Sometimes I don’t understand your rules. You’re okay with some things, but other things, ones that are almost exactly like the things you are okay with, you’re not okay with. I don’t get it.
Tip Number Four
It is important to do nice things for your spouse.
You are on your way home from a long hard day at the office and you call your husband. He has just gotten home from the store where he picked up the dinner you requested. After talking for a few minutes, he says. “Man, I’d really like a whiskey and Coke tonight.”
You reply, “Then you should have one.”
“We don’t have any whiskey,” he replies.
“Sucks for you,” you say. Now if your friends were with you, they might say, “he picked up dinner for you, and you won’t offer to pick up whiskey for him on your way home? Wow, what a bitch.” But trust me. You aren’t a bitch, because your husband, who recently became self-employed and reports to no one, (except you, of course) spent the last two hours watching Mexico and France play each other in the World Cup. You are not self-employed, do report to someone, and spent all day working your ass off, so he can get his own damn whiskey.
He says, “Oh, I guess my attempt at subtly didn’t work, did it? I was hoping you’d pick it up for me on the way home.”
You sigh and say, “okay, I’ll get it for you.” But before he can say thank you, you say, “forget it. It’s pouring up ahead. I am not getting soaked to buy you whiskey. If you’d asked me five minutes ago when I was passing a liquor store and it wasn’t raining, I’d of gotten it for you.”
He says, “okay,” without sounding disappointed or dejected because he is way more mature than you and doesn’t throw a fit when he doesn’t get what he wants.
You continue to talk to him and he thinks you are on your way home, but what he doesn’t know is that you make a u-turn at the light and head to the liquor store, the one you passed five minutes ago where it wasn’t raining.
He says something but you don’t hear it because you see the flashing red lights ahead at the railroad track and are thinking NOOOOOOOO TRAIN and scream “oh crap! Oh Crap! CRAP! AAAAAAA” To which your husband replies, “okay, bye.” Seriously, bye? You start to floor it, intent on passing through the guard rail thingamajig as it’s coming down, but then think maybe you only get one free pass on going through railroad guard rail thingamajigs in your life and you already used yours up a year ago. (True Story) So you slam on your brakes and wait for the train to come, hoping it is not one of the move-5-miles-per-hour trains that makes you want to get out of your car, run alongside the train, hop inside and punch the conductor in the face.
But it is one of the fast moving ones with cars whipping by so rapidly it makes you nauseous so you have to close your eyes. But you know sitting in your car with your eyes closed is a bad idea because then you aren’t aware of people trying to come to your car and rob you, and, even worse, you aren’t able to jump out of the way from the meteorite flying towards earth, destination: your driver’s seat. So instead of closing your eyes, you put your hand over them, spreading your fingers slightly so you can keep your eye out for burglars and flaming stones. Oh, and so you’ll know when the train has passed.
After waiting fifteen thousand hours, the train is gone and you are on your merry way. And…it is now pouring, most likely harder than it is in the direction you were going when you saw rain ahead and decided to turn around. To avoid the rain.
You continue on because darn it, you’ve invested the time and you’re committed to seeing it through; I mean, because you want to do something nice for your husband. You pull into the parking lot of the liquor store, park the car, and before you turn it off, you turn on your right turn signal, then your left, then your headlights and your brights, before finally realizing what you actually want to do is turn off the windshield wipers, which is the knob on the other side of the steering wheel. You look in your purse, open your wallet, and stare at your credit card for two minutes before you realize what you are actually looking for is your umbrella. (You are reading this thinking why would I do either of those things? And to be perfectly honest, I have no f’ing idea. All I know is that you will do it.)
You go in to the liquor store, locate the Canadian Mist (CM), and guess what?! It’s on sale! You grab it and notice Crown Royal (CR), which is your husband’s fav, is also on sale. It’s still slightly more than the CM so you decide to figure out the cost per volume to see which one is the better deal. You look at the CM: it’s $xx.xx for 1.5 liters. The CR is $xx.xx for 750 ml. Oh, crap. You have to do math. You tell yourself it’s easy, so easy, the easiest kind of math there is. All you have to do is multiply by a hundred or move the decimal two places or something to convert liters to milliliters and then take that and divide by the cost, or multiply or find the square root, or oh my gosh you’ve been standing here for five minutes and cannot figure this out. You call yourself a moron and are determined to find the answer, but then you realize it’s an exercise in futility because you used up all your brain capacity trying to turn off the windshield wipers and find your umbrella.
You stick with the CM, grab a 2 liter of Coke, and some Ginger ale and Grenadine for yourself – you are getting frisky ta-night!
You get up to the counter a half a second before some lady and out of your periphery you can see her shooting daggers at you. The cashier asks for your ID, which you expect because you are often confused with a twelve year old, and you can see the woman looking smug because clearly you are about to be rejected from purchasing alcohol, have your “fake” ID confiscated and be arrested by the police. But none of this happens because you are, in fact, legal. Somehow you resist the urge to turn to her and say, “in your face, biatch.”
You step outside and guess what?! It’s stopped raining! See what happens when you do nice things for your spouse?
On the way home you check your phone to see if your husband’s called because you should have been home ten minutes ago and the last thing he heard before he hung up with you was, “oh crap. Oh crap. AAAAA.” No missed call. Clearly you are lying dead in a gutter somewhere and he doesn’t give a shit. You decide if he does call you’re not going to answer in order to make him worry. But then you remember make your spouse worry unnecessarily was not one of the things they taught you in pre-marriage counseling. Come to think of it they didn’t really teach you anything. All you remember is the pastor asking your husband why he wants to marry you and he said something really sweet like, “she is my best friend and the love of my life.” And then the pastor asked you why you want to marry your husband and you said, “I don’t know.” And there was lots of awkward silence.
You continue on home and still cannot believe you were not able to figure out a simple liter to milliliter conversion and feel like a first-class idiot; but you take comfort in the fact that you totally rock at those complex word problems everyone always has so much trouble with. If a small town girl living a lonely world takes the midnight train going anywhere, and a city boy, born and raised and south Detroit takes the midnight train going anywhere, what time will their trains pass each other? Simple: never. But more importantly you don’t stop believin’ that one day they will.
You have a sudden, inexplicable urge to listen to Journey*, so you go to number 5 on the mixed CD you made, crank up the volume and sing like a fool. (Yes, you actually have a mixed CD with Journey on it in your car.)
You pull into a guest spot of your lovely townhome community because one of your husband’s five thousand vehicles is in your driveway and look at the clock in your car. 6:19. This does not immediately alarm you. Until you look at your phone to see if you missed a call from your husband. You didn’t. (What. An. Asshole.) And notice that your phone also says 6:19. Which is exactly what time it was when you left the liquor store and checked your phone to see if your husband had called. The liquor store is five minutes from your house, seven if you catch a few lights, which you did. Your blood goes cold and suddenly you wish you weren’t so good at word problems because you know if you leave the liquor store at 6:19 and drive for seven minutes, get home and it’s still 6:19, it means you are dead.
You realize that you must not have stopped when the railroad guard thingamajigs were coming down and were thusly pummeled by a train. Or maybe you did stop in time but were crushed by a meteorite.
You get out of the car, shocked that you are dead and yet still here and think that you must be having a Ghost moment except that you are Sam and your husband is Molly and you expect to walk in the house and find him sitting at the top of the stairs rolling a glass jar with a penny inside right before he lets it go and it crashes down the stairs. You are wondering how you are going to find Whoopi Goldberg and if ghosts can buy plane tickets because you need to get to NYC and on a subway to find that guy who will teach you to move objects with your energy or anger or something like that, when you look up and see your husband walking toward you and he is smiling. You then realize you are probably not dead, unless he can tell you’re a ghost and he’s all happy because unbeknownst to you he has a ghost fetish. In which case, ew. You are so not in to that. But he says, “let me take that for you,” and grabs the bag you are holding. “I was getting worried about you because you should have been home by now and the last thing I heard was you screaming so I came outside to wait for you.” Then he looks down, notices the CM in the bag, gets a big smile on his face and kisses you.
And you are really glad you are not a ghost, because being married to your husband for almost five years isn’t enough. You want at least five more. Or 55. Whichever comes first.
Moral of the story? If you do nice things for your spouse you will be granted superpowers – like the ability to make rain and time stop. Oh, imagine the things you could do.
*At my funeral I want there to be a slideshow of pictures of me (because even from heaven I will enjoy looking at myself) played to the track of Don’t Stop Believin, and all of my guests (yes, if you attend my funeral, I consider you my guest) must sing along and dance in the aisles. Greatest. Funeral. Ever.
Mah Book Progress
Current Number of Pages: 74
Number of Pages Written Today: 0