I want a divorce.
I want a divorce.
November has arrived, right on schedule. I’m lining up some new projects and reconnecting with the people I abandoned in October.
Who, I now recall, annoys the crap out of me.
Daylight savings time is tricky. And controversial. And not entirely universal.
I’m not going to talk about that.
I am here today to talk about something that writers and comedians everywhere have harped on since the dawn of time: the strange brand of helplessness practiced by my husband.
This should be illegal.
There is, I think we can all agree, a period in the morning when we are technically physically capable of movement – for example, getting up to go to the toilet – but are still absolutely clinically asleep. During these wee hours (ooh, maybe that’s why they’re called that?) one can certainly climb out of bed, kick the hamper, curse its placement for the eight billionth time this year, stumble to the bathroom, fumble with the latch, manage to work both the toilet and the paper roll, and return to bed all without an eye opening or a neuron firing.
Congratulate me: I finally got a whole grown-up weekend away with my dreamy husband!
(This post will run a bit long, because I’m trying NOT to show you every damned picture I took and also show you what I’ve been up to this week – which necessitates rambling, because my brain is full of ferrets, and those ferrets have ADHD.)
As awkward as it sometimes is to relay the backstory, I love sharing our running jokes with you all; it makes me feel like we’re all in this marriage together. If that seems a bit weird, well, pretend I didn’t say that and remember that we’re not here to judge. Except him; please judge him and tell him that you’ve judged him and decided that he’s incredibly lucky to have me.