it’s like a manual, future wife
Hiya, Future Wife.
A number of bloggers have been posting about the pros and cons of being single for the holidays lately. My only real thought was “It sucks not having someone to try to find the perfect gift(s) for.” But when I stopped reading each post, I stopped thinking about it.
I had (have, really) kind of an awesome story to tell. I thought “Oh, I have to tell–”
No one came to mind.
See, FW, the person would have to meet certain criteria.
1) Someone I feel comfy being completely sappy around. (VERY small group.)
2) Someone who’ll get it and be as sappy about it as I am.
3) Someone who isn’t going through their own stuff (good and bad) and doesn’t need a break from me bombarding them with information.
So I kept the story to myself.
That kinda sucks. So you should show up already, woman.
I was thinking about all of this before sleep last night. So, of course, I had a dream that I was getting married. I’m going to assume it was to you. But I never saw you. Not clearly.
I saw you from a distance. I saw that you’re a brunette.
I met your mom. She was very charmed by me. And lots of fun.
“Stanley” from The Office was there. He was cranky. He was less charmed by me.
We were getting married outside in my town. At night.
About two hours before the ceremony, everyone started calling my phone. “Where are you?” “Hurry up!”
I was stretched out on my bed, watching TV.
Everyone was losing their shit.
Finally you told them, “Let Peter be Peter. He’ll be here when it counts.”
Even in the dream I thought, “This chick gets me.”
Then I woke up.
It dawned on me that even once I do convince you to marry me (presumably this involves a tasty melange of hypnosis, blackmail and questionable judgment on your part), you’ll still have to figure out how to put up with me.
Be brave, little one.
So I decided to put together a bit of a primer for dealing with me:
— Peter knows that it isn’t his job to always fix everything. He displays this knowledge by saying “I know that it’s not my job to always fix everything.” But he’ll try. A little. He’ll let you vent, of course. And do anything you need. But he might try a little too hard to “help.” You might get mad. But he’ll just shrug and explain it’s just how he’s wired. You won’t like the reply. He’ll smile. And you’ll forgive because he’s oddly hard to stay mad at.
— Peter lives by a very specific code. Scientists gather that it was cobbled together from watching Clint Eastwood westerns and The Smurfs as a kid. There are no grey areas with Peter. And he feels VERY strongly about the code. Of course he’ll only tell you about each part of the code, after you somehow go against it. And then he’ll give you the “I expected more from you” face. This will make you want to smack him. While it is hard to stay mad at him, it is crazy easy to GET mad at him. He makes up for this in other ways. For example…
— Anything you want massaged, just put it under the Peter’s hands while he is watching sports/movies/The Suite Life of Zach and Cody/etc. He’ll barely notice. He will massage until you remove it. You’ll go to bed all blissed out and relaxed. He’ll wonder why his hands are cramping.
— Peters are not open-minded eaters. He once said, “I saves my adventurousness for the boudoir.” No. Really. He said that. In order to trick Peter into eating something “strange,” give it a more simple name. Like chicken kiev can be “chick and butter.” All cheeses are just “cheese.” And you should call any kind of starch that isn’t a potato… “potato.”
That’s enough for you to absorb for now. I think maybe I’ll make this manual a recurring series, within the recurring series of these letters to you.