On exiting the shower, “I can’t believe you haven’t called them yet, its been months!”
“I’m sorry?” Damn, a post shower tackle, time for a quick internal calculation. Ah, time to batten down the hatches matie, there be a storm brewin. The red flag be hoisted, it looks like a gooden.
“For fucks sake, the window people! Why haven’t you called them?”
Over the past years we’ve been replacing our quaint 1930’s steel framed and single paned leaded windows with equally attractive, yet ultra modern dual paned, argon filled, leaded windows. One got a crack on the inside when a small child threw something he shouldn’t. It took ages to get the window company to come and measure the window (to get the leading right), further ages to get them to make the new pane, and decades more to get it fitted. The fitter cleverly managed to crack the exterior pane this time on putting it in.
Quite disgusted with the whole process my subconscious had been shifting it down my internal to do list so I wouldn’t have to bother. I mean, I hadn’t paid them, you think they’d be keen to get it fixed so they’d their cash for the work. I was guilty as charged.
“Sorry, dea…”
“You always do this. Why can’t you just deal with a simple issue and get it sorted? What’s with these people, don’t they want to get paid? Bloody hell.” She stomps off to her chest of drawers. This whole episode has occured as I dry myself off, and she's still clad in just a towel.
I grit my teeth, its not a day to argue, it never is this time of month. This hip check is coming from the love of my life (hereafter LL) a woman who is succeeding in a very traditionally agressive career in financial trading. A woman who sits at a trading desk that would put the bridge of the Starship Enterprise to shame. A woman who has minions around the world who would literally run a marathon to collect a tidbit of information at her request. But its builders, so it’s the man’s job. “Yes dear.”
First note to self, must call the window people.
Second note to self, must give her a good seeing to tonight. It would do us both good.
So dear ladies, we poor men, who do abuse you in completely different ways, do try to understand the monthly cycle. Well, we think we do, or at least we know when to duck, and when to tell you how beautiful you look (and perhaps duck again). In theory we understand its chemical insanity, and not in your control, but please please please, can you try to direct the agro away from the ones who love you?
