First of all, let me start by saying that I'm not complaining about my husband. He's awesome. Right now, I'm having a rant about the silly crap that comes along with him, most of which glides right under everybody's radar.
I don't mind being a human billboard. Hell, I hand out more cards than he does. But I do mind being dragged into conversations with random strangers and asked to peel off various items of clothing so I can be used as a marketing tool. Some days I feel chubby, or have a zit on my neck (yeah, I know, fucking gross, right?), or have granny panties sticking out of the too-low jeans that look rad on the rest of me as long as I'm allowed to keep my MOTHERFUCKING SHIRT DOWN.
I don't much care for it when I send him a dirty text message and then find out it was actually received by the counter guy because he was busy. Look, if I'm fixing to get in the shower and things are looking extra perky that day (especially if I'm hoping you'll do something with it that night)...pics are coming your way. I'm not suggesting he drop everything and waste a pair of gloves, just hold his horses a minute. Trust me, if the kid has chopped off four fingers and we're on our way to the ER, I'll take the time to actually dial you up. Also, don't show me the texts sent to you by the guy in the next station. It takes a fucking lot to make me blush, but you dudes find and cross that line with amazing speed. I'll just take your word for it, seriously.
Really, though, the thing I enjoy least is the innuendo. I wish to god I had a nickel for every set of eyebrows that have been wagged my way when I say my husband tattoos. Yeah, ha ha fucking ha, "you know how I pay". Aren't you funny. Nobody's ever thought of that one before. Look, fuckstick, we don't know eachother, and just because some gold digging broad screwed you over doesn't mean poor moral fiber comes with the cunt. I have a job of my own and I'm raising his evil genius child, which is not for the faint of heart. I've paid my dues by being a guinea pig/advertisement for over a dozen years, and by picking up and moving everytime a shop owner decides he didn't really want to go co-op afterall (seven months pregnant, that time), and most of all, I love the bastard and I didn't marry him just to get free ink. Fuck a polaroid, I can shake it like your brain bouncing around inside your skull, which it will if you make one more lewd crack...but that doesn't mean that's all I have going for me.
Oh yeah, I also hate having my arm grabbed and twisted by total strangers on a regular basis. And don't ask me if I have those tats "everywhere". Yes, I do, and no, you can't see, and also, nobody calls them that.
But I do love the way he gets all giddy after a particularly exciting consult. And I love that he has the freedom to pop by for a nooner once in a while, or to take the morning off to sit through a school meeting with me. I love that he's doing what he loves, and that I get to watch him do it. I love that he designed a great big girly-as-all-get-out piece for my friend who wants to cover up the scars of her younger days. And I fucking love it that my kid uses the chained-down pen at the post office to "tattoo" Crash Bandicoot characters on the backs of his hands. So yeah, it's worth suffering a few idiots. Just think twice the next time you reach for the arm of a tattooed stranger, I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one needing to vent a little steam.
I don't mind being a human billboard. Hell, I hand out more cards than he does. But I do mind being dragged into conversations with random strangers and asked to peel off various items of clothing so I can be used as a marketing tool. Some days I feel chubby, or have a zit on my neck (yeah, I know, fucking gross, right?), or have granny panties sticking out of the too-low jeans that look rad on the rest of me as long as I'm allowed to keep my MOTHERFUCKING SHIRT DOWN.
I don't much care for it when I send him a dirty text message and then find out it was actually received by the counter guy because he was busy. Look, if I'm fixing to get in the shower and things are looking extra perky that day (especially if I'm hoping you'll do something with it that night)...pics are coming your way. I'm not suggesting he drop everything and waste a pair of gloves, just hold his horses a minute. Trust me, if the kid has chopped off four fingers and we're on our way to the ER, I'll take the time to actually dial you up. Also, don't show me the texts sent to you by the guy in the next station. It takes a fucking lot to make me blush, but you dudes find and cross that line with amazing speed. I'll just take your word for it, seriously.
Really, though, the thing I enjoy least is the innuendo. I wish to god I had a nickel for every set of eyebrows that have been wagged my way when I say my husband tattoos. Yeah, ha ha fucking ha, "you know how I pay". Aren't you funny. Nobody's ever thought of that one before. Look, fuckstick, we don't know eachother, and just because some gold digging broad screwed you over doesn't mean poor moral fiber comes with the cunt. I have a job of my own and I'm raising his evil genius child, which is not for the faint of heart. I've paid my dues by being a guinea pig/advertisement for over a dozen years, and by picking up and moving everytime a shop owner decides he didn't really want to go co-op afterall (seven months pregnant, that time), and most of all, I love the bastard and I didn't marry him just to get free ink. Fuck a polaroid, I can shake it like your brain bouncing around inside your skull, which it will if you make one more lewd crack...but that doesn't mean that's all I have going for me.
Oh yeah, I also hate having my arm grabbed and twisted by total strangers on a regular basis. And don't ask me if I have those tats "everywhere". Yes, I do, and no, you can't see, and also, nobody calls them that.
But I do love the way he gets all giddy after a particularly exciting consult. And I love that he has the freedom to pop by for a nooner once in a while, or to take the morning off to sit through a school meeting with me. I love that he's doing what he loves, and that I get to watch him do it. I love that he designed a great big girly-as-all-get-out piece for my friend who wants to cover up the scars of her younger days. And I fucking love it that my kid uses the chained-down pen at the post office to "tattoo" Crash Bandicoot characters on the backs of his hands. So yeah, it's worth suffering a few idiots. Just think twice the next time you reach for the arm of a tattooed stranger, I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one needing to vent a little steam.
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