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This week: Edited by: Melissa is fashionably late!  
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Married life is full of excitement and frustration:
* In the first year of marriage, the man speaks and the woman listens.
* In the second year, the woman speaks and the man listens.
* In the third year, they both speak and the neighbors listen.
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Husband: a man who buys his football tickets four months in advance and waits until December 24 to do his Christmas shopping.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Love: An obsessive delusion that is cured by marriage.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Hello, my name is Melissa is fashionably late! and I am your comedy newsletter editor this week! |
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My fourth wedding anniversary is coming up in less than a month, and I've been taking the time to sit back and analyze the past few years to see if there's any particular memories that stand out. As someone whose parents have been married for 29 years, and in-laws who have been married for 31, I realize that 4 years is still only the beginning, and what many would call the end of the honeymoon phase. I can certainly attest for that fact, as I've spent two of our four anniversaries expecting a child (the first anniversary, and now the fourth), one anniversary with a baby, and one anniversary trying to have another baby (that anniversary was probably more like a honeymoon than any other).
In four years, my husband has become more comfortable with me, as attested by the fact that each year, he seems to find a way to stick his foot in his mouth on a more regular basis. This particular problem, for him, has become something of an acute problem in the past month or so. It seems that no matter what he does, he can't seem to connect his brain and mouth together to prevent from saying something that makes me shake my head and sigh.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A few weeks ago, we were getting ready for bed, and I asked him if he fed his dog. OK, so maybe I used a few dirty words in reference to his dog, but I was tired, it had been a long day, and the dog was whining as though he hadn't been fed. We'll just say that I called the dog a whiny, little brat to keep the rating to a minimum.
My husband, Jason, turned to me, his face serious. "Yes, I fed you."
I stood there for a moment, in absolute shock. Did he just say what I think he said? I asked myself that question a few times. Without a word, I turned and went to bed.
The next morning, he came into the bedroom to wake me up for work. I hadn't forgotten about his comment from the night before and refused to speak to him.
"So you're not talking to me this morning? Can you at least tell me why?"
I refused to utter or even mumble a single sound to him, and he left for work shortly afterwards. When I got to work, I asked one of the girls in my office if sending him an email would break my silence. She asked what I would say, so I gave her a general run-by and she determined that email was, technically, not a form of vocalization, even though it was a form of communication. So, I sent Jason an email:
Yes, I'm not speaking to you. Unless you want the Williams household to be silent tonight, you need to do two things:
A) Figure out why I'm upset with you,
B) Use A to determine what I would make Ethan do and then follow that intuition.
Basically, I wanted an apology. Nothing fancy, nothing expensive, just a good old fashioned, "I'm sorry," and maybe a hug. I left work and came home and spent the afternoon playing with our son. When Jason arrived home, I started to get stuff together for a barbecue we had been invited to that evening.
"Melissa," he said, standing behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder at him to see him on the floor, on his knees. In his hands was a box of Dove dark chocolates and a card. He had my attention, so I turned and gave him a chance to offer his apology.
"I'm sorry that I compared you to the dog. You aren't a whiny, little brat. You're my beautiful wife and I love you. Please forgive me."
So, he had earned my forgiveness and then some. Like I said, I had only wanted an apology. The Dove dark chocolates and the card weren't necessary, but greatly appreciated. That is, until we went to bed that evening.
Being nearly eight months pregnant, I take up a lot of space. My waist feels like it's nearly double the girth it normally is, my belly button has gone from concave to protruding, my feet are only visible to me when I'm sitting or looking in the mirror. I'm not exactly the happiest or most comfortable, especially by bed time.
We were laying in bed, and I was having a hard time getting comfortable. "Can you scoot over a little?" I asked Jason, wanting a little more space to spread out.
"No, you've filled your half of the bed! You're not taking over my half!"
"Technically," I replied, "I'm currently holding two-thirds of the people occupying this bed, so I should get two-thirds of the bed and you should get one-third."
"Hey!" He responded. "It isn't my fault that you're just as deep as you are wide!"
He gave me chocolate earlier that day, so I let this slide more than I probably should have. The next morning, he left his work cell phone at home by accident, so I took it to him at his office on my way to work.
"Hello Melissa," his boss greeted me. "How are you?"
I smiled, Jason standing next to me. "Oh, about as deep as I am wide, thank you."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Despite my husband's obvious inability to connect his brain with his mouth, I do have to say that he is the sweetest, hardest working, most wonderful man. If he weren't, I wouldn't have married him. I'm proud that I've been able to call him my husband for the past four years and I hope that I'll be able to do so for the next fifty.
"Fifty?!?!" he says. "You mean I have to live with you for the next fifty years?!?!"
So, yes, the honeymoon is over, but we still love each other, depsite our flaws. |
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Beyond the Cloud9  on high humor:
"I remember studying several Shakespeare plays in school, but I would get hung up on the language and would completely miss any humor. I had to be told it was funny. Even then, I didn't laugh. I can watch a Shake play and manage to get the bare bones of it, but I typically miss any deeper meanings or humor in them. We all have to be able to not only understand the language, but interpret the meaning correctly to "get" a joke. I prefer high comedy, but when it comes to presenting it, I'll just resort to a good ole fart instead!  Great newsletter, Mel!"
I "get" it, but it usually takes me more than one reading to do so. On the other hand, I always "get" the fart jokes on the first go-around.  |
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Comedy: May 30, 2007 Issue [#1739]
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