Snapped Marathons

Back when we had time to spend full weekends on t.v. marathons (pre-kids), the hubs and I had an unhealthy addiction to Snapped.

 

Although we had a problem with the title (One or both of us had been known to shout “That bitch didn’t snap…she’s just a greedy slut!” at the t.v. during a particularly juicy episode), it didn’t stop us from watching whenever we got a chance.  Or whenever my favorite priest texted me to say, “Snapped marathon on RIGHT NOW!  Turn to Oxygen!”  (Did you expect any less, my peeps?  He is my favorite priest, after all.  He justifies our friendship by giving me that old line that even Jesus hung out with prostitutes…which I told him seems to work well, as long as he changes “prostitutes” to “skanks” in order to better suit me.  I never got paid for my work.)

 

The hubs and I had to make a rule back in our Snapped days:  No notebooks and pens during Snapped. It started one day back when I had an idea (totally separate from anything I’d seen on Snapped, I swear), and kept whipping out my little Harriet the Spy notepad and taking notes during one episode.  I guess I shouldn’t have tried to eff with the hubs by adding, in really big letters, things like “ZIP TIES,” and “DUCT TAPE.” 

 

“What the hell are you writing?” the hubs asked, shooting me nervous glances whenever he could stand to tear his eyes from the current episode.

 

“Hubs, I’m a writer,” I replied all exaggeratedly, sighing for the sake of my art.  “I’m working on a piece with substance—"

 

I really was attempting to, but of course that didn’t fly, and we both started laughing almost as soon as the words made their way out of my mouth.  I don’t write “pieces with substance,” my peeps.  I write shit that makes my dad and me laugh—especially when it’s about my younger sister not knowing words.  (But she’s only, like, 30.  She’s got plenty of time to learn to read.  Plenty of time.)

 

Our Snapped addiction had gotten so huge at one point that it started to affect my husband’s normally very rational thinking.  One day, an envelope came in the mail addressed to him.  I hardly glanced at it as I passed it over to him before heading into the bedroom to change out of my work clothes.

 

When I walked out of the bedroom, however, and went to ask him what he wanted for dinner (botulism, anyone?), I saw him look up guiltily as he hurriedly stuffed the envelope I’d just handed him under a couch cushion.  (Like I didn’t look there every single day for spare change to support my recreational street drug habit…DUH.)

 

“What the hell are you hiding from me?” I asked him, now all suspicious myself.

 

“Nothing.  Why the hell do you want to know?” he shot back.

 

“Because you’re on all fours, trying to stuff an envelope under the couch.  Obviously you have something to hide.”

 

“What, you don’t trust me now?  You’re living with a man you don’t trust?”

 

“Don’t get all dramatic, diva.  Just hand over the envelope,” I said, trying my best to hide my anxiety as I held out my hand, palm up, in a gesture that looked more confident than it felt.

 

“No!” the hubs said, grabbing the envelope and running through the house, holding it over his head.

 

There were two problems with his tactic.  No, make that three:

1.) At about 6 feet tall, he’s the same height as I am.  Waving the envelope in the air wouldn’t act as a deterrent; it would only make the contents seem even juicier and more desirable.

2.) We lived in a 1,245 square foot house at the time.  He would run into the living room, then bump into me as he ran back into the kitchen.

3.) I was now convinced, due to my frequent viewings of Snapped with the hubs, that what he was holding was, in fact, a hit man contract with my name on it.

 

The chase didn’t last long.  We both gave up after about 60 seconds of hopping back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, with quick forays into the “dining area” of our house, which was basically a 2-foot square just beyond the front door that had no other name.

 

The hubs and I collapsed, breathless on the couch.  “Alright, asshole, the gig is up. What’s in the envelope?”

 

My husband looked sheepish as he explained—but he still didn’t hand over the envelope.  “It’s a life insurance policy.”

 

I was dumbfounded.  “And you were afraid to tell me…why?”

 

The hubs decided it was time to get all defensive since he could tell I was starting to get pissed.  “Well, you watch all those Snappeds all the time, and you’ve got that priest friend…”

 

“You watch the Snappeds with me, and—wait, what about the priest friend?”  We both lost track of the argument momentarily as we giggled about the completely random priest friend comment.  But then I remembered that the hubs was afraid to show me a life insurance policy because he thought I’d want to try to kill him, ala Snapped. How could he even entertain the thought in his Snapped-muddled brain?  Unless… ”Wait a minute, are you thinking about killing me?  Is that why you think that I would want to kill you?”

 

“No!” the hubs replied, adamantly shaking his head.  “No!”

 

I could see the conversation was going nowhere.  “Listen,” I said, my own rational way of thinking taking over again, like it always does (riiiiiiiight), “obviously we don’t trust each other due to Snapped marathons messing with our brains.  I guess what it comes down to is that we’ll both just have to go to sleep hoping for the best each night, right?”

 

The hubs mulled it over, then nodded. “You’re right.  I’ll just have to pray that I get to see the light of day in the morning.”

 

“Me, too,” I said, moving over to hug him. He only slightly flinched, but then, when he realized I didn’t have any antifreeze in my pocket and hadn’t just brewed a fresh batch of “tea,” he softened and returned my hug.

 

“Good talk,” I said, patting him on the back.  “Now, how much is the life insurance policy for?  Just out of curiosity,” I specified after I saw his eyes widen slightly.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” the hubs replied, defeated.  “Like a thousand bucks?”

 

“Holy shit, all that for a thousand bucks?  I’m pretty sure that would only buy us a cedar box and a pack of mourning ciggies, hubs.  No amount of money in the world would make me want to hurt you, but since you don’t believe me, rest assured that not even the bitches of Snapped would kill someone for a thousand bones.”

 

The hubs hugged me a little tighter, obviously pleased with his choice of skanks.  “I love you, Shay,” he said.

 

“Love you, too, hubs.”

 

Why is all of this coming up today, several years of unwatched Snappeds later?  Because just a couple of weeks ago, I happened to look at our recorded shows menu on the DVR.  A long time ago, before we understood that two young kids=no way in hell that we’d have time for a Snapped marathon, we had set it to record first-run episodes of Snapped, and we now had a queue of about 81 shows to watch.  (I mean, come on Snapped ladies, pick up the slack.  Only 81 new episodes??)

 

“Hubs,” I said, a nostalgic twinge in my voice, “do you ever miss those lazy, hungover Saturday afternoons of watching Snapped all day?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know, sometimes,” the hubs, busy making pancakes for the kids, responded.

 

“I love our life so much.  It’s better than I ever could have dreamed.  But sometimes—oh, how I’d love to just have a weekend like that again.  Just watching Snapped all day, snarfing Sonic cheeseburgers and tater tots, dozing in and out…”

 

“Yeah,” the hubs replied, blowing on a pancake to cool it off for our toddler. “Me, too.  But that’ll never happen again.”

 

My head jerked up in his direction. “Why?  Because you’re going to kill me?” It had been years, my peeps.  I thought we’d been over this…

 

“No,” the hubs laughed.  “Because we have kids.  Doing anything all day, eating food, dozing in and out—it will never happen again.”

 

“We could get a babysitter,” I suggested.

 

The hubs raised his eyebrows, pleased at my suggestion, gave me a quick, noncommittal “Sure we could”—because we both knew that life is simply going to be too busy for Snapped marathons for a while, but he didn’t want to repeat it once more and burst my bubble all over again—and gave me a kiss on the cheek before going downstairs to practice a little guitar. 

 

After I swiped a hand over my lips to check for any small doses of poison that he might have somehow just deposited and was satisfied that there was none, I smiled, please with my choice of skanks.  I’d picked a good one.

 

For more tips on a healthy marriage, please see my upcoming blog, tentatively entitled, “You’re in the Wrong Spot, Bitches.  We Don't Have a Clue.”

 

Oh, and remember, peeps:  This is a comedy blog.  Nobody said it was a good comedy blog, but still—a comedy blog.  There is no way I would actually advocate greedy sluts hurting their husbands for the sake of filling up my DVR queue.  Nor do the hubs and I actually believe that one would ever kill the other.  (I mean, we’re like, 98% sure that we wouldn’t, and that’s pretty good, right?  KIDDING.  We're totally, like, 99% sure.)  That doesn’t mean that we don’t find it hilarious to act out the conversations that we think could have gone on in Snapped households—the more ridiculous, the better. 

 

And I do sleep with one eye open and a can of wasp spray on my side of the bed, but that’s totally just for funsies.  Totally.

 

*If you are one of the people for whom the above specification was actually necessary, it might be time to start READING A DIFFERENT BLOG.

 

 

 

Oh, and I  can't sign off today without giving a shout-out to my newest web friend (I adore that term and use it whenever possible. Nerds!), Kim at One Classy Motha. I still can't decide if I love her for being so hilarious or if I hate her for it, but either way--you'll laugh your arse off reading her blog.  And if you're in the market for a baby or wedding shower gift, she has the perfect thing:  The Beaver Baby. 



You might find this terribly hard to believe, but I actually can't stand to be the center of attention at a par-tay.  But if you do, even if that means taking it away from the blushing bride or the little baby being born, the Beaver Baby will do the trick for you.  People won't be sure whether to laugh or to slap you in the face for bringing such an offensive (?) item, but either way--they'll remember it.  Check  her out, my peeps.  I told her she might have to re-adjust her blog in order to handle the major traffic that my shout-out will bring her. I'm sure at least, like, two people will stop by as a result of my posting her link here, and one of them will be my dad.  Dad--I'd like a Beaver Baby in "boy," please, but you'll have to guess at the hair specifications.  There's no way I'm sending you those.
 

 

You're welc, Kim.  :)