Men and women are different. We deal with life differently, we use the bathroom differently and we certainly express emotions differently.
Some would call me a pushover. I don’t just let people walk over me; I let them walk over me back and forth while wearing 3-inch heels. I keep things held captive inside of me and then one day, unexpectedly, the slightest thing can send me over the edge. It’s not my greatest quality. But before you go off painting a picture of me as a monster, please note that it takes a lot to fill me with anger. Trust me, I have plenty of stories of mistreatments that would make you question why I’m not in an institution. (I’m saving those for future blogs and perhaps a book that will land me a guest spot on Oprah.)
Chase, my husband, handles his emotions completely differently. He’s not afraid to say exactly what he’s thinking nor does he mind putting an offender in their place. He tactfully uses his sarcasm to express his displeasure in what someone has said or done to him. He rarely keeps things held inside and is a “what you see is what you get” kind of guy. I admire his ability to focus more on how he’s feeling than worrying about how he’s going to make the person in the wrong feel by speaking up.
We rarely trade places when it comes to expressing anger, but on Saturday, the roles were completely reversed.
I was in Shallotte, North Carolina coordinating a golf tournament while Chase was back in Raleigh maintaining the house and most importantly, watching Scottie, our adorable 6-year-old Westie. (After graduating high school, I worked the entire summer to save up money in order to buy him. I hand-picked him from the litter and he’s been my sidekick ever since.)
I received a phone call mid-morning from a calm, cool and collected Chase. He had taken Scottie to be groomed and unfortunately had some bad news. “Something happened at the groomers. I guess his toenail got caught on something and when the groomer looked down, there was blood everywhere. He has to be taken to the vet, sedated and they will have to fully remove his toenail.”
As if Scottie can even recollect, I immediately start worrying whether or not I told him “I love you” before I left. I feel guilty for building him up all week with the promise of going to the “Spa” on Saturday. I go through every horrid scenario of what could happen to my precious pet and flashbacks of Marley and Me start playing in my mind.
Chase remained as cool as a cucumber.
A few hours later, Chase received a phone call that Scottie was ready to be picked-up. He went to the groomer only to find out that someone mistakenly called him. Scottie hadn’t even visited the vet yet and wouldn’t be ready for a few more hours.
Chase was still remarkably calm.
Finally, after an entire day of worry, Chase received word that Scottie was indeed ready for pick up and that his toenail injury had been fixed and bandaged. As if the groomer had not already messed up enough, Chase arrived to pick up Scottie and discovered that the groomer had given Scottie the wrong hair cut. Scottie had an intense mullet – completely shaven on top and dragging a skirt of hair on the bottom. (Side note – Scottie has been going to the same groomer, getting the same cut for the last 17 months.)
Chase paid the groomer $46 and headed out on his merry way.
Upon hearing about the day’s events, I am immediately outraged. First, my pet thought he was going to a spa and instead went to be tortured. What did his toenail get caught on while he was standing on a metal platform? I would imagine it got “caught on” the clippers that went a bit too far. Secondly, why in the world should we have to pay after everything that happened? Paying just means we’re rewarding them for potentially sending us home with a 3-legged, half-haired creature. Lastly, why isn’t my husband reacting with anger the same way I am?
Chase remained collected the entire time and even offered up reasons to excuse the absurd behavior of the groomer. His lack of anger shocked me and only angered me more. Is this the same man that broke the Shark Steam Mop and then called Shark to demand they send us a replacement? (I had already mopped the floors that day but he just had to mop them one more time. I heard the snap and walked in to find Chase holding the base in one hand and a broken handle in the other, yelling a few explicit words.) Or the same man that can instantly become irritated if I don’t have Trident gum in my purse? And goodness, you can’t even imagine the anger he exerts if he’s going to miss a Dallas Cowboys football game. None of those situations validate the need for anger. But potentially removing Scottie’s paw and sending him home with low self-esteem due to an absurd hair cut? That is something to get angry about!
After much discussion, Chase and I agreed to disagree on what the proper reaction to the groomer fiasco should have been. The most important thing is that Scottie is home and has 4 legs.
Scottie and I agreed that it’s time to find a new groomer.