What it's like to be married to me:
The husband shows me the New York Times front page photo of a woman mourning the death of Hugo Chavez*: This is how you'd want people to react to your death, isn't it?
Me: Duh! Strangers weeping in the street? OF COURSE. Let's get on that.
Me, on the phone with the husband as I'm driving home from the grocery store: I would cut a bitch for a soft serve frozen yogurt right now.
The husband: I would love to see that happen. "Well, the girl is out of rehab now; it was pretty hard on her what with you going to prison for stabbing someone for a soft serve."
Me: I have to keep it real. I could totally see myself launching over a McDonald's counter, screaming, "GIVE ME A CHOCOLATE AND VANILLA SWIRL, MOTHERFUCKER!"
The husband: It would not surprise me one bit. At least you look good in orange.
Me: I'm going to need lots of moisturizer.
Me: I'm going to bed now.
The husband: O.k. Goodnight.
Me, continuing to stand in the hallway: I said, "I'm going to bed now."
The husband: . . .
Me: Come and tuck me in.
The husband, getting up: Seriously?
Me: Yes. I'm tired. And cranky. Come and tuck me in. But first plug in my phone. And I need water.
The husband: Seriously?
Me: You're lucky you're married to me.
The husband: I remind myself of that every day.
* I am actually pretty bummed about Hugo Chavez dying. He was one of my favorites. Looks like it's all Fidel, all the time now.
Hope you're all doing well. I'm pretty much recuperated from my surgery and its aftermath - just tired, still, and going to bed at 9:00 every night like an invalid.