I think it's because I like control. Not a little control. Not partial control. Freaky Machiavellian you belong to me now and we only do what I want to do control.
In the words of Popeye, I yam what I yam. If you don't like it, go eat someone else's spinach.
Yesterday Mr. Man, who is bent on the two of us spending quality time together by doing manual labor, informed me that if I don't help him clean out the garage today, he will systematically throw out every single thing...no matter how much I might need it to live a productive and happy life.
He is the devil.
To tell someone like me that you plan to throw out my stuff is like asking me to lie down on the floor while you remove my liver with a rusty garden spade. It's not ok.
Add to that the fact that I believe it's morally wrong for a woman to sweat or to willingly enter into any place where spiders hang from strings and try to crawl on your body parts, and let me tell you Houston, we have a huge freaking problem.
He had planned on spending last night, an actual Saturday night, with the two of us elbow deep in spiders and dirt, throwing my stuff in a dumpster. But, I'm a pretty persuasive chick when I want to be so I did what any thinking woman would do when her husband is being a poop head.
I put on six quarts of make-up, seven layers of perfume and a push up bra. Crisis averted. Rather than cleaning, we went out to eat and to place a "For Sale" sign on my best friend's camper. (Her camper is so not for sale, but I am easily entertained.)
Today even the powers of the push-up bra and Joop aren't going to get me out of having to work in that God forsaken garage. And if I don't, it is very likely that he will throw out my collection of ceramic truck stop teddy bears, and no one wants that.
Time for a new plan.
As I sit here clicking the keyboard, he is lying in bed waiting for me to finish writing. He knows that the one rule in this house that is never, ever to be bent or broken is that when I am writing, I am only to be disturbed when there is blood loss involved. And even then, it better be of Helter Skelter proportions. I don't cotton well to losing my train of thought.
Now, where was I?
Oh yeah. My plan.
I figure as long as I'm sitting here writing, he will be forced to wait on me so long that he will forget about working and more importantly, about throwing out the homemade cards my eighth grade boyfriend gave me.
I'm an evil genius.
The only problem is that I really have nothing left to say. I've written everything I wanted to write and said everything I needed to say. The only thing left to do is to sit here with my brow furrowed, sighing loudly once in awhile for good measure and type random words. And if it means I can get out of getting dirty, I can totally do that.
Bobsled.
Marsupial.
Eloquent.
Zimbabwe.
Kojak. Barnaby Jones. Ponch. Grumpy short dude with parrot on shoulder who used to be a Little Rascal and then killed his slutty wife and got away with it because people on TV can do anything they want and never go to prison.
Microwave.
Amarillo.
Armadillo.
Brillo.
Pad.
Here he comes. Oh crap.
Tiny bottles of alcohol.
Thumb eating monkeys.
Superior.
Mr. Man is a goober who thinks he's smarter than me. College boy with his two degrees who rolls his socks up in yucky little balls and then expects me to unroll them before I wash them and now wants me to spend my Sunday cleaning out the garage. I'm so sure. I'll sit here and type all day, I will.
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