Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Fucking with Ivy

In my infinite wisdom, I attempted to talk some sense into my out-of-her-mind wife this weekend.

“You just spent three days in a hospital. We are not driving to your sister’s house.”

It was a valid argument in my opinion, but oh-the-fuck no, my wife’s gotta save the goddamn world from itself.

“It’s just for a few days. She needs help.”

She needs a fucking chainsaw to the skull, that’s what the fuck she needs. I was putting my foot down.

“We’re not going.”

I’d say it was about dinner time when we pulled into Ivy’s driveway. We’d spent hours trying to get out of Houston during Friday rush hour just to show up on Ivy’s doorstep and have her turn to me with, “Do you mind going to pick us up something to eat? Chicken. And don’t forget the biscuits.”

Bitch. This shit was ridiculous. Just because Gary was gone for the weekend didn’t mean I had to be dragged down here to rescue her from boredom. That was bullshit. Not that Jazz was making me go with her, but I damn sure wasn’t about to let her do it alone when she can’t even drive for more than 20 minutes without her legs going numb. This whole trip was just bullshit. And no, Ivy could not have come to my house. She is not allowed.

“I need a 10pc, mixed with a large side of mashed potatoes and slaw.”

“10pc mixed, large potatoes and large slaw. Would you like any biscuits to go with that?”

“Nope.”

Ivy wants to paint her bedroom, but with both women pregnant I was pretty damn certain my wife was going to give me those big doe eyes of hers with a plea to help my one and only, thank god, sister-in-law. Well, she could forget it. That’s Gary’s job. I’ve painted my shit. I realize he’s as useless as a wet noodle when it comes to doing shit around the house, but that’s her fault. She picked him.

I brought my feathered kill home, listened to grumbling when the biscuit void was discovered, and enjoyed my meal alone in the living room. A few hours later I noticed Ivy was fussing over shit. Nit picking. She’d straighten the hand towels, push the drawers all the way in, straighten the refrigerator magnets, close the lid to the trash can which popped open when you pushed a button and it stayed that way. I decided the weekend wouldn’t be so bad after all.

For three straight days I left the microwave door slightly ajar, cabinet doors wide open, drawers sticking out, trash can lid up, and scored brownie points with Jazz when I unloaded the dishwasher which was nothing more than a disguised opportunity to put dishes in the wrong place, silverware in the wrong bins, and pots where they didn’t belong. All the while leaving every cabinet door open. I tilted the magnets on the refrigerator every time she turned her back, bumped the perfect pile of magazines, wadded the hand towels and openly sniffed my pits for good measure. I left the foot rest up on the recliner when I got up, scrunched up the throw on the sofa, pulled the caps off her pens on the end table, drew tanks and missiles firing at people with the words “innocent civilians” written over their heads on her marker board, and insisted on using her private bathroom because it had better lighting to read with while I did “number two.” I also used all but that last square of toilet paper that’s glued to the core.

When we left my wife informed me I was an abomination. But what she didn’t say, was that I was wrong for doing it all. Maybe I can learn to tolerate trips to Ivy’s place after all.