Dead Girls Don’t Dance

My precious darling just ripped out the carpet in this room to put in wood flooring. Wonderful! Having carpet in Florida is unbelievably stupid unless you are fond of mildew. However, his timing sucked, because it interfered with MY plans for the day.

On Saturdays, he normally sleeps in, and then spends a good deal of the afternoon hanging out at his buddy Steve’s house. I’m not exactly sure what guys think they mean by “hanging out,” but as far as I can tell, it means sitting around gossiping like old ladies, only they drink beer and watch sports while they gossip, to make it seem more manly.

Anyway, keeping his usual schedule in mind, I had purchased hair dye, a bikini wax kit, a shiny new manicure set and some yummy-smelling bubble bath with the intention of having a do-it-yourself spa day after he left for his male bonding session.

I got up early and puttered around for a while–did a little laundry and tidied the house up a bit, all the while humming contentedly to myself as I anticipated my afternoon of (much needed) self pampering and beautification. Manicure, pedicure, facial, the whole nine yards, plus a bottle of red wine (also much needed) and Miles Davis on the stereo… what could be more blissful?

Then the madman woke up and immediately commenced a construction project. Have you tried to give yourself a bikini wax with somebody sporadically running a circular saw in the next room?

No?

Well, neither have I, and I’m not going to. I have enough problems without being startled by a sudden loud noise and accidentally clogging my vagina with hot wax.

It’s bad enough that I had green glop all over my face when he unexpectedly returned from Home Depot. He said he was going to the store. I thought he was going to the corner store for cigarettes. When he didn’t come back in ten minutes, I assumed he had gone straight from the store to his buddies’ house.

He came back with construction materials, and started ripping things to bits, and nailing in the wood flooring, occasionally shouting at me for assistance. So much for my spa day.

And at the end of it all, he had the nerve to tell me I looked like hell.

Note: this was originally written Sunday, January 20, on actual paper, with a pen. I just now deciphered it and typed it up.

Tags: semi-daily //