Not to have sex with. That would require me being a lesbian, or at least a gal who wouldn't mind the occasional mouthful of, well another gal.
What I'm talking about is one of those wives who clean the apartment, do the laundry, pay the bills, send the birthday cards, and make dentist appointments. It’s the kind of shit you're supposed to do on Saturdays instead of sleep in because you were out the night before drinking yourself silly celebrating a friend's last night before moving in with her fiancée on the North Side.
I woke up at 10 which is still plenty of time to knock out some of the above. But I was out of coffee, so that meant I had to go to the coffeehouse. And I absolutely had to watch Phil of the Future before going to the coffeehouse, so that slowed me down even more. I walked past a Chicago Tribune box, and had to pick one up on the way to Cafe Jumping Bean, because a girl should always be on top of the news. And then once I was at the cozy and inviting Jumping Bean I had to sit down, read the paper, order a panini, try this amazing chocolate cake, all while pretending I didn't recognize some weirdo guy from a John Kerry campaign trip last fall to Wisconsin.
And then there's email. It doesn't check itself, now does it? And this blog, if I don't update it, who will?
It's been a busy, busy day.
So here it is 2 p.m. and I have leave in a couple of hours to meet friends to watch Game One of the World Series.
Maybe I'll just froogle a mail order bride. My last roommate and I once wished we could get an 18-year-old foster son to act as house boy, but this mail order bride thing might work better (no confusing DCFS paperwork.) There's plenty of room in the basement, I'll pay for some English classes . . . everybody wins.