- Hug her
- Call her during the day to tell her why she’s special
- Say “Thank You”
- Compliment her hair, or her top, or just tell her she’s pretty
- Offer to put the kids to bed
- Take her on a walk
- Hold her hand
- Make dinner
- Tell her one of the reasons why she is special to you
- Give her a back rub without any expectations
- Say “Thank you” again
- Take her out dancing or to a movie or anywhere that is not your house
- Pack the kids in the car and give her time to herself
- Give her a foot rub without complaining about her ogre feet
- Write her a note
- Complete the small task the moment she asks you about it before you can forget
- Hug her again
- Give a compliment about one of her strengths
- Try a new activity with her
- Come home with wine
- Draw her a bath and take the kids out to play, leave the wine
- Appreciate art with her
- Go on an adventure with her
- Unexpectedly hug her from behind while she’s doing chores, and say “Thank you”
- Tell how much you love her
Mini-Tex is approaching the two year mark. Which means potty training. Only not actually because we’re spending the next six months bouncing around the country and the one thing that’s crazier than trying to potty train a small person is trying to do it on the run. At some point, likely during a summer, ideally before he’s twelve, we will attempt to potty train Mini-Tex. At this juncture however, we are going to be content just having a potty.
Or at least we would have been if we had a potty. As it was, this morning we didn’t. This isn’t a problem for most people because they
A) Live in a place where they need more than just their fingers and toes to count their neighours.
B) Live in a place where the only store isn’t the “Super Val e Mart”
C) They’re not insistent on buying all children’s goods second hand.
As it is, I live in a place that makes Dog River from Corner Gas look big. We are F A R from everything. We are two hours away from a large pharmacy let alone a children’s store, and we are four hours away from a major centre where second hand children’s stores are found.
As luck would have it, Tex was traveling on an overnight jaunt to the big smoke for work. On his last trip, he secured not one, not two but, three pairs of dinosaur pyjamas. An article of clothing our son had been begging for for the past six months or so. Tragically, I forgot to ask my husband to pick up a potty.
Thus today, when Tex was all set to travel back home and just sent a cursory “So do we need anything from the city?” text to me, expecting to hear crickets in return, I jumped on my phone. “Yes” I hastily replied “A potty”.
Ironically, one of my favourite character traits in Tex is his desire for everything to be spotless. While I am perfectly happy to wallow in my own personal gime, I would prefer that my living quarters are relatively clean. Tex cleans items and places that it would never occur to me to clean- ever. For example, the cup holder in the car. To me, it’s a spot that just becomes progressively stickier over the course of your car’s life. My view of a microwave is that it’s something you use and slop stuff on, until you move houses at which point, you receive a shiny new microwave to splatter with spaghetti sauce. And as for under the couch? Well I’m small, so not only is there no need to move said heavy couch, but it’s also verging on impossible, so the dust bunnies can procreate, colonize and form their own society there as far as I’m concerned.
Tex, on the other hand is a completely different story. When we first met, he was horrified by the shortness of my showers. At one point, he asked whether he could wash me, and it wasn’t in a sexy way (for the record I said “No”- Tex scrubs his skin like he’s Cinderella and removing every iota of dirt is his only shot at attending the ball). My pans, which were thoroughly abused and not well scrubbed in their previous existence with just me, have a new lease on life. And our car receives a twice yearly detailing that would probably cost hundreds if done professionally.
This was the man I sent to choose a second hand potty.
Now I should state, as grimy as I am, I have limits. And I also keep the well being and personal tastes of other’s in mind. Hence, when I donate an item to Goodwill or what not, I will wash it thoroughly first. And if I don’t feel I’m up to the task of washing it, I’ll kindly ask Tex. Meaning that, if I were to donate a potty, it would be clean. That said, upon buying a used children’s potty, I would immediately scrub it (or let’s be honest ask Tex to scrub it) regardless of the state it was in.
Anyways so away Tex goes to the second hand children’s store. “What kind of potty?” he asks me. “A boy potty” I type back, hoping for something with either cars, fire engines or dinosaurs on it, Mini-Tex’s three interests at the moment. Tex shoots me a photo back “It’s Elmo, all the other ones are for bigger kids to sit on the toilet.” “Awesome” I reply.
I thought that was the end of it. But oh no, Tex arrives home, and cleans the living daylights out of the Elmo potty with bleach until it sparkles even brighter than when it came off the factory conveyor belt. Then Tex, who loves putting batteries into items almost as much as he loves cleaning, demonstrates the piece de resistance. With the juice from two double As, the tiny potty makes flushing sounds.
“You did so great” I said, hugging my husband tight, “I’m sure this was the best one there.” “Well” confesses Tex “there were other boy ones but they had little kid sharts all down the sides.” He didn’t need to say anymore, I tried to suppress a grin picturing my husband eyeballing random tiny stranger sharts on Lightning McQueen potties.
I have a really nice husband. In the grand scheme of gross, awkward shopping trips, I think this one even tops the time that my Dad had to pick up a year’s supply of birth control for my sister. After calling all around the city, he found a store with a large enough supply. Upon entering, the cashier yelled out “Hey it’s the Yasmin guy!” Embarrassing, but not quite as bad as having to pick between plastic seats coated in the sharts of toddlers.
This post is dedicated to my mother, who told me not to put up something nice about her even though it’s her sixtieth birthday today. Mom likes to joke that my husband has OCD. Only she doesn’t think that it’s a joke, to which I respond “Our cereal isn’t alphabetized”. That’s totally a criterion from the DSM IV, I am totally up on all things psychology. Also I don’t think people with OCD marry dirt squirrels like me and certainly not dirt squirrels with sweaty runner moms. Happy Birthday Mom, your nice post is forth coming.
Two years ago today, I climbed up the hill on Tex’s family farm to take my place next to him and promise that I would love him and be kind to him forever and ever. I’ve made a lot of decisions in my life, but the choice to be with Tex has to be one of my best. After the decision to hunt him down like a puma of course.
Often, when we’re lying in bed, on the verge of falling asleep, I’ll ask my husband whether the time we’ve been together feels long or short. “Both” he always answers, much to my pleasure, as I feel the same way. When you find someone who is your compliment, who understands you and supports you without question, time seems to stretch and bend in such a way that you can’t imagine your life without that person. But in that same way, the joyous ease of each interaction, each day and each hug makes the years slip past like water in a stream. We’ve been married for two years and I’ve known Tex for three but it seems like both forever and merely a moment in time.
Two years on, I am still proud of the man I married; I still look at him and silently congratulate myself on bagging such a hottie. Meeting, marrying and procreating with someone, all within the space of twelve months means that life together is filled with surprises. Two spins around the sun later, the surprises still exist, but they’re fewer and farther between, yet I still delight each time I learn something new about my fantastic man. I love that his strong sense of character, that he inspires me to be a better more ethical person. His peccadilloes still make me smile; the way he throws himself entirely into whatever new idea, hobby or interest he’s infatuated with at the moment.
Michael J. Fox has been married forever. There’s a quote of his that he says to his wife which I often think of whenever I’m on the verge of being annoyed “Give me the benefit of the doubt; I would never intentionally hurt you.” That sentiment is so true and so perfect for marriage. And also for Tex. My sister-in-law and I often comment that our men are never mean. But sometimes, if they truly despise a person, they won’t be intentionally nice. I love that I married a man whose baseline is intentionally nice. It makes forgiveness, and remembering Michael J. Fox’s quote world’s easier.
Happy Anniversary dear husband, thank you for two completely wonderful years. When we are only bones in the ground, I promise to still turn and whisper “I’m so glad I married you” at night.
Start By Crying
It’s your husband, you’re planning on stabbing him in the back with a knife, unless you’re some sort of monster without feelings. you ought to be upset.
Pick Up The Knife
It might be comforting to use your favourite kitchen knife. Also, your familiarity with this tool increases the odds that your stabbing will be successful.
Close Your Eyes
What you’re about to do is terrible, it’s best not to look.
Open Your Eyes
When you realize that you’re liable to stab at the air rather than your beloved if you keep your eyes closed.
Prepare To Stab Your Partner
Then pull back at the last second because ultimately, you really really don’t want to sink a knife into their back.
Try To Stab Your Husband Again
This only happens after some encouragement from your spouse and more crying
Successfully Poke The Tip Of The Knife Ever So Gently Into Your Other Half’s Back
So lightly in fact that it doesn’t break the skin.
Press Harder With The Knife Until You Stab Your Husband
This part may be accompanied by a turning of your stomach.
This actually happened – I totally stabbed my husband. Tex boasts many wonderful qualities and charms; the ability to jump off a rolling horse, a dashing head of thick hair with just enough salt in it and an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the properties of metals. However, he has extremely oily skin which often erupts into angry blemishes on his back.
A couple of months ago, one such blemish grew up and had a party with a whole bunch of bacteria, so it became giant and infected. Causing Tex to turn to me and say “You’ll have to lance this. It’s easy; I’ll go sterilize the paring knife” in that calm, confident way of his that convinces me to do things I otherwise wouldn’t, like mercilessly murder lobsters or shoot a gun. Tex then spent twenty minutes hunched underneath the best light in our apartment, trying to convince me that I was brave enough the stab him. I cried and resisted the entire time, it was like the lobsters all over again only thankfully no one died.
Addendum: For once Tex’s near eidetic memory failed him and when he saw what I was typing he said in a panicked tone “Are you mad at me? Can we find another way to solve this?”
She Said: Marriage According to the Great Unwashed
(Tex has added in his two cents in italics)
In a word, being married to an engineer is awesome. I love it.
I always know where Tex is and what he’s doing; I’m kind of like Santa Claus but without the beard
Around about when we first started dating, Tex linked me to his Google Calendar. To say that it’s a comprehensive document is an understatement. It includes when to check his tire pressure (the 2nd of every month), any outings he has tickets for within the next couple of weeks and his work locations for the next year. I’m not saying I know when my hubby goes to the loo; if he starts slotting that activity in there too, it wouldn’t be shocking. After Tex sent me his schedule, I was supposed to create my own. That was a year and a half ago.
“By the way I need to borrow the car tomorrow to do this thing. Didn’t I tell you about that? Remember?”
The keys are always in the same place. Actually everything is in the exact same place
Or rather I should say Tex’s keys are always in the same place. It’s a crap shoot as to where I’ve stowed mine. This makes it easy to take my significant other’s keys. Please note this kind of behavior will get you into trouble on occasion. Along these same lines, Tex has routines and protocols for everything in our home, up to and including washing pots and the proper storage of baking soda. Everything is very easy to find and is grouped with like items when Tex has organized or tidied a room.
Since we’ve moved into our new place, there’s a constant litany of “Unwashed where did you put the colander/spatula/baking pan?” and she’ll respond with “It’s in the garage/shed/under the couch.” Of course it’s there. That is the obvious place for a frying pan.
Everything in the house is in perfect working order
Engineers love problems. They live for problems; the show “How It’s Made” is engineering porn. I’m always surprised whenever I see it on TV during the daytime, because I know there’s engineers out there, watching saying, “Oh, oh yeah, look at how well they figured out how to make paint spackle. Oh the hydraulics.”
Along these same lines, whenever something in our house breaks, Tex launches into engineer mode, taking our tap apart, determining where the problem is and whisking Mini-Tex and me off to the local Rona to locate the necessary part. (It’s possible I’m only along for the charity popcorn that is always sold at the hardware store.)
Our car seat is installed properly
Remember what I said about “How It’s Made” being engineering porn? Oven manuals, car seat directions, really any kind of manual is like a dirty magazine for engineers. I’m not saying that I’ve found instructions for the lawnmower under Tex’s side of the mattress, but let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised to find them there. Whenever we purchase anything, Tex reads the manual from cover to cover then adjusts the item so it exactly meets his specifications; our car door opens after pressing only one button and it never beeps when it locks. Afterwards he files the manual so he can always refer back to it even though he never needs to because he has an eidetic memory. (But won’t admit to it because then he would have to confess that he’s actually a super villain.) He then carefully explains to me how the item works and all of the minor changes he’s made to improve its function. I half listen because I know that if something breaks I can always call my husband in a panic and say “Tex! The dishwasher/dryer/car is broken!”
Everything somehow relates to science
It doesn’t matter whether the topic is weather, cooking or machinery- an in depth explanation of the science behind the subject always follows. Yet I still can’t recall the basic rules of matter.
Unwashed’s equivalent is celebrity name dropping and referencing obscure Canadian authors. For example her post about Desmond Howl “Oh you don’t know Hornjob McGee? He appeared in little known indie film “That Greasy Summer.”
He Said: Marriage From Tex’s Perspective
(With Unwashed’s comment in italics)
By contrast, this is what it’s like to be married to an artist- bedlam.
Nothing is ever where you left it including the car
For a period of time, Unwashed hid various pieces of mail and vital items like my phone charger. It was only after I had exhausted my own search of our apartment that I questioned her “Have you seen my ID badge for work?” “Oh” she replied nonchalantly as if she wasn’t a magpie squirrelling away my belongings and correspondence “they’re in the Very Important Place.” “The pardon?” I asked “The Very Important Place” my wife repeated “I put everything right here” and then she pointed to the most random of hiding spots in our home. It wasn’t a loose floorboard under the bathroom cabinet but it was close.
Admittedly, sometimes I do tidy Tex’s belongings away for company and then forget to move his items back. And the car wasn’t my fault; we had just moved here and I drove past the house three times before finally throwing the car into park and walking home. I will cop to forgetting that I had done this and where the car was parked though.
Your laundry flies stand-by and there has been an exponential increase in the number of lost socks
They say purgatory is a place between heaven and hell, currently in my house there is a laundry purgatory or one might say it flies stand by as it exists neither clean in my drawer nor dirty and obviously in need of washing in my hamper. I suspect one day I will be searching online classifieds and find a “Missed Connections” ad written by one of my socks.
In my defense, I once witnessed Tex systematically search for an hour for one lost sock. He found it in the end. I am neither that thorough, nor do I possess the memory to retrace my steps and the steps of others exactly to locate lost undergarments. As for the laundry, I’ve created a complex system that there isn’t enough time to explain, be assured that all of my and Mini-Tex’s clothes are found and cleaned on a regular basis. Tex’s shirts make it into the wash when they can hence the stand by comment.
I’ve been forced to take bizarre and ridiculous pictures of her
I had to take a picture of her covered in chocolate icing, holding a wad of flaming bills while riding a pig and I was supposed to not only understand the symbology of this but at the very least hold the camera steady. Not to mention catch the terrified pig.
This is a complete exaggeration. Ok not complete. There wasn’t a pig though. I did make Tex take artistic photos where I composed an image of multiple juxtaposing elements and then posed myself in awkward ways to enhance this effect.
Arranging a room has less to do with what will fit and more to do with the “chi” and whether it makes a room “warm” or not
I’ve moved sectionals more times than I care to count. And I had to buy a big, really expensive chair to provide her with a place to read and feel artistic or whatever it is that she does when she isn’t riding pigs.
Again, he’s totally fabricating the pig thing and what can I say? Chi is a moving target. Happily I don’t have to move it.
Also, did anyone else notice that Tex didn’t comment about the memory thing? I expect I’ll find his blaster ray gun in the basement any day now.
SPOILER ALERT: I had a baby. Or at least I think I had a baby, it’s hard to tell because I have essentially made a tiny carbon copy of Tex. In my sister’s words “If he hadn’t come out of your va-jay there might be some questions.” Thus I have dubbed my newborn “Mini Tex*”. At any rate babies are super time consuming, thus any posts published in the past six weeks were scheduled posts that I wrote before our new person arrived so this post is late but I like to think of February as the “Love Month” so as long as there are still discounted chocolate hearts in stores, I figure I’m within the acceptable range for sending out valentines. This is why many of you receive “Happy Easter” cards in July.
Before I got pregnant and had Mini Tex, I was all “pregnancy and breast feeding are just another physical feat that one does with their body; I rock at physical feats”. I’m not sure whether to laugh at my pre-pregnancy and motherhood self or slap her for being foolish. I was far from a glowy pregnant lady. I was a nauseous, vomit fountain who was exhausted all of the time, yet despite all of that I enjoyed being pregnant. This was entirely due to how hard my husband worked.
Initially our household arrangement was that I cooked and did dishes while Tex cleaned and did laundry. Early on, it became apparent that cooking was no longer possible because I was too tired when I got home from work and also too ravenous. Tex might have lost an arm if he had asked me to keep to our agreement when I arrived home starving and foul tempered from hunger.
Gradually even the dishes became impossible, as did my walks home from work. I never heard Tex complain, he merely picked up the slack silently, doing yesterday’s dishes while he prepared today’s dinner, texting me to see when I would need a ride home. He was amazing. The only reason I didn’t receive rides to work was because the lack of exercise would lead to restless leg syndrome and me becoming an antsy anti-Christ in the evenings if I missed my morning walk. But even on those days Tex would massage my legs and bundle himself up to walk with me in the cold winter air of the evening.
Relationship experts advise couples to continue to try new activities together. Until recently, I thought that was all hooey because how could I possibly love my husband more than I already did? I mean he checked all the boxes: Hottie- check, Super Hottie – check, Nice – check, Has a job that isn’t playing the accordion outside the liquor store- check. (For the record musical liquor store Abe, I am not judging you; I merely feel we would make a poor couple.) Pregnancy allowed me to love my husband as someone who I had no choice but to rely on. I pride myself in being independent; carrying Mini Tex around for nine months rendered me the opposite of that.
At nine months pregnant, I thought I couldn’t love Tex any more than I already did. Then I went into labor, and the only time he left my side was when I went into the women’s washroom. Labor is a lot like running a marathon only better because they give you a baby at the end rather than some bling and a bagel.
Mini Tex was our marathon, and my husband was my coach who spurred me onward even when I was tired and couldn’t see the end. While I suspected that he could be patient and caring even under duress and fear, he shone brighter than I expected during those long twenty eight hours.
People don’t really talk about it, but breast feeding hurts. Like a lot. Possibly more than the actual birthing process if one were to add up the time and pain and lump it all together into one horrible day of bloody, painful nipples and engorged breasts. Again Tex showed his devotion to both me and his newborn son by placing boiling hot compresses on my giant, painful mammaries multiple evenings in a row. Watching the steam rise from the cloths, I worried for his hands (No amount of heat would ever be enough to hurt boobs with blocked ducts). “Unwashed, I was a blacksmith” he reminded me, replacing the lukewarm cloth with a hot one. I’m sure that devotion was there all along but during those early week when Mini Tex and I were still figuring out how to breastfeed, it wrapped itself around us like a comforting blanket.
I’ve learned to love my husband as a father. Coming from a farm, where from an early age, boys learn how to take care of not just animals but plants and the land, I had high expectations of Tex as a parent. Seeing our little boy listen with all his might to his Dad’s voice as he plays with him and tells nonsensical stories has given me another way to love this man. So for all of these reasons and for all of the ones we will discover together in the future, Happy Valentine’s Day Tex. I’m very glad I said vows with you on Lightninghill last August. It was one of the best decisions I’ve made in my life.
*Please note, I didn’t actually name my newborn “Mini Tex”, I feel his life will be embarrassing enough with me as his Mom.
I love my wife. She’s cute, fun, and travel-size. That said, life with her requires some…adaptations.
At first pregnancy didn’t seem to bring much in the way of additional changes. Weeks went by, and Unwashed still looked and smelled like herself. She did seem to reluctantly shower more often and grumble about oily skin, but for the longest time she wasn’t sick. In fact, this lead to one confounding conversation at 4 am:
Unwashed, suddenly sitting bolt upright in bed: “Oh, no!”
Tex, concerned: “What is it?”
Unwashed: “I haven’t had any morning sickness yet, none at all!”
Tex, confused: “Um…”
Unwashed, beginning to sob: “There’s an association of morning sickness and higher IQ in children!”
Tex, consolingly: “It’s OK, I’m sure –“
Unwashed, wailing: “No it isn’t, I’m having a dumb baby!”
She began eating those words within the next two weeks, as the history of severe morning sickness that she inherited from her mother finally caught up with her.
It wasn’t long after that that I didn’t seem to see Unwashed much. I wasn’t away, it was that she seemed to sleep the entire day. When she wasn’t asleep, she was complaining about how ravenously hungry she was. Or turning green and running away quickly. Old friends like garlic were suddenly no longer welcome. Worse, she had prepared and frozen many meals worth of lamb stew, which we had both found delicious. Then one day when I heated some up, I discovered that neither it nor I was welcome anymore.
The loaded question “Can you believe how LARGE I am?” began being thrown around. I assured her that she was not changing. She complained that clothes weren’t fitting. I apologized for leaving them too long in the dryer. She was worried her parka wouldn’t fit. I bought her a zip-in expander and carefully explained that it wasn’t for her, it was for the baby. This explanation was reused as necessary. Damn, I’m smooth.
Changes in Unwashed’s abilities preceded her understanding of her new limitations. Hiking ten miles in a day used to be routine. Nearly four months in, stopping after three miles was met with furious resistance on the trail and then exhausted acceptance ten minutes later in the car. More recently, half that distance is a challenge to cover at “top waddle”. Her fighting spirit is undampened, however, and with two weeks to go we are still hiking – at top waddle – and even skating, with the assistance of a walking frame,
as today was a beautiful day for skating here in the frozen North. Unwashed has needed a lot of help with little things later in the pregnancy. Changes in balance meant needing a spotter to climb onto a chair. Not being able to bend over meant needing help to tie her shoes.
If I have learned one thing about pregnancy, it seems they are constantly waking up uncomfortable. Needing the washroom frequently. Nausea. Heartburn. Muscle pains. Too hot. Not enough pillows.
This isn’t all that bad. I’ve become an expert at troubleshooting, quickly able to respond with my arsenal of remedies and massages. Where it becomes frustrating are the times when Unwashed wakes up, kicking the bed and groaning as if she has a hernia and loudly declares “I don’t feel well!”
Tex: “What’s wrong?”
Unwashed: “I – don’t – know!”
Tex: “Are your muscles sore? Did you take magnesium?”
Unwashed: “I took it, it’s not that.”
Tex: “Well then what’s wrong?”
Unwashed: “I don’t know, I have gout!”
This led to me coining the phrase “gestational gout” to refer to her inexplicable grumbles. Having now attended prenatal classes, I have a new theory: this is a baby-cry simulator, where the man has no idea what is wrong and must attempt to soothe his partner without her being able to tell him exactly what is wrong. Women instinctively do this in order to train their mate to effectively care for their offspring. This I call “gestational colic” and hope it is no indication of how much our baby will cry.
Since Tex and I moved in together and got married, there’s been a period of adjustment. For example, previously, I considered soup to be the most important meal of the day, so I ate it every day, sometimes twice. By contrast, Tex is a real man, who considers beer a breakfast food and soup a dish that comes before a meal. After a discussion, it was decided that I would cook food that was not soup occasionally because according to Tex “There’s a reason they call it supine- you eat too much soup, you go tits up”.
My love of hot liquids extends to beverages as well. My extensive tea collection recently came out of storage, since then Tex has had some fun trying all of my teas, although he isn’t always enthusiastic about every flavour.
Tex- ~pulling out a tea bag from the tea chest~ “Purple calming chakra tea? Made with dragon fruit and the hibiscus flower, to soothe energies? What is this? I feel like if I drink it, my underarm hair might spontaneously braid itself.”
On the topic of body hair, I’m thirty-six weeks pregnant, which is to say I’m like Gaston from “Beauty and the Beast” but not in the sweaty, athletic, “watch me lift this tree trunk over my head” kind of way, more in the massive “will you please help me untie my boots” kind of way. This past week, I sadly informed Tex that I was now too big to shave my legs, because I could no longer easily bend to reach them. “That’s ok Unwashed,” said Tex curling me into a hug, “Why do you think I don’t shave my asshole?”
As I’ve said before, Tex is a manly man, who enjoys beer drinking, riding horses and knife making. He’s introduced me to his passions, hence how I spent Thanksgiving helping with a cattle drive. By the same token, I’ve introduced him to mine. We recently took in a production of the Russian Ballet’s “The Nutcracker” together. While walking back to the car, I hopefully asked Tex what he thought about the dance, thinking that perhaps if he enjoyed it, I might take him to see more ballets. “It was like Christmas on acid:” he replied shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it, “giant mice, some weird guy jumping around waving a stick and toys that come alive.”
I’m still not sure whether that was a critique or an endorsement of “The Nutcracker”.
Regardless of what Tex says, I know that behind his words are warmth and humour. Just after we got married this past summer, we were lazing about in our apartment and I turned to Tex and asked “How could your life be better?” He looked at me and drawled “Well I could have two penises” then winked, which was his way of saying “What a silly question, can’t you see how awesome my life is? I have a wife who is five months pregnant with my son, what more could a person want?”
Nothing has happened yet. However this still counts as week 1. It’s a little baffling, but treat it like the FREE space on a BINGO card- say thank you and don’t ask questions because it’s going to get a lot more memorable real fast.
You ovulate this week, you also go on a trip to see a friend and drink two and a half glasses of wine. You will feel guilty about this indulgence, possibly forever. You also walk twenty kilometers while sight-seeing with said friend. Just like the booze, get ready to kiss all of that activity goodbye.
Again, kind of like week one, take it as a gift.
Hurrah! You are late. But a pregnancy test reveals that you are NOT pregnant. You sulk by having a glass of wine with a friend. You thought you felt guilty about the other glasses of alcohol? This one will haunt you for at least a year.
Your spouse claims that you have been more moody and unpredictable of late and points out that the Party Crasher has still not arrived. You respond by stating that your behavior has been perfectly reasonable and to emphasize your point, punt the kitchen strainer across the apartment. He offers to take you out for ice cream, you accept graciously by gnawing on his arm. The pregnancy test that you pick up on the way home is positive. You apologize to the kitchen strainer for kicking it.
There is no recollection of this week- you are asleep.
See above. Although your partner claims that during this week, you woke him up in the middle of the night, completely hysterical because you hadn’t thrown up yet and you heard somewhere possibly from the Howard Stern show, possibly from your mother that nausea is associated with smarter babies. Regardless, it was an extremely reliable resource and you were inconsolable.
On Sunday, you decide to change up your worship habits, instead of praying, you puke in Jesus’ garden, but it’s ok, the Lord appreciates all of our gifts. You’d feel mortified about your actions if you hadn’t of fallen asleep five minutes afterwards. Your spouse for some reason is relieved.
Special Discovery: You read the “What happens to your lady parts” section of the pregnancy book. It’s like the first twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan but for genitals. You spend the next week cheering up your WooHoo to assure it of its continued role in your life; “Vagina no matter what happens after the baby and I split; I will still love you.” Luckily vaginas can’t read so it has no idea what’s in store for it, which is probably a good thing.
The exhaustion continues. At work, during lunch while you are quietly eating your sandwich and trying not to fall asleep mid-bite, Sheila from accounting asks “Wow, do you feel as tired as you look?”
I hate you
Stay tuned for weeks 11 to 40. Spoiler alert! There is a lot more vomit in your future.
You are invited to attend the wild rumpus which celebrates the wedding of Unwashed and Tex, who were married on August 10th 2015 on Lightninghill despite the curse and the First Nations people’s refusal to visit said place. A GIANT storm occurred right after the ceremony so it’s possible everyone invited will be hexed for rejoicing about the aforementioned union.
The celebration will be held at the Legion Hall in Backwater Boomtown on Saturday September 5th 2015. The dress code is casual to naked as indicated by the front of this card. Cocktails 5pm, dinner 6:30, possible thunderstorm to follow. Please leave large metal sticks, umbrellas and over-sized antennas at home.
RSVP firstname.lastname@example.org or by carrier pigeon.
Much warmth and a potential old voodoo spell,
The Great Unwashed
For the record, had I known about the superstition surrounding Lightninghill, I might not have been so eager to get married there. As it was, Tex’s brother decided to tell everyone AFTER the ceremony that we might be cursed. That night, I sat ramrod straight in bed while the most violent thunderstorm I have ever experience all but rocked the farm house off its foundation. Tex had left the room to close the basement windows so I was left all alone to clutch my knees and apologize to whatever force it was that I had angered for getting married on Lightninghill while being convinced that I was going to die by a random outpouring of electrons finding the quickest path to earth.
My sister-in-law kindly pointed out that being the tallest place in the area, historically it likely incurred the most lightning strikes, (thus the name) and it takes only a couple of dead people to start a rumour.