The Way Things Are






I finished all the painting.
2005-04-15, 9:20 a.m.

DW: I finished all the painting. The house is painted.
Me: Thanks for painting me a new house, baby. May I offer you a blow job?

It is the currency of the crack whore, the blow job is.

I was going to offer up an entry today chronicling something I have bitched and harped and droned about endlessly: DWís affinity for the guys, and apparent disdain for all things wifely. Itís all the guys, all the time. I give you:

EXHIBIT 1: Sunday night, after the dinner thing at The Mighty KBís house, Lil Guy and I went home about 10:00, which is late for a school night, but he was having fun, and time always slips right by us when weíre over there. Anyway, DW stayed and had a few beers with the guys and got home well after midnight. I was sound asleep.

EXHIBIT 2: Tuesday night, DW went to the Spurs game with the guys. Go Spurs Go. Yay. I think it was 1:00 when he finally dragged his tired, old ass in. I was sound asleep. I made sure to make a lil noise Wednesday morning getting ready for work. Thatís all Iím sayiní.

EXHIBIT 3: Wednesday night, DW went to the little sports bar downtown in our small town to have one beer with the guys. It took him 3 hours to drink it. I was sound asleep.

So one might think that DW is ready for an evening at home with his lovely and ever-shrinking wife, but I give youÖ

EXHIBIT 4: Thursday nightÖwill be brought to you via dialogue recall and interpretive dance:

DW: What are you doing tonight?
Me: Working and then coming home.
DW: We donít have any plans?
Me: What do you want to do?
DW: Well, KB says they only have 7 guys tonight and they need me to play. [freakiní flag football! Hmmph!]
Me: Okey dokey.
DW: Are you just going to watch Apprentice?
Me: Yeah, and I might masturbate.
DW: Heh. [He doesnít believe me][and it turns out I didnít. God I suck at carrying through with threats] What are our plans for tomorrow?
Me: No plans so far, why?[expecting another wife-excluding sports extravaganza]
DW: I thought we could go out, get something to eat, maybe see a movie, or go to that bar with the live music.
[Iím thinking ĎHuh! He isnít asking for my permission to go out and do something asinine and pointless, but Iím sayingÖ]
Me: OK, but if yíall end up playing the golf video game all night, Iíll go out and sleep in the car again.

(Aside: I have done this. Yíall know that if Iím drinking, I have to be up moving around, or at least engaged in lively conversation with lots of cussiní and dirty talk, or Iím just going to go to sleep. Last time we went to the live music bar with a group of friends, I ended up going out to the car to sleep in the backseat of Donís Trailblazer (mmmm, leather) while DW and Don and a whole crew played that god-awful golf game for hours. And hours. And hours. Once I woke up, I drove home. Hey, I had the keys. Screw them, I thought. Let them walk, or find a ride. They did. No harm, no foul. No ham, no fowl. Iím really glad Don didnít get upset with me for just driving his car home and leaving him stranded. Ah well, I cook for him a LOT. Home-cooked food is also a currency I deal in. Aside over, conversation continuedÖ)

DW: Whatís this ďyíall? Iím talking about you and me.

So, I was going to get on here and cuss and cry and fret and feel all sorry for myself because my husband **sob** doesnít love me **sob** and he wishes heíd never gotten married **sob** because itís no fun hanging out with me **sob** when he could be playing sports and hanging out with the guys **sob** and that bastard KB prolly swallows.

But instead, Iím gently making fun of him, and I donít know, mebbe bragging that weíre perhaps going out tonight. I want to see the latest Drew Barrymore movie because you canít go wrong with Drew. Huh! A date. A DUCK.

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