I Want My Epidural Back (18 page)

Dear Schmoopie Woopie,

I love you. Wait, I mean I LOVVVVVVVVVVVVVE you. Like when you kiss me, I still get those butterflies in my belly, and when you wash that pot that's been “soaking” in the sink for 48 hours, I get weak in the knees. But here's the thing. I would really, really be appreciative (yes, THAT kind of appreciative) if you would stop doing a few annoying things:

      
  1. Stop asking me stupid shit. I'm not saying you're stupid. In fact, I'm saying you're pretty F'ing intelligent, so stop asking me stupid shit like “Do we have more milk?” Ummmm, hello brainiac, open the fridge and look. Heyyyy, look at that, milk! Who'da thunk it'd be in the fridge?!

      
  2. Step one: Take off your dirty clothes.

Step two: Look in the mirror and say something cheesy like “Holy crap, there's a hot naked guy in this mirror!”

Step three: Throw your dirty clothes in the hamper. Not ON the hamper. IN the hamper. I mean seriously, is it that hard to pick up the lid? It weighs less than the beer you pick up every night.

      
  3. You know what drives me BONNNNNNKERS?! When I'm literally unpacking bags of groceries I just bought and you say something like “Oh yeah, we ran out of apple juice this morning.” I'm like WTF WTF WTF??? “Why didn't you write it on the list?!” So whatta you do? You walk over to the list and write
apple juice
on it. My nice, clean list that has nothing on it because I JUST WENT SHOPPING!!!

      
4A. Okay, so when I offer to wash the dishes after dinner, here's what I want you to do. Don't help me. Don't hang out in the kitchen. Don't “keep me company.” Pick up both kiddos and get the F out of there. And don't feel guilty about it. When I say I WANT to wash the dishes, what I'm really saying is that I'll stand at the sink and scrub dried cheese off plates if that's what it takes to be completely alone with a glass of vino. Capeesh?

      
4B. And if you accidentally forget 4A, please don't come up behind me at the sink and try to put your you-know-what in my badonkadonk. Yeah, I'm psyched you still think I'm sexy, but the kids are still awake right now and probably doing something annoying like drawing on my walls or putting holes in them or rifling through my nightstand drawer. So the last thing I want to do at the moment is procreate.

      
  5. ME: Can we throw that shirt out, pleeeeease? Look at the pit stains.

YOU: Are you kidding? I've had this shirt since high school!

Bwhahahahha, I think it's F'ing HYSTERICAL that you think this is a selling point. Ohhh yeah, how could you ever throw out a shirt that you've been sweating in for twenty-two years?

      
  6. Honey, you know we're getting off at the next exit, right? Honey, we need to get off at the next exit. Honey, our exit is in a quarter of a mile. HONEY, GET THE F OVER NOWWWWW BECAUSE IF YOU WAIT WE'RE EITHER GOING TO MISS OUR EXIT OR WE'RE GOING TO HIT THAT GIANT 18-WHEELER AND WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!! So whether I'm saying these things in my head or whether I can't help myself and I'm saying them out loud, WHYYYY??? WHY do you insist on driving in the left-hand lane until like a split second before we need to get off the highway? We're either going to die when we slam into a giant Mack truck or I'm going to die from an F'ing heart attack.

      
  7. If you are wearing black pants, don't wear brown shoes. If you are wearing brown pants, don't wear black shoes. If you are wearing black socks, make sure they are the same black. Holes in old boxer shorts do not make you comfy, they make you an exhibitionist. Holes in old jeans do not make you comfy, they make you look like you traveled here in a time machine from the 1980s. Oh and please, whatever you do, do NOT wear that braided maroon, navy, and tan belt anymore. You're lucky I don't know where you got it because I am not a violent person, but if I knew I would go there and hunt down and brutally murder the person who sold it to you.

So there you go. And I know what you're gonna say. You're gonna say that I shouldn't talk because I do some annoying crap too. Like my nagging. Well, if I'm nagging, it means you're doing something wrong. Like something on this list. So just stop doing it, and I'll stop nagging you. Simple as that.

                                       
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo,

                                       
Your honey bunny

ME:
Honey, can you get the Push-Ups for the kids?

HUBBY:
Sure. Where are they?

ME:
In the downstairs freezer.

(He comes back up three minutes later.)

HUBBY:
I can't find them. Are you sure they're there?

ME:
200% sure because I checked before the BBQ to make sure we had enough.

(He comes back up two minutes later.)

HUBBY:
Nope, not there.

ME:
They are there. Go look again.

HUBBY:
Are you sure?

ME:
YES!!

TEXT FROM HUBBY:
I can't find them.

TEXT FROM ME:
Keep looking.

(Two minutes later he comes back up carrying guess what.)

HUBBY:
Got them!

ME:
Where were they?

(Because yes, I need him to say it.)

HUBBY:
In the downstairs freezer. I just couldn't find them because the box was turned sideways and I couldn't see the picture of the push-up.

ME:
I'm sorry, I should have had the picture facing the front. I didn't realize you were illiterate.

FYI, I did not say this last part out loud. I wanted to, but I restrained myself because I imagine this is the kind of stuff marriage counselors suggest you keep to yourself.

HUBBY:
I don't know which I love more, you or this big deep-dish pizza.

ME:
I'd like to see that pizza give you a blowjob.

HERE ARE A FEW WORDS I CALL KIDS SOMETIMES
(and no Mrs. McPerfectpants, I don't say it to their faces): rugrats, douchenuggets, crotchmuffins, a-holios, whinemeisters, sucktots, dicklings, and assbeanies. I mean it's not like kiddos are jerkwads all the time, but oh my gawwwwd are there days that I wish I believed in corporal punishment. Kids love to test their boundaries and break the rules and do all sorts of naughty shit just to see what happens. Wanna know what happens, kiddo? I punish your ass (not literally—see corporal punishment comment up above). But yeah, I'm a bit of a hard-ass. Because guess what cute little a-holes who aren't punished grow up to be. Assholes. Big ones. And we have enough of those on this planet already.

ME:
Zoey, either you stop doing that or I'm going to have to punish you.

ZOEY:
Like you'll take my Isabelle doll away?

ME:
Yes, like that.

ZOEY:
That's okay, I don't care about her anyway.

ME:
Fine, I'll do something else.

ZOEY:
Why don't you take my dollhouse away?

ME:
You never play with that anyway.

ZOEY:
How about my swing set?

ME:
Stop saying all the punishments. You don't get to decide.

ZOEY:
What if I don't get books tonight?

ME:
Stop it or I'm sending you to bed without dinner.

ZOEY:
That might be a good one. What are we having?

OKAY, YOU KNOW WHAT'S TOTALLY AWESOME?
When you're invited to hang out at your friend's house for an evening with a bunch of other families and all of the kids are finally old enough to run off and leave you the hell alone so you can actually finish wine and sentences and conversations and not worry too much. Until this happens.

BOY:
Miss Karen, the girls just showed us their baginas.

AGGHHHHHH, they showed you WHAT?! I mean yes, I heard him quite clearly the first time, but for some reason my natural reaction was to make him repeat it, which makes absolutely no sense since it was pretty damn painful hearing it once.

BOY:
The girls showed us their baginas.

Shiiiiiiiiiit!!!!

My first reaction was to storm into the room where Zoey was and turn into Cujo, but I somehow managed to control my anger and not beat the crap out of her.

ME:
(what I wanted to say)
WTF are you doing???!!! Only slutbags do that!!

ME:
(what I actually said)
Zoey, come with me into the other room, please.
(walk walk walk)
Why would you show people your vagina?

ZOEY:
They said we should.

ME:
Who said you should?

ZOEY:
(shrug)
They.

ME:
Zoey, you know that's your private part. You don't show that to anyone.

ZOEY:
Except you and Daddy and the doctor.

ME:
Yes, that's it.
No one
else.

ZOEY:
(truly regretful)
I'm sorry, Mommy.

I gave her a hug and I was about to say, “Go back and play with the other kids, but keep your clothes on,” when I realized something. I was letting a good teaching opportunity pass me by. I mean my daughter might not know about the birds and the bees yet, but it's never too early to teach her about self-respect.

ME:
Zoey, do you know why people like you?

ZOEY:
Because I'm nice.

ME:
Yes. And funny and creative and smart and all sorts of other things. Things in here
(I point to her head)
and in here
(I point to her heart)
. People don't like you for your body. They like you for what's INSIDE your body. Understand?

ZOEY:
Yes.

And I think she understood. At least at that very moment she did. But I know there are going to be lots of moments in her life that will make this lesson confusing. Like when a boy likes her for her pretty face. Or when she figures out she can get attention by wearing a short skirt. Or when she learns that her body actually has a crapload of power.

So it's my job to teach her that you DON'T share your body to convince someone to like you. That you convince someone to like you and THEN you can share your body if you want. And not until you're older. Much older. Like 147.

And if that doesn't work, then I'll just turn into Cujo and beat the crap out of her.

HOLDEN:
Oh fuck.

ME:
No, no, nooooo, you do not say that word. Only bad people say that word.

HOLDEN:
And parents.

ME:
Yes, and parents.