Read Online A Walk in the Snark by Rachel Thompson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rachel Thompson
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closet?
Well. When we moved into our new home last year, I noticed right away during the initial walk-through that the master bedroom has a decent sized walk-in closet with lots of built-in shelving. It looked just the right size for all of my clothing, plus shoes and handbags. Oh, and don’t forget my costume jewelry. Like you would.
The husband, on the other hand, commented that we could finally share a closet.
Honey, say what?
Me: Darling. Sweet child of mine. I love you and all but ARE YOU FREAKIN’ CRAZY? I haven’t had to share a closet since I was a kid and had to share Barbie space with my older (had to get that in) sister, Caren. I still have emotional scars from that disastrous wreckage. Do you know what she did to my Skipper doll? Let’s just say Skipper “skipped” for good reason when she was done with her.
Husband: Yes, I know, I know. And I know she drew red lipstick on your favorite Raggedy Ann doll’s face, sweetie (which only made me love her more). But sometimes married people do things like this. It’s called compromise .
Me: Eek! There it is. The C-word. You know I hate that word. Baby. Sweetheart. We’ve successfully not screwed up our eighteen years of marriage so far by never uttering that word. And by not sharing closet space. While not the only reason for our success—I do let you hold the TV remote—I feel strongly that I must make a stand here. In my Manolos. (Shows feet prettily.) Aren’t they gorgeous?
Alas, gorgeous feet and all, I failed to make my point. However, I did successfully manage to utilize over 80 percent of the closet (I measured). It’s not like I actually wear all that stuff. But I MIGHT. At some point. (Why do they always ask us that question? Men.)
So I did learn there are sacrifices one must make for marriage. Sigh.
And I made him buy me some bitchin’ Prada Mary Janes.
Actually, I think I kinda like this sacrifice thing.
I’ve now got my eye on a pretty Louis Vuitton wallet—red patent leather, just gorgeous.
Me: Honey, if you want, I’ll share the kitchen with you!
(Note: I did give away a bunch of clothing to our local shelter for abused women and their children. In Orange County alone, domestic violence is up by 25 percent for women and over 60 percent for children this past year. I want those ladies to feel beautiful after all the hell they’ve been through and the kids...well, no words. If you’d like to donate, check out Laura’s House . Thanks.)
***
“ I joke about hating to cook, but to be honest, I don’t really hate it.
I detest it w/ every fiber of my Louis Vuitton handbag.”
PAPER TOWEL WARS
Eighteen years of marriage has given my husband and me lots of time to bond over the little things: our love of sci-fi movies, our children, great food (that I don’t have to cook), and that he doesn’t question my closet space needs.
But what I still can’t understand are the little wads of paper towels he leaves lying around—aka scrunchies. No wonder I hate going in that room where ya know, food comes out of.
Shivers.
For some reason, men and paper towels just don’t mix.
Well, let me amend that. Men will USE paper towels. They just can’t seem to throw them away. They leave them scrunched up around the kitchen like little paper gifts for you to find later; small, white, non-shiny presents you never asked for and certainly don’t want.
The gift that keeps on giving.
Except it’s not like, ya know, Prada.
My husband and I have discussed this tissue—I mean issue—at length. Why doesn’t he throw out the paper towels that he uses? The rest of the family doesn’t seem to have a problem, after washing our hands, with throwing a paper towel away in the trash can that’s not more than a few feet away.
Is he becoming arthritic? (I mean, he did just turn fifty-six.)
Or are the paper towel droppings part of the
Well. When we moved into our new home last year, I noticed right away during the initial walk-through that the master bedroom has a decent sized walk-in closet with lots of built-in shelving. It looked just the right size for all of my clothing, plus shoes and handbags. Oh, and don’t forget my costume jewelry. Like you would.
The husband, on the other hand, commented that we could finally share a closet.
Honey, say what?
Me: Darling. Sweet child of mine. I love you and all but ARE YOU FREAKIN’ CRAZY? I haven’t had to share a closet since I was a kid and had to share Barbie space with my older (had to get that in) sister, Caren. I still have emotional scars from that disastrous wreckage. Do you know what she did to my Skipper doll? Let’s just say Skipper “skipped” for good reason when she was done with her.
Husband: Yes, I know, I know. And I know she drew red lipstick on your favorite Raggedy Ann doll’s face, sweetie (which only made me love her more). But sometimes married people do things like this. It’s called compromise .
Me: Eek! There it is. The C-word. You know I hate that word. Baby. Sweetheart. We’ve successfully not screwed up our eighteen years of marriage so far by never uttering that word. And by not sharing closet space. While not the only reason for our success—I do let you hold the TV remote—I feel strongly that I must make a stand here. In my Manolos. (Shows feet prettily.) Aren’t they gorgeous?
Alas, gorgeous feet and all, I failed to make my point. However, I did successfully manage to utilize over 80 percent of the closet (I measured). It’s not like I actually wear all that stuff. But I MIGHT. At some point. (Why do they always ask us that question? Men.)
So I did learn there are sacrifices one must make for marriage. Sigh.
And I made him buy me some bitchin’ Prada Mary Janes.
Actually, I think I kinda like this sacrifice thing.
I’ve now got my eye on a pretty Louis Vuitton wallet—red patent leather, just gorgeous.
Me: Honey, if you want, I’ll share the kitchen with you!
(Note: I did give away a bunch of clothing to our local shelter for abused women and their children. In Orange County alone, domestic violence is up by 25 percent for women and over 60 percent for children this past year. I want those ladies to feel beautiful after all the hell they’ve been through and the kids...well, no words. If you’d like to donate, check out Laura’s House . Thanks.)
***
“ I joke about hating to cook, but to be honest, I don’t really hate it.
I detest it w/ every fiber of my Louis Vuitton handbag.”
PAPER TOWEL WARS
Eighteen years of marriage has given my husband and me lots of time to bond over the little things: our love of sci-fi movies, our children, great food (that I don’t have to cook), and that he doesn’t question my closet space needs.
But what I still can’t understand are the little wads of paper towels he leaves lying around—aka scrunchies. No wonder I hate going in that room where ya know, food comes out of.
Shivers.
For some reason, men and paper towels just don’t mix.
Well, let me amend that. Men will USE paper towels. They just can’t seem to throw them away. They leave them scrunched up around the kitchen like little paper gifts for you to find later; small, white, non-shiny presents you never asked for and certainly don’t want.
The gift that keeps on giving.
Except it’s not like, ya know, Prada.
My husband and I have discussed this tissue—I mean issue—at length. Why doesn’t he throw out the paper towels that he uses? The rest of the family doesn’t seem to have a problem, after washing our hands, with throwing a paper towel away in the trash can that’s not more than a few feet away.
Is he becoming arthritic? (I mean, he did just turn fifty-six.)
Or are the paper towel droppings part of the
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