Saturday Scraps and Spills.

Henry and I pretty much spent most of Saturday arguing. Or, if you ask Henry, I spent most of the day arguing. I can’t help it. Sometimes I just wake up in the mood to feud, you know?

At one point that afternoon, he fell asleep on my shoulder and I was really offended about this. I AM NO ONE’S PILLOW.

We were on the mend by later in the evening though. I guess. I had mostly forgiven him for taking too long in Target when he knew I was in the car waiting, and for not reading my psychic hunger pangs that were moaning, “BUYYYY ERINNNN A SNACKKKK” so then he went to Rite Aid and basically chucked a granola bar at my face. And then I bitched because it was apple cinnamon and I wasn’t in the MOOD for apple cinnamon.

But then I needed a distraction during the terrible Pens game that night, so I forced Henry to pretend like he liked me long enough for me to take stupid pictures using a photobooth app and he was like, “This is really dumb.” And it was pretty dumb. Especially when I was like, “NOW I’M GOING TO PRETEND TO TELL YOU A SECRET” and he was like, “That’s not my ear.”

 

I was mad at him again yesterday. Chooch had a 2-hour delay because of Winter, so I worked from home in the morning and then begged Henry to drive me to work once I pushed Chooch out the door for school, but Henry was all, “Work excuses, etc” so I had to walk in miserable snow and cold to the trolley stop and apparently the only people who use the trolley at 11am are cash paying motherfuckers so the trolley spent FOREVER at every stop while I was being pinned against the wall of the trolley by some bitch’s baby stroller. It was just awful, so I texted Henry and told him that I fell on my walk to the trolley because I wanted him to feel terrible.

He was all, “ARE YOU OK?!?!” and I waited a full hour before replying, “Not really.” I told him I hurt my hip, and then to make sure my bases were covered, I prepped Barb and Wendy just in case Henry decided to check in with them, which he sometimes threatens to do.

“Tell him that you saw me and I was dragging my leg behind me,” I urged Barb, who excitedly said, “OK BOSS! SURE BOSS!” because Barb loves deception.

And then today we were laughing because Henry was all concerned about my fake fall when he actually DID fall on Saturday. Did I tell you this story? No? WELL IT’S A GOOD ONE.

(It’s not that good.)

Henry got up early on Saturday to cheat on me, I mean, “to go to work for a little bit.” He thought the sidewalk was just wet from rain but it was FROZEN. So he slipped and fell on our sidewalk and came right back in the house and went back to bed. When we woke up later on, he very casually told me what happened, and then I proceeded to not give a fuck. Henry spent the rest of the day functioning like a normal person who hadn’t just bit it on ice, so it was easy for me to continue my streak of not being a concerned and sympathetic girlfriend. But then I’d jovially punch him, because that is how I show LOVE, and he would moan, “OW MY ELBOW. I HURT MY ELBOW WHEN I FELL.” And that’s all boo-hoo, so sad too bad, and whatever, but I think it’s awfully convenient that he just happened to “fall” on “ice” when he had a few pages of chores lined up for the weekend. I was pretty incensed about that. AND I DON’T MEAN THAT I STUNK OF NAG CHAMPA.

I never have any pity on him when he’s sick or gets hurt.  Remember when his co-worker ran over his foot with a pallet jack? No? Well, it happened and it was hilarious because he literally said nothing about it all day, until he came to pick me up from work that night, got out of the car and said, “I think my foot is broken, can you drive?” Fuck, people—if that had been my foot getting pancaked by a pallet jack, you best believe I’d have hollered about it from the hills of every last social media platform. 140 vulgar yells on Twitter. Pictures of the bruises and swelling on Instagram.  A vague and mysterious musing on Facebook to bait people into fishing for details. A whiny, TLDR blog post further martyring myself while turning off even more blog readers. A DIY tutorial for a rustic pallet jack murder weapon, with a mason jar holder and decorative Pom-Pom fringe, pinned on Pinterest. Yearly reshares of Timehop from that day, prefaced with “That time when I lost my foot in The War.” Sometimes Henry’ll wince all these years later when he steps down wrong and I’ll cry, “WHAT’S THE MATTER? PALLET FOOT?!” And he gets so mad.) So I kept manhandling him and making (un)reasonable demands of him all weekend, and finally he snapped and said, “YOU KNOW, THANK GOD I DIDN’T GET SERIOUSLY INJURED WHEN I FELL. I WOULD PROBABLY STILL BE LAYING OUT THERE BECAUSE YOU AND CHOOCH ARE USELESS.”

And then I couldn’t stop laughing while picturing him, lying prostrate and crippled on the sidewalk, with crows picking away at him. I’m sure Chooch and I would have discovered him eventually, once it was time for our first feeding.