Hello ladies!
Here I am again, with some more helpful advice on dealing with men.
I'm sure there's a man in your life who, for whatever reason, is very important to you. Maybe you're related to him. Or maybe you're in love with him. Or maybe, for some other reason, you find yourself emotionally invested in his life.
In his success, if you will.
Therefore, you feel justified in telling him what to do.
I don't mean dropping subtle hints, because you've already tried that and it doesn't work.
I don't mean gentle nudges, because you've tried that and it doesn't work, either.
And I don't mean crafty manipulation.
I mean outright telling him to do this, and to do that.
And sometimes getting frustrated with him, and yelling at him to do this or that.
Have you ever wondered how he got so far in life without your help?
The stereotypical view of adult males is that they're shallow, shortsighted, self-centered, superficial, and — oh, yes — forgetful. They need a woman's help to find their car keys, straighten their tie, decide what to do tomorrow, and decide what to do for the rest of their life.
Do you know who created that stereotype? Stereotypical women did. Do you know who believes in that stereotype, and who perpetuates it? You do.
You know, most men are deep thinkers. They just gave up trying to tell you what they were thinking, because you wouldn't listen. Or you wouldn't believe them. Or you belittled what they had to say. Or you tried to make it all about you.
Likewise, most men don't make decisions on the spur of the moment. They put a lot of thought into their decisions, weighing options carefully. They know that, whatever decision they make, it's going to make somebody unhappy. This causes them untold agony, which they must bury and keep hidden, and just move on with their decisions.
They shouldn't have to justify their choices to you. Why do you make them do that? They get enough of that shit at work. Who made you their off-the-clock bosses?
Moreover, when you ask them why, and they tell you why, their explanation (or justification, if you'd rather) isn't good enough for you. You keep wanting to go deeper and deeper and deeper. You don't know when to stop. Eventually, he realizes that no answer he can give you will be satisfactory, and so he stops wasting his time trying. He shuts up.
Let's put the shoe on the other foot for a paragraph. These men respect you and they (well, most of them) support you in the things you choose to do. Some of them even love you, unconditionally. They will go out of their way to make things easier for you and to make you successful. Why in hell can't you do the same thing for them?
Now take a step back and look at the Long View. These men have been making their own decisions for years: getting up on time, getting themselves dressed, going to the bathroom all by themselves, pouring their own breakfast cereal, getting a driver's license, registering for college classes, applying for graduation, hunting down jobs, buying cars and houses — and they did it all without your help.
1. Give the man some credit for having a brain.
2. Tell me why you think that the man needs you to tell him what to do.
Now, granted, there are some men who can't seem to do anything without a woman behind them, pointing them in the right direction. But do you know what would happen to one of those men if that woman stopped helping him? After a few moments of confusion and disorientation, he would figure it out himself! He'd be ecstatic! He'd be truly happy for the first time in his life.
Oh, he may need you, all right. Everybody needs somebody in their corner, somebody to support them, to build them up, and to cheer them on. That's what he needs you for.
Not to try to run his life for him, like every other woman in his life has been trying to do for years.
Showing posts with label control. Show all posts
Showing posts with label control. Show all posts
Monday, March 5, 2018
Thursday, October 5, 2017
Restraining Order
She was studying at her desk when a movement outside the window caught her eye. She looked up to see a blue Kia parking at the end of the driveway.
Her blood went cold, and her heart clenched - the fight-or-flight reaction. It happened every time he showed up in her life.
She hadn't felt it that first Sunday, when he introduced himself, all smiles and charm. But an hour later, she had had her first sense of it when he had barged into a conversation she was having with her best friends, as if he were already part of the group and there was something between him and her.
There was was nothing between him and her - nothing except aggressive pursuit on his side, and fear and fleeing on her side. He used to text her constantly, and call her at odd hours, even though she told him not to. She put an end to that by blocking his number. Then he would text and call her friends, asking them to deliver messages to her, until they learned to block his number too.
He friended her on Facebook, and then filled her feed with bogus declarations of gratitude for their real-life friendship, compliments about her looks, and suggestive come-ons. She ended up unfriending him, blocking him, and reporting him to Facebook. She went through her feed and deleted everything he had ever written. Some of her friends also unfriended him and blocked him, but not all of them - so he could still keep tabs on her by stalking those unblocked friends.
Somehow he found out her class schedule, and he would wait for her outside the classroom. If she came out surrounded by a group of friends, which she did increasingly often, as physical protection, he would somehow force his way into the circle, try to hook his arm in hers or wrap his arm around her, and steer her out of the circle. More than once, her friends had to trip him or almost wrestle with him to break his hold - and he still tagged along.
If she studied late, and went to the parking garage after dark, he would be standing next to her car, waiting for her. He would engage her in conversation, and wouldn't stop until she said, "Um, I have to go ...", got in the car, and drove away. Sometimes he managed to maneuver in front of the driver's door, so she couldn't unlock or open it. Whenever that happened, she would walk over to the passenger door, get in that way, and crawl across the console. It was awkward and embarrassing, but he didn't seem to notice - or care. But she would shake all the way home, her eyes scanning the rear-view mirror.
When she and her friends went to the gym, he would be over on the weight machines, flexing and eyeing her.
She told her professors about him, and she reported him to campus security, but he hadn't done anything illegal (yet), so they couldn't do anything. Basically, they told her "You're a big girl; you deal with it."
She hadn't really wanted to go to the school's fall social, but her friends had talked her into it, and there was a good local band playing, so she had given in. The entire floor of the sports arena had been turned into an old-fashioned harvest festival, with bobbing for apples, fresh hot donuts and cider, pumpkin carving contests, everything but Halloween costumes. The Halloween party would be in another three weeks, but she wasn't planning on going.
She parked her car and walked in. As she entered the gym, her friend Liz caught her and gave her the customary I'm-glad-you're-here squeal and hug. But they hadn't gotten past the folded-up bleachers when she got a text from Alli: "Carl spotted you. RUN!!!" Her blood froze, her heart clenched, and her face twisted into a mask of fear.
Liz asked, "What's wrong?" She turned and showed Liz the text. Liz pushed her towards the door, and said in that faux-calm voice that some people are gifted with: "Go. I'll stop him." She didn't move. Liz turned towards the gym and saw him, running through the crowd, about halfway across the arena floor. "Go! Now! Here he comes!"
Instantly, the adrenaline hit, and she flew out the door and sprinted to her car. She got in, locked the door, started the car and put it in Reverse. Before she could start moving, there was a rattling of her door handle and then fists pounding on her window, and a man's voice shouting "Stop! I need to talk to you!"
Without looking at him, she shook her head vehemently and stomped on the gas, kicking up dirt and grass as the car jumped backwards. As she shifted to Drive, she was secretly hoping that he would jump in the way, to try to stop her in one direction or the other, so she could run over him. But he didn't. She did see him running after her, yelling something she couldn't hear.
She was aware that her purse was still wrapped around her, and that her seat belt was still undone, but she was too busy concentrating on getting away, and trying to see the dark roads through her freely flowing tears. She thought someone was following her, but if they were, they stopped about eight miles from home, so she wrote it off as paranoia.
She called her favorite uncle to ask for his advice. He lived 2100 miles away, but sometimes when she talked to him, it was like he was right next door. And she felt more comfortable talking to him about some things than even her parents.
After she hung up, she still couldn't sleep. So she stayed up all night, drinking hot chocolate and watching chick flicks. Her body finally gave out at 5 in the morning.
After three hours of sleep, she took her uncle's advice and called the police department. After they explained her options to her, she showered, dressed, and drove to the main office. A desk officer, a cross between a kindly grandmother and Gal Gadot's Wonder Woman, sat with her and helped her fill out the paperwork for a restraining order. Then they went next door to the judge's office, where the judge approved it.
She drove home, feeling relieved, like she finally had some control over her life again. But there was one little problem, a problem which sat like a persistent remnant of an ice cube, in her heart. Her address was on the restraining order. So if he hadn't already figured out where she lived, he knew now.
So when his car appeared in her cul-de-sac three days later, all of that fear came rushing back. At first, she thought, Why did I even bother getting that restraining order? Then, just as her uncle had told her, she started getting mad. How dare he run my life like this? Who does he think he is, making me run away like a scared bunny all the time? Is he too dense to take no for an answer? I guess it's time for me to enforce my own restraining order.
When she had gotten home from the police department, she had done like Kevin in Home Alone, and inventoried her house for anything that would work as a weapon. In her dad's workshop in the garage, she had found a couple of sledgehammers. She had swung them around, and decided that she could handle the one with the long yellow handle and the 8-pound head. She had also found a Boy Scout machete. Did the Boy Scouts really have machetes? Her dad said that he had gotten it when he was a kid, and yes, it had been in the Scout catalog for several years.
Her uncle had suggested that she figure out some offensive and defensive moves with the hammer, and so she had snuck down to the basement and gotten sweaty swinging it around and trying stuff on her dad's punching bag.
Her silly uncle called it "Hammer Fu". That made her smile.
When the doorbell started ringing, she jumped up out of her chair and ran downstairs, managing to hide herself from view. She heard him rattle the doorknob and then start knocking loudly on the door. Just before she stepped into the garage, she heard him yell "Katrina! Come on out, we need to talk!" For a moment, she felt a shiver of fear, but then anger pushed the fear aside.
She had had enough.
In the garage, she dialed 911, gave her name and address, and said in one of those frighteningly calm voices, "There's a man outside my house, trying to get in. He's not my boyfriend, he's a stalker. I have a restraining order. I'm afraid he's going to hurt me. Please send help." Then, without disconnecting the call, she stuffed the phone in her bra so that the microphone was free. She grabbed the machete off the workbench and stuck it in her waistband along her spine, then picked up the sledgehammer and stepped out the door on the side of the house.
She was pissed.
Holding the hammer in both hands like she intended to use it, she marched around the side of the house and along the far side of the driveway, eyes focused on the Kia, but very aware of Carl's location. He was still pounding on the door, yelling "Katrina! Katrina! Come on, you owe this to me!"
I don't owe you anything.
She wasn't hiding from him, but he was so focused on the door that he didn't know she was outside until he heard the sound of breaking glass. He spun around to see her winding up for a second blow on his windshield. He ran towards the car, yelling, "Katrina! Stop it!" as the hammer came down.
He was too late to stop the third blow. The head of the hammer cracked the unbreakable plastic headlight cover on the right side into three pieces, and then without stopping, shattered the xenon bulbs of his right headlight assembly. He grabbed her right arm and yelled "Stop it!"
That's assault, right there.
She said exactly what her uncle had told her to say. She had been practicing it for two days. "Ow! Let go of me! You're hurting me!"
As she said it, she spun to the right, backswinging the hammer, and struck him full-force on the wrist. The hammerhead compressed his blood vessels, his tendons, and most importantly, the nerves in his carpal tunnel, causing his hand to go numb and breaking his grip instantly. It was his turn to say "Ow!"
Now they were facing each other. In less time than it takes to describe it, she shifted her grip so that she was holding the hammer vertical, with the head down, both hands together near the butt of the handle, and she drove it straight down, into his instep, focused on literally driving his foot into the pavement.
Hammer Fu.
She didn't think she broke any bones, but she definitely damaged soft tissue, and the foot was instantly too painful to use. He hopped on one foot, and reached out to grab her arms to steady himself. She instantly shifted her grip on the hammer, holding it horizontally and backwards. The head was in her right hand, behind her hip. Her left hand held the handle, with the butt pointed at his stomach. She stepped forward, driving the handle deep into his solar plexus.
Sometimes the best defense is a good offense.
He fell against the car, grunting and moaning inarticulately. She used that time to walk around him towards the other headlight. As she wound up to hit it, she remembered her uncle's advice and yelled, "You're not supposed to be here!" WHAM! "You're violating a restraining order! You attacked me!" POW! After two hits, the headlight was gone, and the underlying metal was mangled.
Leaning on the hood, he maneuvered around the front of the car towards her. She moved to the back of the car. She felt a twinge of guilt, looking at the taillight LEDs, but then the anger shoved the guilt aside. As the taillight assembly disintegrated under the hammer's blow, she yelled, "Get in your car and get out of here!"
He held onto the driver's door handle, balancing on one foot, still gasping for breath, but otherwise not moving. What was he waiting for? Was he trying to think of what to say next? Or his next move?
Keep moving, girl.
"Now, asshole!" The hammerhead went into the driver's side door, inches from his kneecap. Then she threw the sledgehammer aside, reached behind her, and pulled out the machete. "If you don't leave, your tires get it next."
Asshole.
Nobody had ever heard Katrina say a word like "asshole" before. She was so clean and pure, "stupid" was probably the fiercest word anybody had ever heard her say. It startled her as much as it startled him - but it had the desired effect. He pulled open the door and dived in, started the car and put it in Reverse. For just an instant, time stopped.
Gee, this feels familiar. Except last time, that was me and this was him.
She pounded loudly on his window with the machete's handle - just for fun. Without looking at her, he twisted the steering wheel and stomped on the gas, the tires squealing and laying twin black stripes on the pavement as the car spun around. But she didn't run after him as he shifted into Drive and raced out of the cul-de-sac and down the street. Instead, she stood and watched as a police car, lights flashing, cut in front of him, just a block away.
She heard a voice from her bra saying "Hello? Hello? Ma'am? Are you okay?" Breathing heavily, she reached in, pulled out her phone, and put it to her ear. "Yes, I'm okay now."
That's how I enforce a restraining order.
Her blood went cold, and her heart clenched - the fight-or-flight reaction. It happened every time he showed up in her life.
She hadn't felt it that first Sunday, when he introduced himself, all smiles and charm. But an hour later, she had had her first sense of it when he had barged into a conversation she was having with her best friends, as if he were already part of the group and there was something between him and her.
There was was nothing between him and her - nothing except aggressive pursuit on his side, and fear and fleeing on her side. He used to text her constantly, and call her at odd hours, even though she told him not to. She put an end to that by blocking his number. Then he would text and call her friends, asking them to deliver messages to her, until they learned to block his number too.
He friended her on Facebook, and then filled her feed with bogus declarations of gratitude for their real-life friendship, compliments about her looks, and suggestive come-ons. She ended up unfriending him, blocking him, and reporting him to Facebook. She went through her feed and deleted everything he had ever written. Some of her friends also unfriended him and blocked him, but not all of them - so he could still keep tabs on her by stalking those unblocked friends.
Somehow he found out her class schedule, and he would wait for her outside the classroom. If she came out surrounded by a group of friends, which she did increasingly often, as physical protection, he would somehow force his way into the circle, try to hook his arm in hers or wrap his arm around her, and steer her out of the circle. More than once, her friends had to trip him or almost wrestle with him to break his hold - and he still tagged along.
If she studied late, and went to the parking garage after dark, he would be standing next to her car, waiting for her. He would engage her in conversation, and wouldn't stop until she said, "Um, I have to go ...", got in the car, and drove away. Sometimes he managed to maneuver in front of the driver's door, so she couldn't unlock or open it. Whenever that happened, she would walk over to the passenger door, get in that way, and crawl across the console. It was awkward and embarrassing, but he didn't seem to notice - or care. But she would shake all the way home, her eyes scanning the rear-view mirror.
When she and her friends went to the gym, he would be over on the weight machines, flexing and eyeing her.
She told her professors about him, and she reported him to campus security, but he hadn't done anything illegal (yet), so they couldn't do anything. Basically, they told her "You're a big girl; you deal with it."
She hadn't really wanted to go to the school's fall social, but her friends had talked her into it, and there was a good local band playing, so she had given in. The entire floor of the sports arena had been turned into an old-fashioned harvest festival, with bobbing for apples, fresh hot donuts and cider, pumpkin carving contests, everything but Halloween costumes. The Halloween party would be in another three weeks, but she wasn't planning on going.
She parked her car and walked in. As she entered the gym, her friend Liz caught her and gave her the customary I'm-glad-you're-here squeal and hug. But they hadn't gotten past the folded-up bleachers when she got a text from Alli: "Carl spotted you. RUN!!!" Her blood froze, her heart clenched, and her face twisted into a mask of fear.
Liz asked, "What's wrong?" She turned and showed Liz the text. Liz pushed her towards the door, and said in that faux-calm voice that some people are gifted with: "Go. I'll stop him." She didn't move. Liz turned towards the gym and saw him, running through the crowd, about halfway across the arena floor. "Go! Now! Here he comes!"
Instantly, the adrenaline hit, and she flew out the door and sprinted to her car. She got in, locked the door, started the car and put it in Reverse. Before she could start moving, there was a rattling of her door handle and then fists pounding on her window, and a man's voice shouting "Stop! I need to talk to you!"
Without looking at him, she shook her head vehemently and stomped on the gas, kicking up dirt and grass as the car jumped backwards. As she shifted to Drive, she was secretly hoping that he would jump in the way, to try to stop her in one direction or the other, so she could run over him. But he didn't. She did see him running after her, yelling something she couldn't hear.
She was aware that her purse was still wrapped around her, and that her seat belt was still undone, but she was too busy concentrating on getting away, and trying to see the dark roads through her freely flowing tears. She thought someone was following her, but if they were, they stopped about eight miles from home, so she wrote it off as paranoia.
She called her favorite uncle to ask for his advice. He lived 2100 miles away, but sometimes when she talked to him, it was like he was right next door. And she felt more comfortable talking to him about some things than even her parents.
After she hung up, she still couldn't sleep. So she stayed up all night, drinking hot chocolate and watching chick flicks. Her body finally gave out at 5 in the morning.
After three hours of sleep, she took her uncle's advice and called the police department. After they explained her options to her, she showered, dressed, and drove to the main office. A desk officer, a cross between a kindly grandmother and Gal Gadot's Wonder Woman, sat with her and helped her fill out the paperwork for a restraining order. Then they went next door to the judge's office, where the judge approved it.
She drove home, feeling relieved, like she finally had some control over her life again. But there was one little problem, a problem which sat like a persistent remnant of an ice cube, in her heart. Her address was on the restraining order. So if he hadn't already figured out where she lived, he knew now.
So when his car appeared in her cul-de-sac three days later, all of that fear came rushing back. At first, she thought, Why did I even bother getting that restraining order? Then, just as her uncle had told her, she started getting mad. How dare he run my life like this? Who does he think he is, making me run away like a scared bunny all the time? Is he too dense to take no for an answer? I guess it's time for me to enforce my own restraining order.
When she had gotten home from the police department, she had done like Kevin in Home Alone, and inventoried her house for anything that would work as a weapon. In her dad's workshop in the garage, she had found a couple of sledgehammers. She had swung them around, and decided that she could handle the one with the long yellow handle and the 8-pound head. She had also found a Boy Scout machete. Did the Boy Scouts really have machetes? Her dad said that he had gotten it when he was a kid, and yes, it had been in the Scout catalog for several years.
Her uncle had suggested that she figure out some offensive and defensive moves with the hammer, and so she had snuck down to the basement and gotten sweaty swinging it around and trying stuff on her dad's punching bag.
Her silly uncle called it "Hammer Fu". That made her smile.
When the doorbell started ringing, she jumped up out of her chair and ran downstairs, managing to hide herself from view. She heard him rattle the doorknob and then start knocking loudly on the door. Just before she stepped into the garage, she heard him yell "Katrina! Come on out, we need to talk!" For a moment, she felt a shiver of fear, but then anger pushed the fear aside.
She had had enough.
In the garage, she dialed 911, gave her name and address, and said in one of those frighteningly calm voices, "There's a man outside my house, trying to get in. He's not my boyfriend, he's a stalker. I have a restraining order. I'm afraid he's going to hurt me. Please send help." Then, without disconnecting the call, she stuffed the phone in her bra so that the microphone was free. She grabbed the machete off the workbench and stuck it in her waistband along her spine, then picked up the sledgehammer and stepped out the door on the side of the house.
She was pissed.
Holding the hammer in both hands like she intended to use it, she marched around the side of the house and along the far side of the driveway, eyes focused on the Kia, but very aware of Carl's location. He was still pounding on the door, yelling "Katrina! Katrina! Come on, you owe this to me!"
I don't owe you anything.
She wasn't hiding from him, but he was so focused on the door that he didn't know she was outside until he heard the sound of breaking glass. He spun around to see her winding up for a second blow on his windshield. He ran towards the car, yelling, "Katrina! Stop it!" as the hammer came down.
He was too late to stop the third blow. The head of the hammer cracked the unbreakable plastic headlight cover on the right side into three pieces, and then without stopping, shattered the xenon bulbs of his right headlight assembly. He grabbed her right arm and yelled "Stop it!"
That's assault, right there.
She said exactly what her uncle had told her to say. She had been practicing it for two days. "Ow! Let go of me! You're hurting me!"
As she said it, she spun to the right, backswinging the hammer, and struck him full-force on the wrist. The hammerhead compressed his blood vessels, his tendons, and most importantly, the nerves in his carpal tunnel, causing his hand to go numb and breaking his grip instantly. It was his turn to say "Ow!"
Now they were facing each other. In less time than it takes to describe it, she shifted her grip so that she was holding the hammer vertical, with the head down, both hands together near the butt of the handle, and she drove it straight down, into his instep, focused on literally driving his foot into the pavement.
Hammer Fu.
She didn't think she broke any bones, but she definitely damaged soft tissue, and the foot was instantly too painful to use. He hopped on one foot, and reached out to grab her arms to steady himself. She instantly shifted her grip on the hammer, holding it horizontally and backwards. The head was in her right hand, behind her hip. Her left hand held the handle, with the butt pointed at his stomach. She stepped forward, driving the handle deep into his solar plexus.
Sometimes the best defense is a good offense.
He fell against the car, grunting and moaning inarticulately. She used that time to walk around him towards the other headlight. As she wound up to hit it, she remembered her uncle's advice and yelled, "You're not supposed to be here!" WHAM! "You're violating a restraining order! You attacked me!" POW! After two hits, the headlight was gone, and the underlying metal was mangled.
Leaning on the hood, he maneuvered around the front of the car towards her. She moved to the back of the car. She felt a twinge of guilt, looking at the taillight LEDs, but then the anger shoved the guilt aside. As the taillight assembly disintegrated under the hammer's blow, she yelled, "Get in your car and get out of here!"
He held onto the driver's door handle, balancing on one foot, still gasping for breath, but otherwise not moving. What was he waiting for? Was he trying to think of what to say next? Or his next move?
Keep moving, girl.
"Now, asshole!" The hammerhead went into the driver's side door, inches from his kneecap. Then she threw the sledgehammer aside, reached behind her, and pulled out the machete. "If you don't leave, your tires get it next."
Asshole.
Nobody had ever heard Katrina say a word like "asshole" before. She was so clean and pure, "stupid" was probably the fiercest word anybody had ever heard her say. It startled her as much as it startled him - but it had the desired effect. He pulled open the door and dived in, started the car and put it in Reverse. For just an instant, time stopped.
Gee, this feels familiar. Except last time, that was me and this was him.
She pounded loudly on his window with the machete's handle - just for fun. Without looking at her, he twisted the steering wheel and stomped on the gas, the tires squealing and laying twin black stripes on the pavement as the car spun around. But she didn't run after him as he shifted into Drive and raced out of the cul-de-sac and down the street. Instead, she stood and watched as a police car, lights flashing, cut in front of him, just a block away.
She heard a voice from her bra saying "Hello? Hello? Ma'am? Are you okay?" Breathing heavily, she reached in, pulled out her phone, and put it to her ear. "Yes, I'm okay now."
That's how I enforce a restraining order.
Sunday, August 27, 2017
Yet another warning to women: Stop arguing!
Ladies! Haven't we talked about this already? Apparently it hasn't sunk in yet, because you're still being assholes to your men.
(And guys, this is for you too, since way too many of you are still being assholes to your women.)
Why are you still arguing with the person you're supposed to love the most in your life? Why are you correcting them, arguing them, even interrupting them to do so? Why do you do it every time they open their mouths to speak?
Let me illustrate with a couple of episodes. These are real. Only the names have been changed.
---
EPISODE 1: The Texting Conversation
Your spouse or significant other just had an exciting text conversation with somebody, and they're dying to tell you about it. So they say "I just swapped a bunch of texts with Amanda Martinez," and they start telling you about it.
After a couple of sentences, you interrupt them: "Martinez ...?"
They answer, "Yeah ..."
This is when you correct them with your superior knowledge. "I don't think her name is Martinez."
---
EPISODE 2: The iTunes Playlist
You have some friends over for a party. There's good music playing. Your friends say, "This is a cool music." Your spouse or significant other says, "Yeah! It's a playlist of Phil Collins' greatest hits that I made yesterday."
This is when you correct them with your superior knowledge. "That's not Phil Collins!"
---
WHAT DO DO ABOUT IT:
Before you open your mouth to argue with your loved one, STOP. Ask yourself these three questions.
If you can answer an honest and enthusiastic "yes" to all three of those questions, then by all means, speak up! But if you can't, then SHUT THE FUCK UP!
What's your real motivation in arguing with them?
Do they really benefit from your constant corrections? Is it making them a better person?
Does proving they're wrong, over and over again, give you more power - more control in the relationship?
Do you feel a need to keep them in their place?
Do you think they really enjoy your constant picking at them? Have they ever thanked you for it? I can tell you straight up, that they usually walk away thinking, "... What an asshole." Is that really what you want them to think?
Are you just trying to shut them up?
If one of these is your reason for arguing with them, then SHUT THE FUCK UP.
WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT:
Were they always wrong like this when you first fell in love with them? And you fell in love with them anyway? Then your own judgment is terribly flawed. You made a terrible mistake. If your judgment was so bad back then, then what on earth makes you feel qualified to point out their flaws now? You're nothing but a goddamned, fucking idiot.
Are they really so terrible - such awful specimens of humanity - that you feel the need to constantly point out their flaws and their mistakes to them? If so, why did you bother to get married (or whatever)? Why don't you just get up your courage to end the relationship and walk away? If they're so flawed, I'm sure you can find somebody better.
Because if you don't, someday they will.
POSTSCRIPTS
p.s. I'm pretty sure that when their phone displays "Amber Martinez texted you," it really means Martinez.
p. p.s. I'm also pretty sure that when they searched for "Phil Collins" on iTunes in order to build their playlist, they meant Phil Collins, and they only downloaded Phil Collins tunes.
p.p.p.s. By the way, if you're guilty of doing this, then you are a pompous, self-important, stuck-up, asshole. Just thought you should know.
p.p.p.p.s. You're saying, "It's not constantly". Oh, trust me, it's constantly. You just don't realize it. Look up "fundamental attribution error" on Google, cuz you're doing it.
(And guys, this is for you too, since way too many of you are still being assholes to your women.)
Why are you still arguing with the person you're supposed to love the most in your life? Why are you correcting them, arguing them, even interrupting them to do so? Why do you do it every time they open their mouths to speak?
Let me illustrate with a couple of episodes. These are real. Only the names have been changed.
---
EPISODE 1: The Texting Conversation
Your spouse or significant other just had an exciting text conversation with somebody, and they're dying to tell you about it. So they say "I just swapped a bunch of texts with Amanda Martinez," and they start telling you about it.
After a couple of sentences, you interrupt them: "Martinez ...?"
They answer, "Yeah ..."
This is when you correct them with your superior knowledge. "I don't think her name is Martinez."
---
EPISODE 2: The iTunes Playlist
You have some friends over for a party. There's good music playing. Your friends say, "This is a cool music." Your spouse or significant other says, "Yeah! It's a playlist of Phil Collins' greatest hits that I made yesterday."
This is when you correct them with your superior knowledge. "That's not Phil Collins!"
---
WHAT DO DO ABOUT IT:
Before you open your mouth to argue with your loved one, STOP. Ask yourself these three questions.
- Are you sure they're wrong?
You could both be right, you know. Maybe Amanda recently got married. One of you is thinking of her maiden name and one of you is thinking of her married name. Both names are right. - Does it matter?
If your spouse is telling a story from their college days, it doesn't really matter if the trip was 30 miles or 50 miles. You may think it matters, but IT REALLY DOESN'T. Just shut the fuck up and let the moment pass. Likewise, it really doesn't matter if they refer to Amanda by her maiden name or her married name. You both know who she is. - Will speaking up about it strengthen your relationship? Or, looking at it from the other direction, will being silent about it damage your relationship?
If you can answer an honest and enthusiastic "yes" to all three of those questions, then by all means, speak up! But if you can't, then SHUT THE FUCK UP!
What's your real motivation in arguing with them?
Do they really benefit from your constant corrections? Is it making them a better person?
Does proving they're wrong, over and over again, give you more power - more control in the relationship?
Do you feel a need to keep them in their place?
Do you think they really enjoy your constant picking at them? Have they ever thanked you for it? I can tell you straight up, that they usually walk away thinking, "... What an asshole." Is that really what you want them to think?
Are you just trying to shut them up?
If one of these is your reason for arguing with them, then SHUT THE FUCK UP.
WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT:
Were they always wrong like this when you first fell in love with them? And you fell in love with them anyway? Then your own judgment is terribly flawed. You made a terrible mistake. If your judgment was so bad back then, then what on earth makes you feel qualified to point out their flaws now? You're nothing but a goddamned, fucking idiot.
Are they really so terrible - such awful specimens of humanity - that you feel the need to constantly point out their flaws and their mistakes to them? If so, why did you bother to get married (or whatever)? Why don't you just get up your courage to end the relationship and walk away? If they're so flawed, I'm sure you can find somebody better.
Because if you don't, someday they will.
POSTSCRIPTS
p.s. I'm pretty sure that when their phone displays "Amber Martinez texted you," it really means Martinez.
p. p.s. I'm also pretty sure that when they searched for "Phil Collins" on iTunes in order to build their playlist, they meant Phil Collins, and they only downloaded Phil Collins tunes.
p.p.p.s. By the way, if you're guilty of doing this, then you are a pompous, self-important, stuck-up, asshole. Just thought you should know.
p.p.p.p.s. You're saying, "It's not constantly". Oh, trust me, it's constantly. You just don't realize it. Look up "fundamental attribution error" on Google, cuz you're doing it.
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