Fighting words

Husband and I are having an argument. It’s been going on for weeks. I think he’s being unreasonable. He thinks I’m being unreasonable. (As is the way with arguments.) So I thought I’d make a bad situation worse by telling you about it. See what you think. A lovely ex-employee of mine is holding an art exhibition in the Hunter Valley next month. The opening is at 6pm on a Saturday night. She’s invited me along. Sprog 1 and 2 are having their end-of-year dance recital at 1pm the same day, in North Sydney. Judging by last year’s mercifully short performance, it will go for 90 minutes, tops. Nonna and Pop are coming too. I suggested to Husband that we go to the dance recital, then leave the Sprogs with their grandparents and drive to the exhibition. See some art, drink some wine, hoover up some hors d’oeuvres, dine at a nice restaurant, stay the night in a motel, drive home the next morning for our nephew’s 10th birthday. Well, Husband thought that was a terrible idea. Too far, better to do it another time, when we don’t have a dance recital and a nephew’s 10th birthday. True, but the exhibition opening won’t be on another time. Nope. Fine, I said, I’ll go by myself. He accused me of trying to railroad him. I took offence at being accused of trying to railroad him. There may have been tears. I let it slide, thinking it was the man-flu talking, that he’d change his mind when he started feeling better. Nope. I explained the situation to my sister (ok, maybe I bitched about it). She generously suggested we didn’t need to come back for the birthday celebration, we could stay in the Hunter Valley and go wine tasting instead. I put this to Husband, thinking it might seal the deal. Still no go. Still too far and too little time in his opinion. Some snarky remarks about the suggested accommodation were thrown into the mix. Fine, I thought, I’ll ask an arty friend who lives in Newcastle to come with me. I wrote the email, held my finger over the “send” button and yelled to Husband that I was about to press it. “Go for it,” he yelled back. So I did. And I should let it go now. But it’s really, really bugging me. Why would Husband knock back the chance to go Sprog-less to the Hunter Valley, attend a gallery opening, have dinner and stay in a motel. I know it’s a two-hour commute either way, but … nuh, I don’t get it. 

TONIGHT’S MENU: I’m skinning organic lamb sausages, mushing them up, wrapping them in pastry and serving them as sausage rolls to the Sprogs. I was planning on seeing a movie with my sister and having sushi afterwards, but Sprog 1 started shivering and vomitting at 5am this morning, so maybe not …