Jon and Kate, you are ruining marriage for me

Yesterday, in a very casual yet purposeful manner, my husband announced — with little consideration for my cats’ feelings — that he wants to get a dog.

A dog.

To most normal, full-blooded suburban wives who drive SUVs, are fully vested in their 401(k)s and think puppies (and, by extension, human children) are adorable and necessary, this might be really satisfying news — which would, no doubt, be followed up with plans to put that dog in a jaunty Santa hat and add him to this year’s beach-scape Christmas card portrait.

But to my ears, his announcement sounded more like, “I want eight kids and a divorce. P.S. I’m friends with Michael Lohan now.”

See, thanks to Jon and Kate Plus I Hate You Both So Much That I Forgot You Even Had Children, I’m a little on edge marriage-wise, and this dog thing has had me saying things like, “A dog! I don’t even know you anymore!” and "Oh no, mister. We don't get dogs in Kate Gosselin's household."

This reality-show-induced marital unease didn’t start over a dog, though. It actually started because of a flare-up over a pumpkin-pie-scented Yankee Candle — which I light in my kitchen because the notion that maybe someone (not me), somewhere (not here) has enough time and energy to bake a real, live autumn dessert is comforting.

My husband, however, took one whiff of the candle and said, “You like jar candles? Since when?” Then he looked at me as if I had just told him I’m abandoning everything he ever loved about me so I can pursue my secret desire of joining the cast of “Snowbabies on Ice” while making scrapbooks about different types of cocoa.

Our argument escalated, because, as you know, I don’t take accusations about scented candles lightly. Not to air our dirty laundry, but I said some pretty hurtful things including, “This jar candle understands me in a way you never will!” and “I’m not even going to tell you how many jar candles I had before I met you but it was A LOT. And they were fantastic!”

Naturally, this isn’t all Jon and Kate’s fault. The media deserves some of the blame, too, because they apparently think I’ll collapse on the ground if I go a single minute without knowing whether Jon still loves Kate, whether Kate is waiting for the old Jon to call and whether Jon knows how to spell the word “lying” (for the record, he absolutely does not know how to spell the word “lying,” which explains every single one of their problems).

It is this constant assault of Gosselin news that has brought me here, to this place, reading into things like casual candle comments and examining my husband for any and all signs of Ed Hardy shirts or CZ studs (though I’m happy to report, I’ve only found a burgeoning soul patch and a secret Snuggie, neither of which says, “I’m going to go date your plastic surgeon’s daughter now and then embarrass you in US Weekly by letting my hair plugs air out.”).

Man, I really, really don’t want a dog.

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