It was an under-the-weather type of weekend. Complete with headaches, sore throats, bitching, and rain. Oh! And foot-stamping! I stamped my feet. I stamped! My feet! As does a bratty housewife whislt demanding an increase in her feathered headband allowance from her ever so patient and hard-working husband. I should be so much more humiliated than I am.
So yesterday my husband (who is both hard working and endlessly patient) puts my whiny ass down for a nap like the ill-mannered child that I am. But first he asks me what I'd like to eat.
"Nothing," I whimper, helplessly. "Unless we have white pasta with some sort of cream sauce. Or donuts."
Minutes later he comes back carrying a plate of cinnamon toast.
"Oh, honey," I croak. "That's lovely!" "Are we out of donuts?"
So for the rest of the day, I pepper our conversations with such gems as these:
"These frozen Chimichangas are pretty good, but they taste nothing like donuts."
"Hey, Rob? What happened to those donuts we had? You say they're still at the store? Hmm..."
"Will you pass me that donut? Oh, that's a remote? That's cool. I need that, too."
At the stroke of 10:30, a clang rings out as I strike the bottom of Rob's barrel of good will. He puts on some jeans and I put on my most fetching drive-thru ensemble: fleece snowflake hammer pants pajamas, black wool socks, plaid moccasins, and a gray pea coat. Fun fact...I'm wearing this outfit with the full intention of getting out of the car and entering a place of business. Rob is the only one with enough wits about him to know how shameful that is. He will not, under any circumstances, allow me out of the car.
Half an hour later, we're back on the futon watching Hot Fuzz, me gripping a bottle of chocolate milk and clutching half a dozen Krispy Kremes to my chest like I'm hiding them from the Gestapo. My husband next to me, shaking his head with what I can only assume is a mind-boggling sense of adoration mixed with physical attraction.