I married my husband for two reasons:

1. To hang crap up on the wall.
2. To talk me out of one of my “episodes” that often ends in me threatening to key my initials onto random cars at the gas station. Or get bangs.

Matt put these pictures up in our hallway. He then proceeded to quell my budding panic attack when I thought the right one was off kilter. And made my nose look bigger in its reflection.

He’s good at what he does which means this city is far less keyed than it could be, and I can do my hair without crying. He has his techniques of course like telling me going to grad school would have probably been bad for my skin and saying things like “So what if Snooki published a book before you? She’ll probably get trapped in a tanning bed or something.” This week, however, he pulled out the big guns.

ME: I’m a failure. This novel isn’t finished plus there are a million other things I want to do. Like raise puggles or key a car…

HUSBAND (sweating profusely): Oh God, okay. Let’s just take a second here. You’re only twenty-six…

ME: You said that last year and the year before that and twice in October of 2008. Do you even know how old I am??

HUSBAND: Yes, yeah…for the most part. Listen, you’re young and you’re talented. I mean you have like twenty-eight email subscribers on your blog…

ME: Thirty-two asshole. Are you trying to not have sex again for the rest of your life?

HUSBAND: Uh, what? No, definitely not that. *Mumbling to himself* Okay, Matt you can do this. Remember to compliment her ankles and not mention anything about her getting bangs… So have you thought about getting bangs? Oh damn it.

ME: Well, now that you mention it…

HUSBAND: Ah, okay. Kim Kardashian.

ME: What? Is that like a curse word or something?

HUSBAND: No, uh, look. Kim Kardashian cares about who?

ME: Kim Kardashian.

HUSBAND: Exactly. She has one goal and one goal only. Make Kim Kardashian as awesome as possible. Granted, not everyone agrees to the same definition of “awesome” but that’s neither here nor there. The girl knows how to stay focused. She’s not worried about keying cars or raising puggles or sending her neighbors psycho-scrawled letters asking them not to look at her feet whenever she’s outside jogging.

ME: Skechers Shape Ups have been instrumental in keeping these buns perky, and I don’t care if they’re god awful ugly, I don’t need nosey neighbors staring at my feet thinking I have a height insecurity. How does that not make sense??

HUSBAND (staring blankly): Anyways, if Kim Kardashian were in your shoes, she’d forget about everything else and write the book. *Matt’s eyes start to get bigger as he looks at my face* But, she totally wouldn’t be able to publish it. And even if she did, she’d probably get trapped in a tanning bed. Or something.

ME: She would get trapped in a tanning bed, wouldn’t she?

HUSBAND (stroking my hair and kissing my temple): She would, Ericka. She really really would.