Tantrum Warehouse
Tact Free Since 2003

Lalalalalalala Marriage

Marriage is amazing and wonderful about 90% of the time. The other 10%

is like a new level of hell where you want to stab your beloved's heart

with your wedding silver's shrimp fork. Its that 10% that people

should tell you about. You really need to be prepared for that 10%.

That 90% is wonderful. It is what you dream about when you plan your

wedding. It is why you consider changing your last name. It is why you

invited all of your mother's friends and other assorted people you

don't know to be somewhere at a specific time and stare at you while you

silently freak out.

That 10% is why you contemplate how bad could prison be anyway and

think about how much closet space you would gain if suddenly he

disappeared. Could you get your insurance company to pay if he had an "accident?"

My husband spends eighty-four thousand hours a week playing video

games. He spends about five minutes a day talking to me. He has time to

hand-hold his friend through installing a wireless network, but cannot

find a moment to fold his laundry. He thinks I am insane to complain

when he invites his friends to our house on our date night. I am supposed

to magically know where he left his glasses. I should not get upset

when he spends my birthday money on computer equipment. Since he pays

our bills, I should not question him about them.

When he is grouchy and rude I cannot complain. When I am upset, he

asks why I am hysterical.

There are times when I fantasize about running away to France.

But I hear the food there is awfully rich. And I would miss my dogs.

Possibly the cats. And I do not speak French. And would tire of being

called "the Amazing Lazy American Wench."

And then he does something wonderful. Like rub my neck. Or fly my

best friend out for the weekend. Or make up new verses for Old McDonald

(Seattle traffic style) to entertain me on our commute.

That ninety percent makes up for a lot. It is almost perfect. Perfect

enough that he stays alive day after day after day. About five years

after most people thought I would kill him.

Of course it wouldn't hurt his chances if he picked up his socks.

7:21 p.m. :: comment ::
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