Bad Wife, Bad!

Bad Wife, Bad!

I think I just ate an entire Pepperidge Farm package of Snickerdoodles in a 24 hour period. It’s what Ralph wanted! For the record, Ralph is not my husband.

It’s been one of those weeks. I blame the crowd at the City Museum (and my faulty immune system) for a stomach bug that has encouraged me to be a bad wife. I call him Ralph. He has kept me company while I did things that I know were stupid and bad for my marriage.

It started with about 3 days of ginger ale, saltines, and watching television in the fetal position. I watched a lot of Animal Cops on Animal Planet. I see one damn abused, starved, and diseased animal on there and then I’m hooked on yet another episode before I can change the channel. I have to watch to see the animal’s recovery and placement in a loving home. Regardless of whether that happens (sometimes it doesn’t), I end up with some emotionally debilitating mental disease for the rest of the day. The heartwarming aspects of those shows are nothing compared to the psychotic break I have watching them. You can therefore imagine how much fun I am to be around after an afternoon of sobbing so hard that I cannot breathe out of my nose. Not only am I moody, I’m a mouth breather. It’s comparable to someone snoring while awake. Loudly, loudly snoring.

It is no wonder my husband has retreated to his online computer game this week. He’s also been lucky enough to play a lot of softball. I say lucky because a heat index of 110 doesn’t hang around at home all day feeling crappy and then lay in wait for you to come through the door. Softball also allows him to stay out late in a guy zone. I get that. I mean, I don’t get the whole spit and scratch yourself aspects, but I get that he needs to have guy time (or wife-less time).

Ralph also happened to be soothed by QVC. Not good. I now have stuff coming that is supposed to make my hair magically thicker and all my bumpy parts less bumpy. The only battle I won against Ralph was not ordering myself a birthday cake. I cannot pay 30 bucks for a cake. For a couple clearance poinsettia garlands, sure. But not a cake. I mean, come on. 12 bucks for shipping and handling? Do you know how many boxes of Betty Crocker mixes I could get with that? And I always have coupons for box mixes, so just double that original number. I could bake so much cake that I could crumble it, throw it in the tub, and bathe in it.

Now that's a birthday! It's almost sexy until you remember it's cake. You know, the cause of all my bumpy parts.

Plus, I stand by the festive purchases. Those garlands were made for me because those flowers in those colors are a main theme in my living room in December – they were meant to be mine! MEANT TO BE MINE!

I guess I did also refrain from buying a “bubble tree” (but not by much). I have wanted a bubble tree ever since I first saw them a couple years ago. It’s a Christmas tree with a big old clear, water-filled tube as the trunk. Turn it on and there’s a bunch of bubbles and a light show that go on in that tube. The tree comes in a host of crazy colors. If we ever win the lotto, I am having me some bubble trees. Ralph may be sneaky, but he can’t quite trick the cheap out of me. Bubble trees, not the least expensive things in the world.

This week I said things like “I was productive today because I ran the dishwasher” and “For supper, I made you this turkey sandwich”. I also had a mini-breakdown because I was supposed to get the first season 2 disc of True Blood from Netflix. I was sure our mail person, who cannot figure out that 1231 is different than 1321, gave my disc to someone else. That meant, to me, that I would be getting discs 2 and 3 and never see disc 1… How would I know what was happening? I CANNOT watch episodes out of order. That is a sickness unrelated to Ralph. I lost my mind. I ended up getting all 3 discs the next day but the buildup was something to behold.

So in the end, the hubby and I were very content to do our own thing this week. I don’t know what is worse – my addiction to shopping or my rollercoaster ride of heinousness. The scales kind of even out there, I think. Hopefully, with all the guilt piled on me from Oprah’s debt diet (well timed, Ms. Winfrey, well timed) and with the fresh memory of how destructive reality pet-related television is to my soul, we can go into the weekend spending time together and finding a way to get back some of the things that Ralph has taken from me. Like laughter, an ability to say no to Today’s Special Value, and an accurate perception of time (it is summer so stop it with the Christmas already). Beep. Beep. Beep. That’s the sound of my truck backing out of Crazytown.

Or the sound of the Ups Man bringing me my packages. Either way, I’m cooking supper tonight, wearing a different outfit than yesterday, and the curtains in the house are all open. Bad wife is at the very least back to being a happy wife.