Marriage Illustrated with Crappy Pictures Page 4

  They are the microwaved food of the marital sex world. Convenient. Fast. Not particularly great . . . but just satisfying enough that you’ll do it again soon.

  Married with kids quickies are a totally different brand than the ones you enjoyed back in the early steamy days of your pre-kid life.

  Back then, quickies involved clothes being ripped off with each other’s teeth and dishes being thrown off the table. Delicious.

  Quickies are different now.

  Parents don’t even take their clothes off for quickies. There’s no time for that romantic shit. We just make the necessary parts accessible and then plug in.

  Hurry up, the kids are banging at the door!

  But sometimes even quickies are hard to come by when you have little kids.

  That’s like admitting, “I’m starving, but I can’t use the microwave because the kids are standing right in front of it.”

  Kids are the world’s best cock blockers. And it makes sense evolutionarily. Sex leads to babies and babies should be avoided. Another sibling just means someone else will have a stake in the popsicles in the freezer. Sex = babies = fewer popsicles.

  So you have to find the right window of opportunity for your quickies. Distraction methods like TV work well. Did you know that TV programming for children was invented so parents could still have sex during daylight hours? I mean, probably.

  Crappy Husband is notoriously bad at determining whether or not there is a quickie opportunity. To him, there is always a quickie opportunity. He is way too optimistic.

  Kids are looking out the window at a squirrel for two seconds? Quickie!

  Kids are fighting over a toy but nobody is bleeding? Quickie!

  He invents these windows. They don’t actually exist.

  I’m more pragmatic about identifying actual quickie windows, so sometimes we don’t agree.

  The other day . . .

  We’re all in the kitchen and I just gave the kids popsicles.

  Translation: Quickie!

  I laugh and say I don’t really think we’ve stumbled on a true quickie window. Sure, they have treats that will keep them occupied for ninety seconds, but they’re being rather clingy today. It isn’t going to work.

  He says, “No, you’re wrong! It is a quickie window! Let’s just sneak away. They aren’t even paying attention!”

  Just then Crappy Boy turns around and says:

  Not paying attention, eh?

  Moments later Crappy Boy leaves the room. Crappy Baby follows him.

  Crappy Husband is hopeful again. The window reopened! “See? They’re leaving the room. We can sneak away! This is the perfect window!”

  Is he right? I’m still not sure.

  We start to sneak away.

  I hear the sound of a window shutting in my head.

  So I point to the wall and say:

  And Crappy Baby explodes with laughter.

  Nope. There wasn’t.

  ORGASMS AND MY WILLINGNESS TO MAKE SANDWICHES

  The problem with having sex is that you have to be awake and you have to move your body a little bit. This seems like an impossible task if you are exhausted. Sleep always wins.

  When I feel run-down and spread thin, any request is asking too much. If I go into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich, I can’t possibly be expected to make one for anyone else. All I’ve done ALL DAY is do things for other people. I just want to be alone!

  Doesn’t he realize that I’ve had kids hanging on me all day? Literally? The last thing I want now is someone inside of me. I just want my body to myself! I don’t want anyone touching me for at least ten minutes. And then I want to sleep!

  However, when the effort is made, the payoff is huge. When I do have an orgasm, my entire outlook on marriage, life, the universe and everything changes.

  It is so worth it! For both of us!

  My scientific research has shown that wives who have orgasms make 89 percent more sandwiches for their husbands. It isn’t always easy. Husbands may have to do laundry or dishes or hire a babysitter even to make it happen. But in the end you might get a sandwich.

  NORMAL, HUMAN SEX

  So the other night we’re sitting on the couch. The kids are asleep.

  Crappy Husband gives me the look. He thinks I have my period so the look is of the “Blow job?” variety. You know the one. It is the one with the eyebrows and then he looks down at his crotch.

  (Yes, I know we can have sex during my period. It is totally legal. We did it all the time back when we were dating. However, my periods are significantly more messy now after having kids. Period sex involves laying down surgical chux pads to protect surfaces from pools of blood and he winds up looking like he gutted a shark with his penis. It’s scary.)

  I explain that my period is over already.

  Laughing, we start listing animals and other random life forms.

  Of course then this happens:

  The only type of sex we had was none.

  SEX DRIVE COMPARISON CHARTS

  We have very different sex drives. His is steady and stable.

  It is like driving on a flat highway in South Dakota where all you see is corn. Except switch seeing corn for wanting to have sex.

  My sex drive is more like driving over a very steep mountain.

  It is scary and exciting for a moment, but then you’re quickly below sea level again.

  THE SEX TENT

  It’s summer. The kids convince us to put the tent up in the backyard. They play in it during the day, but they don’t want to sleep in it at night. So it just sits there. Empty.

  After the kids are asleep in the house, we head out to the tent with a few blankets.

  Since the kids’ bedroom is right next to our bedroom and since they usually wind up sleeping in our bedroom anyway, we have to get creative with where we have sex. This is one of those creative times.

  And the backyard is the perfect sex location! It’s romantic! It’s the perfect breezy summer temperature and we can see the stars! It’s private and there is zero risk of the kids walking in on us, since we’d hear the sliding back door if they came outside. Plus, no pets are watching from the sidelines. It is absolutely perfect! Our sex life is rejuvenated.

  Night after night we head out to the backyard tent. We even bring a few candles. And a bottle of lemongrass-scented massage oil. And another blanket. And a pillow. The tent is a fully stocked sex tent.

  The kids show no interest in the tent after that first day. They don’t even go inside it during the day. It’s ours, all ours. Weeks go by and the tent stands strong.

  At one point, our elderly next-door neighbor asks:

  Which I think is really her way of saying, “Are you ever going to take that ugly tent down?”

  But we pay no attention. Nothing is going to get in the way of our freedom and newfound sexual liberation. That tent will stay up forever.

  Until one morning:

  It is gone! It completely disappeared. The only thing remaining is a brown patch of dead grass. I’m shocked and confused and angry. Someone stole our sex tent? Who stole our sex tent? Why would someone steal it?

  As I step outside to look for clues, the wind whips my hair and clothes.

  Then I see it, across my neighbor’s yard, ties flicking in the wind and all lopsided.

  The heavy winds last night must have managed to fling it up over the fence. Then it tumbled across my neighbor’s yard, where it snagged itself on a mulberry tree.

  To make it even more embarrassing, I notice that the half-used bottle of massage oil is lying on my neighbor’s grass. And a pillow. We left the tent’s door unzipped! All of the sex tent contents spilled out and are now on display on her lawn!

  I perform the walk of shame as I walk across my neighb
or’s yard and collect our things and chuck them over the fence back onto our yard.

  Then I work as quickly as I can, trying to disentangle the poor, shredded tent from the tree and the surrounding bushes. It is a large tent and the poles are still in the sleeves, so I have to stand there and dismantle the entire thing. It is taking an excruciatingly long time and I’m frantic, hoping not to be seen.

  But my worst fear comes true. I hear the familiar creak of my neighbor’s door swinging open. She casually walks over to me and says something about the heavy winds last night. I’m mortified and apologize profusely about keeping the tent up for so long.

  To my complete shock, she tells me not to worry about it at all. Then, with a knowing wink:

  She has never been so right.

  CHAPTER

  HORMONES

  & ANXIETY

  (OR MY POOR HUSBAND)

  All of the following stories happened while under the influence of female hormones.

  This is the part of the book where you’ll want to send Crappy Husband a bottle of vodka or a batch of cookies out of pity.

  I’m not always like this. Just every month.

  PMS DETECTION

  Everything is going wrong. I’m a mess. My sky is falling. I have no idea why. What is happening? Why is everything so horrible?

  My life is ruined.

  He reminds me that I had a midlife crisis last month too. And the month before that.

  Women vary in terms of how they respond to the mention of PMS. Some get angry and throw things. Some cry. Some implode. Some morph into fire-breathing dragons and eat people.

  But I’ve always reacted with complete relief. I actually thank him if he reminds me. Huge sigh of relief. I’m not going insane! My life isn’t actually ruined! I’ll be totally fine!

  Until next month when I forget and it happens all over again.

  JUST DON’T TALK TO ME

  There is one time when nobody should ever talk to me. Never, ever. When I’m getting ready.

  Not just ready for a normal day, but getting ready for something special. A dinner or a party or some other fancy function.

  I’m just not myself. I’m an angry, self-conscious version of myself, a rabid hyena. Not particularly pleasant to share a confined space with.

  I’ll stand in front of my closet and try things on and then take them off and then try things on and then take those off and then put the original thing back on, but with a variation. It is a very complicated process of elimination that always results in me selecting the same exact outfit I wear to every fancy function.

  This ritual is sacred. It is a personal form of self-flagellation that I must endure.

  Nobody can intervene or they are putting themselves in great danger. Crappy Husband has learned this over the years, but sometimes he forgets and he does something stupid. He speaks to me.

  He sees me wearing what he presumes is my chosen outfit and gives me a compliment. How dare he!

  I’m many outfits away from being ready.

  Realizing this, he asks for a time estimate. Which, really, is the worst possible thing to say. I am so absorbed in my angry ritual that time does not exist. But he reminds me and now the clock is ticking and there is pressure and panic.

  At this point I say that I’m not going. Which is his cue to leave the room.

  He adds that he loves me, but even that makes me angry.

  Thankfully, we don’t go to fancy functions very often. And I’ve learned to lock the bedroom door to keep everyone safe.

  DR. INTERNET SEARCH

  My knee has been hurting this week so I decide to look it up on the internet. That is the answer to everything. Look it up.

  The internet comes in handy for looking up really important things like movie stars’ names you can’t remember and what your pirate name would be, based on the color of your underwear. It also comes in handy for looking up medical questions.

  The internet always has a diagnosis. And it is rarely good news.

  I’ve diagnosed myself with so many rare diseases thanks to internet searches. I’ve never actually had any of them but I’m still thankful for the consultations. How did people take care of themselves before the internet? Did they have to go to real doctors and stuff? Imagine!

  MISINTERPRETATIONS & MIND READING

  Sometimes, we have misinterpretations in our lines of communication. It can go both ways.

  He calls me on the phone on his way home from work and asks if I’ve planned anything for dinner. Which I haven’t.

  Since there is no dinner planned, he suggests:

  Rather than be grateful, which would be the sane response, it makes me furious.

  For some reason, in my mind, what he is really saying is that I’m a huge failure. Clearly, what he really wants is a 1950s housewife with dinner waiting for him on the table who doesn’t have her own career or interests and only lives to clean the house until she dies of boredom. (I’d also wear heels and dresses and aprons, so that part isn’t so bad, I guess.)

  He really just wants to pick up some burritos and come home.

  Misinterpretations usually happen when I attach hidden meanings to his words. But they aren’t actually there. He is a dude. He says what he means. It is simple. When I remember this, things are much easier.

  I, on the other hand, am not a dude. I’m a woman. I often attach hidden meanings to my words. They are like little directional signs to help him. I don’t always take the easy route and say what I mean. Instead, I say something else entirely with added directional signs tossed in that will help Crappy Husband arrive at the right conclusion.

  The other week he asked if I wanted to go to a late movie. It was a movie that I didn’t particularly want to see. Also, it was late and I had to be up early the next morning.

  But this was my answer:

  He didn’t see any of my three directional signs! You can see them, right? Arms crossed, which is saying, “No, please protect my body from this movie.” The subtle way I stated, “Well, we could go . . .” was really me saying that in theory we could go. Not that we actually should go. Then I followed it up with a question about the lateness, which was clearly me stating that it was much too late.

  Then I got annoyed when he bought movie tickets online, since I didn’t even want to go.

  We replay our conversation and I explain that he completely misinterpreted my movie interest.

  He may call it mind reading, but I call it navigating a conversation.

  P.S. We went to the late movie and it was great. Oops. Sorry, dear. You were right. Again.

  ANXIETY

  There have been a few times when I’ve experienced above-average bouts of anxiety. Like when I have to fly on an airplane. Or speak in front of an audience. Or sometimes for reasons I can’t explain.

  The kids are about to take a horseback-riding class in the mountains. They’ve taken the class before so there is no logical reason for me to be terrified about it. But I am. It’s the night before and I’m in a panic over it.

  Crappy Husband asks me what I’m so worried about.

  So I tell him:

  I expect him to try to tell me things that will attempt to fix the problem. To talk about reality and probability and stuff like that.

  Instead, he pauses for a moment and then simply says:

  THE DREAM

  One morning I wake up from a horrible dream. I dreamt that Crappy Husband met a woman with a bun in her hair on a train. They talked about Mozart. He instantly fell in love with her and they moved to Spain.

  I tell him the dream and we laugh about it. However, the weird part is that I’m angry with him. The real-life him. I can’t shake the feeling, but I know it is ridiculous. So I try to hide it.

  At one point, he catches me scowli
ng at him.

  So I admit that I’m still caught up in the feelings of the dream.

  He reads my mind. You see, I’ve had my share of strangely prophetic dreams. But it can be hard to know when one is or isn’t.

  And I did. Eventually. (It has been twelve years since I had this dream. I still feel annoyed when I think about it. Or when I listen to Mozart.)

  CRAPPY DOG’S MOODS

  We have a little dog that we rescued last year. He is part pug and part something else and he has unfortunately (for him) decided to attach himself to me.

  I have no idea how he came to the conclusion that taking his cues from me would be a good idea. Crappy Husband would have been a much better choice.

  Crappy Dog is a mirror of my moods. When I’m feeling tired and lethargic, he is my loyal couch potato. When I’m feeling happy and energetic, he runs around the house and slides into walls.

  Unfortunately, this means he gets PMS. All month he is happy and content.

  Until:

  When he has PMS he growls at the cats if they get too close to him. He tires easily and craves baked goods. He doesn’t want to go on walks, he just wants to lie on the couch with a blanket and watch British comedies on Netflix.

  If Crappy Husband ever wants to know how I’m feeling, he just has to look at Crappy Dog and act accordingly.

  I’ve found that chocolate also helps him a great deal when I eat it. Because really, chocolate helps everyone.

  PERFECT