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And now, back to our regularly schedule programming:
Some see it as the Mount Everest. You grow up, get a job, and get married. It’s the apex. It’s the full-on career starter to Big Living. When you get married, you have MADE IT.
This, we married folks know, is total crapola.
Here’s what I mean: I love my husband. Also, I think he’s rather cute and I give him a solid 7 out of 10 on his cooking skills and ability to play endless games of Risk with the spawn.
He cuddles well. He’s furry, so that’s extra good in the winter.
He always rubs my feet, if I ask politely, and he’s not actually eating something at the time (this is where he draws the line, I guess. Such a diva).
(Disclaimer: Herein ends the nice, sappy stuff about husband. LET’S CONTINUE, SHALL WE?)
Last night, as the husband and I were driving home from a night out on the town (Meaning, we went to dinner minus the spawn, and I ate a nice salad and crispy brussel sprouts, and he ate fish and chips and bread pudding that was as big as my face. No, no, no. I was not Big Irritated by this. It was just priming the pump, however. This means, my irritation that I had to sit and watch him eat the warm, gooey bread pudding as big as my face was at, like, level 4, but it was THERE. THE SLEEPING GIANT OF IRRITATION HAD BEEN GENTLY SHOOKETH.)
I blame it, as always, on carbs.
ANYHOW. We’re driving home and this is the conversation:
Husband: So, how much do we need to pay the sitter?
Me: Well, we were gone for an hour and a half… (And then I proceed to do the math for him like I always do every jolly single time we go out because he majored in engineering and I did in English literature so OBVIOUSLY I NEED TO REPEAT THE MATH TO HIM.)
Husband: So, this much? (Says amount. Again. And, no, I am not sharing the amount in here because I don’t want the emails about how we overpaid or underpaid or we are a sweatshop etc).
Me: Yes. That much.
Husband: That much? (says amount again).
Me: Yes. That much. The much that I JUST SAID.
Silence. We drive to the house. We get out of the car. We walk up the front steps.
Husband: So, this much?
Me: WHAT EXACTLY IS WRONG WITH YOU?
And that’s how I ended up yelling dollar amounts at my husband at eight pm outside our house last night. The neighbors must have thought that was weird.
Perhaps they thought it was an auction. For a husband. Outside our house last night.
As per a later conversation where my voice was slightly less shrill and he kept giggling, he did divulge this really crucial bit of information:
Husband: Honey, as an engineer it’s a good thing to confirm the information.
Me: How have you stayed employed.
Husband: Also, it’s possible I just really like messing with you.
And THAT, folks, is marriage.
It’s no Mount Everest. It’s partnership. But like, one where you are stuck with someone for the rest of your life. But, a partnership. So, really nice and all but oh so very annoying. All at the same time.
It’s a complicated thing, marriage. It has nuances. Most of them involve me rolling my eyes so hard it makes my hair hurt. I have done my very best to explain, and to all you single ladies out there? I have but one bit of advice:
CHOOSE VERY CAREFULLY. OR YOU WILL RUE THE DAY. RUE. IT.*
ALSO, DON’T MARRY AN ENGINEER. LET THEM ALONE. THEIR SPECIES NEEDS TO GO AWAY.
That’s two bits of advice, but I am an English major, so it’s ok.
(Second disclaimer: No engineers were actually harmed in the making of this post.)
*It’s a good thing he’s cute. I do not rue him. He is the best of the best and the snark is strong with the Momsie. But you already know that.