An Open Letter to my Spouse:
|I'm innocent, Daddy!|
As you know, my dear, Halloween is my favorite holiday of the year. I love the concept that you can be whomever or whatever you want to be. You can be an astronaut, you can be a cowboy, you can be a superhero, and you can even be a fanciful, magical unicorn. You, I see, have chosen to be a pig. This beloved holiday of mine officially occurs tomorrow evening. I suppose this is probably all my fault because I should have known better and not bought the bags of candy so damn soon. However, as I have said, this holiday is tomorrow and six entire bags purchased for little ghouls and goblins have failed to survive to their expected date. I know precisely who the candy culprit is too. Try as you may to blame our two-year-old daughter, I have pulled Reese’s wrappers from your pockets when doing the laundry. I have found the debris from devoured Snickers’ bars atop your nightstand. And, really, darling, can you not manage to deposit your Milky Way wrappers in the damn garbage can, instead of leaving them lying right next to it? I love you so very much, but I have seen you popping M&Ms like pills and sneaking Kit-Kats into the bathroom all those times you claim constipation, although it’s my adamant belief you are seeking reprieve from a nagging wife and needy toddlers. Again, I suppose that is my fault as well for I should be less judgmental and show you more respect than I currently do. Regardless, you better not ruin this holiday for me, so I ever so kindly ask of you: stop eating all the fucking candy!