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May 20, 2007
Married Bliss
Or what happens after the wedding is over . . .
I’m not really an expert on weddings. I never had one myself. Although when my husband and I got engaged, we did start planning a wedding.
(And by “we,” I mean, of course, “me.” George took the typical groom route, and abstained from all wedding-related planning.)
But then our families started driving us crazy about who was and wasn’t invited to the big event, and who would be sitting where, and for that matter, what state the wedding was going to be in, and I finally got fed up. At that point, we decided to ditch all wedding plans and elope. Which was phenomenal, and – unlike most brides and grooms enduring the family hell that is the modern day nuptials – we had fun on our elopement day.
So I may not know weddings, but after eight-plus years, I do know a bit about being married. And, in particular, about being married to my husband.
For example, I know that when one of the neighbors makes a disparaging comment about our lawn to George, I should never chime in by saying, “yeah, well, you know he had a point when he said our grass looked like it was committing suicide.” And I’ve learned, through experience, that George never finds it nearly as funny as I do when I joke that there’s at a very good chance – “At least a fifty-fifty,” I say, snorting with laughter – that our son is actually his and not the offspring of the UPS man.
Because, you know. I’m sensitive like that.
George, on the other hand, is not so quick. In fact, just the other day, we had that conversation that married people should never have. Because, through trial and error, most men learn not to start it.
It went something like this:
I was ranting about my day. It wasn’t a terrible day; but it wasn’t a good day either. My writing hadn’t gone well, my three-year-old had been acting up, and I’d spent the better part of an afternoon arm deep in the baked ziti I was making for an acquaintance.
“Why were you making her a baked ziti?” George asked.
I sighed, martyr-like. “Because I’m on the Sunshine Committee, which brings dinner to people who are sick or who’ve just had a baby.”
George goggled at me.
“You’re on something called a ‘Sunshine Committee,’” he asked. And then he laughed. For a really, really long time.
“And why is that so funny?” I asked testily.
Really, at this point, he should have known this wasn’t a good time to mess with me. The signs were all there. But, intrepid man that he is, he plunged forward.
“You’re just not very sunshiny today. You’re more of a little black cloud,” he said, and then broke into more fits of hilarity.
I stared at him coldly, and then began banging the dishes into the dishwasher.
“What’s wrong?” George asked, when he finally stopped laughing.
“Nothing,” I said through clenched teeth.
He narrowed his eyes and looked thoughtfully at me. “Do you have PMS?” he asked.
There it was. The question men should never, ever ask their wives.
“Do I WHAT?”
“Do you have PMS? It’s just you seem kind of grouchy, and you’re wearing all black, and your hair is all, you know, sort of limp. The signs are all there,” George concluded. “Wait . . . where are you going, hon? Come back? Hon? Hon?”
This blog was brought to you by The Quest for the Holy Veil, Kimberly’s hilarious novel about making the best of things... even when everything goes horribly wrong.
Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (6)
Comments
How long before he stops taking all his meals through a straw?
I once had a boss (a DOCTOR no less!) ask me if I was having one of those "female things".
"A WHAT?"
"You know, those female things. Where you cry and shit. For no reason, you just break down and cry and do shit like that."
I walked away slowly.
Posted by: Janina at May 20, 2007 4:16 PM
Is George wearing the ziti? If not, I admire your restraint. You are a classy gal.
And George... tsk tsk... for shame.
Posted by: Cindi at May 20, 2007 7:09 PM
The only thing I resent about my hubby asking me that pms-related question, is that he's usually right. It sends me through the roof. Sheesh! But he would only ask if I were carrying something soft, like a sponge or dish towel, not something heavy like a ziti pan or cast-iron pan! Smart man.
Posted by: Kimberly L at May 20, 2007 7:58 PM
LOL! Luckily, my husband *knows*. When I start screaming about everything, he just keeps quiet (which often just pisses me off more, you know?) and lets me go off.
I am not nearly as tolerant of his moodiness, however. I don't care, men are not entitled to PMS type bitchiness. So if he yells at me about leaving the bread on the stove after I turned the oven on (I mean, what the hell was the loaf of bread *doing* on the stove in the first place? And it was also on top of two upside down pyrex things that *he* put there), I'm going to yell back. Because I didn't *see* the bread, okay? And why the hell would you ask me why I didn't take a *pan* off the stove when I turned the oven on? It's a *pan*. It's meant to be on the stove. With, you know, *heat*. Honest to god...
Okay, I'm done now...
Posted by: Dia ![[TypeKey Profile Page]](http://www.literarychicks.com/nav-commenters.gif)
at May 21, 2007 5:13 PM
Maybe the Sunshine committee is in need of a new member - you know - one who's name rhymes with forge?
Posted by: RandomRanter at May 22, 2007 12:35 PM
The Sunshine Committee?! *snort* You've GOT to be kidding me! OMG! I don't think "I" could belong to something called the Sunshine Committee!! I'm thinking I am on George's side of this issue! ROFLMAO!!
Posted by: Sheri at May 27, 2007 1:18 PM
