I’m home today, the sun is out, it’s 60 degrees and I didn’t get off the couch until 11 and there was no one touching me with sticky hands, shouting my name or title, staring at me with judging eyes, or reminding me of the To Do list we made the other night to motivate ourselves for a productive and successful spring.
I did get around to getting up to go get iced coffee and dinner around noon and then I thought about doing more around here but then I remembered what I wanted to do today. I needed the Mr.’s help. Just kidding. I just wanted to fuck with him.
I emailed him: If you had to guess where the hammock was, would you go with garage or basement? The couch feels uneven.
Being married to me is 20% fun, 80% psychological warfare. If you ask him, 20% is generous most days.
My favorite part of sending these emails to him is picturing him throwing up his hands like, DO NOT EMAIL ME ASKING ABOUT HOW TO GET YOU A NEW NAPPING LOCATION WHILE I AM AT WORKING SLAVING A WAY EARNING THE ONLY PAYCHECK THAT HAS EVER BEEN HANDED OUT IN LIFE TO SUPPORT OUR YOUNG CHILDREN AND YOUR NEEDS WHILE YOU THINK ABOUT NAPPING AND I THINK ABOUT PROVIDING, all while shaking his head, sighing angrily and then trying to come up with something supportive to say to me, a way to task me without actually tasking me, and a jab without being too mean to send me off into the land of white noise. It’s truly an art, handling me.
And, I should have known, after more than a decade together, he was ready for me today. “Don’t know,” he lied, “but maybe you should put “fix couch” on the list of TO DO items next to the fridge.”
Then he informed me he’ll be home in two hours and fifteen minutes which means I have two more shows to watch until I have to collect everything in the house in a laundry basket and dump febreeze on the rugs and the dogs and then look exhausted from cleaning.
Better get back to my TV watching.