Read Online If It Was Easy, They'd Call the Whole Damn Thing a Honeymoon by Jenna McCarthy - Free Book Online Page B

being patently ridiculous.
    “Was too!” he’ll bellow, huffing and planting his hands on his hips dramatically. (You won’t be able to see this over the phone, but trust me—he’s doing it.)
    “Were not,” you’ll say incredulously. Well, he wasn’t!
    “Was to-oooooo!” he’ll shout, eyes closed and index fingers stuck in his ears. To answer your unspoken questions: Yes, you married him, and no, it’s not worth divorcing him over unless you want to stay single and celibate forever, because eventually you would have this exact conversation with every other man on the planet.

“At Least You’re Not Married to Him”
    When I’m in bed watching TV, he’ll come in and try to persuade me to change the channel to something we “both” like. I’m not stupid. What he means is that he wants to change it to something he likes.
    MIKEY
     
     
    Now, I know lots of people—some of them even women—who like to watch TV in bed. As you could probably surmise, I am not one of them. I like to go to bed early and get up early, and I can’t sleep unless I’m in silent pitch-blackness, so it just wouldn’t work. Joe has begged many, many times over the years to get me to just try it , but I always stand firm on this one. He even attempted to woo me with the compelling argument that it would be “really fun for the girls to climb in here on Saturday mornings and watch cartoons.” It’s hard not to hate a man who can easily sleep through the SpongeBob theme song, but my husband really does have many redeeming qualities, so I try to fixate mostly on those. No matter what Joe’s argument is, I know I will win as soon as I whip out the sex card, the one that conveniently details the scores of studies that have found that couples who have TVs in their bedrooms have less sex than couples who don’t.
    I am sure it is because he is so deprived of bedroom entertainment (and I’m mostly talking about the televised kind here) at home that Joe acts like an inmate who’s just discovered his cell has a free cigarette machine whenever we walk into a hotel room.
    Before I’ve even had a chance to scope out the honor bar or check to see if the last guests left anything good in the safe, he is sprawled spread-eagle on top of the comforter (he obviously doesn’t read the studies where they report the sorts of things they find on there), looking a bit like a hairy, mannish Angel with his remote control “gun” pointed at the TV. It matters not if the room’s set is smaller and older and has far fewer bells and whistles than any of the models we have at home. To Joe, the ability to indulge in this beloved pastime from the unparalleled comfort of a bed ranks up there with winning the Heisman Trophy, the Nobel Peace Prize, and the super lottery all in one day.
    My husband, an astute guy who knows how to play any situation to his advantage, has picked up on the fact that “vacation rules” are quite different from “home rules.” They must be, if the wife who is a veggie-pushing nutrition Nazi at home will give in to her family’s pit stop pleas for Doritos and Yoo-Hoo and then actually be cool enough to call it dinner.
    “Wow,” he’ll say, sucking the powdery processed cheese from his fingers. “I’m proud of you.” For relaxing your ridiculously rigid standards for the first time in possibly ever , is the part he is wise enough not to say out loud.
    “Whatever,” I reply breezily. “We’re on vacation!”
    Totally abusing my laid-back holiday attitude, he will try to squeeze as much TV time into any given getaway as I’ll allow. Every time we return to our hotel room, he molests the set like it’s his long-lost, war-torn lover. He begs me to order room service, thinking I’ll be impressed with his big-spender façade, when really the fantastical idea of watching TV and eating in bed—at the same time—is almost more than he can bear. If I protest, he flings my words back at me like poo in a monkey