You grow up thinking you’ll marry someone shorter than you, and then one day you realize all the short people are already taken. So you bargain with the devil. You say, “Fine. Give me a giant.” Fast forward ten years, and you’re nearly crushed to death in your sleep by a giantess named Winnie.
Never marry a man who collects human skulls. He’ll say, “No, no. It’s for an art installation,” but don’t believe him. There is no art installation of human skulls, even in Florida.
Every once in awhile I send my wife a text that says, “When the cat’s away, the mice will listen to Coldplay!” And that has made all the difference.
Sometimes you think you’re alone, but your husband’s still sitting beside you, talking about baseball.
Love means never having to say, “I’m sorry I dropped the piano on your toe. In my defense, you were tickling me. Please don’t tickle me the next time I’m moving the piano.” You don’t have to say that.
Never marry a woman who asks, “Is this Debussy?” every time she hears a saxophone solo. After a while you start to wonder if she’s serious. You ask, “Hey, you know who Debussy was, right?” And she says, “Of course I do. It’s a joke.” And you say, “It’s not very funny.” And she says, “Yeah, well, it’s not about your small penis.”
My husband completes me. I’m missing a thumb and he has an extra thumb, so I’m good.
My wife tried to physically remove my third thumb and reattach it to her hand. One morning I looked up, and there she was, holding a kitchen knife and whispering, “You already have two. Give me mine.” I never brought it up, though. I learned early not to play the blame game.
The first time I saw Paul I said, “You hit my car, you idiot.” The second time I saw him I said, “You hit another car, you idiot.” But the third time I saw him I said, “That’s him. That’s the guy. He tries to park on this street every morning. Arrest him.” We fell in love a few years later.
I never married. I’m going to use this chapter to talk about my state quarter collection.
On October 11, 1975, I married William Jefferson “Bill” Clinton. There were good times, and there were bad times. Every time there was a bad time I put a piece of paper in a jar. I wrote the words, “There was a bad time,” on the piece of paper and labeled the jar “Bad Time Jar.” Bill wanted me to label it “Not Good Time Jar,” but I said no. We fought a lot about it, actually. And every time we fought, I put another piece of paper in the jar. Eventually, we agreed to disagree about what the jar should be called. Also, the jar broke.