I planned on blowing Mr. D tonight. I’m not sure when I came to that decision, but it might have been after the kids and I walked through the door and he announced dinner was almost ready. Or maybe it was the way the floors and kitchen counters sparkled. I told him tonight that I wish I made enough money for him to be the “house spouse” because he does this stuff so much better than me. He’s the better parent, too. More patient, more rational. (I think we’re equally loving.)
Mr. D is a great guy. I don’t say it enough, especially on this blog. We had gotten in a fight a few weeks back, and shortly after we made up, we ended up going to my parents’ house to drop the kids off for a sleepover. A close family friend was also there and mentioned to me that even her grandson speaks highly of Mr. D. “He’s a great guy!” I said. “I got mad at him for a kinda dumb reason, and he’s been putting up with my bullshit since Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?? He’s been putting up with it for years!”
I loved that line. It’s funny cuz it’s true. (I’m trying to find the Family Guy clip of “It’s funny cuz it’s true” but can’t seem to locate the right one; anyway, I imagine my husband will appreciate the reference). I love my husband. He said his ears were ringing tonight, and I hope they get better. I hope my husband doesn’t have an inner ear infection.
I love that we love the same shows (most of the time). I love his sense of humor (except when he plays dark and twisted”Cards Against Humanity” cards, which, to his credit, he only does if it’s the funniest option; so I guess I love the lengths he’ll go to for comedy, even if it’s not my particular brand of it).
Once again, I’m high and feeling some type way on Karva Chauth. (For those not in the know, Karva Chauth is the fast that Hindu wives observe on the fourth day of the waning moon for the health and well-being of their husbands. I fasted for Mr. D last year, but then we got into a massive fight, and I took a sip of water before spotting the moon through a colander, and then he threw his jar of dried fruit on the ground, and then we screamed at each other in the middle of our old neighborhood. Ah, memories!)
Anyway, there’s also a chance I turned into a witch earlier this year (I have this theory that a woman becomes a witch on her 33rd birthday because why not), and as a maybe-witch, I figured it might be an auspicious time to do it again–the right way–and so I did. I drank a ton of water at 4am, ate an apple at 6, and brushed my teeth at 7:30 (the sun may have technically been out, but it was cloudy). I’ve been without food and water since then, and it’s now 9:45 at night.
I’m not a woman who watches football for fun. I mostly just watch when I’m high, and then start thinking of other things—of gods and men and war, how games are like modern-day battles, with athleticism, grit, fervor and pain all on glorious display, like Grecian epics (or tragedies, like in the case of last night’s Buccaneer’s kicker, who couldn’t make the field goals that would have altered the entire trajectory of the game).
In my slightly stoned state, I began comparing the rampant concussions in the NFL to ancient fighting pits, pitting warrior against warrior in front of crowds of blood-thirsty fans, hungry for victory but hungrier still for their enemy’s defeat. It’s such a guy thing, I thought. War. Sports. I can only seem to get into the game when I imagine it to be something else, when I ascribe some meaning that may or may not exist. But then again, how could there not be meaning to such a large and lucrative pastime? It means something when its players take a stand against injustice, when they use their time in the spotlight to illuminate issues that are bigger, that go beyond.