Last weekend Mike and I celebrated our anniversary. Right before we left for dinner I realized one of my beloved dogs was acting like she did not feel well. When we returned home, my precious little Maggie was obviously feeling worse. She had not touched her little treat or pooped on the floor while we were gone. Clearly, this was serious. Not sensing the gravity of the situation, Mike told me to chill out and just take her to the vet on Monday.
I reluctantly climbed in bed, too stressed out to even think about having sex and laid there restlessly tossing and turning until Mike said “Fine, take the goddamn dog to the emergency room.” I bolted up and threw on some clothes. Mike quipped in a pissy tone “If this is going to cost me more than 2 grand, tell them to put her down.” Whatever. This is exactly what he said right before I forced him to buy new hips for the Yorkie puppy I picked out 2 years prior.
Weeeeeell, as it turns out Maggie was not in real danger of dying after all. She simply needed her anal glands emptied and an antibiotic for a bladder infection that she probably got from some nasty dog whore on the block. I got home really late, climbed back in bed and whispered that it was a “good thing we paid the extra money for an emergency vet visit because apparently full anal glands can be extraordinarily uncomfortable.” Mike mumbled something that sounded like “Thank God for my wife” or “I hate my life” and went back to sleep. As I lay there stroking my dog’s head and wondering what an anal glad looked like, I remembered 2 of the funniest fights Mike and I had ever been in...
Fight #1: Bloated Chicken
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Once upon a time I used to drive an adorable, sexy, bright red Audi A4. One hot summer day when I was very pregnant, I went to the grocery store. I decided to buy a chicken to cook for Mike. I don’t eat meat. Something about consuming decaying flesh bothers me but Mike thinks dead animals are delicious and his happiness is extremely important to me. I got home from the store, unloaded the car and realized they had forgotten to put the chicken back in my cart. I cursed the dumb fuck that bagged my groceries, started pregnant crying and promptly forgot all about it.
A week later something started to smell in the garage. I made Mike clean out all the trash cans. The smell worsened. I made Mike call an exterminator. It became putrid. I made Mike clean out the entire garage. It was ghastly. I made Mike go in the garage and pull my car out when I had to go somewhere. It was revolting. The interior of my car started to stink. I was beyond furious. I called and made arrangements to trade my car in. I demanded Mike clean out the garage again. The persistent, wretched, nauseating, knee-weakening odor lingered. I contemplated moving out.
In preparation for my new automobile, I removed everything from my contaminated car. Annnnnnnd, that is when I discovered the source of my insoluble angst for the past month: a grisly, bloated, rotting chicken carcass hiding behind my yoga mat in the trunk. Oops. I sheepishly looked over at Mike and started backing up slowly, pointing to my gigantic stomach carrying his spawn.
Without saying a word, Mike walked over to my car, took out the chicken, threw it in the garbage can, walked back in the house, came back outside a few minutes later and calmly put everything away in the garage. Based on Mike’s reaction, I decided not to reveal this silly, willy, itty, bitty tidbit of information to the car salesman when he came to deliver my new car the next day. I squirmed uncomfortably as he scrunched up his nose and rolled down the windows when he climbed in my Audi to return it to the dealership despite the forty air fresheners I had hidden under the seats and in the trunk. God, men can be sooooooooo f’ing dramatic.
Fight #2: Accidental Reunion
A few years ago, Mike and I were driving to my Grandmother’s annual Christmas party. The weather was terrible, the roads were icy and we had our 2 little babies with us. We were just about ready to turn around and go home when a car merging onto the highway slid on the ice and smashed into the side of ours. This is not the funny part.
Fortunately no one was hurt however, our cars needed to be towed and my stepdad arrived to take us home. As I climbed out of our car and waded through a snow bank on the side of the highway I heard someone yell “ERIN?!” over the roaring traffic. I looked over at the car that had just hit us and said “JOSH?!” Of ALL the cars on the highway, I happened to know the guy that hit us! In fact, I used to date him before he dumped me for my sister! O.M.G.
NEW ECHO DOT
Josh got out of his car and we hugged excitedly. Eeeeeeeeeee! It had been like forever! Even the police officer started to laugh. Unfortunately, Mike did not seem to think this was as amusing as we did. He just looked at me in disbelief and asked if I “had dated every guy in Colorado?” and “Could we could play catch up when we are not standing alongside a major interstate?” I just rolled my eyes at Hyper and told Josh it was soooo nice to run into him like this! How funny is that??? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
*Admittedly, Mike deserves an exorbitant amount of credit for being the coolest, sexiest, most generous, understanding, adoring husband on the planet. And even though the sound of my voice is grating to him sometimes, fair enough, all the time, he remains entirely committed to our children and me. Not to mention, after 7 years of marriage, I still think he is HYSTERICAL and totally LOVE seeing him naked. XO
I am a writer, parent, and generally loose in the world. Yes, I meant what I said. Whatever. I handled it.
