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September 21, 2006

the clean-up woman

Tonight is the elementary school's open house, all parents invited. Through the kitchen window as I put dinner on the table I see The Husband arrive, driving the BMW Z4. The top is down. The car is ostensibly Miss Saigon's, though I expect that Miss Saigon's mother bought it for The Husband to drive. His reward for a Job Well Done.

What is my problem with the car, is The Husband's opinion. And it is a beautiful car, and the sight of it makes my stomach clench, as usual. Always something there to remind me, I hum to myself.

The Husband comes into the kitchen. He radiates cold; it's chilly this afternoon. He's in the kind of good mood that you get into when you drive a sportscar and you only have to play Suburban Dad for a few hours.

"What, no hug?" he says to me. Seeing the look on my face, he rolls his eyes and says, exasperated, "Whatever." I know that at some point during the evening to come, I will hear a variation on the theme of "Why can't anything ever just be about us?" in response to my small-mindedness.

It doesn't ever stop surprising me that he constantly tracks shit into my house and then criticizes me for smelling it.

No, no hug.

Posted by JudyLa at 12:30 AM | Comments (0)