Before I write this post about how exhausted I am and how my fatigue has nothing to do with the fact that I am the proud owner of a teething baby who has decided that 5:15 am is the best time to begin his day of inconsolable wretchedness, let me say this: I've had to endure a lot because of my husband's friends.
At the top of the list is Chuck's best friend, aka Dickhead. Remember his special gift to me and Chuck on our European vacation? Yah, I do too.
Then there was Chuck's friend Stiffy. (Aren't male nicknames great? I wish chicks embraced nicknames with the same off-color gusto as men. Why don't I have any friends who go by Fishy? Or Headlight?)
When Chuck and I were first dating, I went to a Phish concert with him, Stiffy and few other of the morons. The concert was held on an airline base in Maine. I was the only female on board, and I hated Phish.
If I could have sold my body for a ride home I would have. Sadly, none of the hippies wanted sex, they only wanted acid.
Because we were on an airline base there were no trees for shade. That meant lots of stinky people hanging out under tarps, which were engulfed in clouds of pot smoke. It also meant that the boys I was encamped with needed sunscreen applied to their backs and because they were such antiquated, backass fucks, they assumed I, the one with tits, would happily do it.
(Also, they were such homophobes they couldn't touch each other without accusing each other of liking it, wanting it, being gay, etc. Sigh.)
I would only do it once and I said as much. The first two morons weren't so bad but when I looked at Stiffy's back I almost vomited. It was sweaty and smattered with pimples; not just of one species but with a plethora—a diverse garden, some might say—of acne.
I took the top off the sunscreen bottle, closed my eyes and shook the contents onto Stiffy's back. Then, using my palm I smeared some of the globs in. Sunscreen ran down his back and legs. I didn't care.
I quickly shotgunned a beer, curled myself into a ball and rocked away the memory of what I had just done.
I rocked for three days; it was still better than having to listen to Phish.
How my relationship with Chuck has survived all these years of offenses is a mystery to me, especially when his dickwad friends are the gift that keeps giving.
Take last night (aka the reason for this post). Chuck's old-time buddy Eric stopped in on his way to New Jersey and decided to spend the night. He hadn't showered in a few days but despite my insistence he enjoy a shower before bed—
"No, it's okay..."
—he told me he was a morning shower person.
(I apologized to my clean sheets as I made up the couch. You think I'm kidding.)
Around 2 a.m. the house started to shake. Junior was suddenly in our bedroom complaining of a bear downstairs. Even Chuck, who sleeps through everything—how convenient—was suddenly awake.
Fricken Eric. Fricken snoring. Thunderous, meaty, throaty snoring.
"We need more fans!" I cried. Despite Chuck's fan phobia because of my family's fan obsession, he agreed.
"But where?" he asked.
"In the basement! Box fans! A tub of fans! Grab them all!"
He looked at me like someone might look at a recovered crackhead who has just disclosed her secret stash, but he went and fetched the tub.
And the box fans.
And you know what? Even with all that glorious whirring, that bastard's snoring still kept me up all night. I'm cranky, my living room stinks, Diddly was up at 5 am and has been a drooling mess all day...
And I'm still—still!—bitter about Stiffy.
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.