Why I Am A Bad Wife Redux
Why I am a bad wife this month, in no particular order.
- I just cleaned the toilet. I can’t remember the last time I scrubbed it, but MTM caught me, motoring away with the brush in my hand, bedecked in my flannel pajamas with the cardinals all over them.
- I’m sure I was fetching.
- I asked MTM for the four million, two hundred and seventy-eight thousand, four hundred and fifty-fifth time, if this book will make me.
- He said yes. Because, he is the most amazing and long suffering husband of all time.
- I then proceeded to do our taxes for at least four hours, all the while complaining about how much I have to do and screeching at the computer every time something didn’t come out right. He humored me, because he still likes having COFFEE. With me. Even though I wear cardinal-crusted flannel pajamas that are not exactly clean and shriek at inanimate objects. For hours. And hours.
- I cannot fathom why he would want to sleep with me, ever again.
- He gave me wine, which made me more talkative. Not a Good Thing.
- When MTM asked me if he had any clean underwear several days ago, I did not compute that I needed to do laundry. Instead, in a down-to-the-wire fog, I asked him what one of my characters would do in the same situation.
- We talked about fake people for at least three hours.
- MTM went commando for several days, while I wandered around the house in a stupor.
- And cried.
- And talked about more fake people.
- And drank.
- And stared out the window.
- And cried some more.
I leave MTM one week from tomorrow. For a whole month. He deserves better than a shade of a wife who natters on about the people who live inside her head, who sobs and blows her nose into her hands while she wears not-clean cardinal pajamas and does shots because she will miss him so much while she tries to get everything done so that she can walk the Natchez Trace alone.
Dear Reader, what can I do to be a better week-to-go wife to my dear MTM?