The good news is
2005-11-02, 9:09 a.m.
The good news is, the Marine Cobra helicopter that went down, killing two Marines, did NOT contain my brother-in-law. It wasn’t his squadron, so it wasn’t anybody we know, unless through wild coincidence. The bad news is, well, a Marine Cobra helicopter went down, killing two Marines.
My sis called me yesterday to let me know that Senate Democrats had called a closed-door meeting to hash out some of this Iraq stuff, and she very hopefully said “Maybe they’ll just order them all home.” Dream on, but hey. Amen.
In other news, my shoulder hurts and I’m tired of all the clothes in my closet. Don’t I have terrible problems? You probably don’t see how I can even stand to be me. It’s tragic. And like Mistress Mary, I'm not as skinny as I used to be, and my ass is sliding down the backs of my legs, and my waist has just gone away. *poof!*
Oh, and I’m also a sucker. Our friend Brett called Friday night, you know Brett – the one whose family hosted DW’s and my wedding shower lo these 4 years ago, and who manned the karaoke equipage for my 40th birthday party? That Brett. Anyway, he hinted around about his wife Kelly’s upcoming 40th, and how she loves to sing, but since they moved, they have neighbors too close to really pump up the volume, throw down, blow it out, and all those other metaphors for partying at volume 11.
I took the bait, and now Brett is hosting Kelly’s birthday at our house this Friday (because we don’t believe in anything longer than one week’s notice). Apparently, all I have to do is clean the house. Brett’s doing all the rest of the work.
I’m a sucker, but I’m nice, see? Niiiiice.
Speaking of cleaning the house, DW and I had a come-to-Jesus talk about housework yesterday. It went something like this (condensed to speed it up and make me look better and smarter):
Me: (mewling pitifully) All you do is go out, play golf, play football, drink beer, and wah wah wah wah wah.
Him: Well, all you do is clean the house. Relax! Come out with me! Have fun! Quit working all the time. You think if you don’t do all the work yourself, it won’t get done properly.
(when he says “come out with me”, he means ride along in the golf cart and then drink beer and trash talk afterwards, all of which I excel in) (sorry about ending that sentence in a preposition)
Me: Huh? What’s this “properly” shit? I know if I don’t do it myself, it won’t fucking get done PERIOD. And this place will deteriorate into a dirty cave so fast, we’ll have bats hanging from the ceiling.
Him: I thought I wasn’t allowed to do any housework because I do it wrong.
Me: Dream on. You just made that up. You are expected to help out, and dude, you don’t help out.
Him: Well, I’m just going to come home and do laundry then.
Did he? FOCK no. But to his credit, he was installing shelves and fixing a broken bathroom heater fan til at least 8:00. Who did the laundry? Who do you think?
This morning, I taught him how to find the dishwasher soap (under the sink. TRICKY), and how to turn on the dishwasher (WASH. START.) I mean, geez, this is his namesake. I don’t call him DW, my beloved DishWasher for my freaking health. When we first got married, I remarked to somebody that our little house didn’t have a dishwasher, and DW replied “Yes we do. He’s short, bald and 40.”
So it wasn’t MY idea.
Balloon update: I had to kill one of the balloons. It had lost most of its loft, and kept bobbing at about desk height, scaring me because I kept thinking it was someone hiding behind my desk, WHICH IT WAS. So I took the scissors to it, inhaled what helium was left because I am the consummate professional, and buried the remains behind the dumpster, carefully pouring melted holy santos candle wax on its grave to prevent its returning, seeking BRAAAAINS. Hold me.
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I cast the balloons a leery look. Look leery!