Trey and I dated 4 1/2 years before getting married. I’m a pretty open person so he probably thought he knew what he was getting into. Poor Trey. The other day I met him at the door after work and made him go run an errand I’d forgotten. He threw his hands in the air and muttered something like “Poor Trey has to pick up the slack around here.” This encounter prompted me to begin reflecting on all the ways I torture my poor husband daily. I told him I might write a blog entry about how difficult his life is and for once he said he might read what I’d written. He even offered me suggestions. I was flattered by his sudden support of my new hobby. I’m sure it had nothing to do with this particular topic, and everything to do with his unwavering love and affection for me, his beloved trophy wife. Right!?
Why you ought to pity Trey:
- It is his responsibility to rid the county of slugs. As previously discussed, I have a phobia of the creature that reminds me of living snot. I can manage snakes, birds, spiders, and pretty much any other creature encounter but he is on slug/snail duty. This means if there is one of the vicious creatures on our threshold, he would be required to come home from wherever he might be to remove said creature so I can enter the house. (hypothetically, of course…)
- I talk in my sleep. A LOT. It’s never bothered me but for some reason Trey is often annoyed. Perhaps he is tired of dealing with me yelling about rabid toddlers, evading martians, and crying about talking trees. He has been slapped awake when I thought he was being attacked by squirrels and had to bring me back to bed when I got up screaming and ran away from the bees in my dreams. Two nights ago I sat up in my sleep and screamed “Bruno Mars, you are not welcome here!” In our first year of marriage, Trey worked as a bartender and often came home long after I’d gone to bed. He would record my crazy nighttime dialogue with a dry erase marker on the bathroom mirror in order to horrify me in the morning.
- I love to cook but only when trying new recipes. I have a million cook books and recipes saved on Pinterest. I probably have more recipes on my “to do” list than I have dinners left to eat in my lifetime. Poor Trey knows not to commit to a dinner that he enjoys because he will most likely never eat it again. My frequent dinner experiments have led to Trey challenging me to not repeat any recipes for a certain number of days. Even Logan now jokes “Daddy, do you like this meal? Betcha we’ll never have it again!?”
- We are pretty good about dividing household chores equally. We both do laundry, dishes, and daily clutter corralling. However, when it comes to nighttime duties, we are divided. I take care of the boys. Trey does not get up for nightmares, pacifier searches, or overnight illnesses. He would if asked, but I prefer to take care of these task. Poor Trey is stuck with nighttime dog antics. It is his responsibility to round up the dogs before bedtime and “tuck” them into their beds on our floor. Trey is responsible for yelling at Banjo to stop whining and Mojo to stop licking her bed, paws, wall, or…ahem…self. Trey is also required to jump out of bed the moment we hear the sound that strikes terror in the heart of every dog owner…Trey is responsible for all nocturnal canine vomiting. I wish this was only an occasional duty, but Banjo is training to hit the competitive eating circuit and often uses the overnight hours to reflect upon poor eating choices. (ie. a pound of butter stolen from the kitchen cabinet earlier in the day, a baby sock, a checkbook, birdseed, charcoal, or recently, an infinity scarf) Poor Trey is the dog vomit whisperer.
- I work hard to make a grocery list based on a strict menu and budget. I strive to leave nothing off this list but there is always something that has escaped my mind. Typically it is the most crucial grocery item ever and requires an immediate trip back to the store. This is where Trey comes in, once I’ve left the store, I’m out of the zone and need to move on to other duties. Trey has to step up and gather whatever has been left behind. He also periodically has to bail me out of other brain fart moments. (ie. getting home from work and immediately having to run to pick up our locally grown order, running to a store late at nights to get a school/sport supply/snack that I’ve forgotten, or staying up extra late to complete a load of laundry so that every family member has socks to wear the next day). I’m the planner but poor Trey has to be the problem solver.
- Trey and I have a lot in common. We both love history, current events, trying new restaurants, attending sporting events, and hanging out with one another. We genuinely enjoy being together (most of the time). We disagree vehemently in two areas, pizza toppings and television shows. As stated earlier, I love experimenting with new recipes or flavor combinations. Trey enjoys predictable fare. He orders Italian sausage pizza every time. I want something new and different every time. We argue about pizza every time. Every time. Trey can watch show after show about Alaska or moonshining. I can watch multiple documentaries about mental health or addiction. I love Hoarders and Intervention. Since Trey stays up later than I do, I whine to make the tv selection because he can always watch what he wants after I go to bed. My reasoning skills (aka whining/bitching) typically mean that Trey has to suffer through television that he hates. Neither one of us ever plan to get a divorce, but agree that if we were to divorce it would be because of pizza-related arguments or disagreements about television.
- I’m a passionate person. I have approximately 679 ½ soap boxes and am typically not shy about sharing my opinions. Since it isn’t professional for me to share these passions when I’m at work with clients, I come home ready to explode with emotional rants. Poor Trey has had to endure a lifetime of hearing about the need for insurance/medical reform, the failing foster care system, equality, concerns about education, concerns about civil rights/liberties, my love of chimpanzees, our town’s need for a public pool, my obsession with LL Cool J/Justin Timberlake/Jimmy Fallon/Shemar Moore, the history of underwear, haiku’s about office supplies, my love of popup campers/hound dogs/sharpies, my dislike of mushrooms/hatred/apathy/Christian romance novels, etc. Some days he agrees with my rants (or pretends to) and other days he debates some before recognizing that I’m not one to stand down even when appropriate to do so. Some passions Trey supports (ie. Reading, camping, equality) and some prompt him to simply roll his eyes (my desire to own a hedgehog, my plan to build a worm farm, my ability to spout off Sesame Street trivia for hours). Early in our marriage Trey began chanting the following statement “You’re right. I’m wrong. It’s my fault. You’re beautiful.” This remains his go-to for prompting me to power down.
- I’m confident that Trey loathes the day I discovered Pinterest. Even as others have lost interest in pinning projects, I’ve continued pinning recipes I might make, decluttering strategies I’ll never try, and funny memes that waste my time. What bothers Trey are the multiple project ideas I send him each week. I even have a pinterest board dedicated to Trey perfecting his grilling/smoking!? While I can’t read Trey’s mind, I’ve known him long enough to anticipate the look in his eyes when he checks his email and discovers I’ve sent him 45 pins of possible paint colors for a closet we haven’t built yet.
- My dad once told me that I speak in footnotes. I can’t think of a more accurate description of my speaking and thinking patterns. I’m random…and I mean RANDOM! I talk to myself, make crazy to do lists, and can go on a tangent for days. Trey has had to perfect the “I’m listening and care deeply about what you are saying” look while thinking “HUH? What the heck is this woman muttering about? Is she even speaking English? What do dodge trucks have to do with paperwork and aardvarks?” He receives texts about my desire to invent a new kind of post it note, quotes from “30 Rock”, or unsolicited information about a recent bowel movement. I obsessed for a period P.G. (preGoogle) about whether giraffes are able to vomit (they are) and if elephants can get a stuffy nose (not really, their trunks act more like snorkels). Poor Trey is patient and equally as random.
- I grew up going to camp. I’ve said in a previous post that many of my childhood memories happened at camp. Camp Wakahni was, for me, the one place I felt 100% self assured and accepted. I knew all the songs, traditions, and trails. My quirky humor and goofy personality fit in this setting. Poor Trey has endured years of camp stories and songs. Even before I had the excuse that I was singing to our boys, I’d burst out singing “Buzzard” or “An Ostrich Went Yodeling.” Now, not only do I sing these crazy, annoying songs but I’ve taught Logan and am teaching Jack. Poor Trey has even been caught humming “A Boy and A Girl” and “Wienie Man” a time or two. He has been drawn in by “The Song(s) That Never End”!
- Over the past few years I’ve developed an irrational fear of my husband’s driving. I choose to blame this development on a wreck we had before Logan was born but it’s probably better attributed to me being neurotic. When Trey is driving, I check my seatbelt multiple times, am hyperaware of whether his hands are at “ten and two”, frequently grab the “oh shit” handle, throw my foot up on the dash because I’m scared Trey will rear end someone, and scream out directions like I’m a GPS voice with Tourette’s. Trey frequently threatens to stop driving but I’m sure he’s just overreacting. It’s not that annoying!?
- The older I get the more anxious I become. I often get carried away with the “what if’s” of the world. Some of my concerns are valid (finances, the safety if our boys, health) but most are completely ridiculous (What if my pinky toe begins growing and becomes the longest of my toes? What if Mojo thinks I look fat? What if Logan’s 30th birthday party is rained out? Etc.) Poor Trey has had to suffer through too many of my freak outs to count. He patiently reminds me to “take one day at a time” and to “take your meds, Lauren.” He keeps me supplied with wine and typically turns away before rolling his eyes. Poor Trey reminds me that the sky is not falling and that we will weather whatever imaginary storm I believe we are facing.
I could continue listing ways my poor husband is mistreated and tortured. I’m confident he could add to this list as well. However, the sucker has stuck around for almost 13 years of marriage and 4 ½ years of dating before that. It’s kind of on him at this point, right?! Poor Trey.