Suburban housewife I'm not. I don't wear starched skirts and high heels while swirling my appletini, but I used to enjoy one stereotypical perk of suburbia. We had our "guys." Tuesday brought the Lawn Guy, and Friday brought the Pool Guy. My grass was manicured and edged, all evidence thereof windswept off my driveway, without my lifting a hand higher than the checkbook. My filter was rinsed, chlorine adjusted, and all stray leaves eradicated from the collection baskets without my breaking a sweat. Alas, the economy, the job reduction, and the time at home. I am now the Guy. Both Guys, actually. Maybe it's coincidence, but I find myself in the pool more often, basking in its sparkling, cool wonder. When I leave the driveway I sometimes back up before going forward, allowing myself a full view of the carpet of green and my meticulous handiwork. A well-timed injury may be partly to blame, but the spouse hasn't laid a finger on the mower, edger, or weed whacker. I think he knows where to test the pool water, but he hasn't done it yet. Just as well. I own the gloating priveleges. And I gloat often.
“You are what I never knew I always wanted”
13 years ago
