Just Do It — It won’t kill you

E’s finding it harder and harder to argue with his wife who is 39 weeks pregnant (that would be me, in case you’re wondering… Yes, I’m still pregnant. Still.)

A conversation from last night:

Him: I may or may not have eaten one of your chocolate bunt cakes that you got from the Farmer’s Market.

Me: Are you f**king kidding me?

Him: umm….

Me: I will seriously kill you in your sleep.

Him: I’ll eat the other one, if that’s how this is going to go down.

Me: {{{staring daggers in his direction}}}

To my knowledge, my chocolate bunt cake is still there and E woke up, all parts in tact, this morning so all in all, it’s a success.

But what kills me, I’m massive. Like, I’m talking, I can’t see my toes, don’t bother asking when the last time I shaved my legs were (hello, there are arteries down there, I don’t want to die, smooth legs or not). Yet he seems to point out the obvious when it comes to doing things. The other night he was in the bathroom was in the other room and I asked him to turn the fan on. He comes into the bedroom and looks at me, point blank and says “why can’t you do it?” Umm, jackhole, it took me 30 mins to hoist myself into bed, the bed YOU refuse to lower. “Pretty please with sugar on top?”

He did it because he wanted to live to meet his daughter.

He won’t, however, look for the hairy, scary spider that is residing in my SUV that made me almost hit a shopping cart at Target the other day. He’s convinced that it won’t bite me, kill me, and then eat me.

Apparently he doesn’t know “women and children go first”. Ass.

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