Mr. Shambels

There are no “drinking games."  All drinking is a game.  Who you drink with, what you drink, how much you drink, when you drink, and finally why do you allow certain people to play…with you…when you drink. 

Marriage changes multiple rules of the drinking game.  “I’m drinking to try to loosen up and get to know you” quickly turns into “I’ll just have a glass of Pinot because I’m married and can’t do the splits in a bar dance contest anymore.” 

I’ll meet you halfway on that one.  Married or not, splits in a bar dance contest is still a bad idea, (until you win the 200 dollars to pay your tab), but if say, on a Friday night, I want to get a little slap happy and play some half-ass Scrabble with Teen Jeopardy playing in the background, that should be kosher.  That should be more than kosher. 

That should be like Hebrew National wife award style level awesome.

Mr. Shambels, (he can take my blog last name since I took his “real life” one or whatever), is a snapdragon over that scene.  I make dinner, he talks about work – or not – and then he goes night-nights.

“Everyone goes night-night’s” he says. But…no.  Insomniacs do not go night-nights so I have to play with all of the caller-ins to Andy Cohen’s “Watch What Happens Live” show until I can join the unconscious club that he so quickly can attend a meeting.

I’ll begrudgingly admit that it works though.  A shift in crazy or responsibility in either of us would surely cause the universe to implode. 

Married much?

      So now, after 12 years of dating, I have found "the one."  According to modern society we should've gotten to know each other first but I was all like mmmmm I'm good.  20 minutes is long enough to get to know someone and after telling him him I loved him within that period, I think that proposing 6 months after was just the gentlemanly thing to do.

      Now listen, I'm not crazy, (awkward giggle, cartwheel out of the room), I had just approached the age where the get-your-shit-together alarm was going off and he had really big blue eyes.  I am now realizing that because our love saga has been based on the Nicholas Cage classic, "Speed," we've hit our four year mark early.  Kissing in public one minute and telling him I hate his stupid face over the table at Olive Garden the next.

     I'm actually coming up with reasons for him to go to the store so I don't have to watch him fold the laundry like a Nazi for five minutes.  First I'm all like "omg he's doing the laundry, how did I get so lucky" and then I'm all like "where the #$%^ are my white shorts."  I eventually return to a feeling of immense gratitude because who is going to do the laundry while I write this stupid post.  And for that, and so many other reasons, I love him. And in the few moments I'm struggling to do so, I just remind him that Jodi Arias is a real thing...
 
     To be completely honest, it's kind of fun playing the old, nutty couple.  Sometimes.  The public "babe," (eyeroll, sigh), is frusterating but oddly endearing and makes strangers like you.  I have yet to figure out exactly why relationship sympathy is such a bonding force but I'm not complaining.  You know the old married couples out at dinner that just sit there and scowl at each other without talking?  You always feel sorry for them and curse the day it could ever be you.  Guess what...we've done it and it's kind of awesome.  There's no pressure to talk and as irritated as you might be you are sitting, staring back at the person that you know you have to make up with in five minutes.  The beauty of this fight is that you aren't worrying about if he is going to leave you or if he's going to go out with the boys all weekend...you're worrying about what you are going to have for dessert...and that's just kind of the best worry to have.