Life in the Clown Car

One of my friends has a blog in which she cleverly calls her home and the things that go on there the 'Ten Cent Farm.' If I had to come up with a similar antidote for the world to which I inhabit, I'm afraid that I would be forced to call it something much less charming but none-the-less accurate to my experience. Something more along the lines of say....'Life in the Clown Car.' Case in point:

One thing that I take very seriously in that strange thing called 'marriage,' is to make sure that I annoy Tim as much as humanly possible. I'm pretty sure it was written in bold print in our marriage vows to harass and agitate whenever the opportunity presents itself. So it was in that spirit to which I decided that after getting up to go to the bathroom at 4am, it was my wifely duty to steamroll him as he slumbered instead of quietly and softly sliding back to my side of the bed. And here's where the clown car analogy comes in:

Jumping in the air for full effect (and miscalculating where I was jumping in the dark), I smacked my head squarely into a shelf, which dropped me like a rock. Said shelf was holding a full mug of tea and Tim, who had been serenely snoring away was suddenly being full on water-boarded. He may be the only man on the planet to almost drown while sound asleep in his bedroom.

After the bewilderment and scolding (and cackling) had subsided, the exchange went a little like this:

Tim: I'm pretty sure stuff like this doesn't happen to other couples....
Me: Really? Why do you think that?
Tim: Because I'm pretty sure we're morons.


Here's to life in the clown car.