The doctor said my husband got Shingles because of a weakened immune system. But I’d like to think it’s because he ate my pumpkin pie, then laughed in my face.
At Urgent Care where my husband is diagnosed with Shingles.
Him to me: “It’d be nice if you showed me some compassion instead of acting like I’m an old goat that needs to be put down.”
At the dinner table, my husband declares he’s thankful his copy of “Shadow of Mordor” came in the mail.
The baby and I blink at him.
Him: “OH MY GOD AND YOU GUYS.”
Every day, I stand in front of the mirror, look myself squarely in the eyes, take a deep breath and know that today might very well be the day that my newborn throws up into my mouth.
Me: “Do you like Justin Timberlake?”
Him: “I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.”
Me: “I meant as an artist…”
Him: “Great. Now I feel weird.”
WARNING ALL HUSBANDS: Do not ask your wife whether the hot fudge she’s eating for breakfast is on her post-baby diet.
Him: “Sometimes Oliver reminds me of a pet turtle I had when I was little. But hopefully I won’t forget to water Oliver, and he won’t dry up like an old turd.”