Picture this. We're sprawled out on our bed in the coolest part of the house to escape the early summer heat. That is the polite way of saying we were lethargic and sweaty. Oh, magical words!
Anyway. We're both quietly entertaining ourselves on our tablets and all of a sudden B flies into a rage. Full on zero to sixty, and I am blinking rapidly trying to figure out what he has discovered I've done now. I'm not going to lie...I am an ask questions later kind of woman, which means that I normally get a lot of angry phone calls once the media gets wind of my shenanigans. Because every single person I know is a fucking tattle-tale. That is beside the point.
So in among his ranting, in which he is calling me many unflattering names and frequently uses the word hypocrite, I discern that he is actually levelling a very serious charge at me.
He has accused me of cheating.
At which point my standard confused-but-understanding demeanor in these types of "What have you done?" moments is replaced by an overwhelming desire to kick his junk up into his ribcage. Cheating? Oh FUCK no.
We yell. We curse. We slam a lot of doors. There are a few angry tears. At that point, I decide enough is enough and I take a drive to calm down. When I return home I find him on my laptop with my tablet nearby and upon questioning his choice of activities (paraphrased), he tells me that he is checking my browser history. When I offer to open up my email so he can further invade my privacy, he looks at me like I'm completely nuts and tells me that would prove nothing and then reminds me that he expected this sort of thing after our wedding.
At this point I stop mid-protest and Things Are Starting To Click. This is the third time he has brought up our wedding. His dismissal of my email just doesn't make sense. And, looking back, I notice that he has always used certain terms and phrases, while avoiding others.
"Err....you don't think I am having an affair at all, do you?"
"What the hell are you talking about? Of course not. I was talking about Crazy Formula."
I present to you, dear reader, Crazy Formula.
"This is over a GAME?" The wedding comments sink in fully now as the day of our wedding was the day I finally admitted to counting cards. Surprising absolutely no one, this does nothing to mollify me. "YOU ARE THE BIGGEST ASSHOLE EVER."
"It took you two minutes to figure out the last puzzle!! I watched you! It took me SEVEN FULL DAYS to get it! You can't blame me for thinking you cheated."
"AT NO POINT DID YOU STOP AND WONDER WHY I WASN'T TYPICALLY SELF-RIGHTEOUS ABOUT BEING SMARTER THAN YOU?"
"Hey. You're not smarter than I am."
"I AM SO! I AM THE SMARTEST PERSON IN THIS ROOM AND PERHAPS THE BUILDING. PROBABLY. AND YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF."
And that is how we found ourselves arguing very loudly and at great length about the argument. Which, I'm told, is finally fucking meta.
Showing posts with label doing battle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label doing battle. Show all posts
Friday
Bomb birds are useless.
Want your husband to keep his filthy paws off your new iPad and not fuck with your Angry Birds momentum?
Rename it The Menstrual Pad and have loud and angry discussion in which one party makes it known that it will not deter him from using it. Grab his work Blackberry and proceed to lock yourself in the bathroom while threatening to email his peers that he has an abnormal fascination with sanitary napkins. Someone gets called a childish bitch. Stand-off ends with a swap of technology under the door.
That's a pro-tip, ladies. Also...Angry Birds is just as awesome when you are sitting on the tub ledge waiting for the other party to finish cleaning the "You suck" written in eyeliner off the screen of his mobile phone.
Rename it The Menstrual Pad and have loud and angry discussion in which one party makes it known that it will not deter him from using it. Grab his work Blackberry and proceed to lock yourself in the bathroom while threatening to email his peers that he has an abnormal fascination with sanitary napkins. Someone gets called a childish bitch. Stand-off ends with a swap of technology under the door.
That's a pro-tip, ladies. Also...Angry Birds is just as awesome when you are sitting on the tub ledge waiting for the other party to finish cleaning the "You suck" written in eyeliner off the screen of his mobile phone.
Monday
No Pants 2011. Day One.
"The cabbie taking me to the hotel tried to sell me on a happy ending massage parlour. I had lunch at Wolfgang Puck's restaurant. Spent the afternoon taking photos at Mandalay. Dinner at Batali's. Just got out of the Penn & Teller show. Solid first day."
"Yeah....well....you aren't our children's real father. So there's THAT."
Update: No. I am not pregnant. No. I did not steal a child. The police department should be ecstatic that the network of spies that they have trained on my vagina are on top of it. Not on top of my vagina because I don't have the proper permits for that sort of gathering. On top of my status as a parent. Which I clarify only because the number of smartasses I know that read this are numerous and I WILL NOT LET YOU HAVE THE LAST WORD.
"Yeah....well....you aren't our children's real father. So there's THAT."
Update: No. I am not pregnant. No. I did not steal a child. The police department should be ecstatic that the network of spies that they have trained on my vagina are on top of it. Not on top of my vagina because I don't have the proper permits for that sort of gathering. On top of my status as a parent. Which I clarify only because the number of smartasses I know that read this are numerous and I WILL NOT LET YOU HAVE THE LAST WORD.
Tuesday
Obviously.
"I just looked at the credit card statement online on my lunch break and... Why does it look like you spent $70 on soap?"
"Because I spent $70 on soap."
"On soap. The kind in bars."
"Yes. That kind of soap."
"$70."
"Technically it was around $90, but I had some money already in my PayPal account."
"On soap."
"Yes. On soap."
"You can see where I might have a problem with this."
"If we're going to have this conversation, I'm about to bring in Exhibit Nerd. In which I point you to the charge JUST BELOW the one in question. I believe, sir, that you are looking at a charge of over $200 on graphic novels and comics."
"$70 seems pretty reasonable."
"I rest my case, your honour. My lathery moisture-locked case."
I feel obliged to note that I buy soap by the handmade batch and it can take years to get through a stash....so don't judge me. I shower.
"Because I spent $70 on soap."
"On soap. The kind in bars."
"Yes. That kind of soap."
"$70."
"Technically it was around $90, but I had some money already in my PayPal account."
"On soap."
"Yes. On soap."
"You can see where I might have a problem with this."
"If we're going to have this conversation, I'm about to bring in Exhibit Nerd. In which I point you to the charge JUST BELOW the one in question. I believe, sir, that you are looking at a charge of over $200 on graphic novels and comics."
"$70 seems pretty reasonable."
"I rest my case, your honour. My lathery moisture-locked case."
I feel obliged to note that I buy soap by the handmade batch and it can take years to get through a stash....so don't judge me. I shower.
Friday
Tuesday
Customs.
Today my husband is in another country. And it has nothing to do with me, apparently (I am aware that they say that the world doesn't revolve around me, but I think the science is bunk).
I am going to miss him even though I know that the only reason he and I are married is that he drew the short straw against the rest of humanity and now it is his sole responsibility to ensure I don't wreak my particular brand of havoc on the population. The last time he went out of town he left me little notes in various places around the house that said things like "I've dismantled your nanobots so stop looking for them" and "I've wired this place to blow if you even think about continuing your research into ninja-cats". He takes his job pretty seriously, I guess, and worries about me when he's gone. Like I'm some sort of chump.
Wait...who is the chump here? I AM NOT A CHUMP, MISTER, SO TAKE THAT BACK AND SOMETHING ABOUT RIDING A HORSE.
And that is the conversation I had in my head when I decided that tucking a post-it note into his passport demanding a tributary gift but specifically "No STD's, I have to draw the line somewhere" would be hilarious. Especially since he wouldn't see it....but the lovely people at US customs would.
And they did. They still let him in the country though (after embarrassing him, which is pure icing on the cake), so clearly I have to try harder next time.
I am going to miss him even though I know that the only reason he and I are married is that he drew the short straw against the rest of humanity and now it is his sole responsibility to ensure I don't wreak my particular brand of havoc on the population. The last time he went out of town he left me little notes in various places around the house that said things like "I've dismantled your nanobots so stop looking for them" and "I've wired this place to blow if you even think about continuing your research into ninja-cats". He takes his job pretty seriously, I guess, and worries about me when he's gone. Like I'm some sort of chump.
Wait...who is the chump here? I AM NOT A CHUMP, MISTER, SO TAKE THAT BACK AND SOMETHING ABOUT RIDING A HORSE.
And that is the conversation I had in my head when I decided that tucking a post-it note into his passport demanding a tributary gift but specifically "No STD's, I have to draw the line somewhere" would be hilarious. Especially since he wouldn't see it....but the lovely people at US customs would.
And they did. They still let him in the country though (after embarrassing him, which is pure icing on the cake), so clearly I have to try harder next time.
Wednesday
Like the Romans intended.
Filed under "things that drive me crazy" which is a subsection of "nearly everything" (I use law office sized filing cabinets), I'd like to mention The Bath.
B doesn't shower. I think he thinks he's allergic to them or something because the way he evades the little pull knob that switches the water flow from the faucet to the shower head is probably exactly the way that former president evades broccoli fields. You know, Polk. He (B, not Polk) won't touch the damn thing. He insists on having lengthy (of course they are lengthy) hot baths. Ones that last three quarters of an hour long.
"Like the Romans intended."
I can hear you saying "But what is the big deal?", and I'm ignoring the last part of what you said because I am completely sane thankyouverymuch. The big deal is that, completely on purpose and in direct violation of the My Nerve Act, he only takes them at midnight. AT MIDNIGHT. Then, every single fucking morning, he bitches about his hair (which he also refuses to cut unless I read him the riot act at least three times) and then proceeds to use the equivalent of half a barrel of crude oil to keep the Astro-boy-but-with-bedhead mess down, so the sole responsibility of the tar sands at this point is to keep him a functioning member of society (debatable).
I'm not sure how this is going to play out because The Hague still isn't returning my calls, and I don't think I'm allowed to tell you to dump your Dippity-Do stock because I'm pretty sure that is what Martha Stewart went to jail for, but this is going to end. One way, or the other.
B doesn't shower. I think he thinks he's allergic to them or something because the way he evades the little pull knob that switches the water flow from the faucet to the shower head is probably exactly the way that former president evades broccoli fields. You know, Polk. He (B, not Polk) won't touch the damn thing. He insists on having lengthy (of course they are lengthy) hot baths. Ones that last three quarters of an hour long.
"Like the Romans intended."
I can hear you saying "But what is the big deal?", and I'm ignoring the last part of what you said because I am completely sane thankyouverymuch. The big deal is that, completely on purpose and in direct violation of the My Nerve Act, he only takes them at midnight. AT MIDNIGHT. Then, every single fucking morning, he bitches about his hair (which he also refuses to cut unless I read him the riot act at least three times) and then proceeds to use the equivalent of half a barrel of crude oil to keep the Astro-boy-but-with-bedhead mess down, so the sole responsibility of the tar sands at this point is to keep him a functioning member of society (debatable).
I'm not sure how this is going to play out because The Hague still isn't returning my calls, and I don't think I'm allowed to tell you to dump your Dippity-Do stock because I'm pretty sure that is what Martha Stewart went to jail for, but this is going to end. One way, or the other.
Thursday
Our heroine makes herself sick.
Today I made myself horribly ill. I also lost fifty bucks. That's fifty Canadian dollars, not the peanuts you call USD.
Picture this. I am sitting on the couch reading Dostoevsky in the original Russian (playing Viva Pinata on the x-box) with my bone china teacup of freshly steeped peppermint herbal tea sitting on the butler tray in front of me (bottle of pepsi shoved under a thigh) and idly pondering how utterly fantastic and gorgeous I am (utterly fantastic and gorgeous).
B puts on a classical piece by Gorecki for both of us to enjoy (starts singing She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy while in the shower) and enquires shortly after if I would mind if he grilled some lemon pork and whipped up some fresh tzatziki for lunch (yells his intention to go get burgers and fries from within said shower). With the menu settled, I decide that I'm a tad peckish right then and wonder aloud if I should munch on something (munch on something).
B stops and stares for a full minute, and then points out that lunch is only 20 minutes away at the most. Clearly living with the guy for 10 years has fucked with his memory, because I don't recall giving him the impression I am anything but a gourmet (pig). And I remind him that I am fully capable of eating some snackfoods en masse without ruining my appetite. Like nuts. He went with the childish man giggle because I said "nuts", and I patiently began to smack talk...boasting of all the times I had trained myself for this very moment with dim sum events through my history.
"You will make yourself ill, sweetheart."
("I'm not cleaning up puke, you heathen.")
"Darling, I am capable of judging my stomach capacity."
("Fuck you, I'm not a heathen. I have a delightful appetite you cock.")
"......."
("*mangiggle*")
"Your silence speaks volumes, my dear."
("You are such a manboy.")
"Shall we place a friendly wager on your ability?"
("Fifty bucks says you can't eat a bag of pistachios.")
"Not only am I willing to take your money, I can eat two bags of pistachios."
("Not only am I willing to take your money, I can eat two bags of pistachios.")
"I'm sure you can, but just one bag will suffice. The non-red ones."
("I'm sure you can, but one bag'll do. Just not the red ones or you'll get it everywhere.")
"Good call."
("Good call.")
And thus the wager was set. Soon after, he came home with a bag. Of nuts. From the bulk aisle. One kilogram. That fucker.
Picture this. I am sitting on the couch reading Dostoevsky in the original Russian (playing Viva Pinata on the x-box) with my bone china teacup of freshly steeped peppermint herbal tea sitting on the butler tray in front of me (bottle of pepsi shoved under a thigh) and idly pondering how utterly fantastic and gorgeous I am (utterly fantastic and gorgeous).
B puts on a classical piece by Gorecki for both of us to enjoy (starts singing She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy while in the shower) and enquires shortly after if I would mind if he grilled some lemon pork and whipped up some fresh tzatziki for lunch (yells his intention to go get burgers and fries from within said shower). With the menu settled, I decide that I'm a tad peckish right then and wonder aloud if I should munch on something (munch on something).
B stops and stares for a full minute, and then points out that lunch is only 20 minutes away at the most. Clearly living with the guy for 10 years has fucked with his memory, because I don't recall giving him the impression I am anything but a gourmet (pig). And I remind him that I am fully capable of eating some snackfoods en masse without ruining my appetite. Like nuts. He went with the childish man giggle because I said "nuts", and I patiently began to smack talk...boasting of all the times I had trained myself for this very moment with dim sum events through my history.
"You will make yourself ill, sweetheart."
("I'm not cleaning up puke, you heathen.")
"Darling, I am capable of judging my stomach capacity."
("Fuck you, I'm not a heathen. I have a delightful appetite you cock.")
"......."
("*mangiggle*")
"Your silence speaks volumes, my dear."
("You are such a manboy.")
"Shall we place a friendly wager on your ability?"
("Fifty bucks says you can't eat a bag of pistachios.")
"Not only am I willing to take your money, I can eat two bags of pistachios."
("Not only am I willing to take your money, I can eat two bags of pistachios.")
"I'm sure you can, but just one bag will suffice. The non-red ones."
("I'm sure you can, but one bag'll do. Just not the red ones or you'll get it everywhere.")
"Good call."
("Good call.")
And thus the wager was set. Soon after, he came home with a bag. Of nuts. From the bulk aisle. One kilogram. That fucker.
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