I have absolutely nothing left to say to my husband.
Last night I was telling him a hilarious story about how, because I read really, really fast, I used to think that “pubic” hair was “public” hair.
Okay and that’s not really important.
So I’m telling him all about my shame and he sort of smiled half-heartedly and said, “You’ve already told me this story.”
I looked at him in dismay and said, “So that’s what it’s come down to.”
He raised one eyebrow at me.
“After only eight years, I have run out of things to say. The well is dry. I’ve shot my wad. It’s all downhill now.”
“It’s all downhill!” I proclaimed.
He was silent for a moment.
“Next you’ll ask me to play chess!” I lamented. “Because that’s what we’ll do when we’re old and not sexually interested in one another.”
“Um…what?” he said.
Now at this point, I do feel bad. He did look genuinely confused.
“Never mind,” I said, sulkily.
He went to the freezer to get some ice and noticed that I had stuck a Little Debbie oatmeal cream pie in the freezer.
Little Debbie. That whore. She and I have been having an illicit affair for years. Since I’ve been losing weight and can’t quite get over the love she and I share, I’ve taken to freezing her delicious goodness so that if I want to eat it, it will take me approximately twelve years and usually I’ll get pissed off and give up.
It’s my new dieting strategy! Or something!
Anyway. Jason sees the cake in the freezer and says, “Do you like frozen Little Debbie cakes?”
I said I did.
His face broke into a grin.
“See! That’s something I didn’t know about you! I learn new stuff about you all the time!”
“Our marriage is saved,” I deadpanned.
He didn’t think that was very funny.