Wives You Should Avoid Today

I need to tell a client that due to their stubborn, but incorrect, insistence about the presentation of a certain transaction in their financial statements, we're going to be forced to waste time in consultation with our area practice, which is going to cost them money.

I need to tell my team members that some sub-standard work needs to get up to standard by the next time I and my superiors review it.

I need to tell my managers that their review of the sub-standard work was also sub-standard. And took too long.

I had a migraine last night that is trying to find its way back. The pain is gone, but the prescription tends to leave me with a wicked hangover, an upset stomach, and tends to make my face hurt. Don't quite know why that is.

I'm wearing my new red shoes, but rather than pretty, delicate feminine things, they feel like red weapons today.

I was listening to one of the CD's given to me by a friend in the car this morning. She's got good, eclectic taste - managed to pick songs that strike my mood frequently. I was listening to "Island (Float Away)" by Starting Line, and it was starting to pick at me . . .

Just a keep a hold on me don't let go
If you float away, if you float away
Waiting too long for a ship to come
Don't you float away, don't you float away

Couple songs later, its "Misery Business" by Paramore:

Whoa, it was never my intention to brag
To steal it all away from you now.
But god does it feel so good,
Cause I got him where I want him now. . . .

Its a bitchy, nasty little song. Kind of like my bitchy, nasty little mood. Give me the right circumstance, and I could totally be that girl today. In fact, I almost wish I was. Of course, I'd have to have stolen someone away from someone else. Small details. And not that I need an extra man. It just might be satisfying to be able to throw it in some poor, pathetic woman's face. Yep, I just said that. I told you - I'm not a nice person today.

Hell, my husband doesn't even have any ex-girlfriends that I could still rile up.

Oh well, I'm sure I'll find something else to be a bitch about.

You might want to stay out of my way.

Disrespectfully submitted,

The Wife

Ladykillers

I came upon Son #2, age 5, laying on the floor outside of his room.

"Whatcha doing?" I asked.

"Dreaming about Alashae."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She's my ex-girlfriend. Know why she's my ex-girlfriend? 'Cause all boys have ex-girlfriends. And I love her."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I love her. That's why she's my ex-girlfriend. But I don't date her. But I want to."

* * * * *

Ever wish love could be that simple as adults?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

The Roses Were Lavender

The pink ones smelled the best. But looked a little worn. Red was classic. The dark red ones, with yellow streaks, exotic. The yellow ones were the freshest. But clinical and devoid of scent.

The bouquet in the bottom caught her eye. The roses were lavender.

* * * * *

She called from Denver. Talked over normal things. Missed him. He'd been home from overseas for less than a month. She was still traveling for business, only seen him for 12 hours on a layover in Atlanta, between her flight from Baltimore back to Denver. She wasn't scheduled to be home for another four days.

"I was supposed to get my period," she mentioned on the phone. "I expected it three days ago."

He hesitated. "You worried?" His voice was nervous.

"Not really," she said. Although, truthfully, she was like clockwork. "I'm probably just stressed about the merger and everything we have left to do. Besides. My boobs feel funny. Nipples ache. Probably means its coming in the next day or two."

"Don't say that!" he exclaimed.

"Say what?!" she responded, surprised.

"Every woman who comes into the hospital and says her nipples hurt . . . it means she's pregnant." His excitement was evident now, even over the phone.

"I don't know honey . . . I'm pretty sure my boobs get sore like this when I get my period." Although now she wasn't so sure. She laughed. Said her goodnights. Lay awake for hours.

* * * * *

Four days later, he met her at the airport. Hugged her, but carefully, like she was fragile. Looked at her, afraid to ask. She looked at him. Shook her head. He took her hand and they walked to the car.

At the apartment, he opened the door for her. Carried her suitcases in.

"Welcome home."

She walked in to the familiar surroundings. Could smell the cinnamon scent the maid service used when they cleaned. The dining room table caught her eye. A big bouquet. The roses were lavender. Unusual color, she thought. Then she noticed the package beside them. Lavender box. Picture of the little white stick. Just like in the commericals.

He hugged her. Urged her into the bathroom. Stood outside the door. Then burst in, unable to wait.

"Three minutes, sweetie . . . it takes three minutes," she said. But she looked down. Could already see the little plus sign forming. He saw it too. Beamed. As if he was the first man to procreate. Hugged her hard.

* * * * *

She contemplated the lavender roses. Smiled.

Then two bodies crashed into her. Four arms hugged her, laughing. Two heads of tousled brown hair - one at her shoulder, already, one still tucked nicely at her waist.

"Hey, Mommy. I like those." Pointing to the multi-colored bouquet.

She picked up the multi-colored bunch, sniffing. One last look at the lavender bouquet. Then she ushered her offspring toward the checkout.

Closer . . .

As you may have read, DrChako's replacement is on the ground in Iraq. Step 1.

Last night, I was in conversation with my husband. He calls from the hospital when he gets into work in the morning. After sharing him with two excited boys, we were going over tidbits of news from the day.

In the middle of our conversation, someone interrupted to ask him a question. He calmly replied "Excuse me? Why are you asking me that? I don't work here anymore."

Sounds like I need to take the 7 pillows out of his side of the bed.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

My Girls . . .

Small moments have a way of reminding you about the important things. This weekend, amidst the relaxing, one or more glasses of wine, fending off the relentless attacks of unrealistic males, and mission-critical stops to DSW (it's kind of like shoe heaven), I was reminded of one of life's little necessities . . . girlfriends.

They come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes, they look and sound just like you. If you were half-Japanese with three kids and married to a restless entrepreneur, rather than being of decidedly European descent and married to a doctor.

Sometimes, they come in tiny, fiesty packages and are related to you by marriage.

Sometimes, they look like that high school cheerleader you couldn't stand - until you are locked in a van with them on a 5 hour road trip and by the end of the trip they like you enough to take care of you when you're hanging from a late-night bender with some Polish vodka - in Poland.

Sometimes, you meet them, and don't know they are going to be your girlfriend, until this magical web we weave brings you back around until you find yourself sipping Pinot Grigio on Santana Row in the San Jose afternoon sun with them.

Why, you ask, are they so important?

• Girlfriends will tell you if your ass looks too big in that dress. They will also hold you while you cry, because your significant other told you your ass looked too big in that dress.
• Girlfriends love to rehash the details of all your past loves, without getting jealous.
• Girlfriends go with you to Vegas and ogle men with you, regardless of your relationship with their brother.
• Girlfriends will tell you the cold, hard truth. Even when it makes you cry harder. Then they will hug you while your cry, because you hate the truth.
• Girlfriends don't mind hearing your latest gripe . . . for the 20th time.
• Girlfriends know that sometimes, just sitting around for 20 minutes in their bedroom with your parrafin-dipped hands in plastic bags on the floor is better than any session with a therapist.
• Girlfriends have a way of sensing when life and conversation starts to get too overwhelming . . . and redirect your attention towards shoe shopping.
• Girlfriends give you smart, sensible advice. Then, when you fail to heed it, they stand there with open arms to listen to your pain, disappointment, and general confusion. Without ever an "I told you so".
• Girlfriends never forget to tell you how wicked hot you look.
• Girlfriends never leave you in silence.

You all know who you are. This is my thank you.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Black Tuesday

Editor's note: No one is dead.

I’m not just blue. I’m black.

I guess I always knew the end would come.

Today, a little piece of my heart died.

It’s not completely broken. I’m still capable of rational thought. Functional.

But there is a small fissure. You know the kind. Like the one that starts in the joint in the ceiling. Annoying, but unnoticeable to others. But you are completely aware that its there. And that it’s not pretty. And getting bigger. And the pressure that caused it to crack? Always there. So it will never go away.

I need to get over myself. Our relationship was part time anyway. But somehow, knowing there isn’t a “next time”? Hurts worse than knowing he wasn’t really ever MINE. Not really.

He was amazing. Not perfect. But then, are any of us?

I never expected to feel this way about a man. Never expected to care about him like I do.

Don’t know that I will ever find anyone to replace him. But then, there probably isn’t room in my heart.

Read, and weep with me, my friends.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Dear John . . .

Yes, I know how difficult it must have been to resist our collective hotness. Betty and I can be a formidable force, when combined. I mean really, have you seen how hot she's lookin' lately?

And you had a good start. "Nice dress" is infinitely preferable to "nice ass", at least prior to a first date.

And when we finally got seated outside near your table, I'll even give you credit for "nice shoes." Because they were.

The offer for the foot massage? Might have been the start of a little too much. Pulling up a chair and almost sitting on top of me? You could have at least offered to pick up our bill. I mean, what's a couple glasses of wine to a well-to-do gentleman like yourself? And yes, I know this body is tight. And so does Betty. But thanks for pointing it out a thousand times. Look where that got you.

I'm going to have to deduct points for the poor eyesight. Failure to notice the diamonds was a mistake. I'm also deducting points for hearing loss. Because Betty having to tell you 17 times that I was married clearly indicates some serious auditory lapse. And big point deduction for suggesting the threesome. I believe you weren't anywhere close to convincing one of us to sleep with you, much less two of us at the same time. Come on, is there any man worthy of our collective amazing-ness? And negative fashion points. Regardless of how cool you think it is that you own a plumbing/contracting business, the company-logo Hanes t-shirt isn't a big turn on.

Oh, and that was the picture of class as you left. "Show me what's under the dress." Yeah. That and the "Flash Friday" grafitti scratched into the dirt on semi-trailers is really all it takes for me to get all publicly exposed. Dude, if Waffles hasn't seen samba panties in person, YOU certainly won't.

By the time you left, I'm guessing you were negative on overall score. Except laughter points. You had us laughing all the way to our next adventure.

So, dear John, I'm sorry to say I'll never be yours.

If you are still not sure why, you might want to check with your ex wife. She might be able to help you understand the "ex" part.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife