Look, hon, I know I forgot to pick up Sally from school, but it wasn’t on the calendar. You have to put this stuff on our shared calendar.
Same goes for remembering to not get fall-down drunk on the very afternoon I was to collect our daughter. I checked; “Don’t have three strong Negronis followed by four even stronger Negronis” was nowhere to be found. Put it on the calendar!
That’s also what’s going on with those unsightly stains in my boxers. Sure, you’ve repeatedly told me I’m vile and should wipe better. But telling me and putting it on the calendar are two different things.
To say nothing of me calling your mom a “useless pig with a weak egg salad recipe.” You were diligent about marking that particular day as the anniversary of your beloved dad’s death, but you fully neglected to ask I not attack my mother-in-law with concerningly misogynistic aggression. Had you put it on the calendar, I might’ve known. Toots.
Or what about when I was walking? And chewing gum? At the same time? Obviously I can do both, but you gotta put it on the calendar. Preferably as separate entries.
To say nothing of when you yelled at me for playing PS5 all day. Had you lowered your lady-voice and simply put an endtime in the calendar, then maybe you’d have a point. But you didn’t and don’t. And you’re blocking the TV.
Which brings me to yesterday, when you caught me motorboating your sister. How was I supposed to know you’d come home on your break, quietly creep up the stairs, and interrupt my favorite position? You later admitted you’d had a quote, “lingering suspicion,” but I sure as shit haven’t seen any repeated boys of suspicion on our shared calendar. I trust you see your error here.
You’re the woman of the house. The queen of all things domestic. I know I don’t tell you this enough, but your job as wifey is the most important one of all. Much more important than your actual job as named partner at your firm.
But sweets, I need you to do your job. Which reminds me, hon — gonna need you to add “find job” to the shared calendar so that I might remember to start looking for one.
I should probably wrap this up, but you didn’t put that on the calendar either, so who even knows?
I do notice how you’ve dramatically whipped out what appears to be a handgun for what seems to be a long-gestating homicide. Though looking at the calendar, I see no mention of—
—oops, nope, there it is. “Finally snapped and will seriously pull this goddamn trigger if you don’t leave right now” is, indeed, there. But, oh, wait a sec — you marked it at 4am, not 4pm. Typical.
Even though you forgot to schedule me a break, I’m gonna take one. At your sister’s. Upstairs hamper’s full with my debased Hanes, which I can pickup once you’re done with them, and I’m done with her. But for the love of God, doll face, put it on the—
Annnnnd, I’m bleeding out. Guess I can add my own death alongside your own birth as milestones I should just somehow know. Christ, you’re bad at this.
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A longtime political activist, Jeremy played a role in the major LGBTQ fights of the 21st century’s first two decades. Parenthood shifting his focus, as parenthood is wont to do, Jeremy now focuses his writing on making people smile, with a particular emphasis on children’s literature.