When I first met my husband, I couldn’t believe that he didn’t find me hilarious. He hardly ever laughed at me. This went on for so long that I eventually compared the nature of our relationship to Mr. Wilson and Dennis The Menace.

It was then when he explained what a “straight man” was (and no, sadly I am not referring to sexuality) and then I got it. He was and will always be my straight man. He may never laugh out loud unless I catch him off guard, but this doesn’t necessarily mean that he isn’t laughing on the inside (which, if you ask me is better than crying on the inside).

So, because I am a highly mature adult, I try to spend most of our time spent in public embarrassing him. I spent much of the last part of my pregnancy waddling after him in stores loudly requesting that he get me my nipple cream and hemorrhoid pillows.

He wasn’t even remotely fazed.

I consider every instance that I make him blush a personal (major) victory, so I take most opportunities as they are presented. A simple jaunt through the pharmacy can turn into me loudly shrieking after him to “fill that Viagra prescription so we can get our hump on!” or “Honey, don’t you need some more ADULT DIAPERS? We’re almost out!”

(I do the same thing to my mother, minus, of course, the Viagra comment as she doesn’t have a penis. I think. The results are the same. Loudly rolling their eyes into the back of their head at my teenage-esque antics.)

You might think that this might elicit as much or more shame to me than it does to either of them, but you’d be horribly wrong. I put myself in the other patron’s shoes: who WOULDN’T secretly smirk when overhearing this? There’s a reason that Overheard in the Office is a great website: people like to hear this sort of crap.

Today, for the first time since I referred to my delicate girl parts as “a split wet beaver,” I finally achieved ultimate embarrassment: I made my husband blush (and likely nearly divorce me).

We’d just dropped off a prescription at Yee Old Target Pharmacy when somewhere in the back of the dusty recesses of my memory, I recalled that we needed to, *ahem,* restock on the lube (damn you, lactation!). I gleefully informed my husband of this at top volume from several aisles away.

Rather than turn the other way and pretend not to be That Crazy Woman’s Poor Husband, he trudged down the lube aisle with me to peruse our choices. Once decided, we turned around and headed back to the grocery aisle to continue our shopping expedition.

It was only then when I turned the shamefulness up a couple of notches, when I handed the baby the bottle for him to hold onto (he loves to examine our purchases).

Poor The Daver turned about 57 shades of red and sputtered none too delicately “NO!” as he took the offending bottle of goo away from him.

“No,” he continued his voice jumping several octaves higher, “I will NOT have the baby gumming a bottle of KY throughout Target, Becky. I am putting my foot DOWN.”

I’m smart enough to know when I’ve successfully pushed the envelope to the breaking point, so I conceded and handed Alex a much more PC package of Medicated Chapstick.

As I walked away, I comforted myself by knowing that after several long years of trying, I’ve finally painfully embarrassed my husband once again.

I’d imagine that most couples had a far more romantic situation when they realized that the person across the table from them would be the person that they spent the rest of their lives with. I’m picturing an intimate candlelit dinner, or a walk in the park when all of the flowers are fragrant and blooming beautifully, maybe lazing around on bearskin rug in front of a cozy fireplace (complete with crackling logs, of course) with strawberries and champagne.

While I picture this to be all well and good for other people, the moment that I knew with absolute certainty that Dave was the man that (like it or not) I would be spending the rest of my days with was absolutely nothing like this. In fact, it was so far removed from romantic that it might be called The Anti-Romance.

You see, I knew that Dave would be my husband for as long as we both could stand each other when he not only allowed me to put my bucket of frozen fecal matter in his freezer, but offered to help me place the sample IN the bucket.

If that ain’t true love, I’ll never know what is.

But let me back up for a moment, to illuminate PRECISELY why I was doing this (and to reassure you that I don’t have some really foul fetish).

It started over the winter, the pain and the constant crapping, but I kept writing it off as stress or something that I’d eaten (I’m telling you here and now that health care professionals are REALLY the last to seek medical care). Eventually it dawned on me that my body was rebelling against me, and that mayhap I should get it checked out.

So I made an appointment with a gastroenterologist in the area, and begrudgingly trooped in, tail between my legs (no, unfortunately I do NOT have a vestigial tail, although that would be completely rad. Imagine the pranks I could pull!). Besides being completely intimidated by me (which is amazing, considering HE was going to be the one looking at MY colon. You’d imagine it’d be reversed here), he very thoroughly ordered a number of blood tests AND some *ahem* OTHER tests.

And these *ahem* OTHER tests were some of the most humiliating known to man. You think that someone looking up your pooper is shameful, wait, JUST wait until someone orders you to poop in a jar. AND THEN TAKE IT SOMEWHERE. Wait, wait, wait, I can make this MORE humiliating, I promise. Have someone inform you that you have to COLLECT all of your feces for 3! days, and THEN take it somewhere, where you are horrifyingly clear that some poor lab tech in the back is cursing you while gagging BECAUSE A COMPLETE STRANGER IS EXAMINING YOUR POO.

Hell, although the rest of my family is intent on disproving this, what with their insistance that when I sit upon the porcelain throne is the absolute perfect time to have a conversation with me and/or sneak a quick scratch behind the ears (I’m looking at YOU here, Daver), I don’t even like someone TALKING to me while I crap, let alone looking at my own personal byproducts. *I* don’t even want to look at them.

Dave insists that Rate-my-Poo dot com is the most hilarious site on the planet, but I won’t even load that into my search engine, because I do not find poo amusing. Poo jokes are golden (much like dick-n-fart jokes. Yes, I am, in fact a teenage boy, NOT a 27-year-old mother of two. Sorry about any confusion), but actually dealing with The Poo on a more intimate basis gives me the heebie-jeebies AND the Pee-Shivers.

So armed with my orders, my “hat,” my latex-free gloves, and my bucket, I decided to “do the deed” over the weekend. Which was the time of the week that I consistantly spent with my then-boyfriend, a time that both of us treasured. I am utterly unable to censor myself, so Dave was well aware of what lay before me, and although I offered to stay home and “complete my orders” he insisted that he didn’t mind. He even offered to clean out his freezer for my “sample” (I don’t think he’s cleaned out a freezer again, ever.).

It’s disgusting, when you think about it (well, all of this is pretty nasty), how one must collect the poo to put it in the (extremely large and reminded me of the buckets of cookie dough or popcorn that you get from the Girl Scouts. But filled with something far less awesome) bucket. You have to complete your “business” in a container that you put into the toliet affectionately called a “hat,” and THEN you must fish through your excriment to seperate the solid from the liquid (God, I have the heebie-jeebies just RECALLING this) and put it in the bucket that you’ve removed from the freezer.

Before you place the bucket back into the freezer, you must “burp” it, as the methane gas pressure can build up so much that the top will be blown off, spattering the insides of your freezer with what is decidedly NOT brownie batter.

I don’t know about you, but the absolute LAST thing that I want to do with my excrement is to touch it OR BURP IT, gloves on or not, so each time that I had to do this, I nearly wept out of shame and disgust. Dave, sensing my plight (well, more like having to listen to me whine and shake each time I had to do this), galantly offered to do it for me. He OFFERED to WILLINGLY handle my poop (I would never, ever offer to handle his, no matter how much he whined.). If that’s not love, I suppose that I’ll never know WHAT love is.

Monday morning came, and off I trucked back home which was about 45 minutes away, with the bucket-o-frozen poo sitting shotgun, strapped merrily in place. As I dropped it off at the lab, I’d wished that I were dead. No, scratch that, I’d wished that I was LESS THAN dead, I wished that I’d never been born at all. I wished that MY PARENTS had never been born. So great was my shame that I fell all over myself apologizing to the receptionist, the lab tech as well as the waiting room full of people who could have cared less. I’m certain that I looked insane.

I was later diagnosed with a mild case of Crohn’s disease, which has thankfully been in remission for several years. As for Daver and I, we’ve been more or less stuck with each other ever since. Every time that I become irritated by his colony of dirty socks that happily live next to our bed, I try my damndest to remind myself that, at one point in time, he selflessly offered to touch my poop.

(while discussing the possibility of having any of our children returning home for Christmas once they are married)

Me: “I don’t know, I just worry that the boys will get married go to their in-laws for the holidays. The way I figure it, the more kids that we have, the greater likelihood that SOMEONE will come home and spend Christmas with us.”

Dave: “Well…”

Me (fully expecting to be rebuffed): “I mean, except for Ben. It will never dawn on him that he should move out of our house. He’ll be living in our basement playing Everquest for the rest of our lives.”

Dave: “It won’t be Everquest…”

——————-

(While standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth, I suddenly begin to feel sappily in love with my husband)

Me: (Now back in our bedroom, spooning) “Have I told you lately how happy I am to be married to you?”

Dave (sleepily): “No, not lately.”

Me: “Well, I am…I love you very, very much.” (sniffs air) “DID YOU JUST FART WHILE I WAS SPOONING YOU?”

Dave: “Not just now, no.”

Me: “OHMYGOD, my EYES are burning, you ass!”

Dave: “I’m SORRY, dude!”

Me: “Sorry isn’t going to BEGIN covering it right now! What you need is a DUTCH OVEN!” (pulls comforter over Dave’s head so that he is forced breathe the toxic air) “You like that, do you?”

Dave (gasping for air while laughing): “I surrender, I surrender!”

Me: “Do you think ‘Toxic Ass’ would be covered under ‘fraud’ for an annullment?”

Dave: “Dude, you KNEW about my ass before we got married.”

Me: “Good point.”

I admit freely that I love the holidays. It’s been well documented over the years, especially with the hugemongous collection of Christmas decorations that I acquire year after year (it’s threatening to take over my basement). It’s entirely likely that I will decorate the interior of my home prior to Thanksgiving, partially because I love the festive look but mainly because I have nothing else to decorate with.

Christmas shopping is one of the ultimate highlights of the holiday season, because nearly as much as I adore my (literally) 60’s white aluminium tree (admit it, you’re jealous of my awesome tree) and it’s festive blue ornaments, I love buying other people gifts. And then painstakingly wrapping them, and carefully arranging them under the tree. It’s like my own slice of cornball (mmmm, CORNBALLS) heaven.

I say bring on the blaring music from all of the speakers in each store, shit, I listen to Christmas music year round, if I’m alone (I’m slightly too ashamed to do this in front of my husband, who prefers whiny emo music BECAUSE HE LIKES TO FEEL SUICIDAL). I’m thrilled that Christmas preparations begin in the store sometime prior to Halloween, partially so that I can remember what season it is, and partially because Alex is entranced by all of the lights and colors, while Ben is thrilled to pieces about the upcoming holidays (whew, can we say RUN ON SENTENCE, KIDS? I know *I* can!). It’s instant Christmas-porn for my family, save, of course, from my darling husband who “didn’t like Christmas” before he met me. Now, I’m pretty sure, he’s mainly tolerating it for my sake (entirely similar to the manner in which I “tolerate” the piles of clean clothes that make their home on the floor, rather than snugly put away in their dressers. Oh, SNAP!).

Off the top of my head, there is only ONE thing, one LITTLE thing that drives me insane around the holidays: hokey jewelry commercials. Watching them is like listening to nails on a chalkboard WHILE stepping on a mad cat. They set my teeth on edge and make me break out into a cold sweat.

I promise it’s not that I’m jealous of the jewelry and am therefore upset and embittered that I am not about to recieve anything from their stores for Christmas, no way. The jewelry that I do wear (save from a few junky costume pieces) and recieve is from places that do not feel the need to advertise in places other than The New Yorker. Besides, from the looks of these commercials the vacant eyed looks on their faces of the people coupled with a collective IQ of about 94, I would never WANT to be like them.

I’m not sure WHY these commercials drive me straight to my bottle of vodka, truth be told. It’s not as though all of the other extremely contrived and corny commercials elicit the same visceral response from me, and they are no more or less hokey.

Maybe it’s because my marriage is not particularly artificial or wholesome, I’m more likely to be called “dude” or “ass” by my husband than “honey” or “sweetheart,” and I prefer it that way. Our way of showing affection is less “here honey, a piece of jewelry from that commercial” while we sit by a roaring fire discussing our feelings (while we both have great hair), and more an ass-smack while we allow the other one to eat the piece of pizza we’ve been coveting, while arguing about who was going to comfort the baby THIS time.

We’re absolutely the boring Part II of the romance that once was (one really MIGHT argue that we bypassed Part I entirely. It’s probably the case here), the part where we both get all boring and comfortable and pluck stray hairs from each other’s faces while complimenting each other on our burping prowess, but that doesn’t diminish our relationship one teeny bit. I mean hell, if someone can watch you expell a nearly eight pound child from your va-jay-jay and about a half an hour later confess that he’s dying to Have The Sex with you again, I’d call that love. Or stupidity. But I’ll go with love here.

Conversely, if he showed up on Christmas morning with a gift bag from the commercials and a vacant, wide-eyed look on his face, and said something schmaltzy, I’d wonder 1) if aliens had abducted him or 2) if he was having an affair. In the case of 1) I’d have him clean up his office as a test and if he did it without turning into the girl from The Exorcist, I’d keep him as a bonus CLEANING alien! We’d ALL win! If the cause for the jewelry was 2), I’d be inflammed that he hadn’t at least gone to Tiffany’s and instead, had cheaped out on me.

Hey, a girl’s gotta have her priorities.

So what annoys YOU about the holidays, Darling Internet?

Dear Daver,

Remember that old Chinese curse, “May You Live In Interesting Times?” Well, darling, I think that applies quite nicely for the year. Can you believe we’ve been married a whole two years now? I remember last year, how nicely I’d put up a post on our actual anniversary and I mentioned what a hard year it had been. Little did I know what Year Two held in store for us.

I was already pregnant with Alexander, who was just a blob at that point, but he was MY blob and I was fiercely protective of him, so when I started to spot I was completely devestated and paranoid about losing him. Then hyperemesis began, and I kind of lost my will to live (remember when I couldn’t take showers because the sensation made me vomit, and the drain was clogged, so when I did vomit, I had to manually scoop the vomitus out of the drain myself? God that was fun!), which actually survived the duration of the pregnancy. I was like a pregnant, flatulent, chubby, and miserable bag of wind who sat on the couch and cried. And then demanded creme brulee. And then cried some more. Then I would throw up the creme brulee I had just eaten while crying.

Life was good (hey, at least the toliets were ALWAYS cleaned to sparkling perfection, because the old pee and pubes made me gag even more). It’s no wonder that we both burst into gales of hysterical laughter when we talk about having more kids.

This year, you have watched uncomfortably as countless people examined my hoo-haa, and not even in an orgy setting. Remember when I thought that my water had broken, but really I had simply peed my pants? And then it happened again in March. Wow, those were fun times.

Then The Sweet Baby (a.k.a Your Clone) was born, and around three months of age, he pulled himself off the boob and took a breath. No matter how sleepless the nights were, it was far better than being pregnant, and now, every time that you walk into the room, both of the children light up and run to you, well, Ben runs and Alex’s body just shakes and writhes with sheer joy. It’s moments like these that I know that no matter what it took to get us here, it was worth every second of agony and pain that we underwent to get here.

I know that this letter is late in coming, but we were fighting on our anniversary and I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable that day, well, until you gave me my anniversary present. You sure know how to soothe the savage beast within me: jewelry, fatty jewelry (and just so you know, this didn’t make up for the bathroom. You’re NEVER going to hear the end of that. Unless you muzzle me).

We made it, baby, we made it. Maybe not with our sanity fully intact, but hey, kids make you a little crazy, don’t they? Now, I know better than to ask for a more sedate year, but can this one be a LITTLE bit less insane, PLEASE?

Love always,
Becky

P.S. Do you think the neighbors would notice if I stole their Halloween decorations and put them up in our yard? Hypothetically, I mean, because, err, I would never, ever do that for reals. (Um, mostly)

Praise Jesus, the rabbit died, Jupiter aligned with Mars, peace will steer the planet and love will steer the stars! Yep, folks, you heard me right, I am once again Pregnant. To those of you who read this and I haven’t had a chance to personally inform, I suck, but I am a recluse and the likelihood of me seeing you BEFORE I got the chance to pop this kid out is slim. To none.

Although I already have one five year old, and have therefore been pregnant before, I never gave credence to the statement ‘œevery pregnancy is different.’ I (in my normal fashion) scoffed, laughed and made snide remarks. See here, Internet, I will claim to you all that although I might not ever be considered ‘œnice’ I am usually considered ‘œbitchy, but in a good way.’

With my first, this is what I felt:
1. HUNGRY (you don’t gain 90 lbs without trying. Period. And PS, it was glorious putting it on)

*and*

2. Tired. I was so bone crushingly tired that I would frequently wake up with rug burn on my face from passing out after trying to tie my shoes.

(To be fair, everything else was a total mess in my life at the time, so don’t be jealous or make snide remarks. Although the pregnancy was not difficult, I often remark that it’s a miracle that I didn’t kill myself during it. This is saying a lot, as I am not often suicidal and I am not kidding for once. Thankfully, this is not *that* kind of blog, so I will spare you the details.)

Life has done what it does best, and has pulled the rug out from under me with an old ‘œone-two’ punch. THIS time around, my symptom list would be more like:

1. Tired. So tired that I cry about it often. I.E. ‘œI’m SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeedddddd!!!!’

2. Nauseous. In this weird way, I am both famished and nauseous at the same time. BUT ONLY FOR CERTAIN FOODS. I can only eat very specific things and if I *try* to eat something else, whatever it is will be returned to me in a slightly wet manner. I have eaten (besides wings, natch) about 4 bites of food (THAT I HAVE KEPT DOWN) since August 2.

3. Fat. No one told me that the second time around you begin showing the minute the test says ‘œPREGNANT!’ It took quite awhile to show with Benner, so I assumed that somewhere around Thanksgiving, I’d have a pooch, but no! EVEN WITH MY WEIGHT LOSS I HAVE A POOCH. AND MY BOOBIES ARE HUGE. AND PENDULOUS.

4. A huge bitch. On top of all of this, I have turned into an even NASTIER person. I happened to be dragged into a Wal-Mart with The Daver a couple of days ago and began to use the phrase ‘œwhite trash’ WITHIN EARSHOT OF THE PEOPLE I WAS TALKING ABOUT. Dave was horrified and tried to put me back in the car, but haha! even pregnant, I am STILL stronger!

Poor Dave is absolutely at his wits end (and who could blame him?). It’s one thing to slip down into madness while being totally unaware, but it’s a total other thing to WATCH yourself slowly going insane. *I* even know that I suck right now.

I think he’s getting ready to take a ‘œbusiness trip’ to ‘œSouth America’ for ‘œ7 months,’ to which I replied, ‘œSend Wings’ and money and ‘œgo ahead’. I mean, the only way he’s gonna knock me up again is if I ‘œgo off the pill’ and ‘œhave an accident’ or if he doesn’t see me going off the rails on the crazy train.

Shit, if I were him, I’d have moved out weeks ago.

The list (by no means exhaustive) of things I was NOT allowed to do for the wedding (primarily because Dave is ‘œboring’ and for some reason thinks that I’m ‘œbeing disrespectful to the institution of marriage’ or some shit. I wasn’t listening):

1). Wear half of a fat suit

2). Have the nuptials performed by Elvis

3). Sport black eyes

4). Dance our first song to ‘œYMCA’

5). Dance myself down the aisle to ‘œThat’s The Way (Uh-Huh) I Like It’

From this list, you are likely able to determine that I am not typically considered a ‘œwedding’ or a ‘œmarriage’ person. Growing up, in fact, you’d be more likely to find me playing ‘œCommando Doctor Becky, Zombie Hunter’ or teaching my cats to box than you would catch me planning for my future wedding. Never honestly thought–or cared much, really–that I’d be married. Like ever.

I found myself in the unique situation of planning a wedding I wasn’t too thrilled by (not the marriage, mind you, The Wedding).

Shortly after booking the venue, I was dragged into David’s Bridal with my best friend, maid of honor, to make fun of the dresses. Let’s get this straight. I *love, love, love* clothes. I do not like white dresses. I have a child, which means I obviously was NOT A VIRGIN when I got married.

We made a beeline to the most hideous dresses we could find. My first choice was a long sleeved, high necked, 567 foot train monstrosity, straight out of a scary 70’s movie. My second and only other choice was a simple A-line, champagne trimmed dress. Fucking boring, really.

I sweated out about 32 gallons of water simply by looking at the first dress. It was lace covered, pearl encrusted, beaded, and weighed–not exaggerating–at least 25 lbs. The sleeves alone were each larger than my head. While I struggled with the huge line of buttons in the back, Ashley went to find me the perfect shoes to go with them (clear plastic stripper heels, natch!), which she shoved under the door.

Ensemble complete, I threw open the door and danced the Maniac for Ashley, who is rolling on the floor, and the distressed sales clerk, who is all but choking on her tongue as she sputtered ‘œDo you like dresses with sleeves?’ When I realized that the lace was of such poor quality that I immediately began to chafe and blister, I squeaked out ‘œI feel like a cupcake’ and ran back to the dressing room.

Here’s the boring part. I bought the second dress, thereby having to eat all of the snarky comments I had made while walking in. I won’t repeat them, for fear of the wrath. Suffice to say, I am an asshole. An asshole with a big mouth.

Several weeks before my wedding, I realized that I had nothing to wear under the dress, and was forced back to the eerily white and un-delightfully tacky world of David’s Bridal. I grabbed the bra thing-y and the big poofy thing (yes, those are VERY clinical terms) that you wear under such dresses and headed to the back, husband to be in tow (don’t feel too sorry for him. The night before, we’d had a long talk about the proletariat vs. the bourgeoisie. I won’t go into the details here, but suffice to say I told him in no uncertain terms that I would never be the proletariat to his bourgeoisie. It was my convoluted way of complaining about the ever-fucking wedding that I was planning for him).

Realizing that the best way to exact my revenge upon Dave was public humiliation, I decided to show him what I’m *really* like when I’m getting even: embarrassing. I put on my combo of weird undergarments (no, neither nipples nor beaver were showing) and pranced out of the dressing room singing ‘œBuild Me Up Buttercup.’ I really looked choice, have no doubt.

To Dave, who was sitting against the wall looking uncomfortably at the gaggle of fat pimply bridesmaids to his right. I proceeded to sing the whole song (extra made up verses, too) before I darted back into the dressing room. Then I handed Dave the garments to pay for, his face a lovely shade of cranberry.

To this day, that dress remains in a garbage bag in my parents basement, slowly yellowing and molding.

I found this sort of guide to wifery from the 50’s online a couple of years ago, and supposedly it’s called The Good Wife’s Guide. Is this legit Aunt Becky, you ask me, a disapproving tone in your otherwise flawless voice? And I will tell you with absolute certainty that it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s Comedy Gold.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Planning it out in advance is saying ‘Pick up some Chinese food tonight on your way home from work’ at 3pm. Trust me when I tell you that I am FAR more concerned about my needs.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Now I’m not trying to imply that I look like a million bucks when The Daver walks in the door, but honestly the last thing on my mind at 7pm is ‘shit! Do I look okay?’ It’s much more like ‘did I accidentally microwave the cat, AGAIN? Shit!’

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Dude. I’m always a little gay.

*waggles eyebrows suggestively*

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

What the fcuk is a dust cloth? And I’ll happily make an effort to pick up the clutter the day that The Daver does not have a roving sock colony following him around like a wee family.

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

Are you SERIOUS? I don’t know how to work the fireplace, and I don’t intend to learn. If he wants to relax by the fire, he can light it himself. I don’t know when catering to anyone’s comfort has provided me with any type of satisfaction.

Unless it involved Prada purses.

Then I could cater a lot.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.

If there is noise in the home, it means I am home.

I am noisy.

I am loud.

I speak at extremely deafening decibels.

And really, if I am actually doing these household chores, he should be pleased that I’m not pawning them off on him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

My desire to please him?

Bwhahahahahahahaha!

*wipes tears from eyes*

Hahahahahahahaha!

Yeah. Right.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

If I waited until The Daver stopped talking to tell him such things as ‘the sump pump backed up and the basement is flooded’ or ‘I want to have a threesome with a midget,’ I’d never be heard.

The Daver and I talk over each other with such comfortable regularity that we have actually made a sign that says “Floor” to use when we have Important Discussions.

And wait, how the hell is ‘the cpm processor of horhelfsag to the ajfoijhriwndas is jdsa;hfrioenrhiubnf more important than “Our bedroom smells like cheese” or “cherry flavored pez is a wonderfood.” Because it’s totally not.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

Who else can I greet this way?

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

If he stays out all night, trust me, my complaining will be the last thing he’s concerned about. More pressing needs might be “How do I get my testicles back from the sewer system?” or “Where else can I let my roving sock colony live? OH LOOK, SOCKS, MADE A BABY! It’s TWINS!”

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Um, yeah, Michael, how’s it going? Now about that TPS Report?

Unless his arm is falling off, he had better pitch in with the kids, the dogs, buying me dinner, whatever. With a big smile on his face.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

My voice is like a sack of cats fighting over a mouse on a chalkboard. And I yell. Most of the time.

And where would I take his shoes? On a date?

Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

MASTER OF THE GODDAMN HOUSE?

Bwahahahahaha!

That’s right, Internet, The Daver is Master of the Bwahahahaha! I can’t even type it without laughing.

I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to say when he says, “I think we should buy a truckload of Twinkies and the biggest Fry Daddy we can find! Fuck our retirement*!!” Color me boring but I don’t think ‘Whatever you say, dear’ would work well.

A good wife always knows her place.

Dude, exactly “my place” is anywhere I fucking want it to be.

*hahahaha

(ring, ring)

Aunt Becky (clearly jumping out of her skin with excitement): “Hey Fuckwad, I had a great idea!”

The Daver: “Yeah?”

(typing sounds resume in background)

Aunt Becky: “I want to buy a new house now.”

The Daver (warily) “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “I found a new one.”

The Daver: “What?!?”

Aunt Becky (talking faster now): “I mean, I know the market sucks but I just realized my dream house!”

The Daver (tiredly): “Where is this place?

Aunt Becky: “Well, you know that forest preserve that I love that we always pass on the way home that I always say ‘God, I love that forest preserve?'”

The Daver (warily and wearily): “….yes…”

Aunt Becky (triumphantly): “I’ve decided that we’re going to buy the Cantigny Mansion. You know, the old McCormick house? I toured it once as a kid with my parents, and I LOVED it!”

The Daver: (feels the dull thump of a migraine coming on) “Becky, it’s not for sale. It’s property of the county”

Aunt Becky: “I KNEW you were going to say that! THAT’S why we have to go in with guns blazing! Give them an offer they can’t refuse!”

The Daver (rests head on desk) “Ohno.”

Aunt Becky (dreamily):“Think about it, Dave. We can be Lord and Lady of the house. I mean, I already changed my name to Princess Grace of Monaco when we got married!”

The Daver: “You know she’s dead, right?”

Aunt Becky: “So she won’t mind that I’ve taken her name. Plus, I won’t have to explain to people, I’m the OTHER Princess Grace of Monaco. See, I think of EVERYTHING.”

The Daver: “You got me out of a meeting for THIS?”

Aunt Becky: “DUH. This is IMPORTANT.”

The Daver: “Dude. You’d better get this freelancing shit going soon.”

Aunt Becky: “When I am Lady of the House, I won’t have time to write any more. I’ll be too busy trying on my vast tiara collection and ordering the staff to taste my food to make sure it’s not been poisoned.”

The Daver: “I’m going to call some people to see if they’ll hire you.”

Aunt Becky: “Good luck with that.”

The Daver: “I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

Aunt Becky: “Wait a minute…”

*click*

As I previously stated, I am working on my New Years Resolution to Stop Being Such a Raging Bitch All of the Time, but I don’t think that I explained myself anymore than was necessary.

Because I was fat and drunk.

See, we’re moving. Without necessarily selling our old house. Money is about to be so tight as to possibly warrant shopping at Aldi and stealing food from my parents fridge without remorse. The remorse part, I mean. Not the stealing of food from my parents, because OBVIOUSLY. Wouldn’t you? Also, ketchup is SO a food group.

So when I was asked this year about what I wanted for Christmas, I was really vague about it, is always a bad idea when it comes to dealing with my spouse. Most of the men I’ve known need EXPLICIT instructions as to what items to buy from what store. It’s even better if you can cross reference it with some other files and use those colored tabs to make it look really official. My list (usually 278 million TIMES longer and better) went something like this:

1. Thin leather gloves. Black. From a department store. I think my glove size is about a 6.5. Ask at counter. Suede okay, too. I got some gloves from Dave pre-Christmas. They were red, fluffy, and waterproof. Purchased from Menards. Make hands look like stuffed sausages, but hell, they are warm. Do not fit and make hands sweat.

2. A ring for my right hand’s middle finger so you can have something to look at when I flip you the bird. Colorful and gaudy than wedding band. NO YELLOW GOLD, IT MAKES ME BARF. Ring size: 6.5, or maybe a 6.0. Big brightly colored stone but not from a gumball machine.

And then I ran out of things that I wanted, which is a scary phenomenon. I ALWAYS want something. I am a needy person who needs things.

The Friday before Christmas Eve, Dave began to hint that he’d gotten me something 1). Totally awesome, 2). that I wanted 3). that HE wanted, too, and I broke out into a cold sweat. Did I JUST get that NEW PRINTER THAT I HADN’T WANTED? Or was it a NEW video card for his computer THAT I HADN’T WANTED? OR could it be the yacht I’d be oogling?

Either way, I figured that the bathrobe that he had gotten from me wasn”t enough and that I had better re-hit the mall on Christmas Eve. I did, and happened to purchase him about 500 things that he’d mentioned that he wanted, none of them geek crap because I don’t buy that shit.

Christmas morning, in the form of a lanky 4 year old arrived, and we went downstairs to check out our stockings. Yes, we still get stockings. My mom is AWESOME. Dave was nearly swooning with excitement by the time actual presents were opened, and he eagerly thrust his gaily wrapped package (no, not THAT one, it was CHRISTMAS!) with gaudy oversized card (inscription: this was the last one at the store. I *guess* it’s sentiment is true) and I opened this magnificent gift!

A Nikon D50.

Made me feel bad because I had bought Dave half a dozen stars and stripes scarf sets with “World’s Greatest Mom” embroidered on the edge as a gag gift. He was shockingly touched and got all misty eyed and had to leave the room to compose himself.

Apparently, I was thoughtful.

What a freak.