call me Eeyore ’cause I talk all slow like, Muh tail…fell awf…agaaaain.”
That was it. I was done.
I don’t know how Ding-Dong got home that night, but I do know that, in my haste to get out of there, I put at least one more hole in that already crumbling ceiling.
Eeyore? Eeyore??
Goddamn, that man had shitty taste in tattoos!
Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever—Entry #2
October 11
Dear Journal,
I wrote a haiku today. I think I’ll call it “BB Suffers.”
Today, you told me
You rub Baby’s feet at night.
Not my feet, Ken? Why??
So, this afternoon, while I was holding the baby, I noticed that she kept doing this weird thing where she’d contort her leg into an awful-looking position just so that she could stick her foot into the palm of my hand.
When I brought it to Ken’s attention, he nonchalantly explained, “She just wants you to rub her foot. I rub her fee…”
Ken’s mouth snapped shut as a wave of regret and fear washed over his beautiful face. He’d just fucked up. He knew it, and I knew it.
My eyebrows shot up, and I pulled my mouth into a homicidal pucker. You do what now?
Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Ken decided that he’d better try to smooth over his little admission, lest he be castrated.
“I-I just rub her feet sometimes, at night, when it’s my turn to put her to bed, so now”—clearing his throat—“she always sticks her foot in my hand when I-I’m reading to her.”
Let me tell you something, Journal. This motherfucker makes a point of never touching my feet, like he prides himself on having never touched my feet, and they’re really cute feet! It’s not like they’re all hairy and man-sized and riddled with bunions and hammertoes. They’re tiny and pedicured, and all ten digits point in the right direction. One of them even has a cute little freckle and everything! Regardless of the amount of buffing and bedazzling that my feet have undergone, if I so much as graze Ken with my one of them while we’re on the couch, he will get up and move to the other couch.
Why, you ask?
Because, in his words, “Feet are gross.”
Are they? Are they, Ken? Evidently, you don’t think the baby’s feet are gross, and she gets shit on them at least once a week when I’m changing her diaper and I don’t move the poopy one out of the way fast enough. And she’s always putting them in her mouth. She’s not a cat, Ken. Licking herself does not make her cleaner than me. Quite the opposite. In fact, if anyone in this house has gross feet, it’s the fucking baby!
So, it would appear that Ken doesn’t have a “problem with feet” after all. I’d be willing to wager that he doesn’t even have a problem with my feet. (I mean, how could he? They’re fucking adorable.)
I think what Ken actually has a problem with is doing something, anything, that I want him to do. In the world of psychology, we call that oppositional defiant disorder. In this marriage, however, I just chalk it up to reason #983 why Ken is an asshole.
Oh No, I Incest
October 26
Dear Journal,
I had an epiphany this afternoon.
After waiting all goddamn day for my kids to take a nap so that I could pounce on Ken, two o’clock was finally upon me. I literally threw my son into bed and raced through a shamefully condensed version of The Cat in the Hat before rushing over to Baby Girl’s room where I speed-nursed her to sleep. In twenty minutes flat, I was bouncing back down the stairs and onto Ken’s unsuspecting lap. He was clearly absorbed in a riveting episode of Politically Incorrect with Bill Maher, so I knew I would have my work cut out for me.
As I straddled him, I pried the remote from his hand and turned off the TV. Before he could protest, I had his glasses off, my fingers in his hair, and my tongue in his mouth. He tasted like orange Gatorade, which is what my dad always used to make me drink when I got the flu as a kid and couldn’t hold down solids. To this day, the smell of orange Gatorade is permanently married to the smell of vomit in my brain. Needless to say, it took a few minutes to get things going, but I was determined to hump him out of his political satire–induced coma and me