“Honey? If I died, would you marry again?”
This is a really important question. It’s even MORE important when asked at 11:27 pm on a Wednesday night after the hubs has worked, oh 14 hours straight, and I, the askee, am kinda jazzed on Constant Comment. Like, *jazz hands* kinda jazzed. Like, I should have maybe skipped cup number four and settled for some hot milk and a few benadryl JAZZED. Like, it is NOW time to TALK ABOUT THE STATE OF OUR MARRIAGE SWEET BLONDIE HUSBAND AND YOU ARE GONNA LIKE IT, jazzed.
Oh he was stoked.
Ahem. I would like to state for the record (nothing good comes outta that kind of preamble, but heck, gotta stay legal) that I stole that question from the one and only, Bill Cosby* (one of my absolute favorites). But I have OWNED that question and made it ALL mine, I tell you. I looooove this question. Is is ripe with possibilities, and just the look of desperate, blinkie silence on the sweet blonde husband’s face when I ask it is PRICELESS.
I know for some of you who are following closely, you are thinking, “Dear heavens. She’s asked this question more than once.”
Why yes, I have. I’m LOUD and PROUD about my insecurity, ya’ll. If I were marching at the capital for all the neurotics out there, I’d be at the front of the pack, with a megaphone:
“What do we want?”
“SANITY? AND TO BE WELL-ADJUSTED?”
“When do we want it? ”
“Whenever it’s CONVEEEEEEENIENT! ”
But no one would hear because I so think megaphones are rude. Too loud.
Anyhow, back to me. The hubs is now leaning upwards from his face plant in the pillow and looking at me as if I was a fly that just landed in his juice glass. Then, the squintiness diminishes as the next emotion hits him (he’s a book, I tell you). Horror. The horror. We gotta talk and I’m tired and she’s all… what’s the word…?? Emotional.
These are the moments that make a marriage. I tell you, they are preshus. And important. The hubs has a choice: he can respond as he would LIKE to, or he can try and crank out some vaguely appropriate response that is as close as Mars is to the Sun in its attempt to be what I need to hear, so I can shoot it down.
Here’s the part that cracks it all open: I don’t give a fig for the real answer to the question. I just fig all over the idea of talking about us, and that he is trying, even though it might be making his brain kind of sore for days after. As I tirelessly zap his feeble responses, he just keeps trying. The big lug. Honestly, he probably will have to remarry, if not for basic survival. Preferably to a woman named Olga with beefy ankles who can make a mean spaetzl and actually dusts UNDER things.
And that is how I end my night happy (at 11:43), with some highly solicited compliments, a few shots at his comments for finesse, some major manipulation, and even, at one point, a smack with a pillow.
And this gem of a conversation ender:
“Well. I’m so glad we talked. I feel much better now.”
“That’s great, dear.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too… (mumble, mumble… something about my spaetzle).
“No, really! I mean… I don’t want you to marry again, but…”
“Going to sleep now, dear.”
(Silence… thinking… silence… thinkety thinking…)
“Honey? Do you think we should have more kids?”
“Oh. All right. Sure. YES. And we need to start trying right now, dear.”
(Silence.) (Big silence, like Silence of the Lambs silence, with scared crickets in the background. Also, really TIRED OUT crickets who are so sorry but happen to be pms-ing like crazee.)
“Huh. I shoulda tried that angle from the beginning.”
Manipulation. Holding marriages together for one and all throughout the ages.
And another thing: See this man? This one here? He is the stuff, I tell you. He’s for real. He loves Jesus. And he chose me. And he would do anything, ANYTHING to make me laugh. Plus, he can make my crickets SING y’all.
And I just yub him.
This post was brought to you by Constant Comment. The stuff MAKES ME NUTS.
Best EVER. You can find it here. My sis and I can quote the entire record.