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Insomnia.
It plagues me. Somehow, I'm sure my wife's to blame.
I just can't sleep. I don't know where she is, what she's doing.
She could be outside, encouraging the grass to grow.
As if she needs to do that.
Oh, no. Not my wife. She need not do anything at all--she's the Goddess of Grass and Other Rampant Cereal Grains.
A few weeks ago, I put the lawn mower on the lawn so wife could attempt to slice and dice the grass. After pushing the reel mower for a few feet, she stopped and sat down. Apparently, her two operations to hide her gills have inhibited her ability to perform physical labor.
Anyhow, I go back to my own mental labor and participate in an office MSN messenger conversation (we've eliminated phone tag this way). The next time I look out of my home office, what do I see? My wife, in the nude, cavorting in the yard. She's whirling like a dervish through the tall weeds.
That was normal enough. Wife is crazy. The weird part is the grass. It was only a foot tall that morning when I walked to the paperbox. In the few minutes since she stopped mowing, it's sprung up to three feet.
My wife was encouraging the grass to grow. And grow it did.
Why can't my wife be the goddess of something normal or useful? Why can't she be the patron saint of wayward gophers? or She-Who-Paints-Petals-With-Dew? Something pretty, something nice.
No, my wife must constantly wreak havoc with my life and create more work for me.
I must do something about this, or else I'll never sleep again.
As I write this, she's in the kitchen, no doubt breeding hordes of gnats to infest the sink and lighting fixtures with their shamelessly self-sacrificed corpses.
I think she wants me tired and exhausted so she can carry out more nefarious deeds when I'm too busy propping my eyes open with under-movie-seat-gum to notice.
It plagues me. Somehow, I'm sure my wife's to blame.
I just can't sleep. I don't know where she is, what she's doing.
She could be outside, encouraging the grass to grow.
As if she needs to do that.
Oh, no. Not my wife. She need not do anything at all--she's the Goddess of Grass and Other Rampant Cereal Grains.
A few weeks ago, I put the lawn mower on the lawn so wife could attempt to slice and dice the grass. After pushing the reel mower for a few feet, she stopped and sat down. Apparently, her two operations to hide her gills have inhibited her ability to perform physical labor.
Anyhow, I go back to my own mental labor and participate in an office MSN messenger conversation (we've eliminated phone tag this way). The next time I look out of my home office, what do I see? My wife, in the nude, cavorting in the yard. She's whirling like a dervish through the tall weeds.
That was normal enough. Wife is crazy. The weird part is the grass. It was only a foot tall that morning when I walked to the paperbox. In the few minutes since she stopped mowing, it's sprung up to three feet.
My wife was encouraging the grass to grow. And grow it did.
Why can't my wife be the goddess of something normal or useful? Why can't she be the patron saint of wayward gophers? or She-Who-Paints-Petals-With-Dew? Something pretty, something nice.
No, my wife must constantly wreak havoc with my life and create more work for me.
I must do something about this, or else I'll never sleep again.
As I write this, she's in the kitchen, no doubt breeding hordes of gnats to infest the sink and lighting fixtures with their shamelessly self-sacrificed corpses.
I think she wants me tired and exhausted so she can carry out more nefarious deeds when I'm too busy propping my eyes open with under-movie-seat-gum to notice.
