How to love a gamer
The other night I was looking through old blogs from when my boyfriend and I were carrying on a long distance relationship. It was romantic stuff. I even got sugar shock a couple of times. After surfing the entries for awhile I turned to the smelly, unkempt man lounging on the couch beside me clad only in his boxer briefs.
"Honey, what happened to you?"
This was greeted with the standard grunt of recognition without intent to communicate. I lobbied long and hard for that grunt. It was a step up from the dead silence that I used to be greeted with if I disturbed him in his most sacred of rituals (playing online games).
I prodded him with a pencil. It was as close as I was willing to get considering how long it had been since his last shower. "Hooooney...."
"I'm sorry, did you say something?"
I changed tactics. "You've been sitting there for so long that the couch cushin has shaped itself around your butt and you probably have bedsores."
"I don't have bedsores yet", he answered in vauge, distracted sort of voice.
"And", I added reasonably, "the dishes that you offered to do three days ago are still sitting in the kitchen where they are getting progressively smellier".
"I'll get to them".
This mysterious I'll get to them phrase has burned me before. Every day for three days, in fact. I no longer trust it. "I want a timeframe", I told him in the same tone of voice shopkeepers use to tell college students that they won't accept their checks. "You used to be so responsible. What happened?"
Semi-audible grunt.
I always promised myself that I would not be that woman with the honey do list a mile long. Unfortunately, when "Honey" doesn't actually "do" anything, it does tend to lengthen. Now I promise myself no more than a very reasonable quarter of a mile.
It does beg the "what do I see in this man" question though.
Honestly, beneath that presently kind of stenchy facade beats the heart of a caring, well intentioned, supportive human being. This is the person who never once rolled his eyes when I decided spontaneoulsy that I wanted to learn how to knit and then spent the next three weeks having to be rescued from progressively knottier yarn messes. When the pattern for my grandmother's slippers proved to be a wash and I ended up with an object that looked like a cross between a purse and a deformed sock, did he laugh? Nope. He tried to help fix it. When I decided that I wanted to make yet another attempt at learning the guitar and spent three weeks stuck playing the song "Molly Malone" on an electric guitar (an effect not unlike nails on chalkboard) did he cringe visibly or ask me to stop? Not ever.
He always supports my endeavors, even when I'm really, really bad at them. Of course there is the occasional over helping, like when I misguidedly decide that I'm going to go on a diet and he puts all of the desserts in the top cabinet above the stove and I spend the next four weeks sneaking a chair over to pilfer from my own stash, but he means well. And truthfully, he usually showers more.
So I will take the lessons that I have learned from the past two years of his love and support. I will hold my tongue, and my nose, and occaisionally walk him so that the bedsores do not get too severe until he either comes to his senses or gets bored. Although I will still be adamant about the dishes.
"Honey, what happened to you?"
This was greeted with the standard grunt of recognition without intent to communicate. I lobbied long and hard for that grunt. It was a step up from the dead silence that I used to be greeted with if I disturbed him in his most sacred of rituals (playing online games).
I prodded him with a pencil. It was as close as I was willing to get considering how long it had been since his last shower. "Hooooney...."
"I'm sorry, did you say something?"
I changed tactics. "You've been sitting there for so long that the couch cushin has shaped itself around your butt and you probably have bedsores."
"I don't have bedsores yet", he answered in vauge, distracted sort of voice.
"And", I added reasonably, "the dishes that you offered to do three days ago are still sitting in the kitchen where they are getting progressively smellier".
"I'll get to them".
This mysterious I'll get to them phrase has burned me before. Every day for three days, in fact. I no longer trust it. "I want a timeframe", I told him in the same tone of voice shopkeepers use to tell college students that they won't accept their checks. "You used to be so responsible. What happened?"
Semi-audible grunt.
I always promised myself that I would not be that woman with the honey do list a mile long. Unfortunately, when "Honey" doesn't actually "do" anything, it does tend to lengthen. Now I promise myself no more than a very reasonable quarter of a mile.
It does beg the "what do I see in this man" question though.
Honestly, beneath that presently kind of stenchy facade beats the heart of a caring, well intentioned, supportive human being. This is the person who never once rolled his eyes when I decided spontaneoulsy that I wanted to learn how to knit and then spent the next three weeks having to be rescued from progressively knottier yarn messes. When the pattern for my grandmother's slippers proved to be a wash and I ended up with an object that looked like a cross between a purse and a deformed sock, did he laugh? Nope. He tried to help fix it. When I decided that I wanted to make yet another attempt at learning the guitar and spent three weeks stuck playing the song "Molly Malone" on an electric guitar (an effect not unlike nails on chalkboard) did he cringe visibly or ask me to stop? Not ever.
He always supports my endeavors, even when I'm really, really bad at them. Of course there is the occasional over helping, like when I misguidedly decide that I'm going to go on a diet and he puts all of the desserts in the top cabinet above the stove and I spend the next four weeks sneaking a chair over to pilfer from my own stash, but he means well. And truthfully, he usually showers more.
So I will take the lessons that I have learned from the past two years of his love and support. I will hold my tongue, and my nose, and occaisionally walk him so that the bedsores do not get too severe until he either comes to his senses or gets bored. Although I will still be adamant about the dishes.
posted by jen at 3:17 AM
3 Comments:
A suggestion from an X online gamer when he is asleep cut the end of the plug off of his gaming system. It will cause him to use his brain for a few minutes to work on the problem. Sure he may get upset for a little while but it's worth a shot. At least you might get your message through to him and let him make a decision what is more important to him the game or you. If he really loves you still he will make the right choice. I made the choice in favor of my wife not just because she owns a gun and is a redhead by the way haha Good luck
Books aren't quite the same. Have you ever seen a gamer detached from their controller? They're like angry ferrets. In all my years of hanging with bibliophiles I've never known one to actually make the ferret face.
if I had an angry ferret photo, I could show you. As it is, walk up to someone playing a video game. Or a crack addict will do. Then snatch their temporary bliss. If you survive the experience, you know what an angry ferret looks like.
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