Did you see that? Savor it, because it's not going to happen again.
I'm sure you're all saying to yourselves, "Self, did she say CH was right? Because I just don't see how that's possible."
Well, BELIEVE ME, I understand your confusion. How did this happen? How did I sink so far? Let's get in the Way Back Machine to yesterday, when it was MOTHER'S DAY, and therefore all about me. I was doing a little Hitler-esque directing of gardening activities, because it was my day and I could make everyone tap dance to Candyman while wearing bear costumes if I damn well pleased, but I didn't. I made the children rip out five errant thorn bushes in the front yard, because as much as they whined and pleaded, what child doesn't secretly love shoveling out thorn bushes? Right? Schnell, schnell! Diggest sie bushes, mein Leibchen!
It was a little sunny out, and I was sweating right through my tank top and ripped up short jean shorts from college (Your shorts, Denato, the ones that got you kicked out of that bar in Florida), and I decided to leave the minions and shop for flowers at Home Depot for the children to plant. While there, I did a naughty and bought one ice-cold Diet Coke.
Poison! It's poison, I tell you!
Beautiful, delicious poison.
So I drink a little - only my second sip in SIX EFFING WEEKS - and CH rides my ass about it when I get home.
CH: "You didn't."
ME: "I did."
CH: "You were so good! Don't do it!"
ME: "Oh quit being such a ninny! I used to drink two cans a day, one little sip won't hurt me."
CH: "Yes it will."
ME: "It's Mother's Day, and I'll drink it if I want to drink it."
CH: "You're going to hate yourself."
ME: "I don't have a problem, I can quit whenever I want."
And I took a big drink just to show him I could. He shook his head sadly and walked away. I was fine. I conquered this. I can have a little bit, but I'm not a slave to Diet Coke. Diet Coke doesn't own me, I own IT!
Until today. When I started having the terrible gas and the digestive turbulence again. But CH didn't need to know about that. Until we were in the dining room and one of the kids walked by and said, "EWW, who smells? Is that you, George?"
"Own up, bitch, I'm not taking the heat for your stank."
Grr. "Yes, it's George." CH looked up from his computer with a smug look on his face. "I told you," he said softly. But not so softly that I couldn't hear it. Or that he wouldn't pay.
Not much later, while he was laughing at innapropriate things on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, I had a bad moment in the bathroom. It happened as I was starting Sarah Silverman's book, "The Bedwetter".
Oddly enough, I was reading the foreword, where she says that you are probably reading this book while pooping, but that she appreciates you sharing your most intimate and vulnerable moment with her, and that if you take the book one poop at a time, you'll get through it.
CH is in the bedroom, yelling, "I can smell that! It's the Diet Coke, you know." Mother.Effer. Does he have to rub it in? So I flush, but the memory of my moment is still there. So I take a notecard and write "I love you" and tape it to the seat. But then he goes in and doesn't see the notecard, and sits on it, and then it falls into the toilet.
"JULIE! DID YOU PUT A NOTE IN HERE?!?"
"Um, no. George must've done it."
"Seriously? Must I get blamed for everything?
There'd better be a treat in this for me."
The joke was on me, as I had to use two bobby pins to fish it out (which I did throw away, Mandatory Reporters). I'm glad we could share this moment together, Wifers. It's like you were with me the whole time. I blame the Coca-Cola company. Their poisonous chemicals make me so crazy that I overshare.
I hate it that he was right. Mondays.