I woke up on Sunday morning and casually asked Husbandrinka how would he kill me if he were so inclined and he had a really unfortunate reaction that included saying things like “is this a trick question” and “there’s no way that I’m answering THAT”.
What’s with all the secrecy?
Look–we get up every morning and go through our routine, go to work, come back, take care of the kids, do various household chores, attend to television watching responsibilities, and we’re sort of living parallel lives and all that. I thought that the weekend would be the perfect time to reconnect.
He refused. Flat out refused.
Clearly it’s not because he’s never considered it. I’m not that big of a fool. Which led me to conclude that he didn’t want to tell me because it would tip me off as to what to expect. Which is super unfriendly and not a nice way to treat the mother of most of your children.
And although I was going to let it go and just blog my pain, he had the nerve to bring it up as we drove out to the lake. (I know that you think that I’m using the foreshadowing device where he drowns me, but that didn’t happen. I’m not literary-devicy like that. What’s that clap of thunder?)
“Why would you ask such a thing?” he accused me, stabbing me optically.
“Because I was curious,” I demurred.
“Who talks about murder first thing in the morning?” he poisoned my mood.
“It wasn’t first thing. First thing, I had to get the cat out of our room because she was walking on my hair,” I genuflected.
“Still, I think it’s odd,” he strangled my hopes of a peaceful drive.
“It’s not a big deal. It’s obviously hypothetical,” I begged.
“It’s not a normal thing to ask your husband,” he shot.
I don’t understand how I am supposed to live with that kind of hostility.
One year ago ...
- Toothbrush - 2013