So, What did you do all day?
That phrase must be on countless medical files as the "CAUSE OF DEATH" for husbands who chose those toxic words, when they arrogantly combined that constellation of letters in the English Alphabet. When you ask a Stay-At-Home Mom what she did all day, delivered in conjunction with a negative undertone and a disapproving glare, this is basically how it's translated to her: " You lazy, ugly, bitch. I'm out, working my ass off all day for a shitty boss, at a shitty job, making shitty money, only to come home to a shitty house, eat a half-assed dinner and have to put up with these shitty kids- that you can't seem to train, because you're too busy fantasizing about how to spend my paycheck each week. I'd tell you to do something with yourself because you look like hell, but I know that will only encourage your over spending habits, and put me farther into a financial fuck hole. I'd rather put a pistol in my mouth versus having to spend one more second trying to exist in this so-called home. I bet I could find a $5.00 whore that could do a better job at keeping this dive livable. You're laundry detergent makes me itch, your cooking sucks major ass, these damn kids are outta' control, and I absolutely can't stand your feeble attempts at decorating, it just costs me more time and money to fix. I'll be at Super 8 with a voodoo woman named Phyllis until you can get your shit together, you pathetic excuse for a wife." And then the kicker: "My mom was right about you. " Maybe dramatic, but thats what is conveyed when the phrase "What did you do all day?" drips off of the forked tongues of unknowing men. Kevin has only made the mistake of muttering those words to me on very rare occasions. And yet, he tries to put a positive spin on it, by delivering his message in a chipper voice and with a smile: "So sweetie, what did you do today?" That's just one way clever men attempt to delay their inevitable demise at the hands of a woman, whom they thought once loved them. When in actuality, if we were to have someone come into our homes and document every moment of our "uneventful days", the asinine question of what we did all day, would no longer hold its validity. I'm in the process of documenting such a day and posting it here for all to observe. It may not be epic, but I'll be damned if you have enough time to take a shit (at least not without an audience of toddlers and pets) moreless donning stillettos, red lipstick and a matching G-string to look "presentable" for your beau on his return to the homefront. My rant spawns not from any recent encounter with my lawfully wedded companion. Rather, I read a recent post over at one of my favorite places, "Where am I going and why am I in this handbasket?" and was further inspired to publish my feelings, when Mama Tulip wrote A Letter to her Husband Be on the look out for: My Day In Print, the Agony, the Ecstasy and the BonBons I wish I could afford.
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