Get used to it, fellas. You'll come home after a hard day's work and find big piles of crap in your driveway, courtesy of your wife. Kiss your weekend good-bye, because she's already made a date with you and a shovel.
You know you're married when you actually own your own wheelbarrow. Beloved has ordered dump truckloads of dirt in 102 degree weather, I kid you not. She has, without consulting me first, allowed piles of mulch and gravel the size of Honda Accords to be dumped on my yard. She has had me fill garden boxes with dirt, empty them, then fill them with more dirt. It's like that scene in Cool Hand Luke where the warden had Paul Newman digging that ditch over and over. The only thing missing was a State of Mississippi Department of Corrections badge on her floppy hat as she supervised my efforts.
The funniest thing she ever said was, after I filled in our in-ground pool one wheelbarrow load at a time (it took months), "When we get our next dumpload of dirt, we'll put it over there." I advised her that divorce proceedings would begin upon visual verification of any more unauthorized piles on my property, but she might find a younger man when she remarries who might not have a problem, so go for it. She has wisely not tested my policy on this, for I am not bluffing.
"Dig, Titans! Dig!" You know, Donna, you are theoretically stronger than any of those guys. Are we afraid we'll break a nail, princess?
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1 comment:
Why, you've given me such a delightful idea! I need the firepit and the gravel to go next to the new deck, and then we'll put peastone all around it...hey, where's everyone going?
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