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Broke Wife, Big City
Back off,
fellas, I’m taken
By Aprill Brandon
I am a crappy wife. I mean, I’d hate being married to me. I’m a remote
hog and an unabashed blanket stealer and I have to let you know in
great detail EVERY SINGLE FEELING I AM FEELING AT THE EXACT MOMENT I AM
FEELING IT.
And then there’s my temper. My lethargic attitude regarding shaving. My
severe allergy to replacing toilet paper rolls.
I don’t even know what the man likes on his pizza. I just always order
what I want and expect him to eat it.
And yeah, sure, I have my good qualities, I suppose. I’d never cheat.
Or be abusive. Or make my husband eat kale.
I’m not a monster.
But still. Take his recent birthday. I did nothing to prepare. NOTHING.
Literally ordered his gift the day before. While telling him, “hey, I’m
ordering your gift now.” Followed by, “it’ll be here in a week and a
half” because I couldn’t even spring for two-day shipping.
There was no party. No fun outing planned. And while I did manage to
interrupt my busy schedule of standing in front of the fridge eating
all the good restaurant leftovers so that I could make him a birthday
cake, he is technically the one who went out into the sub-zero
temperatures to buy all the ingredients.
I even forgot to have the kids make him an adorable homemade card. And,
thanks to the combination of guilt and laziness (which, when you get
down to it, are pretty much the building blocks of my entire
personality), I went so far as contemplating on deceptively forging one
in their names.
Even worse is that I didn’t because my laziness is almost always
stronger than my guilt.
Yeah.
I’m awful.
And what makes it all the more infuriating is that he doesn’t seem to
care that I’m a crappy, awful wife. He never complains or whines. He
never asks “did you finish all the wine last night?” or “are you
rewatching ‘Twin Peaks’ AGAIN?” And he always gives me an enthusiastic
round of applause when I announce dramatically and triumphantly that I
finally, FINALLY did shave my legs.
He’s like a living, breathing example of “love is patient, love is
kind.” Meanwhile, I am the living, breathing example of if Lorelai
Gilmore had a love child with a bottle of vodka and then that love
child was raised by blanket-stealing wolves.
It’s almost like the man accepts me for who I am.
I mean, who does that?
And thus we come to the entire point of this column. Happy birthday,
baby. You are a saint. Married to human garbage (albeit human garbage
that loves you deeply). And this is your real gift, posted on the
Internet, for all to see.
A gift, mind you, which you can pull up at any time and force me to
re-read whenever we get into a fight and I start yelling about just how
lucky you are to have me.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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