Wife of the Year: 1294

I was such a good wife of the year this weekend.  We were both miserably sick, but I sucked it up and cooked and cleaned and generally took care o Mr. Wife of the Year, despite the fact that all I wanted was to be taken care of myself.  Because he maintained a fever at least 1.5 degrees higher than mine at all times, I felt it was the least I could do.  But you can bet your ass I'm giving myself point for it!

+200 points: ignoring illness in pursuit of the Ms. Wife of the Year title.

For when I win Wife of the Year...

Photo by Elizabeth Messina.

Wife of the Year: 1094

This weekend I squeezed all 600 pounds of myself into something "cute" for a dinner out with Mr. Wife of the Year and an "old fraternity buddy and his wife."  Too many evenings out with his friends have left me feeling bored and annoyed.  I don't remember signing up for this.

I knew this one would be disastrous when Mr. Personality started in on "the best strip clubs in the city" before we'd even been seated.  He proceeded to rank order them according to menu, price and quality of the girls.  Things went downhill in an instant.  Over appetizers he lamented about his poor friends, whose wives had "let themselves go" since having children, and how the poor guys were left (and I quote), "not even wanting to fuck their own wives."  His poor pregnant wife sat in silence, pushing her food around her plate weakly, sipping her seltzer.  I stomped hard on Mr. Wife of the Year's foot and he glanced over at me with a helpless look on his face.  Dinner dragged on and on as I heard about this guy's trips on private planes, tickets to the best concerts and sporting events and his summer and ski homes.  My desperation was mounting and I felt the inexplicable urge to do something rash.  I couldn't take this any longer.

"Last week I found an unopened pack of post-it notes under my desk.  I kept them.  So that was pretty exciting."  Then, for reasons I can't explain, I reached into my bra and removed the "chicken cutlets" that had been suffocating my poor boobs and placed them on the table next to my plate.

Clearly, I can't be held accountable when copious amounts of alcohol plus painfully tedious and inappropriate conversation converge.  Being stuffed into a dress 2 sizes too small doesn't help either.

-100 points: for embarrassing Mr. Wife of the Year at dinner and for proceeding to shame him for the next week about his poor choice in (former) friends.

Ms. Wife of the Year: 1194

 Photo by dr. loplop

I make dinner every night (+100) and breakfast every morning (+100) complete with cappuccino (+100).  And I work full time (+200). I don't complain (very much) (+100).  I just do it.

Mr. Wife of the Year is not a fan of the carbohydrate, which leads me to believe that he is clearly a robot and not a real human being.  But, I digress.  Most weekend mornings I make eggs and bacon or sausage and hash browns.  Sometimes, he will request waffles, but that's the extent of his carb-loading.  I, on the other hand, could live on carbs alone.  

Last Friday, in the midst of a hissy fit about being over-tired and over-worked, I very nicely asked demanded pancakes for breakfast the following morning.  "I make breakfast 7 days a week!  I'm tired!  And I'm sick of making breakfast foods that you want.  What about me?!  How come I never get pancakes!?"  So, the next morning, when he slithered out of bed as I lay half-dreaming, my mouth began to water.  Finally, a breakfast for me!  After about 20 minutes of laying in bed fantasizing about pancakes, I made my way to the kitchen to get my eat on.

You can imagine my horror to discover that my husband had made crepes, not pancakes.  Crepes?!  Crepes have nothing to do with pancakes.  He may as well have put a meatball on my plate and called it a filet.  I.was.furious.  Before I could even edit my own behavior, a high pitch scream escaped my mouth.

"THESE ARE NOT PANCAKES!!"
"Yes.  They are!  I followed the recipe."
"NOnoNOnoNOno.  They are absolutely NOT pancakes at all.  I wanted pancakes."  (Tears form and begin spilling from my eyes.)

After being cajoled into trying them, I unceremoniously took one bite and dumped the rest of the stack into the garbage. I loudly dropped my plate in the sink, march into the bathroom and slam the door, but not before shouting "YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE BECAUSE YOU HATE PANCAKES!  YOU ARE SO SELFISH!!"

+600: (see above)
-1: for maybe acting like a bit of a brat.  He still owes me those pancakes.

Ms. Wife of the Year: 595

I believe that our cleaning lady is actually responsible for this, but I took the fall regardless.  Cause, I'm the Wife of the Year.

-4: Because, I guess there's a remote chance that it could have been me.

Not Ms.WotY related

More about the slime ball who runs American Apparel.
Ewwwwww.

What not to wear...

to be Wife of the Year.

I just don't get 95% of the stuff at American Apparel.  I mean... part of me wonders if it's all a big joke and the head honchos sit around a board room dreaming up really awful shit to sell and then call us suckers for buying it. 

Also not to be missed; their "Best Bottom Contest."  I'm almost never offended.  This almost offends me.  At the very least, it grosses me out.

Miss Wife of the Year: 599 points

Of all of the things that Mr. Wife of the Year hates, my hair tops his list.  He doesn't seem to have a particularly strong opinion about my hair while its attached to my scalp, but the second a strand commits hair suicide and jumps from its follicle, that hair becomes enemy numero uno.  His disdain for a loose hair borders on bizarre and certainly qualifies as mock-able.

Of all the things that Ms. Wife of the year hates, falling into the toilet tops my list.  I know it's silly and selfish, but when I stumble half-asleep into the bathroom at 3am to pee, I'm less than thrilled to fall directly into the toilet bowl because someone forgot to put the seat down.

I am sick and tired of reminding him to put the seat down.   I mean, really sick and tired of it.  So, I have decided to fight fire with fire.  Every time that husband fails to put the seat down, this wife removes every hair from the bristles of her hairbrush and scatters them on and around the sink. 

So far, this plan has not resulted in fewer "toilet bowl" accidents.  It has however satisfied my desire for revenge.  Hell hath no fury like a woman who has fallen into her toilet.

-1: I'm only docking myself a point for not thinking of this sooner...

Ms. Wife of the Year: 600 points

Mr. Wife of the Year bought a fancy new car on Friday.  Immediately, he launched into a stern lecture about how "this car is in immaculate condition.  It is to remain in immaculate condition.  No lipgloss in the console, no gum wrappers on the floor, no fingerprints on the windows and absolutely, positively no food or drink within 500 feet of the vehicle."  I called him a few names (neurotic and anal, namely) and pouted for a bit, but there was no talking him out of his rules. 

Friday we packed up said new car and went on a road trip.  We stopped to eat a few times on the way up and I was required to wipe down my face and hands with a wet nap before re-entering the vehicle.  It was clear to me, that my husband was not kidding about these rules.  On the way home, we stopped at a gas station and against his orders I purchased a bag of pretzels and a diet coke and proceeded to hide them in my purse.  About an hour from home, Mr. Wife of the Year, pulled into a rest area.  He ran in to use the facilities and I waited in the car.  Knowing that time was short, I quickly ripped open my pretzels and uncapped my diet coke.  I literally shoved fist after fist of pretzels into my mouth, pausing occasionally to wash them down with soda.  Things were going well until I heard a tap on the window and turned to see Mr. Wife of the Year standing next to the car, arms crossed, head shaking and eyes brimming with fury.  I'm sure you can imagine my surprise.  I gasped, with a mouth full of food and drink.  Within seconds and before I could stop myself I coughed, and my precious snacks, having nowhere to hide, decided to escape through my nose and mouth.  That's when things get a little blurry for me.  I know that there was a mess, I know that Mr. Wife of the Year was mad,  I know that the rest of the ride was in silence, I know that I had quite a bit of scrubbing to do upon arriving home and I know that I will never ever eat in that car again.

-100 for failing to follow directions
+50 cause a girl's gotta eat.

Ms. Wife of the Year: 650 points

In all his 30+ years, I don't think Mr. Wife of Year has ever spontaneously taken out the garbage. It would seemingly never occur to him to take note of a full garbage can and decide, "Hmmmm, I'm going to do something about that."

This leaves me to contend with the trash 75% of the time and to nag and bitch and plead and shout at him to take it out the other 25% of the time.  Well, I've had just about enough.

I decided that I would see just how long it would take sweet ole' Mr. Wife of the Year to a) notice the full garbage can and b) remove it from the apartment.  By day three the stench was almost unbearable.  Rotting veggies were the culprit, I believe.  Oh, and something mysterious and moldy that I discovered in a Tupperware in the back of the fridge.  Anyway, by day three I caved.

"Do you notice the overflowing garbage in the kitchen?!"
"Shhhhh!  I'm watching Lost."
"Did you have any plans to empty it?
"Did you have any plans to empty it?

At this point it became clear that I wasn't going to win this battle.  And with that I sighed loudly and quite unceremoniously emptied the garbage.


-100 points for lettng him get away with murder... or garbage
+150 points for saving myself from inevitable death by suffocation.