I have been watching Desperate Housewives since the beginning—I know you’re shocked that I watch something that’s not on MTV, or that I watch something age-appropriate at all. One of the characters was killed off last week and the funeral/flashback episode was last night. This particular character has always kind of reminded me of Henry because he’s always fixing shit for everyone on the street, not to mention he’s the voice of reason for his flighty wife. He’s basically just the kind of guy everyone should have in their life. So watching these flashbacks and the eulogy, it made me super-depressed to the point where my stomach was upset from all the sobbing, because all I could think about was Henry dying.
And how fucked I’m gonna be.
“Do you have life insurance?” I asked him last night. He said yes (NEWS TO ME), and then I panicked and decided that we need to make our Wills immediately. (We were supposed to do this when I was pregnant, but then I became too caught up in belt-sanding my palate with assorted gummy candy, crying in defeat over stretch marks and the unnerving sensation of being wish-boned, and daydreaming of all the creative ways to castrate Henry for causing me such duress.)
“How will Chooch and I survive?!” I wailed. “We’re going to be eating gas station jerky and wearing soiled burlap sacks as clothes.” And then after a beat, I blurted out, “Your mom will have to come live with us.” Best solution ever.
“It’s nice to know you have me dying before my mother,” Henry mumbled, not thrilled at all that instead of me “repaying” him for that day’s amazing flea market purchase, we were sitting on the couch, me drenched in tears and burrowing into his side, talking about death.
“You should get a work-from-home job,” I said desperately. “I don’t want you going out there anymore!” I waved my arms toward the front door.
I was still rambling on about this as we got ready for bed.
“I mean, I feel like you would protect me from the elements—”
“The elements?” Henry laughed.
“—from life, and you know, myself. But I don’t feel like you’d fight for me.” (Clearly I was still comparing him to dead Mike Delfino.)
“Really?” he asked, a little surprised.
“Yeah, because you’re not a fighter.”
“Well, no, I’m not going to go out and look for fights—-”
I started cracking up.
“What?” he asked with trepidation.
“Nothing, I’m just picturing you in a red leather jacket, on a dock at night, looking for fights.”
“What if you came home and someone was raping me?” I suggested, always up for a good scenario or two. “Would you fight them?”
Henry sounded slightly offended when he answered, “Um, yeah, I think if I found someone raping you, I’d fight them.”
“WHAT IF THEY STABBED YOU?!”
“I don’t know! Do you want me to shoot them? I’ll shoot them. But then I’d have to go in the basement, get the shotgun, go to the store and get shells, come home, put the gun together—-”
“Wait, you have a gun?!”
MORE NEWS TO ME.
Henry’s going to have to start teaching me things about life, like how to do laundry (I forget, OK?!) and cook things that aren’t from the freezer section, maybe I could stand to learn how to iron clothes….Oh my god, I don’t want Henry to die. I’m going to curl up with Marcy and cry about it some more.
Thanks a lot, Desperate Housewives.
Who else is gonna make sure I don’t drink bleach?! No one, that’s who. :(No tags for this post.