This fall is my fifteenth wedding anniversary. By a wild coincidence, it’s also Husbandrinka’s, so I started celebrating already by thinking of all the things he can do to improve our relationship, writing all the suggestions in a notebook, tying a ribbon around it and presenting it to him in lieu of a gift. Is it me, or is this gift making itself?
And one of the things I’ve been thinking about is the way he speaks to me. Gone are the days when he wanders around the apartment asking himself in a loud and clear voice how did he get so lucky to marry me or whether I was real or just a mirage of what every man would want in a woman. (Part of the reason those days are gone, of course, is that I stopped taking hallucinogens, but this is neither the time nor the place to discuss that turn of events.) But instead of muttering sweet nothings, a few weeks ago as we were driving home from the dacha, and I took a quick picture on my iPhone of the Croton reservoir that we were passing, and a while later of the bottom of the George Washington Bridge, he asked me, in the most loving and adorable way possible, if I were an al Quaeda operative because what’s with the sudden obsession with the New York State water supply system.
Look, it’s hard to keep things alive and interesting after fifteen years, although god knows Husbandrinka is trying, so I assume that accusing your wife of terrorist acts is now part of his repertoire.
I’m obviously very enthusiastic about this development and can’t wait to see what the next few decades bring. Hopefully there’ll be WiFi in Gitmo so I can share the news with you.
And as luck would have it, I’m over at The Mouthy Housewives today talking about what happens when you didn’t marry you best friend.