’m sorry, honey! ~ muffled laughter ~ Did, um, did you have to walk around all day with your underwear showing in the back?”

“Oh, it gets worse.” He held up his jeans, and I saw that they split, not in the back, but straight down either side of his zipper.

That’s right, my husband’s pants split right down the front!

His actual words – “I can’t believe this happens on the one day I wear those red briefs.”

(It’s true – he only owns one pair of red briefs, and he never wears them, but we were behind on laundry.)

Despite my efforts to be sympathetic, I was rolling around on the bed laughing hysterically. At first, he looked annoyed, but eventually he started laughing with me. Within five minutes, he was hooting so hard, he got tears in his eyes.

“Well, Darryl said it was funny,” he said through choking laughter.

“Who’s Darryl?” I asked.

“Oh, he helped me after me pants split.”

“How did he help you?” I inquired.

“See?” Brett lifted his pants up again, and I saw Darryl had helped him by securing the rip with plastic zip ties!

So, instead of showing everyone innocuous red briefs all day, he opted for sharp white plastic sticking out of his crotch.

Now, that’s something I believe even the One World Government couldn’t engineer!