I could make stuff up. I could write a hilarious novel. Probably. You know, if I actually tried. But why? They say to write what you know. And I? Know animated conversations with The Husband that I couldn't make up if I tried.
I burped. Loudly. Damn spaghetti sauce was just not agreeing with my insides.
"I sound like my mother," I said, splashing water on my face to wash away the cleanser. My eyes met his in the mirror. Then I burped again. I sounded like a trucker.
"Great," he said with a chuckle, putting his toothbrush back on his sink. "I married your mother. I want a divorce."
I followed him into the bedroom and stood with my hands on my hips in mock pissed off-edness. We don't fight a lot, so pretend arguments are a nice way to keep us on our toes. I play a mean pretend bitch, but he thinks it's just cute.
"You want a divorce? I married your mother. I should be granted one first."
"Yes," he said, as he pulled the comforter over his head and settled in for bed. "but I asked first. Which means? I win."
"Fine," I spat out. "But I'm the one with the blog. So really? I win."