If that’s not a place, it should be.
Not that I could ever get out of it, or want to, but it is where I find myself these days. I’m married the way the Earth is in the Milky Way galaxy: it stretches for thousands of light-years in any direction, and I’ll never get out alive.
But here’s the thing:
She comes out of the bedroom in her pajamas with a frown on her face, carrying something in her hand. “I was so happy having all these nail clippers [There's a basket on my dresser with at least three of them in there... GOD, it takes so little to please them sometimes!], and now I’ve gone and broken my favorite one,” she says, laying three shiny pieces of toenail clipper on the bar. “I’m sorry,” she says then, heading into bed.
I get up and walk over to the bar. The little pin with the groove in it has fallen out, leaving the clipper portion and the lever as two separate pieces. “This is going to be hard,“ I call in to her, pretending to be serious. I poke the little pin into the clipper, then push the skinny thing on the fat end of the lever into the groove: presto, the clipper is whole again! But as I carry it back into the bedroom in triumph, the question arises in my mind:
Why me?
What I mean is, how come is it that men can disassemble small metal objects and put them back together again and women can’t?? (OH YES YOU CAN, I KNOW YOU CAN, AND HALF OF YOU ARE YELLING AT YOUR COMPUTER NOW.) All right, but how did this ever start, this “give it here, I’ll do it” business?
What the hell, I can’t run the coffee machine her brother sent her last year.
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I’m really very lucky. This stuff is gasoline in my tank.
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Lol. This is why I have tweezerman nail tools, guaranteed for life. I just send them in and they fix them. ;^)
Heh, we just like to make you feel useful. ;^)
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