gone from a frigid old husbot whose idea of a date night involved curling up on his side of the couch to sleep through a Redbox movie (but only if they’d emailed him a coupon code because a dollar forty is evidently too much to pay for a cinematic experience), to a confident, insatiable sex panther who shells out hundreds of dollars for front-row concert tickets and meals (plural, as in, he no longer insists that we share an entrée to save money) at non-chain restaurants before pounding me into oblivion for dessert.
And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Ken had also tossed me a few compliments here and there as well!
God, I felt like such an asshole. I hadn’t even noticed!
Before the Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever, Ken’s compliments were only those that had been elicited under threat of dismemberment. But lately there had been a handful of times where Ken actually said something unshitty about me—not my cooking or my ability to change a diaper, one-handed, but about me.
For example, after getting ready for one of our dates last month, Ken did manage to squeak out a little, “You look nice,” without me having to pout or resort to ultimatums or anything.
At the time, I’d just assumed he was only saying it because he knew he’d have a royal bitch on his hands if he didn’t, but Ken had never even preemptively complimented me before, so it was still progress.
As I lay there, watching the hunky human Ken doll I shared a bed with disappear between my legs, his hand—still bearing my ink—splayed across my stomach, I finally felt accomplished. In less than a year, I’d pulled off three of my four objectives. Like water from a rock, I’d managed to squeeze some seriously passionate sex, a few compliments, and even a pet name out of Kenneth “Husbot” Easton, using nothing more than my computer, some well-channeled angst, and my ability to function in what medical science refers to as a “chronic sleep-restricted state.” Maybe I’m not such a bad psychologist after all.
I might never get everything I want out of this motherfucker—mostly because he has oppositional defiant disorder, but also because, on some sick level, I think I like it. Maybe it stems from being raised by two peace-loving hippies who usually folded under the strength of my will like a slobbery joint that had been passed around one too many times at a Doobie Brothers concert. Maybe I just want to be challenged. I have always gravitated toward challenging men, challenging educational pursuits, challenging cars (I still drive a Mustang even though my high heels always get caught on the floor mat when I shift and my kids have to sit with their knees pulled up to their chests in the glorified cubby hole behind the front seats.), and even physical challenges (my past anorexia, my current level of sleep deprivation, genital piercings, anal sex, natural child birth, the list goes on).
Or maybe (and most likely) I’m just so spoiled that not getting my way simply isn’t an option.
When faced with a challenge, I become obsessed with finding chinks in its armor and new angles to come at it until I eventually wear my ultimate goal down and make it my bitch.
Just look at the extreme lengths I went to in order to get Lance Hightower’s attention in high school. I worked my fingers to the bone covering everything I owned in tiny patches and studs, clomping around in knee-high socks and forty-pound steel-toed boots, even in the cruelest of summers. I pretended to like and learned every lyric to at least four thousand IQ-depleting punk songs. I shaved ninety-five percent of my head.
Thank God Lance and Brian were busted playing Hide the Salami when they were, or I might very well have died from some horrible back-alley boob job complication (which was going to be my next attempt to earn his affection) before I was even old enough to drive.
Given my track record of tenacity, this is probably not the end, Little Guy. Though my Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever might be closed for good, if I know me, this is most likely just the first in a series of immoral psychological experiments that I will subject my husband to in the name of trying to get him to express his love for me. And if