I’m considering the possibility that I have outgrown myself. (I have for sure outgrown my skinny jeans.) Perhaps my husband needs to send me in for a Stepford Wife tune up. I’m sure, if he were here, he would agree that I have been acting up.
One of my favorite movies is Thelma and Louise. I seriously love this movie and particularly identify with the character Thelma. My husband is nothing like Darryl and my life is certainly better than Thelma’s life, but I do love me some Thelma. My favorite Thelma quote is: “I don’t know, you know, something’s, like, crossed over in me and I can’t go back.” This, my friends, is exactly how I feel since I have begun to write. It is as if, a faucet has been turned on and the words cannot stop pouring out. The flood is making my husband very nervous.
Sunday morning, while Joe Scarborough was appearing on Meet The Press, I spoke to him. I explained to Joe that I viewed his ideas about rejuvenating the Republican Party as very dangerous. (My God, can you imagine what will happen if the GOP listens to him and drops social issues from its platform? Very, very dangerous.) I suggested to him that he should stick with his day job on Morning Joe and stop with the Last Best Hope book tour. Hope belongs to Obama (it’s almost like he wasn’t paying attention during the election—sheesh, can’t he remember he’s a Country First guy?)
My husband happened to view this exchange (okay, okay, I know it wasn’t exactly an “exchange” since Joe couldn’t hear me, that’s beside the point). My husband had the nerve to suggest that if I was looking for a program that expected me to talk back to it, I should check out Nickelodeon because he was fairly certain the most recent Dora the Explorer episode was on. He thought that was pretty freaking funny until I responded, “Whatever, Asshat.” That illicited a very blank stare, most likely caused by the fact that he doesn’t know what an “asshat” is. (See Urban Dictionary.)
The pastor at our church does an annual “FAQ” sermon where the congregation writes questions on pieces of paper or texts their questions to the associate pastor who then passes the questions on to be addressed during the service. My husband works the audio/visual equipment during our worship services, so I sit alone. After the service was over my husband asked “Why didn’t you text in a question?” He obviously did not hear any questions during the service that he thought came from me. (I do have a particular style, you know.) I said, “I did. My question apparently didn’t make the cut.” At this point, my husband narrowed his eyes at me and said, “What DID YOU SAY?” (Really. Isn’t it at least possible that my question was a duplicate or something? Okay, guess not.) I said, “I asked if our church believed President Obama was the anti-Christ and if not, why not?” (Okay, seriously I have heard this more than once and I thought this was the perfect opportunity to get this all cleared up from an authority on the topic.)
I thought my husband was going to choke to death on his hamburger. Once he realized I was serious, he decided it would be a good idea for me to text an apology. I informed him that “Noooooo, I am not going to apologize and furthermore, I am bored to death of the same old lame questions that get asked every year.” (Questions like ‘How old is God?’ Really, who cares how old God is? If there’s a God, he’s ageless dumbass! Okay, that might be a little harsh since that question came from a six year old, but you get the idea.)
We’ve apparently decided to never speak of this incident again.
If you don’t hear from me for awhile, please check the Stepford Asylum for Wayward Wives and make sure they are coloring my hair and shaving my legs during my treatment.