Marriage Illustrated with Crappy Pictures (16 page)

It is gone! It completely disappeared. The only thing remaining is a brown patch of dead grass. I’m shocked and confused and angry. Someone stole our sex tent? Who stole our sex tent? Why would someone steal it?

As I step outside to look for clues, the wind whips my hair and clothes.

Then I see it, across my neighbor’s yard, ties flicking in the wind and all lopsided.

The heavy winds last night must have managed to fling it up over the fence. Then it tumbled across my neighbor’s yard, where it snagged itself on a mulberry tree.

To make it even more embarrassing, I notice that the half-used bottle of massage oil is lying on my neighbor’s grass. And a pillow. We left the tent’s door unzipped! All of the sex tent contents spilled out and are now on display on her lawn!

I perform the walk of shame as I walk across my neighbor’s yard and collect our things and chuck them over the fence back onto our yard.

Then I work as quickly as I can, trying to disentangle the poor, shredded tent from the tree and the surrounding bushes. It is a large tent and the poles are still in the sleeves, so I have to stand there and dismantle the entire thing. It is taking an excruciatingly long time and I’m frantic, hoping not to be seen.

But my worst fear comes true. I hear the familiar creak of my neighbor’s door swinging open. She casually walks over to me and says something about the heavy winds last night. I’m mortified and apologize profusely about keeping the tent up for so long.

To my complete shock, she tells me not to worry about it at all. Then, with a knowing wink:

She has never been so right.

PMS DETECTION

Everything is going wrong. I’m a mess. My sky is falling. I have no idea why. What is happening? Why is everything so horrible?

My life is ruined.

He reminds me that I had a midlife crisis last month too. And the month before that.

Women vary in terms of how they respond to the mention of PMS. Some get angry and throw things. Some cry. Some implode. Some morph into fire-breathing dragons and eat people.

But I’ve always reacted with complete relief. I actually thank him if he reminds me. Huge sigh of relief. I’m not going insane! My life isn’t actually ruined! I’ll be totally fine!

Until next month when I forget and it happens all over again.

JUST DON’T TALK TO ME

There is one time when nobody should ever talk to me. Never, ever. When I’m getting ready.

Not just ready for a normal day, but getting ready for something special. A dinner or a party or some other fancy function.

I’m just not myself. I’m an angry, self-conscious version of myself, a rabid hyena. Not particularly pleasant to share a confined space with.

I’ll stand in front of my closet and try things on and then take them off and then try things on and then take those off and then put the original thing back on, but with a variation. It is a very complicated process of elimination that always results in me selecting the same exact outfit I wear to every fancy function.

This ritual is sacred. It is a personal form of self-flagellation that I must endure.

Nobody can intervene or they are putting themselves in great danger. Crappy Husband has learned this over the years, but sometimes he forgets and he does something stupid. He speaks to me.

He sees me wearing what he presumes is my chosen outfit and gives me a compliment. How dare he!

I’m many outfits away from being ready.

Realizing this, he asks for a time estimate. Which, really, is the worst possible thing to say. I am so absorbed in my angry ritual that time does not exist. But he reminds me and now the clock is ticking and there is pressure and panic.

At this point I say that I’m not going. Which is his cue to leave the room.

He adds that he loves me, but even that makes me angry.

Thankfully, we don’t go to fancy functions very often. And I’ve learned to lock the bedroom door to keep everyone safe.

DR. INTERNET SEARCH

My knee has been hurting this week so I decide to look it up on the internet. That is the answer to everything. Look it up.

The internet comes in handy for looking up really important things like movie stars’ names you can’t remember and what your pirate name would be, based on the color of your underwear. It also comes in handy for looking up medical questions.

The internet always has a diagnosis. And it is rarely good news.

I’ve diagnosed myself with so many rare diseases thanks to internet searches. I’ve never actually
had
any of them but I’m still thankful for the consultations. How did people take care of themselves before the internet? Did they have to go to real doctors and stuff? Imagine!

MISINTERPRETATIONS & MIND READING

Sometimes, we have misinterpretations in our lines of communication. It can go both ways.

He calls me on the phone on his way home from work and asks if I’ve planned anything for dinner. Which I haven’t.

Since there is no dinner planned, he suggests:

Rather than be grateful, which would be the sane response, it makes me furious.

For some reason, in my mind, what he is really saying is that I’m a huge failure. Clearly, what he really wants is a 1950s housewife with dinner waiting for him on the table who doesn’t have her own career or interests and only lives to clean the house until she dies of boredom. (I’d also wear heels and dresses and aprons, so that part isn’t so bad, I guess.)

He really just wants to pick up some burritos and come home.

Misinterpretations usually happen when I attach hidden meanings to his words. But they aren’t actually there. He is a dude. He says what he means. It is simple. When I remember this, things are much easier.

I, on the other hand, am not a dude. I’m a woman. I often attach hidden meanings to
my
words. They are like little directional signs to help him. I don’t always take the easy route and say what I mean. Instead, I say something else entirely with added directional signs tossed in that will help Crappy Husband arrive at the right conclusion.