Sunday, February 22, 2004

I was at a friend's house the other night. He and I were listening to music and talking about DVDs. I know it sounds like the perfect high school romance, but we were actually doing business. Both of us are finishing our films, and the conversation went more like - "If you import your mix stems and then bounce them as wave files, you can bring them right into your authoring program." Not like - "Yes, I do think that 'Beth' is the best rock ballad of all time. I think I love you."
Anyway, as we were finishing up, the most amazing thing happened. His wife served dinner. Yes, that's right, a hot homecooked meal was placed on the table. There were vegetables, placemats, even a selection of utensils all beckoning from the dining room. I was invited to join in the feast. After a lovely evening, I went home to my own apartment and thought, "I gotta get me a wife." But there are many problems with that scenario, not the least of which is that I like boys. But boys don't make good wives. I can't remember the last time somebody made dinner for me. I'm all for being taken out to a nice restaurant for a meal, but there's something about the time and care it takes to prepare something all by yourself at home.
This brings me to this sobering fact. I will make a terrible wife for some poor bastard. Doing the laundry makes me itch. Cooking usually involves the use of the microwave. I'm not sure if I've dusted anything since I moved out of my mother's house twelve years ago. I eat in front of the TV, put my feet on the furniture, and drink beer from the bottle. I burp out loud because I think it's funny.
Somewhere along the way, I forgot to learn what it takes to be a lady. I've never worn pearls. I've grown used to opening my own doors. I tackle people for the fun of it. I'm the best girl friend in the world, but a poor excuse for a girlfriend.

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