the doorbell rang.
It was the repair man, unannounced, expecting to come in and perform whatever repairs have been in dire need of attention for weeks, and now this slob (you have no idea how much of understatement that is) wanted to interrupt one of my favorite activities: outwardly making of fun of the ladies, while secretly wondering when my mother and I turned into the same demographic.
Anyway, I opened the door half way and told him to C-A-L-L N-E-X-T T-I-M-E, before slamming the door shut and getting back to the safe familiar womb that is my couch.
Having now grown frustrated with the morning's interruption, I decided to take it out on share with my husband, who would no doubt not give a flying fuck love to hear about it.
Unlike my boring self, he gets up and goes to work everyday, albeit, to a job he deplores, but more on that some other time. Naturally, it goes to voice mail, at which point I proceed to leave a long, rambling message in which I stressed "how busy I am", "it's not like I didn't have plans this morning" and "I mean, does he just think I just sit around ALL DAY?"
As I hung up, pondering how patient he will, no doubt, be about my predicament, I received a text message from my beloved that read one line: "Pooping. Call you right back."
For all of you out there already living with your significant other and wondering how marriage changes things? That's how marriage changes things.
Mourning the death of romance,
June
P.S. love you honey, poop and all.
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