I think the REAL WTF? Friday is that I have blogged THREE TIMES THIS WEEK ZOMG. I feel all proud and accomplished!
Okay, so this installment of WTF? Friday comes to you from The Husband. Now, first off, a bit about The Husband. Actually, about the spouses of writers in general. they are the true unsung heroes of the publishing industry. Whenever people ask me for writing advice, I usually tell them, "Marry Well," and then they're like, "LOL BECAUSE WRITERS ARE POOR!"
But that's not actually what I mean. (Although hey, it WOULD NOT HURT. Rich people need love, too, yo.)
What I mean is to marry someone who gets you. Gets that being a writer is not just your job, but actually part of your chemical make up. Understands that sometimes you will forget to pay the water bill because you used up too much hard drive space in your brain. Knows and doesn't mind- too much- that you will probably cry and have a mini-breakdown (heck, sometimes a MEGA-breakdown) at least once during every book you write. Someone who when you pout about a bad review immediately goes, "That person can SUCK IT," and not, "Well, he DOES have a point about Chapter 3."
(Side Note: I just text The Husband and asked him what it was like being married to a writer. His response: "It's like being a human white board, but one who also has to go buy beer on his way home." SO NOW YOU KNOW.)
All of this is to say that The Husband is basically the perfect Writer Spouse (and NO, NONE OF YOU CAN HAVE HIM.) But even HE is sometimes dismayed in the extreme by some of my more...um...eccentric behavior.
The term, "Cracked Out Monkey" has been bandied about.
So here's the setting: It's a Friday night. Small Son is in bed, The Husband and I are watching TV, all is quiet and peaceful in Chez Hawkins. The Husband, as his his wont, gets up to make himself a PB&J sandwich. Now, as soon as The Husband goes into the kitchen, something flips inside my admittedly strange brain.
"Hey!" I think. "I didn't tell the Husband about that sweet ceramic knife I got at Publix the other day!"
For yes, Mes Anges, I had fallen victim to one of those As Seen On TV end caps and purchased a $20 ceramic knife.
Specifically, one of these. It's pretty amazeballs.
And it was indeed as awesome as TV had made it appear to be! So of course The Husband must see it RIGHT NOW! And OFF I leaped!
Let us take a minute to envision The Husband again. There he was, in his nice quiet house, contentedly fixing himself a sandwich. Much like this:
For the purpose of this story, the role of The Husband is being played by a 6 year old boy.
I imagine his thoughts were happy, peaceful ones as he stood there, lovingly slathering his bread with that weird expensive jam he likes ever since he got back from Norway and declared that all American jelly is horrible. Little did he know of the chaos and bloodshed about to rain down on him.
Bounding into the kitchen, shouting things like, "As Seen On TV!" and "I cut like a bajillion squashes!" and "$20 is actually kind of reasonable when you think about it!" I whipped my knife out of the drawer with one hand, while the other grabbed a lime. Exulting, "CHECK THIS OUT!", I put the lime on the cutting board and brought my new knife down on it with a flourish.
According to The Husband, I looked something like this.
And.... promptly cut off the very tippiest tip of my thumb.
The Husband, who mere moments ago had been like this:
Was now more like this:
And while I'm pretty sure I was, as usual, all classy and pretty and stuff like THIS:
The Husband insists that to him, it was more like THIS:
All of insanity had happened in maybe 10 seconds. As as I stood there, blood and lime juice dripping on the floor, The Husband simply cried, "WTF???" (Only, you know, he said the words.)
Later, after I'd bandaged my wound (which, I must confess DIDN'T EVEN HURT A LITTLE BIT BECAUSE MY KNIFE IS SO AWESOME), The Husband turned to me and said, "You should tell that story on your blog so that people will know what it's like being married to you sometimes."
And so I have. ;-)