Another personal story because I KNOW HOW ALL OF YOU KINKY FUCKERS LOVE TO LAUGH AT ME.
Most of you already know how apple pie is my go-to get-out-of-jail-free card with Husband. I do penitance pie with flair.
Well, maybe not free; my ass still gets the comeuppance it deserves. But it's the comeuppance I think it deserves, which is nowhere near the abuse HUSBAND usually thinks it deserves, and while some of you may think that's an underhanded tactic on my part, I say, TOO BAD: when it involves my ability to sit, I'm gonna do whatever I can to facilitate.
Yesterday morning Husband left the house without saying one word to me. From the time he got up, until the moment I dropped him off at the train station—not one word. I assumed it was because he was furious with me, and I knew why. It was because he'd had a lot of sodium and MSG in his dinner the night before, and sodium and MSG makes him snore when he sleeps. He ended up snoring so loudly that night, I had to poke him to roll over...over and over again. It's not my fault if I woke him up. And it's certainly not my fault that last poke went in his eye.
But, you know, I could understand why he would think differently. So I decided it was probably in my best interest to bake him an apple pie. I let him know by text. He was pleased.
When he got home, he found me in the kitchen, preparing dinner. He leaned against the counter and stared at me.
"What?" I asked. "Nothing," he said. "I just didn't sleep good last night." "IT'S NOT MY FAULT," I immediately shouted. "YOU are the one who ate that damn MSG soup. You KNOW that stuff makes you snore." He looked at me like I'd just gone mad. "What?" "I was trying to sleep too!" I kept yelling. "I have bad aim when I'm half asleep! And YOU kept ME up, too!" "Wait," he said. "Wait a minute. Did you...did you poke me last night when I was trying to sleep? Was I snoring, and you poked me?" "...Yeah?" I said. "You mean you don't remember?" "I had no idea. What do you mean, you have bad aim? Where did you poke me? In my balls?" "No, in, uh, your shoulder." "Really. Where did you poke me?" "I may have kinda slightly got your eye. BUT IT'S NOT MY FAULT." "It doesn't hurt," he said, touching his eye. "I guess it wasn't as bad as you thought." "You mean...you really don't remember this at all?...But then why didn't you say anything to me this morning?" "Cause I was tired and had a sore throat?" He said. "You thought—you thought I was angry at you? Is that why you decided to make me pie?" I was frowning too deeply to answer at this point. Husband, on the other hand, started laughing uproariously. "It's different when I make you pie and you're NOT mad at me, you know," I said through gnashed teeth, watching him laugh. "I get brownie points for this." He stopped laughing long enough to think about that for a moment. "Wait a little longer," he said then. "I'm sure you'll do something I'll be mad at you for." And he started laughing once more. "THIS IS NOT FAIR," I said. "Wife," he said, offering me a kiss on the head, "it's not meant to be."
I live under a bus—a bus that right now, tastes like apple pie, and does not give brownie points. It's not fair.