And the Winner is...

Yesterday, I posted a mini-poll at an online community where I've been a member for years. Most of the ladies know way too many details about my personal life... we're THAT close... so, I asked them to give my husband a nick-name for my blog. Here are the front runners, but I'd love to have additional input from the Blogger community:

• Viper
• Mr. Small
• Turd
• Dupa (Polish for butt, I'm told)
• Dick

If you need some inspiration, you might want to visit the archives and check out this post, this post (scroll to the second half of the post), or this one to give you a better idea about the man in question. At the moment, I'm leaning toward Mr. Small -- for a variety of reasons, not just anatomical, although if the shoe fits...

I'll post the results tomorrow.

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As for last night... I slept like a baby! Although the air mattress made odd, rude sounds rubbing against the head board every time I turned over, it was so much better than sleeping on the edge of the bed, with earplugs and a pillow over my head to drown out the snoring. It was SO wonderful, in fact, that I slept IN this morning... WAY IN... embarrassingly IN!

It occurs to me, as I read back over the linked posts above that some of you may be wondering what all of the fuss is about with Mr. Small. Let me see if I can give you the Reader's Digest version:

• Quit job the day we returned from our honeymoon - unemployed for 4 months
• Got great job in Texas (I paid to move us) kept it 9 months and got laid off - unemployed for 18 MORE months. During this time, he bought a brand new computer, spent hundreds of dollars on his hobby and top shelf booze and took his friends out for lunch every week -- I was eating PB&J's and had to start paying bills on credit. Should I mention that every time I confront him on anything, he reminds me that he gave up his idyllic life at sea just to be with me -- and that if he could only live his life at sea, he would be happy? There's also the incessant "when I win the lottery" shit... which just drives me up the friggin' WALL! Most people I know WORK for what they want!
• We moved back 'home' (I paid to move us) because we could no longer afford to live in Austin on my income alone. It took an ultimatum to get him to go back to work.
• After a bajillion drunken outbursts (the more he drinks, the more irrational he becomes), I told him I wanted a divorce and that I thought he was an alcoholic. We separated briefly, he turned on a dime, started going to AA and became what I now call the Stepford Husband. That lasted for 6 months, after which he waltzed in one day, informed me that he was NOT an alcoholic and broke out a bottle of Glenfiddich.
• Several months later, after a string of similar drunken outbursts (the negativity grows from just bitching about everything, to talking back to the television and contradicting everything everyone says, to ranting and raving about the chaos theory and selling all of his belongings and going out to sea), we reached the gun incident, at which time I decided I was going to leave him. The only problem was the house, which belonged to my grandmother. Mr. Small is a permanent resident alien with family all over the world and my fear was that if I kicked him out, he would disappear and I would be unable to do anything with the house, which was in both of our names.. So, I decided to have it refinanced in my name only -- which required him signing a quit-claim deed. There were a lot of tense days as I waited for him to sign... he did... but then my job started to go south and I was afraid to push him out like I had planned... now, I'm between jobs and so... I'm kinda stuck. Of course, after the gun incident, my parents offered financial help, but then my dad landed in the hospital -- three times in 9 months -- so, here I sit.

So, that's the short version (short for verbose little me, that is). The prevailing issue for me is the constant barrage of negativity that just sucks the life right out of me. I've tried to 'encourage' him to leave me... I've cut him off, been an ice queen... but it doesn't seem to have had much of an effect, save the occasional barb about not giving him any. Truth be told, I haven't missed it at all.

Well, he's home now -- after a two hour dentist appointment to have a rotten tooth extracted -- and he's armed with Vicodin, beer, wine and liquor -- whoopee! He also said he's staying home again tomorrow. Someone just shoot me, wouldja?