You are Right, I was Wrong, It’s All My Fault

A week or so ago my redhead and I were taking a hard look at our finances. We are coming up this fall on two kids in college, my income this year is down by about 40% over last year (not working enough, though we are getting back on track) and we really need a newish car for our baby so he can come home on weekends and kiss his mom.

As we talked about our individual responsibilities, it seemed obvious my redhead taking a job made financial sense. Even though she hadn’t had a job outside the home for many years, it would help us get ahead and get both boys where they need to be college-wise.

“I can’t type, are there jobs where you don’t have to type?” she asked.

“Well, we’ll see. Just tell everyone you can’t type when they call you for an interview and you should be fine.”

It was a calm discussion. No fighting. No disagreement. No raised voices. No tears.

I state the above because of what happened yesterday.

My redhead had secured an interview with a government contractor hiring data management people. I heard her make the appointment and she was clear: She does not type, would that be OK?

While I seldom mention it, my redhead is handicapped. Her nails are extremely long. They are the envy of Freddy Kruger. Bears bow to her superiority. Edward Scissorhands came to her for lessons. Her nails are so long she fits right in at any DEF Jam event.

I mean long.

As such, she hasn’t typed in years. Not totally true: She types, very slowly, lightly tapping the keys as to not damage her perfect manicure.

So when she arrived for her interview yesterday she promptly informed the receptionist she didn’t type. “Oh, we have lots of people here who don’t type.”

In a few minutes she was shuffled off to a pre-interview. She told the interviewer as soon as she arrived, “You understand I can’t type.”

“That’s not a problem, we have all kinds of jobs here and many do not require typing skills.”

They completed the interview. Then she was taken for some written tests. The algebra portion was tough, but she made it through with flying colors.

Once the completed her written tests, they were scored, then her “handler” came in to take her for her next test.

“What is this test?”

“This is just the typing test.”

“Typing test? I told Mr. Peterman I don’t type.”

“It’s just part of the process; everyone has to take the typing test. But don’t worry, there are many jobs we’re interviewing for that don’t require typing. You just have to complete the test.”

So she went in, sat at the keyboard and promptly fulfilled her self-fulfilling prophecy. She typed an average of 12 words per minute.

Once the test was complete, the handler returned and ushered her back into the waiting room with another 20 or so others.

After a few minutes the door opened again, it was the test director:

“Mzzzz. Scott?” she had that inner-city southern accent. My redhead perked up. “Honey, you can’t type to saves yo life. You flunked the test. You wants to take it again? I caint get ya a job typin lest you can pass this test.”

Now one thing my redhead can’t stand: Public humiliation. I don’t think any of us like it, but she hates it with a passion.

“I TOLD YOU I DON’T TYPE.”

“Well, yoos can go then.”

My redhead stormed out, drove recklessly home and walked in the kitchen door just as I entered the kitchen.

“Hi honey, how did it go?”

She was shaking with anger. Her laser beam stare preceded her thrusting her index finger my direction, “I can’t believe you made me go down there and get humiliated like that!”

“What happened?” I could feel my fear rise. It sucked in my balls first.

“You told me I had to get a job, even though you knew I couldn’t type. Why did you do that to me? I told you I couldn’t type.”

She stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door.

The last time I saw her this mad was years ago. Years. In fact I can’t remember the last argument we had.

In the first few years of our marriage I would have engaged in escalation: “Wait a minute, didn’t we discuss this? Didn’t we make this decision together? Why are you mad at me, I didn’t ‘make’ you do anything.”

Eventually this type of proliferation inevitably ends in mutually assured destruction.

But now, after 24 years of marriage, I have a better tactic.

I tapped lightly on the door. “Honey?”

It sounded like she was crying. “What?”

“You’re right, I was wrong, it’s all my fault.”

The door opened and she fell sobbing into my arms. “You’re perfect” I whispered as I stroked her auburn curls.

This morning they called and offered her a job.

All is right with the world.