Suck it Sam!

On our wedding day, my husband Sam had the grand idea to smoke a cigar with his father directly before our first dance.  I had to endure that awful stench for an entire three minutes and forty two seconds.  As our song was coming to a close, I softly and sweetly whispered to him, “Baby, you better find a tic-tac and some fucking Febreze if you think you’re dancing with me again tonight.”

He found some gum and sprayed on some of my sister’s Victoria’s Secret body splash.  I guess he made an effort, so I danced with him again anyhow.  He has done better since that moment, though.  To make up for his poorly timed male bonding that night, he now wakes me up every morning on our anniversary and we dance together to our song.  Long say it out loud Aaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

My husband makes me smile and laugh, and has hung in there with me through thick and thin.  If you’ve been following this blog, or know me in real life, you can imagine what he’s endured.  Only my best friend Angie (again – not me in third person) knows what he has actually endured, and she has a lot of shit she’s taking to the grave with her.

Sam and I were friends for long years before I realized he was the right one for me.  I was a silly, stupid girl (see my dating advice for my daughter).  I stumbled upon this actualization that he was meant for me about a week before he was scheduled to go on vacation with another one of his close female friends.  (He had lots of girl friends, but very few girlfriends.)  They traveled down to Mexico together and I wrote a truly terrible poem about my concerns.  I remember there being a line like “Don’t fall in love under the summer sun – you’ll get tanned, and I’ll get burned.”  Awful; just fucking awful.

Sam had never been big on poetry anyway.  I’m not entirely sure he understands the majority of my writing.  He knows it makes me happy though, so he tries to be supportive.  I say TRY because I think this takes a real concerted effort on his part.  I can imagine that he keeps repeating the word “fiction” in his head.  “Fiction! Fiction! Whey can’t she write fucking fiction?”  Lately, I’ve been hearing a lot of, “Oh shit.  Please don’t write about this in your blog.”    

My husband teaches in a juvenile correctional facility, so he has a lot of patience.  The students here refer to him as a “Ned Flanders looking mother fucker.”  He shrugs it off, and keeps on trying.  As if his occupation were not challenging enough, then he has to come home to me.  Poor suffering bastard.  And now, because he was a wee bit pissy with me tonight when I told him I was writing despite his needing help with our children, I have made it my goal to prove him wrong.  All successful marriages are built on one spouse constantly needing to be right. 

For me to be right in this particular instance I need to increase my readership to over 100 likes in one week.  I need your help to make that happen, so start following Not Appropriate Angela on facebook.  I’ll be holding you all in my heart when I scream: “SUCK IT!”