Collin has a big day today, the big day that’s at the center of nightly-night-terrors ultra-high stress level as of late. So yesterday, I tried my damndest to be a Good Wife. This is embarrassing, not only because far too much of my efforts to be a Good Wife are wrapped up in traditional gender role domesticity bullshit, but also because, I pretty much routinely fail at all of my Wifely Missions. The unavoidable conclusion: I am not a very good wife.
- Step 1 whenever I want to be on Collin’s good side is to clean up the house. A clean house instantly brightens his mood, and having his notoriously-messy wife be the one who cleaned it gives him even more peace of mind. So yesterday I set out to CLEAN HOUSE. I got about as far as emptying and reloading the dishwasher. And I tried, but I doubt I loaded this dishwasher to Collin’s exacting specifications. I tried to avoid bringing it up yesterday.
- I made a nice dinner of falafel and tabbouleh. This is probably my greatest accomplishment as a Good Wife yesterday, because the meal went over very well. But here are the caveats: 1) I mostly made it because I was craving falafel and the restaurant where I tried to get some for lunch is inexplicably closed on Tuesdays (THIS IS AMERICA! Restaurants are only allowed to be closed on Sundays and Mondays, and the former only when the restaurant is Chick-Fil-A). 2) I totally made both of these dishes out of overpriced box mixes from the “International” aisle of Giant Eagle. I am a pretty good cook, but only when it comes to foods that were popularized in the United States at least 30 years before I was born. My meatloaf can bring a vegetarian to her knees, but fuck me if I’m going to buy a freaking bag of bulgar and infuse it with various aromatics. That sounds like something that would require a trip to Whole Foods, and that I can’t abide.
- I also cleaned up after dinner. I even wiped down the stovetop. I never do that! I’m such a bum.
- I tried to massage Collin’s sore calves, but I got distracted by texting and then my hands were sore.
- There was a standing offer of oral sex on the table, but Collin didn’t take it because he’s one of those crazies whose libido is inversely proportional to his stress level.
- I bailed on celebratory drinks with a fellow-underemployed friend who got an interview so I could continue soothing Collin. I hate doing that not only because it makes me feel like a bad friend, but specifically because I think it is bad karma for my career. But Collin’s hands were shaking and I didn’t want to leave him.
- I tried to provide televisual distraction. The West Wing was not cutting it, partially because we’re in the “ain’t life a bummer sometimes?” depths of Season 3. I suggested turning to our old stress relief standby South Park, but I couldn’t remember which episodes on Netflix are funny, so I forced Collin to summarize them all. “Death Camp of Tolerance” was the most appropriate for our purposes. Which I guess means it is the most inappropriate with regards to general society.
- I forced Collin to go to bed when he started to pass out on the couch in the middle of “My Future Self ‘n’ Me.” “But I want to see Cartman’s future self!” he whined. “You’ll see him in your dreams.”
- I tucked Collin in, even though the sheets were all tangled up and on the floor (oh, late summer, you bewilder us with your fickle temperatures). “I like when you do everything I ask you to,” he said. “No you don’t, because I only do that when you’re really stressed out.” I thought.
What makes you try to step up your Wife Game? Are you any better at it, or at least less disturbingly antifeminist, than I am?