A war zone is no place for compassion. There’s no room for charity.
War is vicious.
My adversary is bigger. Stronger. Maybe even smarter.
But I’ve got something he doesn’t–ovaries and a lust for vengeance.
This bitch ain’t got nothing on me.
That’s right. My Dearly Beloved is sittin’ high atop my shit list.
He’s the breadwinner. His job: Investigate cases. Apprehend suspects. File charges. Testify under oath. Possibly shoot people (jealous!).
I’m the homemaker. My job: Love, nurture, discipline, guide, teach, cook, clean, launder, scrub, scoop, wash, chase away nightmares, kiss boo-boos, dispense sarcasm, write the crazy in my head, and sub on the side. All while wearing a Mary Poppins smile.
I. Fucking. Win.
So what is this tug o’ war about?
I have a designated cupboard for these portable food coolers and expect them to reside in the proper place when not in use. This isn’t a new concept. It’s not hard. And yet, the love of my life can’t get. this. shit. done.
I find the blue devil on my table every day. And by every day, I mean every fucking day. Being a loving, supportive wife, I’ve helped him out by gently shoving his face in the cupboard with a whispered, “This is where it goes, bitch!”
And still it sits. Mocking. Sneering.
Bear says he can’t fiiiiiind it when it’s put away. And, too big for the cabinet, it gets bent all to hell when I “ram” it home.
What kind of wife would I be if I didn’t take his concerns and needs into consideration?
I am, if nothing else, a magnificent wife. Hence, the gift below.
Congratulations! Your brand spankin’ new lunch box is an exact match to your nine year old daughter’s! Twinsies!
Now, I didn’t actually throw his away–I’m too frugal for all that. Can’t cut off my financial nose to spite my wallet!–and if he can find that damn thing, he’s welcome to use it.
Checkmate. Your move, Big Daddy.