The Clock

Attention: No actual husbands were killed in the creation of this story



My husband has asked me for a divorce again. I don't blame him really, however I do blame him for making me act the way I do. I know that common psychological theory suggests that no one can really make you do anything you don't want to do, but that theory is wrong.



The question is: why does he make me do things he doesn't want me to do, and fail completely to make me do the things he wants me to do?

Likely the answer lays somewhere in the word "make." The implication is that his power over me is of such a persuasive nature, that I would want to bend to his will, just for the pleasure of pleasing him.

Unfortunately, this is not the case. His power over me is more like the ignition of spark to a large vat of gasoline, explosive. That is why when I started my clock on fire in the front yard, I used diesel not gas.



You would think with my professional background, I would take a less violent approach to solving disputes, and once again I point out that he made me do it.



My conclusion is that boredom is the stimulus for his forays into the darker side of my nature. He must tire of the way I pamper him with backrubs and pornstar sex. The gourmet meals, tidy house and lovely garden begin to seem blasé. What challenge is there to a beautiful wife who works full time, and meets all of your needs without so much as a complaint about your inability to empty the garbage or leave the toilet seat down?



It is completely understandable that given the extremely generous and loving way in which I care for my husband, he should be discontented.



His discontentment usually begins slowly; small things begin to annoy him. The silverware is not shiny enough, the hot tub is too hot, he wanted something else for dinner, I let the fire go out....



Oh yes and then there was the chiming noise coming out of the spare bedroom where he discovered the clock! A large walnut Victorian wall clock, all decked out with finials and gingerbread trim, a veritable whorehouse of a clock. I admit the clock was over the top, but I loved it and I knew he would too, once he got to know it.



His discovery of the clock was not as I had hoped, he seemed angry and paranoid. My husband seemed jealous of the clock, as if the clock had become my secret lover. He shouted about the clock and accused me of being "sneaky." He grilled me about why I had hidden the clock. He lectured me on the uselessness of the clock and my heinous despicable omission of not informing him about the purchase of the clock. He clearly did not want me to own this clock, if this clock had a name it would be "Chucky." The importance of the clock began to take on epic proportion in his mind. Everything that was wrong with his life and our marriage could be faulted to Chucky the clock. If there was going to be a hill to die on that hill would be named Chucky the clock. At some point, the ticking and chiming of the clock in his head became so great, that he began to devise a plan to murder the clock. My husband is no one's fool, he knew that any overt attack on the clock would be seen as insanity on his part. He knew that if he was going to get away with the dastardly deed of erasing the clock into extinction, he would need a partner in crime. Who better to commit the act than the "sneaky", clock buying wife. This is how it came to pass that I burned my very own Walnut Victorian Wall clock, drenched in diesel under a clear winter moon.