Calling my husband “Couch Satan” cost me two followers.

Totally worth it.

Advertisements

Couch Satan

Sunday was beautiful. Perhaps the bearded man in the sky that you religious folk are always talking about took pity on the pale-skinned, sun-starved inhabitants of this little mountain town, or perhaps it was just some sort of karmic reward for all the composting I’ve been doing- either way, our day off this week just so happened to coincide with the nicest day we’ve had yet this year.

Baby, we had it all! Sun, warmth, a gentle breeze and not a cloud to be found. For one single solitary day the rain ceased and us mole-people cautiously emerged from our homes and it. Was. Glorious.

I spent the whole day outside, trying to tackle my March gardening resolution which has been sorely neglected due to the aforementioned rain. I raked, seeded thin patches of grass, tried out a natural weed spray I made, and began to tackle pooper scooping before delegating that task to Adam after almost vomiting.

But Adam has the tendency, when assigned chores, to simply deny that they need doing.

I’ve heard that other men say they’ll do it later, or say no outright, and I’ve also heard rumors of mythical men who actually DO what is asked of them (and, pray tell, where would one find such a man, if hypothetically they were looking for one? And incidentally, how do they look in a leather jacket? Because I will leave my husband if these men exist, and I will even give them his favorite leather jacket. I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND Y’ALL))

But Adam’s approach is different, and dare I say it, ingenious (read: infuriating) because instead of him looking like a dick for not helping, I look like a crazy OCD clean freak or a demanding shrew-like harpy.

For example (HYPOTHETICALLY) one fine Sunday a beautiful young woman might have, after a morning of yard-work, requested that her husband finish the poop scooping because she could no longer resist the urge to vomit when shoveling weeks-old mounds of dog shit into a disturbingly full garbage bag.

And the husband, comfortably ensconced on his favorite couch might have had the balls to reply, “It’s fine.”

“IT’S FINE.”

Not “Sure, darling. Thanks for doing the first half!” or “Okay, I’ll do it after whatever strange cartoon I’m inexplicably engrossed in now is over.” but just, “It’s fine.”

And thus the husband summarily closed the book on the dog poop issue, and at this point I imagine that in his head he washed his hands of it entirely- leaving me (I mean, the beautiful HYPOTHETICAL young woman! ) to stand there spluttering about how no, it’s not actually fine to have a backyard full of feces.

BUT, and this is a big but because although I wasn’t on the debate team in high school, it’s only because there wasn’t one, here the young woman finds herself inexplicably flummoxed, because faced with her seething, the husband wonders aloud why the poop needs to be scooped right now, TODAY.

And she doesn’t have an answer.

Because obviously we are not persnickety about dog poop, Gus has his little corner of the yard that he uses as his personal toilet and while in the summer we scoop at least every week, in the winter we always leave it far too long.

(How long? TOO LONG, OK?)

So there is never an answer. Why does it need to be done right now, TODAY? Because it can be? Because it’s finally not raining? Because I can’t finish raking when the stuff to be raked is mired in excrement?

But we both know that the truth is BECAUSE I JUST WANT IT TO BE DONE NOW GODDAMN IT AND I CANT DO IT MYSELF.

And that was the theme of the day. The infuriating, rage-inducing theme of the day where I vacillated between revelling in the sunshiny heaven outside, to pleading with my own personal lazy couch-Satan.

“Can you help me with the clothesline so I can hang some laundry? The hooks are in I just need you to tighten them”
“Nah they’re tight enough”

“Can you move the shelf in the shed so I can get the lawn mower?”
“The grass doesn’t need to be cut yet, it’s hardly grown!”

“Can you just sign this piece of paper?”
“Nah just forge my signat… wait does that say divorce?! And where are you going with my leather jacket?”

COUCH SATAN GOT OWNED.

My brother and his lovely wife Kate have just adopted their first furbaby- a 7 year old Shar Pei/ Shepherd cross named Frank. (of course he’s named Frank! LOOK AT HIM! That is a dog named Frank if I ever saw one) Initially they were thinking about changing his name and my brother and I had the following helpful exchange :

Me: How about Chauncey or Shuffles?

Liam: No.

Me: Louis? Capote?

Liam: No.

Me: How DARE you reject my suggestions!

Liam: I was thinking more like Asspirate. Or Motherfucker.

Me: Hmm, Adam and I have been saving Asspirate for a baby name.

Liam: Fair enough. First one gets it?

Me: Okay.

Liam: How about Dinnertime?

Me: I feel strongly that you should just stick with Frank. That or Asspirate (if I don’t use it first.)

So. Barring a last minute name change, meet my newest dog nephew: Frank.