My husband isn’t really a psycho but I thought it would be a pretty interesting title as far as search engines are concerned. Unfortunately, people are going to come here looking for answers on how to deal with said psycho husband and they’ll probably be disappointed. And now I feel bad. So, here’s some advice just in case you did come here to solve your psycho husband problems:
- How crazy is he on a scale from Scott Baio to Mel Gibson? If you’ve picked Gibson, my advice is to bake him a cake, pretend like you’re going to confession, AND GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE HOUSE IMMEDIATELY. He’s unpredictable, crazy racist, and hopped up on deranged man power. RUN!
- Is he talking to himself and/or convinced that he’s a garden gnome? Is he scaring you? If he’s not being scary but also thinks he’s a garden gnome, agree with him, and tell him that garden gnomes love yard work. Smile lovingly at him in his weird pointy hat while he sweats and toils in the sun.
- Is he being abusive and mean? Yes? YOU DESERVE BETTER THAN THAT. In the words of Beyonce, Queen Bey, LET ME UPGRADE YOU. Nobody deserves to be treated like crap or to be afraid of their partner. Get out, go to a family members house or a friends. Ask for help. Call a therapist or the police. There’s no shame in telling people that your husband is an asshole. Seriously. NO SHAME.
Alright, now back to my husband. My husband is not a psycho but sometimes he sounds like one because he’s foreign. And he has a crazy accent and doesn’t understand pop culture.
For example. This morning I was walking around the house getting ready for work and for some reason that one song is stuck in my head, that Britney Spears song, “You better work bitch.” But I was tired, and I hate mornings, so instead of singing it I was just kind of padding around talking the lyrics. Like, “Oh, hey you in the mirror. You want a Maserati? Better work, bitch.” Then, I decided that my only form of communication with my husband all morning should be the same.
ME: Hey babe
Him: What?
ME: You want a Maserati?
Him: Huh? What the fuck are you talking about?
ME: You better work, bitch.
And he just shrugged and ignored me like he pretty much does every day and went back to making his fancy espresso that coughs and sprays black coffee shit all over my stove every. fucking. morning. I went back to the bathroom to apply a shitload of concealer and to continue talking to myself in Britney lyrics.
Then, Francesco was dropping me off at work and before I got out of the car he was all,
“Babe?”
I turned, “Yes?”
“Uhm, if you want deh Maserati you gotta get a job and shit!” He laughed out loud and pounded on the steering wheel.
“Those aren’t the lyrics, dude.” I shook my head disapprovingly and got out of the car and pretended like I didn’t know him. Because it’s one thing to speak in Britney lyrics and it’s another thing to TRY and fail miserably.
Get your shit together, husband.
M. E. Evans 