That nagging feeling

H: *Raberr-y

M: Rub-ry

H: Berrr-y

M: I don't care about pronouncing it right.

H: Brrry

M: Rub-ry

H: You're not a woman--you're an argument.

*Rabri - thickened, sweet milk

Well, he's not a man, he's my husband.

***

No one wants to be that wife, I would think, who nags the husband beyond marital bliss. We see that character on tv or other media outlet and we think to ourselves, I'll never be like that. But what is it about resolves against turning into something we detest: we almost invariably become so.

I hate to be a nag. I know how futile it is to badger someone over a particular point; if through reasonable means the point can't seem to traverse through the divide, then dressing it up in nagging details will not work either. If anything, it will just contribute further to the divide as it has the tendency to piss the other parties involved.

Besides, nagging uses too much saliva to expect "reason" to survive that violent inundation.

And yet, I find myself bereft of other recourse when I have a very important point in my hands and the other party (mainly the husband) refuses to acknowledge it. I must nag. Must get the point across. Play in loop the same tired arguments until exhaustion, reason, whichever is more potent, tears down the walls my words encountered en route to the other's ears.

The only silver lining I see is that the husband claims I only nag when he drives. I suppose I AM a backseat-driver nazi who seats next to him most of the time. But what the ferk, dude. You drive 10 over the speed limit, swerve rather unsuave-ingly through your turns, and boast of slithering out of two speeding tickets.

I hate to be that person, but sometimes, you. just. ask. for. it.