I was having a great day. The weather today expressed itself in perfection. I kept my cursing of fellow drivers to a minimum. The new clerk I hired actually showed up. We had a few good laughs at work, you know, because on Mondays people are just brain dead. We told our boss he’s not allowed to talk to the new hire for two weeks, so she doesn’t get scared and quit. He laughed, instead of firing us. I called the customer who left me the nasty voice mail, including curses and yelling, and he managed to stay calm so I didn’t have to climb through the phone and slit his throat. I ran my lunch time errands without any glitches. The traffic on the way home parted for me, like the Red Sea before the Israelites. I was beginning to lament a topic for today’s. Until I talked to Hubby on the phone before I got home.
Men get PMS. The Pissy Male Syndrome. I never heard one person bitch as much as he can once he gets started. And it’s the same thing over and over again. Where are these husbands that don’t talk to their wives? I want one. I can’t get mine to shut the fuck up.
“The leaves keep falling on the pool cover.”
“I have to go to New York tomorrow, I hate driving in New York.”
“Your daughter’s car has a flat tire. When will she start taking care of herself?”
“I’m not opening the pool until the things stop falling.”
“My beer is frozen.”
“I just cleaned the pool cover a couple of days ago.”
“Plus, she was two quarts low in oil.”
“And I don’t think the fan is working in her car.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, dear.” Shoot me now.
“Did you get bread today?”
“When is she going to take care of her stuff. Have you seen her room? There are piles of clothes everywhere.”
Oh, my God, please save me.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“I have to go into New York, tomorrow.”
“I’m going to bed.”
Yes, there is a God. See I told you.