Yes I Am A Nag, And Here's Why

Years ago when I first got married, I wanted to be the cool wife. I wanted to be the type of wife that didn't get accused of being a nag because I assumed that the Hub and I would just be able to talk about the things that bothered us. If we had a disagreement, we could come to some kind of mutual solution.

Phuck that. After 16 years of marriage, I am going to embrace the title of NAG. Because if that's what it takes for him to finally pay attention to something that I tell him, instead of having to go behind him to fix stuff or listen to another one of his numerous excuses, then that's what I'll be. And if he doesn't like it, then either he will get it together, or he will start drinking brown liquor like every other middle age married man and that's just fine with me.

I am tired. And not just tired of the emotional labor, but sick and tired of it ALL. Like many women, I found the word nag to be disempowering and accusatory. It completely took the focus off the issue that I was raising and shifted it onto me for confronting him. And still the issue itself didn't get resolved unless I did it myself or until it bothered him. And apparently, almost nothing bothers him.

So now I'm convinced that has been the point all along--to only do the things they want to do and then to use the word nag to make women feel bad for having expectations. And we're not talking about extraordinary expectations, like exotic trips and jewelry. But basic stuff like putting down the toilet seat or noticing that I have carefully labeled where things ought to be so that I know where they are without having to search all over the damn house for them!

Basic isht.

Ladies, reclaim the word. Own it. And daggonit, NAG 'em!

Tell that man that your living room is not a damn clothes hamper. There is an actual clothes hamper up those stairs, so march yourself up there and put those nasty, sweaty clothes in there.

Tell him that if you went through the trouble of setting out the child's clothes, while he was sitting on the bed with the half naked child, the least he can do is put those clothes on the child. And don't swear on any dead parent that I didn't do it, because THE CLOTHES ARE RIGHT THERE ON THE BED WHERE I PUT THEM.

Tell him that you can bring him his forgotten wallet/phone/keys again for the umpteenth time, because that non-system for remembering his stuff still doesn't work.

Tell him that there is a right way to change a diaper and that it is not a "matter of opinion" especially since he isn't the one who does the laundry.

Tell him that it is ironic that he would rather listen to the advice of the random folks on his job who don't know his child. Because I would gladly switch places with one of those work-wives to have her come live here with the both of you for just a day.

Tell him that when we are trying to get out of the house to be someplace, that indecisive-hesitant-confused moving slower than a snail crap is going to piss me off and yes, I am going to tell you to move your ass or get mowed down.

Tell him that it has been more than two years, so in the name of the Pacific, Atlantic, and Indian Oceans, for goodness sake get someone in here to FIX THIS DAMN LEAK!