I used to work at the armpit of the Dallas area, the Bulk Mail Center (a postal facility). I worked as a mail processing clerk, and a married woman in my area named Judy was carrying on an affair with a leering weirdo forklift driver. She was always looking over her shoulder and seemed afraid for him to catch her having a conversation with anyone, male or female. He'd pull up suddenly on his forklift, scowling and shooting eye-daggers at anyone who looked his way. He sorta resembled a bulldog, actually, only not so charming. I'd seen him giving her a rather heated lecture on more than one occasion and I suspected he was physically violent toward her.
Now mind you, Judy was so completely stupid that even I wanted to slap her around a bit. Her idea of an edifying conversation was to tell you her grocery list. Bread? Milk? Who gives a shit? Anyway, once Judy told me her dog had puppies in a bureau drawer, but that the wee bastards suffocated because the mother didn't lick off the membrane thingies. I looked at her, deadpan, and said "Judy, why didn't you lick off the puppies?" She sort of sputtered a response that she never thought of that. I rather suspected those dogs had gone to a better place anyway, rather than live in the care of a brain-trust like Judy.
What sort of got me started on this path today was thinking of that song "Let's go to bed" by the Cure, which I always thought must be about talking an argument to death by staying up all night and never getting anywhere with it. If you think you're tired now, just wait until 3. My first boyfriend was one of those power-mad losers that have to win every argument, and apparently love to keep their vict-- er, girlfriend up all night figuring out that he is, in fact, a demigod and not to be questioned.
In Interview magazine sometime in the 80s, Carrie Fisher said in order to work, every marriage has to have a flower and a gardener. She said her marriage to Paul Simon was doomed because they are both flowers and no one was able/willing to nurture the other one. Well, I have to say first boyfriend was the first and last male flower I would ever go within 10 feet of. Even if I come off like John Wayne in a Sherman Tank, I'm the girl, and I make the decorating choices, see? I'll never ask you if my ass looks fat in these. Even if I look like hell warmed over, you'd better tell me how damned cute I am, got it? And none of this keeping me up arguing all night bullshit, because you're doomed to lose anyhow, and momma needs her sleep. I'm going to bed.