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Internets, pardon me while I violate the sanctity of my marriage. You know my husband? sometimes known as @misteranthropic? the one who knocked me up? Yeah. Him. Recently, he bought the newest version of the iSlut, sorry, iDumb — no, that’s not it — iClone? Anyway. You know. That shiny thing he never uses to actually talk to people on, the one that requires you to purchase its insanely priced data plan which is only offered by one company that also leases your testicles when you buy it? That.
My ire was not terribly aroused by this purchase because he’d saved up for it, is selling his iPod and just sold his old iPhone to pay for the new thing. So fine, get the new phone, see if I care, as long as my bank account doesn’t change.
Life could have been just fine, oh yes it could’ve, if he’d just outlined the cost, how he was paying for it, and never said another word. BUT COULD HE DO THAT? OH NO. Here’s what happened instead, night after night.
So I’m pregnant, right?
(“Oh my god, yes, we get it. Shut up already about being pregnant.”)
Well, fine, but that state of being plays a prominent role in my going to sleep before @misteranthropic and getting up well after he’s left for work. Because I don’t actually sleep during that time: I fall asleep, sure, for a few, blissful hours. Then at about one in the morning, I wake up and begin to worry: what if the house isn’t warm enough in the winter? What if I give birth at home? If my water breaks in bed, do we have to get a new mattress? What if the baby has five heads and two fingers? What if we never, ever, agree on a girl’s name and it’s a girl — will we just live in the hospital until one of us offs the other and signs the damn birth certificate? And then at about six, when I’ve exhausted all my worries, I fall asleep again. It’s ridiculous, and it makes me extra grouchy.
So when it’s 10:15 and I’ve just drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by a sharp jab to the shoulder, I’m not all cheery.
“What?”
“Oh, were you sleeping?”
“YES.”
“Oh. Never mind.”
“WHAT.”
“Oh, well, look–” And he’s handing me his old iPhone. I can make out the UPS logo, but I have to put on my glasses to read anything on THAT GODDAMN TINY SCREEN. Then I see that he’s pleased, because his new phone has now been shipped from Anchorage, Alaska, to Trenton, New Jersey. Whoopdeefuckingdo.
The first night, I glared for only a second because the look of pure, boyish glee was — gag alert — heart-melting. It was so cute, I may have kissed him.
The second night, when the phone moved from New Jersey to Kuala Lampur or wherever, I rolled over without a word.
The third night, when the phone moved from Kuala Lampur to Jodhuppurstonfordinghamopolis, I sat up when he nudged me and said, “Oh, really? Wow, honey, that’s great” and then threw the damn thing across the room.
The fourth night, I slept like a baby.
Okay. So the phone finally arrives, and what does this dignified, white-collar worker do? He quits work early that day to go get it, and it’s like he’s found a new mistress: one with smaller pixel-pores who he can carry in his pocket and croon lullabies to at night when they fucking sleep together.
Yeah. Italics AND all caps.
So there you have it: we’re having a new baby, and my husband has found a new, sleek, shiny, non-bloated wife. My only consolation is that my order of Greek Nescafé Frappé mix has left Greece and arrived in Jacksonville, FL, with an estimated delivery date of July 6.
I am making red lamé underwear for my husband.
“You like to tell true stories, don’t you?” [my father] asked, and I answered, “Yes, I like to tell stories that are true.”
Then he asked, “After you have finished your true stories sometime, why don’t you make up a story and the people to go with it?
“Only then will you understand what happened and why.
“It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us.”
The following items of The Husband’s dirty clothing have been found within ten (10) feet of the dirty laundry bin:
- eleven socks
- two pairs boxers
- one button-down dress shirt (which, if not dirty, certainly needs to be ironed now)
- four t-shirts
- one pair shorts
HUSBAND I will continue to do what laundry is in the bin. Ye be warned.
So, That Husband and I have taken to playing Catan in the evenings. God, the domestic things couples do…I mean, who wouldn’t crave this kind of venom fun: name-calling, huffy silences, flouncing out of the room. And sometimes I’m almost as bad.* But it does get heated, and not in the way that leads into the bedroom and, y’know, fun stuff; no, in a way that leads to TWO bedrooms. PERMANENTLY.
Saturday and Sunday nights were the sole bright rays in this squalid pursuit: I actually won–twice! But it’s back to normal since then, with The Husband violating his prenup by CONSISTENTLY PISSING ME OFF, rolling gleefully in his piles of ore, pillaging my resources with his soldiers terrorists, and relentlessly beating me into a bloody, lachrymose pulp until he’s standing atop the limp puddle that was my body, waving his longest-road card and screaming, “I WIN, I WIN” because despite what you all might think of his placid exterior and big, round, puppy-dog eyes, he really is an egomaniacal megalomaniac. Too much mania, you protest? NOT FOR HIM.
So tonight, after another bout that twice armisticed near tears and ended with me one resource–ONE RESOURCE–shy of winning, I forced him to buy me ice cream, and we’ll just see if that prevents me from having a “nightmare” in which I am being “attacked” by an “intruder” and find myself beating the living shit out of whatever I can reach. We’ll just see.
*Ba-dum-bum…ching?
monopoly = grounds for divorce. that is all.
Apparently, instead of putting him to sleep, Ambien gives The Husband ADD. To wit: an hour after taking it, he was rifling through the contents of my desk, asking me if we should take graph paper to Greece so we could design houses. I told him to go to bed, but he said he had “important stuff” to do on his computer…and spent that time reading blogs. Then he asked for a haircut, which I didn’t do. When he finally did come to bed, he got up about four times to go to the bathroom, to get a drink, to go downstairs for some reason, to check on the cats. Which is all to say, THIS DOES NOT BODE WELL FOR THE PLANE.
Because, dear readers, today we leave for Greece.
Approximately everyone I know has been hopping on the pregnancy bandwagon of late, whereas I’m just trying to avoid being run over by it. HUSBAND we need to have a talk about your needs, and how you won’t be having them anymore.
This weekend was The Husband’s ten-year high school reunion. I’ll be seeing my attorney directly and filing a complaint about abandonment during last night’s dinner when, while all the classmates got up for the group picture, I ended up with a baby on my lap. HUSBAND do you see what happens when you abandon me?
I dunno who had a lot of kids at my reunion, seeing as how I didn’t exactly go to most of it, but I was amazed by the number of people who had not one but two or more kids at this one.
Huh.
Anyway, today we’re going shooting. I’ve never shot a gun before so this should be awkward and a little scary. Just like the rest of the weekend.
This coming weekend is my M.A. exam. Which I am, of course, TOTALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO, just like a visit to the gynecologist or, I dunno, going back to high school or living with my parents again.
So how this works is I get my exam questions via e-mail on Friday morning, and I have three days to write a fifteen- to twenty-page paper, complete with sources and a theoretical basis* and, like, some original ideas on computers in the composition classroom. Part of me is like, Hey, no big deal, I always write my papers the weekend before they’re due, and I have (thus far) a 4.0 gpa in grad school. And the other part of me is like, Holy fucking shit this exam determines whether I pass or fail I AM GOING TO DIE.**
This is all to say that I need the husband out of my sight next weekend, lest he get in the way of, um, friendly fire. So if anyone out there wants the better half of this relationship, perhaps to play long and boring games that take an inordinate amount of time, by all means save him from me. Just let him come home from time to time to be sure I’m alive and well.
*I think I just threw up a little in my mouth
**Actually I have to do an oral exam too, but this written part matters a bit more
Today I walked around downtown for about an hour before realizing, oh, hey, that breezy feeling? IT’S COMING FROM MY PANTS. There were two gaping holes in the seat, just around the area I’ve already patched because yeah, they’re my favorite pair.
My apologies to everyone who saw my undies today; at least they matched. Sort of.
HUSBAND do we have money in the clothes budget or shall I wear pajamas for the rest of our married life?
also I would like some chocolate
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