A series of helpful post-it notes I left around the house for my husband this week:
Dear Victor: This bath towel was wet and you left it on the floor and it was the last clean one in the house. I’m pretty sure this is how tuberculosis is spread. I’m writing all this in my blog in case I end up dead because of your carelessness.
Dear Victor: There is a pile of business suits for the dry-cleaners that have been in the closet for 5 months. We both work at home. The fuck, Victor?
Dear Victor: Why is cleaning up cat vomit always my job? Was I not here when we picked from the job jar? Is there a job jar at all? Because I’d like to re-draw. Also, I’m aware that you always have to clean out the litter box but that’s because at any moment my IUD could fail and I could accidentally get pregnant and then get that cat-poop-pregnancy-disease and our baby would be born with no arms or legs Is that what you want, Victor? For our baby not to have arms? You are so selfish.
Dear Victor: You make me sick. Why in God’s name wouldn’t you just put up the empty pizza box when you were done with it? Are your arms broken? Do you have some sort of disease I don’t know about that makes you blind to empty pizza boxes?
Dear Victor: Okay, I just remembered I was the last one to make pizza so I guess I left this box out. Still, I’m leaving out the note anyway so you can learn from it. Bad, bad Victor.
Dear Victor: I do not appreciate you leaving passive aggressive addendum’s to my helpful post-it notes. In fact, they are the opposite of helpful. They are just bitter.
Dear Victor: If you leave wet towels on the ground again I will stab you.
Dear Victor: You can’t take clothes out of the dryer without telling me and just dump them on the bed in a heap. When you find them they’ve usually cooled off and then I have to put them all BACK in the dryer with a cup of water and then re-run the dryer so all the wrinkles come out and then sneak each article of clothing out one at a time and hang it up. It’s called “a method”, Victor. Stop judging me.
Dear Victor: No, actually, I don’t know how to use an iron. Because we don’t own one. How have you never noticed this before?! The dryer is our iron, Victor. Also, I would appreciate it if you would talk to me directly instead of yelling at me on a post-it. These post-its are for educational purposes. Not to draw lewd caricatures of hands pointing menacingly at me. Also, you’re supposed to point with your index finger. This is basic pointing etiquette.
Dear Victor: I’ve poisoned something in the fridge. Good luck with that.
Dear Victor: I’m sorry. I think I might have PMS. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Dear Victor: That was an apology, you asshole! Now there are two things poisoned in the fridge. Because you don’t know how to accept an apology.
Dear Victor: I am so sorry you are sick. I swear I was just kidding about poisoning shit in the fridge. I mean, I did leave the yogurt out for like a half a day but that really more by accident because I was so distracted by the wet towel on the floor. If anything, you brought this on yourself. Once again, I apologize.
Dear Victor: I love you but I’m getting kind of weak from hunger and I know you said you didn’t poison anything but everytime I take a bite of something you leer and laugh suspiciously and I have to spit it out. I can only assume this is probably how Gandhi felt when he wasn’t allowed to eat. (Here’s a hint: He felt stabby.)
Dear Victor: Okay, first of all, you don’t know that Gandhi went on a hunger strike on purpose. For all we know he was avoiding poisoning too. The people who survive are the ones write the history, Victor. Not the people who die of hunger because their husbands may or may not have poisoned all the food in the house. Except I have a blog and I’m totally putting all of this up right now in case people find my emaciated body later and demand justice. There will be a reckoning and it will be brutal and swif
Dear Victor: Great. Now we’re out of post-it’s. I’m writing this on the towel you left on the ground this morning since we obviously have no respect for towels anymore. I’m going to the grocery store for more post-its and I’m going to eat unpoisoned triskits straight out of the box while I’m there so I will return fresh and renewed. Also, the cat vomited in the hall and I am NOT cleaning it up. I have had enough, Victor. And so has the cat. Who I’m assuming you poisoned.
Dear Victor: The cat and I are leaving you. You can have the dog. Also, I’ve decided not to go get post-it notes after all because I’m no longer speaking with you so I’m just writing this on your handtowel. You will never hear from me again.
Dear Victor: The dog started whining when I told him he had to stay with you so I’m taking him too.
Dear Victor: Yes, actually I was holding a bag of dog treats when I told him he had to stay with you but I don’t think that had anything to do with his reaction. Also, we’re running out of dishtowels so this will be my last message to you.
Dear Victor: OKAY. Fine. You can have the dog. I tried to put him in the car and he peed on me. You two deserve each other. I am writing this on the dog because it seemed fitting. Also I couldn’t find packing peanuts for all the booze so I just drank it all. YOU WILL MISS ME SO MUCH ONCE I’M SOBER ENOUGH TO WAKE UP AND DRIVE AWAY.
Dear Victor: Wow. That…really got out of hand. I’m sending this cat in as a peace offering. I forgive you for all the stuff you wrote about my sister on the walls and I’m going to just ignore all the stuff you wrote about my “giant ass” (turn cat over for rest) because I love you and you need me. Who else loves you enough to send you notes written on cats? Nobody, that’s who. Also, I stapled a picture of us from our wedding day to the cat’s left leg. Don’t we look happy? We can be that way again. Just stop leaving wet towels on the floor. That’s all I ask. I’m low-maintenance that way. Also, this cat needs to go on a diet. I shouldn’t be able to write this much on a cat and still have room left over.
Epilogue: Victor forgave me and we all lived happily every after except for the cat who had to have his leg amputated but that was less from the infection and more from his poor circulation because he was so fat. He kind of brought it on himself too. But now he’s less fat. By like, a whole leg.
(Disclaimer: Most of this post was exaggerated except for the part where Victor left a wet towel on the floor. That shit totally happened. I’m still working though it.)
(Disclaimer part 2: Oh, and also the part where Victor got stabbed. That really happened too but that was totally unrelated to the towel. Also he got stabbed with a giant fishing gaff in the thigh so it’s pretty obvious that I didn’t do that because I don’t even know how to use a fishing gaff and also I have better aim. I mean, who stabs someone in the thigh? A maniac, probably.)
Comment of the day: So leaving towels on the floor was worth stabbing him over, but writing terrible things about me on the hall was an easily forgivable offense?
I’m feeling a bit stabby now too. ~ my sister (the Original Lisa)
