Curfew

Is it too much to ask that my husband come home before 4 a.m. on a random Thursday night? I mean, I generally consider myself a pretty lenient wife, in that I "let" my husband do pretty much whatever he wants. I might be controlling about some things - which tv shows we watch together, whether or not the bills are paid on time, or wanting a diet Coke NOW after a long hike. But I'm not much of a nag in the beer-guzzling-pot-smoking-stayin'-up-late-and-wreaking-havoc-with-your-friends kind of way.

So last night I was a less-than-happy wife when I awoke at 2 a.m. and there was no husband in sight. In Oregon, the bars close at 2 a.m. I called his cell phone. No answer. I texted him, to no response. Last I heard from him was at midnight when he texted me something about karaoke. I waited 10 minutes and called again. Still no answer. Now I'm up, with my bedroom light on, peering out the windows like a crazy person on that A&E show "Obsessed." Images of him lying bloody and lifeless on the pavement next to his bike flood my mind. I phone again. And again. And again. By this time, my anxiety transitions to anger. I text again, telling him I am worried, it's almost 3 in the morning, and he needs to call or come home immediately OR ELSE. Then I call, again, and leave a message in which I go through all the emotions - pissed off, irritated, worried, loving, and close it with a "I'm just really worried about you and hope you are okay" in case the paramedics or doctors check his phone for ICE contact information. I want them to think I am a nice, considerate wife. Not just a pain-in-the-ass nag. Finally, on about the 12th phone call, past 3 a.m., he answers the phone, excited in a way as though he's been on vacation and hasn't heard from me in days.

"Hey, babe, how's it going?" He says excitedly.

"Um, where the fuck are you?" I say, angrily.

"What's up," he slurs. "You okay?"

"Uh, yeah, I am fine. But where the hell are you? It's past 3 in the morning!?!?"

"Oh, yeah, well I'm still out with my friends."

What are you, a teenager? You're still out with your friends?!? I didn't realize it worked that way, like I need to implement a curfew. I thought a common respect was to be in regular touch about your whereabouts, whether or not you're safe or needing a ride, and home within a few minutes of bar-close.

When he finally stumbled in at nearly 4 a.m. I told him to sleep on the couch and to let me get my beauty rest. "You made me come home so that I could sleep on the couch?"

Um, no, I did not "make you come home." You live here. You need to be here at a decent hour. I do not think that is too much to ask.

Eventually he crawls his way back into our bed, alcohol seeping out of his pores and offending each and every one of my smellers, and passes out. Until his phone rings - 3 times - at 5:30 a.m. His brother just returned from a friends' bachelor party and is also crawling his way into a bed, any bed.

Did I mention that Alex must have let the dog out sometime in the middle of the night in his drunken stupor? I woke up to a lovely surprise right at the helm of my bedroom door. Somehow, between the hours of 5:30 a.m. and 9:15 a.m,. Gizzy got out of her kennel and shit on my carpet. I had a close call, the hot pile very nearly squidging between my bare toes.

As I write this, my husband has his tail between his legs, his eyes glazed over from the massive headache I imagine has taken root in his brain, and is rubbing my feet and petting my dog. No, I'm not interested in jumping up and giving him a hug and kiss and telling him that if he pays me a little attention, all is forgiven for keeping me up for 2.5 hours in the middle of the night. But, I do like a foot rub. So, for now, I will silently accept this gesture.