How I ended up with 16 gallons of pumpkin spiced liquor

James [entering the room with a cup in hand]: Honey, try this.

[I look up from my GRE study guide]

Me: What is it?

James: It’s pumpkin spice liquor and ice.

[I sip it]

James: Do you like it?

Me: It’s okay.

James: Good. Because I bought 16 bottles of it.

Me: YOU. DID. WHAT.

[James runs out of the room and returns lugging a box that clangs ominously with liquor bottles]

James: They were only a DOLLAR!

Me: So you bought 16 mother-flippin’ bottles of pumpkin spice poop because they were cheap!? We’re NOT ranging alcoholics!

James: Jessa, they were a dollar! We could end world hunger for those prices!

Me [laying my head down]: Just because something is cheap does not mean you need large quantities of it!

James [yelling]: We’ll give them away to friends! We’ll bathe in the leftovers!

Me: No one needs 16 gallons of crappy alcohol! Not even Amy Winehouse would have 16 gallons of pumpkin spice liquor just sitting around. 

James: Jessa....they were a dollar a piece and I had $20. I did what any normal person would do.

Me: No, you did what any inbred hick from the backwoods of satan's armpit would do.

[James starts putting bottles of orangish-white liquid onto the floor]

Me: I'm not going to drink that crap. Wait...what happened to the groceries you were supposed to get?

[James pauses]

James: I may have forgotten to buy groceries.

[I look up and glare]

Me: This does not end well for you.

James: I got excited when I saw the price and forgot to buy anything else.

Me: You’re fired.

We didn't drink it. Turns out that it didn’t taste great with coffee, was too heavy to drink with just ice and left a bad, tangy taste at the back of the throat. It’s almost a year later, and we still have one stubborn bottle of pumpkin spice liquor that I've been unable to pawn to the unsuspecting guest or homeless bum.

James wonders why I watch "Modern Family", and when I saw this episode...I finally could give an answer--this is me. Just replace the alpaca with 16 gallons of pumpkin spice liquor.

I fear/anticipate that James will one day come home with a needy alpaca.

James is still not allowed to shop for groceries.

Yeah. It wasn't me.

James [yelling from the kitchen]: JESSA! WHAT. THE. BLOODY. HELL.

Me: What? Did you start your period again?

James: "WHY IS THE ICECREAM IN THE FRIDGE!?!?"

Me: "Um. I don't know."

[James comes storming out]

James: "DID YOU EAT IT TODAY?!"

Me: "No. Why? Did you?"

[He pauses]

[A look of shame passes over his face]

[He spins around and storms back into the kitchen]

James: Don't come in here. I spilled it.

And the rest of the night was spent with me laughing hysterically and James cussing like a sailor as he wiped up the spilled, melted icecream.

Wifewin.

According to James, the number 500 doesn't exist.

James: I have never counted to 500. I always get distracted. So I just have to trust it's there. Like dinosaurs.

Me: James, dinosaurs are dead.

James: That's exactly why I have faith, because naysayers like you want me to believe this awesome giants just...died because of a cold.

Me: More like a deep freeze. You can't come back from that kind of trauma.

James: You know who else was frozen and came back to life? Jesus.

Me: So. Wrong.

James: I'm allowed to believe dinosaurs still exist. 'Cause...America.

Me: What about America?

James: This is America. You can believe and do ridiculous things and make millions from it, all the while calling yourself a scientist. That like that Tom Cruise guy.

Me: He's a scientologist.

James: So?

Me: There's a difference. One is a religion, the other is a guy who went to school for a long time.

James: You're saying the exact same thing.

Me: You know, you have a point. You go ahead and believe dinosaurs still exist, little buddy.

James: And that the number 500 is out there somewhere.

Tickling, or What My Husband Calls, "Massaging Your Ribcage"

After staring at a computer screen all day, editing 240 page documents and converting heaven-knows-how-many website pages...my shoulder hurt.
Mind you, this is no gentle ache.
It's a punt-you-in-the-balls-with-army-boots kind of pain. A, "I have rabid feminist eating through my tendons" kind of ache.
Annoying and unnecessary.
Naturally, I came home yesterday and invoked the vows of marriage. For better or worse, camel hump back or Olympic gymnast shoulders...I needed my husband to rub my back.
Turns out, this was much harder than anticipated, mostly because my husband is ADHD. However, he finally agreed to rub my shoulders for ten minutes. About 30 seconds in, he sighed.

James: Jessa, this is so boring. It's like playing with putty, except worse because you can't do anything with it.

Me: Holy Shrimpfest, James. It's been less than a minute.

James: It's been three hours. And counting.

Me: Would you massage me if I was pregnant?

James: Yes, but...your shoulder doesn't DO anything interesting.

Me: Just think of the knots in my back are like little babies. Little knot babies.

James: Ew. I'm uncomfortable now.

Me: Do you love me enough to massage me?

James: No. I'm not there yet. That's not a level I can reach.

Me: I need you to massage me!

James: Just drink some water, take a motrin and we'll come back to it.

Me [mumbling into the pillow]: I've heard that before.

[silence for two minutes]

James: I'm bored. This is so boring.

Me: It's been two minutes.

James: That was thirty minutes ago.

Me: Liar! You've BARELY done anything!

James: Jessa. I'm bored. This is the most bored I've ever been in my life.

Me: The Airforce once made you sit motionless in a chair for FOUR HOURS!

James: That was a carneval compared to this.

[silence.]

James: Has it been ten minutes yet? It's been like an hour.

Me: It's been four minutes.

James: Ugh. I'm so BORED. [starts poking at my back]

[pauses]

Me: If you stop early I'm going to start charging you interest on the minutes you owe me.

James: Geez. The SovietSocialistRepublic of Eldridge sucks.

Me: You now owe me four minutes in interest.

James: This won't end well for you.

*Epilogue: At about 9 minutes, he yelled something about tyranny and rebellion before stopping. I told him that he would accrue interest on his remaining 1 minute.
That didn't go over well.
Apparently, tickling me for two minutes earlier that day counted as massaging my ribcage, and so technically he had given me an 11-minute massage.
My shoulder still hurts.