This is the blow-by-blow account of how a narcissistic wife behaves from the moment her hard-working husband arrives home from a hard day at work. Oh…it’s a true story, by the way. I promise you. This is what really happens.
He’s hot. He’s hungry. He’s tired. His face and arms are smeared with the various toxic fluids that keep machinery running. Not only does Harry rise at 5 a.m. each morning to labor in the shop for eleven hours, he also owns it. As an entrepreneur, he’s responsible for all maintenance and upkeep after working hours. Repairs. Oil changes. And contacting all vendors and customers almost on a daily basis. So when he arrives home to his homemaker wife, Sally, it’s always late and he’s exhausted, filthy and ravenous.
On this particular evening, Sally had invited guests for supper. Before Harry arrived, she was pleasantly making idle chit-chat with their friends. The instant Harry drags himself through the door, Sally abruptly changes. She always changes when he arrives.
“Where have you been!?! You’re late! Suppers almost ruined,” she shrewishly snaps. “We have guests for supper. Hurry up and shower!”
Obediently heading for the hot shower, he hollers, “Sally! Can you fetch me some clean clothes?”
She grumbles mightily about Harry’s forgetfulness, the oil smear he left on the doorknob and the dirt he trundled across her “nice, clean floor” as she fetches clean shirt, trousers and underpants from the bedroom.
No sooner has he existed the steamy bathroom, several shades lighter and looking much happier, than she jumps on him again.
“Run down cellar and fetch some applesauce and canned corn. And then you can grill the burgers. Hurry up!”
All he wants is a few moments to relax in his favorite overstuffed recliner with his dog so he can chat with their friends. But it’s not to be. He can’t catch his breath for a moment. She’s got him on the hop non-stop. Her lack-of-patience is legendary.
“Why can’t you fetch the stuff from the cellar, Sally?”
“BECAUSE I’VE BEEN WORKING ALL DAY AND I’M TIRED,” she hollers at him.
But we all know she took her usual leisurely afternoon nap, read a novel and had ample time to prepare the supper herself.
Rather than arguing, it’s easier for him to do her bidding. So he fetches. He runs. He carries. He cooks. And all the while, she grumbles at him under her breath.
The meal is delicious, but seasoned with arguing. She nags him to fetch condiments from the pantry. He says her pie was baked two minutes too long. They seem to be locked in competition with each other. Their guests giggle uncomfortably. Is their incessant combat for real…or just for entertainment value? It’s hard to tell.
After dinner, they all retire to the Living Room for a board game resembling crazy marbles. It’s a race around the board, that lets you take your competitors’ marbles off the board and send them back to homeplate. I’m sorry, did I say “board game?” I meant “blood sport.”
Harry (as always) has all the luck. And it pisses Sally off. The madder she gets, the “bluer” the air gets.
“Fat-ass!” she spits out as his marbles race around the board while hers vegetate at homeplate.
“Chicken shit,” he retorts.
Now it’s on like donkey kong!
“Look at that fat ‘ab cover’ you have,” she mocks, staring pointedly at his barely-rounded stomach. “Blubber butt!” The truth is, she eats like a ruddy horse and somehow maintains her svelte skin-stretched-tightly-across-bone physique.
Every time her marbles poke their nose out of homeplate, Harry sends ’em right back again.
“Idiot!” (Strong words from someone who never finished high school.)
“You fucking JERK!”
Sally’s seeing red now. She stares daggers at Harry, shifts her weight and loudly farts in his direction.
“Get me a glass of water,” she demands.
“Why can’t you get it?” he responds, calmly sending yet another of her marbles back to homeplate.
“GET ME THE DAMN WATER.” Her voice has the rough burr of a Marine Drill Sergeant.
He complies. It seems she-who-yells-at-the-highest-decibels wins. While he’s fetching the water, she shamelessly bums a cigarette off their guest and brazenly smokes it in front of Harry. He’s recently kicked the smoking habit and now relies solely on chew. She knows he hates to see her smoke. She knows he’s worried about her health. She knows he prefers her to smoke privately where he can’t be upset by it, but she flaunts it in his face anyways.
As the game progresses, Harry’s luck holds to Sally’s detriment. Her conversation consists mostly of gossip. By the time she’s done, she’s conveniently ripped-to-shreds 1) fat people, 2) “lazy” white collar people, 3) people obliged to depend on government assistance for survival, 4) most of their friends and 5) the people who owe them money (but they can’t say “no” to anyone). So, pretty much everyone.
“Get me a beer!” she demands of Harry. “And some of those chips.” She knows he doesn’t like her drinking alcohol because she’s had some problems with it in the past. Nonetheless, he obediently makes trips to the pantry, serving her the snacks she wants and somehow manages to keep his lead in the game as well. She munches and swigs beer, while texting with her ex-boyfriend. The one she’s not over yet. The one Harry really wishes she’d make a clean break with. He pretends he’s not pissed by her in-your-face texting and gets on with the game.
Then she plays her trump card.
She starts alluding to Harry’s deficiencies in bed. How disappointing sex is for her. Harry frowns and ignores her barbs. Their guests pretend they didn’t hear it. Hashtag #awkward! Très Awkward! If only she knew how much her comments reflect badly on her and not on Harry.
Is she kinder in private? Is she gentler in private? Is their constant battling, arguing and competition merely for the entertainment and edification of guests or do they keep it up 24/7?
All I know is, there’s no line that isn’t crossed. No comment too cruel to say. No boundary that can’t be bashed. Harry must have the patience of a saint. And she never apologizes. Neither of them do.
Gentlemen, if you have a narcissistic wife, you have all my sympathy and admiration for your patience. Men, if you’re dating a narcissistic woman, um, you might want to reconsider. It will only get worse. If you marry her, you’ll have to do all the housework, all the childcare and earn all the money too…while she has affairs behind your back. And I have that on the best authority from someone who has lived it. It almost killed him.
I don’t care how sexy and beautiful a narcissistic woman may be. She’ll make your life a bloody misery. One word of advice, gentlemen: rrrrrrrruuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnn!