Last night my husband refused to run to the convenience store for ice and milk at 11:30, so I told him he obviously wasn't ready to be a father, and made a big dramatic deal about putting on my flippy-flops, and getting my keys... to haul my pregnant self to the convenience store for these essentials. Apparently that's when the guilt hit him (and not a moment too soon, if you ask me) and he said he wasn't going to let poor little pathetic pregnant (gah, alliteration) me go out alone at 11:30.
When we got home I was happily sipping my iced beverage and hopped on face book and started typing away... and Z started to freak--
Are you writing about me? What are you saying about me? Please don't write anything about me...
Poor Z. The only time I ever talk about him on my blog or on facebook is when I am making fun of him.
He really is not an idiot, nor is he a bad person, or lazy, or thoughtless, or projected to be a poor father to his as of yet unborn child. We have a good friend who always says that Z is probably the nicest, most easy-going person he's ever met, which is what makes him such a good target for giving him a hard time. You know he will just take it in stride, or laugh along with you, or whatever.
But he's right-- he gets a bad rap from my sarcasm, need for attention, and constant quest for a good story. But I need to set the record straight.