My Kind of Perfect

This weekend marked my two year anniversary with Exchange Student. And frankly, not a lot has changed since we first met. He is literally the best husband ever invented and I continue to be a less than desirable life partner.

Early Sunday morning I woke up to the sound of the front door slamming. After working six day weeks for the last month he snuck out early to get me the eleven, very well thought-out gifts he'd been planning on for the last year. I however laid in bed sleeping off my bad choices and the previous day’s 14 hour drinking session.

Lying face down in my pillow, I couldn't even gather the strength to turn my head to the side for a breath. I felt, and more importantly, smelled like a dead person. I laid there for a minute trying to figure out if I'd peed the bed. Unable to decide, I fell back to sleep.

I woke up to him pouring coffee in my mouth. He propped me up, fed me breakfast in bed and handed me, one-by-one, all the presents he’d picked out. I kissed him with my butt hole breath and then watched as he sat there..wantingly... Where were his presents? Surely I had them hidden in the closet or in my trunk since I hadn't bothered to get my ass out of bed this morning. 

Well that's a funny story, I told him and explained the jam packed schedule I had the previous day and that I'd had every intention of getting his gifts but events beyond my control prohibited me from doing so, namely 19 bottomless mason jars of Jeremiah Weed ice tea lemonades.   

"Not even a card? You don't even have a card for me". 

"Cards are for taints and besides what did you want me to do? 
Drink and drive!!!!!??"
"Just pull yourself together and meet me in the car." 

I slid out of bed, swished some toothpaste around in my mouth and threw on a tank top. I wiped the crusted mascara from my cheek, belched up some liquid heart burn and flew out the door. On my way to the car I debated how mad - on a scale of one to ten – he’d be if we pit stopped for a pitcher of Blood Mary's on the way to the movie theater. His people INVENTED hair of the dog and I needed one badly. Upon reaching the car door and seeing his I'm-annoyed-but-don't-want-to-ruin-this-day-so-I’m-smiling-instead-face I decided to put my boozy requests on the back burner. Ten. Ten for sure. 

Oh but good. Now I had to sit in the car for 40 damn minutes while he drove the whole three miles to our neighborhood theater. Good thing we're in no hurry. For anything. For the rest of time. 

But because CLEARLY I was in no position to say anything, I instead pointed out how lucky I was to be married to such a safe, overly attentive to the speed limit, prudent driver. For the rest of the road trip, I calculated how much faster I'd arrive at our destination if I’d just decided to Rollerblade. But realizing I would have to first borrow a pair from the gayest person I knew, and that my sister was out of town - I scratched that idea.

"We're here. Get out" 

Lots of people were out celebrating our anniversary ‘cause the movie theater was packed with a crowd gathering around the corner. It was in line with these fellow movie go-ers that he turned around to face me and noticed the two GIANT black arrows drawn with permanent marker across my chest pointing directly to my fun bags.

"Oh Jesus Christ God for FUCKS sake ERIN. This isn't funny, you're such a hooker. What in the FUCK happened last night?"

I looked down and immediately regretted my choice in tops. I was in the middle of explaining exactly what these mapping coordinates were all about when he told me to just go get a seat while he got the tickets and to quit laughing cause I wasn't funny. I headed inside and through the door I heard:

"And no one here thinks you're funny either!!!!!!!" Shouting after me. 

The crowd that had gathered quickly looked up at the ceiling and/or checked their idle cell phones.

During the movie I leaned over and whispered:

"I love you sugar balls"

"I love you too. Very much. Now stop being a cunt and watch the movie. "

In Treatment.

According to my therapist, I am just fine. But I completely disagree and work very hard convincing him otherwise.

"I don't know why you keep coming back, we really don't have much to talk about."

“You haven't met my mother. Trust me, I'm fucked."

Each session starts out the same: he asks me how my week has been, and I tell him I have a HUGE dilemma on my hands. The most recent: my bitch neighbor and how she judges me for my overweight dog. Corgis have portion control problems. So do I; we enable each other. In return for my nosy neighbor’s cunty behavior, I've spread the rumor that she's a serial killer and could the neighborhood watch group please patrol her side of the block more diligently.

"Is it normal that I feel this amount of anger towards her?"

"I'm not here to tell you what's normal and what's not normal."

"Well what the fuck good are you then!!!?"

He proceeds with some psycho babble bullshit as I lay on his couch popping skittles. He is very jolly, with thinning blond hair and always smells a little bit like a burrito. He falls out of character often; throwing his head back in laughter as he holds his belly. He has, I am certain, some of the best laughs of his life -buckled over, writhing in hysterics at my sad expense. I then watch as he attempts to collect himself and put his listening face back together.

During one of our first meetings we were obligated to have one of those conversations I'm sure psychologists role-play in Grad School when we realized we'd attended the same university, frequent the same dive bars, and have a few friends in common.

"I think we should talk about what would happen if we ever ran into one another outside of our sessions; I will take queues from you and respect your confidentiality first and foremost"

"Oh I can't wait for you to meet my friends!!!!"

He puts up with me but has asked politely that I stop Facebook friend requesting him. He has recommended countless other professionals that he's sure I would like, but I keep insisting I just couldn't bare having to start all over with someone new, that I'd miss him desperately and why are you trying to get rid of me you know I have abandonment issues. I get great satisfaction from the very obvious inequality in our likeness for one another: I adore him. He, professionally loathes me. I fantasize about the after-session unwinding he does while he struggles to document our session notes: She refuses to listen and I believe has a strong inclination towards delusions of grandeur.Her stories are very unsettling. She has beautiful hair.

He’ll be really excited next week when share that I’m in love with him. I have my outfit all picked out. The sweat will spill from his round little face and I will get to watch as he adjusts and re-adjusts in his doctor chair trying to quickly pull from his mental health archives how to deal with this crazy bitch. All while keeping a face of non-judgment.

I ran this little idea past Beth, my best friend and social worker.

"Erin, please don't do that. It's a really bad idea, and borders on unethical."

I laughed a lot. She did not.

I sit up to refill on skittles: "What did you and your wife do this weekend?"

"Erin you know these questions make me uncomfortable, let’s talk about you instead. Tell me about your weekend."

"Well, I had another dream about you..."

For As Long As We Both Shall Live.

There was a story featured on the news last week about an Oregon woman’s recent trip to the oral surgeon. She went in for a standard procedure, received general anesthesia and woke up with a very heavy, very foreign Scottish accent.

Her husband was quoted saying he’s having a hard time understanding his wife of thirty years, and that the last few weeks have been “very difficult”.

I pressed pause, shouted to Exchange Student that there was an emergency and could he please come right away; rewound and played the segment back for him.

“What a load of COCK!” he shouted. Only he was referring to the husband’s inability to understand his wife’s accent, NOT that this woman went to sleep sounding like an American and woke up sounding like Shrek.

I know exactly what that husband is going through. I can’t understand a damn word Exchange Student says. Never have. We’ve been married two years and it’s only getting worse.

"Don’t be ridiculous Erin, you can understand me just fine, stop exploiting me!”

“Come again?”

With a foreigner for a husband and no translator in house, you have a recipe for lots of misunderstandings: Directions, voicemails, marriage proposals….

How about when he orders out for Chinese? These are LITERALLY the greatest moments of my life. He is in a pure state of frustration, close to tears, as he attempts over and over to order General Tso chicken and some dumplings. I put it on speaker phone so I can laugh hands-free. Only after three tried and failed attempts will I put him.. and Dong, out of their mutual misery.

Never mind eating in, dinners out are an extra treat:

“Can you behave yourself tonight, ‘cause I’m not in the mood for that shit you pull.”

“What?”

Obligatory eye roll. Which I love. And it’s a good thing, ‘cause I get it a lot. He then buckles down for a long night of what he assumes will consist primarily of me forcing him to do all sorts of things he doesn’t want to. He’s bracing himself... annoyed IN ADVANCE. “Calm down Paddy, I’m not feeling that annoying tonight anyway.”

Strike one: I’m talking to the table next to me. He quickly realizes I've made instant besties with my fellow food snobs and he will now be required to participate otherwise risk looking like a mail order husband. Begrudgingly, he joins the conversation giving me the "I fucking knew it" look.

Don’t feel bad for him. He knew exactly what he was getting into. His cold, dark Irish charm is only endearing until about date #3. From there it loses out big time to obnoxious, louder, funnier, super slut Yank.

While I'm now eating off my new friend’s plate, he has in a matter of moments, become the most popular patron in the restaurant. Our new friends are planning the next couples sleep over and the restaurant owner is giving him a handy while spoon feeding him mashed potatoes. And for the rest of the evening I watch from the corner as the crowd, sitting cross-legged at his feet, listens to Exchange Student a he sips Guinness and tells tales from the old country.

I've lived in Minnesota almost my entire life; I have four and half friends. The half includes my financial adviser who gets paid to talk to me.

“This is horseshit! I’ll be at the strip club."