How to win an argument... please tell me?

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You would think that after so many years I would have learned everything about Mrs ED, and that I would at least be winning just the OCCASIONAL battle in the marriage of war we compete in. 
 
But I don't.

In fact I'm not sure if I have EVER won an argument with her.  Oh don't get me wrong,  I have been proven right, often.  More often than the numerical keys on this keyboard can calculate, in fact. But that does not mean that I have won by any sense of the word.  No, I realise that now.  When it comes to arguing with Mrs Ed I am destined to find myself snapping defeat from the jaws of victory at the last second, every time.

You see, she plays by different rules to me, rules that I can scarcely fathom, and if I even get close to doing so, she simply changes them. 

For the sake of simplification, let's call my rules EARTH rules, and her's OGLE-05-390Lb rules.  (Just in case any of you skipped that particular science lesson, OGLE-05-390Lb is a planet 20 000 light years away from the Earth.  Such is the space between my rules and Mrs Ed's.)

Am I making sense? Probably not, so let me give an example.  Are you sitting comfortably?  More importantly, are you sitting with a reasonable amount of space (it doesn't have to be 20 000 light years) between your spouse and yourself? Good.  Let's see what you think of this -  if you feel the need to comment, please do so one at a time.  No domestic disputes thank you very much. 

Here we go….

Mrs Ed and I are dropping someone at the airport, after which we understandably drive out the terminal car park to begin our journey home.  As we get to the intersection Mrs Ed says “Go left.”

Which is wrong.

Now I should point out here that I have, on a rare occasion, got us lost before.  Ok, perhaps it happens fairly often.  Sometimes even in Sedgefield Village, which only has about four roads and a cycle track. So I am the first to admit that I haven't been blessed with the absolute BEST sense of direction. This is also something that Mrs Ed points out to absolutely everyone she has ever known, and many that she hasn't.  Indeed regaling her husband's idiocy on the roads is the soul base of her small-talk at parties.  BUT having said that, I do know my way home from the airport, and it's not left. 

I also know that ignoring Mrs Ed is not healthy, especially when she has that glint of violence in her good eye.

So I do not proceed, I merely state, quite quietly, that it's right, not left.  She firmly disagrees. A bit of banter ensues, much to the delight of our children.  Apparently listening to your parents spouting
“Left.”
    “Right”
“Left.”
    “Right”
“Left.”
    “Right”
“Left.”
   “Right”
“Left.”
    “Right”
“Left.”
    “Right”
is absolutely, flippin' hilarious.

Eventually, after my son The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) has quipped
“If you two don't stop this bickering I'll take both of you out the car and give you a damned good hiding” I gun the engine and turn right -  that's the advantage of being the one behind the wheel, you get to override any dubious steering suggestions made by anyone else in the car.

And I am correct.  Soon we get to the next intersection which takes us onto the N2, so we can head home.
 
I am correct.  Did you get that?

I sit back and sigh, happily.  Like any sane person playing by Earth rules, I do not gloat over my supreme correctness. I do not give voice to even one of the gazillion 'I told you so!'s rushing happily around my head.  I just hum a little ditty to myself and wait for the obvious next step.  The apology.  The “Oh my word, how silly of me!  Of COURSE it's right, how could I have been so ridiculously foolish?”

Obvious in Earth rules.  Not for those using those formulated on OGLE-05-390Lb.  No apology is forthcoming.  Or fifth.  Or sixth. What do I get?  Wait for it. This is good, men - though perhaps you should move a little further from your other halves.

I get blessed with: “Well if you took me shopping a little more often I might just know my way around a bit better.”
  Did you see that?  Did you see what she's done?  Suddenly the “Ed vs Ed, Airport to Home Directions” case has been tossed out of court as 'undecided', despite the evidence in my favour, and with a click of her tobacco-stained teeth we've switched over to another argument, the ongoing “Why don't you like shopping with me?” case which she KNOWS she will win. 

OGLE-05-390Lb one point, Earth nil. 

The Switch.  It's lethal, and you really cannot see it coming.  Sometimes there isn't even a connection between the 'switched' and the 'switched to'. 

Me:- “So you just rushed out and left the tap running all day, I can't believe you did that!”
She:- “Well Betty says HER husband takes her out for lunch at least once a week!”

OGLE-05-390Lb seven points, Earth minus five.

“You spent HOW MUCH on the credit card? For PLANTS?”
“Well when was the last time YOU cooked dinner?”

OGLE-05-390Lb four hundred points, Earth… oh I'm not playing any more.

Why would I want to?  I just don't have the correct tools. I'm the one who rushed out to buy a Blackberry phone because I heard it had a 'Voice Recognition' application.  Why?  Because I'm no good at it.  Voice recognition. 

For example, when a party host says to us
“Don't go now, stay for another beer!”
and Mrs Ed looks at me and says something along the lines of
“It's up to you.”
I take it as, well, up to me. 
WRONG! If I had a built-in Voice Recognition app I would recognise it as her 'Don't even think about it unless you want two days of angry silence' voice.  But I just can't get it right (nor can my Blackberry, by the way). 

Mrs Ed's 'calamity' voice is the one that throws me the most.  She has a particular 'Woe is me, disaster has befallen'  intonation which, to my underdeveloped Earth ear, sounds like a 'one size fits all' bad news voice. 

 In other words I've heard her use exactly the same tone for
“I forgot to buy milk”
as she has for
“The Sherriff's come round and taken the car and all our furniture”. 

You can imagine this would be quite disconcerting at times.  I remember once we were standing in the driveway and she suddenly put her hand to her forehead and blurted
“The couch! THE COUCH ON THE VERANDAH! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?”
“WHAT?” I screamed, quickly glancing around in the desperate hope of finding either
a) a hose to put out the fire that was obviously engulfing the old, patched up couch, soon to raze our entire home to nowt but ashes, or
b) a weapon to fight off the hordes of bloodthirsty pygmies which had obviously been gathering forces under the cushions prior to launching this final, merciless, throat-slitting attack on our family....
I grab Mrs Ed, wrapping my arms as far around her as possible to shield her from whatever danger was about to befall us, and I hear her voice, muffled against my chest
“I just don't like it there anymore.  It's gathering dust and dog hair.”

This, of course, gets me into more trouble. Because now, as a rule, I tend to err on the 'not urgent' side. Like yesterday, as I was driving off to work I stopped next to Mrs Ed to thank her for opening the gate.
“The car! THE CAR!” she exclaimed.
“Yes my love, I know. The patches of rust are getting bigger, the door's hanging a bit, and we need new tyres.  But we just don't have the money at the moment, really.  If you think we still have hostel fees and school fees and bottle sto…”
“YOU'VE PARKED IT ON MY FOOT, YOU IDIOT!”

OGLE-05-390Lb one million points, Earth an old, vrot naartjie.
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