Do you ever look back on your life and marvel at how much time you wasted? Like, for example, how much productive shit you could have accomplished in college during the time it took you to get drunk and draw penises all over your best friend’s stupid passed-out face and then take pictures of it so you could assemble a little yearbook for her?
Okay, that was a bad example, because that was so not a waste of time. In fact, I’m going to try to find the several pictures I took when we were finished to show you guys.
Anyway, if I had it to do all over again, I would have taken a lot less time to drink and draw on my best friend’s face—and a lot more time to write.
NOT that writing a blog that embarrasses myself, my family, and/or any unfortunate random strangers who happen to cross paths with me would necessarily be considered productive, but still—there are words involved, and typing, and spelling things, etc., etc.—so basically, writing’s a good thing.
I promise there’s a point to all of this. And here it is:
Several weeks ago, I got an award from one of my favorite bloggers, Marcia at Menopausal Mother. It’s called the “I Could Really Kill My _________ Today.”
All I had to do was fill in the blank and write a post explaining why I really want to kill my _________ today.
Now, I know what you guys are thinking. You’re thinking I’m going to do that cute little wifey thing and write a post about some silly little thing my husband did that made me want to just wring his neck, and that I’m going to entitle it, “I Could Really Kill My Hubs Today.”
Oh, hell no.
First off, he really hasn’t done anything wrong lately, even though I keep encouraging him to because it makes such great blog fodder. I even left my Reese’s bars (Have you tried the bars yet? Even better than the cups) out the other night in hopes that he would eat them so I could berate him and then write about it. But no such luck. I’m almost thinking I must have done that once or twice in the past, and he’s learned his lesson. Dammit.
Secondly, I don’t want to kill the hubs today or any day because I don’t want those damned Snapped vultures circling my house, ready to set up all of their expensive filmmaking equipment and make a few bucks off of the hubs’s unfortunate antifreeze ingestion in trace amounts over the course of a few months.
Besides, there’s simply no way I’d kill him. Sure, I’m Catholic and we don’t believe in that and yada, yada, yada, but really, there’s no way he gets to get out of muddling through this mundanity called marriage that easily. If I have to be married, so does he. And really, I think that poor bastard’s got the worse lot in life, anyway. It’s as if God looked at him and said, “Not only am I going to make you get married, but you’re actually going to have to do it with a Tori Spelling lookalike…Don’t worry, you’ll be highly rewarded in Heaven.”
(On a side note: Or how much productive shit you could have gotten done in the time you spent cowering in a corner as your best friends taunted you with shouts of “Donna Martin graduates!” to try and break your spirit? Okay, that so didn’t happen. But they did used to call me that to make me mad, and I like my version of it better because it reminds me of that Lifetime movie where they used markers to circle all of the invisible fat pockets on the girls rushing the sorority. Hilarious.)
No, this post isn’t going to be about the hubs. Instead, I’m going to throw my 25-year-old self a bone (not that kind, pervs; she had enough of those in her day) and let her take it over so that instead of drinking boxed wine and watching For Love or Money on a Thursday night, she can get a little writing done and feel productive about herself—and THEN drink boxed wine and watch For Love or Money.
So without further ado, I present to you 25-year-old Shay, starring in a post she wrote herself. I think she’ll call it:
I Could Really Kill My Scratchy Man Voice Today
by 25-year-old Shay
Guys are always telling me that I have a sex-ay, husky voice. I tell them that it has absolutely nothing to do with smoking, since I only smoke when I drink.
A few years ago when I told a co-worker that, he looked at me and said, “Yeah, Shay, but you drink like every single night.”
“Sure, but some nights I drink a lot less than other nights, so that’s less smoking. Like, say I only have one beer—“
My co-worker made a huge show of rolling his eyes as he cut me off. “—When’s the last time you only had one beer?”
I thought for a moment…and another moment. And another. I’m pretty sure my mouth was opening and closing just like a fish out of water as I tried to come up with an answer.
“You don’t even know what to do with your mouth when there’s not a beer to suck on in front of it, do you?” he asked, watching me with a disgusted look on his face. “And you can’t remember the last time you only had one beer, can you? It’s because you always have more than one beer.”
I snapped my mouth shut and furrowed my brow, now trying really hard to remember just so I could prove this self-righteous asshole wrong. But dammit if nothing came to me. “I’m sure there was one night—in the last year or something…” I stammered. “And I’m sure that whenever that night was, I only smoked, like, two ciggies,” I finished triumphantly.
My co-worker blinked. He took a deep breath and tried a different tactic.
“It’s just that everyone knows that when you say you only smoke when you drink, it’s still like a pack-a-night habit. So just don’t even say it. It’s like how you start all of your stories with, ‘Oh my gosh, I was so drunk the other night…’ You’re always drunk! It’s a completely unnecessary intro.”
“That intro is totally necessary!” I said, indignant. “I can’t just say, ‘I pissed in a laundry basket.’ I need that ‘I was so drunk the other night’ part to explain why I pissed in a laundry basket. I mean, what if there are random bystanders overhearing the conversation—people who don’t even know me?”
“They should consider themselves lucky,” he replied, sighing.
“You hang out with me,” I pointed out.
“I’m on the clock.”
“Well, yeah…and you have no other options.”
This conversation happened when I was about 21, and I’ve calmed down a lot since then. But still, smoking or not, my voice is deep and scratchy. Normally I don’t mind it because guys are always telling me that it’s so sex-ay. And I don’t think they’re just telling me that to get into my pants. I mean, just because they normally succeed and then don’t call me the next day…oh, wait. Wait. DAMMIT!
Well, none of that matters anymore, anyway. Because just a few weeks ago, I met my Knight in Shining Carhart.
And he doesn’t know it yet and I don’t know it yet, but he’s going to be my husband in 3 years.
Things have been going pretty smoothly. I realized tonight that it was becoming serious because he was on a trip out of state for work, and he called to “check in” with me and see how my day had gone.
The funny thing was, for one time in my life, I had decided to go to sleep early. My head hit the pillow at 9 PM, and I was out like a light.
So when the future hubs called at 11 PM, of course my voice was even deeper and scratchier than normal. I had just been jerked from my slumber by the shrill ringing of my cell phone.
When I saw who it was, though, there was no way in hell I was going to ignore that call, even if I was way tired.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello?” I said again.
Hm. I pressed a few buttons on my phone and got back to my call log. Nope. I hadn’t been mistaken when I’d seen it flash across the screen the first time: That call had come straight from my future husband’s cell phone.
But why the hell had he hung up on me when I answered?
I didn’t have to wait long to find out, because three seconds later, my phone rang again. And once again, my cell phone screen clearly displayed his number.
“Hello?” I said, making sure I put on a cheerful voice so he couldn’t hear the hurt and confusion in it.
“Oh, good. I must have dialed the right number this time,” I heard him say.
“What?” I asked.
“Hey, Shay. How’s your night going?” he asked.
“Good…” I replied, still confused. “How about yours?”
My future husband started laughing. “You’ll never guess what just happened. I tried to call you, but I must have dialed the wrong number. Some dude picked up the phone! And he sounded ROUGH, too. Like some big meathead asshole. I just hung up when I realized it wasn’t you.”
My heart stopped. Holy shit. He had thought I was a guy. And not just some guy: Specifically, some rough meathead asshole. Holy shit.
I laughed, making sure to raise my voice at least 135 octaves, which made it come out all crackly and shrill. “Ha.Ha.Ha. Oh, that’s funny. Ha.Ha. I hope he’s able to get back to sleep. Although he was probably in the middle of some big stupid meathead workout. He was probably lifting weights when you called…but then, why would he have answered his phone in the middle of his workout? What a dumbass. Stupid meathead dumbass.”
I stopped myself. I was blabbering and I was going to give myself away. Somehow my future husband was going to catch on and say something like, “He-ey…why are you so interested in this guy’s workout? It’s because it was actually you that I called, and you just sounded like a big meathead asshole…ga-ROSS. I can’t date someone who has a voice like a big meathead asshole. Later, Skank.”
But oh, thank the good Lord in Heaven for the sweet blessings that He pours on us from above (I totally said that when I was 25, too, a-holes), because my future husband didn’t even miss a beat. He just continued to tell me about his day and ask about mine.
And although I lay awake all night after we got off the phone, scared that he was going to go back and check his own call log and see that I was, in fact, the person that he’d called the first time and break up with me for having a scratchy man voice—my worry was for naught. Because he never checked his call log, and he didn’t find out that night.
And he won’t find out for another 3 years, when I decide that it’s more funny than it is embarrassing—and that it doesn’t matter anymore, anyway, since I got the ring—and go ahead and tell him.