Tag Archives: marriage humor

Because who doesn’t want aluminum for a gift?

Well, well, well. I never thought it’d come but here it finally is. At the end of this month, my husband and I will be celebrating our ninth wedding anniversary!

…yay…!…?

Yeah. I know. Not that exciting.

I mean, ten years, yeah, of course. That’s a huge deal. You made it an entire decade. It’s the…copper anniversary? Bronze, maybe?

Holy crap. I just looked it up. It’s the tin or aluminum anniversary. Also, I stole a glance at the ninth year gift. It’s willow or pottery. I mean…what? Who made these rules? (Because my guess is it was either an extremely practical woman or an extremely clever man).

“Thanks for putting up with my farts for ten years, honey. Here’s some tuna.”

“Aw, the dolphin-safe kind. Just what I always wanted. Thanks, darling!”

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Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes…

But nine years? Eh. At nine years your anniversary plans are likely squished in-between giving your kids lice treatment because there was another outbreak at preschool and a meeting with Todd, your semi-dodgy accountant but he’s the only one you can afford.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for marriage and am personally very happy my husband and I are still going strong. (I don’t want to brag or anything, but I am not the easiest person to live with).

It’s just that after nine years of building a life together, the building part is mostly done and now it’s just a whole lot of maintenance. Maintenance that sucks up all your time and energy and money. Especially when you throw children and careers and pets into the mix.

Take, for example, this very moment right here. I am attempting to type this sentence with a two-year-old squirming on my lap while my husband texts me about his crazy morning at work and I text back “Crap! We need band-aids and juice boxes. Can you get them after work?” And then my 2-year-old almost breaks my laptop and I yell at her and she starts crying and the dog starts barking and my husband texts me back he has a late meeting but will as soon as it is done.

That is what nine years looks like.

Nine years is spending 27 minutes trying to figure out who can take which kid to their dentist appointment.

Nine years is silently and mutually agreeing to ignore the awful noise the dishwasher makes every time it’s turned on because there is no money in the budget currently to fix it.

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Nine years is yelling at each other in strained voices about the ridiculously high vet bill and then 30 seconds later, in a perfectly calm voice, bringing up which cake you should get for your son’s birthday as though nothing had happened. Because sulking is only for couples with the luxury of free time.  

Nine years is “hey, come look at this…should I go to the doctor?”

Nine years is constantly forgetting to kiss each other goodbye but always remembering to get extra pickles for them when ordering take out.

Nine years is a horror movie and two bottles of wine on Valentine’s Day.

Nine years is mostly communicating via memes when apart.

Nine years is a truly impressive Tupperware collection.

Nine years is “I did your laundry. It’s in a giant pile on the bed.”

Nine years is a truly comfortable silence. Interrupted by a truly impressive fart.

Nine years is realizing all that sugary sweet marriage advice you got at your wedding was useless. Never go to bed angry (um, then we’d never sleep). Never keep secrets from each other (those secret stashes of fancy chocolate are the reason my family is still alive some days). Would you rather be right or married? (I’m never wrong so it’s a moot point, Aunt Carol).  

And, if you’re very lucky, nine years is wanting to do all this god-awful mundane business of living– the bills, the cleaning, the obligations, the never-ending youth soccer games, the grocery shopping, the novella-length kindergarten registration packets– with no one else but them.

I love you, Ryan. And I can’t wait to clean out the kids’ closets this weekend with you.

Which reminds me…

Get some wine at the store too.

 

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Back off, fellas, I’m taken

I am a crappy wife. I mean, I’d hate being married to me. I’m a remote hog and an unabashed blanket stealer and I have to let you know in great detail EVERY SINGLE FEELING I AM FEELING AT THE EXACT MOMENT I AM FEELING IT.

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And then there’s my temper. My lethargic attitude regarding shaving. My severe allergy to replacing toilet paper rolls.

I don’t even know what the man likes on his pizza. I just always order what I want and expect him to eat it.

And yeah, sure, I have my good qualities, I suppose. I’d never cheat. Or be abusive. Or make my husband eat kale.

I’m not a monster.

But still. Take his recent birthday. I did nothing to prepare. NOTHING. Literally ordered his gift the day before. While telling him, “hey, I’m ordering your gift now.” Followed by, “it’ll be here in a week and a half” because I couldn’t even spring for two-day shipping.

There was no party. No fun outing planned. And while I did manage to interrupt my busy schedule of standing in front of the fridge eating all the good restaurant leftovers so that I could make him a birthday cake, he is technically the one who went out into the sub-zero temperatures to buy all the ingredients.

I even forgot to have the kids make him an adorable homemade card. And, thanks to the combination of guilt and laziness (which, when you get down to it, are pretty much the building blocks of my entire personality), I went so far as contemplating on deceptively forging one in their names.

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Even worse is that I didn’t because my laziness is almost always stronger than my guilt.

Yeah.

I’m awful.

And what makes it all the more infuriating is that he doesn’t seem to care that I’m a crappy, awful wife. He never complains or whines. He never asks “did you finish all the wine last night?” or “are you re-watching ‘Twin Peaks’ AGAIN?” And he always gives me an enthusiastic round of applause when I announce dramatically and triumphantly that I finally, FINALLY did shave my legs.

He’s like a living, breathing example of “love is patient, love is kind.” Meanwhile, I am the living, breathing example of if Lorelai Gilmore had a love child with a bottle of vodka and then that love child was raised by blanket-stealing wolves.

It’s almost like the man accepts me for who I am.

I mean, who does that?

And thus we come to the entire point of this column. Happy birthday, baby. You are a saint. Married to human garbage (albeit human garbage that loves you deeply). And this is your real gift, posted on the Internet, for all to see.

A gift, mind you, which you can pull up at any time and force me to re-read whenever we get into a fight and I start yelling about just how lucky you are to have me.

Five years down, eternity to go

As I sit here typing this, it’s my five-year wedding anniversary. Added bonus, this year also marks ten years since my husband and I first met.

I know, I know. So what am I doing writing and working on this oh-so-special day? But as I said, it’s been ten years. Using your anniversary to stare all googly-eyed at your significant other while you drink champagne and eat strawberries in bed is for new couples who haven’t yet had the experience of sharing a tiny bathroom while you both have the flu.

But still, this day is a pretty big deal, despite the horrible things that went down in that bathroom that we can never un-see. I mean, even after all these years, my husband is still my best friend. And I’ve only had two fantasies, three tops, of dropping a giant anvil on his head, Wile E. Coyote-style.

In all honesty, though, I love that man with all my…ugh, hang on a sec…what’s that, babe? … Babe? … RYAN! … What did you say? Are you talking to me or the dog? … Oh my god, if you’re talking to me, I can’t hear you. … Still can’t hear you. … Why the hell are you mumbling? … I don’t know, look in the junk drawer. … THE JUNK DRAWER. … Did you find it? … I said DID YOU FIND IT? … I can’t. … CAUSE I’M BUSY, DAMMIT. … I’m writing about how much we love each other. … I SAID HOW MUCH WE LOVE EACH OTHER, GRANDPA! Son of a …

Anyway, as I was saying, I still love that man as much, if not more, than I did on our wedding day. Which, trust me, is a lot considering the beer was flowing like wine at our reception and Momma was a VERY happy girl that day.

And now that we have a baby, we’re closer than ever. A child truly is the ultimate manifestation of love between two people and …ah, hang on…Riker, honey, Mommy can’t play with you right now. She’s writing about what an awesome wife and mother she is. Here, go play with Daddy’s cell phone. Just don’t throw…and you threw it down the stairs. Awesome.

Anyway, starting a family allowed us both to see each other in a new light. And while that new light isn’t always flattering (I haven’t plucked my eyebrows since November), there is this beautiful sense that you have created something that is not only bigger than you, but bigger than the both of you. And that bigger something is full of joy and love and yes, a bit of chaos, but chaos isn’t always a bad thing. Because, as the old saying goes…Oh, come on! What now? … Seriously, dude, you need to speak up. … No, I have no idea where your cell phone is. Now, can I finish this, please? For the love of …

ANYWAY, as I was saying, marriage is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. Wait, is that the saying? Well, it doesn’t matter. It still fits. I remember all the nights we sat around drinking wine, making elaborate plans those first few years. The things we would do. The places we would go. The shiny, shiny things we would buy because hey, it’s not like we’ll be poor forever.

And even though hey, we are going to be poor forever because kids need a lot of stupid, expensive crap, and even though I still haven’t been tapped to replace Tina Fey on SNL and he hasn’t yet turned into Batman, and even though our last vacation was to exotic Costco, what did happen was a decade of a very happy life together (minus one flu-ridden weekend that still gives us daymares).

You know, when it comes down to it, it really is the simple things in life that make it …I swear to all that is holy, if you two keep bugging me while I’m trying to write this, I will throw away both of y’alls toys and comic books, got me? Do not test me. And stop all that screaming. I’m almost done. Just give me a few more minutes.

Ugh.

Anyway…I don’t know. Marriage is great and junk. Blah, blah, blah. You get the gist. Now, if you’ll excuse me, one and/or possibly both of my beloveds is bleeding and it appears the dining room table is on fire.

P.S. While I’ve been busy making fun of my husband to collect some cheap laughs, he cleaned the entire house, arranged for a babysitter so we can go out tonight and took care of our fearless and highly mobile son (all while actually leaving me alone so I could write this). I know. I don’t think I deserve him either. Thanks for putting up with me all these years, Ryan. I love you.