Based on my clear lack of good blogging material, or to be more honest, the right outlook with which to write about anything at all, I’m yoinking one from the vaults to share with you. This was written about 2 months before I got married in 2005 and has been updated somewhat by moi. Because I’m good like that.
With my impending nuptials lurking stealthily right around the corner, I am consistently reminded of how over half of marriages these days end in divorce. According to the *ahem* interesting folks at livejournals Virgins Over 25 site, that number is markedly decreased for those involved in church. And the number is even less than that for people who raise their children in church.
What this means is that I’m totally fucked.
I don’t WANT to get divorced, too much nasty social stigma attached to that, plus, I’m too lazy to go to court over and over to divide up our animals and dishes, so I have carefully devised a plan to help me stay married. Because if anybody in the family requires the label ‘œTemperful’ it is I. (okay, so it’s not a word. Yet. But it should be)
Ergo, I alone am the danger for divorce.
As most old people will creepily point out to you, the sex and passion tends to die out after a number of years leaving in it’s place a bleak type of emptiness, fulfilled either by really dull pursuits like, ‘œstamp collecting’ and even worse, ‘œbird watching.’
Or an affair.
That’s right, folks, screw the birds and the stamps, the way that I am going to beat a divorce before marriage is through an illict affair, carefully mapped out over the next couple of years. I mean, why WAIT to scratch the itch? Nip it in the bud! That’s what I say.
So I am carefully screening, through an intensive application process (think the Meyers-Brigg crossed with Cosmo quiz) potential candidates for my pending affair and possible illegitimate love-child.
Some candidates in my pool:
Mick Jagger- he may be as old as Jesus, but the man can still MOVE. Plus, he’s got bank vaults full of money and is freakishly fertile, so the child support checks would pay for a big house for Dave and I to live in.
The Garbage Man- perhaps his fragrance is a little on the shitty side (get it?) but he’s got some sexy muscles, and I don’t exactly have a milk-man to fall back on. (Ed note: we have since moved, and I’m no longer inundated with smoldering hot garbage men. I can’t be sure I’ve ever even seen my new garbage men. Sadly)
Anthony Bourdain- While I don’t exactly envision steamy sex fantasies with the guy, I imagine we’d do a lot of drinking, smoking and making each other laugh. Any man who uses the phrase “pube in my drink” on television is a man I’d like to hump. Or at least hang out with.
Anna KorniwhatsherfacedatingEnriquewhatshisface- she’s super, super, super hot. I mean, smoldering hot. I totally want to make out with her, and I’m not remotely gay.
Okay, okay, okay. So I don’t have a crazy long list. Sue me. I mean, it’s not every day that you get to carefully choose AND screen a potential lover, right?
Oh like YOU’VE never thought of doing this! Haven’t you?
Haven’t you???
There was a commercial awhile back, I don’t remember what it was for really-perhaps a bank?–in which a man offers to paint his (presumably) wife’s toenails. The tag line was “Because you’re not THAT GUY” (THAT GUY being the one who paints toenails), and it made me laugh.
Because I totally married THAT GUY.
I’ve never actually asked him to paint my toenails, but he swears up, down and sideways that he would if I did. In the past he’s also volunteered to help me shave my delicate lady bits when a burgeoning stomach is preventing me from taking care of the ole undercarriage properly, and would probably shave my legs if I begged. Or bribed. Whatever.
This omission makes him sound like a complete and utter pushover, who without a complaint, says “yes dear” to anything, EVERYTHING I say, but it’s simply not true. (SADLY. I WAAANT A PONY.) People who haven’t shared a lot of time with us together have remarked that Dave is “pussy-whipped” or perhaps “Becky wears the pants in THAT marriage,” but it’s just wrong. They miss the indelicate back and forth that Dave and I tend to do in private.
He does call me fuckface or asshead when the moment strikes and the kids aren’t awake, and he does so unapologetically. And I’ve never seen him shy away from me unless I was especially hormonal and chasing him around with a butcher knife. Which is funny, because we HAVE NO BUTCHER KNIFE.
And being THAT GUY doesn’t mean that he does any of the following:
*Hanging up his laundry
*Throwing his socks down the laundry chute
*Remembering any present buying holiday ahead of time
*Ever buying an anniversary card
*Ever calling to tell me he’ll be late UNTIL he’s already late as hell
But he’s THAT GUY all right.
How do I know this for sure? Well, The Daver is suffering once again from Couvade Syndrome. Otherwise known as a sympathetic pregnancy. It happened when I was pregnant with Alex, and his donut consumption may or may not have been responsible for his elevated cholesterol, and it’s been happening since I got pregnant with Amelia.
While his behavior when stricken with a Man Cold (which pretty much involves moaning a lot, reminding everyone within a 20 yard radius that he HATES to have a cold, and sniffling deeply whenever I ask him to take out the trash, and generally being a pain my in ever-loving ass) leaves much to be desired and may be the only time I delicately suggest that he go to work by kicking him out of the house and locking the doors, I’m lucky that this is not indicative of his behavior while “pregnant.”
This isn’t to say that he religiously reads “What To Expect While You’re Expecting” book-marking the relevant chapters (we don’t even own it) or dreams up color combinations for the nursery, hell, he’s barely interested in baby clothes or deciding on a middle name for our daughter. No, he’s just as emotionally labile as I am these days. And is nearly as interested in donuts and hot dogs and squishy chocolate deserts.
Honestly, I find the whole situation rather adorable. After being pregnant by a dude who was downright abusive during the whole gestation, it’s such a refreshing change of pace for me. If you’d told the pregnant-with-Ben me that I would one day find a man who was going to be pregnant with me, I’d have rolled my eyes bitterly and probably laughed without any humor behind it.
At that point in time, I’d have settled for a guy who was even remotely interested in his child and not interested in sticking his penis in other women. His TINY penis.
(sorry, I had to)
It reminds me that I hit the jackpot when I met Dave, something I’ve always been acutely aware of. Sure, we might not ever be the romantic couple of the romantic comedy genre, we may never refer to what happens between the sheets as “making love” unless we were trying to be sarcastic and make the other laugh, and we may never compose love letters OR poemes, but it doesn’t matter to me. It never mattered to me.
Anyone who shares a fleeting 9 month obsession with encased meats and sweets is more than enough for me.
I’m full of The Cranky today, and I’m not really sure why specifically. It’s partially because I’ve reached the point in pregnancy (for me) when I turn from a reasonably cute pregnant lady to growing out of all of my clothes. It’s also because I can’t get around too easily with my gigantic boot, and it gets pretty frustrating.
Or maybe it’s just because I’m tired. It was a long weekend for Gimpy McCripple here.
So, help a sister out. What’s making YOU cranky today?
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