Sunday, May 25, 2014

My husband is dangerously close to mysteriously dying

A struggle of living in a feminist marriage is that I have no power or authority over my husband that he doesn't have over me. This means constant war, and Peter and I take our battles seriously.

For the past month TVA has been warning us about upcoming cleaning checks. They were finally supposed to happen yesterday between 7 and 11 am. I have many criticisms of this school, and the decision to do cleaning checks in married housing on a Saturday morning between 7 and 11 am is just about the dumbest thing I've ever heard.

Peter left to take a practise LSAT around 7am, and returned around 11:40. Meanwhile, I slept peacefully with the whole bed to myself until he returned. This was fantastic, but it meant that if any cleaning check happened, it was while I was unconscious and drooling. Still, we didn't see any indication that anyone had come in to assess our level of slobbery (can I use that as a noun?)
At first we tidied the apartment to make sure that if our RAs arrived on Hawaiian Standard Time, we would be prepared, but still no one came, so we had a wrestling match instead and messed up the apartment in the meantime.

Around 1:15pm, Peter left the apartment to go to the temple, and I went to the bathroom with the intent of taking a shower afterwards. Here I am, sitting pretty on the toilet, sans clothing, when I hear five fast and loud thumps on our front door. There is no way that I am going to answer the door, in fact, there's no way I CAN open the door, but this doesn't matter to my visitor, as moments later I head the key card click and the door open.
"Oh, heeeeeeeyyyy no" I think to myself, "They are hours late and they think they can just come into my home??"
Assuming the intruder is unaware of my presence, I quickly flush the toilet and turn on the shower, figuring the only way I can maintain dignity is to take my shower and wait for them to leave. The whole time I wash, I spew an angry inner monologue about the fail we are sure to receive on our cleaning check because SOME PEOPLE can't come when they SAY they'll come, simultaneously afraid that when I do leave in my towel, I will awkwardly be faced with a stranger waiting in my apartment.

When I do leave the bathroom minutes later it is to find Peter at his computer chuckling.
"Was that you??" I demand.
"Mmmmaybe" he responds with a smirk.
"I thought you were the RA!" I yell.
"Oh, I know," he tells me still smirking.


In the middle of the night last night I awoke to Peter laughing in his sleep. I chuckle and nuzzle closer to him, tying to make sure I can hear anything he says so I can mock tell him in the morning. He continues to giggle, then suddenly whips his body and arm around to roll on his side, fist making strong and painful contact with my nose as he does so. At the time, Peter awoke and said, "sorry sorry sorry!" before falling asleep again as I went to get ice for my face, but now he says he has no recollection of such a thing. Uh huh, sure you don't. I'm on to you, you night giggle-puncher.

This morning as I got pretty for church with a sore face and a grumpy disposition, I found that Peter had been possessed by the spirit of Speedy Gonzales with a exhibitionist fetish. This means that while I sat on the couch immersed in my makeup bag, Peter was running around the apartment giggling and lifting up his shirt to flash me his chest at random intervals, laughing, singing, and dancing when I would look up to see. We are mature adults in a mature adult relationship.

So maybe these aren't great example of our war battles, but they're funny stories, and I'm still butthurt about Peter's RA knocking to scare me, so the Speedy joke could be taken as a short crack too.

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