(My partner and I are both school teachers with a long commute. On weekend mornings we get up early for training, so a lie-in is a rare treat for us. This happens on our first Sunday lie-in in a long time. I am absolutely useless as a human being until my first cup of coffee in the morning. My partner lightly nudges me awake.)

Partner: “Hey, sweetheart.”

Me: “Mrrrphrrr.”

Partner: “It’s Sunday.”

Me: “Yay.”

Partner: “What shall we do?”

Me: “Mrrrphrrbrdrrr.”

Partner: “We could go to church? Or a healthy jog?”

Me: “Sure, sure, that sounds nice.”

Partner: “The only problem is you’re Jewish and you hate running.”

Me: “Oh, yeah.”

Partner: “Shall we go back to sleep, sweetheart?”

Me: “Mmmmkay, if you want.”

(He got a good laugh out of that one!)

(While watching “Train to Busan,” a Korean zombie flick set on the titular train:)

Me: “Apparently, they’re making a Hollywood remake of Train to Busan.”

Husband: “How the h*** are they going to do that? Our public transport here is s***.”

Me: *cracking up*

Husband: “It’d be what? The Long Drive to Busan? Everyone’s just stuck in traffic. For two hours. Including the zombies.”

(Zombies begin falling from broken windows and rapidly swarm towards the survivors in a craze, snarling and spitting. They scramble over barriers and each other, broken limbs jutting out at odd angles, making them resemble a horrifying stampede of twisted, mangled marionettes.)

Husband: “Looks like a typical Black Friday, if you ask me.”

My husband’s sister was going to be nearby on business, so my husband and I decided we would drive to the city where she was staying to take her out for dinner. About 15 minutes before we arrived, I told my husband this rather long story about two women who bump into each other after not seeing each other for a few years.

The first woman was telling the second all the (rather unbelievable) things that had been happening in her life and after each one, the second woman would say, “Wow! That’s wonderful!” When the first woman finally asked the second what she had been doing lately, the second replied that she’d been going to charm school. “Oh, really? What do they teach you in charm school?” “They teach us to say, ‘Wow! That’s wonderful!’ instead of, ‘Bulls***.’”

Hubby chuckled at the joke and that was the end of it, or so he thought.

We were sitting there enjoying a meal and listening to my sister-in-law go on and on about her wonderful son — think the male version of the Princess Ballerina Astronaut. When she finally slowed down enough to draw breath, I commented, “Wow! That’s wonderful!”

Poor hubby snorted milk out his nose halfway across the restaurant.

When I first started event-planning, a friend of mine hired me as a gift to her cousin to boost my business. Since the wedding was going to be a total DIY project, I was merely another set of hands to help out, and a record keeper. The bride was very creative and wanted to get married on Halloween of all days. Her greatest wish was to be married in a rainstorm at her grandfather’s house under the gazebo.

The two months leading up to the wedding consisted of making silk sunflower arrangements, procuring non-allergy hay-bales, and the bride painstakingly hand-dyeing lace black on a second-hand wedding dress she found at a church rummage sale.

The almanac and weather forecast called for clear skies that day, so we rigged up sprinklers and soaked hoses on the roof, and rented a tent to butt up against the gazebo to keep the guest area dry. Once we added a lighting strobe and the thunder recording, the effect was amazing.

The morning of the wedding, the bride got a glimmer of hope when, out of nowhere, the forecast called for a chance of thunderstorms that night. We met up at her hair appointment, and she remembered she needed more goodies for the kids party. Skies were clear when we entered the store, but when we came out, a dark mass of clouds was rolling in on the horizon. The bride literally skipped all the way to the car, singing, “It’s gonna rain.” Many people stopped and smiled at the sight of a grown woman with the freshly-done “I do” updo, complete with tiara and veil. skipping through the parking lot like a little girl.

By the time all the guests had arrived, it had started to sprinkle, and by the time the bride walked down the aisle it was a downpour. After the kiss, the bride and groom ran back up the aisle, through her grandfather’s house and out on the the driveway where they danced in the rain. All the black dye began streaking down the dress.

A few of the guests snipped at the display, but the bride didn’t care. She got the wedding of her dreams.

The bride hired me for a few extra weeks to help her rip apart her dress and make mini quilts for their parents and grandparents to be a backdrop to a pair of pictures in a shadow box: one picture of them saying their vows, and the other of them kissing in the rain.

(When we were together, my husband would tell me who I could talk to, where I could go, how I could cut my hair… basically how I could exist within his life. I told myself he was just protecting me and I should respect his decisions. When we would talk about upcoming plans — work, spending time with my family, etc. — he would say we never talked about it. I brushed it off for a while because I told myself he was just focused on other things. This is the story of when I’d had enough. A few weeks before this conversation, I csme up with what I thought was a foolproof way to avoid the “you never told me” conversation.)

Me: “Okay, I’m heading out. I’ll see you later. I love you!” *leans in for a kiss*

Husband: *backs away* “Where are you going?”

Me: “Uh, out shopping with my sister.”

Husband: *exasperated* “Why don’t you ever tell me your plans?”

Me: “I did.”

Husband: “NO. You didn’t.”

Me: “I did. We were making dinner on Sunday night and I told you–”

Husband: “You did not. You’re not going.”

Me: “Are you telling me I can’t go see my sister because you don’t remember a conversation?”

Husband: “I’m telling you that you can’t go because you’re always making plans and not telling me about them until you’re halfway out the door, and I’m sick of it!”

Me: *frustrated* “That’s not true.”

Husband: “It f****** is true!”

Me: “I told you!”

Husband: “Prove it and you can go.”

Me: “Okay.”

(I pull out my phone and open our text conversation. There, on Sunday night, around the time we would have been making dinner, is a message from me, to him. It reads, “I’m going shopping with my sister on Friday.”)

Husband: “Doesn’t count.”

Me: “And why not?”

Husband: “Because you can’t just text me and expect me to read it!”

Me: “You… You’re not serious right now.”

Husband: “I am serious!”

Me: “You will call me repeatedly until I pick up, but you aren’t expected to read a f****** text message?”

Husband: “I have a full-time job! I run this house! I can’t be expected to look at my phone all the time like you do!”

Me: “Okay.”

(That was the last time we had a remotely civil conversation. I will miss the good times we had, but living like someone’s blow-up doll is no life.)