Setting: My kitchen, twenty minutes ago.
Fletch: Do these new gym shorts shorts look okay?
Me: (not looking because I'm busy making coffee) They're fine.
Fletch: How about the shirt? It's new, too.
Me: (pouring, not looking) S'fine. (adding cream and Splenda, then glancing at clock) Hey, it's already 8:30. How are you going to work out and then have enough time to get to your 10:15 facial?
Fletch: Shit, is that this morning? And I thought I didn't have to go until 11:15. Are you sure?
Me: Yep. I wrote it in my calendar when I booked it for you.
Fletch: Damn. (sighing deeply and glancing down at his snappy new ensemble) I guess I have to skip the gym.
Me: Okay, then. I'm going to go back upstairs to write my column.
* * *
I'd now like to break this scene down for you. Please note the following:
I am not the one dressed in a snappy new gym outfit.
I am making and serving my own coffee.
I am not only booking his appointments but also apparently managing his calendar.
I will be busy working while he has a spa treatment.
Now you all know how much I adore him, but let's be honest... this man is not a good assistant.
But with a little effort, he could be an excellent trophy wife.
UPDATE: He just called to see what I'd like him to buy for lunch. Now that's more like it.
UPDATE, PART II: He came home empty-handed because the line at Jimmy John's was too long. I swear to you that some day these posts just write themselves.
