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Category: Partner in Crime

I Should’ve Written This Instead

Why do we so often measure the quality of people by what they do for us? David’s birthday was yesterday, and when I was thinking of what to write in his card, so many of the adjectives that came to mind were ones that described how he interacts with me, or people close to me. He’s selfless, I thought, which is true: that man would give up his left arm (he’s right-handed, so…) for me if I needed it, and every single day he does something that requires him to step aside in order to make room for me. I am embarrassed to write that–what does it make you think of me?–but it’s true. The only thing he won’t do is go with me to see Morrissey in concert this summer, but I think even the best men in the world would draw the line there. So I sat there, pen in hand, thinking…about me. Dave’s an absolutely patient person, too, which is nice, since I’m, to say the least, not. He slows me down. Makes me see…

With Apologies to Clement C. Moore

‘Twas the night before the inspection, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring–that better not be a mouse. The linens were folded, tucked in closets with care, In desperation because the buyer soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of their own rooms danced in their heads. And Dave in his sweatshirt, and I in my cap, Were just freaking out that our house wouldn’t pass. When down in the bathroom there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter. Away to the toilet I flew like a flash, Tore open the door and cursed with some sass. The water on the floor of the half-bath–oh, no! Gave the lustre of mid-day as it spilled all below When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a flood that came pouring out up to our ears. With a little old yelp, so helpless and quick, I knew in a moment we were in some deep s—. More rapid than eagles the old towels they came, And we mopped it, and shouted, and…

It Was a Date, at Night

David and I went out the other night on what many of us crotchety, weather-beaten, tired, thirty-something-with-kids types like to call “date night.” I refuse to call it a date night, because no matter how I look in this avocado-smeared t-shirt, I’m cool, man. And even though David and I only go out with each other alone, at night, without children, maybe once every four months, the old-fart couple label is not us, man. We’ll never be like that. (Give me a sec. I gotta go run this diaper bag out to my minivan…) Flash back to a Friday night, 7:15 p.m., in the precious few moments after bedtime and before Cian figured out that we were still home and woke from his tentative slumber to holler for somebody to love him, already. I was in the bathroom, using the curling iron and mumbling about how no wonder I never do this anymore because it takes so much damn time. David was ironing his clothes in the bedroom next to me, and as we talked through the open door, I couldn’t help…