I’ve decided that if I ever want to get married, there are many things I am going to have to hide about myself. I do not possess any of the typical traits of a “good wife,” nor do I possess any traits of personal hygiene. (I mean, I bathe, people, come on. I brush my teeth and flush the toilet and all that jazz. Just let me finish before you jump to the conclusion that I walk around like that little kid from the Peanuts who always has a dirt cloud around him. Though, if you haven’t noticed, no one seems to give a shit. Not even Charlie Brown who has some serious depression problems.) So, for hypothetical purposes, let’s pretend that I am engaged.
Things My Potential Hubby Can Never Do
walk into my room.
See, this already is a problem. I’m about to marry a guy who can’t walk into my room? Closet Freak is bad enough, but Room Freak? What if I have to get something out of my room?
“Hey, let me grab something real quick.”
(Door slams in his face and the click of the lock is heard, then the twisting of the knob three or four times to make sure it’s really locked, then a heavy sigh of relief on the other side of the door from yours truly. If a guy sticks around after I do this, we have bigger problems than the room.)
You’re wondering, what’s so wrong with Natasha’s room? Is it that messy? Look, people, “mess” is an under-the-deepest-darkest-sea-where-Ursula-dwells-statement. (Understatement, if that was hard to follow.) Yeah, clothes do not ever enter the realm of the closet; I can’t see my floor; I step on things that break and then I’m bleeding all over the clothes that are on the floor because something is sticking out of the bottom of my foot and then blood gets on my bed when I go to sleep with my bleeding foot and he'll see blood on my bed and that's gross enough and weirdly mysterious and not in a good way all because I didn't see the fucking tac or pin or giant knife or whatever it was on the floor because the CLOTHES are on the floor and I didn't see because I don’t walk with my head down because I used to do that and everyone would be like “Awww Natashaaaa why are you so sadddd...” and I’d be like, “Awwww why don’t you go FUCK YOURSELF,” but the floor of my room is irrelevant. My mess goes beyond the norm. I picked up some construction paper to write on and then realized I was writing on a dried up piece of balogna. I thought there was a cup of pudding on my dresser until it hit me that I don’t eat pudding. Whatever it is continues to mold and I don’t plan on halting the process. I found cat shit in my room a week ago and it’s still there.
expect to eat
I don’t cook. I make scrambled eggs and that’s it. I put cheese on these eggs...I’ve burned the cheese to a crisp so many times making my scrambled-eggs-concoction that now I absolutely love the taste of dried-up-brown-mozzarella. It’s delicious. I don’t go grocery shopping. There are better things to spend my money on, like Mad Monster Party bobbleheads. Isn’t that supposed to be a man’s dream? A wife who can cook him some good meals!
“Honey, I’m home!”
“Honey! Let me give you a kiss!”
“Look babe, we’ll kiss later. Where the fuck is my lasagna.”
See, in my home, there would not be lasagna. There would be eggs. If even that. My husband would not only have incredibly high cholesterol, but---no, that’s it actually. High cholesterol. And that won’t fly if we plan on growing old together.
walk into my closet
Now, I don’t actually think that someone’s closet is a regular place for people to walk into. It’s small and dark and that would be incredibly bizarre if you brought a boy over and he either:
asks to look in your closet
“Can I look in your closet?”
“What? No. That’s weird.”
strolls on into your closet
“Potential Hubby? Where are you?”
“I’MMMM INNNN YOURRR CLOOOOOSETTTT...”
“I’MMMM INNNN YOURRR CLOOOOSETTTT...”
“Well get the fuck out!”
opens the door of your closet then closes it
“Why did you just do that?”
“You just looked into my closet.”
“So that’s weird.”
“I was just looking.”
“This conversation is going nowhere. Leave.”
“Before I go...can I go in your closet?”
“NO YOU FREAK.”
So if someone future-groom of mine came over, he would either see an empty hamper or a hamper full of clothes. Though these are two complete opposites, they mean exactly the same thing: I don’t do laundry. The fact that I don’t do laundry would make him wonder if my clothes are dirty...meaning ALL my clothes...meaning the clothes UNDERNEATH my clothes...and he would think that is gross. And he would leave. And I would have no groom and no clean clothes.
(Look, just to clear things up, I have plenty of clothes to survive for months without washing a single article. And I have been to known to occasionally use a washer and dryer, just not as often as most. I have better things to do than wash my clothes, people. Like wear my clothes.)
See? I'm screwed.