He’s Wrong! Very, very wrong!

Sometime the HoH is wrong.


I get it.


Wrong (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let’s add insult to injury:  the HoH  punishes you.

Now what?

Is it over? Does he/she turn in their badge?

Or do you let them keep it while feeling secretly superior?

Here’s the thing:  Authority comes from somewhere.  (I want to say up front this is not meant to be the seminal discourse on authority.  I’m not going to look up definitions.  This is me, thinking out loud.) (Maybe my nose was in a corner at the time.)

Some of us are either born with an innate air of authority or we develop it. But even that kind of authority has to be recognized before the Innately Gifted One can effectively use his/her  authority.  You can wander around feeling authoritative but it won’t don’t you any good if no one recognizes it.

We recognize authority, we bow down to it, submit, because we have to.

For one reason or another.

Norse marauders were acknowledged as authority because they had huge swords and could kick your ass.


Ms. Monroe, your first grade teacher, was recognized because another authority figure–your mom– told you that not only could Ms. Monroe kick your butt, but Mom would do it again when you got home.

Maybe you grew to really like Ms. Monroe because she didn’t make fun of you for crying when your mom left and you wanted to please her. At that moment. wanting her approval also gave her authority.

Maybe Ms. Monroe had a look that turned your stomach upside down and made you want to run screaming after your mother. Your fear was an instinctive recognition to her authority, and your powerlessness,  as well as the authority the school–and much more important in those years–your mother–gave the wicked witch.

Maybe Ms. Monroe was a total idiot who spent her day tweeting.  You followed whatever rules she enforced because of the authority she wielded.

At times, Ms Monroe was wrong!

She thought you stuck the pencil in Jeremy’s nose.  Bobbie did.

You cried. You argued. You- -whatever.

You didn’t get to say “I’m transferring to another class.”

OK. Maybe Ms. Monroe was a total sadistic meanie and your parents did have you moved.  That’s because some other authority interceded on your behalf.  NOT because you snatched up your Power Rangers lunchbox and left the room.

Maybe Ms. Monroe really was sadistic and talked all the kids into calling one poor kid horrible names.  You didn’t like it.  You wouldn’t do it.  Ms. Monroe kept you in from recess. She told the other kids to call you terrible names.  She told the other kids they had extra homework and it was your fault.  You stood strong and refused to knuckle under despite all hell breaking over your head.

You had your own internal authority you decided was the boss of you, not Ms. Monroe,nor even your Mom if she took Monroe’s side.

By the way, this means you’re a courageous moral human and I’d like to be your friend.  I also wish you’d run for office, but I understand why you wouldn’t want to.

I’ve had a lot of fun with Ms. Monroe and could go on, but you get my point.

And there is an abundance of figures in our lives we acknowledge as authority for one reason or another. Religious.  Law Officers. Government. Bosses. Pushy friends. Parents. Forces of nature. Culture. And for whatever reason we give the authority, we often have in our minds an idea we could refuse to submit if we chose.

We quit our job.

We say goodbye to a friend.

We move to another country.

We live in the woods in a bunker in —a less heavily populated state.

But most of us-

those of us with working emotional intelligence that allows us to be productive and happy,

do not snatch authority away the second we don’t like what the authority is doing.

And depending on the tolerance of the authority we don’t hurl abuse, throw china, jut our chin, cock our hip, stick out our tongue and say: make me.

When I was 18 a State Patrolman pulled me over. I was having too good of a time in a sports car. He suggested while the weather was clear and the road basically empty, I shouldn’t continue to travel at speeds upwards of 80 mph.

I nodded politely.

And when I pulled back on the road -because I’d had a fight with my boyfriend, a lousy day at work,  hated school, despised my parents and had no idea what to do with my life,  I deliberately accelerated to the limits that baby could go.

That baby- was the pride of  my friend Brian’s Voc Ed Auto Mechanics Class.

( I stole this picture from :http://artofmanliness.com/2010/01/06/45-manly-hobbies)

Sticking my tongue out that time cost me $300 dollars. And that was in 1978, folks– when $300 was not easy to come by.

I was an ass.

I got a lot smarter.

I told you- I hardly even think the word asshole anymore.

When the HoH is Wrong-Part I

Being human, means  sooner or later, even an HoH is wrong.

What happens then? my friend  (who has told her husband he may only kiss her ass, not spank it) asks.

In my twenties, or even thirties, my answer would be different than today.

Truthfully? Maybe even early forties.

Growing up in my family, the thing was to always be right. Argue the other person right into the ground. Use any means necessary.

  Quite early on, I rejected that behavior. It wasn’t for me. That didn’t mean I was a doormat, or even known as a peacemaker.  I was always willing to say That  Of Which Others Will Not Speak.  I didn’t insist you acknowledge my rightness–just listen.

Once in this long term relationship, I realized hanging on to rightness led to bad things. Tension. Distance. Anxious children.

        Nervous animals.

No sex.

  And you know, that’s dangerous.

Use it or Loose it, right?

Ignore needs long enough and something funny happens.  They stop being needs.

HE would never say he was wrong. HE might offer me a cup of coffee.  HE’d tell me -while I was dressed in sweats, had hair standing straight up from my head and my nose red from crying-that  I looked really pretty.

He would not say: “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

I wanted those words. Without them, it wasn’t enough.

I would have my say (You’re an asshole.) and move on, furious, that once again, for the sake of peace, I would be the mature one, letting it go. Halos fluttered around my head.

And at least I did possess the grace to be grateful for the wisdom to shut up.  While I did feel like a saint, I  didn’t act  like a martyr (very often) and for the most part, there was laughter and peace, support and love, acceptance- in our home.

You learn a lot here in Blogland.

In submission, weird things happen.

I am a strong independent woman. HE values that. Once, in a blinding snow storm, his back was utterly and completely out. He was on the floor, and not moving, even with powerful drugs coursing through his system.  One of our customers-an elderly frail man was also out of commission and needed firewood brought in.  Seven months pregnant, I climbed into HIS plow truck, read the manual, slipped it into 4 wheel drive (this was the old days folks-when it meant climbing outside and doing things to your wheels) and drove off down the mountain.  I’ve also plowed for the first time–ever—solo-at nice months pregnant.  HE has always sung my praises publicly, treated me with respect, and thanked me.

He did not open doors for me anymore.

Trying on submission, I find it awkward and ill fitting.

I try to remember to ask. I clamp my mouth shut and follow his ideas.  I ask for help. I tell him I’m upset instead of acting like Iron Woman.

He opens doors now. Coats are held out for me. He treats me like I am a piece of china-not like I’m helpless.  Not like I’m incapable. Like I’m treasured.

He has said, publicly, in front of the children: I’m so sorry. I was wrong.

I am well taken care of –that way -regularly, frequently, and always first.

So:  He can be wrong.

I sure don’t say: asshole.

Most of the time I don’t even think it.