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I suppose I should elaborate a bit on my previous post. When I got home from work yesterday and NewWifey(tm) asked “How was your day, Hon?”, my response “It was ok, but I almost got arrested when I walked into the Ladies Room” didn’t seem to suffice. So for her, and you, here’s what happened.

It’s all because NewWifey(tm) doesn’t like to cook.

It’s not that NewWifey(tm) can’t cook – she’s actually rather good at following recipes, as most anal-retentive obsessive compulsive neurotics are – it’s just that she’d rather have shards of glass shoved into her eyeballs than pick up a spatula.

I’ve mentioned before that “Dangerspouse does all the cooking” was written into our pre-nup, our marriage vows, AND our re-negotiated 15th Anniversary vows (I even posted photo proof). And by “ALL the cooking”, she means “ALL the cooking, even if you’ve just had reconstructive elbow surgery, pal.”

I’m serious. Approximately 72 hours from now I will be insensate on a surgeon’s slab having my left elbow peeled, disjointed, reshaped, and reassembled. When I come to, I’ll be in a solid cast that runs from my wrist to my sternum for the next 4 to 6 weeks.

But that doesn’t matter. I’m expected to have at least one fresh cooked meal on the table starting the day I’m well enough to stagger to the stove. If I can’t handle the whisk, she’ll settle for lumpy Bechemel. But she better have Bechemel.

How do I know she’ll hold me to it? Because I had the exact same surgery done in 2014, just on the other elbow, and she held me to it then.

(If you read that entry you’ll note that she caved in and actually cooked a few meals of her own volition after a while. But she promises not to weaken and do the same this time. I believe her.)

Now you may be asking yourself, ‘Why would anyone do this to their loving spouse? Is NewWifey(tm) really that cruel? Is Dangerspouse really that pussy whipped?‘

The answer to both is technically, I suppose, ‘yes’. But that’s irrelevant.

What IS relevant is that NewWifey(tm)’s side of the vows call for her to mow the lawn, shovel shovel snow, and open wide for blow jobs on-demand. No exceptions. No excuses. And to her credit she’s never once asked for a dispensation, not even when SHE was hospitalized. (God, I wrote painfully long entries back then. Be thankful my work life is so busy now that I can’t indulge like that any more. Still…it was funny.) So this is just quid pro quo.

Ok, so how does this cause me to walk in to a Ladies Room uninvited yesterday?

Here’s how:

Planning 4 – 6 weeks worth of meals that can be pre-made and frozen takes a lot of brain power. A lot more than I normally employ. So when I got out of work yesterday I was running through lists of ingredients in my mind, deciding which should be purchased that day, and which could be put off til later in the week. Decisions, decisions, all swirling around in my cranium as I walked from my studio to the elevator, head down in absolute concentration. I was pretty much unaware of anything else happening around me.

Like the lady walking towards me down the corridor.

With my head down I didn’t notice her until I saw the tops of her scuffed mules approaching fast, from maybe 4 feet away. At that point my inner reverie was jolted and I looked up just in time to see her begin angling towards the door on my right. Without thinking, not fully cognizant of where I was in my just awakened state, I did what I always do: I opened the door and stepped inside, holding it so she could pass by fully.

I was kind of startled when she just stopped and stared at me with her mouth open…until the smell gave it away.

Some doors man was never meant to open.

I won’t go into details of my apology, nor her subsequent rejection of same. I also won’t note that she was aesthetically a pretty poor example of the distaff side, and probably should have been eternally grateful if a man like me – or any man, for that matter – actually planned to subject her to the sort treatment she was imagining I intended. But no. Instead she let loose with a torrent of righteously indignant invectives interspersed with threats of prosecution. Fortunately she didn’t follow me when I finally let go of the door and bolted for the exit (I assume she still had to go to pee) so I’m probably in the clear. But ya never know. “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman seeing a man in her privy“.

And now, work’s over for the day again. But this time, I’m taking the stairs. It’s down a different corridor. Past the Mens Room.

Gotta go!

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