Can't Write That

Early on as I begin my blogging I am realizing that I need to pick and choose how much I write about the husband. He has issues with guilt, usually self-imposed at this point. So some things that I write may not appear as funny to him as hopefully they are to you.

For instance, I’m not sure if I can write about the two dozen or so burnt dinners that have occurred over the past year when he was in charge. I can’t describe the scent of split pea soup that was left to fully boil for 2 hours when the recipe clearly said to simmer … and watch carefully. I can’t write about the frozen pizzas which looked more like molten lava two days after an eruption. (Who burns frozen pizza?) If I do, his thoughts turn to deprived children who were starving to death under his watch.

I also cannot write about the bathroom paint job which had to be redone because someone pulled the wrong can off the shelf while I wasn’t home. If I do, his thoughts turn to failing as a handyman and letting his relatively new wife down. 

And never, ever can I bring up again the trip to go hiking in southeastern Ohio while we were dating. I was in charge of the picnic. He was in charge of getting directions. When we saw the “Welcome to West Virginia” sign, and he pulled out his laptop to check where we were, I knew something was wrong. If I do, his thoughts turn to the time we missed in the woods and a ruined getaway. It really wouldn’t have been so bad if the highway patrolman hadn’t suggested we backtrack via a road that had more curves than Brittany Spears career, causing me to get horribly car sick.

I definitely have to be more careful. I can’t write about any of this stuff.