For the post title I used a tool called “Portent’s Content Idea Generator”. So either you’re welcome or I am not to blame, okay. I’d do a poll asking if you want me to use this thing more often if I weren’t too lazy to figure out how to do a poll.
Before meeting Husby, who then was obviously then called Potential Candidate, I was convinced I was not going to have another relationship ever. My history wasn’t exactly stellar. I had three relationships worth writing about. They lasted 2.5 years, 1.5 years and 0.5 years and I only list the last one because it was more on/off than a fucking stroboscope and while it actually lasted six months it felt more like six years. On a rollercoaster. Yes, you’d vomit, and so did I, or actually we. In the process I found out why bad boys are called bad boys. It’s because they’re bad for you.
Then I met Potential Candidate for the first time. I had no idea what would happen, or, in fact, that anything would happen. I added him to my harem-at-the-time, one of five or so lovers I regularly rotated (I’m a quality, not quantity man, although I do understand that to some of you “five” counts as quantity, so judge me all you want) (just quietly). He wasn’t a bad boy, he didn’t do drugs or drink, he didn’t go out all that much but, most importantly, within an hour from the first time I laid eyes on him my intuition told me:
“That’s the one.”
“What one?” I asked, somewhat stupidly.
Intuition sorta rolled its eyes. “THE one.” Then it went off for a stroll while I was panicking. I knew the man for an hour. He had sixty cocks on his bedroom wall. This was scary shit. What am I supposed to do with this sort of thought? I did what any sane person would, by which I mean I told him I didn’t want any relationship other than friends with benefits, within two months got myself another boyfriend, split with the other boyfriend three weeks later due to realisation I have no interest in anybody who isn’t Hubby.
In the meantime we went to a birthday party of a mutual single friend. We stood there in our corner, holding hands and being very happy not to speak to anybody. The friend, who was somewhat intoxicated, came over and slurred “why don’t you just admit you’re a couple? why? WHYYYY?????” to which we responded in unison “but we are not a couple”, then continued doing air kisses, holding hands and making some guests vomit into plant pots. Okay, maybe it wasn’t us but the tequila they consumed, but still, we were so disgustingly sweet together some diabetics had to leave.
Today marks five years since our first meeting. It wasn’t even supposed to be a date. I never thought I’d meet this man more than twice (second time was meant to be for chainmail making lesson, which happened – before other things happened). I never, ever thought I would live in this house I christened a museum very quickly. That I would get married at all, much less with Husby of all people. That I would discover my favourite smell in the world is his skin, although possibly his hair is even nicer – my previous favourite smell in the world, burning wood, sadly dropped to number three on Ray’s Smell Chart.
We do have fights. It took us about four years to have our first one. Nowadays we have regular fights. They mostly involve Husby unplugging my Macbook’s power supply or me folding towels wrong. (There’s only one correct way to fold towels and it’s Husby’s. Sorry world, you’ve been doing it wrong all this time. He’s considering starting a paid YouTube channel though to enlighten you.) But we share the important things you need to ensure for your fifth anniversary, so you can stay popular in the fifth anniversary world.
(This title joke is so shit I can’t even work out how to use it AT ALL. Thanks, Obama Title Generator!)
So here are the important things:
- Always hang toilet paper the correct way. The correct way is OVER. Not UNDER. I can’t believe I have to explain this. But initially I did. (Coincidentally, Husby explained to me how to hang a towel correctly when I moved in. It’s not difficult and it makes him almost as happy as correctly hung toilet paper makes me. Also, I just realised he has serious towel-related PTSD and probably needs therapy, but we can only afford one therapist and I was first in line.)
- Have separate rooms. (This only occurred to me a month ago, because I’m a naturally fast learner.) So one of you can zap TV channels while the other can play The Sims 4 and take screenshots for his blog. Or one of you can embroider cocks (link SFW) and the other can make ambient music both at the same time. (You wouldn’t believe how much noise embroidering cocks makes, but it’s nowhere near the noise level ambient music makes. When you play the same 15 seconds over and over and over and over again really loud looking for that perfect “boink” sound.)
- Have the same standards when it comes to cleaning. Our shared standard is that we clean things when they piss us off too much not to clean them. Or when guests are coming. So basically our sink is empty either because you’re visiting or because I needed a mug and all 17 of them were in the sink under 12 plates and three pans. And smelled of burnt vinegar.
- Enjoy doing things together.
- Enjoy doing things separately.
- Resist the temptation to say asshole-y things no matter how pissed off you are when Husby just unfolded all towels you folded 30 seconds ago because they were not folded the right way. Because he resists the temptation to say asshole-y things when you forget to buy stuff for breakfast. AND lunch. AND dinner. And then he cooks something delicious out of frozen leek, popcorn and moldy cheese. Seriously. Let him refold the towels and if you call him Hyacinth while he does so, do it in your head.
- Have at least one interest you share and at least one you don’t. This sounds like a rehash of 4. and 5., but let me explain. When you share an interest, you can have a long conversation about it and discover things you’d never figure out on your own. When you don’t share it, let one of you talk, while the other one composes a song/redesigns a bag/makes shopping list in your head. While one talks and the other drifts away into space, proceed to stare at each other thinking dreamily “he’s phiiiiiiiiiine”.
- Prefer each other’s company over anybody else’s company. Not necessarily all the time. Just statistically. Like, if I got a chance to spend this Saturday evening with Kylie Minogue or with Husby, he’d have to stay home alone. But if I was told I have to spend EVERY evening with Kylie Minogue… well… Janet Jackson… Idris Elba… Jason Momoa… Chris Hemsworth… I don’t think there is ANYBODY I would pick. Dear OR alive. Or both, although this is not a zombie blog.
- I decided to do ten reasons but I kind of ran out of ideas now. Um, we both like Great British Bake-Off. Shit, that’s an interest we share. Oh I know!
- Never, ever surprise each other without making sure first that the surprise will be appreciated. This is why none of us will ever organise a surprise party for the other one. Not even because we dislike parties. We are just both the sort of people who like to know that when we get home, there will be no surprises waiting for us, except possibly packages we forgot we ordered. If I got home and there were 20 people screaming SURPRISEEEEE!!!! I would divorce Husby. If I got home and there was naked Jason Momoa screaming SURPRISEEEE!!!!! I would need immediate medical attention, and when I’d recover from the coma caused by shock I would divorce Husby. For similar reasons I never bring live tigers home, as awesome as they are. I also don’t inform him that from now on we have four cats.
Of course those rules are ones that work for US. You may break every single one of them and make it to your 150th anniversary which will give you an even stupider blog post title.
Now go have sex.