First off, before I even start, I have to confess that I pester Husband about this blog. It’s not required reading or anything, but I know he reads so I like to know the very instant he’s read a post so I can get his feedback.
Which, yeah, maybe sounds annoying. But I do it for yoooouuu!
Because sometimes, y’all, his feedback is just so… so exactly what this blog is for that I have to share it with you.
HIM: I can’t believe you told the vibrator story.
ME: I will never stop telling that story.
HIM: I know… but it’s all “Christmas Christmas Christmas” and then “can you believe my vibrator didn’t last a year?”
HIM: You’re supposed to take it out.
ME: (gasps) I—
HIM: (laughing) I know, I just had to make it worse.
I needed to tell you about this not only because it’s timely (you’ll recall I told you the vibrator story last week—if you missed it, please go back and read it now, so it’ll be old hat the next time I tell it. Which I will, because I will never stop telling that story) but because it’s thematic.
No, this is not another vibrator post. Nor have I found another alarming sex toy online (and honestly, if you’re looking for more of that The Dog Snobs used to do a feature called Sex Toy or Dog Toy? that’ll turn you off either sort of toy forever.) This is about my husband, who thinks he’s funny.*
Wait. First, I need to set this up: if you follow me on Instagram, you’ll recall that Offspring finally lived up to his genetic potential this past Christmas, wrapping some truly impressive gifts including one for his girlfriend for which he made his own bow. I was so proud. And yes, Girlfriend loved the gifts (which were thoughtful and the result of some really excellent sales shopping, again making me very proud) but she also kept the bow, because it was just that lovely. It was a real passing of the torch sort of thing, when I handed him that giant spool of glittery black ribbon, which is always bittersweet for parents.
ME: Okay, let me know if you need any assistance from the Wrap Master!
OFFSPRING: Yeah, never say that again.
ME: Oh, if they gave a Grammy for gift wrapping, I’d be taking it home every year.**
Not being one to suffer for lack of an audience, I took my new title on the road. Completely forgetting who I’d married, I went to my husband in search of the praise and adoration which so nourish me.
ME: Apparently, I’m not allowed to refer to myself as a wrap master.
HIM: Well you are if there’s a wrap battle.
ME: Up top!
HIM: (high fives while laughing)
HIM: (still laughing)
ME: Seriously, how much do you enjoy your own jokes?
HIM: (laughing even harder) So much more than other people!
You see? This blog is not only about him, it’s for him. This is an indelible record of the things he says, so that he can go back, year after year, and laugh at them.
And, since once again we didn’t do anything special for our anniversary this (last) year,*** let’s call this whole blog my anniversary gift to him. Pretty fucking amazing, right? I’ve been working on it for years.
* He also thinks this blog is about me, but I can’t go into that right now. Because it’s ridiculous.
**Admittedly, some years I’d have to steal it from Martha Stewart. But that’s just because she can afford to put goddamned jewelry on her gift tags. And either way, it’d be coming home with me.
*** We’re really bad at our anniversary. Some of our friends have multiple anniversaries, like the anniversary of their first date and their first kiss and the proposal and the anniversary of the date their first child was conceived and we consider it an accomplishment to remember our anniversary on our anniversary— usually one of us will remember a few days later, while writing a check or something; we’ll both feel bad for a minute or two and then we shake it off because there’s always next year. Or Valentine’s Day (which we rarely celebrate at the same time as anyone else either.)