The Delightful Day I Had Despite My Husband’s Numerous Attempts To Kill Me

There’s a certain unspoken communication that happens in a marriage.  When two people first meet, the language must be learned, but over time it flows and occurs as naturally as the sun sets and rises.  It’s The Knowing.  My husband’s tired sigh at the end of the day is his silent request that I make him dinner or bring him tea.  A mere look upon his face will prompt me to remind him that it’s time to take his stomach meds.  Now, would you all like to know what my silent communication looks like?  When I have a cardboard box on the porch and I keep filling it with trash, that’s the signal for my husband to throw it in our dumpster.  Rotten pumpkins and dirty diapers in a box on our porch clearly states “deposit in trash receptacle.”  There is no subtlety here.  Alas, my husband apparently has his The Knowing earplugs in because I stepped outside this morning and the fucking box of trash was still there waiting for me.

With disgust in my heart and anger worn clearly on my sleeve, I picked up the box and began to lug it away.  Then I fell down our porch stairs.  It’s only a few steps, but I was wearing my tres expensive Banana Republic sweater and my only pair of jeans clean enough to be seen in public.  I wasn’t properly dressed for falling down the stairs while carrying garbage.  I fell.  I fell hard and don’t be confused — I fell hard on rocks, not in love with my husband (at that moment at least).

After assessing my personal damage, I got up and put all the trash and newspaper and rotted pumpkins and diapers back in the box and finished my task.  Then I had to change out of my adorable outfit and into slouchy, raggy clothes, which really pissed me off.  For today, we had plans that existed outside the house.

I was a little nervous for the play date I scheduled for today.  I never know if Veruca and Devil Dog are going to be little monsters or not and though my friends read about it, it’s entirely more embarrassing when they actually get to witness all the magic that is my life.

The mom portion of today’s date is someone that I’ve known for years.  In high school we knew each other in a “Hey how are you?” brief wave in the hall kind of way.  Post-school we were connected through mutual friends.  That connection is no longer, but we keep in touch on FB and I’m working on being more social.  So when she invited, I accepted.

Everyone gets a name on here, and she is Sarah.  As in Palin.  Don’t worry, we didn’t shoot wildlife whilst hanging out of a helicopter.  She defines herself as a radical conservative.  I consider myself a moderate and we still had a lot of shared viewpoints.  Oh, that’s right, we didn’t sit around talking about our husbands.  We talked religion and politics which might not sound like the best of ideas, but it went swimmingly.

Sarah is one of those women who likes to portray herself as a “laid-back mom” but I suspect that she secretly vacuums under all the furniture every night after the kids go to bed and before she does a 60-minute ab workout.  She says she just does it once a week — vacuuming, that is — but I think she’s lying.  Oh, and she’s super intelligent … she’s even held public office.  She properly used the word “prostrate” in casual conversation.  Do you know what that’s like for me?  She’s like my vernacular soulmate.  I officially have a crush on her.  I feel like I should ask her to go play field hockey or tennis or something like that.  Isn’t that what you do when you have a girl crush?

Her daughter shares a name with Veruca.  She has big brown eyes and brown hair and is olive-complected.  She’s fixated on princesses and crowns and all things royalty-related.  She loves dress up and all the Barbie movies.  Needless to say, my Veruca had a smashing time playing with her twin — her good twin — today.

Devil Dog was your basic simpleton.  I’m sure Sarah though he was a cute mute.  Little does she know what his vocal capabilities are.  He pawed Sarah’s 18-month-old, Dutch Boy, and played with trains.

We had fun.  I had fun.  And then, as if I hadn’t faced enough fears for one day what with the pumpkin and the socialization, I went to another friend’s house.  More nerves, because she’s also not really a friend (you guys know I don’t work well with others).  She’s a lady — her blog name is Minnie as in Skinny Minnie … this child has lost close to 100 lbs.  Amazing — that tolerated me for a couple of years of high school French class (another Facebook re-connect) when I was insisting on being called “Etienne” because I didn’t like any of the French girls names being offered.  Anyway, she gave me a fricking toddler bed for DD.  Tres incroyable (and yes, Minnie, I’m well aware that my “Tres” is missing an accent grave)!

Minnie arrived at her door looking bright-eyed and ready to tackle the world.  I was initially relieved to see her toy-strewn living room, but dismayed to see how neat the rest of her house was.  Like, really?  She has three-year-old triplets and a Kindergartner.  Mopped floors shouldn’t even be an option.  I hate her.

By the time I loaded the bed and my children into the car, I was ready to go home.  I threw PB&J’s at them and drove.  I was feeling pretty dejected and inadequate because Sarah and Minnie are, like, perfect.  Beautiful, skinny bitches … both of them, and clean houses.  Their kids appeared to be sane.  And unless they waited until I left to like, shoot up or something, they too seemed totally, um, normal.  Did I mention that they are best friends with one another?  Yeah.  My life always feels like a maelstrom of chaos and insanity and those two plan play dates and … and comb their hair.

As I drove on, I realized that there are probably people, albeit horribly uninformed people, out there who envy my life.  I have three beautiful children, I write, I have a great husband (even though he did allow me to fall down stairs and self-injure).    It was about the time that I had Dale Carnegie’d myself out of a funk, that Veruca asked for a wipe to clean her face.  I carry wipes in a zip-loc bag so that they stay moist and I don’t have to bring a whole wipes container with me.  Why?  Because I’m fucking efficient and crafty, that’s why.  As I reached into my patented Zip-loc wipes container creation, I was hit by the most horrible, atrocious, offensive, life-threatening odor that I’ve ever been privy to.  I’d like to remind you that I was operating a motor vehicle during this olfactory assault.  It appears that my darling husband, some weeks previously during the only time I have ever lent him this specific package of wipes in a bag, cleaned up spilled milk and put the dirty wipes back into the Zip-loc and sealed it.  I almost drove off the road.  It was only two in the afternoon and this was literally the second time today that my husband tried to off me.

I am home now.  As I have relaxed from the day, my injuries from the fall have become more evident.  My arm, leg, ankle and knee on the left side of my body are very sore.  Not to be outdone, the entire right side of my back is also threatening temporary paralysis.  I am off to load up on anti-inflammatories and maybe a can of pepper spray to deliver to my darling spouse’s unsuspecting corneas during a seemingly impromptu, though actually highly calculated, cuddle.

My work is finished for the day; I will work on book stuff tonight.  Clearly, if Special K has his way, this is going to be a posthumous publication.