I'm pissed off so if you're all sunshine and hearts right now then shoo, go read this.
Why would I be pissed off on a Friday, you wonder? Or maybe you aren't wondering—maybe you already left and I'm talking to myself at this point. If that's the case fine, I don't need you, I don't need anyone. (Do you know I actually said that to someone once? I was drunk and on a date and it wasn't even appropriate, I just wanted to say it for dramatic effect. We had just had sex on a picnic table near the Family Dollar. Yah, that's right, I had sex on a date and it wasn't in a bed. Now you know that Mrs. Mullet is also Miss McSlultlet. Ooooh).
Anyway. Life is starting to feel like Groundhog Day and it's all my husband's fault. Every morning—and I mean every—begins with this: "What time is it?"
For fuck's sake, the man needs to get an alarm clock that affixes to his forehead. I'm sorry his vision is 5/-25000, but that's not my fault. It's the fault of his hunting and gathering ancestors. When they were stalking lions and picking berries and they couldn't tell a boulder from a bush, they should have been eaten or poked in the eye by a branch instead. Then his wretched eyeball genes would have died.
Though shit, that means he wouldn't be here. And we wouldn't have our kid.
Ok, fine, scratch all that. My point is this: If he asks me one more time upon waking "What time is it?" I am going to perform lasik surgery on him myself with some gin and a wire whisk. Can't he at least make it the second thing he asks me in the morning? What's wrong with yawning and scratching and "Hey, how did you sleep, honey?" or "Would you like breakfast in bed?" and then "What time is it?"
Or what about yawning and hugging and then "Would you like breakfast in bed?" and then scratching and then "Should I buff or shine your shoes?" and then "What time is it?" Switch it up a little. Give me some variety before I douse myself in lighter fluid and jump off the roof in a ball of bright orange flames.
Doesn't someone write scripts for this type of thing? No? Fine, I'll do it then. I will write the "How to find out what time it is when you can't see the clock but you don't want to drive your wife crazy with the repetition of your question" manual.
And I'll do it myself because…
Wait for it…
Just one more second…
I don't need you, I don't need anyone!
(Do you feel gypped because I said that even though we haven't screwed under the fluorescent lights of the Family Dollar? Don't. When she was in her late teens, Miss McSlultlet was also Miss McGetitoverwithalready).
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.