Emotional Pajamas

I accidentally published a draft of this post last week, for about thirty seconds. But apparently, it registered in people's readers and they were forced to read it. Sorry! Perhaps you assumed that I was out of my mind. I hope that the complete version of the post removes all doubt.


Before my dog died, we had to walk her. Now that she's dead, not so much.

But she was my dog, I brought her to the marriage, so it was technically my responsibility. But me being me, I quickly tried to get around that technicality.

Fortunately, I got pregnant almost as soon as the ring was on my finger, so I had that to milk for a while. Then, I was saddled with the joys of motherhood.

We worked out a routine--I took the dog out in the mornings and as soon as I got home from work. One of us would take her out before we went to bed.

This, to me, was unfair.

Every day, I had to walk her a minimum of two times, sometimes three.

Husbandrinka only had to walk her once a day at the most.

It's like he wanted me barefoot and pregnant and not allowed to vote or something. I could not live in that kind of mysoginistic state.

So, I devised a plan.

My plan consisted of being ready for bed before Husandrinka even considered going to sleep so that he'd be forced to walk the dog.

Often, by the time he got home at 7:30, I was already in my pajamas. "I'd love to walk the dog," I'd tell him, adjusting my night cap, "but I am already dressed for bed."

"Why are you in your pajamas before 8?" He would ask, with an inappropriate and mildly offensive tinge of suspicion in his voice.

"I like to be prepared," I'd say, fluffing up my favorite sleep toy. "See you in the morning!"

This worked for a while, but my plan wasn't full-proof. Mostly because sometimes there were things that I wanted to do after I got home, that required me to be dressed in clothes that were not pajamas. Like taking out the garbage. Or going to the store for emergency Haagen Dasz. Or modeling an outfit in front of a full length mirror and giving mock interviews about how offended I was that just because I was a supermodel, people assumed that I was dumb.

And that's how "emotional pajamas" came into play.

Because I would come home and telephone Husbandrinka.

"I'm home already," I'd announce. "In my emotional pajamas."

"What the hell are emotional pajamas?" he'd blasphemy.

"I am not literally in pajamas, but emotionally, I am." I explained. And he understood. And shockingly he respected the emotional pajamas. Because who can argue against it, really? To do so, would be to call me lazy, and I think we all know that that wouldn't end well.