“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Ow, why did I DO that?”
“Because you’re an idiot, obviously.”
“Oh, well, thanks. Glad we cleared that up. Also, fuck off.”
The thing about the previous exchange is, all parts are played by me.
That’s right, I don’t need anyone else to have a conversation. I’m a Liberated Woman. I can pull a hot baking sheet out of the oven without a potholder and scold myself for it and tell myself off for being a smartass all while handling the basic first aid before my husband even manages to find his way downstairs to check if there are cookies yet.
But, see, that was later on in my anniversary. You want to know about the beginning, right?
ME: (rolls over, stares at Husband, my face a mere inch or two from his)
HIM: (wakes with a start)
ME: (whispering) Happy anniversary!
HIM: (smiles, pets me like the mad cat I am)
Clearly, I’m the luckiest of women. How many men out there would put up with my endless array of crazy? Apologies to the rest of you, who must make do with lesser husbands.
In other news, my hair looks like this now:
For I am more Christmas than thou. Not that it’s a contest. I mean, not anymore, now that I’m clearly winning so hard.
ME: We’ve been married twelve years… we should celebrate with a dozen of something.
HIM: Yeah, but… where are we going to find a dozen Christmas trees, and where would we put them?
ME: (shrugs) I did my part, bringing another one into the house (swishes Christmassy hair)