My Wife Just Leveled Up
Today is the ascension of my wife to a new state of being — a brand new plane of existence.
You can practically hear the “ding.”
Yes, that’s right. My wife has hit one of those milestone ages. Finally, finally, she’s turned “sweet sixteen.” Let the fun begin! She can get her driver’s license! Woo to the hoo.
(Lest the authorities be reading this, I assure you, I am not married to a 16-year-old girl. Though, if I lived in [YOUR LEAST FAVORITE STATE OF THE AMERICAN DEEP SOUTH], it’d be totally legal. And she could be my cousin or sister. Good times.)
So, in case you didn’t know, my wife is totally awesome.
First: my wife puts up with my shit. That’s a big one right there. I’m a jackass. You leave me to my own devices for more than eight hours, and you’ll find me nesting in a ring of dirty plates and napkins. My hair, matted with mud. Porn everywhere. Somewhere, the distant sound of raging chimpanzees. Even on a day-to-day basis, I got a lot of shit with which to put up. I forget things. I’m kind of a dick. I’m loud. It really can’t be fun for her.
Second: my wife doesn’t put up with all my shit. As I’ve noted regarding us crazy-ass writers, you throw us a support rope, and we’ll hang ourselves with it. She supports me without supporting my stupid-ass bullshit.
Third: my wife has a foul mouth. Couple that with the fact I consider her both sublimely hot and stupidly hilarious (and only getting both hotter and funnier with each passing day), and you have my dream wife. One could even imagine that she is not human, but a Perfect Creation built in my basement, forged from the Stuff of Dreams (and also, mannequin parts).
Fourth: I call her the “mongoose” for her ability to get on the phone and Straighten Shit Out. Bank? Magazine subscription? Fucked up dentist appointment? Taxes? Lawyer? Hostage negotiations? These are all the cobras that my wife, the mongoose, will destroy. Her teeth, their throats. Rippity-rip.
Fifth: I’m pretty sure she’s going to wake up soon, so I’d better hurry this the hell up. What I’m saying is, my wife’s a great editor. She reads my stuff, and tells me the God’s Honest Truth. And helps me track down those niggling little errors that stick out like hangnails or skin-tags.
Sixth: I think my wife might be an alcoholic. I mean, I’m looking at all these pictures, and boy, she’s one boozy broad. She’s an AKC-registered boozehound. I should’ve really seen the warning signs. Day in, day out, she’s slapping me in the face and yelling, “Get me another dirty martini, dickbag!” except it sounds more like, “Geh me anudder durdy mar, mar, teeny, diggbag,” and then she spills her drink and throws the empty glass at my head.
…okay, that’s not true. My wife is not a boozehound. Hell, in that one picture she’s drinking coffee.
Anyway, I’m going to finish this up because, really, I think she’s going to wake up soon. I would’ve done this yesterday, but, ta-da! Snowbound. Hence, she’s been here the whole time. Hard to be sneaky. I do have a day planned with Three Main Events (meant to pair up with the fact that Valentine’s Day is in two days; I try not to ever let it be that her birthday and that holiday blend together with that whole, “Here, I got you one gift!” problem).
So, if you all would do me a lovely favor, could you wish her a happy birthday here in the comments? I’d appreciate it. She’d appreciate it. She’s awesome, and if you like being here at terribleminds, you have her to thank, because she keeps me sane and wisely under lock-and-key.
Oh, and I would of course like to add:
To My Lovely, Kick-Ass Wife:
Your Dipshit Husband