Dear Husbands, Do NOT ever eat the last slice of pie.
When we all get married there are spoken, written, and unspoken “rules” within the marriage. There’s the whole “in sickness and health” part spoken in front of God and family. Then, there’s the long-shot agreement, “Sure honey, you can have a pass if you get a chance with Anne Hathaway. Go for it. Just act like my brother if Channing Tatum is suddenly looking at me with hungry eyes.”
There’s the unspoken rules about exes, over-sharing on Facebook, wearing socks during whoopee, calling it whoopee, and our ability to cook like your mom.
Then there’s THE rule about desserts.
This rule is very, very serious and not to be taken lightly. They should be written down before the “I do’s” so that they are clearly defined, like a prenup for desserts. All wives have one sweet-tooth weakness; it could be chocolate bars, birthday cake, girl-scout cookies, twinkies (RIP), pudding, candy, ice cream, cheesecake, tiramisu, M&Ms, popsicles, brownies, a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, fudge, jello, lemon bars, or cupcakes. In general, every woman has one dessert that if you eat the last piece there will be unforeseen consequences (like horse head in the bed consequences, but not, ‘cause we would have to clean that up).
Sometimes we reach for our little treat after a long hard day, after a particularly great day, during our monthly visitor, or while we are 23 FREAKIN’ WEEKS PREGNANT WITH YOUR CHILD. Personally, my sweet-tooth is PIE.
I love pie. I appreciate pie. I admire pie cause it’s warm, round, yummy, has flaky crusts, and sweet fillings. I have no preference: lemon meringue, key lime, cherry, apple, chocolate, pecan, sweet potato, or chicken pot. PIE IS PIE! Sidenote: Cobblers fall into this category, ‘cause they are just sloppily constructed pie.
I’m not selfish, it’s not that I don’t want you to have some pie, but specifically I must have the last slice of pie. To clarify: one slice of pie is 1/8 of the whole pie, not some sliver from which you shaved the crust off.
It’s a blatant disregard against our written pie prenup, and my feelings, when I leave for work in the morning knowing there are 2 slices of cherry in the fridge, but when I come home after a long day of growing your child you have eaten them… BOTH (pause for effect, and nods from all wives). Women need their pie. I need my pie. Our unborn needs her pie too.
Lesson for all husbands:
1) You can have pie.
2) You cannot have the last slice of pie.
3) You are wrong for eating the last slice of pie.
To my husband: I love you, but please consider my current growing belly a representation of your last slice of whoopee pie for a while. At least till I can get some more pie.
Hi I’m Crystal… I’m a open-book-loud-too-much-information type of person that offers more advice than what I should be permitted to give. My husband is the quiet peaceful type that rolls his eyes at me more everyday. I was born in October (which I’m awkwardly proud of). I’m currently pregnant with a girl, but also already have a little lady toddler, named Maggie (who I’m obsessed with). I Facebook stalk and Pinterest things more than I’d admit to (and I admit to everything). I have a design degree, which I use to make book covers and companies look awesome. I try to embrace what makes me strange, and now since I’m a mom so I don’t have to be strange alone. Oh… and Go Jesus!
Thank you, Crystal. You’re right. We’re wrong. I’m now afraid of pie. All pie. And possibly cheesecake. Be sure to check out Crystal’s site ducksoapbox.blogspot.com. And, don’t forget to tell us Why We’re Wrong.
This post sponsored by Darcy Perdu at www.SoThenStories.com who shares her true-life bodacious blunders and hilarious humiliations — (and invites you to do the same.) Check her website out — I dare you not to laugh out loud or snort in an unladylike fashion.