In case anyone cares, I’m still an orphan, but today I’m moving on to something new because my parents NOT LOVING ME is getting old already and to be quite honest, I’m still hoping for a birthday package so there’s that.
Instead, today I’d like to talk about why I never do anything out of the desire to be productive at my house. I primarily only do things to win bets and prove people wrong. I feel like that makes sense and by now, Mr. H knows that if he wants something done, all he has to do is tell me I can’t do it. Unless it’s the dishes and fuck that.
Here is a good example, though, from earlier this week. Bonus for you all, it led to a fight we’ve carried on each day this week and I know how much you all love a good Hopkins show-down.
“I’m going upstairs to read. I’m going to try to catch up on the reading I didn’t do last year. I only read 32 books.” I am trying to switch reading out for evening drinking, or at least that was the idea.
“How many were you supposed to read?” The Mr. doesn’t usually bother to keep up with my endless list of goals.
“Why 52? That’s an obscure…” I interrupted.
“Weeks in a year. Not obscure. Either way, I didn’t do it. And I’m a very fast reader.” He gives me the look with the eyebrows that means he thinks that while I probably read at average speed, I am no whiz. Which is exactly where he went wrong.
(insert huffing) “I can read a book a week.” I am now thinking of other declarations I can make. I can grow dreads in two weeks flat. I can scare people with just the sound of my voice. I can stretch my leg over my head if I’m drunk and wearing my magic pants. The declarations are endless but don’t seem relevant.
“Oh.really. Ok, a book a week then.” No.he.did.not.just.challenge.me.
“Fine. A book a week for the rest of the year.” I start counting in my head, counting NOT being one of my strong points.
“11.” He says quick as a flash.
“Fine. 11. But not one a week. 11 by January 1 because some weeks I’ll read more and some I’ll read less but it’ll be done. It shall be done.” I am now speaking like I’m straight out of a movie trailer.
I wonder briefly if he’s done this to keep me off the wine and so I state the obvious.
“I want a prize. What do I get?”
“As many more books as you want or a gift certificate to Amazon.”
“No thanks. You can’t let me spend my own money on my gift. Something better. Or, what is my punishment if I don’t do it?”
“Well, if you don’t finish the books, then you can’t have your Audi in January.” And then, he had done it. He was trying to barter with that motherfucking car I’ve been so kindly and patiently holding out for.
“You cannot TAKE AWAY MY CAR. THAT IS MY CAR. I WILL HAVE MY CAR AND YOU CANNOT STOP ME. It is my GOD GIVEN RIGHT AS AN AMERICAN WOMAN…”
“Oh jesus, Heather. Nevermind. I was kidding. You didn’t have to get all American woman on me. You can have your car, fine.”
I was ready to fight the war of all wars.
“Give me a new punishment because you can shut the hell up about my car.”
“Fine, Heather. Jesus. Alright. Come January 1, if you didn’t read the books, you have to drive the car for three more months. If you do finish, I will be your driver for three months straight.”
I am beginning to lose my mind. It is clear we are not in agreement on this car issue and I am going to have to light something on fire.
“Well I’m not sure how you think one of us is going to drive the other anywhere WHEN WE ARE GOING TO HAVE TWO CARS SO YOU CANNOT DRIVE ME BECAUSE YOUR CAR CANNOT DRIVE ITSELF.”
“Why would we have two cars? You get your Audi and we sell the Prius.” His constant desire to be reasonable is SO ANNOYING SOMETIMES.
I cannot believe we are having this conversation for the trillionth time.
“BECAUSE I AM A GROWN ASS AMERICAN WOMAN AND IT IS MY…”
“It’s your right, we know. I heard you. But think of all the money we’ve saved by sharing one….”
“I hate money.” Now the fun declarations begin.
“You are insane.”
“I am giving up my desire to have an Audi in place of having my very own piece of shit car so that I DON’T SHARE ANYMORE.”
“So you want to put us in debt again.”
“I am going to pay cash, Chris, and then I’m going to park that motherfucker on the front lawn and there’s not one thing you can do about it.”
“You do know how crazy you sound, though, right?”
“I may be crazy but I’ll be crazy in my own car.”
What did that had to do with reading 11 books?
Goddamned everything, that’s what.