Skylar does this thing where he puts something on our shared calendar and tells me about it in person and then reminds me several times and then has the absolute audacity to expect me to remember the event.

It's Year Of Our Lord Cher Two Thousand And Twenty Four Score And Seven Years Ago. We've stopped committing things to memory. We don't have to remember things anymore. Technology has taken over and turned our brains into mush. But, like, cute mush with a great personality.

Last week he asked me what my plans were for the weekend. The wording of the question threw me off. "What are you going to do with your weekend?"

Doesn't he know I don't have weekends anymore? We have weekends. I forfeited schedule independence when I swore eternal loyalty to him before gay God and our families and friends at an expensive party where I had to pay for Skylar's high school English teacher I had never met to eat chicken.

Back in my Single Lady Dayz, thinking about and planning for the weekend was one of my greatest sources of stress. If I didn't have every second planned and packed with youthful social shenanigans, I would get very lonely and depressed.

Then I got married and none of this mattered anymore. I had a built-in weekend buddy. I didn't need to make plans. I'd never be lonely again. Without fail, my weekend would be naturally filled with Skylar snapping at me for walking too closely behind him while we run monotonous errands. It's super fun and fulfilling. (Note: I have been banned, by him, from Costco, IKEA, and a handful of boutique clothing stores due to my "behavior.")

And so, when Skylar, my rock, my dragon slayer, the man who is legally required to worship me (trust me. I'm probably still a lawyer). When that man asked me "what are you going to do with your weekend," this could only mean one thing and that was that he was divorcing me, which I have explicitly told him on many occasions he is never allowed to do.

Side note, Skylar recently asked me which would be worse: if he asked me to plan another wedding with him or if he asked me for a divorce. I told him I wouldn't answer the question because in either of those scenarios I would just tell him no. He had the gall to argue that I can't say no to a divorce so I explained if he leaves me I'm just going to go with him. It was a really healthy conversation for our relationship.

Skylar told me he was not divorcing me and the reason he asked me what I was going to do with my weekend was because he was going out of town on a work trip. So I made the mistake of saying "why am I just now hearing about this" and the reason that was a mistake is because, according to historical records (i.e. Skylar's sworn testimony, and this man is incapable of lying), it has been on our calendar for months and he has told me about this "like five thousand times."

I explained to him the thing about the cute mush brains with great personalities but he did not follow the logic, which honestly kind of proved my point if you think about it.

Now listen. I am not a man who is meant to be alone. I'm a man who is meant to be among the people. One person, specifically, and that person is Skylar. That's why I made it illegal for him to ever stop worshiping me.

I told Skylar I objected to his leaving me, even if only for a few days, because I would miss him and I'm too fragile and adorable to ever experience adversity.

Skylar then told me, "well, why don't you try to have an affair while I'm gone to fill the void?" And he said it so dismissively and so pointedly ("TRY???") that it was clear he absolutely had no faith in my ability to pull off an affair.

And listen. I could never do a secret affair. I know that about myself. The exact moment the affair officially began I would immediately detail it in a notarized letter and have it delivered to Skylar by pigeon. I can't sneeze without reporting that to him right away. The amount of things I have told this man against his will—well, let's just say I'm both the subject and number one spreader of gossip in our house.

Speaking of telling this man things against his will, last night on our walk with the dogs he told me "my friend read your poop story on your website and thought it was really funny" and I said "which poop story" and he said "don't you think it's sad that's a question you can reasonably ask?"

So, no, I couldn't do a secret affair. But I'm pretty sure I could do a public one! I may not engage in youthful social shenanigans anymore, but I can still pull off half-decent cleavage and a grocery store nip slip if required.

The reason I shan't have an affair is not because I'm incapable. An affair is out of the question simply because I'm lazy. Oh, and loyal. Actually that's the first reason. I'm loyal and would never do that to Skylar. (Phew. Saved that one!)

But also, lazy. I've done the dating thing. I dated a lot. Do you know how many times in my life I've muttered the words "so did you grow up around here" to a stranger? It's the same number of times I've said the words "are you pretending to all your roommates you're straight and you plan to tell them I'm your cousin if we start dating? I just need to know up front. I can't end up in that situation again." to the same stranger.

I've been on so many first dates there's a whole wing at the Smithsonian about it. I know how exhausting dating is. I would never willingly do that again when I've got ol' ball and chain right over there.

And so, Skylar left town and me without a plan or reasonable access to infidelity. What did I do with myself, you ask?

My friends. I canned.

I canned the shit out of so much produce the Vatican is scrubbing the Bible of any reference to famine. There is currently a worldwide shortage of glass because of what I did this weekend. PBS is running a telethon thanks to viewers like you in response to the amount of canning I did on Saturday alone.

Canning is a source of marital strife in my home, largely due to Skylar's wildly unreasonable expectations that I complete the task without leaving the kitchen looking like it was the site of a middle school food fight on spaghetti day. He also thinks I can too much generally and he dares to walk me to the basement to point out how many jars have 2021 written on the caps to support his argument.

But it was like I had an out of body experience this weekend. I don't even remember blanching 40 pounds of tomatoes. But apparently I did. And on Sunday morning when Skylar texted me that he was "almost home" the reality check of all reality checks happened to me. I suddenly saw the house through his eyes. The general state of squalor. I didn't even know I had it in me.

I started cleaning like teenagers in a 90s sitcom who threw a party while their parents were out of town. It was like I was possessed by the spirit of Cinderella. The Brandy version. I was cleaning stuff I didn't even know we had. I was cleaning so hard I started to wonder if maybe I wasn't too lazy to have an affair.

Skylar walked into the house just as I collapsed onto the couch.

"Wow," he said. "The kitchen is spotless." He spoke those words like he had been preparing a monologue on the drive prompted by his anticipated entrance to general slobbery. His review of the kitchen was a compliment, but the tone was an insult, so the utterance was essentially a wash.

He walked over and kissed me. "What did you do this weekend?" he asked.

"Skylar." I shook my head. "I told you. It's 2024. We don't remember things anymore."

~It Just Gets Stranger