Whatever | moonshadoe's Blog

(6:01AM) I did it again. I was three quarters through an entry, and I hit a wrong key, sending everything I had tossed into oblivion. Woe is me, and then some. How do I recapture a thought once gone? I guess I'm going to have to come up with some new ones.

Unbeknownst to the masses, yesterday was October Fool's Day. I know what you're thinking, there's no such thing as October Fool's Day. Just give it time, and it'll catch on. In my way of thinking, April shouldn't get all the fun. Somewhere in the world everyday is a fool's day, and the fools in the world are an evidence of that.

My foolery was revealed yesterday when I arrived home to find that my wife had gotten overly motivated to clean out the closet. After I walked into the bedroom I saw this trashbag filled with jeans that I could no longer squeeze myself into, and I had tried, so I knew. By that I knew that she must have found out about my secret stash, but I wasn't going to be the first one to say anything. I was going to just play it cool and see what transpired. Ten minutes into our coexistence she told me that she had found my bottle. She then asked me why I had hidden it. My first response was that I didn't want to catch any carpola, which is my euphemistic counterpart to crap, or something else on an excremental level. Knowing my wife as I think I do, I just didn't want to deal with the confrontation, but now the confrontation had arrived, and how would it go? Surprisingly, she didn't get loud with me, and I was relieved to have been able to avoid another night at the opera.

She did tell me that I didn't need to drink it, and I guess I could have agreed with her. I could have gone with something around eighty proof instead of one hundred, but it wasn't about need. It was interesting to me that she knew what I didn't need, but she was oblivious to what I did need, and when I bring up that need I usually get blown off, and not in a good way. I tried to remind her a few times last night, and sometimes I ask myself why I still bother. The treatment is always the same. I can think of plenty of times, well, not plenty but enough, when she was in more of a mood where I was expected to comply whether I was in the mood or not, but like a Honda it didn't take much to get me started. She's far from being a Honda. On a scale of one to ten I'd say she's more like a glacier, and the last person to try to have sex with one of those probably came back with a, well, use your imagination. I did, but decided I'd better not write it.

Thus, after the close encounter I have dreaded in the back of my mind was over with no harm done, the rest of my evening was spent taking up residence on the loveless love seat while she spent her evening in the kitchen making an apple pie, and I don't care what anybody says, a good apple pie is still not better than bad sex, or is it?

With my time waning down to the wire I guess I'll grab my coffee mug and make my way to the wake-up juice. Another ten hour day cometh, and I'm gone.