An open letter to the Wife.
Dear the Wife,
Hello. How are you, my love?
Last night, I cracked the toilet seat.
You heard it crack, and touchingly, you called out from the bedroom to inquire after my health. Yes, after a hard day of work and an evening of dealing with our insufferable moppets, you still spared me a tender mercy early on a Wednesday morning, just after midnight.
As I left the bathroom after my eventide absolutions, again you called to me from your attitude of repose. “Get some packing tape and fix the damn seat. I don’t want my ass pinched in the morning.”
And so, I looked for the packing tape. I looked in all your various nests, the “crafts” box, your desk with the myriad IKEA wooden file boxes with little drawers -- each holding a tiny world of ribbon and thread and ribbon and thimble and ribbon (Dearheart, a question: Why do we NEED so much FUCKING RIBBON??).
I very gingerly picked through the piles of papers you’ve shoved under the cupboard – right up to the edge of the sink, the sink in the kitchen of the home we share, where I do the washing up, an activity that traditionally involve a certain amount of water. And yet the paper is so very close to the very moist water! What an irrepressibly zany lady you are!
Oh, the fasteners and joiners I found! Chicago screws, photo corners, tiny pins, thumbtacks, sparkle glue and grommets, brass hooks and wee hook-and-eye curiosities. Rubber stamps! Mailing labels! Envelopes of every gauge! Novelty hole punches! Japanese character stickers! And the paper stock! Handmade Japanese papers! Earnest recycled papers, the color of rain clouds. Linens and rags, engraved and embossed. Zipatone! My wife is resplendent in divergence! Resplendent in paper products! My wife, so prudent, has wisely been STOCKING UP on crafts materiel, stocking up for the day when she will begin her life’s work. Something involving a shitload of paper, I’m sure.
So, in the middle of the night, in my underpants, I looked for the tape, that my dear wife’s tender buttocks would not be pinched before I could replace the toilet seat I broke with my he-man buttocks. And I couldn’t find it. So I went to ask. Just past midnight. On a Wednesday. In my underpants.
“Can’t find the tape.”
“Oh,” you replied from our nuptial bed, where you were with our children, the fruit of our love,”look…uh… in the basket.”
“Which…basket?” Puzzles at midnight! Impudent minx!
“On the mantle.”
So to the living room I went, to the mantle. And there for some reason, was a basket. A mysterious basket, one I’d never seen before, sort of Shaker looking, filled with items so diverse that I’m not sure how you describe the set they belonged to, in a set theory sort of way. Maybe “The set of things that have absolutely nothing to fucking do with each other.” Or, “the set of things that have been chosen at random by a sleepwalker and put into a basket that is for some reason on our mantle”. Or, “the set of things that are particularly irritating to rifle through at midnight, when you’re in your underpants looking for the goddamn packing tape so your wife doesn’t pinch her ass in the morning.”
Clever woman, you were right! The tape was there! Along with a thermos and a paperback book! Now I know where to look! In the thermos and paperback book and packing tape basket. In the living room.
So, here’s hoping your ass remained unpinched this morning, trueheart.
Love,
Your Husband Greg
Hello. How are you, my love?
Last night, I cracked the toilet seat.
You heard it crack, and touchingly, you called out from the bedroom to inquire after my health. Yes, after a hard day of work and an evening of dealing with our insufferable moppets, you still spared me a tender mercy early on a Wednesday morning, just after midnight.
As I left the bathroom after my eventide absolutions, again you called to me from your attitude of repose. “Get some packing tape and fix the damn seat. I don’t want my ass pinched in the morning.”
And so, I looked for the packing tape. I looked in all your various nests, the “crafts” box, your desk with the myriad IKEA wooden file boxes with little drawers -- each holding a tiny world of ribbon and thread and ribbon and thimble and ribbon (Dearheart, a question: Why do we NEED so much FUCKING RIBBON??).
I very gingerly picked through the piles of papers you’ve shoved under the cupboard – right up to the edge of the sink, the sink in the kitchen of the home we share, where I do the washing up, an activity that traditionally involve a certain amount of water. And yet the paper is so very close to the very moist water! What an irrepressibly zany lady you are!
Oh, the fasteners and joiners I found! Chicago screws, photo corners, tiny pins, thumbtacks, sparkle glue and grommets, brass hooks and wee hook-and-eye curiosities. Rubber stamps! Mailing labels! Envelopes of every gauge! Novelty hole punches! Japanese character stickers! And the paper stock! Handmade Japanese papers! Earnest recycled papers, the color of rain clouds. Linens and rags, engraved and embossed. Zipatone! My wife is resplendent in divergence! Resplendent in paper products! My wife, so prudent, has wisely been STOCKING UP on crafts materiel, stocking up for the day when she will begin her life’s work. Something involving a shitload of paper, I’m sure.
So, in the middle of the night, in my underpants, I looked for the tape, that my dear wife’s tender buttocks would not be pinched before I could replace the toilet seat I broke with my he-man buttocks. And I couldn’t find it. So I went to ask. Just past midnight. On a Wednesday. In my underpants.
“Can’t find the tape.”
“Oh,” you replied from our nuptial bed, where you were with our children, the fruit of our love,”look…uh… in the basket.”
“Which…basket?” Puzzles at midnight! Impudent minx!
“On the mantle.”
So to the living room I went, to the mantle. And there for some reason, was a basket. A mysterious basket, one I’d never seen before, sort of Shaker looking, filled with items so diverse that I’m not sure how you describe the set they belonged to, in a set theory sort of way. Maybe “The set of things that have absolutely nothing to fucking do with each other.” Or, “the set of things that have been chosen at random by a sleepwalker and put into a basket that is for some reason on our mantle”. Or, “the set of things that are particularly irritating to rifle through at midnight, when you’re in your underpants looking for the goddamn packing tape so your wife doesn’t pinch her ass in the morning.”
Clever woman, you were right! The tape was there! Along with a thermos and a paperback book! Now I know where to look! In the thermos and paperback book and packing tape basket. In the living room.
So, here’s hoping your ass remained unpinched this morning, trueheart.
Love,
Your Husband Greg
Labels: Greg's Life As Nincompoop, The Wife, Trifles and Joshes
posted by Greg Mills at 2:59 PM
7 Comments:
Greg
the several baskets are for randomly picking off the floor things your kids and you leave that may or may not be dangerous if you accidentally walk on them.
so it's the basket that eliminates mess.
shame on you for destroying the toilet seat. and what a pity you didn't do it yesterday so as to include it in your Apology post.
i've already paid enough for that damn toilet seat.
And why are you up? Isn't like four in the morning in Greece?
I've had my ass pinched by a toilet seat and it hurts, dammit! Good thing your wife knows where the tape is, huh? (women do know ALL) hehe
yes it was Greg but i was up putting things in baskets.
I would have used the sparkle glue and called it a night.
hm... tape, a paperback book, a thermos... sounds like that basket belongs on the back of the toilet.
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