As you may recall, a few months ago my husband wasn’t talking to me because I accidentally ordered 200 personal checks that looked like this:
He was a really big baby about it, but I guess that’s kind of understandable. After all, it was humiliating when we didn’t have any cash and had to write a $9 LL&TC check out to Madison G., the Girl Scout cookie pusher at our front door. (But did you have to roll your eyes and call us “weird lame-o’s,” Madison? No, you did not.) (Also, stop pissing off your best customers, genius. You’d be NOTHING without my dangerously unhealthy Thin Mint addiction. NOTHING.)
Anyway, we moved to a different house shortly after this check debacle and realized that we needed to order new checks again so our address was correct. We use online banking for most of our bills, but I still have to write the odd check to people like the lawn guy who’s slightly more old school than Chase Credit Card Services. And Lord knows I don’t want to miss a mothafokkin payment to the lawn guy again.
Proving that love is not only blind, but deaf, dumb and trapped inside a pillowcase with no discernible air holes, my husband then told me to just go ahead and take care of the check order by myself. “You trust me after what happened last time?” I asked.
“Sure. I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to do that again,” he answered. “Not even you.”
But not very smart. Because when I went online to order the new checks, I remembered his not so nice words. As well as the time he bellowed, “Livin’ large and takin’ charge!” when I got my sweater stuck on a grocery cart and had to get a pimply bag boy to unhook me. And how he again yelled, “Livin’ large and takin’ charge!” when my flotation device at the indoor waterpark capsized and I almost took out a 3-year-old with my big skirtini-ed ass.
So that’s why this happened:
We got 200 of them in the mail yesterday.
I’ll let you know how much he likes them.