August 10, 2010
It's no secret--I have a very severe hanger issue. In case you're not familiar with this ailment, hunger + anger = hanger.
Make sure you pronouce the G.
It's a nasty, nasty way to be. Hanger symptoms include, but are certainly not limited to tantrums, swearing, whining, booing, hissing, and a swift kick to the husband's nut sack. It gets even worse on road trips.
Now my husband? He doesn't suffer from the same kind of hanger that I do. In fact, he could cross the Sahara for forty days and forty nights on an elephant's back, eat three cashew nuts along the way, and complain that he might have diarrhea because he's too stinking full.
Jared actually suffers from hhanger. To break that one down, heat + humidity + anger = hhanger, and my goodness is it ever ugly.
Me? I don't mind the heat one bit. I regularly sit in our living room, completely unable to open my eyes from the sting of mug induced sweat, singing show tunes from the 1940s. No matter how hard it tries, humidity just cannot steal my joy.
When I really think back on our years in Texas, I have to wonder if it was actually the weather that brought us to the brink of divorce, and not the whole oopsiaccidentallyjusttriedtorunyouoverwiththisstationwagononpurpose incident that we usually blame it on.
Either way, Jared is one hhangry man.
Last night, our house was so muggy that Jared decided to give me the silent treatment.
Now I get the silent treatment all time time--but usually it's reserved for thos instaces when I put poop on my husband's toothbrush (true story), or when I overdraw the checking account with an irresponsible bacon purchase. But now, Jared is officially holding me responsible for the crappy, uncomfortable weather.
I hate it when I feel like I'm married to myself.