Conversations with Henry: Why I’m Better Than My Husband

Sunday Night. Midnight.

Me: Henry, can you get out of bed and set the house alarm?

Him: You were the last one in bed, you set the house alarm. I’m too exhausted.

Me: You’re too exhausted from napping all day?

Him: I was only napping all day because I was on duty all week while you were on deadline and our children sucked the blood from my veins. I barely have any platelets left and without them I’ll die and then who will clean the kitty litter box?

Me: Those furry f$#king prima donnas will learn to poop outside.

Him: Speaking of which I’m exhausted from the dream I had last night where there was a toilet filled to the rim with poop and I had to clean it and it wasn’t even my poop because of the cats, your irritable bowel …

Me: Why do my bowels always have to take the fall?

Him: … and our daughters both being in diapers.

Me: Our daughters haven’t both worn diapers for seven years!

Him: I’m suffering Post Traumatic Shit Disorder. Which is exhausting.

Me: I’m exhausted just hearing how exhausted you are. And quit trying to disorient me by shining the reading lamp on your bald spot.

Him: That’s right! I’m going bald, which is also exhausting.

Me: I’m exhausted from growing my hair to make into a toupee for you!

A very long silence.

Me: This silence is exhausting.

More silence.

Me: I’ll give you sex if  you get up and set the house alarm.

Him: Will you stay awake throughout?

Me: I can’t promise throughout, but definitely in the beginning.

Him: Done.

Automated Voice: Armed to Night!